Merry Christmas & Happy New Year

Have a wonderful holiday.  Gay/Lesbian Fiction Excerpts returns next Monday!

Daddy’s Money excerpt by Alan Chin

In Daddy’s Money by Alan Chin, everyone needs a little help now and then. For gay Muslim Sayen Homet, that help first came from his understanding mother, who brought him to America from the Middle East. Now that he’s working his way through Stanford Medical School, his help comes from a secret sugar daddy. But Sayen might be able to end their arrangement soon now that he has a boyfriend he can depend on, A student Campbell Reardon. Campbell is more than willing to support Sayen, even if it means coming out to his conservative family.

But when Campbell takes Sayen home to meet his parents, everything falls apart. Campbell doesn’t realize how his boyfriend pays for school… and neither of them knows Sayen’s sugar daddy is Campbell's father, Blake Reardon.

While everyone involved struggles to overcome their shock, it becomes obvious Blake will do anything to keep Sayen. Campbell and Sayen love each other, but in the face of so much hurt and betrayal, love might not be enough to hold them together.

Daddy's Money
Dreamspinner Press (December 10, 2012)
ISBN: 978-1-62380-233-2

Excerpt:

Campbell Reardon watched a woman’s face, red and dripping with sweat, scrunch into a mask of pure agony. Her breathing became loud, frantic, crescendoing into a scream. “Oh God! What’s happening?” Her panting accelerated, wet sobbing breaths on the verge of hyperventilation. She leaned back on the table with a sheet draped over her elevated knees.

Her husband held her hand, stroking her forehead. “Breathe, sweetheart. Concentrate.”

The woman’s moans built into another scream.

On the far side of the room, Nurse Peggy Warren prepared bathwater and blankets. She had a bird’s narrow lips, bottle-red hair with forties-era bangs, and a Carolina accent that always sounded slightly pretentious. Beside Campbell, crusty old Dr. Crill studied his wristwatch, timing the pains. Campbell was feeling his usual sting of resentment that came whenever he had to work with Dr. Crill. The dinosaur should have retired when I was in diapers. He was convinced that the reason Crill treated him with disdain was not the fact that he was a handsome twenty-six-year-old with wavy blond hair, perfect teeth, and brimming with life, but rather that everything about Campbell spelled money—manners, posture, grooming. Everything except the nervous expression he could feel on his face at that moment.

“Late again,” Crill snapped. “How many times have I warned him?”

Crill glared at Campbell with hard, unfathomable eyes until good manners forced Campbell to look away. He turned his head to stare out a bank of windows overlooking Stanford campus, but what caught his attention was a moth with squiggly yellow markings on its wings battering itself against the inside of the windowpane.

“I’m sure he’s only moments away, Dr. Crill.” Campbell continued to watch the moth, somehow hoping it would find a way back outside, to break free and ride the wind. He yearned for a miracle, and he knew that his desire had more to do with Sayen than the moth.

The woman in labor screamed again as agony arched her back off the table.

“Be strong, sweetheart,” her husband crooned. “Breathe deeply.”

She reached up and slapped her husband’s face once, twice. She tried for a hat trick but he pulled out of her reach. “Don’t tell me to breathe you turd… DO SOMETHING! Make them give me the fucking shot!”

“We have plenty of time here,” Dr. Crill said to Campbell. “I’ll be at the nurse’s station checking on other patients. Send the nurse for me if the baby crowns.”

Campbell nodded.

“And Campbell, if Sayen is not here by the time I return, I’m washing him out of the program. We take medicine seriously on this campus, and that means showing up on time, every time.”

“We don’t know what’s keeping him,” Campbell snapped, his anger leaping into the red zone. “It could be an emergency.”

The expression on Crill’s face revealed he did not like the tone the conversation had taken. He closed his eyes, obviously trying to determine if he was over reacting. “What do you think he’d prefer, Campbell, washing out of the program or setting him back a year?”

Campbell turned his attention to the windows. The moth still battered itself against the glass. “Are those the only choices, killing his dream or throwing him deeper into debt and delaying graduation by a year? Well, thanks. I’m sure he’ll be humbled with gratitude.”

Crill’s eyes narrowed as they followed Campbell’s stare to the window. “As well he should be. Few people get to choose.” He stood silent, no doubt waiting for a proper, reverential response. When none came he said, “Very well.”

Crill picked a pad of paper from a nearby table, strolled to the window, lifted the pad, and smashed the moth.

Campbell willed his face into neutral as his anger turned into shame, which stemmed less from ingratitude than from the dangerous way he had allowed himself to reveal his contempt when it could have been so easily concealed. That was a weakness that could get him drummed out of medical school, and he vowed never to allow himself that response again. His only hope of becoming a doctor was to placate Crill and all the other arrogant bastards like him in a self-effacing manner. And that I will do, no matter what.

Campbell’s chest squeezed tight. His lungs labored and his eyes watered. He reached into his pocket for his inhaler and lifted it to his mouth. One squirt brought sweet relief, and that helped calm him.

As Dr. Crill breezed out the doorway, another wave of pain rocked the patient. She grabbed her husband by the shirt-collar and squeezed. He fought to suck air into his lungs. As the pain rolled away, the husband pulled back, gasping for breath. He staggered to Campbell and clutched his arm. “Doc, you gotta give her that shot.”

Campbell glanced at the doorway, thinking he should probably go after Crill, but clearly not wanting to. “I wish I could, Mr. Bishop, but I’m a student here. I’m not allowed to administer drugs without a doctor’s supervision.”

“There must be something you can do. I mean, look at her. She’s in agony!”

Mr. Bishop clenched Campbell’s arm so tight he was in pain himself. Campbell could feel beads of sweat breaking onto his forehead. “Dr. Crill will be back any second. As soon as he’s here, I’ll administer the shot. I promise.”

