Cooper's Hawk excerpt by Victor J Banis

This story is kind of exciting for me because I had been through a difficult period in my life, and this was my first new story in over a year. VJB

Cooper's Hawk is Victor J Banis' first new story in over a year, after having been through a difficult period in his life.  Banis asks if love is truly eternal, what lasts beyond the grave -- and what form might it take?


Mike Patterson loses his life-long partner, Adam Cooper---and soon thereafter, a hawk appears and seems to hang around with him. Is the hawk a message from Adam, from beyond the grave -- or might it be Adam himself, come back to offer solace. A bittersweet tale that will resonate with all who love deeply, a story of the sharpness of grief, the pain of loss -- and, ultimately, a story of never ending love.


Cooper's Hawk
MLR Press (June 21, 2012)
ISBN: 978-1-60820-701-5
Excerpt:

It is now 4 days, 2 hours and 58 minutes since my life ended.

Well, okay, I’m being dramatic, my life didn’t exactly end, if you want to be technical about it – just the stuff that mattered. That all ended when Adam died. The rest are just days – 4 of them, and 3 hours, now, and about 1 minute.

“Daddy,” Alma Jean – she’s my oldest girl - said, “do you want me to fix you some pancakes? You must be hungry.”

“No,” I told her, “I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten anything all day,” her sister Elizabeth said. She always backs Alma Jean up in any discussion involving other people, though the two of them fight with one another like cats and dogs otherwise.

“Daddy’s not hungry. Let him alone.”  That was James, Adam’s oldest boy—his oldest surviving boy of the three he had. Lester didn’t come back from Afghanistan. That is to say, he did, but not upright. Oh, I remember how broken up Adam was over that, I thought he would plain jump in that hole with his son.

My son, also, of course, just not in the same way. His boys always called me Daddy, too, same as my girls called Adam—Or, Daddy Adam and Daddy Mike, to avoid confusion. We used to joke in the beginning about maybe his and mine would end up hitched, and we laughed because there were only two of my girls and he had three sons then, so someone was going to get the short stick. That was before Afghanistan. After that, the numbers matched, even if the kids didn’t. Course, they were just little ones when we got married. By the time they were old enough to think about things like that, they had gotten used to brothers and sisters, and it wouldn’t have seemed right.

When I say married, I don’t mean in the way they mean it today, the way they write about in the papers and talk about on the news. It was a long time ago. Things were different. There was no preacher waving his hands over us, and no wine glass smashed underfoot. Those are the externals. We were married just the same, in our hearts. Internal, I liked to say. And eternal.

Lord, I hope I was right about that eternal part. How I would love to think that one day Adam and I will meet up again. “In a land that knows no parting,” as Willie puts it. I hope Willie is right too. I think my heart could stand all the excitement of getting back together, but I don’t think it could take another parting. I’m not sure yet that it will take this one. God Almighty, how you can miss a man. If that’s all just a bunch of fairy tales, Lord, don’t let me find out, please. I’ll settle for the blackness of eternal night, anything but not seeing him again. You want to know what Heaven means to me? That’s it, right there – the rest of eternity with Adam’s arm about my shoulder, the way he used to do, standing by me. If I can’t have that, you can keep the wings and harps and the rest of the stuff, that’s fine by me. Got no use for them without him. Got no use for any of it, to tell the truth. There or here.

Alma Jean is on me again about the pancakes. “Alma Jean, honey, a mess of pancakes would taste awful good about now,” I tell her. I know she’s hurting too, and cooking is how she handles the hurt. I can always feed them to the dog, after she’s gone home.

I went out to the porch after they were gone. Adam and me had loved to sit out here, about this time of day, when the sun was dying, slipping down into the gray of dusk. I sat in the usual rocker, the smaller of the two because Adam, that giant of a man, had required the big one, and the smaller one fit me just fine. The way our bodies had fitted together all those years, his big, powerful one and my little reedy one, that seemed as if they had been designed to suit one another.

I closed my eyes, but the image of Adam pasted itself on my closed eyelids and I could not bear the pain that stabbed through me at the sight. My eyes flicked open, and I saw the hawk.

My first thought was, the chickens, but the chickens had already found their way into the coop, instinctively taking themselves out of the night, content to wait for me to come and close the door on any errant foxes—or hawks, though a hawk wasn’t likely to come into the coop, they were more likely to swoop down on you unexpectedly and carry you off you knew not where. In my experience, love was like that too, though I’d never heard love compared to a hawk.

Anyway, the hawk didn’t seem to have any interest in the coop, or the chicken run. He was just up there, soaring. The way we had used to cruise the drive-in when I was a kid, Diggy Holman and me, back and forth, back and forth, endlessly, trying to get ourselves noticed. The hawk banked and swooped and came lower than a hawk should, with a person sitting there in a rocker, not knowing how friendly that person might feel toward a hawk. Especially a person who kept chickens. Chicken people weren’t as a rule hospitable to visiting hawks.

Then, as if he knew he’d finally been noticed, his presence accounted for, he winged his way upward, flew over the house, and was gone. I waited, watching the sky, scanning back and forth, until the sky had grown dark and the stars were blinking back at me.

The hawk didn’t come back.

# # #

Not until morning.

Adam Junior—who we had always called Junior, to avoid confusion with his father, had driven up from Florida for the funeral, and since he was leaving the following day, he’d come to take his other father to breakfast. We came out of the house, me balancing carefully on my new walker, still getting used to it, heading for Junior’s fancy Buick, and I looked toward the barnyard fence, and there was the hawk sitting atop it, staring at me.

“Look,” I said, pointing. “There. A hawk.”

“Where?” Junior asked, and looked, but the hawk lifted off the fence then, like a rocket sailing into the sky, so fast you could hardly track him.

“Did you see him?” I asked.

“Just a glimpse. What do you think he was, a redtail?”

I had to think about that a minute. “No, he wasn’t a redtail. Nothing I’ve seen before, I don’t think.”

“Well, he’s probably got his eye on the chickens,” Junior said, opening his car door for me. “I better borrow Darrel’s shotgun and come over later. We don’t want him carrying off one of your leghorns. Plus, once they get the taste, you’ll never get rid of him, he’ll be hanging around every day, him and his whole family.”

“No,” I said, looking over my shoulder as we started down the drive, trying to catch another glimpse of the bird, “No, I’ll take care of it. You know Darrel. He’ll want to come over and do the shooting himself, and next thing I won’t have any glass in the windows. He’s a good boy, but a lousy shot.”

We had our breakfast—I made a show of eating, though I hadn’t much appetite these days, but I did it for Junior’s sake. We stopped to gas up his car and at the nursery, where I got a box of flowers, pansies, which I told him I was going to plant in the yard. He asked me where else I wanted to go, and I told him home.

Where I really wanted to go was to the cemetery, which was where I intended to plant the pansies, but I wanted to do that on my own. I waited in the house until Junior had driven away, and then I took the flowers and my walker, and put them in the back of my truck, and climbed in behind the wheel, and fired up the motor, which was noisy and smoky, but had always gotten me where I needed to go.

