Murder on Camac excerpt by Joseph R.G. DeMarco

In Murder on Camac by Joseph R.G. DeMarco, author Helmut Brandt is gunned down in the street, his life ebbs away and puts a chain of events in motion placing P.I. Marco Fontana on a collision course with Church and community. Brandt’s research into the decades old death of Pope John Paul the First made him serious enemies within the Catholic Church. As Fontana digs into the case, he finds Brandt also had rivals in his work and in his love life. Rivals with motives for murder.

Dueling with the Catholic hierarchy and combing through seedy gay hangouts, Fontana encounters dangerous characters and powerful forces intent on stopping him. When Fontana himself is attacked, he knows he must find answers before any more lives are lost. The web of intrigue and deceit is intricate, tangled, and deadly.

Will the solution uncover a decades old plot to kill a pope or will Fontana find that jealous rage or academic rivalry caused Brandt’s death? The only thing Fontana can be certain of is that Brandt's enemies have killed once and won't hesitate to murder a private eye who gets too close to the truth.

Fontana deftly balances his work as a P.I. with his position as owner of StripGuyz, a troupe of male strippers; he must also negotiate the intricacies of love and relationships which he has been avoiding all too long. Along with Anton and Luke, Olga his secretary, a host of male strippers, and other denizens of his world, Fontana manages to navigate his way to a surprising conclusion.

Murder on Camac
Publisher: Lethe Press (August 22, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1590212134
ISBN-13: 978-1590212134

Excerpt:

“Fontana,” I said, fiddling with the file.

“Someone’s trying to kill me,” he said. No introduction, no nothing. My antennae went up.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Helmut Brandt.” I noticed a slight German accent. The name seemed vaguely familiar.

“I’m listening.”

“Someone… you must believe me, Mr. Fontana. This is no joke.”

“Believe what?”

“Someone wants me dead. For what I’m about to expose in a book I’m writing.”

“How about coming in to my office to talk?”

“Have you heard of Opus Dei, or P2, or the Roman Curia?”

I’d heard of two out of three. Not bad.

“These are the people trying to kill you?” If he thought so, I knew exactly which shrink to refer him to.

“Someone wants me out of the way. I’m in possession of documents which people would kill to keep secret.”

“Has there been an attempt on your life?”

“You’ve got a right to be skeptical, Mr. Fontana, but I assure you I’m telling the truth. Look me up on Amazon or Wikipedia, you’ll see why certain people want me buried. Maybe you’ll find that more convincing.” He paused and I heard him breathing. “I’ll come to your office tomorrow. Ten in the morning.”

He hung up. I didn’t really want to talk to him again, let alone take his case. I’d had my fill of paranoid nut cases. But he’d given me homework. Something about his voice and his name made me curious about why he’d have potentially lethal Christian organizations trying to skin him alive.

As I was about to type his name into Amazon’s search bar, the phone rang again. I wondered why Olga put yet another call through without asking, then I heard the voice.

“Marco, we’ve got a minor problem which you apparently caused.” Anton said.

When Anton used the word ‘minor’ I knew it meant trouble. What he considered minor was usually an eight point five on anyone else’s earthquake scale. His unflappable nature was why he helped manage StripGuyz my other source of income. StripGuyz, an ever-growing troupe of male strippers and go-go boys, was a business I’d started a few years back.

“Cal’s being a diva again? The baby spots are not the right color or what?” I felt happy to have something other than paranoid people to deal with.

“Cal and Bruno are sulking and it’s almost showtime. They both expect to be the Feature this weekend. Said you promised them. Did you promise both of them, Marco?”

“Me? Anton, you know I nev…”

“What I know is, that when a pretty boy bats his eyes at you, you kinda forget the promises you made to the pretty boy who came before.” Anton’s tone was world-weary and accusatory.

“And I thought you liked me. Just a little.”

“I keep hoping you’ll like me. Marco. But that’s another story.”

It certainly was another story. Anton was interested in a relationship. With me. And I was equally interested. All right, maybe not equally. But I was interested. The timing wasn’t right. There were too many unsettled things in my life. I also had to be sure. Trouble is with Anton it was all or nothing. We could date but he wouldn’t allow us to sleep together. Kissing, cuddling. Everything but rolling in the hay. He wouldn’t let that happen until I was ready to commit. It was actually sweet and one of the things I liked about the beautiful hunk.

Anton was far and away the favorite with the crowds when he danced, which was rare now. He was my first dancer and had become my right arm in the business. Even as my manager, Anton was still popular. How could he not be? His sultry, golden, Eastern European looks almost literally hypnotized men. He’d had his share of guys. But no one ever tempted him to settle down. Except me. And I just wasn’t ready.

“Anton, you know how I feel about you.”

“Anyway, Marco, I need you here.” A wistful note threaded its way through his words making me feel small and alone. “Both Cal and Bruno are threatening to go on strike. I’m not sure they know what the word means but they’re threatening. They might take others with them. If you don’t get down here and fix things, we’ll have an empty stage tonight.”

“I’m on my way, Anton.”

I hung up the phone, stashed the file, and found my cell phone hiding under some papers. On the way out I grabbed my jacket, October was colder than expected but I enjoyed a chill in the air. It woke me up, brought me to attention.

“You are going to stripping guys?” Olga kept her eyes glued to the computer monitor.
“Another emergency is arising and they need Daddy to handle?”

“I’m not old enough to be anybody’s daddy,” I said and opened the door. Unless thirty-two was daddy territory, I was still safe.

“You will be back?”

“Not tonight. It’s almost seven. I’ll deal with the boys at Bubbles then get something to eat. Why’re you here so late?”

“Is personal project,” she said.

I took the stairs to the street. The too small elevator was not quick enough. The peeling paint and cracked walls reminded me that I’d promised myself to look for a new office as soon as I cleared a few more cases.

