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Here at Padme's Library I feature all genres but followers have probably noticed that 90% of the posts and 99% of my reviews fall under the LGBT genres, so for this year's Pride Month I am showcasing 20 of my favorite M/M historicals in no particular order. You'll find many different eras facing all kinds of drama with one thing in common: homosexuality was not only considered immoral but also illegal, not a factor that is often the whole of the story and sometimes not mentioned at all but you just know the danger is always lurking. The heart always finds a ray of light like a beacon in the dark. Though we have a long way to go, in these stories you not only are entertained but you get a better understanding of just how far society has come towards equality.
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Summary:
Cambridge Fellows Mysteries #1
Cambridge, 1905.
It’s the turn of the century, Queen Victoria’s reign is over, it’s time for a new beginning. In Cambridge, Jonty Stewart takes up a teaching post, acting as a catalyst for change within the archaic institution. But he also has a catalytic effect on Orlando Coppersmith.
Orlando is a brilliant, introverted mathematician with very little experience of life outside the college walls. He strikes up an alliance with the outgoing Jonty, and soon finds himself having feelings he’s never experienced before. Before long their friendship blossoms into more than either man had hoped and they enter into a clandestine relationship.
Yet their romance is complicated when a series of murders is discovered within St. Brides. And all of the victims have one thing in common: a penchant for men. A fact that only puts Orlando and Jonty in greater danger, when they are enlisted to act as the eyes and ears for the police…
Saturday Series Spotlight
I loved this even more the second time around. Knowing Jonty & Orlando better as I currently do because Cambridge Fellows is among my favorite series list, I have upgraded from 4-1/2 to 5 Stars. Just brilliant story all around.
Original Review Summer 2014:
I was blown away by this story that before I finished it I went and ordered the remaining entries in this series. I will admit that it took me a couple of chapters to really get into the flow of the author's writing style and keep straight in my head. Going back and forth between using their first names and their surnames, depending on the setting the characters are in had me a little confused at first but I quickly got the style meshing with my thinking and then everything just was amazing. That is the reason I am giving this book a 4-1/2 bookmark instead of 5. The mystery is interesting and got my detective skills percolating. I can honestly say I don't know who I love more, Jonty and his wit or Orlando and his innocence? They both have captured my heart and can't wait to read more.
RATING:
Ten Days in August by Kate McMurraySummary:
From the Lower East Side to uptown Manhattan, a curious detective searches for clues on the sidewalks of New York—and finds a secret world of forbidden love that’s too hot to handle…
New York City, 1896. As the temperatures rise, so does the crime rate. At the peak of this sizzling heat wave, police inspector Hank Brandt is called to investigate the scandalous murder of a male prostitute. His colleagues think he should drop the case, but Hank’s interest is piqued, especially when he meets the intriguing key witness: a beautiful female impersonator named Nicholas Sharp.
As a nightclub performer living on the fringes of society, Nicky is reluctant to place his trust in a cop—even one as handsome as Hank. With Police Commissioner Theodore Roosevelt cracking down on vice in the city, Nicky’s afraid that getting involved could end his career. But when he realizes his life is in danger—and Hank is his strongest ally—the two men hit the streets together to solve the crime. From the tawdry tenements of the Lower East Side to the moneyed mansions of Fifth Avenue, Nicky and Hank are determined to uncover the truth. But when things start heating up between them, it’s not just their lives on the line. It’s their love…
As those who follow my reviews will know, I am a HUGE historical buff and love historical fiction, so when Ten Days in August caught my eye it was a no brainer that I would give it a try. I am so glad I did because it is an amazing read, the characters, the mystery, the romance, and the attention to historical detail, well any one of them would have had me hooked but when you have them all it's a spectacular ride to Reader Heaven. The connection between Nicky and Hank may be instantaneous but that doesn't mean it will be easy, add in a killer and the heat wave, it will most definitely not be easy. As a Wisconsinite from a small farming community, I understand and respect the power of Mother Nature, but to find her the main character in a book added to the authenticity of the era and trust me, the heat wave is a huge factor here because the heat can grind on you and make a tense situation volatile. I always love discovering a new author, I look forward to checking out Kate McMurray's backlist.
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Summary:
Fallen Rose #2
Nights in the roaring city remind bright young things that life’s too short to take for granted. Tucked away in Times Square hides the Pantheon: a secret cabaret for wealthy gay men. Pretty young men in elaborate costumes and rouged lips are eager to please, and the champagne flows all night long. It’s a world of frivolity, fantasy, and debauchery. As Eros, the most sought after performer at the Pantheon, Julius uses his beauty and charm on enthusiastic patrons, but growing weary of superficial love, he longs to make a better life for himself.
Five years after being declared mentally unfit after surviving the trenches of No Man’s Land, Edward Joseph Clarence Junior pieced his shattered life back together. Now he’s ready to take on the family empire. To celebrate his thirtieth birthday, Edward’s cousin takes him to the most posh nightclub in town, the Pantheon. Falling under the sway of Eros, Edward and Julius find a love they’ve never imagined and the chance for a future they had only dared to dream about. But as Ares, a notorious gangster and Julius’s most important—and dangerous—client watches them, the threat to their love and their lives grows by the day.
Fallen Rose Series
I fell in love with Harlan and Nathan in Roses in the Devil's Garden, originally written for a story prompt in the Goodreads M/M Group, and it is amazing! Then in A Rose by Any Other Name, we get to see Julius, who we were briefly introduced to in Devil's Garden, in his glorious element as Eros at the Pantheon. Then there's Edward who is not exactly comfortable in his own skin since returning from the war. Put them together and WOW! the chemistry is explosive, throw in Edward's friends as well as Julius' and my Kindle practically combusted on the spot. I asked the author if there were going to be any more in this series and she said there are plans but right now her foreseeable plate is a bit full. Well, whether it's a day, a year, or a decade I will be first in line to check it out and I highly recommend giving Fallen Rose Series a chance, historical lover or not it will capture you from beginning to end. And by the way, Other Name might be Edward and Julius' story, Harlan and Nate make a very memorable appearance.
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Summary:
Wyoming Territory, 1870.
Elijah Carter is afflicted. Most of the townsfolk of South Pass City treat him as a simpleton because he’s deaf, but that’s not his only problem. Something in Elijah runs contrary to nature and to God. Something that Elijah desperately tries to keep hidden.
Harlan Crane, owner of the Empire saloon, knows Elijah for what he is—and for all the ungodly things he wants. But Crane isn’t the only one. Grady Mullins desires Elijah too, but unlike Crane, he refuses to push the kid.
When violence shatters Elijah’s world, he is caught between two very different men and two devastating urges: revenge, and despair. In a boomtown teetering on the edge of a bust, Elijah must face what it means to be a man in control of his own destiny, and choose a course that might end his life . . . or truly begin it for the very first time.
I wept for Elijah and his inner monologue had me warring between wanting to hug him and shake him. His lack of self worth broke my heart, if only Elijah believed what Dr. Carter would tell him instead of what the likes of Harlan Crane or his boss, Dawson would shout at him. The story is so well written that even if you're not a fan of westerns you'll enjoy this one. Then you throw in Grady Mullins to the mix and this story suddenly has everything. This truly is a story of the good, the bad, and the ugly. Sweetwater is the first thing by Lisa Henry that I've read but it won't be the last.
RATING:
Whistling in the Dark by Tamara AllenSummary:
New York City, 1919. His career as a concert pianist ended by a war injury, Sutton Albright returns to college, only to be expelled after a scandalous affair with a teacher. Unable to face his family, Sutton heads to Manhattan with no plans and little money in his pocket but with a desire to call his life his own. Jack Bailey lost his parents to influenza and now hopes to save the family novelty shop by advertising on the radio, a medium barely more than a novelty, itself. His nights are spent in a careless and debauched romp through the gayer sections of Manhattan. When these two men cross paths, despite a world of differences separating them, their attraction cannot be denied. Sutton finds himself drawn to the piano, playing for Jack. But can his music heal them both, or will sudden prosperity jeopardize their chance at love?
I have to admit I had a bit of a hard getting into this one but it was no fault of the author. I just wasn't ready to let go of the characters of the previous book I had finished. But by the time I was finished with chapter 3 or 4 I was hooked. Sutton and Jack may have been from opposites ends of the spectrum as far as their upbringing and background but they were more alike than either of them realized. It's pretty clear that they are both better off together than either was alone. If you're a fan of historical fiction mixed with romance, then this is definitely a book for you. I hadn't read anything by this author but after finishing Whistling, I went on to read three more and will definitely be checking out others as well.
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Lessons in Love by Charlie Cochrane
St. Bride’s College, Cambridge, November 1905
“That is my chair, sir.”
The voice was deep, sharp, and shattered Jonty’s concentration. He looked up to see a stern-looking young man towering over him. Well, not necessarily that young, he must be nearly my age, but he has such a lean, youthful look about him, you might think he’s just an undergraduate. Jonty swiftly took in a pair of chocolate brown eyes—eyes that lurked below curly black hair that seemed to want to cover them—a handsome face, and a very bony frame.
He rose. “I do apologise, sir. I’ve only arrived at St. Bride’s today and I haven’t been appraised of all the customs and habits. I hope that you’ll forgive me.” He produced what he hoped was a winning smile and bowed.
The other man harrumphed and nodded in return. “There are a number of traditions we cling to here, Mr…”
“Stewart, Dr. Stewart. The college authorities saw fit to forget the indiscretions of my undergraduate years here and have appointed me to a fellowship in English. The Kildare Fellowship.” Jonty grinned again, not surprised he didn’t get one in return. His mother always vowed he’d been born to wear a smile, while this man appeared as if he’d never smiled in his life.
“Well, Stewart, we are great ones for resisting change, and the particular chair a man inhabits after High Table is regarded as sacrosanct.” The severe-looking man pointed to the empty seat next to him. “This place never seems to be occupied. Perhaps you might like to use it?”
Jonty could guess why that chair was never used but decided he’d take the risk. “How long have you been at St. Bride’s? I can’t place you from my earlier time here.” He would have remembered if he’d met him before, of course. He’d noticed this man at High Table, not just for his striking good looks but for his apparent unease with joining in the conversation around him—except for one occasion when he seemed to be extremely animated and the words “differential calculus” could be heard across the table. Bet he’s a mathematician. They’re all as mad as hatters.