Alma Jean and Darrel lived just across the field, and I knew one of them—Alma Jean, certainly—would hear the truck start up and wonder where I was going. So I put it in gear and started off in a hurry, and sure enough, I hadn’t gotten half way down the drive before she was out of her trailer, in her front yard, watching me go, with a disapproving scowl that I could make out even in the distance, and which I pretended not to see.

I was almost to the cemetery, keeping my speed to a safe and steady thirty miles per hour, when I saw, just out of the corner of my eye, something fly by the window. I thought it was a bird, but I’d never known a bird to fly around a moving truck so close like that. I decided I was just spooked. More than likely, it was seeing that hawk the day before.

Now that I thought of the hawk, though, I tried again to think what kind of a hawk it was. Mostly, you got the red tailed hawks here, but this hadn’t been a redtail, I was sure of that. It was too small, for one thing, and the color wasn’t right. But it wasn’t any kind I knew either.

I parked along the road outside the cemetery and got the walker out of the back of the truck, along with the box of flowers. I was still getting used to the walker, but the truth was, my hip hadn’t been good for a long time and it was worse now, and I didn’t fancy falling over and not being able to get up, waiting for someone to come along and find me, if they ever did. This wasn’t a popular visiting spot, this old cemetery. Nobody used it anymore, and even the preacher had been a bit reluctant about burying Adam here, but we had the plot, had had for years, enough room for me right next to him, and all the kids, too, except something would have to be done about their kids, we weren’t all going to fit unless someone got stacked atop someone else. I didn’t know if they permitted that, but I kind of doubted it. One thing I was sure of, though, I wasn’t going to be around to worry about it.

I let myself in the gate, using the walker with the box of flowers carefully balanced on its front bar, and went slowly in the direction of the fresh grave, the walker’s legs sinking into the damp grass, so I had to go slow and cautious.

I saw before I even got there that they had the headstone up, which was pretty quick, but that wasn’t what surprised me. Sitting atop the headstone was the hawk—well, a hawk, anyway, although it looked like the same one to me. The hawk watched my approach with a yellow-tinted eye, until I was so close I could almost have reached out and petted him. Then, just like that, he flew off, circled overhead once or twice, and disappeared into the distance in the direction of home. My home, anyway. I had no idea where his was, but it seemed as if they might be in the same neighborhood.

“Well, if you’re wanting to hang out together, I guess that’d be okay,” I said aloud. “I’d like that better than my daughters yammering, to tell the truth. You don’t have to keep running off, though.” If the hawk heard me, he gave no sign of it. In another minute, he was gone.

I turned my attention back to the gravesite, and my eyes went to the headstone, and just like that, it clicked in my mind. “Adam Cooper,” the carving on the stone read, and below that the dates of his birth and his death.

“Cooper,” I said aloud. “A Cooper’s Hawk.” I laughed for the first time in days. “You’re a Cooper’s Hawk,” I yelled after him, although the bird had long since vanished. He probably didn’t need me to tell him who he was anyway.

# # #

Junior came by soon after I had gotten home. I expect Alma Jean had told him about my driving off, and he was the one designated to be sure that I was okay and hadn’t gotten hauled off to jail for driving without a license. My last one had expired twenty years ago. I didn’t even bother trying to renew. Who’d be fool enough to give me one?

I was glad to see Junior, though. I was excited about the hawk, and I wanted to share my discovery with someone else.

“That hawk we saw this morning, that’s a Cooper’s hawk,” I told him.

“Daddy…now, you’re just making that up, about the name, ain’t you?”

“No, no, it is, really, a Cooper’s Hawk, let me show you a picture.” I got out the encyclopedia, the C volume. I’d already marked the page with a piece torn out of Sunday’s newspaper, and I opened right to it, and showed him. “See.”

He squinted and looked at the picture, moved a bit to one side and then to the other, looking at it like the picture was going to change if he moved around.

“It didn’t exactly look like this,” he said, kind of embarrassed. I knew what he was thinking. The old man is getting a little fruity. That’s what they think, all the kids, but Junior was uncomfortable with my knowing that’s how they feel. “Course I didn’t get but a glimpse.”

“It’s a young one,” I tell him. “A male. They’re smaller than the females, it says here. And the coloration is lighter when they’re young, plus the eyes are yellow, and his were. They turn red as he gets older.”

“Cooper, huh?” he looked at the picture again, and then at me, sort of half-grinning, but his eyes serious. “So what are you trying to say, Daddy? You think this hawk is Daddy Adam, come back to you somehow?”

“I think it’s a Cooper’s Hawk,” I told him.

I know what the kids have been saying, I heard them whispering the day of the funeral, like they thought I couldn’t hear them, when I was pretending to be asleep. They’re wondering if it’s okay for me to be alone, if I might be “losing it” the way Elizabeth put it.

Hell, I’d already lost it, lost everything that mattered. But I didn’t want them fussing over me and I didn’t want anyone staying with me like a baby sitter, which was one of the things they’d been debating, and I sure didn’t want them carting me off to some home where I’d be side by side with old farts wetting their pants and women drooling on themselves, which Elizabeth had suggested. The home part, not the drooling.

To purchase direct from MLR Press, click http://www.mlrbooks.com/Bookstore.php?bookid=VJBCHAWK
To purchase from Amazon, click http://www.amazon.com/dp/B008DYOY4I/?_encoding=UTF8&tag=mp0def-20

The Best Christmas Ever excerpt by Anel Viz

In The Best Christmas Ever by Anel Viz, Brandon wasn't entirely comfortable about his relationship with Donnie, his simple-minded live-in lover for whom every Christmas is "the best Christmas ever". What was a mature, independent person like himself doing sexually involved with a childish and mildly retarded man?


According to one reviewer, "The dual insights -- author and protagonist -- and the way these eventually meld make this a fascinating study of an interesting couple."

The Best Christmas Ever
Silver Publishing (December 5, 2011)
ISBN: 9781920502416

Excerpt:

They had met during the holidays, a day or two after Christmas, watching children sled down the big hill in the park. Brandon liked watching kids play. It made him nostalgic for his own not especially happy childhood. The man standing next to him, though, seemed almost jealous of them, as if he wished he could join in the game.

"Looks like fun, doesn't it?" Brandon had said.

"It is fun!"

"You go sledding?"

"I would if I had kids. Grownups don't go sledding by themselves."

"Why not?"

"People would laugh at me."

"What if they do? That's their problem." Then, on an impulse, Brandon said, "I will if you will."

"What? Go sledding?" Brandon nodded. "But we don't have sleds."

"There's a toy store half a block from the park."

"Yeah, I know the one you mean."

"We can buy sleds there. You know, those round plastic trays. They can't cost that much."

The man looked at him, unable to tell if he were serious or joking. Then his face lit up. "Let's do it!" He could hardly contain his excitement.

