This past year has been a trying time to say the least and personally 2020 really screwed with my reading mojo, instead of finding solace in reading I found myself looking to visual forms of entertainment, we all need to use whatever we can to keep going. So I was only able to read 160 books and many were re-reads. This year's Best of series may not feature as many new releases but they are just as brilliant in my opinion, the old adage of "oldie but a goodie" was a prominent theme in this year's readings. Course, just because they are "oldies" doesn't mean everyone has read them so I hope my Best of list helps you to find a new read, be it new-new or new-to-you or maybe it will help you to rediscover a forgotten favorite. Happy Reading and my heartfelt wish for everyone is that 2021 will be a year of recovery, growth, and in the world of reading a year of discovering a new favorite.
My Whole World by Davidson King
Summary:Joker's Sin #1
Atlas Durand’s whole world is built from the spoils of his past. Joker’s Sin is the most popular gay club in all of Haven Hart. Many clubs have come and gone, none able to compete with Atlas and his enigmatic power over his patrons. He would do anything to keep it thriving and anyone who stands in his way will be met with serious regrets.
Toby St. Claire hates working at Vick’s Tricks and longs for his nights off so he can go to Joker’s Sin. Like everyone who steps foot into Atlas’s club, he’s taken by the owner himself and the magical pulse that owns him when he’s there. Joker’s Sin is Toby’s escape from his life and Atlas is his dream come true.
When Toby’s boss realizes he can use Toby to help take down Joker’s Sin and make Vick’s Tricks the club to beat in Haven Hart, it turns everything upside down. Lies, deceit, and corruption threaten to tear Atlas and Toby apart. Is their love strong enough to survive it all or will they become victims of mayhem?
Original Book of the Month May 2020:
EEEEP!!!! WOWWWW! and a thousand other expressions all saying: HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!
We all have different pictures of characters in our head and as a member of the author's FB group, I've seen her visions of Atlas and Toby. Now while her ideas are lovely I'll admit they look completely different in my mind's eye. As for Atlas, well partly because I'm not a huge fan of guys with long hair but mostly because I read My Whole World just a day after Star Wars Day where I #Maythe4thd out of marathoning, I picture John Boyega(Finn from the sequel trilogy) and Oscar Isaac(Poe from the same trilogy) as Toby. Now I realize that they are far from the character descriptions but that's who I see and since Finn and Poe's should-have-been relationship was never explored by Disney, in a way Davidson King allowed me to "see it through" and for that I can't say thank you enough.
Now onto My Whole World.
I was completely blown away at the amazing mix of romance, drama, suspense, action, humor, and heat. I wasn't amazed out of surprise because Davidson King's talent for storytelling is always topnotch but because as a spin-off of one of my all-time favorite series I had some doubts about being able to love a story set in the Haven Hart Universe without any of the characters I love so dearly. Well I needn't have had those doubts, sure I missed the Manos family and Black's organization but I am completely hooked on Atlas' bar, Joker's Sin and his employees.
I don't want to give anything away so I won't go into specifics but I will say this, in a place like Haven Hart you have an eclectic mix of good guys, bad guys, crime lords, and wanna-be bad guys and though you certainly aren't going to run into them every day, King manages to make them real. Toby and Atlas complete each other, they have their flaws, their weaknesses and their strengths, the yin to each other's yang. Whether their appearances in your mind's eye is similar to the author's vision or like mine almost completely opposite, there is no doubting that the two belong together.
One last note, if you're wondering as it's a spin-off you have to read the original Haven Hart series to "get" My Whole World, you don't. Personally, I highly recommend reading HH because . . . well it's a brilliant example of pretty darn near perfect storytelling but you don't need to read it prior to Joker's Sin.
RATING:
Toby St. Claire hates working at Vick’s Tricks and longs for his nights off so he can go to Joker’s Sin. Like everyone who steps foot into Atlas’s club, he’s taken by the owner himself and the magical pulse that owns him when he’s there. Joker’s Sin is Toby’s escape from his life and Atlas is his dream come true.
When Toby’s boss realizes he can use Toby to help take down Joker’s Sin and make Vick’s Tricks the club to beat in Haven Hart, it turns everything upside down. Lies, deceit, and corruption threaten to tear Atlas and Toby apart. Is their love strong enough to survive it all or will they become victims of mayhem?
EEEEP!!!! WOWWWW! and a thousand other expressions all saying: HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!
We all have different pictures of characters in our head and as a member of the author's FB group, I've seen her visions of Atlas and Toby. Now while her ideas are lovely I'll admit they look completely different in my mind's eye. As for Atlas, well partly because I'm not a huge fan of guys with long hair but mostly because I read My Whole World just a day after Star Wars Day where I #Maythe4thd out of marathoning, I picture John Boyega(Finn from the sequel trilogy) and Oscar Isaac(Poe from the same trilogy) as Toby. Now I realize that they are far from the character descriptions but that's who I see and since Finn and Poe's should-have-been relationship was never explored by Disney, in a way Davidson King allowed me to "see it through" and for that I can't say thank you enough.
Now onto My Whole World.
I was completely blown away at the amazing mix of romance, drama, suspense, action, humor, and heat. I wasn't amazed out of surprise because Davidson King's talent for storytelling is always topnotch but because as a spin-off of one of my all-time favorite series I had some doubts about being able to love a story set in the Haven Hart Universe without any of the characters I love so dearly. Well I needn't have had those doubts, sure I missed the Manos family and Black's organization but I am completely hooked on Atlas' bar, Joker's Sin and his employees.
I don't want to give anything away so I won't go into specifics but I will say this, in a place like Haven Hart you have an eclectic mix of good guys, bad guys, crime lords, and wanna-be bad guys and though you certainly aren't going to run into them every day, King manages to make them real. Toby and Atlas complete each other, they have their flaws, their weaknesses and their strengths, the yin to each other's yang. Whether their appearances in your mind's eye is similar to the author's vision or like mine almost completely opposite, there is no doubting that the two belong together.
One last note, if you're wondering as it's a spin-off you have to read the original Haven Hart series to "get" My Whole World, you don't. Personally, I highly recommend reading HH because . . . well it's a brilliant example of pretty darn near perfect storytelling but you don't need to read it prior to Joker's Sin.
RATING:
Summary:
Cambridge Fellows Mysteries #12.9
Somebody appears to be lacing certain Cambridge dons' food with laxatives. When they appear to have turned to stronger poison Jonty Stewart and Orlando Coppersmith get on the trail. Only Jonty's laid up in sick bay with a rugby injury so he'll have to wait for the clues to come to him...
Original Review May 2020:
I've said it before and I'll say it again, whether the author writes 100 full length novels or only one 2-page holiday coda, I will always be on board and it will never be enough. Jonty and Orlando are quite possibly my favorite fictional sleuthing duo, and trust me I read a lot of mysteries and I have a long list of faves😉.
This time around, has a nasty prank led to dire unforeseen consequences or well thought out mayhem? You know my answer to that is to read for yourself and as this is mystery novella entry in the series I'll be spoiling even less😉. Trust me, if you love Jonty and Orlando than you already know this is a fantastic gem and if you've never read Cambridge Fellows Mysteries before, you need to.
As for Jonty and Orlando themselves, I think Poisonous Trail actually conveys how much they mean to each other more than almost any of the other entries. Considering they spend so much of the story apart that seems like an odd thing for me to say but as the old adage goes, "absence makes the heart grow fonder", not being able to bounce ideas off each other instantly they each come to appreciate the other that much more. Don't get me wrong, there was never any doubt how they felt for one another it's just you get the idea that they maybe took their proximity for granted and with Jonty in the sick ward on campus that proximity is not there at the moment.
Talking about Jonty, Orlando, and their "proximity", if you've been a fan of the series then you already know most of the heat is off page. Now, some prefer to "see" the hot-and-heavy, Lord knows I'm no prude but sometimes it's nice to have the story concentrate more on the mystery and the relationship leaving the heat to the imagination. Personally, when done right I think off-page can strengthen the readers' bond with the characters because the author has to convey the romance more deeply. Just another reason why I love this series so much. I should add that I really loved seeing Dr. Panesar get to scratch his sleuthing itch this time around, he's not one to often aid them in their cases so I think it adds to the boys finding themselves in unwanted territory of Jonty not being able to "pound the pavement" as it were in regards to doing the leg work.
Cambridge Fellows is a historical mystery series which I know isn't everyone's cup of tea. As a history buff I really appreciate the author's obvious respect for the era with her attention to detail, from phrases to clothing to regulations and everything in between. Just because the details are there if you are one who shies away from the genre because they don't want to read a school lesson, don't worry the author never lets the details get so heavy that they screw with the reading experience.
One last thing: if you are new to the series and wondering about reading order because I believe Poisonous Trail is the 17th published work, I highly recommend checking out the chronological timeline on the author's website because some stories "go back and fill in". Would you be lost if you read them willy-nilly? No. As each entry is a new mystery, you could make a case of them being standalones but as it's also a journey of Jonty and Orlando's relationship, there is a certain level of growth in each one so I highly recommend reading them chronologically if you can but it's not a must.
RATING:
I've said it before and I'll say it again, whether the author writes 100 full length novels or only one 2-page holiday coda, I will always be on board and it will never be enough. Jonty and Orlando are quite possibly my favorite fictional sleuthing duo, and trust me I read a lot of mysteries and I have a long list of faves😉.
This time around, has a nasty prank led to dire unforeseen consequences or well thought out mayhem? You know my answer to that is to read for yourself and as this is mystery novella entry in the series I'll be spoiling even less😉. Trust me, if you love Jonty and Orlando than you already know this is a fantastic gem and if you've never read Cambridge Fellows Mysteries before, you need to.
As for Jonty and Orlando themselves, I think Poisonous Trail actually conveys how much they mean to each other more than almost any of the other entries. Considering they spend so much of the story apart that seems like an odd thing for me to say but as the old adage goes, "absence makes the heart grow fonder", not being able to bounce ideas off each other instantly they each come to appreciate the other that much more. Don't get me wrong, there was never any doubt how they felt for one another it's just you get the idea that they maybe took their proximity for granted and with Jonty in the sick ward on campus that proximity is not there at the moment.
Talking about Jonty, Orlando, and their "proximity", if you've been a fan of the series then you already know most of the heat is off page. Now, some prefer to "see" the hot-and-heavy, Lord knows I'm no prude but sometimes it's nice to have the story concentrate more on the mystery and the relationship leaving the heat to the imagination. Personally, when done right I think off-page can strengthen the readers' bond with the characters because the author has to convey the romance more deeply. Just another reason why I love this series so much. I should add that I really loved seeing Dr. Panesar get to scratch his sleuthing itch this time around, he's not one to often aid them in their cases so I think it adds to the boys finding themselves in unwanted territory of Jonty not being able to "pound the pavement" as it were in regards to doing the leg work.
Cambridge Fellows is a historical mystery series which I know isn't everyone's cup of tea. As a history buff I really appreciate the author's obvious respect for the era with her attention to detail, from phrases to clothing to regulations and everything in between. Just because the details are there if you are one who shies away from the genre because they don't want to read a school lesson, don't worry the author never lets the details get so heavy that they screw with the reading experience.
One last thing: if you are new to the series and wondering about reading order because I believe Poisonous Trail is the 17th published work, I highly recommend checking out the chronological timeline on the author's website because some stories "go back and fill in". Would you be lost if you read them willy-nilly? No. As each entry is a new mystery, you could make a case of them being standalones but as it's also a journey of Jonty and Orlando's relationship, there is a certain level of growth in each one so I highly recommend reading them chronologically if you can but it's not a must.
RATING:
Straight Up by K Evan Coles & Brigham Vaughn
Summary:The Speakeasy #4
Malcolm Elliott has been keeping secrets. Helping his mom through a financial crisis has nearly emptied his bank account and his kitchen cupboards, despite his thriving career with Corporate Equality Campaign. Malcolm is also bothered by his inability to tell the most important people in his life that he identifies as gray ace.
Stuart Morgan has a secret of his own. Though years have passed since the tattooed chef fled the Mormon church in Utah for New York, he’s never truly come to terms with the kink that ruined that rigid but outwardly perfect life. Experience has also taught Stuart that keeping his love of lacy things under wraps is safer than telling the truth.
After Malcom’s boss, Carter, hires Stuart’s restaurant to cater a gala fundraising event, the strait-laced Malcolm is thrown together with badass biker Stuart. Despite their differences and a couple of false starts, the men discover they work well together and a friendship quickly forms.
As Malcolm’s feelings for Stuart deepen, his sexuality awakens, but he remains tight-lipped about his problems. And though Stuart grows more and more attached to Malcolm, he remains fearful of confessing his kink.