Another scream sent Mr. Bishop back to his wife’s side to dab her forehead with a damp cloth.

Nurse Peggy turned on Campbell like an attack dog. “Her pains are under a minute. I’ll get Dr. Crill.”

Campbell rushed to put himself between Nurse Peggy and the door. He held out a hand to stop her. “We have to wait for Sayen,” he choked. He gave himself another blast from his inhaler.

The patient’s groans were constant. Her screams grew razor sharp. “Please, Doc,” Mr. Bishop pleaded, “do something.”

“I’m not making that poor woman suffer another second,” Nurse Peggy snapped.

"Peggy, no. Please don’t!”

“Screw Sayen!” She hurled past Campbell and jerked open the door, but then froze by what she saw in the corridor. Campbell cocked his head to the left so he could see out the doorway, and what seemed to fill the long hallway was Sayen on his skateboard, flying toward them like a charging bull.

“Hold the door,” Sayen yelled only moments before he rocketed into the delivery room. He leaned back on the board, screeching to a halt, then popped the board up and caught it with expertlike ease.

Sayen returned Nurse Peggy’s glare as the ends of his mouth lifted. “Hey, Pickles, you look more sour every time I see you. Lighten up and enjoy life.”

“Stop calling me that.”

Campbell stepped close to Sayen, and as he did, he felt that familiar weakness come to his chest, that feeling of awkwardness he always felt around this beautiful man. Sayen had a long face, bushy eyebrows suspended above deep-set eyes, the suggestion of a moustache set over impossibly thin lips, and a prominent Adam’s apple that constantly battled against his starched collar. “Crill is ready to wash you out. I’ve been stalling for time.”

Sayen grabbed Campbell’s wrist and turned it to check the face on Campbell’s Rolex. “I’m exactly on time.”

Campbell felt the heat from Sayen’s fingers on his wrist. He was always amazed at how this lovely man generated so much energy, as if he held an entire universe of burning life deep within, a brilliant comet streaking across an empty sky. “On time for Crill means ten minutes early. You know that.”

Another scream from the patient sent Nurse Peggy hurrying out the doorway.

"We both know that decrepit boob can’t even see his watch,” Sayen spat. “This has nothing to do with being late, and everything to do with him being a homophobic swine.”

“No argument there.” Yes, Campbell knew the truth of it all too well, and he felt a wave of admiration for this Muslim man who had the courage to be completely out. He also felt a tiny twinge of shame for not having the same pluck. In Sayen’s excited state, he had yet to let go of Campbell’s wrist. “If you’re timing my pulse, let me assure you, now that you’re here my heart rate has doubled.”

Sayen dropped Campbell’s arm. “We better scrub up before Pickles comes back dragging that knuckle scraper.”

They walked to the sink, rolled up the sleeves of their lab coats, and, side by side, soaped and scrubbed. Campbell felt waves of coziness. He seldom had the chance to be this close to Sayen. He could feel the energy radiating from him, and that warm strength comforted him. He nudged closer, but Sayen moved further away.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” Campbell said in a low voice.

Sayen glanced up, lifting one eyebrow. “You know I’m in a relationship.”

“Ah yes, the mystery man. Nobody believes he’s real.”

Sayen rinsed his hands. “He’s real alright. He just travels in different social circles.”

“He’s married?”

“Fuck off.” Sayen grabbed a towel and dried his hands. He turned his back on Campbell and slipped on rubber gloves.

Campbell cast his towel aside and lifted a glove. “I’d show you off regardless if I had a wife. Don’t you think you deserve better than that?” He stared into Sayen’s eyes. It never failed to amaze him that a man of North African ancestry, with thick, jet-black hair on his head and fine hair covering his arms, would have eyes the color of the sea. But then a purple spot below Sayen’s lips caught his attention. “You have a smudge of jam on your chin.”

Sayen held up his gloved hands, hesitating. Campbell felt a burning desire to lean forward and lick that sweet jelly off that bronzed skin, but instead he pulled a white, monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Sayen. He smiled. “Keep it.”

Sayen hesitated again, until Campbell said, “It’s only a hankie, not an engagement ring.” Sayen dropped his head, taking the handkerchief and cleaning his chin, then he slipped it into his pocket. He glanced at the patient, at her spread legs. His head jerked back to Campbell, a mask of panic etched his face.

“What’s wrong,” Campbell whispered.

“That’s my undergraduate-English teacher, Miss Bishop. Jesus, I can’t do this.” He pulled the white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead, leaving a faint line of purple.

In the three years that Campbell had known Sayen, this was the first time he had ever seen the man so unnerved. He laid a calming hand at the back of Sayen’s neck, gentling him like an unbroken colt. “I thought you’d jump at the chance to rip the guts out of a homophobic Bishop.”

“This is no joke. She and I were really close. I can’t deal with her like this.”

“You can’t walk away from the people you care for, Sayen. She’s a woman in pain, and we’re going to help her bring new life into the world. Just focus on the baby.”

Sayen glanced at her spread legs again as sweat beaded on his forehead. “Shit, it’s crowning. What should we do?”

Campbell shrugged his shoulders. “You’re going to deliver a baby, what else?” He walked to the patient’s spread legs and lifted the sheet higher. He moved to Mrs. Bishop’s side and took her hand. He nodded to the husband, then to her. “Looks like someone is anxious to see its parents. It won’t be long now.”

Gloved and masked, Sayen advanced on Mrs. Bishop’s spread legs, but then he froze.

Campbell, aware that his friend’s distress had deepened, came to his aid. “What now?”

“There’s blood oozing out.”

