The Jade Owl excerpt by Edward C Patterson

In China they whisper about the Jade Owl and its awful power. This ancient stone, commissioned by the Empress Wu and crafted by a mineral charmer, long haunted the folk of the Middle Kingdom until it vanished into an enigma of legend and lore. Now the Jade Owl is found. It wakes to steal the day from day. Its power to enchant and distort rises again. Its horror is revealed to a band of five, who must return it to the Valley of the Dead before the laws of ch’i are set aside in favor of destruction’s dance. Five China Hands, each drawn through time’s thin fabric by the bird, discover enchantment on the secret garland. Five China Hands, and one holds the key to the world’s fate. Five China Hands. Only one Jade Owl - but it’s awake and in China, they whisper again.

Professor Rowden Gray has come to San Francisco following a new opportunity at the East Asian Arts and Culture Museum, only to find that the opportunity has evaporated. Desperate, he means to end his career in a muddle of pity and Scotch, but then things happen. He latches on to a fascinating young man who is pursuing a lost relic that Professor Gray has in fact been seeking. Be careful for what you seek - you may just find it. Thus begins a journey that takes the professor and his companions on a spirited adventure across three-thousand miles of Chinese culture and mystery - a quest to fulfill a warrant long set out to ignite the world in myth and legend. The Jade Owl is the beginning of a series - a legacy that fulfills a terrible truth; and in China, they whisper again.

The Jade Owl
CreateSpace (October 2008)
ISBN: 1440447977


Excerpt:

Chapter One

Opportunities Lost

1

When Rowden Gray charged into the San Francisco Museum of East Asian Arts and Culture, he caused quite a stir. He had been pacing in the buttery sun of Golden Gate Park for at least twenty minutes, his feet scuffing the grayment. He clutched a battered telegram. Stopping, he gazed at the Museum’s marble archway. He tried hard to restore his calm. Difficult. He was not calm. After the flight from New York, his jet lag advanced. His stomach growled like a fireball. His eyes strained from the grit of in-flight movies. He took one bracing lung-pulling breath and felt the strange warmth of the wintry air.

I should leave, he thought. I should just head back to the airport and go home. Why should I give him any satisfaction? Rowden sauntered to a bench, sat and then cracked his knuckles almost dropping the balled up paper. He loosened his tie. Hands wiped on his gray slacks. Eyes closed. Spit. Where would I go? All these years waiting for this or something like this, was shattered like the telegram he mashed. Shattered by the telegram he mashed. Years of research and classroom slavery, a sea of bored faces cropping into his mind — students without interest, without aptitude. No reward for the serious scholar, the passionate expert in things Chinese. Here it was, before these doors, the opportunity of a lifetime, the reward that comes to the worthy. Only now that reward lay tarnished in words ill met by downcast eyes. I wish they hadn’t led me here. But they had. He had, and to Professor Rowden Gray, that made the telegram burn as if it had teeth biting into his palm, eating his composure to the marrow.

So when Rowden resolved to enter and face his foe, he flew off the bench, whirled up the marble stairs into the cold luster of the Museum’s cavernous lobby. His feet kept him focused on the goal, but blind to the many visitors and guests. As Rowden bolted past the security guards, he ran smack into an unsuspecting visitor.

“Aye.”

Rowden kept to his own feet, the visitor being a slight thing — a young man in a blue shirt, who careened backwards, spun and fell near the guard station.

“Are you all right?” Rowden asked. He came to the young man’s aid feeling quite the ass for his actions. “I didn’t mean to . . . I mean, I’m sorry to have . . . Christ, I’m sorry.” The man lay facedown, squirming to regain his feet. When he turned, his eyes met Rowden’s. Lavender, Rowden thought, although he had no idea why he thought it. Maybe it was the kid’s aftershave or perhaps his deep blue eyes. Whatever crossed Rowden’s mind, it stymied him from helping. The guards rushed to the young man’s assistance. They scowled at Rowden Gray.

The stricken visitor seemed more embarrassed than upset. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll be okay. Leave me be. I’m okay. Really.”

Rowden sighed, and then cracked his knuckles. The guards, appearing to know the young man, helped him brush off. One guard had a full cropping handlebar mustache. The other was as hairless as a Chihuahua.

“You better have a good explanation for charging in here like a fucking bull,” said the mustached guard.

Rowden looked about. Beyond the lobby, the main exhibition hall now echoed with the chatter of visitors.

“Well,” the guard snapped. “Are you listening to me?”

“I am,” Rowden said. He held the crumpled telegram in his right hand. “I have business here. Important business. Pressing business.”

“We’ll see about that,” the guard said, pulling at the telegram. Rowden refused to surrender it. He turned away from the main hall, glancing down a long corridor. A woman approached, her beige high heels echoing on the marble floor, announcing her arrival.

“RG?” she said upon reaching the entrance.

“Connie?” Rowden tightened his hold on the telegram. “Connie, look what I’ve caused.”

Connie inspected the damage. There was none. The young man was already recuperating. The other visitors were drifting back to the display cases.

“Quivers,” Connie said to the mustached guard. “This is Professor Gray. He has an appointment with the Curator-General.”

Quivers bobbed his head and fluttered his hands. “If you say so, Miss Wilson.”

“I’ll take him in,” she said. “Follow me, RG.”

The young man in the blue shirt sat on a bench now. Rowden thought to apologize again, but perhaps it was best to leave it alone. Incident over. He had vented his anger. Shame it poured over an innocent bystander. Shame.

Rowden followed Connie Wilson through the corridor past an authorized personnel only sign. She slinked, her fetching curves easy to follow, if one had a notion.

“Rowden, I’m really sorry this has happened.”

“Me too,” Rowden said. “I hope that young man’s okay.”

“Young man?” She smacked her lips and rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry about him. I’m sure he’ll recover. Accidents happen.” She turned toward him and straightened his tie. “No, I meant about the position.”

Rowden sighed, loosening his tie. “So you know?”

“I do. I was excited when I heard that you were joining our team. I told J.J. that the Board made a wise decision in choosing you. I heard the bad news only yesterday. I’m sorry.”

They had reached a dark cold spot in the hallway. Rowden could barely see his conductor, but felt her as she slipped his tie up again. She gave him a peck on the cheek.

“I only wish they’d told me before I came all the way out here,” he said. He raised the telegram and punched it.

“I agree. Not tactful nor timely.”

They turned a corner into a brighter stretch. A windowed door filtered light upon the mosaic floor. Curator-General was emblazoned across the opaque window proclaiming the seat of authority. Connie turned the knob, but hesitated before the pull.

“He’ll fill you in, RG. I believe there will be satisfactory compensation.”

“It’s not about the money.” Rowden’s chin tucked as his former anger rekindled. “This place is my dream. John Battle’s quarry is here. What an opportunity to prod and poke in the old man’s treasures. You, of all people, know what this post meant to me.”

Connie lowered her eyes, the look of understanding. She opened the door, ushering Rowden in. The Curator-General’s secretary, a pleasant, older woman with white hair and tidy heft, acknowledged them with a friendly smile. She stood behind her well-ordered desk.

“Millie, this is Professor Gray.”

“Professor Gray,” Millie said. “It’s such a pleasure. Your name is a legend among the staff. Just the other day I heard . . .” She stopped mid-smile, perhaps thinking what she had heard should not be repeated, although she probably had repeated it often enough. No matter. “Actually, Professor Gray, I wish the Curator-General had better news for you. I’m truly sorry. It would have been nice to have you on board.” Suddenly, her pout changed to a broad smile. “Are your accommodations satisfactory?”

Rowden’s head cocked. She’s worried about my accommodations, when I’m out here adrift. How flaky is that? “Quite nice,” he said. “I’m at the Drake, but you would know that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, inviting him to sit. “Good. I’m glad. At least we can make you comfortable while you’re our guest in San Francisco.” She waddled around to his side. “I’ll tell J.J. you’re here.”

Rowden sat. He was the picture of anxiety. Lips tensed. Teeth clenched. Eyes scanning the room. He cracked his knuckles. Connie sat beside him.

“Still doing that?” she said, placing her hand on his.

“Bad habit, I know.”

“And noisy.” She brushed his pants toying with the crease, or what would have been a crease had the flight been shorter. “How’s Rose?”

“Rose?” He smiled. “News travels slowly. Rose and I split up. I thought you knew. It’s been four years.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not really helping you, am I?”

“Actually, you are. You’re a friendly face — a familiar one.”

He had felt abandoned since his arrival, even before he checked in at the Drake and got that poisoned telegram. He came to San Francisco filled with excitement. Things had been rough lately. Nothing but a sea of the same old classroom assignments and beginner’s guides to the Cultural Revolution — nothing special.

“Connie, this post was good news — great news. Then, to get this telegram.” He slapped the paper again. “You don’t know what it is to arrive with hope only to be handed bad news by a front desk clerk. It’s no way to treat a man of letters.”

“No,” she agreed. “But you needed to hear about it somehow and before you came here today.”

That’s certainly true. But why should he be here at all? Why didn’t they just leave him alone in his obscure fiddle-fucking, pen twirling sinological obscurity — allow him to fester on some innocuous research paper for The Harvard Journal of Asian Studies, a cancerous whim meant for importance instead of infecting him down to the knuckles he cracked? Why did he feel so alone and betrayed? Why should he not? He was both.

2

Millie returned through the Curator-General’s door, where a tall, portly man stood wearing a three-piece suit. Older than Rowden by two decades, J. Jenkins Gillenhaal appeared older still, time aging him with the same subtle brush that had varnished his office’s dark paneling.

“RG,” he boomed. “Please come in. Have a seat. Millie, two coffees. If I remember, you take it black?”

Rowden jerked to his feet. He veiled his thoughts behind a forced smile and followed J.J. Gillenhaal’s cue. The curator checked his pocket watch, proceeding to a large picture window overlooking Golden Gate Park. A grandfather’s clock bellowed the noon hour as Rowden sat.