“I’ve been here six years, Dr. Stewart, ever since I took my degree. I have the honour to be working under Professor Moore, teaching mathematics.” For the first time the stranger looked fully into his companion’s face. “I suppose you’ll be with Professor Goodridge?”
“Oh, no, not clever enough by half to be with the fellows who delve into Anglo-Saxon. The Bard of Avon is my concern.” Jonty saw the puzzled expression on the other man’s face and grinned. “Shakespeare, I mean. As a man of logic and higher reasoning you’ll please forgive the whimsy of a mere playgoer.”
The other man looked closely at him again, obviously suspicious that he was being made game of, then seemed to decide that the remarks were kindly meant. He almost smiled. “Even a pupil of Euclid can recognise the value of Shakespeare’s works. Indeed, I was named after one of his characters.”
Jonty couldn’t have been more stunned—the man’s hard-faced exterior didn’t suggest a romantic name. “Hamlet, Jacques—which is it?”
“Orlando. I was christened Orlando.”
Jonty waited to see if a surname would follow, decided that it wouldn’t, so spoke himself. “You’re very lucky. My parents saw fit to name me Jonathan—the only thing in my life that I’ve not forgiven them for. I’m Jonty to all those who want to use the name.”
The mention of parents had caused a small cloud to pass over Orlando’s face and he began staring at his feet. Jonty pressed on, unable to stop gabbling in the face of such studied non-communication. “Are there any other customs I must seek not to break?”
The question never got answered, as the Jove-like figure of Dr. Peters, the Master of St. Bride’s, approached. “I beg you not to get up, gentlemen. I was coming to introduce you to each other, our numerical genius not having been here before dinner when Dr. Stewart met the rest of the fellows—but I see that you’ve already made Dr. Coppersmith’s acquaintance.”
Coppersmith—no wonder he was so unwilling to tell me. His parents certainly gave him an unlucky combination of names, perhaps that’s why he always looks so cross. “Dr. Coppersmith has been instructing me in the college ways, in case I make some dreadful error of etiquette.”
Jonty inclined his head to express his gratitude; his mathematical colleague looked sterner than ever.
“I’m honoured to be able to share some of our little ways with Dr. Stewart and hope he’ll profit from being back at our college. I wish you good night, gentlemen, I have a lecture to deliver in the morning and must take my rest.” Dr. Coppersmith rose, bowed his head and departed, leaving the other two men speechless.
Later, as Jonty strolled back to his rooms, he chuckled to himself. I’d give a five-pound note to be at that mathematics lecture tomorrow and I bet most of the students would give five pounds to miss it. But for all that his new colleague seemed—on the surface at least—to be a pompous prig, his stern face and deep voice stayed in Jonty’s mind until he fell asleep.
*****
St. Bride’s wasn’t one of the most notable Cambridge colleges, lacking the grandeur of St. John’s or Trinity. It formed a little backwater where life had changed very little over the last four hundred years, but small adjustments were made from time to time. The chair next to Coppersmith’s soon became associated with Stewart. They now sat together almost every evening after High Table, chatting over coffee or port.
The dons who’d known Coppersmith since his arrival at the college were astounded. He was notorious for being a solitary fellow, never one to indulge in college chat or even in most of the discussion in the Senior Common Room. Unless it was about maths, of course, when he would contribute freely and with amazing perception, before clamming up if the subject strayed a little.
And yet there he was, evening after evening as November passed into December, talking away to Dr. Stewart, and sometimes even smiling. What they talked about, none of the other dons would’ve hazarded a guess, nor understood why they’d struck up such an unlikely alliance.
If they’d have asked Stewart, he’d have told them he’d come back to his old college hoping to make a fresh start and acquire new friends in the process. He’d have wondered along with them about the fact that he and Coppersmith had hit it off immediately, after their first meeting, putting it down to them realising the few things they had in common were more interesting than the things in which they differed.
He wouldn’t have told them that he found Orlando Coppersmith very attractive or that being with the man was a constant pleasure. Only in his thoughts would he compare their meeting to that of Rosalind and her Orlando, an instant magnetism drawing him to the other man. He wasn’t stupid enough to confess such a thing. Even if the traditions of this college, within this university, made it possible to remain an old bachelor surrounded by other old bachelors and have no one raise an eyebrow, there were still dangers. Public disgrace, prosecution. He would risk them both if he formed, again, an alliance with another man within the walls of St. Bride’s. For the moment he would have to savour the budding friendship with this strange young mathematician and hope against hope the attraction might prove to be mutual.
Anyone asking Coppersmith the same question, about why he’d suddenly found himself an acquaintance, wouldn’t have received any sort of an answer. Not just because he kept his feelings to himself, but because he couldn’t say at this point why he felt so differently about Stewart than he felt about all the other dons. About anyone else he’d ever met. He couldn’t tell why he should want to spend time with the man, when he’d been solitary all his life. The university part of his mind might have said it was the classic case of opposites attracting, the properties of poles of magnets or particles of different charge. The personal part wouldn’t have commented as it had no idea what was going on.
*****
“You didn’t take your degree here, Coppersmith. Which seat of learning did you grace with your incredible skills?”
“I was at Oxford, Stewart—Gabriel College.” Orlando settled into his usual seat in the Senior Common Room, more comfortable than he’d been at any point since he came to Cambridge. More comfortable than he’d been since he was a child. For the first time in his life, it seemed like he’d made a friend and the experience was all a bit startling.
“If I had known the university would stoop so low as to take someone from the other place, I would never have agreed to return.”
Stewart grinned—he seemed to spend half his life grinning, or smiling, or smirking, and that unsettled Orlando, too, although he couldn’t work out why just yet. He wondered whether there was some fixed amount of cheerfulness allowed in the universe, and if his companion’s excess compensated for his own apparent lack of it.
He’d become quietly accustomed to the happy presence in the adjacent chair, even though such a thing would have horrified him only four weeks ago. He’d never wanted to share his thoughts with anyone else—unless they were to do with numbers—and now he was gossiping away like one of the college cleaning ladies. He cast a furtive glance at his companion, who was struggling with a pair of nutcrackers and a wayward walnut.
Stewart’s unruly blond hair was all over the place, his blue eyes showed unusual depths of concentration and his tongue was poking out a bit, as it often did when he tackled a difficult task. Orlando had never appreciated that Stewart possessed a handsome face and the realisation was a great shock to him. He could define the most obscure bits of calculus, look at a problem and solve it almost instantly, but he’d never really understood what people meant when they mentioned beauty.
Not until now, when it was sitting right next to him.
“Got the little bugger in the end!” Stewart beamed in triumph, offering his friend half of his newly released treasure. No one had ever used the word bugger in the Senior Common Room before, no one was ever likely to again, but somehow the more colourful aspects of Stewart’s speech were tolerated in a way which would be unlikely with anyone else.
They often talked about sport—discovering that they’d each won a rugby blue but hadn’t managed to play against the other, being picked in different years. Orlando had been a wing three-quarter, naturally, given his wiry physique—lacking in grace but fast. He’d scored twice in the Varsity Match, despite finishing on the losing side.
“I suppose you were in the front row?” Orlando drew his conclusions from Stewart’s muscular frame.
“Excuse me! Do my ears look as if they have spent time in a scrum?”
They didn’t. Orlando thought they were rather shapely ears and that was a shock to him, too. To be sitting in the SCR of his college and musing about how attractive the man sitting next to him seemed was beyond his imaginings. Making a friend had been enough of a surprise—this sensation staggered him, whatever it signified.
“I was scrum half, and a very wily one was how The Times described me. Shame we lost that year, like you the next—your selectors seemed to have imported an entire troop of gorillas to play in your pack. One of them broke my finger.” Stewart held up the joint in question and smirked. “I broke his nose.” He began to laugh, his bright blue eyes crinkling up with the sheer joy of being alive and in the company of someone he liked.
Orlando began to laugh, too—for the first time in what seemed ages. When they stopped, out of breath and in disgrace with the rest of the fellows, he knew that their friendship had been cemented.
*****
Orlando was supposed to be marking papers from his students, work attempted when they’d been at home for the vac, having their stomachs stuffed with chestnuts and goose enough to addle their brains. But he was more interested in watching, through his window, the progress of a golden head across the court.
That’s my friend Dr. Stewart. He walks along the river with me and listens to all my latest theories, even if he doesn’t understand a word of them.
Back in November, Orlando had no one in his life he could ever call friend. Then, into his world of gown-black and stone-grey, half-tones and half a life, had come this vision of blue and gold, like a ray of spring sunshine against a cloudless sky.
My friend Dr. Stewart. We go to chapel together and he’s never bothered that I sing all the hymns and responses out of tune.
Orlando thought it strange, if other people were anything to go by, that he’d reached the age of twenty-eight without finding anybody he wanted to be close to. His life had been bound by the university, the college and mathematics, all of them important and serious. And now he’d found that most frivolous of things—someone to share his thoughts and ideas with—although in reality Stewart had come along and found him, stealing his chair in the process.
It made Orlando feel more alive than he’d ever felt and more than a little frightened. He’d not been able to get the man out of his head the ten days Stewart had spent celebrating Christmas and New Year with his family, and he was still there, butting into Orlando’s thoughts when he should be working. He wasn’t sure it was right to be so obsessed, but didn’t know what he could do about it. Even a nice bit of Euclid couldn’t obscure the memory of a pair of piercing blue eyes.
My friend Dr. Stewart. He comes along and says, “We’ve been invited to drinks, Dr. Coppersmith, so get your best bib and tucker ready.”
We. Suddenly Orlando had a social life, whether he wanted one or not, and it was as part of a pairing. Somehow all the things he’d always dreaded—making small talk, being sociable—had become possible, so long as he had his colleague with him to jolly him along. Unexpectedly, life had a distinctly more enjoyable flavour.
Orlando turned his attention back to the papers on his desk, only to find that he’d written My friend Dr. Stewart on the topmost one and now had to scratch it out furiously before anyone noticed.
*****
“Will you come and take a cup of coffee or a glass of port in my rooms, Stewart?”