“For Christsake, move over.” Campbell shoved Sayen aside and bent between the patient’s legs. Mrs. Bishop’s constant cries could shatter glass, but Campbell stayed calm, working to support the baby’s head as the tiny body emerged into the world. “Mrs. Bishop, I need you to push now. Push as hard as you can.”

Sayen turned away as more blood appeared. He continued to dab his face with the handkerchief, which became completely damp.

“You owe me dinner for this,” Campbell said over his shoulder, “and I’m hungry for sushi.”

Sayen leaned over the sink but managed to hold his stomach down. He glanced up at his image in the mirror and visibly tried to pull himself together. “You know I can’t afford sushi. How about Mickey D’s?”

Campbell shook his head, secretly pleased that he had gotten a dinner commitment out of this lovely man. “My dime. Sushi To Die For on 3rd Avenue, seven-thirty. And don't be late.”

Campbell pulled the baby away from the mother. “It’s a girl, Mrs. Bishop,” he said, holding it up for the parents to see.

Campbell held the infant while Sayen cut and tied the cord. They stood together at the foot of the bed while Campbell tried coaxing the baby into breathing. It didn’t respond.

"Slap it’s butt,” Sayen hissed.

Campbell shook his head. “We don’t do that any more. That was covered in one of the many classes you missed.”

“Fine, Mister Adorkable, do something!”

On her own, the baby balled her tiny fingers into fists and let out a cry that let the whole room know she was a fighter.

Relief swept through Campbell. He held that tiny bundle of bawling life in his hands as he gazed into Sayen’s fatally blue eyes, and he felt something pass between them, something so warm and natural it felt, well…loving. There was no other word for it. Caught in the wonder of seeing new life emerge into the universe, so frail and so dependent on him, he felt his infatuation for Sayen blossom into something deeper, some unknown force he could only call love.

They moved together as if joined at the hip to the waiting bath water, and worked as a team to fastidiously wash the tiny, pink body. Campbell felt warmth pour from Sayen as they fawned over the infant. It seemed as if their three bodies became one glowing force of nature, bound by some invisible strength. But even caught in this cocoon of heartfelt feelings, Sayen seemed to pull back.

“I can’t believe you’re so hot to be strapped down with one of these,” Sayen said. “I mean, they cry, keep you up all night, cost a fortune, and they smell.”

The baby continued to cry as Campbell lifted it out of the bathwater. “They give you unconditional love, which is something I’m in short supply of lately.” He wrapped the infant in a blanket and handed her to Sayen. Nuzzling into Sayen’s protective embrace, she stopped crying. Sayen pressed his cheek to the baby’s forehead, humming a soothing tune.

The baby seemed to smile. Both men shared a wonder-filled moment, drawn close to each other, with the baby between them. They could almost kiss.

Sayen broke away from the moment to cross the room and press the baby into its mother’s arms. Mrs. Bishop’s tears were now joyful. She cuddled her infant, then grabbed Sayen’s hand and pulled him toward her like a fish on a line, kissing his cheek. A line of red moved up from Sayen’s collar to cover his entire face.

Mrs. Bishop grabbed her husband and kissed him. “It’s a girl. Honey, we have a baby girl. I love you. I love you so much.”

Buy link: http://tinyurl.com/b9aj2n3

The Good Cop excerpt by Dorien Grey

One of the residual spots of conflicts in gay rights is in the police force, and The Good Cop by Dorien Grey takes that conflict head-on in the murder of a gay policeman and the investigation by the inimitable Dick Hardesty. We meet many of the familiar characters as well as get to know Jonathan, a young hustler who becomes more than a casual acquaintance. The entire police force is suspect in this community mystery of intrigue and murder.

In this excerpt, Dick meets Jonathan for the first time.


The Good Cop
GLB Publications (November 1, 2002)
ISBN-10: 1879194759
ISBN-13: 978-1879194755

Excerpt:

When my eyes were able to discern more than just vague figures, I noticed a really cute, kind of skinny kid about two stools down from me, looking at me and grinning from ear to ear. I wondered at first if he knew me, then decided maybe he mistook me for somebody else. I nodded to him in a casual greeting which he apparently took as an invitation. He scooted over to the stool beside me. “How’s it goin’?” he asked, using words I’d heard somewhere just recently.


“Pretty good,” I replied, playing a little Hardesty game with myself. “You?”

“Okay,” he said brightly. “I’m horny, though. Are you horny?”

One of the things I truly do enjoy about hustlers is their subtlety. If you want beating around the bush, go somewhere else. But rather than respond as I automatically wanted to (“Hey, kid, I’m a Scorpio. Scorpios are always horny!”), I didn’t want to lead him on, so I opted for: “I just came in for a beer and a paper,” I said.

But then, not wanting the kid to think I was brushing him off—he was really cute, and hustlers do have feelings—I said: “How’s business?”

He’d lost his grin only momentarily, then immediately got it back as he showed me his right forearm which, aside from a small, apparently self-applied tattoo, sported an obviously new if not very expensive watch. “I got this the other day,” he said like a proud little kid who’d been given an unexpected present. “A john gave me a fifty dollar tip!”

I smiled. “You must be pretty good.”

"Oh, I am! You really should check it out yourself.”

I’d noticed that instead of the ubiquitous beer bottle, he had what looked like a mixed drink—coke and something, I guessed. It was nearly empty, and he raised his glass, tipped it all the way up to drain it, then set it slowly on the bar.

“What are you drinking?” I asked, then immediately realized he’d probably take it as an invitation.

“Just coke. I don’t drink.”

Well, that was certainly different, I thought.

“Want another?” I asked, rather surprising myself, since I have a long standing rule to never let myself get suckered into buying drinks for hustlers. But it was just a coke, after all, and this kid got to me, in some odd way.