“We have beautiful weather here in winter, RG,” the Curator-General said. “It gets cold during the summer. Befuddles your East coast logic, doesn’t it?”

“The weather doesn’t befuddle me, J.J.” He cracked his knuckles. “I love Golden Gate Park in any season. This museum is its crown jewel.”

“We are proud of it.” Within these halls, the relics told their tales and slipped their secrets. “Ah, the coffee. Thanks, Millie.”

When Millie left, Curator Gillenhaal sat behind his empire desk, his demeanor changing. He played with his MontBlanc pens, three of them — one green, one red and one blue. “It’s been some time since we’ve sat face to face. You were among my star pupils.”

“J.J., cut to the chase. I’ve come a long way for nothing. I’m as tired as hell and fucking pissed. Bottom line, please.”

“I can understand your hurt,” Gillenhaal said, shrugging, “but it’s not personal, you know. The Board of Trustees created a real position. You were their choice and rightly so. Although, I must say, you haven’t published much and you’ve never held tenure in any of your positions. Nonetheless, the Board reviewed your research. You were their choice.”

“It sounds like I wasn’t your choice.”

The clock ticked like a bomb somewhere in the corner of the room.

Tick dock. Tick dock.

“There is no other expert of your caliber in Sung Dynasty studies today,” J.J. said. “I did have reservations. Personally, I think you cleave too much to John Battle’s school of thought, you know. Battle’s methods were never my cup of tea.”

Tick dock. Tick dock.

“John Battle was a great man.”

“Yes. A pirate and swashbuckling scholar.” J.J. templed his fingers, tapping his lips. “There was always a touch of drama about John Battle. He was too driven. And then there was his obsession with the Jade Owl.” Rowden winced. Just this reference to his mentor’s lost relic sent shivers down his spine. “I mean, it’s a shame the damn thing went missing, if it existed at all. But whatever credibility the Old China Hand had with me evaporated when he lectured on the Jade Owl.”

Tick dock. Tick dock.

Rowden remembered one such lecture about that precious jade avian figurine. John Battle claimed it glowed and hooted and cast who-knows-what voodoo over its possessor. He delivered that lecture with the conviction of an evangelist on the Mount of Olives. Rowden also remembered the whispers. The old man’s lost it. He’s stayed out in the sun too long. Rowden hated that the field’s most prominent scholar was cast in lunacy’s tinge. Jealousy, more like it.

Tick dock. Tick dock.

“Last time I looked,” Rowden said, “the main exhibition hall out there sports John Battle’s name.”

“Don’t get me wrong. Without his contributions, this Museum would be poorer.” Gillenhaal smirked, apparently pleased to see his points secure. He had tossed a javelin and it hit its mark. “You see how you defend unorthodoxy?” he groaned. “Nonetheless, despite any reservations, I did approve you as the choice.” He tapped his coffee cup with the spoon.

Tick dock. Tick dock.

“We didn’t expect the Endowment to be cut. That makes the new position out of the question. Maybe when the administration changes, the cash flow might improve. However, in my experience, it really does not matter who rules the national cupboard, once cut, it’s cut.”

“I see,” Rowden said. “So it really doesn’t matter that I have an agreement with the Board?”

Tick dock. Tick dock.

“Well, it’s not really an agreement. We extended the offer. You accepted. We were to finalize it here.”

Rowden exploded, standing so forcefully, his chair pushed back a half yard.

“That’s bullshit, J.J. We settled on salary and bonus. I don’t think you can pull this crap!”

Curator Gillenhaal, calm and silent, continued stirring. He placed the cup down and rearranged his MontBlancs. He glanced out the window again appearing braced by the warm winter weather.

Rowden sat again. He shook in the shadow of Gillenhaal’s calm. Firebrands may explode over parapets, but if they fail to provoke, it’s no more than pissing in the wind.

Gillenhaal reached into a side drawer, and then flopped a document onto the blotter — a rather legal looking document. “Calm down, RG.” He pushed it across the desk.

“What’s this?” Rowden asked, perusing it. He knew full well. He was almost ready to see just how prepared the Board of Trustees was to assuage his ire. Call it pain and suffering.

“You see,” Gillenhaal said with the tedium of an old bureaucrat, “we will compensate you for your time and expectations. It’s a fair amount, I believe?”

Tick dock. Tick dock.

Rowden cocked his head. His eyes bugged. “It’s not about the money. I love what I do, and I do it well. I would do it best here. It’s my passion you’re fucking with, J.J.”

“I believe, in the end, it will be about the money,” J.J. said, shaking his head. He raised a finger to the side of his nose. Rowden gazed at the plethora of degrees and awards ensconced on the walls, the ever-present clock (Tick dock. Tick dock), and the precisely stacked collection of expensive fountain pens.

“You will hear from my lawyer, J.J.”

He tossed the agreement at his former teacher.

“Very well.”

Gillenhaal swept the agreement into the desk drawer, and then slid it shut. “There’s still time. You have three weeks to consider the matter. The settlement will be here, if you want it. However, one call from your attorney and it’s a memory.”

Curator Gillenhaal arose, went to the window and warmed his hands in the winter sun.

“Good day, Professor Gray.”

http://www.dancaster.com/

Maloney's Law excerpt by Anne Brooke

Paul Maloney, a small-time private investigator from London, reluctantly accepts a case from his married ex-lover, Dominic Allen. Before he knows it, Paul finds himself embroiled in the dark dealings of big business and the sordid world of international crime. The deeper he pushes, the closer he comes to losing everything he holds dear. Can he solve the mystery and protect those he loves before it’s too late?

Maloney's Law
PD Publishing (2008)
ISBN: 78-1-933720-48-7


Excerpt

Chapter One

The glow from my ex-lover’s cigarette lights up the warm night air, and I catch a faint impression of his hand’s shadow before the darkness descends again.

In the silence, I sense rather than see his lips draw on the smoky pleasure, tingling tar and need into his waiting lungs. I don’t ask to share it and he doesn’t offer. More than anything this reminds me of the last time we almost had sex.

He coughs.

‘I suppose you’re wondering why I asked to see you, Paul,’ he says, and his voice makes me shut my eyes for a moment. In the deeper blackness I can see the strong, sensual lines of his face as clear as if it were daylight. ‘I mean why now? Not the greatest of meeting places for us, is it?’

‘You’re here, aren’t you?’ I reply and wait for him to speak. It’s 2.02am. I’ve picked a disused chapel in Hackney for this meeting, as it’s near home, it’s private, and it’s dark. Inside, it’s a good place for sex, if you’re desperate and don’t mind the broken glass. I thought he wouldn’t turn up, but I was wrong.
For a moment he seems to be trying to choose his words, then he says, ‘I need your help, you see.’

I laugh. There doesn’t seem any other way of responding.

‘I’m serious. It’s a business offer.’

At once I shut up. Money is money, whoever it comes from. And five years, ten months, and five days in my job as the proprietor of Maloney Investigations (anything considered) has taught me never to turn down business.

‘Go on,’ I say, and as I speak, a lone car swings into the street, its headlights illuminating our shapes and outlining the solid lines of the chapel that frames Dominic.

Instinct kicks in and I propel him back into the safety of the doorway. It smells of cannabis and urine. As the car approaches at a crawl, I shield him with my body, pull the cigarette from his mouth and kiss him. He tastes of nicotine and mint. The blokes in the car shout abuse out of the window but, thank God, don’t stop, and after a tense few seconds they drive off into the darkness. I don’t want to stop either, but when the danger’s past I’m the first to pull away.

When I do so, I wonder who he’s screwing now — some young, good-looking bastard, I bet. Yeah, I can just see it, and the look on Dominic’s face when he gets what he wants, too. Maybe I can try to mix business with pleasure? As he's the last man I’ve slept with, it must be three years, four months, and one week since I had sex at all. At least with someone else in the room. I wonder if that makes me unusual.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Thought they might leave us alone if they didn’t recognise you. Cruisers only.’

He nods. ‘You were right. Can I have my cigarette back now?’

I pass it to him, my fingers lingering on his before he eases them away. He doesn’t comment. Instead he wipes the back of his free hand over his mouth, and I blink back tears.

When he speaks, he speaks quickly. ‘There’s a business I want to investigate, buy if the money’s right. Information Technology. They deal with Eastern European markets, but there’s something not quite right about them and I want to know what.’

‘What is it? Drugs? Porn?’

At once he shakes his head. ‘No. I’d know if it was. But I want you to look into it anyway, see what you can find. My business has to be clean; there can’t be any dirt thrown that might stick. Do you understand?’

‘Sure. Sounds simple enough. You say something’s not quite right, but you don’t think it’s serious. So what’s got you suspicious?’

‘Rumour only. You know what the business world is like. I want to be certain, that’s all.’

Again his answer is too fast and I don’t believe him.

‘Why don’t you use some of your own hot-shot investigators? I know you have them. Won’t they be able to do your legwork for you?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

He drops his cigarette and crushes it underfoot before lighting another. In the flash of fire, I catch the intensity of his gaze.

‘Even my own people have been known to talk, and I don’t want to give my competitors reasons for suspicion. Not at the stage of negotiations I’m at now. I want someone who, if they go down, won’t take me with them.’

His reasons are too slick, too unconnected, but his last statement makes me blink again. He was always honest with me, something I never got used to.

‘Yes, I know what you’ll say,’ he continues. Even though I have no idea what that might be. ‘You’ll say we used to fuck each other regularly, in spite of my situation, and that would be enough to crucify anyone. But no-one knows this, except you and me. And that time-waster assistant of yours. So if it becomes public knowledge, I’ll know who to blame, won’t I? And when I hold a grudge...’

He doesn’t have to complete the sentence. I’ve read enough in the papers about the boardroom — and backroom — battles fought and won by Mr. Dominic Allen to know the extent of his power. Oh yes, more than anyone I understand his strength compared to my weakness, and I’ve almost made up my mind to walk away from his problems, and my past, when he speaks again. This time his voice is softer.