"I'm Brandon."

"I'm Donnie."

Donnie became very voluble on their walk to the store. His talk was all about children's games, not work or sports or the other things men talk about with other men. It was only natural, given the circumstances. Brandon had no reason to suspect Donnie's childishness was anything but a grown man in a silly mood. He found it engaging.

Two hours of going up and down the hill left them soaked to the skin and frozen to the bone. Donnie was shivering. His cheeks were pinker than Santa's and his nose was running.

"We'd better stop now or we'll come down with pneumonia," Brandon said.

"Just once more…" he pleaded. Like a little boy begging for permission.

"Go ahead if you want. I've had enough."

"You'll wait for me, though, won't you? Just once. I promise."

"Okay. I'll wait."

They walked together to the edge of the park. "You take the subway too?" Donnie asked.

"No, I live just a couple of blocks away." Then a thought occurred to him. "Do you have a long ride?"

"About forty-five minutes."

"But you're all wet! Look, why don't you come over to my place?" It must have been his day for doing things on the spur of the moment.

"Your place?"

"Sure, why not? I'll throw your clothes in the dryer, we can have some hot coffee to warm up—"

"I like hot chocolate more."

"Okay then, hot chocolate. How about it?"

Donnie hesitated. "Gee, I don't know…"

"You won't be imposing."

"All right," he said, less enthusiastically than he had agreed to the sledding. He seemed almost distrustful.

Brandon wondered if the man had caught on he was gay. Hardly anyone ever did. In any case, it wasn't why he had asked Donnie home. Nothing could have been further from his thoughts.

http://bookworld.editme.com/AnelViz

To buy, click https://spsilverpublishing.com/product_book_info/glbt-contemporary-c-53_54/products_id/669/?zenid=22e4bb8caa365e5f14813cccda844e12

Memory of Darkness excerpt by P.A. Brown

In P.A. Brown’s Memory of Darkness, Johnny Wager is a 42-year-old street hustler, small time burglar and reformed car thief (well, mostly reformed). He's an ex-con who finds himself in the middle of a war between powerful adversaries that has disastrous consequences for a lot of people.


In his search for justice, Wager has a host of allies and foes, his disapproving son, the Los Angeles Sheriff's deputy, a six-foot-five black drag queen from New Orleans who wears four inch Jimmy Choos, her five-foot-five Puerto Rican boyfriend, an ex-Marine porno film maker, the Armenian mob and an incontinent Bassett Hound called Columbo.

Johnny is a bad boy, which may be why the author loves him more than most. You wouldn't want to invite him home because he might steal the silver, but sit down in a bar with him, and you know you'd have one hell of a time. Columbo is, of course, named after one of the author’s favorite TV detectives.

Romance Junkie says, ‘Johnny is a fun character and I found him surprisingly likable. He has a sarcastic sense of humor and I really enjoyed his observations on the people around him and his situation ... This novel is also filled with some of the most unique and intriguing characters I have ever come across. Hyacinth in particular felt very real to me and I wished I could meet her. Tyler’s dog Columbo made me laugh.”

Rick Reed says, “P.A. Brown is one of those writers who should be as famous as P. Cornwell, if there were any justice in the world. The author of a whole series of competent, well-researched, and catch-your-breath suspenseful thrillers all centered around the seamy (and gay) underbelly of Los Angeles, Brown's oeuvre is one that should be embraced by anyone who loves a seamlessly plotted thriller with characters that are anything but typical. Brown writes lean, muscled prose and captures the male viewpoint so effortlessly that one wonders how she does it.”

In this excerpt, Johnny is in Griffith Park trying to find a way to go into hiding and meets an unexpected savior.

Memory of Darkness
Amber Quill Press, Llc/Amber Allure (September 16, 2009)
ISBN: 978-1-60272-570-6 (ebook)
978-1-60272-841-7 (Paperback

Excerpt:

Dusk was settling in, throwing dirty shadows over the uneven ground. I found refuge on a knife-scarred and graffitied picnic table and watched people leaving the park. A rusted out Pinto rattled by, heading into the park, thirty screaming tweakers hanging out of every portal, leaving a trail of rap obscenities hanging in the fading light. They were too stoned to notice me. The night life was arriving. Soon the park would be alive with a new kind of wildlife.

I kicked off the table and prepared to hike back to Los Feliz where I hoped to pick up a ride into the Valley. With any luck I could get lost there.

I heard him before I saw him. Rather, I heard his dog, snuffling and groaning like life itself was a hardship. It sounded big. When it finally came through the brush it turned out to be a gray-muzzled Bassett Hound shuffling through the ground cover, nose down, huge ears dragging through the dirt.

I faded back into the dense brush behind the picnic table just as the dog's owner came around the bend in the road. He was a tall, lanky man, maybe six foot. His hair was wispy and thinning on top. It was a ginger color. He was clean-shaven. From this distance I couldn't make out the color of his eyes.

He didn't see me.

But his dog did. It shuffled unerringly toward my hiding place, briefly lifting its face toward me, its rheumy eyes staring directly into mine. It circled my frozen legs. Then it cocked its right leg and sent a stream of warm urine over my ankle.

I yelled and jumped back, stumbling and falling on my ass. The dog sat, its massive jaws opening in a canine grin.

Before I could climb to my feet and get out of there, Lanky found us. I scrambled back, shaking piss off my pant leg. My sockless foot inside my high-tops was damp. I grimaced at the sensation.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry. He's never done anything like that before. I'm sorry, so sorry... He's not usually so aggressive."

Both of us looked down at the dog, now lying in a swoon on the cracked earth under a deodar cedar. It snored softly, exhausted from all the energy it had expended.

"Nice to know I can inspire him," I muttered, wanting to split. Needing to find a washroom so I could clean up. "Listen I have to -- "

"No, no, don't go," Lanky said. "Let me make it up to you."

A light bulb flared in my head. I might be on to something here. I'd taken care of my car, now I had to take care of me. I had to lay down a bigger sob story.

"Damn, I was supposed to be meeting my friend for dinner down on the Boulevard." I shook my leg as though I could shake off the piss, hoping he wouldn't see any of the stains on my jacket. They might take a bit more explanation. Fortunately the fading light helped in my defense. I tried another gambit, blinked my baby blues at him and leaned slightly toward him, inviting. I was heartened to see his own eyes -- a nice hazel, I noticed -- darken appreciably. All right, Mary, I had a live one here. Maybe he was doing a bit more than just walking his dog.

I smiled. "I'm Johnny. Johnny Wager." I stuck my hand out.

He took it in a surprisingly strong grip. "Tyler" he said. Tyler Rogers." He looked down affectionately at the dog. "This is Columbo."

Now my first desire had been to drop kick Fido into the next county, but I learned long ago that dog people are usually gaga over their pets and the way to their hearts -- or wallets or dicks -- was through their dogs. I reached down and patted the slobbering thing's head, thankful it didn't try to return the favor.