“Sure,” he said, still grinning. “Thanks.”

I motioned to Bud, who nodded, reached into the cooler, scooped some ice into a glass, then filled it from the mixes tap. He brought it over and put it in front of the kid. I handed him another bill and indicated he should keep the change.

“My name’s Jonathan,” the kid said as he gestured his glass at me in thanks. “I just got here a couple weeks ago, and I sure like this town. Lots of rich guys here. Are you rich?”

I smiled again, looking at the kid in front of me and thinking for some reason of a puppy.

“No, I’m not rich.” I took another drink of my beer. “I gather you haven’t been hustling all that long?”

He took a small sip from his coke—I got the impression he wanted to make it last—and shook his head. “No, not really. Just since I got here. I’m 19 but I tell everybody I’m 21. I’ve been trying to find a regular job, but they’re really hard to find unless you’ve got a car, and hustling pays really well. Maybe I’ll just do this for a while. I had the same guy pick me up twice now, and he gave me a fifty dollar tip both times!”

I strongly suspected that Jonathan was assuming fifty dollar tips were going to be common, and that he hadn’t been selling himself long enough to find out what the life really was like for most hustlers. I didn’t envy him the learning process.

He might have been conning me, but I think I’ve been around long enough to know when someone is and when they’re not. And I didn’t really think Jonathan was. He didn’t have the usual tough-guy bravado hustlers adopt as a survival mechanism.

Give him time, my mind sighed.

“You’re serious about getting a real job?”

“Sure. But like I say, I can make a lot of money hustling. I’ve been working since I was 12. Not hustling, of course, but working. Maybe now I can take it easy for a while.”

Hardesty! Stay out of it! my mind commanded.

But Jeezus, he’s just a kid! I thought.

And you can’t save the world, my mind responded, gently.

“Well, I tell you what. There’s a diner on the ground floor of the building I work in, and I see they’ve got a sign in the window for a busboy. If you’d be interested, you could check it out.”

He grinned yet again. “Sure! I been a busboy a couple times. Maybe I will. Where’s this at?”

I gave him the address, then finished my beer.

“Well, good luck, Jonathan,” I said, extending my hand. I wasn’t really surprised to know that I sincerely meant it.

For an additional excerpt from The Good Cop, see May 19th, 2008.
http://www.doriengrey.com/
http://www.doriengreyandme.com/

To purchase, click http://www.amazon.com/The-Good-Cop-Hardesty-Mystery/dp/1879194759/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1355099661&sr=8-1&keywords=the+good+cop+dorien

Beau & The Beast excerpt by Rick R Reed

Inspired by the timeless tale, “Beauty and the Beast”, by Jeanne-Marie Le Prince de Beaumont, Rick R. Reed has crafted in Beau & The Beast a new fairy tale for our times that manages to be ethereal, romantic and ripped-from-the-headlines realistic.


Beau is a down-on-his-luck street artist living on the streets of Seattle, drawing portraits of tourists to make enough money to live hand-to-mouth. He has a knack for capturing his subjects’ “very souls” on paper. One rainy night, he is accosted by a group of fag-bashing thugs, intent on robbing him of his art supplies and humiliating Beau for who he is. Beau is beaten into unconsciousness…

…and awakens in a beautiful bedroom, his head bandaged and with no memory of how he got there. Outside his window, pine trees and mountain vistas beckon.

Beau’s tale grows even more mysterious when a large, muscular man begins bringing the injured Beau his food. The man says nothing—and wears a wolf mask. When he finally does speak, it’s only to tell Beau to call him “Beast.”

What secrets does the wolf mask hide? What do these two outsiders have in common? And will their odd circumstances bring them to the brink of love—or tear them apart? The answers lie in Rick R. Reed’s haunting love story that reveals that beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder.

This is the opening from Rick R Reed’s gay, modern-day fairy tale and in many ways, it really sets the scene for what’s to come. The line about seeing into a soul is particularly pertinent, if you read the entire story.

Beau & The Beast
Amber Allure
ISBN-13: 978-1-61124-346-8

Excerpt:

Seattle’s Elliott Bay, Beau thought, was a study in gray. With his artist’s eye, he could appreciate the gunmetal shade of the churning waters, here and there supporting the weight of massive ferries taking late afternoon commuters to Bainbridge and Vashon Islands. Beau thought the clouds appeared pearlescent in their pale tones of faded white, smoke, and touched with peach as the sun, all but invisible on this drizzly day, set over the water. Even the buildings, across the sound, and lining Alki Beach in West Seattle, appeared as colorless geometric shapes, stalwarts lined up against the approaching night.

Beau had been here almost all afternoon, just behind Pike Place Market, hoping even on this chilly and damp day, that he would be able to attract tourist trade from the busy marketplace. After all, even Seattle’s tepid winters drew tourists and their favorite destination, equal to the Space Needle, was Pike Place Market and the Elliott Bay waterfront behind it.

But today, the blustery winds, constant drizzle bordering on mist, and oppressive dark skies more suited to night, kept most tourists pursuing activities indoor in nature.

Yet here Beau sat on his little collapsible folding stool behind the market, easel set up and hoping to do a portrait or two to make enough money to perhaps get himself a room for the night in one of the fleabag motels lining Aurora Avenue farther north. He hoped for the added bonus of a little something extra to lessen the aching emptiness of his belly. The reality of the term ‘starving artist’ was not lost on poor Beau.

His skin was moist and he had grown weary of smiling and trying to cajole those tourists that did walk down to the waterfront to let him try to capture their likenesses with charcoal and paper. Now, all he wanted to do was find a place to hole up for a while, to try and dispel this chill that had crept into his very bones. Seattle was like that in the winter—even though the temperature seldom dipped down to freezing, the damp caused the chill to seep in, thwarting even layers of flannel, wool, and fleece.