When both of their secrets are finally exposed, they find themselves at a crossroads in which they must choose between playing it safe or finally coming clean to the person they love.
Seriously though, Straight Up is . . . well . . . straight up brilliant!
I feel like I say this a lot but the main characters, Malcolm and Stuart, are just meant to be. Could they be happy with others? Perhaps. Could they reach their potential? Maybe. Could they find the freedom to be themselves and let their true selves "come out to play"? Not even close. I kind of hate to say that Malcolm and Stuart "complete" each other because I don't like to imply anyone "needs" someone to be who they are but I have always believed, be it friend, lover, family member, there is that one person who helps you be 150% comfortable so you can let your whole self shine. Well, that is exactly who Malcolm and Stuart are to each other and for me it's that part of each of them that truly makes Straight Up unforgettable.
There is enough drama in the mens' journey that I could never label it a rom-com by any means but I can honestly say for me it is the least dramatic of the whole Tidal/Speakeasy universe. Is it lighthearted? I wouldn't go that far but I didn't feel the need to have a box of kleenex handy either. I love the whole not-often-seen meshing with familiar elements of this entry, it makes the story both relaxable and not-put-it-down-able(yeah I know, not real words or phrases but sometimes a story just gives you certain feels that you just have no options but to make up your own terminology😉😉).
Is this the last we'll see of the Tidal/Speakeasy crowd? Maybe, but the characters involved are just too boisterous to not have more to tell so maybe if we're lucky and super-duper-uber nice they'll let K Evan Coles and Brigham Vaughn in on their holiday plans down the road😉😉. However, if this truly is the end of their sharing then they will always live on in our hearts and our kindles. I for one can't wait to see what Coles and Vaughn, both individually and collaboratively, have in mind next.
One final note: if you are wondering about reading order, I highly recommend doing so in series order. The Tidal duology is definitely a need to read in order but Speakeasy is different pairs so in a way they are standalones but as previous characters are popping in and out, personally, I find it flows better read in released order and can't imagine doing otherwise. BUT, you won't be lost if you start with Straight Up.
RATING:
Stuart Morgan has a secret of his own. Though years have passed since the tattooed chef fled the Mormon church in Utah for New York, he’s never truly come to terms with the kink that ruined that rigid but outwardly perfect life. Experience has also taught Stuart that keeping his love of lacy things under wraps is safer than telling the truth.
After Malcom’s boss, Carter, hires Stuart’s restaurant to cater a gala fundraising event, the strait-laced Malcolm is thrown together with badass biker Stuart. Despite their differences and a couple of false starts, the men discover they work well together and a friendship quickly forms.
As Malcolm’s feelings for Stuart deepen, his sexuality awakens, but he remains tight-lipped about his problems. And though Stuart grows more and more attached to Malcolm, he remains fearful of confessing his kink.
When both of their secrets are finally exposed, they find themselves at a crossroads in which they must choose between playing it safe or finally coming clean to the person they love.
Original Book of the Month June 2020:
I just want to jump out of the gate by saying: had I realized Straight Up was going to be the final entry in The Speakeasy series, I probably would have held off reading. Don't get me wrong, not because I didn't want to read Malcolm and Stuart's story but because I love this series and the whole universe that Coles & Vaughn created way-back-when with Tidal so much, I just never want to see it end. So had I known, I probably would've let it linger a bit by queuing up in my kindle😉😉.Seriously though, Straight Up is . . . well . . . straight up brilliant!
I feel like I say this a lot but the main characters, Malcolm and Stuart, are just meant to be. Could they be happy with others? Perhaps. Could they reach their potential? Maybe. Could they find the freedom to be themselves and let their true selves "come out to play"? Not even close. I kind of hate to say that Malcolm and Stuart "complete" each other because I don't like to imply anyone "needs" someone to be who they are but I have always believed, be it friend, lover, family member, there is that one person who helps you be 150% comfortable so you can let your whole self shine. Well, that is exactly who Malcolm and Stuart are to each other and for me it's that part of each of them that truly makes Straight Up unforgettable.
There is enough drama in the mens' journey that I could never label it a rom-com by any means but I can honestly say for me it is the least dramatic of the whole Tidal/Speakeasy universe. Is it lighthearted? I wouldn't go that far but I didn't feel the need to have a box of kleenex handy either. I love the whole not-often-seen meshing with familiar elements of this entry, it makes the story both relaxable and not-put-it-down-able(yeah I know, not real words or phrases but sometimes a story just gives you certain feels that you just have no options but to make up your own terminology😉😉).
Is this the last we'll see of the Tidal/Speakeasy crowd? Maybe, but the characters involved are just too boisterous to not have more to tell so maybe if we're lucky and super-duper-uber nice they'll let K Evan Coles and Brigham Vaughn in on their holiday plans down the road😉😉. However, if this truly is the end of their sharing then they will always live on in our hearts and our kindles. I for one can't wait to see what Coles and Vaughn, both individually and collaboratively, have in mind next.
One final note: if you are wondering about reading order, I highly recommend doing so in series order. The Tidal duology is definitely a need to read in order but Speakeasy is different pairs so in a way they are standalones but as previous characters are popping in and out, personally, I find it flows better read in released order and can't imagine doing otherwise. BUT, you won't be lost if you start with Straight Up.
Don't Rock the Boardwalk by Jordan Castillo Price
Summary:The ABCs of Spellcraft #6
Sounds like the start of a bad joke, but Dixon and Yuri are most definitely not laughing. Because this particular mime needs a Crafting deactivated—one that’s been helping an outsider buy up Pinyin Beach.
And it originated at his family’s shop.
While undoing Spellcraft is Dixon’s specialty, Yuri thinks they should determine who ordered the Spell first. It’s too awkward to ask Dixon’s parents. And the mime isn’t talking.
Going undercover on the South Dock Boardwalk to find out for themselves might not be the most direct way to tackle the problem, but it’s definitely the most enlightening. From whispered secrets to secret societies, the guys find out more about the underpinnings of Pinyin Bay than they ever imagined.
Hopefully, they can figure out what it all means before it’s bye bye, Boardwalk.
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where MM Romance meets Paranormal Cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect.
And it originated at his family’s shop.
While undoing Spellcraft is Dixon’s specialty, Yuri thinks they should determine who ordered the Spell first. It’s too awkward to ask Dixon’s parents. And the mime isn’t talking.
Going undercover on the South Dock Boardwalk to find out for themselves might not be the most direct way to tackle the problem, but it’s definitely the most enlightening. From whispered secrets to secret societies, the guys find out more about the underpinnings of Pinyin Bay than they ever imagined.
Hopefully, they can figure out what it all means before it’s bye bye, Boardwalk.
The ABCs of Spellcraft is a series filled with bad jokes and good magic, where MM Romance meets Paranormal Cozy. A perky hero, a brooding love interest, and delightfully twisty-turny stories that never end up quite where you’d expect.
Original Review June 2020:
This isn't the first time the guys have gone in undercover to discover the "faulty" or misused crafting but there was something about doing so in their own backyard that made Don't Rock the Boardwalk that much more interesting. I hesitate to say "more fun" because the whole series has been fun from the beginning but it does seem to have that something extra special and again for me that was being right their in Pinyin Bay and having come from the Penn family shop.The whole series has had the perfect blend of romance and humor to label it romantic comedy, for me however it does seem odd to use that genre tag with an equal blend of paranormal and mystery but Jordan Castillo Price makes it work. Don't Rock the Boardwalk is no different. Dixon as a tour guide and Yuri as a street artist is absolutely divine. Let's face it, if you've been reading Dixon and Yuri's adventures you know by now that Dixon has the gift of gab so the tour guide disguise is pure genius, even if some of his facts are of his own creation or embellishment and when Yuri finds himself on the tour one day, I'll just say it may not have been Who's On First? but their timing was as spot on as many classic comedy routines are.
As for Dixon and Yuri on a personal level, they just continue to grow both in their individual crafts and their love for each other. I don't want to say they tackle this case different than others but as they do take on roles that don't work together I think they are apart more in Boardwalk than any other entry in the series. Which in one way is a bit of a disappointment because I love seeing them interact but on the other hand I think it shows just how much they've grown to be able to work apart and still get the job done and still find time for that Dixon/Yuri magic that ABCs of Spellcraft is known for.
If you are wondering about reading order, well The ABCs of Spellcraft needs to be experienced as written. There's a certain level of completion to each novella but there is an overall arc to boys' journey. So far Jordan Castillo Price has two story arcs in the series, #1-4 and #'s 5 & 6 and the upcoming 7: What the Frack?. Trust me, if you enjoy magic, mystery, romance, humor, and heat then Spellcraft is definitely a series for you.
All That Remains by RJ Scott
Summary:Lancaster Falls Trilogy #3
Federal Agent Lucas Beaumont has an agenda — get himself assigned to the case of the apparent serial murders at Lancaster Falls, find out who the murderer is, and then lay the ghosts that haunt his grandfather to rest. In the midst of a horrific murder investigation, the only peace he gets is from simple moments in a warm kitchen, talking to hotel owner, Josh. Attraction to the easygoing man is something he didn’t expect; in doing so, he opens himself to hurt, but at the same time, he begins to fall in love.
Josh is struggling to keep the Falls Hotel, even with every cent he has invested in its upkeep. The one thing keeping him above water is the not entirely legal work he does on the side—a steady income that not even his son knows about. When the FBI takes over his hotel for the duration of the Hell’s Gate serial killer case, Josh is faced with the real possibility that Lucas will not only discover his secret but also steal his heart.
When tragedy hits Josh and his son, and when it seems all hope is lost, can Lucas rescue them both?
Original Book of the Month July 2020:
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN! All that Remains and Lancaster Falls Trilogy as a whole is A-FREAKIN-MAZING!!!!! Mystery, romance, death, friendship, danger, chemistry, buried(or not so buried) secrets, camaraderie, mayhem, and plenty of heart. You'll find these and many other elements and emotions within the city limits of Lancaster Falls. All that Remains has it's own couple and their journey but as with any great trilogy the third act ties it all together.
Now as you are all well aware, there will be NO SPOILERS from me. No murder mystery should ever be spoiled because the reader has to discover and feel every hint, every surprise, every "can't put it down" high to fully appreciate the journey. Trust me, you do not want to let Lancaster Falls slip passed your reading radar.
Let's take a minute to look at our starring couple: Lucas and Josh. Lucas the FBI agent has come to Lancaster Falls on an agenda: solve a crime that will hopefully put his grandfather's mind to rest. Josh the single dad hotel owner who deals with some not-so legal computer issues to keep his head above water and to provide for his son. Their worlds collide when Lucas brings the feds to stay at the hotel while helping out with the Hell's Gate serial murder case. What could possibly go wrong(or right) there?😉😉
Lucas and Josh have an instant connection, physically and more, but considering their personal agendas will that connection lead to more? Will they let it? You know my answer: read the book to find out, again I say trust me you won't regret it. I just want to add that for those who don't care for insta-love/lust/connection, the chemistry may be instant but RJ Scott tells their journey in a way that you know the insta-bit can lead to something so much more, if fate lets it that is 😉😉.
As for Hell's Gate, each entry plays it's part in the case but All that Remains brings it all together and I'll be honest, I'm rarely snookered when it comes to mysteries, not because I'm some great detecting genius but because I've read/watched so many mysteries in my nearly 47 years on this Earth that very few twists are really all that twisty anymore. Well, RJ Scott had me guessing right to the reveal. Every time I thought I had it figured out, I'd turn the page and suddenly I was shaking my head "well, damn! there goes that theory".
This is a series not to be missed but it is also a series that must be read in order. Sure the starring couple may be different but the mystery is ongoing. I'll miss the heroes of this trilogy, I'll even miss the mayhem but I loved the way Miss Scott brings it all together and for me, the feelings of missing it is further proof how brilliant and attention grabbing the storytelling is. I'll just repeat my above statement: HOLY HANNAH BATMAN! All that Remains and Lancaster Falls Trilogy as a whole is A-FREAKIN-MAZING!!!!!
RATING:
Josh is struggling to keep the Falls Hotel, even with every cent he has invested in its upkeep. The one thing keeping him above water is the not entirely legal work he does on the side—a steady income that not even his son knows about. When the FBI takes over his hotel for the duration of the Hell’s Gate serial killer case, Josh is faced with the real possibility that Lucas will not only discover his secret but also steal his heart.
When tragedy hits Josh and his son, and when it seems all hope is lost, can Lucas rescue them both?