It was chillier than I thought which made me glad that Bubbles, the bar where StripGuyz is based, wasn’t far. The suede jacket I wore was more fashionable than warm. I’d struck up a friendship with Stan, the owner, several years before. When I started the troupe, he was only too glad to let Bubbles become my base of operations. My guys brought in business. Lots of business. Like my office, the bar was smack in the middle of the gayborhood. With four floors of fun, a restaurant, lounges, and a small twenty-four hour café, Bubbles was as complete a setting as you can imagine.

My StripGuyz office occupied a small, microscopic was a better word, space at the rear of the second floor. There was also a large locker-dressing room with lots of accoutrements to keep the boys happy. The dressing room was near the back stairs which only my guys were allowed to use to move from floor to floor without being disturbed.

Ty, the afternoon bartender, was setting things up for the night shift when I walked through the first floor bar. Short and muscled, he had a face like a prize fighter who’d been at it a long time. The rough manly look made him wildly popular.

“Hey, Marco.” Ty turned to smile at me. “Situation upstairs?”

I always unconsciously touched my face when I saw his broken nose and this time was no different.

“Yeah, Ty. Too many divas and not enough stage. That’s why I want you to work for me.” I wasn’t joking. Ty was a natural. His innate grace along with his dark hair and olive complexion made his rough exterior even more appealing. I could see him pulling down a few hundred on weekend nights. No problem.

“I might just be another diva.” He winked and continued stacking glasses.

Nearing the locker room, I heard the buzz of angry voices. I entered without knocking. The glare of dressing room mirror lights was calculated and necessary. These boys needed to see their flaws so they could figure out how to fix or disguise them before going on stage. Some just loved seeing themselves. I squinted until my eyes adjusted.

“Marco!” Cal turned from his place at one of the mirrors. No shirt, smooth chest, low rise jeans revealing the flattest of stomachs, he had a fresh, innocent face. Cal was anything but. He was nice enough but was savvy, could be manipulative, and never let anyone best him. He threw an arm around my shoulder and seductively pulled me to him.

“You’re gonna clear this up, right, Marco?”

“Yeah, you will clear this up,” Bruno rumbled from a far corner. His dark Puerto Rican looks made him appear fierce and wildly sexy. At that moment he smoldered with anger. He was usually polite, courteous, and a willing worker. But anyone could see that beneath the civil exterior, there was more going on, a suppressed slow burn.

“Marco’s a great fixer.” Anton smirked.

I didn’t remember promising feature status to either guy, yet each had the impression I’d given him the nod. Being the feature meant more money. A bigger paycheck from me as well as a lot more in tips. Everyone wanted to be featured. I had a system for rotating them. Usually. Something went wrong this time. Boy, had it gone wrong.

I had to come up with something quick.

“Well, Marco?” Anton smoothed his hair and stared at me as if I had the magic answer. Sure enough it came to me. Maybe it was his stare, maybe I’m just used to talking my way out of things.

“Someone’s not remembering something,” I said.

“You got that right.” Bruno’s soft accent and lingering anger colored his words.

“Doesn’t anybody remember that tonight is Auditions? We never have a Feature on Audition night.” Which was true. I had five guys who’d applied to become dancers. I let applicants work for tips to see how they performed. Not everyone could hack it. Bruno made a ton of money when he’d auditioned.

“Oh, auditions! Right. How could I forget?” Anton fell in with me. Not to save my ass, I was sure. He wanted to keep the dancers happy and working without a lot of unproductive competition.

“Saturday and Sunday are Amateur Nights. We don’t do a Feature those nights either,” I said and heard Cal sniffle softly in the background. “But I’ll tell you what.”

“Yeah, boss man?” Bruno said.

“I’ll let you and Cal have top billing Saturday and Sunday. You can host the Amateur contests and dance between their sets. I’ll make sure Anton schedules each of you for your own feature-weekends later. How’s that?”

Bruno grunted; even his grunts were seductive. The man exuded a sexual power that drew the customers to him like few other dancers. Cal sniffled and hiccupped which I took for agreement.

I knew they were happy, they just had different was of displaying it – after a while you get to know your guys well. They’re great at hiding things from an audience – even though they bare it all for a living. But privately, when they get to know and trust you, there’s little they can hide or want to. With all my own trust issues, lots of people had no trouble trusting me and I never violated that confidence. Having people trust me was paramount. It ranked right up there with loyalty. In the stripper troupe, trust was all there was at times. The guys had to confide in someone and they knew they could count on me. I was something between a house mother and on-scene psychologist. They came to me with all their problems. It was nice being needed.

“Great,” Anton said. “In fact, Marco, you and I will work on that schedule now. Right?” Anton raised one eyebrow, a trick I’d never mastered.

“Yeah, sure. We can work it out right now.” I agreed. Anton hated handling diva moments. I knew my office was going to feel a lot smaller once he got started in on how I needed to manage the group better.

Anton moved to the door. Holding it open for me, he said, “After you, boss.” I didn’t like the way he emphasized the word ‘boss.’

He unlocked my office and held the door for me again. I was in for a lecture.

“Well,” he said, leaning on the door, leaving me no escape. “Quick thinking, Marco. Even I have to admire that. But you weren’t here when it all hit the fan. I was. I had to listen to Cal whine and Bruno rumble like an old car.”

“I’m sorry… really.” I moved closer to him, which wasn’t saying much since the office was like a sardine can made for two. “How can I make it up to you? Tell me what I can do.” I took him in my arms and was about to kiss him.

“Here’s what you can do,” Anton said, not pulling away, but not accepting the kiss, either. “Promote me to Manager.”

“Of the whole shebang?” I was taken aback. Anton was good but I wasn’t about to give up complete control of StripGuyz.