On better days, Beau sometimes walked away from this area with enough money in his pocket to treat himself to teriyaki and a room, if he was lucky, for more than one night. On better days, Beau engaged with the tourists and locals who posed for him, getting an original portrait for only ten dollars (the highest amount he found he could charge, to his dismay).

Packing up his art supplies, Beau tried to warm himself by remembering the praise he would get on those good days, when he would do several portraits. He remembered one woman, a regal looking, olive-complexioned lady with a mass of graying hair she had pulled sloppily atop her head, effusing over her portrait. In it, Beau had captured the beauty that shone from her, luminosity not immediately apparent to the casual observer. He didn’t think the woman was being conceited when she smiled at the drawing, tears springing to her eyes, and said, “Why it’s like you captured my very soul.”

And that’s exactly what Beau tried to do when he drew someone—find their essence, some unique feature that made them them. He knew he was good, better than the hardscrabble existence he eked out, but aside from times being hard these days, he also constantly told himself that, albeit poor, he was free. He had no boss to answer to, save himself and his own biological imperatives—which were sometimes very demanding indeed—no set hours around which he would be forced to fashion his life.

Yes, he had to admit to himself, he was homeless, even though he usually made enough money to keep him off the streets most nights. Yet he had no permanent address, no real place to store his art supplies and to hang the straw hat he favored wearing. But when the fact of his aimlessness left him low, he could always remind himself he was free.

Free.

And alone.

Beau finished putting what he could in the large backpack that transformed him into a beast of burden. He folded up his easel, compacting it, and turned to look once more at the waters of the sound, now still and shiny, mirror like, reflecting the last of the dying light of day. Below him, rush hour traffic rushed north and south. He checked his pockets, pulling out its meager contents. Today, he had five dollars and fifty-three cents to his name, barely enough to buy him a bowl of pho, the flavorful Vietnamese noodle soup that could be found in just about every neighborhood here in Seattle. It certainly didn’t leave him enough for shelter for the night.

That was okay.

He was free.

He would find a doorway in Belltown, the close-to downtown neighborhood, and curl up in layers of fleece and denim, and perhaps tomorrow would dawn a brighter day—and a more prosperous one.

He began trudging away from the waterfront and toward the market and Post Alley, looking forward to being away from his makeshift workplace, to eating some pho, and finding a quiet place where he could sleep for a while.

The walk toward food and possible shelter was all uphill and Beau wished he had not left it so late to attempt to find either. Quickly, as it did in winter, the sun beat a hasty retreat behind the mountains, barely noticeable anyway behind its thick shield of dark clouds—and now it had fallen to dull dark, the only illumination the artificial lights of the city.

Beau squared his broad shoulders, looking forward to sitting down for a while in the little Vietnamese restaurant, Pho Bac, near the downtown Greyhound station. He could practically taste the savory, star-anise flavored broth as he trudged uphill toward downtown, imagining the steaming noodles wrapped around chopsticks, the Thai basil, bean sprouts, and mint leaves floating in the soup, the tender pieces of beef tendon.

Simple thoughts like these kept him going, kept his mind off the ache in his shoulders and back from lugging around virtually everything he owned.

He was so focused on food, as hungry people often are, that he didn’t notice the two strangers trailing him. They were young men about Beau’s own age, but lacking his delicate, fragile, yet manly grace and beauty. These two were thugs, apparent in the cockiness of their walks, the fierceness of their frowns framed by dark stubble, and their attire, which leaned toward too-baggy jeans, hoodies, and heavy, steel-toed boots.

www.rickrreed.com
or
like him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/rickrreedbooks

To purchase, click http://www.amberquill.com/AmberAllure/BeauBeast.html

To download some of Rick's other work on your Kindle, just search for Rick R. Reed on Amazon

Spine Intact, Some Creases excerpt by Victor J Banis

To celebrate the release of the Kindle edition, the following is a brief excerpt from Spine Intact, Some Creases, the memoir of Victor J. Banis - part personal history, part gay history, some writing tips, some comments on philosophy and religion, and a few recipes for good measure by a legendary name and pioneer of gay fiction.

Spine Intact, Some Creases
Publisher: Wildside Press; 2 edition (November 1, 2012)
ASIN: B00A07FMJC

Excerpt:

James Franciscus used to intone on television that “there are eight million stories in the Naked City.” With all due apologies to the Big Apple, if you want stories the small town is the place to find them. Sodom and Gomorrah were small towns, after all. How do I know that, you ask? Simple. It is not nose count that defines the small town but rather the one inescapable fact of life: everyone knows everyone else’s business. If you go back and read the Biblical story you will see that it was true in Sodom and it is no less true in Eaton, Ohio, nor ever was.

The history of Eaton comes complete with every sort of drama you could imagine and some you probably never thought of. Murders, scandals, incest, adultery, great love affairs and heart wrenching tragedy.

And Miss Ames. Miss Ames taught Social Studies—some history, some geography. Not very well, I’m afraid. She was a spinster, for reasons which I will get to in time, already old when I knew her and a bit frail. Her round face might have been cherubic but for the unfortunate fact of her whiskers. We laughed at those, particularly when, as sometimes happened, she would be unaware of the lint that had been caught in them. Children are cruel and I am afraid we lived up (or down) to that truism. It is a major step in growing up when you come to find that you are ashamed of the thoughtless hurt you inflicted on others when you were young. Some people never get to that regret. Some never even get to the awareness of it. Saddest of all, some never stop inflicting it.