‘And there’s another reason,’ he says. ‘You’re the only one I can trust. Please, will you help me?’

***

‘You don’t have to help him, you know. He’ll only screw you over, like last time.’

First rule of PI work. If you have to hire a secretary, or any staff, never get someone who knows you. They’ll only end up telling you stuff you don’t want to hear. And, worse, it might even be the truth.

‘No, he won’t,’ I say, wishing again for a way to afford more than my one-roomed office plus kitchen. ‘This time I’m wise to him. Anyway, it’s cash. I’d be crazy not to take it.’

‘You’d be crazy to do it, too.’ Jade stops staring at her computer screen and throws me one of her accusing looks from behind her blonde lashes. ‘You’ll just go stupid again.’

I grimace at Jade’s use of the phrase, “go stupid”. It covers the time, nearing the end of my eleven-month affair with Dominic Allen, and afterwards, when I stopped eating, left hundreds of pleading messages on his mobile, and lurked night after night outside his house in Islington waiting for one glimpse of him. After seven weeks of this, on the morning of Friday 1 June 2001, in the office, I’d smashed every single breakable item I owned in front of Jade’s horrified eyes. I’d then collapsed onto the floor and sobbed for an hour and a half without being able to stop.

It was a difficult time for us both and I can understand her concern. Now though, I’ll make sure it’s different. I’m older and calmer for one thing and my dealings, if any, with Dominic will be carried out in the light of this new maturity.
‘No, I won’t “go stupid”,’ I say with a smile. ‘He’s history. So much so that I was fine when we met last night. Or rather early this morning. It was–’

‘Did you snog him?’

‘What?’

‘You heard.’

‘No, don’t be silly. Of course I didn’t. He’s a client, or might be. I wouldn’t be that unprofessional, would I? What the hell kind of a question is that anyway?’

‘So you did then.’

‘But not in the way you think. I was carrying out my duties, protecting him from the greedy eyes of the public. You know he’s better known than Beckham. Almost.’

‘Enjoy it?’

I pause and feel my face redden. ‘Is George Michael gay?’

Jade nods, her lips pursed. ‘And while your tongue was reacquainting itself with his tonsils, did you happen to ask after Mrs. Allen and the two little Allens? Or did Mr. Allen’s wife and children not cross your mind?’

This is a dirty move and I don’t stoop to answer it. Second rule of PI work: don’t employ someone who’s moral. Jade has a Baptist background, though I’ve never seen her enter a chapel since I’ve known her, so that’s twelve years and ten months. But a religious upbringing can never be wiped away. It certainly hasn’t stopped her asking a knife-twist question, which I ignore. Instead, I drop the file I’ve been clutching onto my desk, fling myself into my chair, and flick through the papers to find the one I want.

It takes me longer than I’d anticipated. At the end of ten minutes, I still haven’t located it and, just as I’m wondering if it was one of the items I’d burnt After Dominic, there’s a slight cough. When I look up, Jade is standing in front of me holding out a mug of hot chocolate as if it’s about to explode. I don’t like hot chocolate, though I’ve never dared tell her this. It’s her usual way of dealing with a crisis; Jade counts gay men as honorary women, so I just smile and take it.

‘Sorry,’ she says.

Still unable to trust myself to speak, I nod, and she returns to her desk. While Jade starts tapping away on her keyboard again, I pretend to be looking at my file. It’s hard to concentrate on what Dominic told me last night, when all I can think about is either our past or the way his lips felt under mine seven hours ago. I wonder if he’s remembering, too, but it’s unlikely. He was never one to look back. All he’d done when I lunged at him was to tolerate my kiss before wiping it away and getting down to business. This was a shame as at 2.05am last night — or again is that this morning? — and indeed now, the most compelling thought in my head is the memory of how he and I first met. When–

‘Paul? Paul? You okay?’

At the sound of Jade’s voice, I jump, startled out of my thoughts, and look up to see her leaning over me, frowning. The scent of Anais Anais mingles with the now congealing hot chocolate.

‘Yeah, sure. I’m fine. I just need...I think I’ll go home for a while. I’ll take the papers with me, get to grips with some of the background. If anyone calls, tell them I’m on a case,’ I pause in the act of getting up. ‘In a way I suppose I am, if only for an initial read-through, so it won’t be lying.’

‘Okay,’ Jade thrusts a slim pale blue A4 folder into my hand. ‘You’ll be wanting this then, whatever you decide.’

I glance at the empty file with a fresh label on the top right hand corner, just where I like them to be. On it is typed: The Dominic Allen Case, 11 August 2004 to...Below it is my name in italics.

‘Thanks.’ I can’t help smiling. ‘You’re right, I’ll be wanting this.’

‘Thought so. You’ll be back later, before the end of the day?’

‘Sure, see you at 5.30.’

On the way out, I look back at her, and she gives me a little wave before the solid oak door with the central spy hole clicks shut.

The eleven-minute walk home clears my head. I’m glad I don’t have to commute; I hate the sweat and sourness of the bus in the morning, and it was a deliberate decision when I set up Maloney Investigations, to base myself as near to home as I could. Not that the office is much: just a one-windowed room big enough for two desks and a large, black filing cabinet and a narrow promise of a kitchen built along one end. But it’s mine, and Jade’s light touch with the Constable prints and seasonal flowers means clients, when they turn up, aren’t frightened away. Or if they are, it’s not because of the office.

Hackney’s changed so much in the seven years and five months I’ve lived here; it’s become leaner, darker at the street corners and at night when most of the drug-dealing takes place. During the day it’s brighter and more strident, filled with the sound of beggars and Indian women wrapped in saris the colour of desert, sky, or fire. It’s poorer, too, but that’s never bothered me. I hope it doesn’t bother the clients. Now my stride takes me along the familiar pavements lined with small squares of brown grass, leading in their turn up to countless flats carved out of Victorian houses once owned by rich people. The air is heavy with car fumes and the taste of undiscovered dreams.

At home, I drop my jacket on the mahogany hall table, next to the emergency cigarette packet, before heading into the box-shaped kitchen and pouring myself a Highland Park. Whisky is for home, for privacy. It’s medicinal. Besides, it’s turning out to be one of those days, so I deserve better than the Glenfiddich. Gazing at the golden liquid as it shimmers in the glass, I wonder. One breath, two. The smoky scent of it fills my head and I breathe out again. Then leaning against the metal coolness of the sink, I pour the drink away, swilling the drips with tap water. It’s too early for this. I promised myself once that I would never drink before 6pm, and it’s a rule I’ve always kept. Almost always.

Still the space in the day where I should have had a glass of whisky in my hand lies empty now so, clutching Jade’s file and my papers to my chest, I wander back through the hall and into the living room. The main room, to be honest. My income isn’t great. Even though I’ve lived here for so many years, today it’s as if I’m seeing it from a new perspective: the shabbiness, the old beige sofa with its light blue throw — a present from Jade — and the glass coffee table with its immovable scratches. Not to mention the pine dining table for four with the mismatched chairs, the scattering of crime novels and old newspapers, mainly The Independent, which hide the shortcomings of the carpet. Against all this and at the far end of the room is the magnificent Victorian fireplace and mantelpiece. Upon it stand my only ornaments: two Staffordshire dogs, which were a present from my mother for my eighteenth. God knows why.

What would Dominic see if he were here? The dogs he’d always hated, but what would he see that was different from three years and four months ago?

Answer: nothing. Nothing has changed, nothing at all.

Dumping the papers onto the sofa, I stride into my bedroom, where the deep green duvet still lies crumpled at the foot of the bed where I left it this morning. In the long mirror inside the wardrobe, my face gives nothing away.

I take off my clothes. Slowly, as if unpeeling the layers could remove the present. When I’m naked, I gaze at my image for a long time, trying to see myself as if I’m someone else. There are many things here that Dominic would remember: my face, thin and narrow, a throwback to my paternal grandfather; green eyes framed by short, almost black hair, a wolf on the hunt so another lover told me once; a long body, dark wavy chest hair leading down to strong, muscular legs; an average cock, not too small, thank God, though I’ve always wished it larger. Don’t we all? There are things here that he wouldn’t remember, too: a touch of grey around the hairline; a slight softening of the belly — must get to the gym again on a regular basis if I can afford it — and the scar on my right arm where two years ago a suspect knifed me. It still hurts a little in winter. My eyes are more cautious, too.

Would he find this attractive? Would he?

Damn it, damn me. Swinging away from the mirror, I drag my clothes back on, curse myself again, and head back into the living room for the comfort of the sofa and the papers I must read this afternoon.

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Death of a Pirate King excerpt by Josh Lanyon

Gay bookseller and reluctant amateur sleuth Adrien English's writing career is suddenly taking off. His first novel, Murder Will Out, has been optioned by notorious Hollywood actor Paul Kane. But when murder makes an appearance at a dinner party, who should be called in but Adrien's former lover, handsome closeted detective Jake Riordan, now a Lieutenant with LAPD -- which may just drive Adrien's new boyfriend, sexy UCLA professor Guy Snowden, to commit a murder of his own!



DEATH OF A PIRATE KING: The Fourth Adrien English Mystery
MLR Press & Loose Id (September 13, 2008)
ISBN:1934531316


Excerpt:


Coincidence, if traced far enough back,becomes inevitable.
Hineu


It was not my kind of party.

Sure, some people might think the dead guy made it my kind of party, but that wouldn’t be a fair assessment of my entertainment needs -- or my social calendar. I mean, it had been a good two years since I’d last been involved in a murder investigation.

I sell books for a living. I write books too, but not enough to make a living at it. I did happen to sell one book I wrote to the movies, which is what I was doing at a Hollywood party, which, like I said, is not my scene. Or at least, was not my scene until Porter Jones slumped over and fell face first into his bowl of vichyssoise.

I’m sorry to say my initial reaction, as he keeled over, was relief.