“No, tiger.” Anton said and stroked my cheek with one long finger. “Just of deciding schedules and features. That way, I won’t have to call you for every little thing. We won’t have to have auditions when we didn’t plan to. And you won’t be allowed to make promises you can’t keep. Sound fair?”

I had to admit it was fair. It would take a lot off my back. Anton liked keeping things orderly. Not that I ran a sloppy show. I just had a different management style, kinder and gentler, you might say. After working with some of the low life types I met in my investigative work, dealing with my strippers allowed me to indulge an entirely different side of my personality.

“Sure, it sounds fair. But I can’t promise I won’t interfere once in a while.” I laughed. Pulling him tighter to me I nuzzled his neck and savored the clean fragrance of his flesh.

“But…,” he moaned, a small guttural sound filled with longing. Then he caught himself and cleared his throat. “But not often. Promise?”

“Promise,” I said and made my smartest Boy Scout salute.

He pecked me on the cheek, pulled away, and opened the door.

“What? You’re going?”

“Why? Is there more to discuss?” He was all business.

“I thought maybe we could have dinner?”

“I’ve got a lot to do before the show tonight.” He was almost out the door when he turned. “Give me the list of the guys who want to audition. I’ll call them. Curtain’s up in three hours.”

“Sure. I told them we’d call when we were ready.”

I wanted Anton in my arms but he had his rules and even my saddest puppy-dog look wouldn’t have made a difference. We stood awkwardly outside my office, me wanting to hold him and cover him in kisses and me wanting to pull back and tell myself to slow down. It was tough being me.

Before I could move, Ty rushed up the stairs, his face drained of color.

“There’s been a shooting. On Camac. Some guy was killed…” Ty was breathing heavily and sat down on the top step. “This is crazy. That’s the way I go home every night. It coulda been me. Shot dead on the street.”

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M4M excerpt by Rick R Reed

M4M by Rick R Reed. Two great stories. One great love. Get between the covers with Ethan and Brian, the men whose hearts connected online and offline in the best-selling VGL Male Seeks Same. Follow them on their continuing journey in NEG UB2, where a shocking health diagnosis derails the couple’s blissful romance and teaches them both a lot about acceptance, forgiveness, and faith...especially when it comes to love.

Previously available only in electronic format, these twin novellas of gay erotic romance have now been combined for a paperback edition!


M4M
Publisher: Amber Allure (June 24, 2009)
ISBN: 978-1-60272-868-4

Excerpt:

Ethan was just finishing a victorious game of Spider Solitaire in his cubicle at LA Nicholes and Associates, the entertainment publicity firm where he toiled, when he overheard the office receptionist (a bleached blond waif of a boy no older than twenty) talking to the payroll clerk.

“Girl, if it worked for me, it can work for you!” The receptionist, even though he ostensibly possessed a penis and a supply of God-given testosterone had a voice that Ethan would swear was an octave above that of Miss Beverly Sills. “I have met, like, so many guys on this site. I have, like, a jillion dates lined up. I don’t know how I’m going to find time to come into work!”

The receptionist and the payroll clerk did what seemed to be a carefully choreographed twitter duet. Ethan stared at his screen, moving a queen onto a king, and listened as the receptionist waxed rhapsodic about an online dating site he had found. He had shrieked that it “wasn’t like all the others,” that it “was more than just for quick hook-ups, like so many of those sites, okay?” and that it was simply, “a lonely girl’s best friend.”

That was all Ethan needed to hear. Well, no, actually, that was not all. And even though Ethan could stand no more Spider Solitaire or Free Cell and was more than ready to call it an honest day’s work, he had to sit in his cubicles for twenty minutes more while “Bubbles” (as he secretly called the receptionist) prattled on about this wondrous—and apparently no-name—dating site. Finally, frustrated, and absolutely unable to endure one more hand of Hearts, Ethan stood and peered over the wall.

Almost immediately, the blond receptionist swiveled his head around to peer at Ethan. “Yes?” he hissed. The payroll clerk, a portly woman of Latina heritage, eyed him with suspicion. Together, they both seemed to be saying, “How dare you interrupt us?” with their eyes.

Ethan applied his most sheepish grin and began to stammer, “Sorry to interrupt but I couldn’t help but overhear what you were saying…you know, about that dating site. But I didn’t catch the name of it.”

The blond and the Latina exchanged knowing glances and Ethan, even though he would never claim psychic abilities, could read their minds quite well, thank you. They were telepathically saying:

“And who does Miss Mary over there think she is?” Bubbles asked.

Latina replied, “I don’t know, but if she thinks she’s going to have the same kind of success that you did just because she logs on, she better think again.”

Snap!

“Hello?” Bubbles was staring at Ethan, head quizzically cocked, and Ethan grinned, realizing he had let his imagination run away with him. He may have just missed his only chance to learn the name of the dating site in question, the one that apparently had men lining up for the affections of a nelly nineteen-year-old who probably didn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds sopping wet and whose dubious intellect most likely rivaled that of a Chihuahua.

“Sorry? I missed that.” Ethan felt heat rising from his neck to his face.

Bubbles closed his eyes and held them shut for a beat to indicate his distaste for, and impatience with, his coworker. Speaking slowly, as if he were talking to someone hearing-impaired, Bubbles enunciated carefully, “The name of the site is bootycall.com.”

The Latina held a hand over her mouth to artlessly—and unsuccessfully—hide her giggles. Ethan noticed her nails were shellacked a lurid red, topped with dragon designs, and so long they were curving back at the top. And this woman managed to handle the challenges of a computer keyboard?

“Oh, okay,” Ethan said, staring down once more at his monitor, which had gone to a screensaver of Barbara Stanwyck movie posters. Sorry, Wrong Number seemed like an apt title to be up at the moment. Ethan may have not been possessed of a dazzling intellect, but even he knew when his leg was being unkindly pulled. He had just sat back down and was powering off when Bubbles’ voice fluttered over the beige partition. “It’s wing people dot com.”