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN! All that Remains and Lancaster Falls Trilogy as a whole is A-FREAKIN-MAZING!!!!! Mystery, romance, death, friendship, danger, chemistry, buried(or not so buried) secrets, camaraderie, mayhem, and plenty of heart. You'll find these and many other elements and emotions within the city limits of Lancaster Falls. All that Remains has it's own couple and their journey but as with any great trilogy the third act ties it all together.
Now as you are all well aware, there will be NO SPOILERS from me. No murder mystery should ever be spoiled because the reader has to discover and feel every hint, every surprise, every "can't put it down" high to fully appreciate the journey. Trust me, you do not want to let Lancaster Falls slip passed your reading radar.
Let's take a minute to look at our starring couple: Lucas and Josh. Lucas the FBI agent has come to Lancaster Falls on an agenda: solve a crime that will hopefully put his grandfather's mind to rest. Josh the single dad hotel owner who deals with some not-so legal computer issues to keep his head above water and to provide for his son. Their worlds collide when Lucas brings the feds to stay at the hotel while helping out with the Hell's Gate serial murder case. What could possibly go wrong(or right) there?😉😉
Lucas and Josh have an instant connection, physically and more, but considering their personal agendas will that connection lead to more? Will they let it? You know my answer: read the book to find out, again I say trust me you won't regret it. I just want to add that for those who don't care for insta-love/lust/connection, the chemistry may be instant but RJ Scott tells their journey in a way that you know the insta-bit can lead to something so much more, if fate lets it that is 😉😉.
As for Hell's Gate, each entry plays it's part in the case but All that Remains brings it all together and I'll be honest, I'm rarely snookered when it comes to mysteries, not because I'm some great detecting genius but because I've read/watched so many mysteries in my nearly 47 years on this Earth that very few twists are really all that twisty anymore. Well, RJ Scott had me guessing right to the reveal. Every time I thought I had it figured out, I'd turn the page and suddenly I was shaking my head "well, damn! there goes that theory".
This is a series not to be missed but it is also a series that must be read in order. Sure the starring couple may be different but the mystery is ongoing. I'll miss the heroes of this trilogy, I'll even miss the mayhem but I loved the way Miss Scott brings it all together and for me, the feelings of missing it is further proof how brilliant and attention grabbing the storytelling is. I'll just repeat my above statement: HOLY HANNAH BATMAN! All that Remains and Lancaster Falls Trilogy as a whole is A-FREAKIN-MAZING!!!!!
Summary:
Midwest #3
It was supposed to be a secret fling.
Micah Warner spent his whole life dreaming of pitching in the big leagues. Signing with a minor-league team near Chicago puts him one step closer to making that a reality. But there are no out players in pro ball, so any involvement with a man must be discreet.
Physical therapist Justin Lamb loves his job with the Cougars. A romantic at heart, he wants to find lasting love—with a man or woman—but traveling with the team makes it difficult to maintain a long-term relationship.
Micah offers Justin a no-strings-attached way to blow off some steam, and Justin reluctantly agrees. It doesn’t take long before they’re both in over their heads but falling in love will risk everything.
With their careers and relationship hanging in the balance, they have one last play to make.
It’s time to take a swing for real and lasting love.
I was so glad to hear that Brigham Vaughn was continuing her Midwest series. Maybe it was being a lifelong midwesterner(born and raised Wisconsinite here), maybe it was the love I had for books 1 & 2, maybe it was being a huge baseball fan(and not nearly enough baseball stories in the LGBT genres), or maybe it was a little(okay a lot) of all three. What can I say? I'm a glutton when it comes to Miss Vaughn's work. Whatever the reason, I was loving the idea that it was continuing, now I'll admit that even though I was excited and purchased Touch and Go immediately late September 2019, I was snowed under my paranormal reading for October, then an early start to my Christmas reading, then mom's hip surgery, then Covid19 and before I knew it she was getting ready to release(and re-release 1-3) #4. So, I haven't been able to read Advance and Retreat(#4) yet but I finally said "ENOUGH!" and jumped in and read Micah and Justin's journey.
Yummy!
With the re-releases of 1-3 reaching new readers I don't want to give anything away(not that I would have anyway😉😉) but just WOW! I know the Cougars are a minor league team and despite being a huge baseball fan I don't really follow the minors, it was still a nice treat especially as 2020 has thrown the MLB for a loop(as we all have), it was nice to have "baseball back". Having followed Brigham Vaughn on facebook and recalling her questions about the game at a minor level, I knew I would be reading a well researched book, occupation-wise, which personally always makes the story better. I know it's fiction and I'm not strict in wanting no leeway when it comes to accuracy or lack-there-of but knowing the author went that extra step is always a plus.
Now, as for Micah and Justin. Love them both, and as so often I was in equal moments of smacking them with a frying pan and smothering them in mama bear hugs. It's almost become a measuring stick for me because I think wanting to take both actions to all parties involved makes the characters that more even-minded and perfectly suited. It's no fun for me when one character is always right and the other is always wrong, and it certainly not that way in Touch and Go. I think Micah has more growing to do because he is so far in the closet that at times it seems almost impossible for him to claw his way out. It's hard to imagine a story being enjoyable when one of the MCs is so self-hidden but watching these two men come together, grow stronger, and find that HEA(and I'm not giving anything away there because Miss Vaughn's stories always are HEAs) really warms the heart.
When you find a beautifully written journey such as Micah and Justin's in Touch and Go, you know you have found not only a winning read but also an author to keep an eye on.
Summary:
Dangerous Ground #6
The boys are back in town!
With resources already overstretched, the last thing Will and Taylor need is another client.
And the last thing Will needs is for that client to turn out to be an old boyfriend of Taylor’s.
But Ashe Dekker believes someone is trying to kill him, and Taylor is determined to help--whatever the cost.
With resources already overstretched, the last thing Will and Taylor need is another client.
And the last thing Will needs is for that client to turn out to be an old boyfriend of Taylor’s.
But Ashe Dekker believes someone is trying to kill him, and Taylor is determined to help--whatever the cost.
I want to start out by saying that Will and Taylor fans have been waiting for years for this final installment of their journey and as hard as that was and disappointing when it wasn't happening, I will never fault an author for the delay. An author who writes a story for the sake of the reader's timeline will never do the story and especially the characters justice. An author who listens to the characters and waits until they are ready to let the author in on their latest adventure is an author who will always care about their work and creations, that author will always be tops in my book. Well Josh Lanyon waited and waited and waited until Will and Taylor were finally ready to let her in and she did not disappoint.
Their business is finally getting some headway when in walks Taylor's ex with a favor to ask. Will is not a happy camper. I can't blame him really nor can I blame Taylor for wanting to help his ex, the biggest problem is timing, or so it seems. Will smells something fishy with Ashe Dekker's story and makes no qualms about letting Taylor in on his opinion. Is it a case of Will being jealous? Is it a case of timing with a big new client? Well you know my answer to those questions: you have to read for yourself for the answers😉.
Some might think that Taylor is a little off his game, a little "not so on the ball" with his reactions to certain aspects of the story(I don't want to give particulars as that would be spoiling and as you know I don't do that). Maybe that's true but when you are dealing with an old friend, or ex in this case, your thought pattern and reactions are flooded with emotions as well and suddenly that playbook you've always reacted to isn't so clear. I guess what I'm trying to say is I feel the points that some might call out of character as being completely in character keeping with the scenarios. However you look at it, I loved seeing the boys back for one last hurrah! But as we know Josh Lanyon is a brilliant Christmas Coda deliverer so I doubt this will really be the last time we see Will and Taylor😉😉.
If you've been waiting for Blind Side to begin Dangerous Ground well now you can start Will and Taylor's journey because Blind Side was the finale to this lovely series. If you've been a fan of Dangerous Ground and been waiting for this book, now you can see how the boys are doing. I highly recommend doing a re-read/listen before starting Blind but reliving Will & Taylor's adventures is never a bad thing in my opinion. If you aren't usually a re-reader you might still want to do so just because it has been some years since we last heard from them.
RATING:
My Whole World by Davidson King
I couldn’t do this. I mean, I wanted Atlas to finally notice me, but not like this. There was a reason I only sat at the bar when I came here. I. Couldn’t. Dance. Not like the music intended, anyway.
“Shake it, sister,” Sparkles said to me as he took my hand and tried his hardest to get me to move.
“I can’t dance.”
Sparkles’s eyes widened. “But…” He looked around; everyone was watching Sparkles and me not dancing. “That’s what you do here.”
“Move it, boys,” DJ Edge’s voice rang out. I saw Lance and the others dancing like their lives depended on it. One took to the pole and another to the cage.
“Leave me, save yourself,” I urged Sparkles.
“I never leave a man behind.” He winked and I watched as he grabbed the chair Lance was about to sit on and dragged it over to me. “Sit.”
I did as I was told because I was terrified and everyone was watching, even Atlas. He crouched down over by Max, and they were talking.
“Let’s do this, tin man. I’ll get you oiled up.” And Sparkles straddled my lap. “Grab my ass.” I did exactly as I was told; I sat there while Sparkles danced on my lap. He was like liquid as he slid to the floor, climbed up, and wow, he was really rubbing himself on me. “Touch me,” he said. When I glided my hands along his waist, over sequins and rhinestones, I felt so alive. The crowd was cheering, and Atlas only had eyes for us.
“Shake it, sister,” Sparkles said to me as he took my hand and tried his hardest to get me to move.
“I can’t dance.”
“Move it, boys,” DJ Edge’s voice rang out. I saw Lance and the others dancing like their lives depended on it. One took to the pole and another to the cage.
“Leave me, save yourself,” I urged Sparkles.
“I never leave a man behind.” He winked and I watched as he grabbed the chair Lance was about to sit on and dragged it over to me. “Sit.”
I did as I was told because I was terrified and everyone was watching, even Atlas. He crouched down over by Max, and they were talking.
“Let’s do this, tin man. I’ll get you oiled up.” And Sparkles straddled my lap. “Grab my ass.” I did exactly as I was told; I sat there while Sparkles danced on my lap. He was like liquid as he slid to the floor, climbed up, and wow, he was really rubbing himself on me. “Touch me,” he said. When I glided my hands along his waist, over sequins and rhinestones, I felt so alive. The crowd was cheering, and Atlas only had eyes for us.
Lessons in Following a Poisonous Trail by Charlie Cochrane
A bright afternoon, with a gentle breeze. St Bride’s rugby pitch, the home team turning out against St Thomas’s college. A tight game, hard fought. Jonty, arms raised to charge down a drop kick from the opposition, stumbled over a churned-up piece of turf, found himself diving headlong towards a boot and took evasive action. It wasn’t his best decision.
“What are you?” Orlando Coppersmith frowned so hard that his entire forehead resembled a linen shirt that had just been wrung.
“Well, to give me my full title, I’m the Kildare Fellow in Tudor Literature.” Jonty Stewart put on a brave front but he knew that he would not stand a cross-examination. Especially when he was at the disadvantage of lying on a bed in the St. Bride’s college sickbay with the twin intimidations of his lover’s scowling presence in the room and the college nurse outside the door, cleaving her prow-bosomed way en route to the rest of her charges.
“I don’t refer to your paid employment, Dr Stewart, I allude to your conduct today. The conduct that brought you here.”
Jonty sighed. “I know. I’m an idiot.”
Orlando’s mouth almost tweaked into a smile but he managed to restrain it. “I would have thought the Kildare Fellow would have been able to produce an adjective to go with the noun.” He sat back in the little wooden chair provided for visitors, his arms folded, awaiting the answer.
“I’m a complete and utter idiot.”
“That’s nearer the truth. I can think of a few more terms but I’ll excuse you them. Given your condition.”
“I thank you for such small mercies.” Jonty changed position, easing his leg. Only a patchwork quilt covered his lower regions, hiding the fact that he wore neither shoes nor socks or indeed anything below the waist. Not that he’d been wearing trousers when the mishap had happened. His right calf had been bandaged up to within an inch of its life after his rugby shorts had been cut off him quite mercilessly by Orlando and the nurse, who had decided that, despite being baggy, they’d never come off in the normal way without causing more pain and damage.
Jonty suspected that Orlando would have been happy to suggest that was exactly what they should do to teach him a lesson. He had huffed and puffed and complained all the way through the process, probably to cover up the fact that he was worried. Jonty could only hope he’d enjoyed it just a little bit. Getting their hands on each other’s flesh was usually a treat without comparison and one unlikely to be repeated any time soon, given the state of Jonty’s leg.
Mercy had eventually triumphed over justice, so now he had been made comfortable, propped up with pillows to await the arrival of the doctor.