I’d been nodding politely as he’d rambled on for the past ten minutes, trying not to wince as he gusted heavy alcoholic sighs my way during his infrequent pauses. My real attention was on screenwriter Al January, who was sitting on the other side of me at the long, crowded luncheon table. January was going to be working on the screen adaptation of my first novel, Murder Will Out. I wanted to hear what he had to say.

Instead I heard all about deep-sea fishing for white marlin in St. Lucia.

I pushed back from the table as the milky tide of soup spilled across the linen tablecloth. Someone snickered. The din of voices and silverware on china died.

“For God’s sake, Porter!” Mrs. Jones exclaimed from across the table.

Porter’s shoulders were twitching and I thought for a moment that he was laughing, although what was funny about breathing soup, I’d no idea -- having sort of been through it myself recently.

“Was it something you said, Adrien?” Paul Kane, our host, joked to me. He rose as though to better study Jones. He had one of those British public school accents that make insignificant comments like Would you pass the butter sound as interesting as Fire when ready!

Soup dripped off the table into my empty seat. I stared at Porter’s now motionless form: the folds on the back of his thick tanned neck, the rolls of brown flab peeping out beneath the indigo-blue Lacoste polo, his meaty, motionless arm with the gold Rolex watch. Maybe twenty seconds all told, from the moment he toppled over to the moment it finally dawned on me what had actually happened.

“Oh, hell,” I said, and hauled Porter out of his plate. He sagged right and crashed down onto the carpet taking my chair and his own with him.

“Porter!” shrieked his wife, now on her feet, bleached blonde hair spilling over her plump freckled shoulders.

“Bloody hell,” exclaimed Paul Kane staring down, his normally unshakable poise deserting him. “Is he --?”

It was hard to say what Porter was exactly. His face was shiny with soup; his silvery mustache glistened with it. His pale eyes bulged as though he were outraged to find himself in this position. His fleshy lips were open but he made no protest. He wasn’t breathing.

I knelt down, said, “Does anyone know CPR? I don’t think I can manage it.”

“Someone ring 911!” Kane ordered, looking and sounding like he did on the bridge of the brigantine in The Last Corsair.

“We can trade off,” Al January told me, crouching on the other side of Porter’s body. He was a slim and elegant sixty-something, despite the cherry-red trousers he wore. I liked his calm air; you don’t expect calm from a man wearing cherry-red trousers.

“I’m getting over pneumonia,” I told him. I shoved the fallen chairs aside, making room next to Porter.

“Uh oh,” January said and bent over Porter.



By the time the paramedics arrived, it was all over.

We had adjourned by then to the drawing room of the old Laurel Canyon mansion. There were about thirty of us, everyone, with the exception of me, involved one way or the other with movies and moviemaking.

I looked at the ormolu clock on the elegant fireplace mantel and thought I should call Natalie. She had a date that evening and had wanted to close the bookstore early. I needed to give Guy a call too. No way was I going to have the energy for dinner out tonight -- even if we did get away in the next hour or so.

Porter’s wife, who looked young enough to be his daughter, was sitting over by the piano crying. A couple of the other women were absently soothing her. I wondered why she wasn’t being allowed in there with him. If I was dying I’d sure want someone I loved with me.

Paul Kane had disappeared for a time into the dining room where the paramedics were doing whatever there was left to do.

He came back in and said, “They’ve called the police.”

There were exclamations of alarm and dismay.

Okay, so it wasn’t a natural death. I’d been afraid of that. Not because of any special training or because I had a particular knack for recognizing foul play -- no, I just had really, really bad luck.

Porter’s wife -- Ally, they were calling her -- looked up and said, “He’s dead?” I thought it was pretty clear he was a goner from the moment he landed flat on his back like a harpooned walrus, but maybe she was the optimistic kind. Or maybe I’d just had too much of the wrong kind of experience.

The women with her began doing that automatic shushing thing again.

Kane walked over to me, and said with that charming, practiced smile, “How are you holding up?”

“Me? Fine.”

His smile informed me that I wasn’t fooling anyone, but actually I felt all right. After nearly a week of hospital, any change of scenery was an improvement, and, unlike most of the people there, I knew what to expect once someone died a public and unexpected death.

Kane sat down on a giant chintz-covered ottoman -- the room had clearly been professionally decorated because nothing about Paul Kane suggested cabbage roses or ormolu clocks -- fastened those amazing blue eyes on me, and said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Well, yeah,” I said. Violent death in the dining room? Generally not a good thing.

“Did Porter say anything to you? I couldn’t help noticing that he had you pinned down.”

“He mostly talked about saltwater big game fishing.”

“Ah. His passion.”

“Passion is good,” I said.

Kane smiled into my eyes. “It can be.”

I smiled back tiredly. I didn’t imagine that he was coming on to me; it was more…an actor picking up his cue.

He patted my knee and rose. “It shouldn’t take much longer,” he said with the optimism of inexperience.

They kept us waiting for probably another forty minutes, and then the doors to the drawing room opened silently on well-oiled hinges, and two cops in suits walked in. One was about thirty, Hispanic, with the tightly coiled energy of the ambitious young dick, and the other was Jake Riordan.

It was a jolt. Jake was a lieutenant now, so I didn’t see why he’d be here at a crime scene -- except that this was a high profile crime scene.

As I stared it was like seeing him for the first time -- only this time around I had insider knowledge.

He looked older. Still ruggedly good-looking in that big, blond, take-no-prisoners way. But thinner, sharper around the edges. Harder. It had been two years since I’d last seen him. They didn’t appear to have been a blissful two years, but he still had that indefinable something. Like a young Steve McQueen or a mature Russell Crowe. Hanging around the movie crowd, you start thinking in cinema terms.

I watched his tawny eyes sweep the room and find Paul Kane. I saw the relief on Kane’s face, and I realized that they knew each other: something in the way their gazes met, linked, then broke -- not anything anyone else would have caught. I just happened to be in a position to know what that particular look of Jake’s meant.

And since I was familiar with the former Detective Riordan’s extracurricular activities, I guessed that meant the rumors about Paul Kane were true.

“Folks, can I have your attention?” the younger detective said. “This is Lieutenant Riordan and I’m Detective Alonzo.” He proceeded to explain that while the exact cause of Porter Jones’s death was as yet undetermined, they were going to ask us a few questions, starting with whoever had been seated next to the victim during the meal.

Paul Kane said, “That would be Valarie and Adrien.”

Jake’s gaze followed Paul Kane’s indication. His eyes lit on me. Just for a second his face seemed to freeze. I was glad I’d had a few seconds’ warning. I was able to look right through him, which was a small satisfaction.

“I don’t understand,” the newly widowed Ally was protesting. “Are you saying…what are you saying? That Porter was murdered?”

“Ma’am,” Detective Alonzo said in a pained way.

Jake said something quietly to Paul Kane, who answered. Jake interrupted Alonzo.

“Mrs. Jones, why don’t we move next door?” He guided her toward a side door off the lounge. He nodded for Alonzo to follow him in.

Despite Detective Alonzo’s “undetermined causes” it seemed pretty clear to me that if the police were interrogating us they had pretty much ruled out accidental or natural death.

A uniformed officer took Alonzo’s place and asked us to please be patient and refrain from speaking with each other -- and immediately everyone started speaking, mostly protesting.

After a few minutes of this, the side door opened again and everyone looked guiltily toward the doorway. Ally Porter was ushered straight out.

“The performance of a lifetime,” Al January commented next to me.

I glanced at him, and he smiled.

“Valarie Rose,” Detective Alonzo requested.

A trim forty-something brunette stood up. Rose was supposed to direct Murder Will Out, assuming we actually got to the filming stage -- which at the moment felt unlikely. She wore minimal makeup and a dark pantsuit. She looked perfectly poised as she passed Detective Alonzo and disappeared into the inner chamber.

She was in there for about fifteen minutes and then the door opened; without speaking to anyone she crossed into the main room. Detective Alonzo announced, “Adrien English?”

Kind of like when your name gets called in the doctor’s office: That’s right, Adrien. This won’t hurt a bit. I felt the silent wall of eyes as I went into the side room.

It was a comfortable room, probably Paul Kane’s study. He seemed like the kind of guy who would affect a study. Glass-fronted bookcases, a big fireplace, and a lot of leather furniture. There was a table and chairs to one side where they were conducting their questioning. Jake stood at a large bay window that looked down over the back garden. I spared one look at his stony profile before sitting down at the table across from Detective Alonzo.

“Okay…” Alonzo scratched a preliminary note on a pad.

Jake turned. “That’s Adrien with an e,” he informed his junior. His eyes met mine. “Mr. English and I are previously acquainted.”

That was one way to put it. I had a sudden, uncomfortably vivid memory of Jake whispering into my hair, “Baby, what you do to me…” An ill-timed recollection if there ever was one.

“Yeah?” If Alonzo recognized there was any tension in the air, he gave no sign of it, probably because there’s always tension in the air around cops. “So where do you live, Mr. English?”

We got the details of where I lived and what I did for a living out of the way fast. Then Alonzo asked, “So how well did you know Mr. Jones?”

“I met him for the first time this afternoon.”

“Ms. Beaton-Jones says you and the deceased had a long, long talk during the meal?”

Beaton-Jones? Oh, right. This was Hollywood. Hyphens were a fashion accessory. Ms. Beaton-Jones would be Porter’s wife, I surmised.

I replied, “He talked, I listened.” One thing I’ve learned the hard way is not to volunteer any extra information to the police.

I glanced at Jake. He was staring back out the window. There was a gold wedding band on his left hand. It kept catching the light. Like a sunspot.

“What did he talk about?”

“To be honest, I don’t remember the details. It was mostly about deep-sea fishing. For marlin. On his forty-five foot Hatteras luxury sport-fishing yacht.”

Jake’s lips twitched as he continued to gaze out the window.

“You’re interested in deep-sea fishing, Mr. English?”