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Taming Groomzilla excerpt by E.N. Holland

In Taming Groomzilla by E.N. Holland, Joel Harfner and Luke Townsend, lovers for two years, have just bought their first home together in Scarborough, Maine. In a moment of domestic impetuosity, Joel proposes to Luke, who says yes. Then, to Joel's surprise, Luke says he wants a wedding with "all the bells and whistles." Joel, who never expected to be married, suddenly finds himself in the midst of planning a full-scale destination event to be held in Provincetown, Massachusetts. Why Massachusetts? As Joel says, "We can't get married in Maine ~ yet ~ but we are ever hopeful." Taming Groomzilla tells the story of how Joel and Luke navigate the tribulations of the six months from "Will you marry me?" to "I do." And while they do seal their union, complete with a kiss, there is more than one twist and turn in store to complicate their journey and keep the reader hilariously entertained.

A portion of the proceeds from the sale of this book will go to Protect Maine Equality to help support their efforts to protect same-sex marriage in Maine.

Taming Groomzilla
Publisher: Bristlecone Pine Press
ISBN: 978-1-60722-010-7

Excerpt (from Chapter Four)

Marital plans were proceeding apace. In fact, I was amazed at just how quickly things were moving forward. I felt like I had gone from a laid-back, low-key sort of guy whose biggest decision every day was what sort of latte to have on my mid-morning coffee break, to a whirling dervish of planning and organization. And if I was a dervish, what was Luke? A Tasmanian devil? I think so. The description seems apt.

Once we had decided on the date, a whole chain of decisions suddenly presented themselves. Where to have the wedding? How elaborate? How many guests?

We started with location. Since same-sex marriage is not legal in Maine (yet—we are ever hopeful) we decided to get married in Massachusetts. We tossed around ideas such as Canada, Spain—even Iowa—but really, I don’t do cornfields well.

Massachusetts made sense: it is familiar and almost local so it wouldn’t be an onerous trip for friends and family.

Luke liked the idea of Provincetown, the gay mecca at the very tip of Cape Cod. While I love P-town, I wondered if it might be a little too “in your face” for some of our guests, especially his parents. But that was precisely why he wanted to force the issue. “I’ve been out for twelve years,” he said. “They need to realize this is not a ‘lifestyle choice’ or phase I am going through.”

I shrugged. Whatever. If he wanted to have a family showdown at his wedding, I wasn’t going to argue. I just hope they take the fisticuffs outside at the reception.

The next obstacle was finding a venue.

We discovered that planning a wedding on a six-month timeline is, at least in the eyes of event managers, akin to planning the invasion of Normandy in three days—in other words, were we nuts? I had a few memorable phone conversations, such as this one with the wedding coordinator at “The Dirty Gull” (name changed to protect the guilty!).

Wedding coordinator, in a faux British accent: “You are scheduling your event for October seventeenth, I assume that would be next year? Eighteen months from now?”

“No,” says I, “October of this year…in the fall.”

“Surely you jest,” says WC. “Don’t you realize that The Dirty Gull is booked at least two years in advance for all events of significance?”

“If I realized that, I wouldn’t be calling now, would I?”

WC sniffed. “Next time, sir, plan better. Propose sooner.”

“I am not planning on proposing again. This is one of those ‘for now and forever’ type deals.”

“Hmmphf,” he said. “I’ve heard that old saw before.”

I hung up on him.

“The Bitter End” seemed promising: they had availability on our selected date and they could accommodate our proposed number of guests. I felt my pulse speed up.

“What’s the process for making a reservation?” I asked.

“Easy,” said the bubbly, chirpy young woman on the other end of the line. “First, we confirm the date.” She whispered to herself as she did this and I could picture her writing the information in big loopy handwriting in a spiral bound notebook. I wondered if she used a purple pen and dotted her i’s with hearts. “Now, do you want a three-course or a five-course meal?”

“Actually, we want passed hors d’oeuvres and champagne.”

“Sorry, no can do!” she said brightly. “Luncheon or dinner only, three or five courses.”

I paused. “Well, let me discuss that with my fiancé. He might be open to the idea of a meal.”

“While we are on the topic of what you can and can’t do, let me outline the rest of our policies: you will use our chef, our baker, our florist, our tables, our chairs, our linens, our silverware, have our bartenders serve only our top-shelf liquor and the event must not go longer than four hours, otherwise we begin charging by the minute. No exceptions. We have a list of approved DJs that you can choose from who will ensure that the music is not played louder than one hundred decibels so that the neighbors aren’t disturbed.”

Quite a list, I thought. “Is that it?”

“Will you be having out-of-town guests?”

“Yes, of course. None of us live in Provincetown.”

“Well then, we require your guests to stay at The Bitter End.”

I looked at the phone like she was a lunatic. “How can you possibly enforce that?” I asked.

“We have our ways,” she said mysteriously.

I hung up on her, too.

I was beginning to despair of finding anything on the Cape and was starting to toy with the idea of Boston, when I made one last desperate call to The Blue Door — desperate, because I think it’s the nicest place in P-town and I never imagined that it would be available at this late date. But, nothing ventured, nothing gained as my mother always says so I called them up.

First, the date. “You’re in luck!” said the manager. “We were booked on the seventeenth but just had a cancellation. I can pencil you in.” Wow. Next question: fifty to seventy people? Oh, yes, we have the perfect size space for that number. Hors d’oeuvres? Absolutely. Bring our own cake? Of course! Our own florist? You even have to ask? Certainly!

I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. There had to be a hitch. Can we get married there? Bien sûr! Dancing? Champagne? Let the party go on into the wee hours of the morning if we want? Yes, yes, yes!

She laughed at my litany of questions. “You sound like you’ve had some bad experiences. The Blue Door tries to bend over backwards to accommodate our guests and make your special day be more than special…we want it to be sublime. All we ask is for a fifty percent deposit and final payment in full two weeks before the event.”