Still, though we were sometimes cruel we were fond of the old dear in our childish fashion and tolerant of her foibles. Hers was a sad story in a romantic, Victorian way. Long years before Miss Ames’ younger brother had vanished. Just disappeared, leaving behind a wife and daughter. And a sister, obviously.

Some thought him dead. Others theorized that he had been a victim of amnesia or had been shanghaied in some foreign port. Or perhaps there had been some secret, shameful act that had made it impossible for him to face those who loved him. We knew only that he was gone.

I hardly knew the wife and daughter and how they responded to this strange disappearance I cannot say. But all of us were aware of Miss Ames’ grief and her determination to solve the mystery.

It was for this reason that Miss Ames had never married, for her entire life had been devoted for several decades to searching for her brother. Her every penny, her every free hour, was spent
in her search. She traveled often, following up any clue or hint, however tenuous, however distant. She read police reports, spent hours poring over old newspapers from throughout the country, even from foreign lands. An unidentified body, a wandering vagrant who could not remember his name, put her on a bus or a train, to New York, to Florida, to California. There were detectives, paid for with her scant earnings as a teacher. Phone calls, telegraphs, letters.

The years passed. The young, once pretty sister became an adult, the marriageable young woman became a spinster, the spinster an old, frail lady brushing lint from her whiskered chin and pretending not to hear her students snicker.

We watched her come and go. It was a romantic story, one of family devotion and untiring faith, doomed, it seemed, to have no end.

But end it did, though it was not Miss Ames’ tireless efforts that brought it to conclusion. Rather it was the sudden, astonishing return of her errant brother and the even more astonishing explanation for his long absence. There was, it seemed, no tragedy, no mystery, no thrilling saga to impart. He had simply gone off, following his own restless spirit, and never thought to get in touch nor to return until his wife was gone, his daughter grown, his sister near the end of a long, fruitless life.

She welcomed the prodigal home, of course. How could she not, while the whole town watched, and for a brief time they could be seen together, brother and sister, daughter sometimes as well, chatting in low voices as they sat on her porch or strolled the town’s streets in the twilight.

What did they speak of, one wondered? Did she berate him for his neglect? Did she speak in aggrieved tones of the trips, the search, the money and, oh, the years, the lost, long years, gone like the sunset fading into the darkening sky?

Did he regale her with tales of his adventures in distant lands, of long treks along dusty roads, of flights in balloons and flights of fancy, of villains and heroes and saints and great, great loves? Did they laugh together, cry together, argue, coax, plead, explain, pray?

She died not long after his return, perhaps bereft of her reason for living, and he drifted away once again, this time to be unmourned, unsought, undreamed of on long summer evenings.

Not a grand story, you understand, not the stuff of operas nor even of novels. In a big city, in New York or San Francisco or New Orleans, the years might have passed, the comings and going, all unnoticed, hers a lonely woman’s private pain.

It was a small town thing.

For another excerpt from Spine Intact, Some Creases see the blog entry for March 20, 2008.
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When We Become Weavers: Queer Female Poets on the Midwestern Experience poem excerpt edited by Kate Lynn Hibbard & Among the Leaves: Queer Male Poets on the Midwestern Experience poem excerpt edited by Raymond Luczak

So: what does it mean to be queer and Midwestern? 
Some 35 LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender) poets across both When We Become Weavers and Among the Leaves: Queer Male Poets on the Midwestern Experience poem anthologies answer that question in many different and surprising ways.

When We Become Weavers brings together a multitude of voices exploring the many dimensions of the Midwest queer female experience: a land of moderation and extremes, lakes and thunderstorms, tall grass prairie and dance clubs, racism and transphobia, assault and female erotic power. In this volume, 17 poets, familiar and new, share stories you won't soon forget.

When We Become Weavers: Queer Female Poets on the Midwestern Experience poem excerpt edited by Kate Lynn Hibbard

Squares & Rebels (October 1, 2012)

Black Ice
by Sheila Packa

I go back to the girl
her blades on black ice

crossing visible cracks
fracture fused by zero

on the December lake
over fish in descending currents

silver and precise
to turn and reverse

with her fingers burned by cold
and face red-cheeked

intoxicated with chance
carving the surface of her life

with hardly a glance
in wide circles and backward

keeping weight off the landing
racing from shore

to lift when she leaped
release the pain in her feet

almost blue. Exertion or
fate.

Drowning was very near the place
we could break through.

In Among the Leaves, 18 queer male poets share stories what it means to live in the Midwest. We learn what it’s like for them to play football and come up short. We feel their lingering effects of bullying. We experience the undeniable power of seasons affecting their moods as they ache for a meaningful connection. We learn what it means to celebrate in spite of the odds against them. But more than anything, we discover anew through their poems the redemptive power of love and renewal among the leaves growing and falling

Among the Leaves: Queer Male Poets on the Midwestern Experience poem excerpt edited by Raymond Luczak
Squares & Rebels (October 1, 2012)

The Piano Teacher
by Malcolm Stuhlmiller

Play something for me,
he says,
snuffing out a cigarette
in the great amber ashtray
already overflowing,
stinking the whole world
with stale butts.

Play something you love,
he says.
His smoke-stained fingers
stoke another filterless Camel
and beautiful blue acrobats
turn and tumble
in a circus of sunlight
between us,
stealing air,
making music our oxygen.

Let the music speak for you,
he says longingly,
remembering the car crash
that for two years
hospitalized his career
and still detonates his brain
with continuous cannons.
His potent hands,
delicately fondling the keys,
cannot muscle away the toccata
embracing his head,
always allegro fortissimo,
always relentless.

First practice living—
then practice piano.
Over and over he says this
like a father
forgiving his son’s mistakes,
as the smoky breath
marks a musical phrase,
while black and white keys
patiently wait
for his flesh and bones
finally to grow into mine.