“Not particularly.”

“So how long did you talk?”

“Maybe ten minutes.”

“Can you tell us what happened then?”

“I turned away to take a drink. He -- Porter -- just…fell forward onto the table.”

“And what did you do?”

“When I realized he wasn’t moving, I grabbed his shoulder. He slid out of his chair and landed on the floor. Al January started CPR.”

“Do you know CPR, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Ms. Beaton-Jones said you refused to administer CPR to her husband.”

I blinked at him. Looked at Jake. His tawny eyes were zeroed in on mine.

“Any reason for that, sir? Are you HIV-positive by any chance?”

“No.” I was a little surprised at how angry I was at the question. I said shortly, “I’m getting over pneumonia. I didn’t think I could do an adequate job of resuscitating him. If no one else had volunteered, I’d have tried.”

“Pneumonia? That’s no fun.” This also from the firm’s junior partner. “Were you hospitalized by any chance?”

“Yeah. Five fun-filled days and nights at Huntington Hospital. I’ll be happy to give you the name and number of my doctor.”

“When were you discharged?”

“Tuesday morning.”

“And you’re already back doing the party scene?” That was Jake with pseudofriendly mockery. “How do you know Paul Kane?”

“We met once before today. He’s optioned my first book for a possible film. He thought it would be a good idea for me to meet the director and screenwriter, and he suggested this party.”

“So you’re a writer,” Detective Alonzo inquired. He checked his notes as though to emphasize that I’d failed to mention this vital point.

I nodded.

“Among other things,” remarked Jake.

I thought maybe he ought to curb it if he didn’t want speculation about our former friendship. But maybe marriage and a lieutenancy made him feel bulletproof. He didn’t interrupt as Detective Alonzo continued to probe.

I answered his questions, but I was thinking of the first time I’d met Paul Kane. Living in Southern California, you get used to seeing “movie stars.” Speaking from experience they are usually shorter, thinner, more freckled, and more blemished than they appear on the screen. And in real life their hair is almost never as good. Paul Kane was the exception. He was gorgeous in an old-fashioned matinee idol way. An Errol Flynn way. Tall, built like something chiseled out of marble, midnight-blue eyes, sun-streaked brown hair. Almost too handsome, really. I prefer them a little rougher around the edges. Like Jake.

“Hey, pretty exciting!” Alonzo offered, just as though it wasn’t Hollywood where everyone is writing a script on spec or has a book being optioned. “So what’s your book about?”

A little dryly I explained what my book was about.

Alonzo raised his eyebrows at the idea of a gay Shakespearean actor and amateur sleuth making it to the big screen, but kept scribbling away.

Jake came over to the table and sat down across from me. My neck muscles clenched so tight I was afraid my head would start to shake.

“But you also run this Cloak and Dagger mystery bookstore in Pasadena?” Alonzo inquired. “Was Porter Jones a customer?”

“Not that I know of. As far as I’m aware, I never saw him before today.” I made myself look at Jake. He was staring down. I looked to see if my body language was communicating homicidal mania. In the light flooding from the bay window my hands looked thin and white, a tracery of blue veins right beneath the surface.

I folded my arms and leaned back in my chair, trying to look nonchalant rather than defensive.

We’d been talking for thirty minutes, which seemed like an unreasonable time to question someone who hadn’t even known the victim. They couldn’t honestly think I was a suspect. Jake couldn’t honestly think I’d bumped this guy off. I glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. Five o’clock.

Alonzo circled back to the general background stuff that is mostly irrelevant but sometimes turns up an unexpected lead.

To his surprise and my relief, Jake said abruptly, “I think that’s about it. Thanks for your time, Mr. English. We’ll be in touch if we need anything further.”

I opened my mouth to say something automatic and polite -- but what came out was a laugh. Short and sardonic. It caught us both by surprise.

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Deadly Vision excerpt by Rick R Reed

Deadly Vision by Rick R Reed is about Cass, a single mom who becomes a reluctant psychic after a head injury. She begins having horrific visions into the fates of two teenage girls who have gone missing in her small town. Compounding the nightmare imagery is the mortifying reality that, like the Cassandra of myth, no one will believe what this Cass sees…

In this excerpt, Cass has a late-night visitor, a “deadly vision” that gives her an unwelcome front-seat view to a murder…



DEADLY VISION
Publisher: Regal Crest Enterprises,LLC(Quest imprint)(January 10, 2008)
ISBN: 1932300961

Excerpt


THE SOUND OF a car alarm outside Max’s window awakened her. Cass had fallen asleep in the chair beside Max’s bed. The alarm wound down, replaced by the sound of chirping cicadas and crickets, the distant rumble of thunder. Heat lightning flashed, muted blue-white swatches of color that illuminated the street in front of their little house.

Cass’s neck hurt, and she reached up to massage it, trying to loosen the knotted muscles. She glanced up at the Donald Duck clock on the wall opposite; it was going on midnight.

In spite of the crick in her neck, Cass thought perhaps falling asleep in the chair next to Max’s bed was a good thing. After all, her body was bone weary, and perhaps she could just drop her jeans and T-shirt on the floor next to her bed, crawl in under the sheets and fall back asleep.

And maybe she would dream of nothing.

Hell, maybe she’d even have a pleasant dream. Something sexy. Cass grinned as she padded, barefoot, down the hall to her room.

She slipped out of her clothes, folding them and putting them on the rocking chair in the corner, pulled the scrunchy out of her dark hair, and crawled under the sheet.

She closed her eyes.



SOMEONE WAS STANDING above her. Cass awakened to see a dark-haired girl staring down at her. She let out a little cry, not too loud, because she didn’t want to awaken Max. The girl held a finger to her lips, leaning over so that the long, dark curtain of hair partially obscured a very pretty, very young face.

The girl motioned for Cass to follow her; Cass shook her head.

The girl reached down and took Cass’s hand in her own. Her touch was ice-cold and Cass glanced down at the hand. Even in the dim light, she could see the sapphire ring on her finger.

Cass got up, following the girl, not bothering with clothes. Eventually, she stood naked in the gravel driveway of her house with the girl, who gestured toward the river. And even though the river was two blocks away, Cass could suddenly see its brownish curve, the hills of West Virginia along the opposite shore. Up high, at the top of one of the hills, was a red brick house, old, that Cass had admired since she was a little girl. Fronted by white pillars, the house occupied the only space on the hilltop, and Cass had often envied the solitude and the panoramic views the house must command.

Cass stood alone in the driveway, shivering. A light rain had begun, cold needles on her skin. And she knew she had sleepwalked...the touch and vision of the young girl had been a dream. She gasped as she looked down at herself, seeing her silvery-white nude body in the dark, and hoped none of her neighbors had insomnia and had witnessed her unintentional exposure.

She turned and trudged back inside, picking her way through the sparse gravel of her driveway. She could protect her feet, if nothing else.

As she went back up the stairs, avoiding the places she knew would creak, she thought of the dark-haired girl, how beautiful she was. And how cold.

The girl was Sheryl McKenna, the one whose disappearance had just been reported on the radio. Cass knew this with the same certainty as she knew her own name.

The bed waited for her. Reluctantly, Cass made her way back to it, and lay down. She closed her eyes and everything started. There was a reddish color behind her eyelids; Cass willed it to go away. She begged for sleep; simple, untroubled sleep that did not contain unwanted, mysterious images that seemed to have their own volition and a purpose Cass wasn’t quite sure she yet understood.

The visions came rapid-fire, with no consistency or order. Cass ground her teeth, knowing she could stop the montage if she would just open her eyes, but unable to lift her eyelids. It was as though they were glued shut.

The sapphire ring she had seen earlier, still on the girl’s finger. A scattering of earth covering the hand that lay limp against a tree root.

Sheryl McKenna’s face, cold in repose, her blue eyes clouded and open, gazing at something only she could see.

A beetle skittering across the porcelain-white skin.

A shift, and Cass found herself in some sort of pornographic movie, only there was nothing titillating about this one. No lurid bump-and-grind musical score to accompany the sex taking place, the sex to which Cass was forced to bear witness. She heard only the sounds of the man’s panting breath and the whimpers of the girl, occasionally interrupted by a gasp, a small cry that didn’t begin to describe the pain Cass knew she was feeling. The girl lay beneath a dark-haired man in the back seat of a car, which was nothing more than a dark hulk in the night, details indecipherable. His back was slick with sweat and the girl’s eyes were wide as the man thrust into her, hard, making her whimper and bite her lip with each thrust.

As if the volume was just switched on, like a mute button pressed to release the sound, Cass could hear music coming from the dashboard, odd electronic beats, something no radio station would ever play. It created a hellish background score to the rape taking place in the back seat.

Cass turned, and there it was in the darkness: the blinking red light and a shadowy figure, another woman, peering through the viewfinder of a video camera.

And then she was high on a hilltop, looking down over the Ohio River’s rushing, muddy brown current. Skeletal branches reached out over the water like fingers of bone.

Cass started awake—sweat-slick, heart pounding, twisted up in her sheets like a mummy.

Tomorrow, she had to do something.

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Voyeur excerpt by Jon Michaelsen

Kevin has an obsession; one that involves the muscular Adonis in the penthouse adjacent to his high-rise condominium. He’s told no one, not even Alice, his best friend at the office of his fascination. He purchases binoculars, adds a camera with zoom lens and spirals into the depths of voyeurism before devising a plan to finally meet the man of his dreams. An evening of easy conversation and lustful glances ends far too soon, but not before Tony plants the most amazing kiss ever on Kevin’s lips, leaving him yearning for more.

When Tony shows up at Kevin’s apartment the next night all bloody and bruised, Kevin offers him instant refuge…and his bed. But not all is what it seems. Police burst into Kevin’s home, searching for the killer of a man in the penthouse across the street—Tony’s so-called partner.

Will Kevin’s pleas of innocence save him from this horrible turn of events?