“Okay…this sounds really good. I need to confirm with my fiancé but I can get back to you before the end of the day. One last thing…you do realize we’re gay, right? That’s not an issue?”

“GAY!” she shrieked. “GAY!” So this was the hitch—until she laughed. “Honey, this is P-town. I would have been surprised if you weren’t gay.”

All right, she had a sense of humor. I could work with this woman.


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Don Juan and Men anthology edited by Caro Soles

The story of Don Juan is a popular one and has appeared in many guises throughout literary and musical history. The Spanish Don, with his single minded drive to seduce, conquer and desert those who fall under his spell, fascinates us all. He is a man of power, a man who goes against the rules, a cynic with devastating charm. But the stories in this anthology will explore a side of the Don that has not been examined before. What if Don Juan were gay?

Don Juan and Men: Tales of Lust and Seduction, an anthology edited by Caro Soles, contains stories that range from literary to in-your-face erotic, from fantasy to historical, to other-worldly and more. But they all have something to say about Don Juan and Men.

This excerpt is from the opening of the story “A Weekend in the Country” by Caro Soles, and takes place in new York City, 1916.

Don Juan and Men: Tales of Lust and Seduction
MLR Press (August, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1608200469
ISBN-13: 978-1608200467

Excerpt:

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t love him, hate him, sometimes want to thrust a stiletto into his black heart. He has ruined my life but I do not want to live in a world without my lord, Count Andrei Alexandrovitch Rubikov.

Even here in America, so far away from our Mother Russia, he is a magnet for all in society. He fits in here, I do not. They court him, flatter him outrageously, for his looks, his wealth, his title. Me they look at sideways, trying not to see what I am, what I long for, lest it contaminate them, make them see my lord in a darker light. I watch them trying to place me; not a servant, yet not quite an equal. There is no title before my name, yet I am at ease in society, know everyone he knows. And I know his secrets. Sometimes I think this shows in my eyes and it scares them.

As I stand near the half open door to the Streusser’s ballroom, I watch him through the potted palms, the curly ferns reaching out to tickle my cheek. I see Andrei swing his blushing partner expertly into the next waltz, watch his full lips moving as he tells her lies, watch his green eyes slide away to fasten on the figure of her lanky dark-eyed fiancé Paul, standing in a group of young men, laughing. I see their eyes meet, and watch the young man’s laughter fade away as his gaze is held captive by the hunter. I know that look. Even though it is not directed at me now, I can feel the force of it, as if my body is attached to Andrei in some way, as if an unseen web is vibrating between us. My heart lurches.

The music rolls on, spilling out the door of the ballroom into the garden of this huge country house on the Hudson where Andrei and I are guests for the weekend. And then the dance is over and he has brought her back to her seat on the other side of the palms. She is not an attractive girl, hardly even a girl any more, but her heavy face is flushed and her eyes sparkle. Bathed in the reflection of Andrei’s charm, she is almost pretty.

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” he says, bowing over her hand. The diamond pin of the order of St. Dimitri flashes on his chest. “You are a lucky man, monsieur,” he goes on, turning to the fiancé, Paul.

He blushes, though whether at the compliment or at the heat of those green eyes it is impossible to say. “I know that, sir. Sometimes I pinch myself to see if it is all a dream.”

“A lovely dream to be enjoyed while it lasts,” Andrei says.

“While it lasts?” Paul says, his shoulders straightening, his chin rising. He is not as tall as Andrei. He looks like an adolescent beside him.

"Of course, my dear sir. It will be over once you are married, no? She will not be your fiancée then, but your dear wife?”

The young man relaxes and laughs and glances at his young lady, who fusses with her dance card, crossing off a name, adding another as she chats with a young man who has come to claim his dance. The music changes to a fox trot, a dance made popular recently by the Castles.

“Do you enjoy a good cigar, by any chance?” Andrei asks Paul. “I am becoming quite the aficionado, with the help of your soon-to-be father-in-law.” He moves between Paul and the other young men, effectively cutting him away from his friends. Like a sheepdog, rounding up strays.

They stroll out into the garden and he sees me.

“Misha! Join us for a cigar.” His eyes are bright, with a light I recognize all too well. My presence will give Paul a false sense of security. My frustration will fuel Andrei’s desire for the other.

“‘When the wolf shows his teeth he isn’t laughing’,” I say in Russian.

He smiles wider, his sensual lips glistening in the wavering light of the one gas lamp at the side of the red brick path. “Misha and his Russian proverbs,” he says moving closer to Paul to show his allegiance is with him, the new friend, not me.

“What does it mean?” Paul accepts the cigar from Andrei, reaches for the cutter on
his watch chain.

“It means that he is sulking,” Andrei says. “It means he worries too much, mon cher.”

Paul does not seem to notice the endearment as he clips the end off his cigar and moves along the path beside Andrei.

“It is difficult bearing the hope of one’s family on one’s shoulders,” Andrei says softly.

Paul looks at him, but says nothing. I can’t read his expression in the shadows.

“In my country we have another proverb,” Andrei goes on. “‘Marry your son when you will, your daughter when you can.’ Misha taught me that one.” He smiles and looks at Paul. He leans closer. “I understand. I have a wife at home chosen by my father. She is not beautiful, but sweet, like your fiancée. And with a lot of money.”

The web of half-truths and outright lies he spins wraps around Paul, light as gossamer, strong as silk, and soon the young man is confessing his plight. And yes, the hope of his family does lie on his shoulders. His is an old name and pedigree here, but there is no longer any money left. He has three sisters who need dowries.

“I am very fond of Olive,” Paul says.

“Of course you are,” Andrei soothes.