“I bet you’re enjoying this.” Orlando had risen, to stare out of the small window across the college rooftops. “Being borne on a stretcher from the rugby pitch, into an invalid carriage and through St. Bride’s, like Queen Victoria in her pomp. Now having the prospect of being waited on hand and foot, with everyone fussing round you.”
“That may appeal, but my leg hurts like billy-oh.” Jonty carefully smoothed over the quilt, which was said to be the product of Ariadne Sheridan’s fair hands. Back in the days she’d been Ariadne Peters and the chatelaine of the master’s lodge at the side of her brother, she’d crafted a series of beautiful covers for the sick bay. To provide, she’d said, a little touch of home comfort for the students—or fellows—who found themselves ensconced there.
“One might say it served you right to be suffering.” Orlando, still in his muddy rugger jersey, kept his gaze fixed outside, possibly afraid that if he contemplated Jonty’s stricken frame his mood might soften. “What exactly did you do on that pitch?”
“I scored one magnificent try and made another. Both of the kicks beautifully taken by—”
“No Jonty. That wasn’t the question. What did you do to get yourself laid up like this?”
“Ah. Yes. Well.” The dreaded question to which the questioner knew the answer and was using it to make the recipient squirm. Jonty took a deep breath. “Well, I started to charge down this drop kick and then I saw a boot coming straight for my face. At which point I thought Mama wouldn’t want to see her lovely boy disfigured so I twisted out of the way and…” He tailed off. The rest must have been obvious at the time, from the awful way his leg had gone awry as he hit the ground to the howl of pain that he had given. He was sure he’d heard a breaking noise, as well, but perhaps best not to mention that at present. “It was better that my leg copped it, surely, rather than me lose my good looks?”
*******
“What are you?” Orlando Coppersmith frowned so hard that his entire forehead resembled a linen shirt that had just been wrung.
“Well, to give me my full title, I’m the Kildare Fellow in Tudor Literature.” Jonty Stewart put on a brave front but he knew that he would not stand a cross-examination. Especially when he was at the disadvantage of lying on a bed in the St. Bride’s college sickbay with the twin intimidations of his lover’s scowling presence in the room and the college nurse outside the door, cleaving her prow-bosomed way en route to the rest of her charges.
“I don’t refer to your paid employment, Dr Stewart, I allude to your conduct today. The conduct that brought you here.”
Jonty sighed. “I know. I’m an idiot.”
Orlando’s mouth almost tweaked into a smile but he managed to restrain it. “I would have thought the Kildare Fellow would have been able to produce an adjective to go with the noun.” He sat back in the little wooden chair provided for visitors, his arms folded, awaiting the answer.
“I’m a complete and utter idiot.”
“That’s nearer the truth. I can think of a few more terms but I’ll excuse you them. Given your condition.”
“I thank you for such small mercies.” Jonty changed position, easing his leg. Only a patchwork quilt covered his lower regions, hiding the fact that he wore neither shoes nor socks or indeed anything below the waist. Not that he’d been wearing trousers when the mishap had happened. His right calf had been bandaged up to within an inch of its life after his rugby shorts had been cut off him quite mercilessly by Orlando and the nurse, who had decided that, despite being baggy, they’d never come off in the normal way without causing more pain and damage.
Jonty suspected that Orlando would have been happy to suggest that was exactly what they should do to teach him a lesson. He had huffed and puffed and complained all the way through the process, probably to cover up the fact that he was worried. Jonty could only hope he’d enjoyed it just a little bit. Getting their hands on each other’s flesh was usually a treat without comparison and one unlikely to be repeated any time soon, given the state of Jonty’s leg.
Mercy had eventually triumphed over justice, so now he had been made comfortable, propped up with pillows to await the arrival of the doctor.
“I bet you’re enjoying this.” Orlando had risen, to stare out of the small window across the college rooftops. “Being borne on a stretcher from the rugby pitch, into an invalid carriage and through St. Bride’s, like Queen Victoria in her pomp. Now having the prospect of being waited on hand and foot, with everyone fussing round you.”
“That may appeal, but my leg hurts like billy-oh.” Jonty carefully smoothed over the quilt, which was said to be the product of Ariadne Sheridan’s fair hands. Back in the days she’d been Ariadne Peters and the chatelaine of the master’s lodge at the side of her brother, she’d crafted a series of beautiful covers for the sick bay. To provide, she’d said, a little touch of home comfort for the students—or fellows—who found themselves ensconced there.
“One might say it served you right to be suffering.” Orlando, still in his muddy rugger jersey, kept his gaze fixed outside, possibly afraid that if he contemplated Jonty’s stricken frame his mood might soften. “What exactly did you do on that pitch?”
“I scored one magnificent try and made another. Both of the kicks beautifully taken by—”
“No Jonty. That wasn’t the question. What did you do to get yourself laid up like this?”
“Ah. Yes. Well.” The dreaded question to which the questioner knew the answer and was using it to make the recipient squirm. Jonty took a deep breath. “Well, I started to charge down this drop kick and then I saw a boot coming straight for my face. At which point I thought Mama wouldn’t want to see her lovely boy disfigured so I twisted out of the way and…” He tailed off. The rest must have been obvious at the time, from the awful way his leg had gone awry as he hit the ground to the howl of pain that he had given. He was sure he’d heard a breaking noise, as well, but perhaps best not to mention that at present. “It was better that my leg copped it, surely, rather than me lose my good looks?”
Straight Up by K Evan Coles & Brigham Vaughn
“Crap, crap crap.” Malcolm took the subway stairs two at a time, muttering under his breath.
He’d arranged the Thursday meeting with Chef Morgan at Lock & Key, expecting forty-five minutes would be plenty of time to commute up from Midtown. However, a mechanical problem had plagued his train and he’d spent the crawling ride exchanging messages with his mom, trying to get her to apply for job openings he’d found in the neighborhoods around Staten Island. Now Malcolm was nearly fifteen minutes late and almost sprinting along Broadway in his loafers and business casual duds, messenger bag bumping his hip.
Malcolm hated being late, particularly when it came to his job. He’d texted the chef with a heads-up he was running behind, but still felt wretched and unprofessional. He also knew this would make a poor impression on a man who had high expectations of the people around him. Stuart had been friendly—even charming—when he’d introduced himself to Malcolm, tattoos peeking out from beneath the chef’s white jacket. His demeanor had changed the moment the talk had turned to food, however, shifting into a thorough confidence that was reflected in the quality and plating of the food he’d put in front of Malcolm. Everything had been luscious—both esthetically and in taste—and Malcolm had known from the first bite that the chef and his staff at King’s would do impeccable work for the CEC fundraiser.
The steel in Stuart’s expression as he’d spoken about food and his work had reassured Malcolm. He understood how to interact with a man who was all business. He’d been less sure of how to handle the moments when Stuart had smiled at him, however, and the way that warmth had made his brown eyes dance. The chef’s touch had tingled against Malcolm’s skin when they’d bid each other goodbye, too and…well. Malcolm really didn’t know what to make of that.
He caught sight of a huge motorcycle parked by the curb as he neared Lock & Key and slowed to a walk. It was a beautiful machine, gleaming black and chrome in the late afternoon light, and Malcolm could imagine the kind of man who rode it, clad in a leather jacket with tattoos on full display.
I’ll bet Stuart Morgan wears a leather jacket.
Malcolm nearly tripped into Lock & Key’s door. Where the hell had that come from?
Seconds later his errant thought literally came to life and Malcolm blinked at the sight of the chef seated at Lock & Key’s bar, a tall glass of water in hand and motorcycle helmet by his elbow. Stuart wore a black leather jacket, just as Malcolm had imagined, and a scowl so mighty he looked almost like a stranger. Malcolm’s stomach flipped.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said in a rush. Moving quickly, Malcolm waved hello to the bartender, then pulled the strap of his bag over his head and stepped up beside Stuart. “I meant to be here to meet you, Chef, but the train—”
Stuart cut in, his voice gruff and grumpy as Malcolm had expected. “I get it. Public transportation sucks.”
“It’s unpredictable,” Malcolm replied. “Anyway, Under’s head bartender is waiting for us downstairs.”
“Downstairs?” Stuart waved at the room around them with one hand. “Downstairs from here?”
“Um, yeah. This is Lock & Key. Under’s located in the basement.”
“I thought you said the event would be happening on the roof?”
“It will be. Under and Lock & Key will be part of it, too though. Sort of.” Heat flashed over Malcolm’s cheeks when Stuart rolled his eyes. “Sorry, let’s …” He blew out a breath and squared his shoulders. “Let’s start again.”
Stuart’s expression softened by a degree. “Okay. I’m listening.”
He’d arranged the Thursday meeting with Chef Morgan at Lock & Key, expecting forty-five minutes would be plenty of time to commute up from Midtown. However, a mechanical problem had plagued his train and he’d spent the crawling ride exchanging messages with his mom, trying to get her to apply for job openings he’d found in the neighborhoods around Staten Island. Now Malcolm was nearly fifteen minutes late and almost sprinting along Broadway in his loafers and business casual duds, messenger bag bumping his hip.
Malcolm hated being late, particularly when it came to his job. He’d texted the chef with a heads-up he was running behind, but still felt wretched and unprofessional. He also knew this would make a poor impression on a man who had high expectations of the people around him. Stuart had been friendly—even charming—when he’d introduced himself to Malcolm, tattoos peeking out from beneath the chef’s white jacket. His demeanor had changed the moment the talk had turned to food, however, shifting into a thorough confidence that was reflected in the quality and plating of the food he’d put in front of Malcolm. Everything had been luscious—both esthetically and in taste—and Malcolm had known from the first bite that the chef and his staff at King’s would do impeccable work for the CEC fundraiser.
The steel in Stuart’s expression as he’d spoken about food and his work had reassured Malcolm. He understood how to interact with a man who was all business. He’d been less sure of how to handle the moments when Stuart had smiled at him, however, and the way that warmth had made his brown eyes dance. The chef’s touch had tingled against Malcolm’s skin when they’d bid each other goodbye, too and…well. Malcolm really didn’t know what to make of that.
He caught sight of a huge motorcycle parked by the curb as he neared Lock & Key and slowed to a walk. It was a beautiful machine, gleaming black and chrome in the late afternoon light, and Malcolm could imagine the kind of man who rode it, clad in a leather jacket with tattoos on full display.
I’ll bet Stuart Morgan wears a leather jacket.
Malcolm nearly tripped into Lock & Key’s door. Where the hell had that come from?
Seconds later his errant thought literally came to life and Malcolm blinked at the sight of the chef seated at Lock & Key’s bar, a tall glass of water in hand and motorcycle helmet by his elbow. Stuart wore a black leather jacket, just as Malcolm had imagined, and a scowl so mighty he looked almost like a stranger. Malcolm’s stomach flipped.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said in a rush. Moving quickly, Malcolm waved hello to the bartender, then pulled the strap of his bag over his head and stepped up beside Stuart. “I meant to be here to meet you, Chef, but the train—”
Stuart cut in, his voice gruff and grumpy as Malcolm had expected. “I get it. Public transportation sucks.”
“It’s unpredictable,” Malcolm replied. “Anyway, Under’s head bartender is waiting for us downstairs.”
“Downstairs?” Stuart waved at the room around them with one hand. “Downstairs from here?”
“Um, yeah. This is Lock & Key. Under’s located in the basement.”
“I thought you said the event would be happening on the roof?”
“It will be. Under and Lock & Key will be part of it, too though. Sort of.” Heat flashed over Malcolm’s cheeks when Stuart rolled his eyes. “Sorry, let’s …” He blew out a breath and squared his shoulders. “Let’s start again.”
Stuart’s expression softened by a degree. “Okay. I’m listening.”
Don't Rock the Boardwalk by Jordan Castillo Price
1
DIXON
Practical Penn is not a fancy shop. It’s situated between a take-and-bake pizza place and a dollar store. The floors are linoleum (worn), the walls are paneling (fake wood), and the acoustic drop ceiling tiles are vaguely discolored. But Practical Penn is more than just a store in some seventies strip mall, it’s my family’s livelihood. And for that reason, it’s the best shop ever.
Unfortunately, businesses come with regulations.
While I did still have an office in the shop, it was just an out-of-the-way little closet of a room. To save on our liability insurance, my mother had taken me off books several years ago while I was trying out every youth hostel in Europe. That move turned out to be to everyone’s advantage. Because not being officially employed there meant I didn’t have to go to the annual Spellcraft rules and regulations training that was required of every Scrivener in a small-to-midsized shop. With me unofficially manning the helm at the store, Practical Penn could stay open while every other shop in the city had to shut its doors.