It was evening and the Senior Common Room had been overrun by strangers. There were women visiting, patronesses of the college to be sure, but still female and therefore to be treated with caution by most of the fellows. Especially by Coppersmith, who, though he was now brave enough to talk to almost any woman, even one from Girton, was still unhappy in their company.
Jonty almost choked on his answer. He’d been waiting nearly two months for an invitation to his colleague’s set of rooms. All he’d managed so far was to poke his little nose around the door before being whisked away—and now it had come like a bolt out of the blue. The bright potential of 1906, a new year and a new term, seemed to have made Coppersmith bold.
“I think we’d better. Don’t look just now, but there are two skirted bottoms occupying our chairs.” Jonty sniggered.
Coppersmith looked horrified, as though he’d have to have the things fumigated before they could sit there again. “Come on, then, before we’re forced into conversation.” A sudden disconcerting thought must have occurred to him. “Unless you want to stay, of course?”
One of the ladies was quite young and Coppersmith had earlier asked Jonty whether she would be described as pretty. Perhaps, he had suggested, Stewart would like to talk to her, he always seemed to have no problem chatting with females and they always flocked around him.
Jonty took his time before answering. “No, I’d be more than content with a glass of some pleasant brew and a little peace and quiet.”
In Orlando’s set they found a whole bottle of a really good port—most welcome, as both of them had been extremely sober at table due to the unnerving presence of the petticoat brigade. Jonty settled into one of Coppersmith’s worn but comfortable armchairs and enjoyed the glow from the fire. While his friend poured the port, Jonty drank in his surroundings.
The room contained the usual Bride’s mix of the academic, the sporting and the personal—very little of the last compared to the first. It was what his mother would have described as “being part of a house, dear, not a home”, and it gave away very little about its owner. He found that disappointing, as his family had plied him with questions about the mysterious Dr. Coppersmith all over the Christmas break and he’d not been really able to answer them adequately.
“He’s my friend, Mama, and I enjoy his company very much,” had been as far as it had gone, even under his mother’s third degree. Although if he were being honest, Coppersmith meant a lot more to him than just being a colleague. Jonty’s opinion of his friend had gradually changed from pompous ass to treasured companion, and he realised he was beginning to harbour more than just platonic thoughts about the man.
Being in his rooms now, simply watching him wrestling with a Brazil nut and the crackers, was a true pleasure. The fire’s glow highlighted Coppersmith’s dark hair and a halo of light gave him the appearance of one of the more studious angels. Jonty felt his heart beating faster as he savoured the sight.
“Much nicer here than in with those women, eh, Dr. Stewart?”
“It is indeed, Dr. Coppersmith. Deal us a hand of whist and we’ll make an evening of it.” Jonty watched his friend poke around in a drawer for a deck, admiring the fact that even his rummaging was a neat and ordered process.
Coppersmith truly was both the strangest and loveliest of creatures.
*****
“Why don’t you call me ‘Jonty’? I think, Dr. Coppersmith, we’re friends enough now to lose some of the formality.” Stewart had just lost his third consecutive game of cards, the clock’s hands were nearing half past ten and the evening had been enjoyable for them both.
Orlando considered—it was as if he had to find the second differential of “Jonathan” before he could answer. “I think that I could call you Jonty here in my rooms, but I don’t think it would be appropriate anywhere else.” He was embarrassed enough about all the occasions he’d doodled My friend Dr. Stewart on things; it would be awful if he were caught writing My friend Jonty. “I suspect I’m far too set in my ways.”
“That would be absolutely fine—if I may call you Orlando, in return?”
It was the strangest thing, but Orlando felt decidedly peculiar when his friend said “Orlando”—the first time Stewart had ever used the name. The first time Jonty had used it.
This was turning out to be an evening of firsts. The first time he’d had another one of the fellows of St. Bride’s in his set other than on college business. The first use of his Christian name. The first time he’d had this peculiar fluttering in his stomach that he couldn’t put a cause to. “It would be an honour so to be addressed.”
Jonty—it would be Jonty and Orlando from now on, at least within these rooms—smiled in the face of such affectation, rather than breaking into his usual laughter. Orlando knew his own weaknesses better than anyone, and now Jonty was recognising them. It was true he became pompous when he felt some deep emotion and Jonty must have picked it up. Perhaps the man found this trait rather touching.
Whatever he was thinking, Jonty rose and moved to the mantelpiece, picking up a gilt-framed photograph, the only one in the room with no obvious university link. “May I, Orlando? Is this your mother and father?” Jonty was watching his face out of the corner of his eye and must have seen the discomfort there.
Orlando nodded. He didn’t really want to speak as he was sure his voice would tremble and he had no idea why that should be. It wasn’t just at the mention of his parents—every time he looked at Jonty, the fluttering got worse.
“It’s extraordinary how much you resemble your mother. Do you see very much of them?” Jonty held the picture at arm’s length and compared it to the man across the room.
There was a long pause. “They’re both dead—my mother didn’t survive to see me take my degree.” Orlando studied his hands, deliberately looking anywhere but at his friend, or the photograph.
Jonty’s voice shook with remorse. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I can’t imagine what life would be like without one’s parents in the background—it makes me sad to think that yours didn’t see the success you’ve made of yourself.”
Orlando looked blankly around his room to see if he could see any signs of the success to which his friend referred—there wasn’t any obvious evidence. “I have some more pictures of them,” he said after an awkward pause, “if you’d like to see them.”
“But of course I would.”
Jonty sat down again while Orlando rummaged in another drawer and produced a small photograph album. He brought it over, sitting on the floor next to Jonty’s feet and placing the book on his lap, accidentally brushing his hand against the man’s leg in the process. Just the barest touch, no more than a hairsbreadth of contact, but it had sparked like static between them.
Orlando froze, his heart racing at the effect the touch had made on him. This feeling was unlike anything he’d ever known before and he still couldn’t put a name or meaning to it. He gingerly placed his hand next to Jonty’s on the velvet cover of the album—their eyes met and held, dark staring into light, until they could look no more.
“Orlando,” Jonty whispered, raising his hand until it was almost touching the other man’s face. “I…”
There was a loud and persistent rapping at the door and Orlando became aware of three things. Firstly that his heart was pounding so strongly he wasn’t sure any ribcage could contain it. Secondly that Jonty was muttering, “Damn it. Damn it and blast it,” over and over. Thirdly that someone might just be trying to gain their attention.
He rose and stumbled to the door.
“Dr. Coppersmith, sir.” It was Summerbee, red-faced and out of breath from running up from the porters’ lodge. “It’s young Lord Morcar. I thought I would come straight to you, seeing as he is one of your pupils.”
“And what is it about Lord Morcar that can’t wait until morning?”
“He’s dead, sir. His friends found him not five minutes since—we’ve sent for the doctor, but I thought you should…” Summerbee tailed off, unsure of himself.
“Has the Master been informed?”
A frightened look on the porter’s face showed he was hoping the hard-nosed Dr. Coppersmith would take that particular burden from him.
He would not. “You must do it immediately. I’ll go to his lordship’s room—which is it?”
“The Old Court, J7, sir.” Summerbee touched his bowler and departed, no doubt full of dread at the prospect of knocking at the hallowed door of the Master’s lodge.
Orlando turned and saw Jonty watching him. He wondered whether his friend would be astounded at the command that he’d shown with the porter, how a shy, socially uncomfortable man had transformed into a figure of authority and action. Orlando had astounded himself, although he felt proud at his newfound courage. Even if he was disappointed at the interruption. “Will you come with me?”
Jonty didn’t hesitate. “Of course, if you want me to.”
“It’s not a matter of wanting. I’m going to need you there, I think.” All the flutterings in Orlando’s stomach had faded now, driven off by the thought of a dead man, but he still wanted Jonty beside him.
As they made their way over to the Old Court, they regretted their lack of prudence in terms of overcoats. The harsh East Anglian wind—straight from Siberia, the locals said—carried snow with it, and they felt chilled to the bones.
A crowd of undergraduates had gathered at the bottom of the staircase, being kept from the room itself only by the burly form of Lee, another of the porters. Orlando tried to make his way through them, but they took no notice of him; they were excited and afraid, and some of them were beginning to show signs of hysteria.
This time Jonty took control. He was popular among the undergraduates, being the most open and approachable of all the fellows at St. Bride’s. Although he was merciless in pulling apart any essay he felt was poorly written or ill-researched, he did it with such kindness and good humour that none of them took umbrage, and they all tried harder the next time.
“Gentlemen!” Jonty’s tones split the night and brought all the chattering to a halt. “Thank you. It does no one any good, you staying out here freezing to…” He was about to say “death” but thought better of it. “Freezing to the ground. I would suggest that unless you have something useful to say about this to either the doctor or the Master, you return to your own rooms.”
The gathering broke up, aided by the threat of Jove’s imminent arrival and the especial efforts of one young man who Jonty suspected had a bit of a crush on his English tutor and who was, no doubt, determined to see his idol obeyed.
Orlando was able to get up the stairs at last and into the room, leaving Jonty with Lee to await Dr. Peters. He was gone what felt an inordinate length of time, making Jonty bold enough to venture up. He found his friend standing rigidly over the half-dressed body of a lad of about twenty—a slim, angular young man, pale in life and milk white now. The room was freezing, the window being open wide. Jonty reached over to shut it.
“Don’t touch anything.” Orlando’s voice was as icy as the glittering windowpanes. “Look at this, Dr. Stewart.” He pointed to the young lad’s throat, ashen but mottled with ugly contusions. “I believe Lord Morcar has been strangled.”
Jonty shivered. It had certainly been a night full of revelations, and this had been perhaps one surprise too many.
Ten Days in August by Kate McMurray
A Rose By Any Other Name by Charlie Cochet
Chapter 1
Manhattan, New York, 1927
The Pantheon Cabaret at Club Parisian
“THERE’S SOMETHING wild about you, child, that’s so contagious. Let’s be outrageous. Let’s misbehave.”
Ten Days in August by Kate McMurray
CHAPTER 1
A small black dog with wild eyes ran up Broadway, snapping and snarling at passersby. As women shrieked and men hopped out of the way, a cry of "Mad dog!" echoed through the crowds out strolling, trying to find relief on a hot day.