The farther away we have come from the house, the closer Andrei has moved to him until they are now arm in arm. It appears a quite a natural progression, since I am also arm in arm on his other side, but I know they have forgotten about me already. Soon Andrei will slide out from my grasp and steer Paul away from me and out of sight in the rose garden.

“A life without passion,” Andrei murmurs, “is hardly worth living.”

Paul was leaning into Andrei now and I can almost feel him shiver as I withdrew into the shadows.

A woman’s voice shatters the perfumed air. “Paul? Are you out here?” It’s Olive, the fiancée.

I watch the two men pause, raise their heads, look at each other. Paul will be startled, pulled out of the dream he has walked into, guilt flooding over him at what he has confessed, what he has experienced.

I can almost feel Andrei’s annoyance as Paul slips from him, hurrying back to the warmth and light and security of the familiar. But he turns at the steps to the porch and says, “We’ll continue our talk later, sir.” He raises a hand. Even then he hesitates.

Andrei is barely visible in the shadows, and I feel him tremble with suppressed anger at the woman for her unfortunate timing. I move beside him and we watch until they finally disappear within.

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Jacob's Pony excerpt by Jude Mason

In a world where man power takes the place of machine power, pony boys are the norm. Can a wealthy land owner fall for his steed?

In Jude Mason's Jacob's Pony, society has finally decided that putting criminals in prison and forcing society to pay for their upkeep just isn't working. So a three-strikes-and-you're-out law is created. On the third strike, the convict is sentenced to lifelong slavery. He or she loses all rights and is sold to the highest bidder. The only rule for the buyer is he, or she, can't end the life of the slave.

Jacob Scott is a landowner and slaveholder. He's single, dashing, gay and very much into treating his slaves well. He's just bought a shipment of slaves and one of them, David, catches his eye. The attraction grows, and as the slave is put through his paces, their lust turns to a more tender affection. When David declares his innocence, Jacob wonders if he might be telling the truth.

How can a wealthy landowner trust a convicted felon? Can a slave truly find a way into his master’s heart?

Jacob’s Pony
Publisher: Total E-Bound
ISBN: 978 1 907010 38 4


Excerpt:

Jacob Scott stood looking through the tall, multi-paned window of his study, watching the many slaves bent forward, labouring in the fields. Hobbled in groups of six, the muscular men were forced to work as teams, eat only when their mates ate, sleep together, do everything together. Over time, the work slaves bonded, became more like brothers than the slaves they’d been sentenced as.

Criminals no longer filled the prisons. In the collapse of 2045, prison had been deemed an ineffectual way to deal with those who broke society’s laws. The resources no longer existed to pamper them, and their labour could be used much more productively. Slowly the prisons emptied as guards cleaned the men up and sent them to newly built auction houses where they were sold to the highest bidder. Farming, mining, and mundane jobs were no longer done by machine, but by slave power. The young and good-looking found themselves in a different kind of bondage. Trained as male whores, they became the lunchtime playthings and subservient toys of anyone who could pay the pittance their owners charged. Unable to refuse a client’s desires, the slaves became accustomed to being used and abused dozens of times a day.

Jacob thought about those early days, when the first few slaves appeared. A great many people had still thought of them as convicts and wanted revenge. Prices were high and the typical family couldn’t afford the luxury of slave ownership. The poor sods were abused terribly until the citizenry realised that slavery was punishment enough in most cases.

When more slaves became available, prices went down and the average household could afford at least one. It became commonplace to see naked, or nearly naked, men going about the business of their Masters or Mistresses.

It was easy to spot a slave. Upon being sold, they were branded and collared. The collar could be changed, but the brand was permanent and always visible. It was incredibly rare for a slave to be given his freedom.

A large, white delivery dray pulled into the drive and stopped outside the front door. The eight draft slaves who’d drawn the vehicle staggered and gasped for breath, their bodies slick with sweat from the hard climb to his home. Jacob’s attention shifted from the men in the field to the back of that cart. He waited patiently for the driver to get out and open the back. Jacob knew what the cargo would be. He’d done the purchasing himself and was eager to see the four new slaves climb out.

The first clambered out and stumbled, nearly falling to the grass. The only thing that kept him erect was the chain joining his collar to that of his neighbour. Each man’s hands were secured to their collar and each collar had a short length of chain joining him to another. All of them were nude and all of them were young, well-muscled male animals. In truth, that was exactly what each of them was. Their humanity had been stripped from them when the judge had declared them to be slaves.

“Master, you asked to be informed when the shipment arrived.”

Jacob turned towards the soft masculine voice. “Thank you, Imp. Get my shoes and have them at the door for me.”

The slave, Imp, bowed and rushed from the room. He’d been one of Jacob’s first acquisitions and still served him well, although he was long past his prime. At least thirty-five, his body was no longer as firm or as smooth as it had been, but his cock still rose on command and he could keep from coming for as long as Jacob wanted. Years of training had definitely paid off with Imp.

Jacob watched the play of the slave’s muscular arse and thighs as he hurried down the long, carpeted hall. Imp wasn’t quite naked, but the tiny strip of cloth hanging from a string around his waist did little to conceal his genitals. Another perk of owning slaves, Jacob thought and smiled thinking of how many new slaves balked at the indecency of their attire.

When Imp vanished around the corner at the end of the hall, Jacob returned his attention to the window and the slaves disembarking.

All four were dark-haired and deeply tanned. They could have been related, and that was what he’d aimed for when he’d searched the auction house. The slaves stood side by side, and he noticed that even their cocks were about the same size and shape. Shaved as they were, he could see their balls also appeared similar, hanging low against their thighs.

When he was sure they were lined up properly and ready for his inspection, he headed into the hallway. At the end, he turned left and trotted down the curved staircase. The lower floor was luxurious, beautifully decorated in pale mauve and gold, the drapes matching the brocade on the large couches and chaise lounges he’d chosen. Tile mixed with wood covered the floors, and mats covered them from the worst of the traffic. Large urns and flower arrangements were tucked away in corners or against the wall, strategically placed to better show off the beauty of the place. A small army of slaves kept it clean and the flowers fresh.