"Nice dog," I said with all the sincerity my forty years of hustling had taught me to fake.

"Yes, he is. He's smart as a whip and has tons of personality."

I studied the motionless animal and thought he had about as much personality as a door stop, but what did I know? Maybe the thing was a veritable doggy Einstein under that wrinkled brow and slobbering jowls.

"I can tell."

"You own dogs, Johnny?"

I could tell he liked saying my name. I nodded sadly. "Used to. He... passed two months ago. We used to come up here to walk. He loved chasing squirrels." Or was it rabbits you found in Griffith Park?

"What kind was he?"

I scrambled through my brain for some kind of plausible answer. Neither Jolene nor I had been much into pets, and my mother... well, forget her. Her idea of an animal in the house was one of her biker bears. Like the asshole who diddled little Johnny whenever Mommy was out of the house collecting her welfare check. That one had lasted six long months until Mommy caught him drinking her booze.

"Lassie," I said.

"Oh, a collie. Nice dogs. Lot of brushing though, didn't you find?"

"Yeah, lots," I agreed and stepped closer to him. He developed an all-too-familiar tension. I didn't need to look to know his basket was swelling. I kept smiling. "Say, maybe I can come back to your place to clean up. You can tell me all about Columbo."

His tension increased and I knew what he wanted. But caution warred with lust. I had to tip the balance. "I'd love to talk about dogs...I miss Lassie so much."

His doubt melted away and he gestured back up the road toward Western Canyon Road. "I'm parked there." He slapped his thigh and called, "Columbo, come on boy. Time to go home."

Columbo rolled ponderously to his feet and eyed my dry pant leg with keen interest. I stepped adroitly away at the same time following Tyler up the curving road to where a silver BMW sat in the shade of a sycamore tree. Or what would have been shade before the sun went down. Now it was just a massive ghostly trunk.

http://www.pabrown.com/mod.htm
http://www.pabrown.com/modreviews.htm

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

or

To purchase print copy from Amazon, click http://www.amazon.com/Memory-Of-Darkness-P-Brown/dp/1602728410/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1339282202&sr=8-1&keywords=memory+of+darkness

To purchase ebook from Amazon, click http://www.amazon.com/Memory-Of-Darkness-ebook/dp/B002PKBM0K/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2&qid=1339282202&sr=8-1

False Evidence excerpt by Jon Michaelsen

In Jon Michaelsen’s False Evidence, obsession and lust can lead to murder.

What begins as a cursory glance at the high-rise apartment opposite soon becomes something much darker and far more dangerous. For bored accountant Kevin Mitchell, lusting after gorgeous, muscular, Tony, in the adjacent building, builds into a life changing obsession.

When Tony shows up at Kevin's apartment, bloody and bruised, Kevin offers him instant refuge…and a place in his bed. However, all is not what it seems and the police draw a different conclusion in their hunt for a violent killer.

Will Kevin's plea of false evidence save him from the horror of a life behind bars?

False Evidence
loveyoudivine Alterotica (May 16, 2012)
ASIN: B00845KX7I

Excerpt:

Kevin's fantasy drew him in more and more. His days at the office began to drag along and often left him exhausted and miserable by the end of the workday. He stopped going out to lunch with Alice, choosing instead to pack a bite to eat in order to end his day at work earlier. His evenings alone and awake ran on to well after midnight. Sleep, when it came, became fits of restlessness until it was time to get up and head to the office. He spent any spare time he had peering out the windows hoping to catch a glimpse of the stranger across the way, always craving just one more look to satisfy his unquenchable thirst before calling it a night.

Within the week, Kevin had purchased a camera and tripod. Five days later, he added a telephoto lens and other items. Before long, he'd amassed a stellar collection of photographs capturing the images of an abstracted, young man in his prime and oblivious to the attention he'd reaped from a neighboring high-rise.

The quest for satisfaction consumed Kevin; he all but ignored his responsibilities at work and at home. His actions became irresponsible, even voyeuristic, and ignited desires that he didn't know he possessed. His boss expressed dissatisfaction with his tardiness and increasing mistakes, but he made excuses for his lack of focus. Friends calling his home found nothing but an answer machine and returned calls never happened. He even gave Alice the cold shoulder when she voiced concern, but Kevin didn't care. He slipped deeper and deeper into a compulsion he didn't see, convinced all the while he could stop the spying on his neighbor at any time.

* * * *

By early May, Kevin had settled into a routine of spying on the man of his dreams, laying out a daily ritual of surveillance that played against a backdrop of reality. He knew when to catch the guy working out with free-weights in his bedroom, sunbathing on the terrace, or even when the dude might pass before the windows after taking a shower.

So it came as somewhat of a shock when the blinds across the street began opening and closing at irregular intervals and the lights in the apartment burned well into the evening hours two nights in a row. Mr. Adonis roamed freely throughout the penthouse, more frequently without a stitch of clothing on his body. Kevin surmised the man's companion had gone away for a while on a business trip, or perhaps to visit relatives.

Whatever the case, the idea and new-found impudence to introduce himself to the young man prevailed and Kevin took time off work. He cleaned his home from top to bottom and stowed the camera equipment away. He spent the next few days sunning on the terrace, hoping to catch the guy's attention, moving the floral canopy out of the way to create a clear view. Kevin's body was lean and tight, but not as muscular as he was tall. More endowed than most, he filled the tiny swimsuit he sported in hopes of catching the stranger's attention.

On the third day, Kevin finally received the acknowledgement from the man he'd hoped for. A subtle nod, soon led to a flirtatious smile and movement of the man's mouth; unable to hear his words, Kevin smiled and raised his hands palms skyward. The guy pointed down toward the street, an invitation that Kevin accepted with an upright thumb...

http://www.jonmichaelsen.net/
To purchase, click http://tinyurl.com/FalseEvidence-AmazonKindle

The Lonely War excerpt by Alan Chin

Like most war novels, The Lonely War by Alan Chin envelops all that is unique to war, the horror of battle, overcoming fear, the cruelty of soldiers, the loyalty and camaraderie of men caught in a desperate situation. Yet, it stands alone in two important ways. First, it is a passionate story about a tender love developing between an officer and an enlisted man, revealing a rare and dignified portrait of a couple struggling to satisfy desire within the confines of the military code of conduct. Even more importantly however, it describes the heart-wrenching measures of how much one man will sacrifice to save the life and reputation of the man he loves.

Perhaps the author’s favorite “Alan Chin” story, The Lonely War has just been republished by the great folks at Dreamspinner Press, and is now available in all ebook formats, as well as paperback.