The saloonkeepers and police officers from City Hall to Houston Street knew Jerry the dog; he would wag his tail and beg for scraps and get a head pat before jogging from one saloon to the next. Most considered him a harmless little tramp. But today, something was wrong. He ran for the open front door of a bank, alternately panting and growling. When the attendant tried to kick Jerry out of the way, Jerry bit his foot and ran inside. Someone said, "Look out, Mac! He may be mad!"
The panic inside the bank caught the attention of bulky Officer Giblin, who hauled out his gun and eyed the little dog. Jerry's gaze darted around the room as he slobbered all over the floor.
Officer Giblin brandished his gun, but didn't want to do anything rash. He poked at the dog with his nightstick, trying to ascertain if he really was mad. The dog snapped and lunged for the nightstick. That was all the evidence Giblin needed. He aimed his gun.
"Not in here!" one of the clerks shouted. "Think of the ladies present!"
Giblin nodded. "All right, you mangy rascal." He chased Jerry out of the bank. Once they reached the street, Giblin aimed his gun and fired. The little dog rolled over dead instantly. The crowd cheered.
Hank Brandt watched from a few feet away with some amusement as Officer Lewis ran across the street. He fired his own gun into the dog's head.
"Thank you, Lewis," said Hank, pulling off his hat and wiping the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief. "He was just as dead before you fired, but we appreciate your attention to detail."
Lewis thrust out his chest. "I just dispatched with a mad dog in my precinct."
"So you did." Hank wasn't completely convinced the little dog was mad so much as suffering from the effects of the day's extreme heat, even more relentless than it had been the day before. "Congratulations, Lewis. You killed a dead dog."
Lewis muttered an oath and walked away from Hank, so Hank decided to continue on his way to the precinct house.
"Extra, extra! Heat wave taking over the city!" crowed a newsboy, thrusting a paper at Hank.
"I'm living it, kid," Hank said. Still, he tossed a nickel at the newsie and took a paper. The unbearable heat dominated the headlines, although a story below the fold complained about Police Commissioner Roosevelt blustering about saloons being open on Sundays again and gave an update on the trial of a woman accused of chopping her husband into bits before dumping the remains in the East River. The World had no qualms about declaring her guilty.
Hank had some doubts, given that he'd worked the case. He still suspected her lover, a married man who delivered ice. Maybe the city had decided the ice was too valuable to spare him for trial.
Hank was sympathetic. Dear Lord, it was hot. The air around him was thick and rancid. Simply being outside was like walking around with eight blankets draped over his shoulders. The street smelled of rotting food and horse manure.
Ah, New York in the summer.
He arrived at the precinct house on East Fifth Street, where the whir of the overhead electric fans drowned out all other noise, and still the fans weren't doing much beyond blowing papers around. It smelled slightly better inside, but it wasn't any cooler.
"Brandt."
Hank wasn't even at his desk yet and already someone was trying to get his attention.
He sighed and turned his attention toward his colleague and sometime partner, Stephens, who stood there with his arms crossed.
"Would you like for Roosevelt to give you a lecture?" said Stephens, glaring at Hank's bare forearms.
Hank had forsaken a jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves in an attempt to escape the oppressive heat. Not that it worked. Stephens, of course, wore his full uniform. The collar of his coat was soaked with sweat. Hank wondered what Stephens hoped to achieve by suffocating under all that wool.
"It's amusing to me that Commissioner Roosevelt thinks any man could wear a coat in this weather. If he wants to discuss proper attire, he can do so when the weather cools off." Hank pulled his handkerchief out of his pockets and mopped his brow again.
Stephens balked, but recovered quickly and said, "We have a new investigation. That is, now that you've decided to grace us with your presence."
"It is too hot for sarcasm, Stephens. What is the case?"
Stephens puffed out his chest and made a show of pulling a wad of crumpled paper from his jacket pocket. He consulted his notes. "Murder at a resort on the Bowery."
Hank glanced back toward the front entrance to the precinct house. Taking on a case would mean investigating, which meant going back outside. The last thing Hank wanted to do was go outside. Not that the precinct house was cool and comfortable as such, but Hank reasoned if he sat very still, he might be all right. He turned back to Stephens. "Which resort?"
Stephens looked at his tattered papers. "Club Bulgaria."
Hank schooled his features. He wondered if Stephens knew of the reputation of this particular club. Not that Hank had ever been there. He'd merely been tempted.
"Any other information?" Hank asked.
"Not much. Officers who arrived at the scene first talked to the club owner briefly, but he didn't seem to know anything. The body is still there. A few of the staff from the club have been made to wait there for our arrival."
Hank could only imagine how putrid the body must smell in this heat. "Well," he said. "No sense standing around here dripping. Let's go."
Nicholas Sharp — stage name Paulina Clodhopper — stood outside Club Bulgaria in his street clothes, smoking the last of a cigarillo. It was doing nothing to calm his nerves. He tossed the butt of it toward the street and rearranged the red scarf draped around his neck. It was too hot for such frippery, but he had an image to maintain, and besides, the police were on their way. He wanted to look somewhat respectable. Really, though, Nicky would have much preferred a long soak in an ice bath while wearing nothing at all.
The sun blared down on the Bowery and it smelled like someone had died — which, Nicky acknowledged, had happened in truth — and it was nearly unbearable, but he couldn't stand inside any longer. Not with Edward laid out on the floor like ... well. Nicky didn't want to think of it.
A man in rolled-up shirtsleeves and an ugly brown waistcoat, his hands shoved in his pockets, walked down the street toward Nicky. The man beside him must have been boiling inside his crisp police uniform.
The man in uniform looked Nicky up and down with an expression of deep skepticism on his face. "Are you Mr. Juel?" His tone indicated his real question was, Are you even a real man?
Nicky bristled. "No, darling. He's inside."
The man in shirtsleeves said, "You work here?"
"Yes."
This man was really quite attractive, in a sweaty, disheveled way, although Nicky supposed there was no way around that in this weather. The man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and then pulled the dusty bowler hat off his head, revealing dark brown hair, cut short. He wiped his whole face from his damp forehead to his thick mustache before he dropped the hat back on his head. There seemed to be a strong body under the wrinkled clothing, but it was hard to tell. Still, this man intrigued Nicky. His companion in the uniform was blond and bearded and looked considerably more polished, but in a bland way. The disheveled man was far more interesting.
"I'll take you in to see Mr. Juel," Nicky said. "That is, if I could have your names."
"I'm Detective Stephens," said the uniformed man briskly.
"Hank Brandt," said the man in shirtsleeves.
"Acting Inspector Henry Brandt," Stephens said. "Honestly, Brandt, there are protocols."
Brandt grunted and waved his hand dismissively at Stephens. To Nicky, he said, "And you are?"
"Nicholas Sharp. Come with me." He led the police officers inside.
Julie waited in front of the door to the ballroom. He stepped forward and introduced himself, standing tall but fussing a bit more than necessary — "This is such a terrible tragedy, nothing like this has ever happened here before, I am still in such a state of shock!" — his voice growing increasingly shrill as he spoke. Nicky might have believed him if this had been the first act of violence perpetrated at Club Bulgaria.
"Can you tell us what transpired, Mr. Juel?" asked Detective Stephens, the picture of proper politeness, although it was Brandt who pulled a pad of paper and a pencil from his pocket.
"I did not know the fate of poor Edward until I arrived this morning."
Nicky glanced at Brandt to ascertain his reaction. Julie was lying just as sure as he had a receding hairline; he rarely left the club. Nicky knew for a fact Julie had been sleeping in his office at the back of the club for nearly a week, ever since his lover had thrown him out of their Greenwich Village apartment. Nicky didn't know for certain, but he also suspected poor Edward had been lying on the floor of the ballroom for some time before Julie had deigned to notice him.
"And where were you through all this, Mr. Sharp?" asked Brandt.
Nicky adjusted his scarf. "I went home just after midnight last night. I arrived back at the club about an hour ago, where Mr. Juel confronted me with the news that poor Edward had departed the earth."
Brandt nodded. "What exactly is your occupation here?"
"I entertain the guests."
Brandt pursed his lips. "You entertain them."
"I sing," said Nicky.
Brandt's eyebrows shot up. "Right. So. This Edward, is he a friend of yours?"
Nicky kept hoping Julie would intervene, but he stayed resolutely quiet. Nicky wasn't quite sure what the best answer to these questions would be or how much information he should give away willingly. He said, "He also entertained the guests. In a somewhat different capacity."
Brandt turned toward Stephens and said, "Would you go take a look at the ballroom? I'll follow along in a moment."
Stephens nodded and proceeded into the ballroom. Julie trailed after him.
Nicky shivered, alarmed now that he was alone with Mr. Brandt, who removed his hat and took a step closer to Nicky.
"Tell me honestly," said Brandt. "Edward was a working boy."
Nicky sucked in a breath. Brandt stood close enough for Nicky to smell him, a sour, earthy scent, the fragrance of someone who had spent too much time stewing in his own sweat on a hot day.
"Yes," Nicky whispered.
"And you are as well?"
"No. I only sing."
Brandt grunted. "I'm not here from the vice squad. I do not wish to toss anyone in jail unless they killed your friend Edward. Do you understand me?"
"Yes. And I am being honest. Edward was a working boy. I sing on stage a few times a week." Nicky pointed toward the ballroom. "That's all."
"You sing."
"Yes. And to answer your next question, last I saw Edward was last night. He was entertaining a guest. They went to the back. I do not know what happened after."
Brandt must have been astute enough to discern Nicky's meaning, because he jotted something down on his pad. "What did this guest look like?"
Nicky closed his eyes to try to picture him. "He had dark hair. He was quite tall. Thick mustache. A very fine suit of clothes, much nicer than the sort the guests here usually wear."
Brandt scribbled in his notes. He said, "Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?"
"Yes, I believe so."
"They went to the back and never returned?"
Nicky didn't quite know what to make of these questions. Clearly, Brandt was worldly enough to know how a club like this worked, so he must have known the back rooms behind the ballroom at Club Bulgaria were where men went to have sex with each other. Edward would have sidled up to a man like the one Nicky had seen him with last night and seen the money dancing before his eyes. He would have taken the man in back for a ... financial transaction. And then?