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A Very Public Eye (Book 2 in The Public Eye Mystery Series) excerpt by Lori L Lake

A Very Public Eye by Lori L Lake, the second book in the Goldie Award-winning The Public Eye mystery series, promises to be just as good as the first. Police Officer Leona “Leo” Reese and her sidekick Thom are back to tackle a murder case at a supposedly secure juvenile detox center. As she uncovers long-buried secrets, someone else is murdered, and Leo realizes that she, too, is in danger. In the midst of her own emotional turmoil, is Leo strong enough to catch a clever and ruthless murderer?

A Very Public Eye
Regal Crest Enterprises: Quest Imprint (11/9/12)
ISBN: 978-1-61929-076-1
e-ISBN: 978-1-61929-077-8

Excerpt:

Chapter 1

EDDIE BOLTON MOVED like a walking string of lit firecrackers. As he passed through the center’s cafeteria, teenagers much bigger than him stepped aside. Those who were seated leaned in and looked away.

Yeah, Eddie thought, get outta my face. I could hurt you.

One of the more popular staff members rose to intercept him and raised a hand at the doorway.

“Eddie—”

“Get out of my way.” He pushed past and stomped out into the hallway.

“But wait, you can’t…”

The man’s voice drifted away as Eddie strode toward his room, the pulse in his head beating a staccato as fast as a stampede of wild ponies.

The part of the chemical dependency unit to which Eddie had access was shaped like a U, and he had to travel from one end all the way around to the other end to reach his assigned room. At the midpoint, he passed near the security station where an unarmed guard kept the general public from wandering in, while also assuring that Eddie and his peers were not allowed out. The guard was no taller than Eddie and much skinnier. With his worry-lined face and buckteeth, Eddie thought he resembled a rodent. He hated the guard on sight and wouldn’t meet his eyes as he passed.

Each resident at the Benton Dowling Center was supposed to be considered a temporary “patient,” but in Eddie’s mind, inmate was the more appropriate term. No freedom. Locked up and the key taken away. He didn’t ask to be here, and he wouldn’t play their game. He couldn’t get out until he was deemed emotionally ready—or until he reached the age of eighteen. After a quick mental count he mumbled, “Forty-six days. Just have to make it forty-six days.”

He knew he wasn’t supposed to leave his group at the table. They hadn’t even been released to get their food yet. He would surely get in trouble for his angry departure, but there was no way he’d squeeze in, elbow to elbow, with that bunch of pathetic weasels. He considered himself a man while they were all stupid boys. He didn’t want to deal with their shit.

After breakfast each morning, residents were allowed quiet time in their rooms until eight a.m. when school started. At eleven, they had athletic time in the gym. Today he would refuse to do either. All he wanted now was to curl up on his bed and convince himself not to beat the hell out of the pansy guard, escape, and run for the woods. He knew that wasn’t a good plan. He looked down at his soft slippers and the baggy jeans and t-shirt he wore. No, he’d be found shivering within an hour.

When he reached his room, he grabbed both sides of the door frame and pulled, launching himself across the room and onto his assigned bed. He lay there panting, sweating, tense. He wanted a drink, some pot, anything—even just a cigarette. Some of the boys used behavior credits to buy candy for when they were jonesin’ real bad. He’d only been at the place eleven days and hadn’t yet earned any privileges. He was pretty sure that throwing a punch last week at Mike, the counselor, hadn’t helped his cause. But, oh, it felt so good! The impact of fist on bone, the startled look in the counselor’s eyes, the fear and anger as the bigger man went down. At once, Eddie had felt calm—focused—as though the only objects existing in the world were the knuckles of his fist and Mike’s scruffy, unshaven cheek. It was worth the night spent in isolation in a padded room with no toilet. He dreamed of slugging Mike all night long, though when he awoke the next day, stiff from lying on the thin padding, he agreed not to act out again. That was the phrase they used: act out. Like he was on stage somewhere. He wanted to tell them, “This is no act. You wanna see some real action? Gimme some crack or a few shots of Jack Daniels, and I’ll show you an act!”

He was surprised no one came after him now, but breakfast would be over soon enough. He didn’t want the lukewarm scrambled eggs or cold toast. Cheerios were for little kids, and the sausage looked like something from out of a dog’s rear end. He contemplated going on a hunger strike and smiled grimly. He thought he could last forty-six days. Easy.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked around the room: two twin beds, two chairs pushed up to small tables meant to serve as desks, and some open shelving near the doorway where he and his roommate kept jeans, plain white t-shirts, socks, and underwear. All of their personal clothing, shoes, and possessions had been taken away. He wasn’t even allowed an iPod or even a watch in this unit. There was no door in the frame leading to the hallway. Anyone could look in. Worst of all, the bathroom door was cut out two-thirds up so that staff could peek over. He hated that there was no privacy, that he couldn’t even take a crap without the worry that someone would watch.

He stood and paced, but the room allowed him to take only six cribbed steps. He’d never liked enclosed places. Tightening his fists, he squeezed, tensing his forearms, and let out a growl. His breath quickened, and the panicky feeling welled up inside. The pale blue walls sported no pictures, no windows. It would take a year of Sundays and fifty jackknives to scratch his way through the cement block to the outside.

He stepped into the bathroom and whispered, “Gross!” under his breath. The room was, at most, seven by ten feet. To the right, the sink was built in an alcove. A sheet of high-gloss metal, screwed into the wall above the sink, served as a mirror. Two toothbrushes lay on the counter next to a plastic soap dish and one tiny tube of generic toothpaste. The area to the left sported a showerhead in one corner, and six feet away, in the other corner, a toilet stool. No curtain. He had to shower in the tiny space, and if the metal toilet got splashed, too bad.