The Lonely War
Dreamspinner Press (4/27/12 reissued)
ISBN: 978-1-61372-459-0 (ebook)
978-1-61372-458-3 (paperback)

Excerpt:

PART I

The Pilgrim

It has been said that “Common souls pay with what they do, nobler souls with that which they are. And why? Because a profound nature awakens in us by their actions and words, by their very looks and manners.
—Unknown

March 20, 1941
0800 hours

In the spring of 1941, the Japanese army surged across the border from China to extend their bloody campaign to all of Southeast Asia. As war crept south, the French, English, and Americans scattered throughout Indochina hastened to Saigon, where they boarded ocean liners bound for their homelands. Meanwhile, the Japanese army massed on the outskirts of the city, poised for another victorious assault. The city held its breath.

Andrew Waters pursued his father across a bustling wharf, still wearing his boarding school uniform and clutching a bamboo flute. The ship that loomed before him was a floating city—mammoth, with numerous passenger decks and topped by two massive stacks that muddied the sky with exhaust. It had been berthed at the inland port on a tributary of the Mekong for a full week, but Andrew saw the crew now scurrying to get underway.

The wharf trembled slightly, and he heard the rat-tat-tat of gunfire over the sirens blaring from the center of the city.

Andrew’s father sported a tussore-silk suit of superlative cut and a Panama hat tilted so the brim hid his right eye. His tall figure marched purposefully towards the black-and-white behemoth, and his normally long gait lengthened with noticeable desperation.

Andrew, who was nearly eighteen, paused and panted from an acute nervy rush. He searched the sky for planes. They were still beyond his field of vision, but the drone of bombers echoed through the cloud cover. The rumble of explosions grew loud, and the air carried the faint stench of sulfur.

He hurried on, jostling through a mélange of beings—Caucasians dressed in fine western clothes (like his father), rich Chinese in their silks, merchants in long-sleeved jackets, coolies wearing only tattered shorts. Voices all around him shouted while the harsh twang of a military band playing “Auld Lang Syne” vaulted above that unbridled confusion of humanity.

Directly behind him trotted an aged wisp of a monk, who wore the traditional orange robes and held a string of wooden prayer beads. Each bead was the size of a marble and had the chalky gray coloring of Mekong silt. The monk’s thumb deliberately ticked past each bead, one after another, like a timer counting down the seconds. Behind the monk came the porters carrying four steamer trunks.

At the gangway, Andrew’s father told him to quickly make his goodbye then sprinted up the ramp with the porters in tow.

Surrounded in a press of bodies, the youth reverently embraced the monk. The old man wrapped his arms around Andrew and drew him nearer. The monk’s breath tickled his neck, which helped to dissolves his anxieties.

Using the native tongue of South China, he whispered, “Master, I’ll come home as soon as I can.”

The old monk’s face contracted, as if Andrew had posed a difficult question.
“Andrew, war and time will whisk away everything that you love. This is our farewell.”

The youth wiped away a tear that broke free from his almond-shaped eyes and slid down his amber-colored cheek.

“Master, I will strive to apply everything you have taught me.”

“No, Andrew. You will forget my lessons. Such is the nature of youth. But remember this—since you are American by birth, they will surely draft you. So, on the battlefield, resist the hate that is born from fear. Nurture only love in your heart, Andrew. To love all beings is Buddha-like and transcends us from the world of pain, for love is the highest manifestation of life. To experience love’s full bounty is life’s only purpose, so tread the moral path before you and sacrifice yourself to love. All else is folly, a dream of the ego.”

Baffled, Andrew replied, “Master, I do not understand about sacrificing myself to love.”

The old monk’s eyes opened wide and his lips spread into a grin.

“Meditate on what I have said. Understanding will come when you are ready.” He methodically bundled his string of beads into a ball roughly the size and shape of a monkey’s skull and forced them into Andrew’s left pants pocket. “Keep these beads to remind yourself of our time together.”

The pressure against Andrew’s thigh felt awkward, and before the monk pulled away, Andrew became distracted, thinking of how fortunate this man was to be wise and compassionate in the midst of the impending carnage. He realized it took impeccable courage to maintain one’s morality during perilous times, courage that he himself did not possess.

He had always assumed he would live a quiet, studious and spiritual life under this old monk’s guardianship, and eventually become the old man who stood before him. That image was shattered when war turned the world on its head. Now, all Andrew could think about was getting on that ship and sailing to safety, if such a thing existed.

The ship’s whistle cut the air, long and terrible and loud enough to be heard throughout the city. The monk pressed his hands together in front of his forehead and bowed, silently, finally.

Another blast from the ship’s whistle sent Andrew running up the gangway, leaving the earthy world of South China behind.

He joined his father on the first-class deck. Entombed in steel— heavy riveted plates of metal underfoot that curved into walls—he jammed together with the other passengers at the rail, peering down at the apprehensive faces. Their body heat added to the stifling temperature. Sweat dribbled down his neck, and he had to gasp to get enough air.

Lines fell away, and the gangway was hauled aboard. Tugs pushed the ship into the middle of the channel and withdrew, leaving the ship to the whim of the current.

Andrew stared straight down at the dense, opaque surface of the river. It reflected the cloudy sky, making the water seem gray rather than the usual brown, yellowish streaks of oil running with the current. The flat moving surface seemed strangely alive, carrying him along, muscling him downstream, as if it were an overwhelming force whose motives he could only guess at.

On the dock, Asian women held their infants over their heads for a last look. Handkerchiefs waved. The band played on.

He saw the first planes against the darkening sky, droning above the city. Explosions grew even louder, and from his perch on the first-class deck, he saw sections of the city erupting. He turned northeast towards his boarding school. Flames. That entire section of the city was engulfed in fire, as if hell had opened its mouth to swallow it whole.

“Clifford,” he whispered.

A searing stab of regret lodged in his chest. He had been forced to abandon the object of his adolescent love, and he imagined himself dashing through the chaotic streets to reach the boarding school. There was still time, he thought. They could disappear into the forest. They could live on, together. He wanted to perform that fatal act of love, but he wondered if he could really muster the courage to defy his father.

Reluctantly—at least, it felt that way to him—he climbed onto the railing to dive overboard, because he realized the love he shared with Clifford wasn’t a trifling adolescent crush at all but rather a deep and consuming love. A love that had somehow been lost in the joys of youth like water in dry sand, and was only now realized.

His father pulled him back, forcing him to stay and suffer what felt like an unquenchable loss. Locked in his father’s embrace, he entered a narrow canyon of desolation, knowing the days and hours and minutes ahead would be heartbreaking, and that he might not be strong enough to endure it.

The ship’s siren sounded three blasts for its farewell salute. The engines throbbed, and propellers chewed the river. The noise swelled to a din like the end of the world.

The passengers on deck could no longer hide their sorrow. Everyone wept, not only those people parting but the onlookers as well. Even the dockhands and porters shed tears.

The ship traveled downstream as the military band played “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

To Andrew, the orange-robed figure crushed within the throng on the dock seemed at odds with the fires raging across the city. He now fully understood the monk’s words—that war would steal everything he loved, that a way of life, their way of life, had perished. Pain flooded his whole being, like that of a baby prematurely ripped from its protective womb.