"I'll be honest and tell you I didn't think much about Edward hanging on the arm of some man from uptown. This fancy dressed man was slumming, which is hardly a novel occurrence. Usually the bourgeoisie come down here to gawk and feel superior, but occasionally one of the boys here does get his claws in one. It wasn't strange enough for me to take notice."
"Except for his clothes."
"Yes, well. I quite liked the cut of the man's jacket and spent a brief, wondrous moment imagining I could afford to purchase such a thing."
Brandt nodded. "In other words, Edward may just have emerged from the back room unscathed after entertaining this man, but if he did, you did not see it." He stepped toward the ballroom. "Come with me."
"Oh, no, darling. I couldn't possibly. I've spent far too much time with poor Edward today as it is."
"Fine. Stay here, then. Don't leave. I'm not done talking to you."
"Your wish is my command."
Brandt narrowed his eyes. He probably didn't appreciate Nicky acting flippant, but Nicky knew of no other way to manage such a situation.
Nicky watched Brandt walk into the ballroom. When the voices of the men inside rose, Nicky found a spare chair to sit in. There was nothing to do but wait.
For nearly a year, Police Commissioner Roosevelt had been trying to cure the city of vice. Standing in the middle of a tawdry ballroom, Hank could see his point. There was something particularly sad about this room. Hank glanced toward Stephens, who he knew thought cleaning up the city was a worthy goal, and maybe it was. Hank did not believe it was an achievable one. The city was too far gone, perhaps. And its residents liked their vices.
Hank imagined this ballroom had once been grand. There were the remnants of a forgotten era everywhere: sculptural touches carved into the ceiling and a series of murals painted on two of the walls. On the other hand, the murals were somewhat vulgar and depicted men in various states of undress lounging about in parks or, in the case of one of them, in the ruins of Ancient Rome. Hank supposed the murals were supposed to be titillating, but there was something strange about them. Hank was no art scholar, but these were not quite right, as if they were a parody of art and not art itself.
Artistry and architecture aside, though, the ballroom inside Club Bulgaria was worn and filthy. The wooden floor was stained and scratched, the stage curtains were threadbare, and the sculptures were chipped or broken.
Stephens stood frowning as he took in the room. They hadn't discussed it on the walk over to the club, but Stephens was no greenhorn. He had to have known to expect a dance hall or brothel at least — the residents of New York did not come to this neighborhood to see Shakespeare — but he might not have known that this was a fairy resort. This was precisely the sort of place that would send him into fits. If Stephens was trying to hide his revulsion, he failed badly.
Hank knelt and took a closer look at the body. There was something vulgar about the dead man, too, something that made him blend in with his sordid surroundings, and not just because he was dead. Hank recorded every visible detail in his notes. The dead man wore a stained shirt and black trousers. A smudge of some kind of grime stained his cheek. His hair was unruly. There was powder on his face and some sort of rouge on his cheeks, which kept the paleness of death at bay.
Not to mention, there was a knife wound in his chest.
Hank turned to Mr. Juel. "Mr. Sharp mentioned seeing this Edward go off with a wealthy-looking man. Did you happen to see this man?" Juel shook his head. "No, Inspector. I wish I had. Do you know what it will do to my business if word gets out this kind of violence could be perpetrated at my club? If that man is responsible for this, I want him caught! I want —"
"No need for theatrics," said Hank.
"No need? Why, just three weeks past, a man was killed outside Paresis, and what did the police do? Nothing. One more dead prostitute, eh? The working boys who walk along the Bowery at night are inverted and less than human, are they not? Why should the police bother to investigate?"
Chapter 1
Manhattan, New York, 1927
The Pantheon Cabaret at Club Parisian
“THERE’S SOMETHING wild about you, child, that’s so contagious. Let’s be outrageous. Let’s misbehave.”
Julius Knight was quite certain when Mr. Cole Porter came up with that wonderful little ditty he hadn’t expected everyone to take it so to heart. Yet here they all were.
The world had become one of scandalous debauchery and moral depravity, wrapped in the illusion of decadence and served on a silver platter with a glass of bootlegged liquor. As Mr. Porter so lyrically put it, they would all meet their fate, but until the time came, Julius was going to take each and every one of those saps for all they were worth.
“My darling, you look scrumptious!” Aphrodite boisterously swept into Julius’s dressing room with arms wide open. The sequins and beads of her red gown caught the many bright lights and assaulted his vision. With every sweep of her arm, wisps of her long red feather boa and red-dyed ostrich-feather fan made a break for it. Her black-haired bob was impeccable, her cupid-bow lips scarlet, and, secured between two fingers, her favorite gold cigarette holder gleamed while smoke danced seductively from its end.
Aphrodite was grand and outrageous. A mother figure and warden rolled into one. With a fluttering of exceedingly long—and false—eyelashes, she sashayed to Julius and cupped his face. Her near-black eyes shone bright with excitement.
“He has an audience with you tomorrow night, my angel.”
There was no need for Julius to wonder which “he” she was referring to. There was only one “he” who mattered to Aphrodite.
Ares.
It had been Aphrodite who had bestowed the name upon Julius’s most exclusive patron, because in their world, this man believed himself to be a deity in human form, and he was no less violent in war than the Greek god himself. Only this war was not fought with swords and warriors over matters of importance such as freedom and love. It was fought with submachine guns and hoodlums over illegal liquor and money. There was no racket Ares was not a part of.
Aphrodite tilted her head, and her expression darkened for no more than a slip of a moment before it returned to its previous splendor. It had been brief, but Julius had seen it as clear as day. His heart pounded in his chest, but his lips curled into a smile as he coyly shifted his gaze to hers—an act he’d perfected over the years and on more than one occasion had defused potentially explosive situations.
“I’ll make certain he’s well looked after,” he promised. She patted his cheek firmer than necessary, but his smile never wavered.
“That’s my lovely boy. I’m so proud of you. Look at you.” She took a step back, her eyes raking over him with approval. “You’ve come so far in these two short years, my god of love. Remember the state you were in when I found you?”
The familiar crushing sensation Julius felt every time she reminded him of that night spread through his body, bringing with it a constricted feeling to his chest and an ache to his heart. Why wouldn’t she allow him to forget?
He swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes. I remember.”
“Poor thing,” she tsked, her hand stroking his cheek. “But life is much better for you now, isn’t it? You have a family who takes care of you and everything you could possibly wish for, right here.”
She motioned around his all-white dressing room decorated in the neoclassical style, filled with nothing but the most beautiful and expensive items. Objects made of silver and ivory, along with more cologne and perfume than he could ever hope to wear in one lifetime, all in bottles made of dazzling crystal, littered the surface of his white dressing table. Inside his white wardrobe were suits tailor-made with only the finest of fabrics. His shirts, ties, and handkerchiefs were all made of silk, his shoes leather.
A white velvety-soft carpet covered the floor, while sheer white drapes hung from the ceiling against every wall, giving the illusion one was indeed inside a Greek temple, one befitting the Greek god Eros, whom Julius portrayed.
On one side of the room sat an extraordinary white hand-carved chaise lounge for two, littered with an abundance of matching silk pillows. Even the swanky new Radiola beside it had been painted white. On the other side of the room, concealed behind veils of white, sat his large white four-poster bed with matching silk bedding. Greek vases filled with fresh roses on column poseur tables, all in white, were scattered everywhere. It was the most exquisite farce Julius had ever seen. A temple created to peddle an innocence he’d never had, mixed with a passion he couldn’t feel beyond the fantasies his mind conjured up to pull off such a ruse.
“You’re happy here, aren’t you?”
Aphrodite’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and again Julius nodded, unable to find the words to accompany the gesture. After all, it wasn’t as though he wasn’t grateful for what he had. Only a fool would take such luxury for granted. His friends entered the room, their smiles bringing warmth to his bones. He used the opportunity to turn away from Aphrodite’s penetrating stare.
“Ready?” Terry asked, his boyish grin reaching his kind gray eyes.
Mindful of his black-feathered wings, Terry headed toward him wearing an ensemble not at all dissimilar to Julius’s, except the vibrant ruby cloth wrapped around Terry’s hips was somewhat more modest than his own. It was also nearly as bright as Terry’s fiery red hair. The black straps of his sandals crisscrossed to above his ankles, and his rouged lips drew attention to his charming freckles.
“Of course. I need help with my wings,” Julius replied cheerfully. He refused to dwell on feelings brought about by old memories that no longer warranted his attention. Despair would do nothing for his complexion but bring about early wrinkles, and who would want him then? He was hardly naïve enough to believe these dizzy times would endure, and if they did, his beauty and youth would not. For now, he would make the most of the attention and adulation he received from his audience, an audience that came from all over to bow down before him and shower him with gifts.
His eyes met Lawry’s, and Julius found himself looking away. Although his friend’s dark eyes were as penetrating as Aphrodite’s, they expressed much gentleness and concern. Lawry had always taken such good care of him, and it made Julius feel terribly guilty when he tried to hide from him. Lawry was the tallest of their trio, his body tan, muscular, yet lean. He was handsome, confident, and possessed an elegance that demanded attention. Julius had always admired him for his boldness.
Lawry’s red-feathered wings ruffled softly as he made his way across the room. The black cloth around his hips matched his sleek black hair, as did the sandals on his feet. Lawry stopped before Julius, addressing Aphrodite, who watched them like a hawk.
“We’ll finish helping Eros,” Lawry said, his tone matter-of-fact, his manner one Aphrodite respected, as long as it didn’t contradict her.
“You look divine, darlings. See you on stage.” With that, she left, closing the door behind her.
Terry darted to the door to make certain she was gone before returning. He nodded to Lawry, who placed his fingers under Julius’s chin.
“Julius, what is it?”
“Nothing.” Julius gave him a bright smile and moved his face away to motion toward the large white-feathered wings sitting on the white silk bust. “We should shake a leg.”
Lawry sighed and put his hand on Julius’s shoulder. “She brought it up again, didn’t she?”
Julius fought to maintain his smile, though he doubted he could stop the sorrow from reflecting in his eyes. Luckily no one knew him well enough to know the difference, aside from his dear friends, of course. “When doesn’t she? I’m fine. Truly.”