Voyeur in MEN – An Anthology)
Publisher: Loveyoudivine His & His Kisses
E-book ISBN:978-1-60054-253-4
Print ISBN:978-1-60054-240-4

Excerpt:

Chapter One

“Cheer up, Kevin. It’s spring!”

Kevin looked up from the flat screen monitor of his computer.

“What now, Alice?” He loved his one friend at the office, but at times,she annoyed the hell out of him.

She smirked and ignored the friendly jab. “Honestly, Kev. You should get out more. You look like you’ve lost your best friend.”

He forced a smile. “Well, if anyone around here knows how that feels, it’s me.” He rifled through a stack of financial statements scattered across the desk. “It’s not a good day. If I can’t get these spreadsheets to balance before the Stutman meeting next week, I’m screwed.”

“Correction,” she said, and moved behind the desk. “We’re screwed.”

He flicked off the screen. “How ‘bout lunch?”

Alice crossed with him to the door and smirked. “I thought you’d never ask.”

***

The warmer temperatures and longer days of April awakened a dormant nature. Spring permeated the air, and Kevin relished every moment of the city coming to life. He couldn’t wait to get home from the office before the sun faded. He often spent much of his time in his garden on the balcony of his twenty-eighth floor condo. The cultivation of an array of clay-potted plants amounted to no more than an urban collage of colors, both brilliant and full. He took great pride in his hobby,often working well into the night. A pastiche of carnations and snap-dragons filled every inch of soil in the pots. Though not one to gloat,he knew that he possessed the proverbial “green thumb”.

It was sometime in mid-April when he first noticed the man who lived in the adjacent high-rise penthouse apartment. The building stood a couple floors shorter than Kevin’s apartment. Poised behind a giant palladium window, the stranger sipped a beverage while staring out across the western horizon. Molasses streaks of the sun's rays cascading across his shirtless torso cast a halo often seen in sultry scenes of a Hollywood movie. He raised a free arm and pushed fingers through a mess of dark curls. The ringlets of hair fell about his face as he let his hand travel along the back of his neck and around to his chest. He drained the last of his drink and rested a hand on a stomach that was toned and defined by youth.

Fearful the guy might notice him staring, Kevin kneeled and peered around the edge of the foliage of his garden. True to form, when presented with such a tantalizing image, he began to perspire. Within minutes, his body soaked the cotton shirt. He wiped hands on the back of his shorts, careful not to tip backward and risk discovery. Heart palpitating, Kevin remained transfixed, staring over the pageant of colors at nothing short of an Adonis.

His eyes blurred the more he strained to look at that angelic face through the window that reflected the glowing embers of a dying sun. A light breeze caused his eyes to tear up, but he refused to wipe them, afraid he’d miss even the slightest blink of an eye or flex of a muscle. The object of his desire stood there, frozen in time,gazing out at the sunset, perhaps daydreaming.

Arms came from behind and wrapped around the man’s torso,pulling him away from the window and out of sight. He disappeared.

Later in the week, Kevin sat at his desk and stared at a spread-sheet of figures. He calculated and recalculated the numbers, but each time he ended up with a total different than before. He snapped his fourth pencil and held his face in his hands. Frustrated and exhausted, with a headache the size of a boulder, he sighed. Month-end loomed and the more time he spent on this client’s portfolio, the less time he had for his other accounts. He’d spent the last few nights tossing about and awakened by nightmares, none of which he could recall. Each retching experience left him drenched in sweat and drained. Though forty-five minutes remained of his shift, he logged off the computer, killed the lights, closed the door to his office and exited the building.

He walked a couple blocks to Peachtree Street and headed south, strolling past a menagerie of street vendors who hawked everything from faux designer handbags and watches to fake collegiate team jerseys and sweatshirts. He entered the Five Points Rail Station and boarded a crowded commuter train headed west. Exiting at Centennial Olympic Park, he walked the few blocks home.

Inside his unit, he rushed to the wet-bar camouflaged behind a beveled mirror door in the kitchen. He poured a tumbler full of scotch and downed half the amber liquid. Though not prone to needing a cocktail before dinner, tonight he made an exception. He was anxious, but he couldn’t figure out what made him nervous, or why he lacked focus at work. The guy in the window, maybe? He shrugged. Whatever caused his stomach to grind the last few nights and be responsible for his restless sleep, now seemed poised to ruin the rest of evening.

He stepped out onto the terrace and moved to the railing to stare across the horizon. The scenery appeared aseptic, and not as beautiful as the other day. Could it the absence of that angelic face? The golden rays glistening across his bronzed skin? He frowned. The sun set the same time every day during spring, spreading tranquility across the sky. So, why should today be any different?

He chanced a glance toward the window across the way. The glass stood empty and dark, the vertical blinds drawn. No young man peered out. Disappointed, he sipped the alcohol dry and moved back inside.

Before going to bed, Kevin opened the mini-blinds in his bedroom. The floor to ceiling windows covered the south wall and overlooked the city. He looked up at the night sky that resembled a black canvas littered with white dots of various shapes. The view engrossed him. He stood there longer than he’d intended, when a flash caught the corner of his eye. He glanced down and across to the adjacent tower. A light glowed against the backdrop to reveal a bedroom of the unit across the way and by his calculations, the same floor belonging to the hot guy from the window. He made out a dresser, reclining chair and the lower portion of a frameless bed.

His heart jumped into his throat, excited with the prospect of seeing the guy again. He would wait to catch a glimpse of the man once more, and he’d be content. Afterward, he’d go to bed and forget about him for the night.

His plan failed the moment a figure moved within sight. He found himself trapped, frozen by hunger for more. The stranger he saw days before passed by the window. He moved about the room getting ready for bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he removed his sneakers and socks, and stood, unbuttoning his jeans, letting them fall to his knees. He sat and slipped free of the denim.

Kevin’s heart pounded in his chest like a jackhammer. His stomach somersaulted and his mouth went dry. What luck! Adrenaline shot through his body. Clad only in white briefs, the man came forward to the window. Kevin panicked. He tried to move away, but stumbled. He regained his balance and eased forward like a child sneaking a peek at Santa Claus in the middle of the night.

The blinds no longer glowed, and the guy disappeared once more.

When Kevin missed his alarm in the morning, he called in to explain his tardiness. He showered, dressed in a pale blue linen suit with a yellow tie, and rushed to work. When he arrived, he found Alice waiting in his office. She handed him a cup of coffee.

“You’re late.”

“I called in.” Kevin pulled the cord of the lamp on his desk.

“You missed our appointment.”

Her eyes followed him around the room as he opened blinds and turned on the radio. He placed his jacket on the back of his chair, plopped down behind the desk and narrowed his eyes. “You’re late once in a while. Give a guy a break, will ya?”

“I am never late,” she sassed, brushing aside auburn curls. “Relax, already. I’ve proofed the figures. We won’t be late for the presentation.”

“I did that yesterday.” He felt the irritation rising in his voice.

“I know, but I found several mistakes.”

Rolling his eyes, he retrieved a pair of reading glasses and placed them on the bridge of his nose. “Where?” He figured she’d already marked the errors, like usual. Her character often involved pointing out the faults in others. He watched her tiny body squirm with agitation.

“Pages three, five and eight.” She pointed to each correction.

“What in the hell was on your mind yesterday, Kev? You know this is an important proposal. If we don’t show the Stutmans they’re investments are solid, we’ll lose the account. That’s half a million in revenue for this firm.”

“I’m sorry, Alice.” He sighed. “I promise I’ll pay closer attention.

Okay, let’s get to the meeting.”

Kevin drifted through the rest of the day. The image of the guy in the adjacent high-rise seemed to be everywhere, haunting him around every corner, in the lobby, even in the break room. Men who passed him in the corridor took on the features of the mysterious young man. In the john, a colleague stood beside Kevin at the sink as they both washed their hands. Turning to exit, he nodded at Kevin,who could only see the full lips of the stranger from the window.

On his way home, he passed a photography store. The window display featured binoculars of various sizes. Kevin entered to browse with no intent to purchase, but he left with an inexpensive pair of binoculars. Embarrassed and feeling guilty, he concealed the purchase under his blazer and rushed home.

That night, after Desperate Housewives, Kevin glanced out the glass door to the balcony. The blinds across the way were open and lights illuminated from the penthouse. Seized by the possibilities, he rushed to get the binoculars. Sneaking to his bedroom window without turning on the lights, he pressed the rubber tips of the scopes to his eyes and focused. He’s lifting weights!

The guy appeared far better looking than he’d imaged, with a narrow nose, sharp jaw line, dimples and piercing green eyes. He could easily be a runway model at Bryant Park. Shirtless and wearing white gym shorts that clung to his body like a second skin, Kevin watched as he bent down to retrieve a set of chrome dumbbells. He curled the weight in each arm, twisting his wrist at the top of each pull, his stomach contracting to reveal solid muscle. Kevin couldn’t help but count the lines of the six-pack. The stranger’s biceps bulged with each repetition.

He ignored the stirring in his loins and struggled to keep the binoculars steady. Finishing his routine, the man moved out of view, perhaps to shower.

Kevin remained at the window waiting for his return. His hands shook, his chest heaved. What are you doing? he chastised himself.

Becoming a freaking Peeping Tom! A flash regained his attention. The guy reappeared, a white towel secured about his waist. Kevin stared through scopes, the heat of his eyes fogging the lenses. The man moved toward the window and in a quick one-two motion, he stripped from the cloth and closed the blinds.