He pulled away from his father’s embrace and staggered farther down the deck to cry without being seen. He positioned himself at the rail, one arm folded around a steel support beam and his face pressed against the hot metal.

People on the wharf seemed to hesitate, then regretfully turned and scurried away. He watched the smudge of orange, scarcely visible and standing at the edge of the pier, utterly still, quiescent, until the harbor faded from view and the land disappeared as well, slowly swallowed beneath the curve of the earth.

To purchase, click http://tinyurl.com/7q9hnvl

King Perry excerpt by Edmond Manning

In King Perry by Edmond Manning, out-of-towner Vin Vanbly witnesses an act of compassion in a trendy San Francisco art gallery, that compels him to make investment banker Perry Mangin a mysterious offer: in exchange for a weekend of complete submission, Vin will restore Perry’s “kingship” and transform him into the man he was always meant to be.

Despite intense reservations, Perry agrees, setting in motion a chain of events that will test the limits of his body, seduce his senses, and fray his every nerve, (perhaps occasionally breaking the law) while Vin guides him toward his destiny as ”the one true king.”

Even as Perry rediscovers old grief and new joys within himself, Vin and his shadowy motivations remain enigmas: who is this offbeat stranger guiding them from danger to hilarity to danger? To emerge triumphant, Perry must overcome the greatest challenge alone: embracing his devastating past. But can he succeed by Sunday’s sunrise deadline? How can he possibly evolve from an ordinary man into King Perry?

In this excerpt, Vin insists Perry asks 50 strangers to take their photograph on the Golden Gate Bridge, all to honor the "Tourist king," King Diego. Perry is still furious with Vin for having been tricked into stealing a baby duck just an hour earlier.

King Perry
Dreamspinner Press (February 26, 2012)
ISBN: Ebook: 978-1-6372-379-1
Print: 978-1-6372-378-4

Excerpt:

Perry asks, “How does this photograph thing work?”

“You have to ask fifty people to take our photograph together. I have a second roll of film.”

“You, me, and the bridge?”

“Yeah, but if you want to ask someone to join us, I have no objection. You’re the creative director of this photo shoot.”

He takes the camera from me and fiddles with its operation, verifying that he knows how to work it.

He says, “For the record, if the police show up, I’m willing to photograph your arrest, ducknapper.”

“Duckling,” I say. “I wonder if Mr. Quackers wants his photo taken in front of the Golden Gate Bridge.”

Perry shoots me a look.

“Too soon for duck jokes?”

He asks the first couple he sees, dressed in pastel greens, lemon, and beige, if they will take our photo, and although they present thin, terse smiles revealing mild reluctance, they agree. Who says no to such an innocuous request? Afterward, they hand the camera back to Perry as if it is slathered in spit.

Perry thanks them. He turns and mugs to me. “Forty-nine more to go.”

“Yeah, fifty. Or maybe sixty. You never know.”

“Won’t that put us behind for the four o'clock bank robbery?”

“Your ass is super hot,” I say loudly, causing him to jump, “but it’s not bank robber hot.”

He grumbles and turns away. “Sir, would you mind? Would you take our—thank you, yeah, that would be great.”

After we cuddle up together, Perry says, “When do we meet the King of Vodka?”

Snap.

Around photo seventeen, it sinks in. Drinking in all this effervescent friendliness, immediately after I broke his heart yet again, changes something in Perry. The comments and the expressions on people’s faces start to wear him down.

“No, of course we don’t mind.”

“Absolutely, I’d be delighted.”

“Would you mind taking ours next?”

“Move closer together now, and big smile.”

Almost against his will, Perry’s smile keeps getting wider, more pleased.

Perry asks a straw-hatted woman in her midseventies, fussing with things in her purse. Our camera chatter reveals she’s from Illinois, road-tripping with her widow friends, grouped nearby fussing in their purses.

After she takes our photo, she says, “Aren’t you a cute couple. I wouldn’t think you’d go for bears, dear.”

“I don’t,” Perry says, surprised. “Not normally. But he’s got this weird, sexy vibe. After a while you let go and enjoy it, like Old Spice.”

I huff and say, “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“Definitely,” she says, handing Perry the camera and squeezing my arm.

Perry chuckles after she departs. “How the hell does she know about bears?”

I say, “Gimme.”

I take the camera before he can say anything else and aim for his smirk.

Snap.

It’s beginning for you, Perry.

Several people refuse, including a woman who calls herself “butterfingers,” and her friend who vehemently agrees. They faux-bicker for us, and we enjoy the show. Two folks ignore us and walk away. But not many refuse; we all came to be tourists, after all.

A few clicks later we meet two best friends vacationing together, a gay man and straight woman, both in their midforties. They have been friends for twenty-one years and know now that if neither of them ever marries, they will always have the devoted love of this lifelong friendship. They decided to take an anniversary trip to celebrate their love, the flavor that it is.

We trade anecdotes with them, discuss favorite restaurants, and they tease each other like a married couple, making Perry and me laugh at their overly familiar commentary. Perry confides in them that we’re on a first date of sorts, and they ask all kinds of wonderful, prying questions.

I can’t resist saying, “Last night, I found out he snores.”

“He’s a criminal,” Perry says. “One of us is lying. And here’s a clue: I don’t snore.”

“You definitely snore.”

As we start making our goodbyes, Perry asks, “How about a picture of the four of us?”

A few minutes later, Perry approaches a family with three kids, two of them shy and one madly dancing brother, clearly the youngest. After the parents help us out, Perry asks each kid their name, but only the dancer answers directly.

He shouts at us, “NICHOLAS.”

Photo twenty-four.

After they leave, I say, “I bet Nicholas would like Mr. Quackers.”

I turn away as if heading back to the van.

“Way too soon,” Perry says, grabbing my shoulder. “I thought you picked that up after your first joke.”

After photo thirty-two, two Chinese men finally approach us. I noticed them a few minutes ago, but I did not wish to embarrass them, so I pretended I did not. With a nod, I invite them to speak, and in hushed words, they do. They noticed us having our photo taken, over and over, and thought we might be international tourists, like them. We discover that for the last half hour they have been looking for someone to approach. They really want a photo together in front of the Golden Gate Bridge; it’s important to them. But they do not want to make someone uncomfortable, nor do they wish to be judged.

“Would you take our photos, please?” asks the first man, with nervous pride.

His partner says, “We know it is more open here, but we are still careful.”

Of course we agree, and I fiddle with their camera lens, testing the light and such, delaying so that Perry has time to talk to them.

“Smile.”

They won’t stand too close or put their arms around each other, but in the series of photos I take, you can see joy in their eyes. It’s definitely joy.

The task accomplished, we follow them, and they follow us, wandering down the nearby walkways, scattered with vibrant yellow flowers and shiny green bushes, everyone admiring the magnificent, sparkling bay this glorious day in Eden. We ask questions about living in China. We try to answer their questions about living in the United States.