Before Lawry could object, a familiar knock brought the hairs on the back of Julius’s neck to stand on end.
Swell.
“Are you decent?” a husky male voice asked, followed by a throaty chuckle. “So to speak.”
Julius closed his eyes and pursed his lips. His hand itched to form a fist and plant one right across the smug bastard’s jaw. Instead, he donned his most seductive smile.
“Ares, what a pleasant surprise.” He planted both hands on his dressing table at his sides, and leaned back seductively, his eyes raking over the larger man in the brown pinstriped three-piece suit with a red carnation in his lapel. “Looking dapper, as always.”
Ares ran a hand through his dark slicked-back hair—the side without the streak of silver—and nodded a greeting to Lawry and Terry as he prowled toward Julius. Ares loomed over him, his wide stance meant to remind Julius how much taller, wider, and more masculine he was. He rubbed his scarred jaw as his unsettling dark eyes ogled Julius.
“And you look fuckable, as always.”
How charming. Julius tilted his head, looking up at Ares from under his lashes, his foot running up the inside of Ares’s leg. “You certainly know how to get a fella all hot under the collar, don’t you?” Ares moved in to kiss Julius, who held a hand up to stop him, his smile playful. “Careful, handsome. I’m covered in fairy dust.”
Ares let out a bark of laughter and grabbed Julius’s chin, giving it a not so gentle squeeze. “You are something else, baby. I got you something.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and drew out a long red-velvet box. Holding it out in front of Julius, he opened it.
“Oh my God.” Julius’s fingers tentatively reached out to touch the stunning gold arrow lying snugly in its bed of thick scarlet velvet. It was roughly a foot long from the tip of the golden arrowhead to the end of its glittering gold feathers. He didn’t know how to describe it, but despite its beauty it gave Julius an unpleasant twist in his stomach. “It’s….”
“Pure gold, dollface. Nothing but the best for my baby.”
Julius swallowed hard as Ares closed the box and put it in Julius’s hand before leaning in to give his neck a kiss. “I see I’ve left you speechless. You can thank me tomorrow night.” He brushed his fingers down Julius’s torso and around to his backside before giving it a fierce squeeze. “I’ll make sure Aphrodite gives you the next day off. You’ll need it to recover.”
With a chuckle, he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him, the finality causing Julius to flinch. He didn’t know how much time he had spent standing there, staring at the closed door, when Terry caught his attention.
“Julius, can you hear me?”
Snapping out of it, Julius faced his friends, doing what he’d taught himself to do from the first day Ares had taken him to bed. He held his head high and shielded his heart. “Yes. I’m fine. Surprised, is all.”
“That’s the fifth time this month. His visits are becoming far more frequent.”
Julius frowned at his friend. “Thank you, Terry. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t noticed.” He opened the box in his hand and stared at the gleaming arrow. “How much do you think I can get for it?”
“If you trade it in, he’ll notice. It’s not like the cigarette cases or the lighters. He’s given you so many of those he probably can’t tell one from the other, but that….” Terry walked up to him and leaned in to have a look, giving a low whistle. “He’ll definitely notice if it’s missing.”
Julius snapped the box shut and placed it on his dressing table. “I’m hardly about to trade it in today.” He nodded toward the bust. “Are you going to help me with these? I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
“Fine.”
With a grumble, Terry took one side of the golden harness, while Lawry lifted the other. They helped Julius into the straps, the weight of the wings something he’d long ago become accustomed to. Like so many other things.
“Well, if it ain’t the belle of the ball.”
They turned toward the familiar voice, and Julius stifled a groan. Applesauce. Because a visit from Ares wasn’t quite complete without Anteros showing up. The scheming little stool pigeon.
“Anteros,” Julius greeted, doing his best to maintain a somewhat pleasant smile. “Having a good evening?”
Anteros pushed away from the doorframe he was leaning against and entered the room, stopping when Lawry and Terry blocked his path. To this day, Julius found it unnerving being around Anteros. It was like looking into a warped mirror, one where the man reflected back at him had no morals, heart, or soul. Anteros’s animosity toward him shone in his icy blue eyes.
“Such loyal guard dogs you have, Eros.”
“Better a guard dog than a lapdog,” Terry replied through his teeth. “Say, what happened to your guard dogs? Oh, that’s right. You don’t have any, because men are no longer lining up to see you, are they? Enjoying our castoffs?”
“You little bitch!” Anteros launched himself at Terry only to have Lawry step between them and push them apart.
“Enough,” Lawry demanded, and Anteros stepped back, pinning Julius with a glare. His lips curled up into a sneer.
“Have fun with Ares tomorrow night. Who knows, maybe this time he won’t leave any bruises.”
With his departure, Anteros left a heavy silence behind.
Lawry turned to Terry with a sigh. “Must you antagonize him so?”
“He started it. I’m so sick of him always sniffing around Julius, looking for ways to take a poke at him.” Terry stepped up to Julius, his expression softening. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” Julius hugged Terry close, knowing his friend only had the best of intentions, even if at times he did speak without thinking. “Please be careful. I’d hate for him to get you into trouble.”
Terry returned his embrace. “I’ll try harder.”
“Good.” Julius smiled and pulled away to turn back to his mirror. There was no point in dwelling on tonight’s unpleasant visits. It wouldn’t change a thing. “Besides, you’d be upset too if one day Aphrodite walked in with some young new strumpet who resembled you and declared him your replacement. Imagine how Anteros felt.”
Terry shook his head. “You really must stop making excuses for him, Julius. It was Aphrodite’s decision, not yours. Anteros has no right to take out his frustrations on you. This is show business. Nothing is definite. Anteros is an attractive fellow, and although he might be too old to be the lead act, he’s hardly old. If he weren’t so bitter, he’d be far better off than he is now.”
Julius nodded and closed his eyes. He needed to clear his mind. In the distance, he could hear the brass and woodwind instruments of the jazz band playing a fast and loose tune, which meant the chorus boys were out on the floor in their skimpy cupid costumes getting the audience worked up while they waited for the erotes to descend from the heavens.
“I’m ready.”
Once outside Julius’s dressing room, Lawry and Terry walked side by side ahead of him as they always did. Crew members, performers, waiters, cigarette boys, and musicians alike cleared the way for them. Without Julius, the Pantheon wouldn’t be nearly as successful as it was, and no one knew that better than Aphrodite, who stood backstage waiting for them. Julius stopped before her as he always did, and she gently placed a kiss on his cheek.
“Time to steal their hearts, my angel.”
He gave her a nod, though stealing would hardly be necessary. By the time Julius was done with them, they would be begging him to take everything they offered. He climbed the steps to the stage after his friends with his head held high and his shoulders squared. Those men out there were waiting to shower him with adoration and, more importantly, lots of dough. A fantasy is what they came for; a fantasy is what he would offer. No matter who he faced in the club, he always had the upper hand. He was Eros, and they would all bow before him.
Poor mere mortals.
Sweetwater by Lisa Henry
CHAPTER 1
1870, South Pass City, Wyoming Territory
A spray of blood hit his face like hot rain, and Elijah Carter clamped his mouth shut.
"Hold him! Hold him!" The rough, angry shout cut right through the bellow of the distressed beast, and through Elijah's partial deafness.
The rope had slipped when Dawson made the first cut, and the yearling was trying to buck them off now. Elijah and Lovell had it pushed against the fence post and were attempting to hold it there, Lovell against its hindquarters and Elijah shoulder to shoulder with the beast. He didn't know which of them had the worst end of it. He wasn't sorry to be out of the way of those back legs, but if the swinging thick skull of the panicked animal collided with his, he'd be in real trouble. Elijah pushed his forehead against its neck. Closer was safer, if they could hold it.
Dawson was drunk, probably. His hands shook too much, and they were weak nowadays. He'd been a good butcher once, back when Elijah first started working with him, scrubbing the floors and the counters in the shop and doing the deliveries. Then Dawson's drinking had picked up, and now he couldn't even slaughter a yearling without fucking it up. The blow he'd delivered hadn't stunned the beast at all, only terrified it.
Elijah's cheek scraped against the yearling's coarse coat. He smelled blood and dust.
The yearling pitched forward, and Elijah's grip slipped.
"I said hold him, you simple deaf cunt!" Dawson grunted.
He didn't need to see the shape of Dawson's mouth in the lamplight to make out the words. He'd heard the insult often enough.
Hot blood washed over Elijah's fingers. He dug his boots in the dirt, fighting against the struggling animal. It bellowed—a long, high-pitched sound that vibrated against Elijah's face, his hands. It moved through him and jarred his bones.
He closed his eyes as Dawson's knife passed close in front of his face. He hoped Dawson wasn't drunk enough to take his fingers with the next cut. He also hoped the lamp hanging off the fence gave enough light for Dawson to finish the task quickly for the yearling's sake.
Working in the dark was dangerous, but it had to be done. The cattle were mavericks, brought down from the hills into South Pass City when honest men were sleeping. They had to be slaughtered and butchered under the cover of the night, and served up on dinner plates all over town before the deputy came asking questions.
Elijah hadn't seen the faces of the men who'd herded them into town. There had been four of them maybe, all wearing their hats pulled low. In the darkness, they could have been anyone. Elijah hadn't stared; it was safer that way. He'd stayed out of the way while Dawson had done business with the men, then Lovell had come to fetch him. And here they were.
The yearling bellowed again.
Blood again. A flood of it this time, as free-flowing and hot as freshly poured bathwater. It turned Elijah's stomach, and he fought the instinct to pull away.
The animal sank to its knees, and Elijah went forward with it. He could hear its heartbeat echoing inside his skull, in panicked counterpoint to his own. It beat slower, and slower still.
Elijah was slick with blood. He shifted back, his body aching. He kept one bloodied hand on the neck of the yearling, his fingers splayed. It was too weak to struggle now. Its ears flicked back and forth, and its eyes rolled.
The yearling's breath came in short pants. So did Elijah's. Kneeling together in the dirt, they waited. Blood, black in the night, pooled around them.