“Fucking gross. No fucking privacy…people just watching you shit and shower.”

Eddie leaned over the counter surrounding the sink, his palms pressing hard. He could make out his reflection in the metal, but everything was fuzzy around the edges. In the past, he’d never understood when his Aunt Phyllis told him he was too intense, but obviously his level of intensity was too much for this hellhole. He knew nobody he could trust. His roommate, a fat kid two years younger named William, was closed off in his own mute world. Even after Eddie provoked him mercilessly, William pretended Eddie didn’t exist.

The area under the sink was open. Beneath the water pipes was a rack made of plastic. It held a stack of scruffy towels, washcloths, and a spare roll of toilet paper which had gotten speckled with water but was now dry and rippled. He kicked at the rack, and the shelf bounced up off the supports, then fell back in place. The roll of TP hit the floor, and so did something else.

Frowning, Eddie reached down for a flat metal container lying on its side. Liquid swished to and fro, gradually settling. He picked it up. The screw-on lid opened to reveal pungent-smelling liquid.

“Well, shit. What’s this?”

He sneaked a look over the closed half-door. His roommate had not returned, and he heard no sounds in the hall.

“Oh, wow,” Eddie whispered as he sniffed at the metal flask. “William, you little creep. How the hell did you keep this from me?”

He closed his eyes and took a tiny sip, just one touch on his tongue. He hadn’t ever tasted anything quite like it. Jim Beam, Jack Richland, Johnny Walker Red, and Captain Morgan were familiar. He liked liquors with a man’s name attached, but he’d been drunk plenty of times on Absolut, Cutty Sark, Bacardi, Wild Turkey, and every variation of cheap wine and beer. This tasted like bourbon—but not exactly like any bourbon he’d ever had before. He wasn’t sure if it was of high quality—or perhaps just crap. He didn’t care. He raised the flask to the makeshift mirror. “Bottom’s up.”

Relishing a mouthful, he swallowed in metered amounts, feeling the liquor burn its way down his throat. His eyes watered, and he wheezed for a moment, then let out a satisfied burp. With a deep sigh, he swirled the remaining liquid. A feeling of intense happiness threaded its way through him from the tips of his toes all the way up to his ears. He quaffed down another shot. This one tasted exceptionally bitter, and for a moment, his throat threatened to close up.

Eleven days and I’m already out of practice? He let out a snort, then turned and leaned back against the counter, holding the container in both hands. The next swig he intended to savor. He licked his lips and thought of his last binge, of how sweet the rum tasted and how cute the girl with him had been. He refused to think of the crash that put her in the hospital. Eddie’s aunt’s car was an older model with one air bag, on the driver’s side only, so he’d been all right. His cousin Stevie in the back seat had only gotten banged up, but Kimberly went through the windshield. Aunt Phyllis hadn’t known about the girl’s medical condition when he’d seen her the day before. Oh, well, he thought. There’ll be plenty of other girls.

At most now, there were two swigs left, and he had to choke down the first. The dregs tasted grainy and he decided against taking the last sip. He thought that this booze was indeed the cheapest kind. Every sip had gotten progressively more bitter. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand and stuffed the empty flask under the plastic rack. Before he could stand up, his stomach felt tight and too full.

Eddie laughed, glad he hadn’t eaten breakfast and knowing that if he had, the liquor wouldn’t have as much effect. He grinned to think how much he was going to enjoy the high.

He leaned back against the edge of the counter, arms crossed and eyes closed. As he rocked himself from side to side, he could feel the power growing in his torso and upper arms. He didn’t know how long he stood there, but when he opened the door and stepped into the room, William was just entering from the hallway.

“Hey, Big Boy,” Eddie said in a jovial voice.

William gaped at him, startled, then turned away and headed for his bed on the right.

“Your secret’s out, Willie. It’s out, out, out.”

The chubby face appeared alarmed. William opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it and looked down.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

William rose and strode toward the hallway. Eddie watched him leave, then stood swaying in the middle of the room, eyes closed. He hummed a Puddle of Mudd song and bobbed his head in concert with drumbeats only he could hear. Tipping his head back, he turned in a slow circle. His reverie was interrupted by William’s return.

“Hey, the deaf-mute’s back.” Eddie giggled, and William ignored him.

The other kid lowered himself to his bed, scooted away until his back was against the wall, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I just want to thank you, Willie boy. Your generosity is appreciated.”

The tight feeling in Eddie’s stomach blossomed up his throat through the roof of his mouth, and into his head. Bam! He heard pounding, and then the sound gradually muffled as though someone had poked something into his ears. “Cut it out!” he shouted.

William gazed up at him, eyes wide. Eddie staggered over to his own bed and fell on his side. “Shut up,” Eddie said. “Just shut up. Shut shut shut…”

The pounding in his head increased, and with effort, he panted. His right hand came up and he pointed at William. “I’m a dog, Willie…like a dog…” He closed his eyes and let his tongue loll out as he strained to pull in a breath. “Doggie, doggie, dog, dog…”

A spasm rippled through Eddie’s body. He tried to fight it. “No…” Clenching his jaw, he struggled to control his arms, but they tightened up of their own accord. His legs spasmed. He jerked and thrashed. Fell off the bed. He felt himself falling and falling into darkness and pain.

“Take the fire away. No! Don’t hurt me...” His mid-section burned like it was on fire. He screamed.

Then it hurt too much to speak, to open his mouth, or to breathe. The hot hammer in his chest pounded, relentless, unyielding. A giant man—bigger than the scariest monster he had ever dreamed—let out a roar.

And Eddie Bolton stopped breathing forever.

www.LoriLLake.com
http://www.regalcrest.biz/book_page.php?bookID=284

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