Zhong and Jian are shy again when they announce their departure. But they are eager to experience the towering redwoods in Marin County. They really want to kiss in the forest. Big secret kiss.

“Maybe more than kiss,” Zhong says, scandalizing Jian.

They laugh together, blushing beautifully, and tip their heads toward us.

Perry stares at the departing figures with wet eyes.

Yup. Fifty photographs ought to be enough.

“Perry, check out that couple over there. Behind those three girls. What do you see?”

“What am I looking for?”

“No. Tell me what you see.”

I continue to ask this before each new photograph, and he eventually starts reading people better. Not that you can ever know someone’s life story by the way they wander around on vacation, but tourists repeatedly choose to make themselves vulnerable, so some of their tells are more obvious.

“Let’s ask them,” he says, pointing to two heavily pierced men wearing Harley Davidson shirts. “Hey, dudes.”

Somewhere around forty, I suggest that he find the ones who need it.

“Need what?” Perry asks.

I shake my head. “Just look around. Who needs it?”

We talk about the possibilities, mostly Perry asking questions and me refusing to answer. If he would give up and look, he would realize he already knows. After a whopper of a candidate wanders into view, I put my hand over his mouth from behind and rock him in my arms, giving him a chance to look around.

My hand muffles the sound when he says, “Her.”

I say, “Good choice.”

A stout woman patrols the second plateau, not far from us. She’s probably late thirties, with frosted-golden locks, a beautiful tangle of curly hair falling over her dark brown shoulders. Purple sundress. She slings three small backpacks over her right shoulder, packs that I bet her kids promised, promised, promised to carry themselves. She and her husband do their best to corral four eager children. The kids race to the chain-link fence to stare at the Golden Gate Bridge, pushing each other to get a better view, and I watch a young dancer named NICHOLAS run over to meet them. Her weary expression suggests they’ve been this hyper all day.

We watch.

I say, “How are we going to put King Diego energy into her?”

Perry says, “Have we been doing that?”

“Follow me.”

We take a few steps toward her; then I stop him with a hand on his chest and say, “Did you love your mom?”

“Yes, I loved her,” he says, surprised.

“So there was never a time in your life where you were ungrateful, or a dick to her or anything?”

His open face creases in hurt, and I see I hit a nerve. Good.

“Go with this.”

He says, “Wait—”

I stride away, closing the distance, forcing him to scurry after me.

“Hi, will you take our photo?”

Tired Mom looks at me with bored anger, like I’m another kid demanding her attention and she has enough of those.

“I’m busy,” she says.

“Please. I bet you’d take a great photograph.”

This earns me a glimmer of real irritation, but I can do awesome puppy dog eyes. Please, Tired Mom, give us a chance.

I say, “I saw your kids so energetic and happy, and it made me think you’d take a great photograph, because you look like a good mom.”

She turns to her husband. “Tim. Watch Devon. I’m taking some damn tourist photos.” She turns back to me and says sharply, “No offense.”

“None taken!” I quack happily.

Perry’s smile isn’t quite authentic because irritating her wasn’t part of his plan, and I have once again made him complicit in another crime—this time, bothering a woman on vacation.

She snaps the photo and thrusts the camera back to me. Her expression isn’t as angry anymore, the experience already over.

“My friend Perry just told me about how the Golden Gate Bridge reminds him of his mom.”

Perry’s eyes open wider, a subtle change not lost on her. “Yeah. My mom.”

She listens attentively now; she recognizes a setup.

Without breaking eye contact with her, I say, “Big secret.”

“She was strong,” Perry says, the words popping out. “Real strong.”

He looks at Tired Mom with anguish and says, “My dad died young, and it wasn’t easy for her. We were broke from medical bills. I—I was horrible those first two years after he died. Even though I apologized over and over after I grew up, to this day I regret how I treated her.”

His voice cracks during the last part. I don’t think he’s going to cry, but the raw emotion coming from this revelation may have been unexpected.

He says, “She died about ten years ago. I would give anything to have those two years back. Anything to hear her voice.”

She looks at him carefully. The world can surprise you sometimes.

“She understood,” Tired Mom says, her voice quiet. “She’s a mom.”

She turns and walks back toward her family. One of the younger girls launches herself right into Tired Mom’s leg, pushing them both off center.

“My mom,” Perry says and turns to me, eyes wide.

I pull him into my chest and hold him. I think he’s taking a moment to see his mother in a new light. Perhaps she was a tourist as well, lost in a city where she never expected to find herself.

I don’t know much about his mom, just scraps I’ve been able to glean without his realizing. Tuesday at the art gallery, he didn’t associate that art gallery painting with Mother’s Day, my first volley checking out his mother issues. During Big Secret, he confirmed how much he missed her. I thought he might be able to see an inspiring bridge and relate it to something remarkable in her. But I don’t want him too emotional right now; we’re not ready for that.

Using a gentle tone, I say, “That one didn’t count because, technically, I asked her. You still have nine more photos to take, pardner.”

Instead of protesting, his chin traces mine until he kisses me.

Our lips meet soft and subtle, the right amount of mutual pressure. Though surrounded, I feel invisible, enjoying a private moment at our own private monument.

We break apart, and I turn him around, wrapping my arms around his midsection, my chin on his shoulder, seeking her. Not far away, I spot her husband retrieving their son from NICHOLAS’s family.

There she is. I nudge his head with mine toward her and say, “Check out Tired Mom.”

The woman stands a stone’s throw away. One child strains in her left hand while two more argue over who’s in the next photo with mama. Tired Mom considers the Golden Gate Bridge.

She looks different.

Maybe it’s an unexpected break. Hell, maybe she started chewing a piece of mint gum. Or, maybe she remembers a piece of her queenship, what it means to truly be strong. And now that I’m thinking of it, constantly run over. You might look at the Golden Gate Bridge and think: Oh. Moms. Got it.

When driving back from Sausalito, I love that first glimpse of the deep orange towers striking the rolling, lush hills, legs battered by the white-crested surf. Only a surrealist painter could juxtapose shapeless foam against steel pylons that will outlast all of us, man’s rare architectural improvement to a gorgeous landscape. On those days when shadow and mist rule the earth, I love driving across, straining to see the high-reaching cables, invisible while I’m directly underneath. Golden Gate’s power remains even when masked by magician’s fog, hidden only by our limited ability to recognize strength.

I whisper into Perry’s ear, “King Diego is not to be underestimated.”

We nuzzle for a moment longer, staring at the bridge, the sky, the everything.

He shivers and says, “It’s cold out here.”

“It’s always cold in San Francisco. At least in Minnesota we get to wear coats. You guys always pretend like this isn’t cold.”

He turns his head and searches the immediate area, another three dozen people replacing the three dozen who were here a while ago. He takes the camera from me.

Perry picks out an older man nearby who looks angry. “Sir, would you mind taking our photo?”

http://kingperry.com/

Contact the author on his website: http://www.edmondmanning.com/, or email him directly at remembertheking@comcast.net.