Dawson laughed, lifting his arm to wipe his sweaty forehead on his sleeve. The blade of the knife made an arc in the scant lamplight, held tight in Dawson's yellow, swollen hand. His skin was like that these days, and his gut was bloated too. Elijah had read enough of Dr. Carter's medical books to recognize it as cirrhosis. Dawson was an asshole, and with every day, every drink, he moved closer to death. Elijah had more sympathy for the beast than the butcher.
The yearling sighed, stilled.
Lovell dropped a hand on Elijah's shoulder. "We're done."
Lovell never treated him like a fool. Never pulled his mouth into exaggerated shapes to mock the way Elijah spoke. Never laughed at him or slapped him in the head for being slow to understand.
Elijah rose to his feet, bracing himself against the dead yearling. The beast felt more unyielding now than when it had been struggling against them. Dead things always did. The difference between alive and dead was both infinitesimal and immense: the tiny space of a single heartbeat was as wide as an abyss.
He spat and wiped his hands on his bloody apron, for all the difference that it made.
Dawson laughed again, a short, sharp sound that was more like a bark.
Lovell turned his grizzled face to Elijah—the crooked nose, the wrinkled face, the graying beard, the skin made brown and coarse by the sun. Lovell formed his words slowly and clearly. He always did when he spoke to Elijah. Not many people bothered. "Get home before your pa misses you. You hear me?"
Elijah nodded. "Yes, sir."
He bent down to clamber through the rails of the pen. Near the back door of the shop, he fished in the bottom of the tub of water for the block of lye soap. He made a face as he broke the oily scum on the water's surface, then rubbed up a lather over his arms. He cupped his hands in the water and splashed it over his face. Water dripped off his nose and lips and back into the tub. Ripples radiated across the dark surface.
He peeled off his apron. It was wet through with blood. It wasn't the leather apron of a butcher but the calico one of a shop boy who should have been scrubbing the floors with lye and cleaning the windows with vinegar and newspaper, not climbing into the pen to slaughter yearlings. Except tonight, when they had to work fast.
He lifted the lantern down from the hook. His hands were red with rope burn. And hell, he'd be sore in the morning. He wasn't used to working with the cattle, and they panicked at the smell of blood. All that instinctual fear translated into pure force, and Elijah felt sorry for every beast he'd hauled toward its death.
Dawson said he was nothing but a weak deaf cunt with no stomach for blood, but it wasn't about the blood. Hell, Elijah was no stranger to blood. He was a doctor's adopted son, after all, and had seen just as much tissue and muscle stripped bare on the table in Dr. Carter's cabin than he had in Dawson's butcher shop. It seemed strange to him that folk were expected to offer comfort to one frightened soul crossing the abyss and not another. A man's eyes rolled in his head the same as a yearling's.
He slipped into the shop, balling his apron up in his hands.
He was tired and wondered if Dr. Carter had noticed his absence. Maybe, if he'd been called out himself. Otherwise, Elijah might be able to slip back inside the cabin while he slept. He wasn't a child—by best reckoning he was twenty—but Dr. Carter worried for him because of his deafness. He worried, and he lectured.
There were things Elijah shouldn't do.
He shouldn't stare.
He shouldn't mumble.
He shouldn't shout.
He shouldn't walk around with his head in the clouds.
He shouldn't go into the saloons or cardrooms.
And he shouldn't worry if he woke up in the night and Dr. Carter wasn't there.
Dr. Carter never said anything about Elijah not being there when he woke up though. He probably never thought it would happen. Probably thought he'd raised Elijah better. Dr. Carter was so worried that Elijah might get entangled in the immoral—saloons, card houses, alcohol, and loose women—that he must have thought a warning lecture about the illegal was unnecessary. Elijah didn't know if he should be proud or ashamed of the way his adoptive father had underestimated him.
Ashamed, he guessed.
He rolled his aching shoulders. He just wanted to get home, get properly cleaned up, and get into bed.
A touch on his shoulder: "Elijah."
He jumped and spun around. His heart hammered, and he hated that. Hated to feel startled, and stupid.
Lovell sighed and held up an envelope. "Dawson wants you to take this to the Empire on your way home."
Elijah took the envelope. Money, probably. "The Empire?"
"Straight to Mr. Crane. Understand?"
Elijah bit his lip and nodded. "Yes, sir. Straight to Mr. Crane."
He wondered if Dawson was paying his gambling debts or if it was something else. Someone must have negotiated between Dawson and the cowboys who'd brought the yearlings down from the Wind River Range. A man like Harlan Crane was in a good position to do that, so maybe that explained it.
Lovell patted him on the shoulder. "Good night, Elijah."
Elijah tucked the thick envelope into his pocket. "Good night."
He slipped out into the darkness.
* * *
The Empire had sprung up with the boom. The first month, it was a large tent on the western end of South Pass City. The month after that it was a square flat-roofed cabin like most of the other buildings in town. From then, it had grown outward like a paper wasp's nest. Now it was two levels high, with a large veranda, and stretched all the way to the street behind. It was always busy at night, always full of men and light and music. Shouting and screaming, a cacophony that was impossible for Elijah to comprehend. He couldn't tell the difference between revelry and violence, and in a place like the Empire it could turn in a heartbeat.
There were fights in the saloons most nights; grievances that began out in the dirt and the rocks of the diggings and were aggravated back in town by liquor and bravado. There were always miners who needed stitching up. Only last week, one of the women from the Empire—one of the whores—had been cut in the face with a razor. Dr. Carter had been sent for, and he'd said later that the man who'd cut the whore had already been dealt with when he'd arrived.
No more was said about the incident, at least not in Elijah's presence. It could have been shouted from the rooftops for all he knew, but he mostly needed to follow a man's lips to know what was being said around him. He hadn't seen anyone get dragged off to the jail, but he suspected the man had never left the Empire. That was the reputation the place had.
The street around the saloon stank of liquor and piss.
There was always a man working the door of the Empire. Always, from what Elijah could tell, the same man. He was big, bearded, and wore a stained shirt. There was a woman with him tonight, wearing her hair loose and her skirts hitched up. Her drawers were showing. Elijah's face burned just from thinking about how she fucked men for money. He wondered how many men she'd known. He wondered if she liked it.
His heart beat faster as he stepped up onto the porch. He was conscious of his bloodstained shirt, of his shaking hands, and of what Dr. Carter euphemistically called his affliction. Men like this one didn't know the difference between deafness and idiocy. Elijah fucking knew it, just by looking.
"Whatcha want, kid?"
Elijah had to watch the man's mouth carefully. His lips were obscured by his beard, making them difficult to read. "I have something for Mr. Crane, from Mr. Dawson."
The man just stared.
God. Had he mumbled? Sometimes he didn't know. His face burned as he tried again. "I have something for Mr. Crane, from Mr. Dawson. The butcher."
The hairy man held his hand out.
He looked at those blunt, scarred fingers, and then back to the man's face. "I'm to give it directly to Mr. Crane." He flinched as the man bristled. "Sir."
The whore laughed at that. She threw her head back. Her throat undulated.
The hairy man narrowed his eyes. "You're the butcher's boy."
"Yes, sir."
"I know you." The man's beard split in a gap-toothed grin. "You're Doc Carter's son. The deaf kid." He clapped his hands over his ears and laughed.
Elijah balled his fingers into fists. "Yes, sir."
Fucking asshole.
"Gorn," the man said, nodding toward the door.
Gorn. It took Elijah a moment to dredge the words out of the drawl. Gorn. Go on.
Trying to swallow down his misgivings, he went inside.
* * *
The light hit Elijah first—lanterns hanging from the ceiling, their glass panes gleaming—and then the noise. A sudden wall of it. Voices, laughter, music—all at once, all too loud, and impossible for Elijah to pick the threads apart into something he could recognize. This noise wasn't cohesive. It didn't flow together. It competed, and it made him nervous.
There were too many people, too much happening, and Elijah fought the urge to turn and walk out.
The Empire was probably no better or worse than any other saloon in town. A long bar, the shelves behind it stacked with bottles. A piano. Tables and chairs. Sawdust on the floor. It smelled of whiskey, cigar smoke, and stale sweat.
And people. The Empire was full of people. Miners, mostly. Some townsmen. Whores. And, sitting together at a corner table, four men that might have been ranchers. Might have been anyone, but something about them seemed familiar—their number, their bearing—and Elijah wondered if they were the same cowboys who had delivered the mavericks to Dawson. As Elijah walked toward the bar, the men turned their heads to watch him.
One face stood out more than the rest: a square, stubbled jaw, sun-bleached hair, and eyes the color of the sky after a storm. Those eyes narrowed as the man looked at him.
Elijah dropped his gaze quickly.
God. It was a mistake coming in here.
Soft fingers curled around his wrist, and Elijah started.
"Come with me," the whore from the front porch said. She looked older close-up. "I'll take you to Mr. Crane."
She smelled of perfume and cigar smoke.
He let himself be led through the barroom, toward the stairs. Some men watched him, some didn't. Someone shouted something that Elijah didn't catch—the man turned his face away as Elijah watched—but it was followed by openmouthed laughter from the men sitting around him.
The whore laughed as well. Her painted lips made a moue. She tossed her hair over her shoulder. "Special delivery for Mr. Crane!"
More laughter, and Elijah's face burned.
The stairs creaked as he followed the whore; he felt the movement underfoot.
Most of the doors upstairs were closed. One was open. He glanced in as they passed. He saw rumpled blankets and a woman sleeping with her nightdress rucked up to her dimpled thighs. She lay on her back with one arm flung over her head. She was snoring. Elijah looked away.
The whore drew him on to the end of the hallway and knocked on the door. "Harlan!"
The door opened and there he was.
Harlan Crane. The owner of the Empire, two different cardrooms, and part stakes in a good number of claims around South Pass City. He was a rich man, and maybe a dangerous man. The things that were said about Harlan Crane should have scared Elijah, but they didn't. Not enough to look away.
Crane was in his forties. He wore a beard and mustache, the usually clean edges blunted with late-night stubble. His face had begun to weather. He had fine lines across his forehead and crinkles at the corners of his dark, clever eyes. A few pockmarks pitted one cheek, and Elijah had found his gaze drawn there. The tiny imperfections made Crane seem more handsome.