Kevin stood awestruck, angry he’d drawn the blinds, but thrilled to get a glimpse of the beautiful man. He stayed at the window for an hour longer, hoping the guy would return and open the blinds. Although he tried many times, he couldn’t pull himself away from the window. He wanted just one more look before going to bed, an image to take with him into slumber. His eyes aching from the strain of staring too long through the rubber-tipped scopes pressed into his face, and frustrated the glimpse he prayed for never came, he fell onto his mattress well after midnight.

http://www.jonmichaelsen.net

A Dangerous Man excerpt by Anne Brooke

The following is an additional excerpt from A Dangerous Man by Anne Brooke. Michael Jones, a young gay artist and part-time prostitute, will do anything to stage his first exhibition. When he falls in love with rich financier, Jack Hutchinson, he seems set to achieve his goal. But as Mikey becomes caught between the unforgiving territory of smoky-bar Hackney and the green-garden luxury of upper class London, we witness the intense mindscape of a man obsessed with his dreams as he attempts to free himself of his past.

When a net of antagonistic relationships and inner battles encroaches upon him, the consequences of Mikey’s uncompromising pursuit emerge in thrilling tragedy, leaving him having to fight for all he holds dear, and in the only way he knows how. Within a plot thick with the flesh of individual struggle, a backbone of page-turning tension carries Mikey’s plight through the charcoal grey London which rubs itself so close to his skin, entrapping him in a dark kaleidoscope of sex and crime.

At this stage in the novel, Michael is working as a commercial artist for Jack's City finance firm, and it's his last day there. Michael is crazy about Jack and is dreading the thought of not seeing him again. (The first excerpt was posted on 2/7/08).


A Dangerous Man
Flame Books (2007)
ISBN: 09545945-6-8

Extract

‘Last day then.’ Jack gave me a look I couldn’t interpret before running one elegant hand across the top of his highly polished desk. I wished I was that desk and then almost smiled at the thought, except the ability to smile at all seemed to have gone. This was the first time I’d seen him today. He’d been in bloody meetings all afternoon and now it was 6pm and not much time was left. Underneath my arm, I felt the throb of the drawing I’d done of him nestling in its case. All day I hadn’t been able to lose sight of it, all day I’d been wondering when the original would turn up and now he was here.

‘Yeah. I …I’ll be sorry to go.’

‘You’ve done a good job.’

‘Sure, thanks.’

‘No, I mean it. Thank you.’

He stared at me for a moment and I wondered if I looked as desperate as I felt. Maybe that was what was making him seem jumpy. Because that was what he was at the moment. Jumpy, edgy, in a way I hadn’t seen him act before. What the hell was happening now? I had to say something, anything to break the deadlock. God, Michael, sound professional and maybe he’ll recommend you again the next time someone wants some wall candy. But no, don’t think like that, it’s not wall candy, it would never be, even if it was only me who thought so. It’s my life, it’s my life, it’s my life.

‘Was there anything you wanted me to do before I go?’ I asked, knowing even as I said them that the words sounded stupid, out of place. ‘A last request, if you like. A final picture.’

And then I laughed, God knew why, and it didn’t sound like laughter anyway. The space between my laugh and his reply lengthened between us until I wondered if anyone would ever speak again. Or breathe, or move, or live. Not just here, where the silence was as strong as hatred, but outside, in the street, the whole of bloody London, the world.

‘Such as?’ he said at last when I thought I would die here, staring at him. ‘One of the offices?’

‘No. You. It wouldn’t take long. I’d make it a free one. Again.’

I saw him swallow. Once, as if swallowing down words he couldn’t bring himself to say. Then he turned round, looked at all his rich bloke possessions as if he hadn’t seen them before and gave half a shrug. ‘Where?’

‘On the sofa,’ I said, not because I’d planned it, but because if he were really going to give me the chance of drawing him as he was and not as how I remembered or imagined, then I’d need somewhere he could relax. Relaxed people, or people focused on something other than the artist, are easier to commit to paper.

He sat down. I took one of his chairs and sat opposite him, opening my pad to the first clean page. I would sketch him now and work it up later. I didn’t have the equipment for anything else. He fidgeted, shifting left and right, sitting straight and then swaying like a nervous elephant, as if the leather was burning him.

‘It’s okay, I don’t bite.’ Now I was the one in charge and it felt good to see him smile. ‘Just sit sideways, get a comfortable position and I’ll do a sketch. It won’t take long.’

He nodded and then rubbed his hands up over his face and through that dazzle of soft yellow hair. A quick movement, hardly worth the mention, but when it was finished, there was a mark on his face, a speck of dirt that hadn’t been there before.

‘Your cheek,’ I said, sweeping one finger across my own as a guide.

‘Sorry?’

‘There’s a mark on your left cheek. If you could …?’

Without a word he passed one hand across his face again, but still the speck remained.

I shook my head, smiling. ‘No luck. Try again.’

He did, with the same result.

Still smiling, I stood up, dropped my paper and pencil on the seat behind me and walked towards him. ‘Here, let me.’

Bending down, I reached out to brush the imperfection from his skin, but instead my hand moved of its own accord to balance itself against the back of the sofa and I leant closer, using my tongue to lick him clean. His face tasted of salt and that herbal aftershave I couldn’t name. I took my time, drawing my tongue across his cheekbone almost to the level of his eye, which I noticed was closed. Then I stepped away, surprised at my own boldness.

‘There,’ I said. ‘All fine now.’

He said nothing.

Back behind my sketching pad, my fingers were trembling and I was unable to bring them under control. Neither could I breathe. For the next five minutes I couldn’t look at him once, not a great position for an artist to be in, and neither could I draw anything worthwhile. Thirty seconds into that time, I knew he wasn’t going to respond, that I’d read it all wrong, he wasn’t gay and I’d made myself into an idiot. Bloody, bloody hell. Why didn’t he say something? Was he simply being polite, pretending it hadn’t happened? Who was the mad, the dangerous one, him or me? My pencil scrawled strange lines I couldn’t interpret over the page and in the end I couldn’t stand it any more. Grasping the bottom of the page and angrier than I could remember being for a long time, I crumpled the paper and was about to tear it off when a hand was placed over mine.

His hand. I hadn’t even heard him get up.

At once, remembering the drawing which lurked underneath to give me away, as if I hadn’t already done that myself, I tried to pull the paper back down, to cover my own wild fantasies.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Let me look.’

Wrestling the pad away from my grasp, he smoothed down my ruined drawing and turned his head to one side as he took it in.

‘Hmm, I can see why you’re not happy with it. Why don’t you have another go?’

Before I could stop him, he’d ripped the paper out and the drawing underneath, the naked, yearning drawing of him, the one I’d wanted him to see and not see, was exposed. Now, there was silence. Except I could hear the ticking of the clock and the distant sound of voices outside the room. They might as well have been in another universe. I turned away and put my head in my hands. He’d know now. He’d know everything. I’d thrown away any chance this job might have given me. He’d tell Joe what I’d done and I’d never get another commission. Anywhere. The world of art was a small one. Especially in this town. I wanted to throw up and it took a few deep breaths to deaden the feeling. I wished Jack would say something, anything. What was he doing? I mean it couldn’t have been every day he came across a naked drawing of himself or what I imagined he might look like naked. He’d know now that I thought about him every day and most of the bloody night too, week after week after week. Surely he’d see it all. He had to have some kind of response if it wasn’t going to be the one I’d longed for, didn’t he? Anger? Embarrassment? Dismissal?

But he still said nothing. I couldn’t bear it.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go. It was stupid, I know, but …’

‘Shut up.’

I shut up. When I glanced up at him, he was gazing at my drawing and his face was still. What was he thinking behind that beauty? I wanted to get up, run out of that room and away from my humiliation, but I felt too weak to move. Neither could I speak again.

In the end, it was he who broke the tension.

‘It’s good. Different. I wonder … I wonder how you think it compares.’

Then laying down the pad with its drawing of himself exposed to the warm inquisitive air, he turned and walked to the door, which he locked before sauntering back to the sofa, as if nothing had changed. My throat felt dry. He stretched once, muscles flexing under his dark blue silk shirt and then sat down. Without a word, he took off his shoes and socks, placed them at the edge of the rug, and began undoing his cufflinks. Not all the cash in the world could have made me look away. So I watched as he took off his shirt, folded it and laid it next to him. Next came the trousers and briefs, revealing his dick, still astonishingly limp, and a mound of fair curly hair. He was even more beautiful than in my fantasies or so I thought then. My throat felt tight and my own cock pushed against my jeans.

‘So,’ he said at last. ‘Do you want to make some alterations? To your drawing?’

‘What? Yeah, I mean sure.’

Even to myself, my voice didn’t sound like my own. He was crazy, he had to be. Just what the hell was going on? But I grabbed my pencil and, stealing glances at his body now and again, began to work up what I’d done: the length of his thighs which I’d foreshortened; and his large, bony feet. Another imperfection which, like his uneven teeth, somehow made me smile.

But not for long, because my mind was travelling elsewhere even as my hand skimmed over the page, adding a line here, a smudging there, a hint of more, and more delicious. And in the end I couldn’t keep going any longer.

‘Look,’ I said, dropping my pencil onto the floor and knowing my skin was burning hot. ‘This is crazy. I can’t concentrate, I just can’t. Don’t you see that?’

‘Yes,’ he said in a voice so low I had to strain to hear it. ‘I’m not blind. And I hope I’m not stupid, but how long are you going to make me sit here naked with you fully dressed and looking like …? God, Michael, how bloody vulnerable do I have to make myself before we can have sex?’

My head jerked up as if pulled by strings and this time there was no mistaking it. He was fully erect, quivering and dark purple. His blue eyes burned into my brown ones and the next second the sketchpad had tumbled to the floor and I was scrabbling at my own clothes, ripping off my polo-shirt and not caring about untidiness or anything else but the need to touch him.

Then he grabbed me and I tore at his skin as if I wanted to wear it or be worn by it, but he held me away for a moment. I wondered if he might kiss me. I’ve always liked kissing, though it’s not something breeders expect us to like. But what do they know? Smug bastards. Anyway he didn’t. Not then. Instead, he reached out and touched my neck with his fingers, stroking me and drawing his hand down my back, down and down and then slowly round to the top button of my jeans. Which he began to undo. I didn’t even think about asking if he’d be willing to pay. Such a question never entered my thoughts.