Win-win.
Technically, I didn’t need Yuri to come along and keep me company. Chances were, I’d just be sitting around all afternoon watching adorable chipmunk videos on my phone. But he insisted that if Rufus Clahd was the only one I had for backup, some intrepid robber would clean us out for sure. And so, he came along, parked himself at my cousin Sabina’s desk, and shot apprehensive looks at Rufus’s door when he thought no one was watching.
Poor Yuri. I think Rufus freaked him out because he’d never met another Seer before. And Seers tend to be… unusual. Whether it’s because they possess a talent that’s basically a genetic mutation, or because every Scrivener they meet treats them like the next Messiah? Hard to say.
As long as you don’t mess with his things, Rufus can be fairly easygoing. But though he’s got a normal-sized ego, he’s also got extremely large hair. My cousin and I have speculated over the years as to whether or not it’s a white-guy perm. She thinks it must be, whereas I’m not so sure. While some days it looks more tightly coiled than others, I think the discrepancy could be due to a change in shampoo, or humidity… or maybe the occasional trim.
I hadn’t yet determined what Yuri thought of the hair, but I’d wager he had an opinion. It was Yuri’s desire to keep an eye on everything that landed him front and center when the mime walked in.
I often ponder what Yuri’s nightmares must be like— no doubt, they’re in Russian. Yuri’s got a thing about clowns. And while a mime isn’t technically a clown… I guess it’s close enough. He stood up so fast, the office chair spun out behind him and crashed into the wood paneling with a giant clatter. It made enough noise to wake our Seer from his current nap. Rufus’s door cracked open just as I made it over to Yuri’s side to catch him in case he fainted. He’d probably squash me. But, heck, I was used to him squashing me. I might even kind of like it.
The mime walked up to the service counter and started swatting at a bug on the Formica surface. We keep the place well-fumigated, but I supposed it was possible that some of the feeder crickets had escaped their stinky little tank. The office was now home to a variety of nocturnal creatures— apparently, toads get really loud around one a.m. And crickets were a lot less icky to handle than mealworms. Still, those little suckers could really hop. I picked up an empty coffee mug and a pizza menu, and came over to rehome the poor cricket, who’d probably enjoy getting squashed a heck of a lot less than I did. But when I got up to the counter, there was no cricket. And the mime was still swatting away… at nothing. I picked up the edge of a phone directory to see if the little escape artist got away.
“Mime is ringing service bell,” Yuri supplied, from a safe distance away, with an accent gone thick.
Oh. Right. The mime brightened and nodded vigorously.
I could’ve sworn he was swatting a bug.
You wouldn’t think a little greasepaint would make all that big a difference, but I couldn’t really get a bead on the man behind the makeup. Was he older or younger than me? Dark or fair? And, most importantly, was he better-looking? Between the whiteface and the eyeliner, it was really hard to say. The only thing I knew for sure was that his drawn-on eyebrows made him look perpetually startled.
He gestured at the counter. I looked at it. Back in the day, when smoking was in vogue, a lit cigarette had fallen from an ashtray and left a nicotine-yellow burn on the surface. The mime shook his head and gestured for me to stop looking at the burn mark and pay attention to him instead.
He pinched his fingers together on both hands and raised them in an arc. “You’re typing,” I ventured. “You’re reading the newspaper. You’re folding laundry.”
At the sound of all my excited guesses, Rufus Clahd ambled out of his office. Practical Penn’s official Seer was my parents’ age, and he still dressed like it was 1979. He’d been working here for years… if you counted napping in his office as working. He joined in the guessing game, sounding half-asleep. “You’re eating corn on the cob. With lots of butter. And a sprinkle of Himalayan sea salt.”
Yuri snapped, “He is opening briefcase.”
The mime touched the tip of his nose, winked, and pointed at Yuri.
Yuri shuddered.
Rufus squinted at the mime. “You sure it’s not corn?”
The mime pointed at Yuri again.
“I’m really pretty good at charades,” I said. It wasn’t my fault this mime was so ambiguous.
Once the “briefcase” was open and all three of us Spellcrafters were watching, the mime pulled something out of the case. Except the thing wasn’t imaginary, like the purported briefcase. And it was really obvious he’d just pulled it out of his pocket.
And… it looked a heck of a lot like Spellcraft.
He placed it importantly on the counter and indicated it with both hands, then started making frantic little looping motions.
“You’re cranking a pepper grinder?” I guessed. “No? Crocheting an afghan. Wait, I know— you’re playing Yahtzee.”
Rufus shook his head. “No way, man, he’s definitely waving a sparkler on the Fourth of July, just after sundown, throwing white-hot sparks against the night sky.”
Huh. I’d really never figured Rufus was that imaginative. Then again, it made a lot of sense, given that the weird watercolor blobs he painted (the ones that never looked like anything to anybody) still managed to fix the Spellcraft mojo onto the paper.
Unfortunately, judging by the frustrated huff that came out of the mime, Rufus was also wrong.
Yuri matched it with a huff of his own, though he made no move to come any closer, as if mimeness might be catching. “He is drawing— from right to left and bottom to top. He wishes you to Uncraft spell.”
The mime made a really big deal out of gesturing toward Yuri. Yuri backed up another few steps, until the wood paneling creaked against his back.
Rufus and I both leaned in to get a better look.
I might not have figured out the pantomime for “Uncrafting a spell,” but the Spellcraft itself? That, I recognized right away… even though I really wished I hadn’t. Not because of the Seen— it wouldn’t be the first Rufus Clahd creation I’d unmade— but because of the Scrivening.
The mime waved his hands in a flurry of inexplicable gestures. Rufus scratched his chin and said, “You went for a swim, but the water was colder than you thought, so instead you focused on your Tai Chi.”
While even the mime looked befuddled over that guess, Yuri said from across the room, “He is disturbed by Crafting and hopes we can help him.”
Either Yuri had a better view from where he was standing way over there, pantomime was a flourishing art in Russia (which gave him an unfair advantage), or learning a second language had just made him pretty darn perceptive. The mime hopped up and down in excitement and gave Yuri an eager thumbs-up.
I took a better look at the Crafting. The Seen, predictably, was a messy blue-gray blob that could have been anything— but the Scrivening was pretty darn specific. Go-getters get their goal. I was big on rhyming, and Uncle Fonzo liked to Craft fortune-cookie type sayings. The alliteration, though?
It couldn’t have come from anyone but my father.
No one likes to be the source of a bum Crafting, so naturally, I considered claiming it must’ve come from some other shop. But before I could, Rufus said, “Oh, I remember that one.”
“Really?” I said. “Because it’s awfully, uh… abstract.”
“Nope. That’s Pinyin Bay. See the dip over here? That’s where the power plant sits. And the flat side over here is where they shored up the coastline, so the inmates at the county detention center couldn’t swim away anymore. And the tiny flecks of black inside the water— those are leeches.”
Well… now that he pointed out all those details, I supposed I could see it.
Yuri said to the mime, “I read article that said South Dock Boardwalk is threatened by developers. Is that where you have come from?”
The mime nodded with great purpose.
“The South Dock Boardwalk can’t be sold off,” I declared. “It’s a Pinyin Bay institution!”
Rufus agreed. “That’s where everyone loses their virginity on a full moon under the pier to the sound of off-key buskers yodeling in the distance.”
“Um… not everyone,” I said. “But it’s bad enough some out-of-state corporation bought up the rental cabins on Pinyin Beach. Are they gunning for the Boardwalk, too?”
The mime made an exaggerated frown and nodded.
Yuri said, “If same buyer also has Morticia Shirque’s estate as well as the cabins, when they take the Boardwalk, this entire coastline of the bay will be theirs.”
That couldn’t be. “All of Pinyin Beach?” Even as I said it, landmark after landmark cropped up in my mind’s eye as if I was cruising past on Old Bay Road. The trailer park. Pinyin Inn. The cabins. The Shirque Mansion. From the power plant on one side of the bay to the crumbling bluffs that separated Pinyin Bay city limits from the road to Strangeberg on the other, the only property that hadn’t recently changed hands was the Boardwalk.
The mime knuckled away a fake tear.
I snagged the Crafting by the corner and pulled it across the counter to get a better look at it, but as I did, Yuri caught me by the back of the collar and dragged me into my office. Since I hardly ever used it, tanks filled with toads and lizards and whatever else ate all those escaping crickets took up a lot of the meager real estate. But Yuri crowding me into a gap between my desk and a coatrack was something I could hardly complain about— even though I was pretty sure no kissing would be involved. Not this time, anyhow.
“You would Craft for mime?”
Obviously, Yuri was none too keen on the situation. Even if I didn’t know he had a thing about clowns, he’d been dropping articles left and right ever since the guy gestured his way across the threshold. “Listen, Yuri. Pinyin Beach means a lot to me. But even if it didn’t, that’s not just a Practical Penn Crafting out there… it’s my dad’s.”
Yuri understood. He answered with the sort of slow-blink he reserved for those moments when a long-suffering sigh simply wasn’t enough.
I patted him on the chest. And then added a few more pats for good measure. And then trailed a fingertip along his neck tattoo in a way that made him shiver. “Think about it this way, Yuri. Pinyin Bay is riddled with Spellcrafters. The mime could’ve brought this Crafting to any one of them. But, as luck would have it, we were the only shop open. It’s as if it was meant to be.”
“Nothing is ever a coincidence with the volshebstvo.” Yuri pulled me against him roughly, smoothed my hair back, and paused to cup my face in his palm. Gazing down into my eyes with exquisite tenderness, he said, “You are always taking on problems that are not yours to solve— so, how could I expect you to leave this Crafting to the wind? I know you must do it… but I do not have to like it. Especially when Uncrafting involves no Seen, and can only be done by you, and you alone.”
I brushed a kiss across his frowny lips. “I just knew I could count on your support! Now, let’s get back to the mime before any more Spellcraft shops open up and he can start comparison-shopping.”
We headed back out to the lobby, where Rufus was regaling the mime with a rambling tale about… well, frankly, it’s just as hard to follow Rufus’s stories as it is to figure out which end of his Seens is up. But whatever the narrative might be, it involved a trashcan, a used harmonica and some shaving cream. Just as Rufus wrapped it up by saying, “… and then all of us broke into a half-hearted rendition of Auld Lang Syne!” my cousin shouldered her way through the front door with a teetering stack of pizza boxes in her hands from the take-and-bake joint next door.
“Who holds a meeting in this day and age and doesn’t supply any donuts?” she demanded with all the vehemence with which she demands… well, everything. “I swear I could hardly hear the presenter over the groaning of all the empty Scrivener stomachs.”
Sabina had dressed “professionally” for the mandatory meeting— which was to say, she didn’t have any holes in her black jeans, her Doc Martens were polished, and her bra straps weren’t showing. Fortunately, Spellcraft is one of those professions that doesn’t require you to dress to the same standards as a banker or a politician or a high school principal.
I, myself, might be fond of sharp tailored suits and natty bowties, but Sabina balked at the notion of wearing anything even remotely conservative. My cousin has crammed herself into a pair of pantyhose exactly once in all her twenty-five years. And by the time she was done clawing them off again ten minutes later, everyone up and down the street knew exactly what she thought of them.
Yuri relieved her of the pizza boxes and steered them into the break room, where three toaster ovens we’d found at various garage sales and thrift stores awaited. And with no stack of boxes blocking his view, the mime did an exaggerated double-take at my cousin.
Sabina looked equally as startled— and knowing that she can be just a teensy bit acerbic if you rub her the wrong way, I quickly attempted to steer the mime’s attention back to the matter of the Uncrafting. I slid a contract from a pile of legalese, slapped it down in front of him, and said, “I’d be happy to see to the matter at hand. All I’ll need is your signature on the dotted line and five hundred dollars. We take all the major credit cards, but there’s a five percent discount if you pay cash.”
The mime pretended to be pulling down his pants.
Even if I were single, trading sexual favors for Spellcraft was a line I was simply not willing to cross. “I’ll have you know this is a respectable family business.”
Yuri said, “He is showing you his pockets are empty.”
“Oh. Fine. Well, there may be some wiggle-room.” We didn’t need a Seen painted, after all. “It’s a real stretch, but I can go down to $ 399.”
The mime repeated the gesture.
“Looks like he’s frying up some bacon and eggs,” Rufus observed. Was that a euphemism? Hard to say.
“$ 299?” I tried. No dice. “$ 250, and that’s really the best I can do.”
Unfortunately, it turned out that if I didn’t want my dad’s Crafting to fall into the hands of another Spellcraft shop, I’d have to settle for twenty bucks. I’m usually a lot better at negotiation, but frankly, it’s unsettling when the other party is constantly pretending to disrobe.