He strode to the large front door where Imp waited. The slave stood close to the wall, hands behind his head, his back arched, chest and groin thrust forward. The display was the typical ‘at rest’ pose most slaves were taught to use while waiting.

Jacob sat on the bench and lifted one foot. Imp dropped to his knees and quickly slid the soft leather boot on him. The second followed. A moment later, Jacob rose and stroked the kneeling man’s head. “Good boy. You’re still my Imp.”

“Thank you, Master. I hope to be your Imp for many more years.”

Jacob turned and waited while Imp opened the large wooden door before striding towards the waiting slave dray. The four new ones stood in the shade, lined up beside the side of the dray. They’d assumed the same pose as Imp had taken, and also spread their feet wide, completing the display position.

All of their bodies had been shaved and the brand was fresh on their left buttock. Jacob stopped in front of them and waited for the elderly, grey-haired delivery man to offer him the paperwork to sign. He checked it, making sure all four of the beasts were listed then scrawled his name. Handing the tablet back, he said, “Thanks. Do you need the collars back?”

“Nah, the boss said whenever you’re in town to drop them off,” the man replied cordially. He flipped Jacob a key that would no doubt open all of the collars, which he slid into his pocket.

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Mahu Vice excerpt by Neil S Plakcy

Mahu Vice, by Neil S Plakcy, begins with the death of a young Chinese boy in an arson at a shopping center once owned by Kimo’s father—a place readers might recognize from the first books in the series. Kimo discovers, as he works once more with fire investigator Mike Riccardi, that there is unfinished business between them. In this excerpt, Kimo spends some time with Mike and realizes that the case may be tied to his past in more ways than just the location of the fire.


Mahu Vice
Alyson Books (August 1, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1593501110
ISBN-13: 978-1593501112

Excerpt:

On my way home, Mike called my cell. “I’ve got a lead,” he said. “You going to be home tonight?”

“I’m on my way there now,” I said, then regretted it. I was having enough trouble dealing with Mike on neutral ground, with others present. What was I doing inviting him over? And what was he doing asking?

It was just after five, the height of rush hour, and the sun was setting. The streets were alive with neon and with car stereos blasting hip hop, as the tropical night descended rapidly. The air was hot and humid, without a hint of a trade wind. The slow traffic and intermittent showers made me edgy, combined with the sense that our case wasn’t moving forward either. Or maybe it was just knowing that I was going to see Mike.

When I pulled into my parking space, he was sitting in his truck on the street, the same one with the flames painted on the side that he’d been driving when we dated. “I had an idea,” he said, getting out of the truck and walking toward me. “I cross-referenced a bunch of unsolved arsons, and I think I found a pattern.”

He showed me a list of ten arsons over the past two years, but the sun was setting and it was too dark to see clearly, so I led him upstairs to my apartment. Fortunately, I’d cleaned up on Sunday so most of the clothes and sports equipment were put away, and there were no crusty dishes in the sink or dirty underwear on the floor to embarrass me.

He sat down at my kitchen table, and I got us a pair of Longboard lagers from the fridge—only realizing as I popped the caps that if Mike was an alcoholic, based on that vodka in his water bottle, it was a bad idea to give him a beer.

He accepted the bottle gratefully, and took a deep swig. “Long day,” he said.

I sat across from him and looked at the list. The other fires had been at a massage parlor in Waikele, a quick mart in Kaneohe, a coffee shop near the airport, a Christian religious shop downtown, and a lingerie shop in Chinatown. “They were all places where the business closed down before the fire,” Mike said. “I want to see if there’s anything else that connects them. Business licenses, phone numbers, that kind of thing. You have any ideas?”

There was something familiar about that lingerie shop, and I struggled to make the connection. Then it hit me. “I know this shop.”

Mike looked at me, his eyebrows raised. “My old partner from Waikīkī, Akoni, and I went there when we were investigating Tommy Pang’s murder. Tommy owned the place. I wonder if any of these others were owned by tong guys.”

“Can you run them by your Organized Crime unit tomorrow?”

“I will.” Something was tickling around the edge of my brain. “The pharmacist’s wife told me that she thought the old Chinese woman at the clinic was named Norma. And at this lingerie shop, there was another old Chinese woman named Norma.” I reached over to the sofa, picked up my laptop and brought it to the table, where I turned it on. “If I can pull up the report online, maybe I can find her last name, and we’ll see if we can connect her to both places.”

Mike scooted his chair around next to me and looked on as I logged on to the department’s intranet and searched for the right files. Being so close to Mike unleashed a wave of pure longing, followed by sadness. I had loved him, and I’d been devastated to find out that he’d cheated on me, thinking at the time that it meant he hadn’t loved me the way I’d loved him. I’d over-reacted—but if we hadn’t broken up over that incident, something else would have happened to tear us apart.

Mike still wore the same lemon-scented cologne, and I wondered if he’d reapplied it in his truck while waiting for me to pull up. What did he want from me? Why couldn’t this meeting have waited until the next morning, and included Ray?

I multi-tasked-- talking to Mike, searching the files, and at the same time considering Mike’s motives. I’m no computer geek; I leave that to Harry Ho. It took me a lot of searching, because I wasn’t giving it my full attention, to pull up the reports from Tommy Pang’s murder.

It wasn’t an investigation I was happy to recall, since it was the one that had dragged me out of the closet two years before. But I found Norma Ching’s name in one of our reports. “You think this might be the same old woman?” Mike asked.

“Worth checking,” I said. A few minutes later, I’d run out of options. There was no listing for Norma in the phone book, or in Yahoo’s people search, and she had no criminal record.