That was about as much foreplay as either of us could take that first time. Turning me round with a strength I couldn’t help but find exciting, he pushed me forward and across his desk, scattering papers, disks and files over the carpet, and I felt his legs shaking against mine. Just before he pulled down my jeans and briefs with one very practised manoeuvre, I managed to whisper, ‘Condoms … back pocket of jeans … use one.’

He did.

It was good. Not that surprising since I’d been dreaming about it for weeks. But it was so good that halfway through I forgot myself and cried out, something I tried never to do - as if you enjoy it, it always upset the punters. The noise made him reach forward and jam his hand against my mouth where I sucked and bit at his fingers.

After he’d fucked me, he removed the condom with experienced ease and placed it in his bin, covering it with my ruined drawing. We said nothing, but as he began to put his clothes back on, I could hear the tremor in his breathing. At the same time I tried to stand up from the desk. My jeans were still round my ankles and my knees felt weak.

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ he said at last.

I shook my head, not sure if I was capable. I was trembling. He helped me dress again, his smooth fingers touching my skin and making me jump as he slid my shirt over my neck. After that I sat down, carefully, on his sofa.

Looking up at him, I realised that his fingers were bleeding from where I’d bitten them, and blushed at my own violence.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Your fingers - they’re hurt.’

He glanced at them as if he’d been unaware of it, ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.’

Then he smiled.

‘So, would you like to go for a drink?’ he said.


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http://www.annebrooke.com

Darkness Descending excerpt by Bethan Korsmit

To the outside world, Robert Petrovic had it all: money, power, a successful business and most importantly people with whom to share it—namely his mother and his lover.

Only a handful of people knew who and what Robert really was, and one of those people was his son, Alex. Alex was a rising star in politics, and when he found out about his father, he disowned him.

On a fateful July weekend, Robert begins to spiral into the darkness of despair. Within a few hours, Robert’s mother disowns him and his lover leaves him heartbroken. Everybody Robert loves abandons him. Feeling utterly alone and abandoned, Robert takes drastic action that starts his descent into darkness.

Will Robert’s family try to rescue him from the darkness? Or will they write him off for good? Will Robert find his true self and ascend back to a life where he is accepted and loved? Can he forgive those that hurt him the most?

Robert’s journey is one of great joy and unconditional love, but also horrible despair and betrayal. Only time will tell if Robert survives his journey, and only time will tell who is accepted into Robert’s life.

Darkness Descending is the first place winner in the Gay Fiction category in the Reader Views Literary Awards.

Publisher: iUniverse
Date of Publication: June 19, 2007
ISBN: 978-0595444052


Excerpt:

As Robert’s lover walked up the long sidewalk to the opulent front door, he looked questioningly from the car angrily leaving the driveway to Robert’s feigned look of happiness. He stopped before crossing the threshold, “Robert, what’s going on?” When Robert failed to answer, Mitchell asked tenderly, “Are you all right?”

A sad smile eclipsed on Robert’s distinguished face, making him look several years older than his fifty years. “I’m fine now that you’re here.”

Mitchell Rains, a tall, athletically built gentleman of early middle-age, with stunning blue eyes and short blonde hair, reached out and took Robert’s hand gently into his own and led him into the house and onto the large sofa. Still holding onto Robert’s hand, he looked deeply into Robert’s deep brown eyes and inquired about what had just transpired before his arrival. “Robert, what did George want?”

Trying overtly to avoid discussing what had just happened, Robert replied calmly, “Nothing really.”

Disbelieving, Mitchell spoke more tenderly, melting Robert’s already fragile facade. “I know you don’t want to discuss George for fear you’ll ruin our evening, but Robert it’s okay. Nothing or nobody is going to ruin our evening together. If George is causing you problems, I want to know about it, okay?”

Robert turned away to hide the tears that glistened unshed in his eyes, but Mitchell slowly turned Robert’s face back to him. Robert closed his eyes tightly and replied calmly and steadily. “He just showed up unannounced ranting about how I had no business checking out his past.”

“What else? You shouldn’t be this upset if he was just ranting and raving. You deal with people like him all the time.”

Robert bowed his head and Mitchell caught on, “He said something about me and you, didn’t he?”

Robert turned away again and started to rise, but Mitchell caught his hand and stopped him. “Please Mitchell, can’t we just forget about George and everyone else in this world for tonight?” Robert asked pleadingly.

Mitchell cupped Robert’s face with his soft hands, tilted his head from side to side as he studied Robert’s expressive eyes, and smiled, “Sure. What’s for dinner?”

A smile crossed Robert’s tired face and Mitchell smiled reassuringly at him as the two walked into the dining room. The aromatic smell of fettuccini alfredo filled the dining room. A bottle of red wine and two tall, thin candles accented the elegant setting that Robert’s staff cook created.

Mitchell sat down, spreading his napkin over his lap as Robert opened the aged wine and poured a glass for Mitchell and himself. They raised their glasses heavenward “To life, love and happiness.”

The two lingered over dinner for almost three hours, discussing everything under the sun. Robert, the more conservative of the two, never disagreed openly with Mitchell’s opinion, but always agreed to keep an open mind. The idealist in Mitchell made him see what was wrong in the world, and sometimes the way to conquer prejudices so that everyone would have the same opportunities as anyone else.

After dinner the conversation moved into Robert’s living room, where the two lit up Cuban cigars and poured themselves some Brandy. Mitchell sat down next to Robert and put his arm around Robert’s shoulders and playfully pulled him close. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

Robert backed out of Mitchell’s grasp to look him in the eyes, “I’m glad you came. You know I would do anything to make you happy.”

Mitchell smiled mischievously at Robert’s words, “Do you mean ANYTHING?”

Robert’s face blushed an amazing shade of red, “Almost anything.”

Mitchell laughed and Robert responded in kind. It had been such a long time since they both were able laugh.

Taking a long drag on his cigar, Mitchell inquired, “Do you have your tuxedo out and ready to go for tomorrow?”

Confused, Robert asked, “What’s tomorrow?”

Mitchell was amused, “Tomorrow is the 4th of July.”

“Why do I need a tuxedo?”

“I accepted an invitation from one of my friends to attend a cookout and then an evening in the city dancing.”

“That’s great Mitchell. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time,” Robert added sincerely.

“I’m sure we’ll both have a wonderful time. We were both invited, so I accepted for both of us,” Mitchell said enthusiastically.

Robert stood up and walked over to the table where the alcohol was placed. He poured himself a shot of whiskey and downed it as soon as he poured it. Gathering his courage, he replied to Mitchell, “I wish you hadn’t done that. You know I can’t go.”

Mitchell answered in a controlled tone of anger, “Yes, you can go. There is no good reason for you to stay home.”

“I’m sorry Mitchell, but I can’t jeopardize his career.”

“Screw his career! He wouldn’t help you if you were lying at his feet gasping for air.”

Robert shook his head sadly in agreement, “I know he wouldn’t, but he’s still my son and I love him.”

“You love him more than me.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Please Mitchell, try to understand.”

“I understand perfectly. You are willing to give up happiness for yourself so that your ungrateful son can get ahead in his career. Am I right?”

“I just don’t want to jeopardize his career and his future.”

Mitchell sat down and shook his head back and forth disbelieving. Robert, on the verge of tears, sat down next to Mitchell and put his arm around Mitchell’s shoulder. Robert tried to speak gracefully and steadily, but his voice cracked as he said to Mitchell, “I love you too.”

Mitchell looked Robert in the face and replied softly, “I love you too, Robert, but I can’t keep doing this. I want to go out and enjoy life. I want to take you to parties, to dinner and dancing in the city.” Mitchell took a deep drink, and continued, “You always said you wanted to travel, but when I ask you to go somewhere you won’t go.”

“I know I upset you with my indecisions, but he’s my son, regardless of whether he admits that or not. I don’t want to be the reason he fails.”

“Trust me, Robert. He will fail, and it won’t be any fault of yours.”

“I promise we’ll go somewhere soon, just the two of us.”

“I’m sorry Robert, but I’ve heard that one before.”

“Please believe me,” Robert pleaded shyly.

Mitchell stood up and paced back and forth in front of Robert. “I’m sorry Robert, but I can’t go on like this. It’s a long weekend with the 4th tomorrow. I assumed we would spend time together with friends, but I guess I was wrong. I’m a sociable person, Robert. I can’t live in isolation like you do.”

Stunned, but sensing what was occurring, Robert inquired, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I think it best we break up.”

“Best for whom?”

“Best for me. I’m still a relatively young guy, and I want to do so many things in this lifetime. Things that I want to share with another person.”

“You don’t love me, do you?” asked Robert with an unsteady, cracking voice.

“Yes I love you, but that doesn’t change the fact that we don’t have a life together. We get together for dinners on special occasions, and sometimes I spend the night, but none of that is considered a life.”

“Please Mitchell. Please don’t leave me. I love you,” pleaded Robert.

“I’m sorry Robert, but it’s for the best. For both of us.”

With tears glistening in his eyes, Robert replied calmly, “You lied to me.”

Caught off guard, Mitchell responded, “I have never lied to you.”

“Yes you did. You told me tonight that no one would ruin our evening together.”

Mitchell, realizing the hurt that he was causing, sighed deeply. “I’m sorry Robert. Please believe that. Seeing you in pain is ripping my heart out, but I can’t go on like this. In time you’ll see that it was for the best.”

“Your leaving will never be good for me.”

“Everything will work out.” Mitchell took one last gulp of his Brandy and started for the door. Robert jumped up and caught him, pulling him into an embrace.

“I love you Mitchell. Please don’t go,” sobbed Robert into Mitchell’s shoulder.

“This isn’t goodbye, Robert. We’ll still be friends.” As Mitchell was pulling away from Robert’s embrace, Mitchell leaned in and kissed him delicately on the cheek. “I love you Robert.”

Before Robert could regain his composure, Mitchell was out the door and racing out of the driveway.

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