The mime handed over a crumpled bill, then pretended to sign the contract with his fingertip.
Sabina rolled her eyes and handed him an actual pen. He brightened and plucked a tiny paper flower from his sleeve, then offered it to her in return with a grand, courtly bow. Until Yuri swatted it out of his hand, anyhow. “Stop dawdling and sign. There is much work to do.”
The mime made a big deal of signing with a flourish. Spellcrafters always get a big kick out of what passes for a flourish among the Handless. But as I spun the contract around to face me, it wasn’t to critique his penmanship, but to figure out what in the heck I should call him. Because it hardly seemed fitting to keep referring to my new customer as “the mime.”
His signature was a vague squiggle.
“Look,” I said. “If we’re going to be working together, I need to know what to call you.”
The mime smiled, spread his arms wide as if to say get a load of this, then bent his knees and straightened them again.
“What the heck is that supposed to mean?” Sabina demanded.
The smile went a bit pained. He repeated the motion.
“You’re jumping rope,” I said. “Are you a boxer? Is your name Muhammed Ali? Ooh, I know, it’s Rocky.”
The mime shook his head and did it again.
“A bunny hop,” I guessed. “A pogo stick.”
Rufus nodded sagely. “That’s exactly how the slow-motion dismount of a gymnast from a pommel horse would look. He’s trying to tell you his name is Trigger.”
Sabina was running out of patience. “How long have you guys been at this?”
“Too long,” Yuri said.
Dang it, I had to get something right. It was a matter of principle now. “You’re looking for something on a low bookshelf. You’re doing squats at the gym. Wait a minute— I know! You’re crouching.” The mime shook his head emphatically… but if he wasn’t willing to speak up for himself, it was his problem, not mine. “That settles it. Crouch it is.”
DIXON
Practical Penn is not a fancy shop. It’s situated between a take-and-bake pizza place and a dollar store. The floors are linoleum (worn), the walls are paneling (fake wood), and the acoustic drop ceiling tiles are vaguely discolored. But Practical Penn is more than just a store in some seventies strip mall, it’s my family’s livelihood. And for that reason, it’s the best shop ever.
Unfortunately, businesses come with regulations.
While I did still have an office in the shop, it was just an out-of-the-way little closet of a room. To save on our liability insurance, my mother had taken me off books several years ago while I was trying out every youth hostel in Europe. That move turned out to be to everyone’s advantage. Because not being officially employed there meant I didn’t have to go to the annual Spellcraft rules and regulations training that was required of every Scrivener in a small-to-midsized shop. With me unofficially manning the helm at the store, Practical Penn could stay open while every other shop in the city had to shut its doors.
Win-win.
Technically, I didn’t need Yuri to come along and keep me company. Chances were, I’d just be sitting around all afternoon watching adorable chipmunk videos on my phone. But he insisted that if Rufus Clahd was the only one I had for backup, some intrepid robber would clean us out for sure. And so, he came along, parked himself at my cousin Sabina’s desk, and shot apprehensive looks at Rufus’s door when he thought no one was watching.
Poor Yuri. I think Rufus freaked him out because he’d never met another Seer before. And Seers tend to be… unusual. Whether it’s because they possess a talent that’s basically a genetic mutation, or because every Scrivener they meet treats them like the next Messiah? Hard to say.
As long as you don’t mess with his things, Rufus can be fairly easygoing. But though he’s got a normal-sized ego, he’s also got extremely large hair. My cousin and I have speculated over the years as to whether or not it’s a white-guy perm. She thinks it must be, whereas I’m not so sure. While some days it looks more tightly coiled than others, I think the discrepancy could be due to a change in shampoo, or humidity… or maybe the occasional trim.
I hadn’t yet determined what Yuri thought of the hair, but I’d wager he had an opinion. It was Yuri’s desire to keep an eye on everything that landed him front and center when the mime walked in.
I often ponder what Yuri’s nightmares must be like— no doubt, they’re in Russian. Yuri’s got a thing about clowns. And while a mime isn’t technically a clown… I guess it’s close enough. He stood up so fast, the office chair spun out behind him and crashed into the wood paneling with a giant clatter. It made enough noise to wake our Seer from his current nap. Rufus’s door cracked open just as I made it over to Yuri’s side to catch him in case he fainted. He’d probably squash me. But, heck, I was used to him squashing me. I might even kind of like it.
The mime walked up to the service counter and started swatting at a bug on the Formica surface. We keep the place well-fumigated, but I supposed it was possible that some of the feeder crickets had escaped their stinky little tank. The office was now home to a variety of nocturnal creatures— apparently, toads get really loud around one a.m. And crickets were a lot less icky to handle than mealworms. Still, those little suckers could really hop. I picked up an empty coffee mug and a pizza menu, and came over to rehome the poor cricket, who’d probably enjoy getting squashed a heck of a lot less than I did. But when I got up to the counter, there was no cricket. And the mime was still swatting away… at nothing. I picked up the edge of a phone directory to see if the little escape artist got away.
“Mime is ringing service bell,” Yuri supplied, from a safe distance away, with an accent gone thick.
Oh. Right. The mime brightened and nodded vigorously.
I could’ve sworn he was swatting a bug.
You wouldn’t think a little greasepaint would make all that big a difference, but I couldn’t really get a bead on the man behind the makeup. Was he older or younger than me? Dark or fair? And, most importantly, was he better-looking? Between the whiteface and the eyeliner, it was really hard to say. The only thing I knew for sure was that his drawn-on eyebrows made him look perpetually startled.
He gestured at the counter. I looked at it. Back in the day, when smoking was in vogue, a lit cigarette had fallen from an ashtray and left a nicotine-yellow burn on the surface. The mime shook his head and gestured for me to stop looking at the burn mark and pay attention to him instead.
He pinched his fingers together on both hands and raised them in an arc. “You’re typing,” I ventured. “You’re reading the newspaper. You’re folding laundry.”
At the sound of all my excited guesses, Rufus Clahd ambled out of his office. Practical Penn’s official Seer was my parents’ age, and he still dressed like it was 1979. He’d been working here for years… if you counted napping in his office as working. He joined in the guessing game, sounding half-asleep. “You’re eating corn on the cob. With lots of butter. And a sprinkle of Himalayan sea salt.”
Yuri snapped, “He is opening briefcase.”
The mime touched the tip of his nose, winked, and pointed at Yuri.
Yuri shuddered.
Rufus squinted at the mime. “You sure it’s not corn?”
The mime pointed at Yuri again.
“I’m really pretty good at charades,” I said. It wasn’t my fault this mime was so ambiguous.
Once the “briefcase” was open and all three of us Spellcrafters were watching, the mime pulled something out of the case. Except the thing wasn’t imaginary, like the purported briefcase. And it was really obvious he’d just pulled it out of his pocket.
And… it looked a heck of a lot like Spellcraft.
He placed it importantly on the counter and indicated it with both hands, then started making frantic little looping motions.
“You’re cranking a pepper grinder?” I guessed. “No? Crocheting an afghan. Wait, I know— you’re playing Yahtzee.”
Rufus shook his head. “No way, man, he’s definitely waving a sparkler on the Fourth of July, just after sundown, throwing white-hot sparks against the night sky.”
Huh. I’d really never figured Rufus was that imaginative. Then again, it made a lot of sense, given that the weird watercolor blobs he painted (the ones that never looked like anything to anybody) still managed to fix the Spellcraft mojo onto the paper.
Unfortunately, judging by the frustrated huff that came out of the mime, Rufus was also wrong.
Yuri matched it with a huff of his own, though he made no move to come any closer, as if mimeness might be catching. “He is drawing— from right to left and bottom to top. He wishes you to Uncraft spell.”
The mime made a really big deal out of gesturing toward Yuri. Yuri backed up another few steps, until the wood paneling creaked against his back.
Rufus and I both leaned in to get a better look.
I might not have figured out the pantomime for “Uncrafting a spell,” but the Spellcraft itself? That, I recognized right away… even though I really wished I hadn’t. Not because of the Seen— it wouldn’t be the first Rufus Clahd creation I’d unmade— but because of the Scrivening.
The mime waved his hands in a flurry of inexplicable gestures. Rufus scratched his chin and said, “You went for a swim, but the water was colder than you thought, so instead you focused on your Tai Chi.”
While even the mime looked befuddled over that guess, Yuri said from across the room, “He is disturbed by Crafting and hopes we can help him.”
Either Yuri had a better view from where he was standing way over there, pantomime was a flourishing art in Russia (which gave him an unfair advantage), or learning a second language had just made him pretty darn perceptive. The mime hopped up and down in excitement and gave Yuri an eager thumbs-up.
I took a better look at the Crafting. The Seen, predictably, was a messy blue-gray blob that could have been anything— but the Scrivening was pretty darn specific. Go-getters get their goal. I was big on rhyming, and Uncle Fonzo liked to Craft fortune-cookie type sayings. The alliteration, though?
It couldn’t have come from anyone but my father.
No one likes to be the source of a bum Crafting, so naturally, I considered claiming it must’ve come from some other shop. But before I could, Rufus said, “Oh, I remember that one.”
“Really?” I said. “Because it’s awfully, uh… abstract.”
“Nope. That’s Pinyin Bay. See the dip over here? That’s where the power plant sits. And the flat side over here is where they shored up the coastline, so the inmates at the county detention center couldn’t swim away anymore. And the tiny flecks of black inside the water— those are leeches.”
Well… now that he pointed out all those details, I supposed I could see it.
Yuri said to the mime, “I read article that said South Dock Boardwalk is threatened by developers. Is that where you have come from?”
The mime nodded with great purpose.
“The South Dock Boardwalk can’t be sold off,” I declared. “It’s a Pinyin Bay institution!”
Rufus agreed. “That’s where everyone loses their virginity on a full moon under the pier to the sound of off-key buskers yodeling in the distance.”
“Um… not everyone,” I said. “But it’s bad enough some out-of-state corporation bought up the rental cabins on Pinyin Beach. Are they gunning for the Boardwalk, too?”
The mime made an exaggerated frown and nodded.
Yuri said, “If same buyer also has Morticia Shirque’s estate as well as the cabins, when they take the Boardwalk, this entire coastline of the bay will be theirs.”
That couldn’t be. “All of Pinyin Beach?” Even as I said it, landmark after landmark cropped up in my mind’s eye as if I was cruising past on Old Bay Road. The trailer park. Pinyin Inn. The cabins. The Shirque Mansion. From the power plant on one side of the bay to the crumbling bluffs that separated Pinyin Bay city limits from the road to Strangeberg on the other, the only property that hadn’t recently changed hands was the Boardwalk.
The mime knuckled away a fake tear.
I snagged the Crafting by the corner and pulled it across the counter to get a better look at it, but as I did, Yuri caught me by the back of the collar and dragged me into my office. Since I hardly ever used it, tanks filled with toads and lizards and whatever else ate all those escaping crickets took up a lot of the meager real estate. But Yuri crowding me into a gap between my desk and a coatrack was something I could hardly complain about— even though I was pretty sure no kissing would be involved. Not this time, anyhow.
“You would Craft for mime?”
Obviously, Yuri was none too keen on the situation. Even if I didn’t know he had a thing about clowns, he’d been dropping articles left and right ever since the guy gestured his way across the threshold. “Listen, Yuri. Pinyin Beach means a lot to me. But even if it didn’t, that’s not just a Practical Penn Crafting out there… it’s my dad’s.”
Yuri understood. He answered with the sort of slow-blink he reserved for those moments when a long-suffering sigh simply wasn’t enough.
I patted him on the chest. And then added a few more pats for good measure. And then trailed a fingertip along his neck tattoo in a way that made him shiver. “Think about it this way, Yuri. Pinyin Bay is riddled with Spellcrafters. The mime could’ve brought this Crafting to any one of them. But, as luck would have it, we were the only shop open. It’s as if it was meant to be.”
“Nothing is ever a coincidence with the volshebstvo.” Yuri pulled me against him roughly, smoothed my hair back, and paused to cup my face in his palm. Gazing down into my eyes with exquisite tenderness, he said, “You are always taking on problems that are not yours to solve— so, how could I expect you to leave this Crafting to the wind? I know you must do it… but I do not have to like it. Especially when Uncrafting involves no Seen, and can only be done by you, and you alone.”
I brushed a kiss across his frowny lips. “I just knew I could count on your support! Now, let’s get back to the mime before any more Spellcraft shops open up and he can start comparison-shopping.”