Tommy Pang, who had owned the lingerie shop, was my Uncle Chin’s illegitimate son. Would his widow, my Aunt Mei-Mei, have known Norma? I looked at my watch. It was dinner time, and I knew if I showed up at her house she’d ply me with delicious food. Mike, too, if he was along for the ride.

“Want to take a trip up to St. Louis Heights with me?” I asked.

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Hard Candy excerpt by Amanda Young

Amanda Young's Hard Candy brings you three novellas of torrid love between men. In this excerpt from one of these stories, Man Candy, Aaron Samuels has a secret. He's in love with his boss, Logan Remora. Logan is everything Aaron's ever wanted in a man, except he's straight... and married.


Hard Candy
Publisher: CreateSpace July 10, 2009)
ISBN-10: 1448614120
ISBN-13: 978-1448614127


Excerpt:

Aaron jerked back, his gaze flying from his feet up to the man -- Logan or Jake, though he couldn’t tell which -- who stood a couple of yards away. The sudden movement caused him to overbalance in the swing. The seat shot forward, while his torso went backward. His back hit the ground, startling him, but doing no real damage to anything other than his pride.

The man appeared above him, the wry twist to his sinfully shaped lips automatically identifying him as Jake. Logan was much too serious most of the time. “You okay?” He held out his hand.

“Yeah,” Aaron replied as he accepted Jake’s hand and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. “Haven’t I already told you to quit sneaking up on me?” Aaron wiped bits of grass off his clothes as he glared at Jake.

“Uh, no.” Jake frowned. “And I didn’t mean to surprise you. It’s not like I was hiding in the bushes and jumped out yelling ‘Boo.’ Besides, you wouldn’t startle so easy if you would just relax a little. You’re too damn high-strung.”

“Fuck you,” Aaron responded defensively.

Jake chuckled, the deep, husky sound going right to Aaron’s balls, the fickle bastards that they were. “About time.”

“Huh?” Maybe he’d conked his head harder than he thought ’cause Aaron had no idea what Jake was talking about.

“I’ve been waiting for you to drop that proper little façade you wear around the office all day and be yourself. I just knew you’d be a spitfire as soon as you learned to let go a little.” Jake’s arm extended and his fingers brushed over the side of Aaron’s face. Aaron’s gaze widened at the touch. Jake shrugged. “You had a bit of grass on your cheek.”

Jake’s touch lingered, and Aaron had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning, or worse. When Jake’s thumb grazed the corner of his lips, a tremor ran down Aaron’s spine. Jake’s scent surrounded him, wrapped him in its musky essence, a light hint of spicy cologne teasing his nose. He wanted to close his eyes and lose himself in the moment, but couldn’t allow himself the pleasure. Showing his absorption in something as simple as a gentle touch would be way too telling about his feelings.

A voice in his head spoke up, warning him that it wasn’t Jake he was attracted to. He was only responding so strongly because of the resemblance to Logan. Wasn’t he?

“You’re so beautiful.”

Jake’s huskily whispered words yanked Aaron out of his musings. He shook his head, his cheeks heating because of the compliment. “No, I’m not. I’m --” There was nothing special about him. He was too short, too skinny, too everything.

He couldn’t do this. His dick throbbed angrily in response to his choice, but he ignored it and jerked away from Jake. Immediately, he missed the connection, but he forced himself to take an extra step back, needing more distance between them. The temptation to return the gentle touch, to see where it might lead, rode him hard. Jake’s allure was almost too strong to resist, but Aaron persevered. There was no other option.

Letting go of his tightly held restraint would be akin to playing with fire. And though he knew better, his body craved the heat Jake offered. Craved it worse than a nicotine addict does a smoke right after sex.

Aaron inwardly groaned. Sex. Visions of him and Jake, their limbs sweaty and flushed by a vigorous round of fucking, popped into his head. The image was so real, he could almost feel the damp heat, taste the salty tang of well-earned perspiration. He didn’t even need Jake to torment him; he was doing a good enough job of it himself.

Jake stepped forward and reached for him. Aaron hastily backpedaled away. His ass smacked into something hard and cylindrical. He felt around behind him, touched cool metal, and realized he’d run into one of the poles anchoring the swing set. He squeezed his eyes shut. Jesus, he was a klutz.

Strong hands bracketed his shoulders. “Look at me.”

Aaron shook his head in answer, refusing to open his eyes. He was being childish and he knew it, but it would be all too easy to lose himself in those dark, mesmerizing eyes. Casual sex was fine, not a thing wrong with it, but he couldn’t make love to Jake and not let his feelings for Logan get in the way. Jake clearly only wanted a plaything and would move on as soon as the thrill of the conquest was over. By then, it would be too late. Aaron would be head over heels and shit out of luck.

A finger caressed Aaron’s jaw, tilting his chin up. “Am I that unattractive to you, Aaron?”

Aaron could hear the smile in Jake’s voice, and it incensed him. The smug bastard knew full well that wasn’t the problem. He opened his eyes and glowered up at Jake, who towered over him, close to six inches taller than Aaron’s own five foot nine. “Stop it, Jake. Quit toying with me.”

A frown creased Jake’s forehead. “I’m not --” His voice cut off, and then with a little shake of his head he leaned down, bringing their eyes into alignment. The tip of his nose ran over Aaron’s in feathery Eskimo kisses.

Aaron pressed his hands into Jake’s chest and felt Jake’s heartbeat thundering against his palms. His fingers flexed over Jake’s pecs, unable to resist, and he wanted to moan in response to the wicked feel of them contracting against his touch.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

Okay, so that wasn’t precisely the truth. It was clear enough what Jake wanted. The question resting heavy on Aaron’s mind was why. In all the time he’d worked for Remora Construction, Jake had never come on to him. Sure, they’d flirted back and forth a little bit, but that was it. Aaron couldn’t understand why Jake was hitting on him now. It made no sense.

Jake quirked a single brow. “Don’t you?”

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