To purchase the eBook, click: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=2801

To purchase a print copy, click: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=2802

Purly Gates excerpt by Vastine Bondurant

In Vastine Bondurant's historical romance Purly Gates, a lonely stretch of beach becomes a hiding place for two men who, when their paths cross, are determined not to be ships just passing in the night.

Purlman “Purly” Gates—dark, brooding, mysterious, hiding from his past and the hefty price on his head—is hopelessly attracted to the young man who strolls the beach every morning. At the risk of his own exposure and its deadly consequences, Purly succumbs to his desire and sets out to lure the beautiful enigma into his lair.

Lucky Cleary wants the swarthy stranger who watches him from the shadows of the cottage deck, and his morning promenades finally pay off when the man steps out onto the beach and into Lucky’s life in a move to bring their paths together.

But Lucky has a secret as well—a past mistake following close behind him, promising certain death if it catches up with him.

When each man discovers the other’s identity, the truth forms a powerful bond between them and fans the flame of their passion.

But is the meeting of these two lonely souls a beautiful destiny or merely a cruel twist of fate in which their desire is nothing more than the kiss of death for them both?

Purly Gates
LIG Publishing (April 24, 2012)
ASIN: B007XEOQX8

Excerpt:

Summer, 1930

Purly

Even to take a long draw on his cigarette, Purly didn’t shift his gaze from the scene just beyond the deck.

It should have been nothing unusual, really, just a young man strolling the beach. Except it was remarkable as Purly had been told this stretch of shore was secluded, that all its inhabitants had left long ago.

The object of Purly’s study cupped a hand over his brow and squinted ahead at two white Siberian huskies—almost camouflaged against the sparkling crystal sand—accompanying him.

His whistle brought the exquisite beasts dashing to his side to zip frenzied circles around him and spray the shimmering powder against his calves.

For a week now, this man and his canine companions walked the shore every morning precisely at ten.

And every morning, precisely at ten, warmth—pleasing, agonizing, relentless—radiated from Purly’s belly to his groin at the sight of the beautiful passerby.

To call the fellow beautiful, though, was an understatement. Or was it an exaggeration? Purly couldn’t decide. The young man wasn’t conventionally handsome; in fact, if analyzing his looks in one big picture, he might even fall just south of ordinary. And yet something about him twisted Purly into a huge, sweet aching knot of longing.

A snug black swimming suit molded to the man’s fluid form—to the elegant slope of his shoulders, his long, lean torso and smooth ass. A nice body, not athletic by any means but delicately toned.

But his face. Goddamn, his face. Features too perfectly imperfect to be real. Dark lashes offsetting sleepy, pale green eyes—green like Purly had never seen before. Full lips parting in a near kiss, offering the promise of a dazzling smile and a glimpse of not-so-straight teeth.

Luxurious curls, the color of warm, dark honey crowned his head. As the breeze teased stray locks across his brow, he brushed them back with his fingers.

Yes, Purly concluded, the man could be considered beautiful. And what unusual beauty. Arousing, hypnotic. Yet an odd innocence, only vaguely aware of its own attraction, lurked in those green eyes, in that hinted smile. Angelic, almost.

Attraction for other men was hardly new to Purly but it had only existed until now as a very secret, very tightly capped bottle of potential danger.

He’d always kept company with dames—wining, dining and fucking them—and therefore had no explanation for the lure of men’s bodies or the very private quickening in his gut at how beautiful some of them were. But one thing he did know. The annoying preoccupation did not mean he was queer for he’d never considered acting on the draw of a masculine physique.

Until now…

Into his life walked the first man to ignite the desire to do the forbidden.

Love at first sight belonged only in fairy tales as far as Purly was concerned, so he knew his unexplainable infatuation with this person wasn’t some sort of instantaneous amour. Nonsense. Call it obsession, for maybe it was. But it was not love at first sight or anything resembling it.

Instead of sleeping, he did helplessly drift to erotic imagery of the stranger every night. He did imagine touching him, holding him, burying himself deep inside that gently curved ass. He even sensed the need to protect him. Protect him from what, he hadn’t an inkling, only a strong twist of heart advising him that the young man was vulnerable, very afraid of something.

Yes, the almost-Adonis whose eyes matched the ocean right before a storm did perform a morning promenade every day. Never once, though, did he glance up to meet Purly’s eyes though he surely had to be aware Purly so very intently registered his daily passage

But today, just as he reached the deck, he tilted his regal head, met Purly’s gaze and offered a brushstroke of a smile—so slight, did it even count as smile?—and his lips moved to form one solitary, inaudible word.

That nod and the whisper of a word on the traveler’s lips—only God read what he’d said, for Purly couldn’t—triggered Purly’s pulse into a riotous but luscious sprint.

Careful not to expose his pleasure or the newborn erection developing in his trousers, Purly leaned into the wooden railing and took a drag on his cigarette.

For Christ’s sake, the guy had probably only said hello or morning. And, yes, Purly knew it was silly to allow his libido to go off half-cocked just because of a smile—a barely-there smile at that—and an indecipherable word.

Just as quickly as the man’s smile had appeared, though, it faded.

The dogs had tarried behind to investigate a crab and their master turned to whistle at them, waving them to keep up with him.

The stunning dogs ran ahead then returned to gallop circles around him.

Throwing back his head, the lustrous curls jostling with his movement, the stranger let out a pleasant laugh while playing with his partners. Then he stretched for a moment and continued on the path he’d begun. His legs—those smooth thighs—moved in perfect rhythm like the wheels of a very pretty locomotive.

Once the fellow passed the deck, Purly tossed his cigarette into the sand and gazed as the orange glow slowly sizzled from the tip.

He cast one last glance at the man’s retreating figure then crossed the gritty wood planks to the cottage door. Never, during this entire week, had he lingered to observe the morning stroller’s return path past the deck. Somehow, Purly figured, to still be watching at that point would appear a bit creepy.

The recording on the portable phonograph had finished playing by the time Purly entered the house. He closed the screen door, cranked the handle to start the machine up once more and gingerly placed the needle arm on the spinning disc.

The strains of Haydn’s 101st symphony—warbling and tinny but still pleasing and soothing—filled the small space.

Purly lit a cigarette, sank onto the wrought iron bed and allowed his mind to drift with the music and the cool breeze from the rattling little fan on the windowsill. Soon, though, he found his thoughts had returned to the stranger. How absurd to spend so much time thinking on this person, but what else was there for Purly to do while here on this beach but…think? And he had no control over the path his muse took, did he? Absolutely not.

One thing was certain, though. He wanted—no, needed—to meet the green-eyed being who so curiously intrigued him, who had to do nothing but parade the shore to touch a match to Purly’s once-dormant lust. Even if it was only to hear a voice from the full lips, then so be it.

Purly would find a way.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007XEOQX8/ref=cm_sw_r_fa_dp_ZltMpb1Y3GFFY