We headed back out to the lobby, where Rufus was regaling the mime with a rambling tale about… well, frankly, it’s just as hard to follow Rufus’s stories as it is to figure out which end of his Seens is up. But whatever the narrative might be, it involved a trashcan, a used harmonica and some shaving cream. Just as Rufus wrapped it up by saying, “… and then all of us broke into a half-hearted rendition of Auld Lang Syne!” my cousin shouldered her way through the front door with a teetering stack of pizza boxes in her hands from the take-and-bake joint next door.
“Who holds a meeting in this day and age and doesn’t supply any donuts?” she demanded with all the vehemence with which she demands… well, everything. “I swear I could hardly hear the presenter over the groaning of all the empty Scrivener stomachs.”
Sabina had dressed “professionally” for the mandatory meeting— which was to say, she didn’t have any holes in her black jeans, her Doc Martens were polished, and her bra straps weren’t showing. Fortunately, Spellcraft is one of those professions that doesn’t require you to dress to the same standards as a banker or a politician or a high school principal.
I, myself, might be fond of sharp tailored suits and natty bowties, but Sabina balked at the notion of wearing anything even remotely conservative. My cousin has crammed herself into a pair of pantyhose exactly once in all her twenty-five years. And by the time she was done clawing them off again ten minutes later, everyone up and down the street knew exactly what she thought of them.
Yuri relieved her of the pizza boxes and steered them into the break room, where three toaster ovens we’d found at various garage sales and thrift stores awaited. And with no stack of boxes blocking his view, the mime did an exaggerated double-take at my cousin.
Sabina looked equally as startled— and knowing that she can be just a teensy bit acerbic if you rub her the wrong way, I quickly attempted to steer the mime’s attention back to the matter of the Uncrafting. I slid a contract from a pile of legalese, slapped it down in front of him, and said, “I’d be happy to see to the matter at hand. All I’ll need is your signature on the dotted line and five hundred dollars. We take all the major credit cards, but there’s a five percent discount if you pay cash.”
The mime pretended to be pulling down his pants.
Even if I were single, trading sexual favors for Spellcraft was a line I was simply not willing to cross. “I’ll have you know this is a respectable family business.”
Yuri said, “He is showing you his pockets are empty.”
“Oh. Fine. Well, there may be some wiggle-room.” We didn’t need a Seen painted, after all. “It’s a real stretch, but I can go down to $ 399.”
The mime repeated the gesture.
“Looks like he’s frying up some bacon and eggs,” Rufus observed. Was that a euphemism? Hard to say.
“$ 299?” I tried. No dice. “$ 250, and that’s really the best I can do.”
Unfortunately, it turned out that if I didn’t want my dad’s Crafting to fall into the hands of another Spellcraft shop, I’d have to settle for twenty bucks. I’m usually a lot better at negotiation, but frankly, it’s unsettling when the other party is constantly pretending to disrobe.
The mime handed over a crumpled bill, then pretended to sign the contract with his fingertip.
Sabina rolled her eyes and handed him an actual pen. He brightened and plucked a tiny paper flower from his sleeve, then offered it to her in return with a grand, courtly bow. Until Yuri swatted it out of his hand, anyhow. “Stop dawdling and sign. There is much work to do.”
The mime made a big deal of signing with a flourish. Spellcrafters always get a big kick out of what passes for a flourish among the Handless. But as I spun the contract around to face me, it wasn’t to critique his penmanship, but to figure out what in the heck I should call him. Because it hardly seemed fitting to keep referring to my new customer as “the mime.”
His signature was a vague squiggle.
“Look,” I said. “If we’re going to be working together, I need to know what to call you.”
The mime smiled, spread his arms wide as if to say get a load of this, then bent his knees and straightened them again.
“What the heck is that supposed to mean?” Sabina demanded.
The smile went a bit pained. He repeated the motion.
“You’re jumping rope,” I said. “Are you a boxer? Is your name Muhammed Ali? Ooh, I know, it’s Rocky.”
The mime shook his head and did it again.
“A bunny hop,” I guessed. “A pogo stick.”
Rufus nodded sagely. “That’s exactly how the slow-motion dismount of a gymnast from a pommel horse would look. He’s trying to tell you his name is Trigger.”
Sabina was running out of patience. “How long have you guys been at this?”
“Too long,” Yuri said.
Dang it, I had to get something right. It was a matter of principle now. “You’re looking for something on a low bookshelf. You’re doing squats at the gym. Wait a minute— I know! You’re crouching.” The mime shook his head emphatically… but if he wasn’t willing to speak up for himself, it was his problem, not mine. “That settles it. Crouch it is.”
All That Remains by RJ Scott
One
Lucas
Lancaster Falls was much as I expected it to be. A grid of roads with neatly spaced houses and one main shopping street with storefronts and bright awnings on either side. The town had an air of disuse— probably due to the heat and drought— and like many other towns, it was also struggling financially. The council records, the mayor’s report, the addition of PD information, all painted an image of a town in transition. Kids had moved away, businesses closed, and the opening of a new road north of town had cut down drive-through traffic.
Lancaster Falls had once been a tourist trap for the nearby Pennsylvania Grand Canyon, but now it was on its way to being a ghost town. However, its one redeeming income earner was that it did have a regular Christmas festival, which began in November and went straight through to January. I wondered if that would ever replace the new title of Home to the Hell’s Gate Serial Killer, or the equally distressing title of Murder Town, PA.
It wasn’t the FBI’s job to help a town through a crisis, but we did have robust protocols for positive marketing that we ran alongside any case. Avery was good at that, and I hoped that Bryan would release her from the current case they were wrapping up in Philadelphia and send her over to work Lancaster Falls with me.
She’d be all “Sure there’s a serial killer, but whoa, look at that Grand Canyon and Christmas Event you got going on!”
Of course, it was always possible the town might aspire to play on the uncovered horrors with guided tours, hotels with themed rooms, and guest speakers. Although the very detailed three-page memo we’d received from one Mayor Stokes had told us that our presence was not to exacerbate the issue.
Because finding a killer, apparently, would make things much worse than bodies in a sinkhole.
My satellite navigation took me to the Falls Hotel, shabby but welcoming, with a tended front yard that was a mix of stones and planters. The front yard space meant it was set back from the road, and an antique sign proclaimed that this was Falls Hotel, Lancaster Falls, home of the Famous Christmas Festival.
I counted twelve windows at the front, including one on the left ground floor that was large enough for me to see through to reception, currently manned by a young boy who stared right back at me. This could well be my home for the foreseeable future, and the pressure in my chest was enough for me to rub there, as if that would help. Fear and nerves fought and itched under my skin. I picked up the ice water next to me and took a gulp. I’d been so nervous that I’d stopped at a gas station ten miles out of town, just to give myself an excuse to delay arrival.
The irony of fighting to be the one here, the point man, away from the safety of my desk, wasn’t lost on me when my chest tightened. I’d told my boss I was ready, that I wanted the liaison role, that I’d even take a damn pay cut if they needed me to. I’d said it was because I wanted the challenge, but therein lay the issue. I didn’t want or need a challenge, but I was desperate to be in the middle of this case, and Senior Special Agent Bryan Dupuis, my boss and friend, knew precisely why. From a professional point of view, at twenty-nine, with very little experience in the field I was nervous I wasn’t ready, but guiding information flow was one thing I could do, and this was just a cold case.
A cold case that meant everything to my grandfather, whose health was failing.
I’m ready to do this. I had to give up on being the one working behind the scenes— for Grandpa Toby. The safety of information-gathering and dissemination with the team in Washington, at my desk, helping to solve cases in different ways, was a real thing.
Only this case wasn’t easy; it was a cold case involving human remains discarded postmortem into a vast sinkhole. To date, they’d been identified as women, plus one unfortunate young man named Casey McGuire, but that had been a more recent find, and might not even be connected.
I was here to be on the front line to find out if the woman my grandpa had loved, Carmen Kreuger, was one of those sets of remains. The Carmen issue, as my grandpa referred to it, had only come to light after Grandma Louisa had passed away. Then it had all been revealed, how he’d loved another woman, had gotten involved in her life, how he’d nearly destroyed his marriage.
Carmen had last been seen, just a few days after her fortieth birthday, in West Falls, a town not more than a twenty-minutes’ drive from Lancaster Falls. She’d once taught at a college in West Falls, but hadn’t been back to town for years. That day, she’d been in a sedan driven by a man no one seemed to be able to identify. There was no evidence as to why she’d been driving through West Falls, but she’d never been seen again. Grandpa’s notes spoke of a corrupt system of officials in Lancaster Falls, a police department that wasn’t any help at all.
When I’d approached Bryan, to ask to be attached to the Lancaster Falls case, he had sighed, but he hadn’t dismissed my request to be assigned to the task force out of hand. I could recall his warning word for word.
"Your involvement in this is coming down from high, from people who knew Special Agent Tobias Ruskin and respected your grandfather for the kind of man he was. They want your input. They have the files Agent Ruskin created on the case, the same as you. This isn’t a trek into your family’s past. This is a multi-team operation with a potential serial killer.”
I wanted to find out what had happened to Carmen Kreuger, and in doing so, give Grandpa Toby some kind of peace.
I pulled myself back to the here and now and cut the engine. The air conditioning went silent, and the heat it had held at bay began to surge. I'd driven most of this journey through wicked thunderstorms, but even though they were meant to break the heat, they hadn't managed it yet. They’d been noise and flash with rain so heavy I’d had to pull over on two occasions, and when they’d finished, any evidence they'd even been there was gone as soon as the heat returned, rain dissipating in steam from the sidewalks in the towns I’d driven through drying in an instant.
I waved at the kid in the window who was tall and skinny, with dark hair. He appeared startled at the action, but then he grinned and waved back. He made a gesture to indicate a question as to whether I was coming in, and I gave him a thumbs-up, but I also tapped my watch to indicate later and then looked away.
I wasn’t ready to get out of the car yet. I'd always been the shy kid at school, the one who’d sat at the back of the class and never said boo to a goose. It had taken years of focus and work for me to emerge from my shell. I could work with others to the point where no one thought of me as anything other than confident. On my downtime, however, I was a person who craved peace and a good book, but I worked up my Special Agent persona to the best effect when it mattered.
Still, I could take comfort in the fact that I wasn’t the guy at the top of the food chain here. There would be other members assigned to the team, likely reporting to Bryan himself, starting with Avery. The FBI didn't do things by half, and this was a complicated burial site. Also, we had the issue that this case was already in the papers; the whole shitfest was journalist heaven.
I might not need to do much coordinating, so I didn’t know why I was sitting in my damn car, panicking that everything rested on my shoulders alone. There were two ways this could go. The wider team, plus any ancillary staff requested to attend, could connect the dots and finish everything. Or maybe they’d find out that the women identified through their remains had no connection at all. It could be that the sinkhole was merely a convenient place to dump bodies in this area, and they were individual unlinked crimes, the same as how a river might hold secrets of murders going back centuries. There’d been one single thing in the pathology to indicate a signature from the killer, one common finding that led us to think serial killer though. A blade of some sort had cut the victim’s necks, deeply through skin and muscle so they would have been dead before disposal— the only blessing in this whole fucked-up mess. With the church burned to the ground and potential witnesses in the pastor and his wife deceased, we would be starting with a blank canvas, and anything was possible.
I’d almost gotten to the point where I could leave my car, and I rolled my neck, nodded to myself, and had my hand on the handle to get out.
Something slammed on the roof, and I jumped so high I wrenched my back.
What the fuck?
I glanced left and saw the flash of color and uniform and pressed the button for the window, realizing belatedly that with the engine off, this car was nothing but a useless brick. So instead, I gestured that I would open the door, and I stepped out, making each movement evident so as not to alarm her into thinking I was reaching for a weapon.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you need to move your car.” The cop was a slim woman, steely hair in a tight bun, and she held herself with complete confidence, her hand on the butt of her weapon. I hadn’t seen any signs prohibiting parking, but maybe this space was traditionally only used by guests.
“It’s okay, Officer,” I said with a smile. “I’m staying at the hotel.”
“Sir, please, you have to move the car.”
I didn’t have to be a trained agent to hear the slight shift in her tone or the way she glanced behind her, and it gave me pause. I looked that way, and a crowd was gathering.
“Is everything okay, Officer?"
“I won’t ask again.”
I checked but could see nothing. “What’s happened?”
I could see her indecision, along with a flare of irritation.
“There will be a press conference for media at a time to be instructed, sir.” She added that last honorific with a touch of exhaustion in her tone.
“Media? I’m not a journalist. I'm a federal agent,” I said. “Let me show you my ID.”