"Well now," Crane said, buttoning up his waistcoat. He slid his hand across the front of his trousers, and Elijah was mortified to discover his gaze following it. He barely looked up in time to catch what Crane said next. "Good evening, young Elijah."
The fact that Harlan Crane knew his name, and the way that his narrow mouth curled as he said it, made his stomach clench. He dropped his gaze and watched Crane's dexterous fingers manipulate the buttons of his waistcoat.
Good evening, young Elijah. Everyday words. Banal pleasantries backed by a smile so fucking knowing that it turned Elijah's word upside down. All of Elijah's worst, most sinful thoughts laid bare in a heartbeat. Laid bare in that smile. But thoughts weren't deeds. Weren't.
Could be.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Crane stepped back, holding the door open.
Elijah hesitated, and the whore pushed him gently inside.
Crane closed the door behind him.
It was a large room. A bed, a writing desk, a tallboy with one door partly open. A mirror tacked to the wall above a sideboard. A washstand, with a folded razor sitting beside a jug and basin. A leather strop hanging from a hook beside the mirror.
French doors opened out onto a balcony that overlooked the street. The doors were latched open. The curtains shifted in the breeze, and Elijah wondered what South Pass City looked like from Harlan Crane's balcony—as the king of the castle—but he didn't want to look, too afraid to be seen.
Whistling in the Dark by Tamara Allen
Jack's expression of surprise lasted only an instant before a wicked leer took its place. As he sauntered over, Sutton's heart seemed to quicken to 2/2 time. He didn't know if Jack felt the same attraction, the one coursing with sudden heat through his blood. He wanted to think so—but Jack seemed to play to the crowd as he dropped onto Sutton’s lap and, draping both arms around his shoulders, drew closer for a kiss. Jack's breath warm in his face reminded him to breathe and he did so, audibly. But at the last second, Jack brushed his forehead with a brotherly buss and everyone exclaimed in good-natured protest.
Jack was unrepentant. "That's how they kiss in Kansas," he said and turned laughing eyes back to Sutton. "Tell 'em, Mabel."
Deciding to correct that misapprehension, Sutton took him by the lapels and kissed him. He could feel Jack's initial shock in the lack of response. Then Jack kissed back, sparking something neither of them could blame on the champagne. His momentum dropped them backward to the pillows, Jack still kissing him as if he never wanted to stop, and Sutton didn’t mind in the least if it went on forever. He ignored the whoops and whistles from their audience and Jack did too, until Theo stuck his nose in. "Would you gentlemen care for the key to my apartment?"
Jack broke from the kiss, meeting Sutton's gaze for barely an instant before turning to smirk at Theo. "Satisfied?"
Theo looked only more amused. "Just what I was about to ask you."
Disentangling themselves, they sat up and Jack made a show of straightening Sutton's coat and tie before rising to swagger back to his spot.
Sutton avoided all the laughing faces and wondered if he'd gone too far. No one else seemed to think so or care, so he tried not to care, either. But he couldn't bring himself to look Jack’s way until the game had broken up and the others had returned to dancing. By then, Jack had vanished in the crowd and before Sutton could look for him, Theo pounced to ask without pretense this time if he would play the piano again.
It was after midnight when Sutton wandered to the edge of the roof for a little fresh air and a sumptuous view. A welcome breeze blew in his face along the shadowed walk behind the palms. He found Jack leaning on the parapet, his features in unusually quiet repose as he took in the view. Unbidden came the thought that Jack was terribly handsome and rather dear, besides.
Jack looked around at his approach and smiled easily. "You ready to go home?"
"No, I just wanted to—well, I hope I didn't embarrass you earlier. In the game," he added, at Jack's puzzled look.
"Oh, that?" Jack laughed. "Nothing to worry about. Unless Topeka law says we're engaged."
"Not even promised. In our case, anyway." He felt foolish. The kiss had been part of a silly game. He shouldn't have brought it up.
"Champagne?" Jack picked up the bottle on the ledge and filled his empty glass.
"No, thank you. I think I'm done with that or I'll be sick."
Jack downed the glassful. "You've been to fancier parties than this. Your folks must throw some real hummers."
"Yes, just—decidedly different." He shuddered to imagine what his parents would think of the goings-on at Theo's.
"No kissing? Or dancing?"
"Dancing, of course. But of the proper sort."
Jack rolled his eyes. "A party's no place to be proper. Your folks don't know you dance with boys?"
"I never have," Sutton said, then realized Jack meant more than dancing.
"You always blush that easily?" Jack grabbed his hands and whirled him around in an unsteady circle.
"Jack, for heaven’s sake." But he couldn't keep from laughing.
"You can't fox-trot worth a damn, Mabel."
"Is that what you're trying to do?"
"Smug bastard." Jack grinned and pushed him. "You don't even know how to get good and drunk. I think you met me just in time."
Jack's expression of surprise lasted only an instant before a wicked leer took its place. As he sauntered over, Sutton's heart seemed to quicken to 2/2 time. He didn't know if Jack felt the same attraction, the one coursing with sudden heat through his blood. He wanted to think so—but Jack seemed to play to the crowd as he dropped onto Sutton’s lap and, draping both arms around his shoulders, drew closer for a kiss. Jack's breath warm in his face reminded him to breathe and he did so, audibly. But at the last second, Jack brushed his forehead with a brotherly buss and everyone exclaimed in good-natured protest.
Jack was unrepentant. "That's how they kiss in Kansas," he said and turned laughing eyes back to Sutton. "Tell 'em, Mabel."
Deciding to correct that misapprehension, Sutton took him by the lapels and kissed him. He could feel Jack's initial shock in the lack of response. Then Jack kissed back, sparking something neither of them could blame on the champagne. His momentum dropped them backward to the pillows, Jack still kissing him as if he never wanted to stop, and Sutton didn’t mind in the least if it went on forever. He ignored the whoops and whistles from their audience and Jack did too, until Theo stuck his nose in. "Would you gentlemen care for the key to my apartment?"
Jack broke from the kiss, meeting Sutton's gaze for barely an instant before turning to smirk at Theo. "Satisfied?"
Theo looked only more amused. "Just what I was about to ask you."
Disentangling themselves, they sat up and Jack made a show of straightening Sutton's coat and tie before rising to swagger back to his spot.
Sutton avoided all the laughing faces and wondered if he'd gone too far. No one else seemed to think so or care, so he tried not to care, either. But he couldn't bring himself to look Jack’s way until the game had broken up and the others had returned to dancing. By then, Jack had vanished in the crowd and before Sutton could look for him, Theo pounced to ask without pretense this time if he would play the piano again.
It was after midnight when Sutton wandered to the edge of the roof for a little fresh air and a sumptuous view. A welcome breeze blew in his face along the shadowed walk behind the palms. He found Jack leaning on the parapet, his features in unusually quiet repose as he took in the view. Unbidden came the thought that Jack was terribly handsome and rather dear, besides.
Jack looked around at his approach and smiled easily. "You ready to go home?"
"No, I just wanted to—well, I hope I didn't embarrass you earlier. In the game," he added, at Jack's puzzled look.
"Oh, that?" Jack laughed. "Nothing to worry about. Unless Topeka law says we're engaged."
"Not even promised. In our case, anyway." He felt foolish. The kiss had been part of a silly game. He shouldn't have brought it up.
"Champagne?" Jack picked up the bottle on the ledge and filled his empty glass.
"No, thank you. I think I'm done with that or I'll be sick."
Jack downed the glassful. "You've been to fancier parties than this. Your folks must throw some real hummers."
"Yes, just—decidedly different." He shuddered to imagine what his parents would think of the goings-on at Theo's.
"No kissing? Or dancing?"
"Dancing, of course. But of the proper sort."
Jack rolled his eyes. "A party's no place to be proper. Your folks don't know you dance with boys?"
"I never have," Sutton said, then realized Jack meant more than dancing.
"You always blush that easily?" Jack grabbed his hands and whirled him around in an unsteady circle.
"Jack, for heaven’s sake." But he couldn't keep from laughing.
"You can't fox-trot worth a damn, Mabel."
"Is that what you're trying to do?"
"Smug bastard." Jack grinned and pushed him. "You don't even know how to get good and drunk. I think you met me just in time."
Charlie Cochrane
As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.
Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.
Kate McMurrayKate McMurray is a nonfiction editor. Also, she is crafty (mostly knitting and sewing, but she also wields power tools), she plays the violin, and she dabbles in various other pursuits. She’s maybe a tiny bit obsessed with baseball. She lives in Brooklyn, NY, with a presumptuous cat.
Charlie Cochet is an author by day and artist by night. Always quick to succumb to the whispers of her wayward muse, no star is out of reach when following her passion. From adventurous agents and sexy shifters, to society gentlemen and hardboiled detectives, there’s bound to be plenty of mischief for her heroes to find themselves in, and plenty of romance, too!
Currently residing in Central Florida, Charlie is at the beck and call of a rascally Doxiepoo bent on world domination. When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found reading, drawing, or watching movies. She runs on coffee, thrives on music, and loves to hear from readers.
Lisa likes to tell stories, mostly with hot guys and happily ever afters.
Lisa lives in tropical North Queensland, Australia. She doesn't know why, because she hates the heat, but she suspects she's too lazy to move. She spends half her time slaving away as a government minion, and the other half plotting her escape.
She attended university at sixteen, not because she was a child prodigy or anything, but because of a mix-up between international school systems early in life. She studied History and English, neither of them very thoroughly.
She shares her house with too many cats, a green tree frog that swims in the toilet, and as many possums as can break in every night. This is not how she imagined life as a grown-up.
Tamara Allen resides in the piney woods north of Houston with her cozy family of husband, son, and cat. Her primary occupation is keeping them out of trouble, but on the side she likes to make up stories, for the pleasure of living briefly in an era long gone by.
Charlie Cochrane
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Kate McMurray
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Charlie Cochet
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Lisa Henry
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Lessons in Love by Charlie Cochrane
Ten Days in August by Kate McMurray
A Rose by Any Other Name by Charlie Cochet
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Sweetwater by Lisa Henry
Whistling in the Dark by Tamara Allen
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Sweetwater by Lisa Henry
Whistling in the Dark by Tamara Allen
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