She stiffened when I slowly reached into my pocket, her fingers twitching on her holster. I pulled out my ID, holding it up so she could see it, and her eyes widened fractionally.
“Special Agent Lucas Beaumont. Okay, we were expecting this. I’m Officer Heather Beiler,” she said. “However, Agent Beaumont, I’m still going to need you to move back one block for now.” She gestured to the opposite side of the road. “And then…” She gave a sigh and shook her head. “I guess there’s something you need to see.”
I moved the rental to where she’d indicated and straightened my jacket and tie as I locked the door. The heat was oppressive, my white shirt already damp with sweat, but I wasn’t ready to take off my armor against the world just yet. I was going to be efficient, calm, and in charge of whatever the hell had spooked Officer Beiler. I fell into step next to her as we rounded a corner, skirting a park with an empty fountain, then headed toward the group huddled together and talking in low voices. A tape barrier fluttered beyond them, and Officer Beiler lifted it so I could go under. Inside the hallowed circle was a smaller group. One of them broke away to stop me as I approached.
“Special Agent Lucas Beaumont, out of the Washington Field Office." I held out my hand, which he shook firmly.
It seemed as if he wanted to stare anywhere but at me. I understood that. I wasn’t there to take over or make his life hell, but I knew the feds had a reputation, not helped by popular media, of getting up in people’s faces and causing stress.
“Captain Sawyer Wiseman, Lancaster Falls PD,” he replied.
“Captain,” I swallowed my nerves, pulling out my best interested-in-everything FBI persona and hoping the nerves stayed hidden. “Want to bring me up to speed?”
“In what context?” he asked.
We made it a rule not to take control of a crime scene if it had already begun, and right now, whatever this was, some fight or something, didn't require our involvement. I was there for the cold case, the remains in the sinkhole. “I'm just here for consultation and assistance, not to take over, so catch me up on what we have here.” Two other men, one in uniform, one not, formed a protective formation behind Sawyer, blocking my view of whatever the issue was.
Sawyer frowned. “That's not my worry. If the feds leading this means we find a solution, then I’m good with that. I'm not precious, and this is my town to protect. I just wanted to know where you stood.”
“Ready to help with whatever you need.”
He paused a moment, and I wondered if he’d had issues with the FBI in a past case because he looked suspicious. I was having a hard time judging him as he glanced over his shoulder to where the other cop stood.
Hennessy, according to his name badge, began to explain. “A dog who belonged to Adam Gray, one of the town’s fringe residents, a survivalist, has turned up and dropped remains on the ground.” He faltered a moment, and like Officer Beiler, he acted as if someone had taken a bag of cement and belted him around the head.
“More remains from the sinkhole?” It wasn't unheard of for animals to retrieve parts or eat them, or other horrible ends to what used to be human.
“No, this is…” He cleared his throat and then made a visible effort to pull himself together. “Unconfirmed, but we have reason to believe, from tattoos, that the remains belong to the survivalist. To Adam Gray.”
I’d seen a case like this before. A man had died in his apartment and hadn’t been found for two months and had been half-eaten by his pets, not a scene I ever wanted to witness again.
“Have you ascertained—?”
“We found the dog and the hand ten minutes ago,” Sawyer interrupted whatever I was about to ask, and I blinked at him. “The dog wouldn’t let anyone near it, apart from Officer Hennessy. Animal control is on their way, but we’ve managed to leash it.”
I fixed on one thing. “I’m sorry. Did you say ten minutes?” My head spun. “You should be shutting down the—”
“We’ve photographed the remains, the…” He stopped talking and stepped aside, so I got my first look at the hand, expecting it to be chewed and raw. I crouched down, and the sleeping dog who now didn't seem all that bothered by anyone’s presence lifted his head and panted. His muzzle was bloody, and his fur matted with both blood and dirt.
“Nothing to worry about,” someone said loudly behind me, and I saw Sawyer’s jaw tense.
“Mr. Sandoval,” Sawyer snapped. “I’d ask that you leave the scene.”
I didn’t turn. Former Captain Peter Sandoval wasn’t on my to-do list just yet. I heard Sandoval muttered a curse under his breath, but he stayed quiet, or left the scene, and I returned my attention to the hand.
This hand hadn’t been bitten and chewed on. It was nearly a surgical cut and horror washed over me— was this a fresh murder? Was it connected to the sinkhole remains? God. If it was, and this was a new murder, then we were facing a whole different ball game in the potential serial murder stakes.
There’s nothing to suggest there is a connection. There might never be a connection. This could be some random ax murderer. And since when was that an option I was pinning hopes on? A current murder, linked to historical deaths, and we’d arrived slap bang into the realm of copycats or even a resurgence of a dormant perpetrator.
“What the hell is going on?” A strident voice broke into our quiet assessment, and I turned to see an older man, all bluster and swagger, in a golf shirt that was way too tight across his stomach and checked trousers that made my eyes water. “Let me through!” the man demanded.
I was closest to him, blocking his way. “You have to stay behind the tape, sir.”
“And you are?”
“Special Agent Lucas Beaumont.” I held up my badge.
“Do you know who I am?” the man snapped. “I’m the mayor of Lancaster Falls, Gerald Stokes.”
He stepped toward the cordon, staring at the hand and the dog and the police. I pressed a hand to his chest. “Stay that side of the tape, sir.”
“I could have your badge for this disrespect.”
I doubt that, you pompous prick. “You can speak to my field office to register any complaints.”
He huffed a little, but behind me, Sawyer was issuing orders “Heather, you have the scene. The coroner will be here in thirty, animal control ten. Logan, you’re with me." He turned to me then. “Mayor.” He acknowledged and dismissed in the same breath. “Agent, we're heading to Adam’s property. Are you armed? We don’t know what we’re facing.” He didn't wait for me to say whether I was going with them, and I wasn’t there to take over what was happening in town. I wasn’t the big guns. I was the scout, the liaison, the logistics expert. I sprinted back to my car and slipped on the bulletproof vest and removed my weapon from its lock box, then pulled on my suit jacket to cover it all.
By the time I got back, all I could see was the back of the mayor as he walked away, his posture rigid, and he was on the phone.
Maybe he’s ringing the local field office. Oh, to be a fly on that particular wall.
As soon as I was at Sawyer’s side, we headed out, and I fell into a jog with them, wishing I’d not bothered to cover up my vest or holster with the jacket or at least taken off my damn tie. I was melting in this heat, and it was scratchy and uncomfortable around my neck.
“I assume you didn’t expect to be dumped straight into a crime scene, Special Agent Beaumont?” Sawyer asked as we neared what looked like a parking area, with the requisite sign displaying a map of the reservoir that filled the dip of the flooded valley. I knew the topography of this town and the larger West Falls some twenty minutes away from studying Grandpa Toby’s notes, although the reservoir hadn’t been the focus of his research back in the eighties. Or sinkholes. His attention had been on police corruption and their reluctance to talk to him or entertain any of his suggestions that Carmen Kreuger could have been in Lancaster Falls. He’d called the PD an incompetent group of jackasses. I just hoped to hell that had changed since then, but meanwhile, I would keep my wits about me.
“Not really, but please call me Lucas,” I managed between breaths. I was a fit guy, but too many years behind a desk was challenging my ability to keep up with these guys.
“Call me Sawyer,” he replied. “This is Officer Logan Hennessy.”
“Logan,” the man said. My research before I’d come here told me he was a former Army Ranger.
I waited expectantly for the fourth man who seemed as determined and focused to say something. “Drew,” he barked and then strode ahead with us quickening our pace to catch up.
“Drew McGuire?” I murmured to Sawyer.
“Yes.” He side-eyed me as if he expected me to argue with him, and I should’ve been saying that whatever we were heading for was not the place for a civilian, but I saw a flash of something in Sawyer’s expression and backed off. I could only hope my reaction demonstrated that I wasn’t here to mess with Sawyer or his decision-making process, even while holding the thought of the 80’ s corruption and hoping I wasn’t making a huge mistake. We jogged in silence a little while longer and came to Keep Out notices and more tape that had been torn to one side and coiled on the ground. One of the signs had been shot at, and the other had words crossed out. I heard Sawyer’s sharp intake of breath as he stopped by the first and traced the bullet holes with a finger. “Christ, it’s been used for fucking target practice.”
“Does anyone around here actually follow these no entry rules?” I asked and winced at what passed for passive aggression, which was number twenty-three on the list of things in my head that I needed to avoid. Say what you think. Comment. Don’t suggest. “Apologies. What I mean is, it has to be hard to cordon an area so wild.” Sawyer nodded and allowed Logan and Drew through, then me, before tying the cordon back. I heard sirens behind us and assumed it was paramedics called to the scene, or maybe the coroner was faster than light up here?
“We can’t get a vehicle any closer than this parking lot, but the Gray place is about a quarter mile from here.” Sawyer broke into a jog and gave a running commentary about land ownership, and then he gestured at the ground. “This was one of the original trails out of town down to the rail tracks, but the creation of the reservoir, Iron Lake, truncated it, and the whole area fell into disrepair. Now the only person who would need to use it is Adam Gray himself.”
“The possible owner of the hand,” I murmured.
He nodded. We reached a gate, and I could see that there was a fence in the undergrowth, a lot of it obscured by tangled climbing weeds. It had the look of something out of The Walking Dead, makeshift barriers reinforced with lengths of sharp barbed wire, and behind that was a solid metal gate.
“What are we expecting?” Logan shifted his medical bag on his broad shoulders. He was a big man, capable, with a focus I admired. I imagined he was very much the action hero I expected an Army Ranger to be. And yes, I had dossiers on all the cops in the town, as well as the key characters from my grandpa's research and the extra I’d done myself. I knew all about Sawyer becoming captain after the former chief, Peter Sandoval, had retired, a cop who had been part of that group my grandpa called corrupt; Sandoval had been one of the newest of the team but had risen through the ranks quickly as people died or moved on.
I held a private theory that Sawyer Wiseman was the best thing to happen to Lancaster Falls PD, based on what I’d gleaned from research. Inevitably, I’d form more fact-based conclusions as the days wore on.
The gate was wide open, a yawning hole in the otherwise solid, barbed wire-tipped metal fence. Sawyer took a deep breath and glanced at me. I considered that maybe he was waiting for me to instruct him on what happened at the scene, but he would know it wasn’t me who was in charge. This wasn’t my case.
Yet.
After a pause, he spoke. “We take this slow. We assume the other dogs are in here somewhere, not all friendly. I want your body-cam on Logan. We take photos where we can, and we’re cautious. Got it?”
I nodded along with Logan.
Cautious was my middle name.
Touch & Go by Brigham Vaughn
MAY 15, 2013 – SKOKIE, ILLINOIS
Micah
Micah Warner awoke, squinting into the dark as he wondered where he was. The rattling snores reminded him. Cook County, Illinois.
A shithole apartment in Skokie with walls thin enough to hear every snort and gasp. Every pause when Levi Paynes rolled over in his sleep. Or maybe it was when he stopped breathing. Some nights, Micah wished the first baseman would do a whole lot less of the breathing thing. He understood now why no one had wanted to share an apartment with him. No one had wanted to put up with the goddamn snoring. Micah hadn’t had any choice since it was the only open team apartment, and they didn’t have any more host families available. He sure as hell couldn’t afford anything else.
Though to be fair, he was getting used to it. It wasn’t what had woken him.
No, it was something far worse.
Micah sat upright in bed, then carefully rolled his shoulders back one at a time. The left wasn’t so bad. Tight, but nothing to worry about. The right … he felt a catch mid-roll, freezing when a sharp stab of pain made him draw in a deep breath.
Fuck.
Micah breathed through the pain until it slowly faded.
After a few minutes, it settled to a low, deep ache, but the remaining fear made his heart race. Knowing he’d have a hard time falling asleep, Micah got out of bed and trudged to the kitchen. The city lights streamed in through the windows and guided his way past the sagging sofa in the living room and the boxes he hadn’t unpacked yet. At least, the freezer was cold and stocked with ice packs. He settled one over his right shoulder, not even bothering to wrap it in a towel. The shitty wall-mounted air conditioners in the apartment could barely keep up with the mid-May heat and humidity, so the icy plastic felt good against his bare, sweaty skin.
Micah walked back to his bedroom, keyed up from the anxiety and worry zinging through his body. He settled onto his bed again before rearranging the ice pack over his shoulder for maximum effectiveness. Not as good as having it taped on by an athletic trainer but it would do. The green glow of the clock said it was 2:47 AM. Fuck, he’d be tired tomorrow. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, but it would take hours before he’d fall asleep again.
This was the third night in a row he’d woken in pain.
Micah was used to pain. Used to pushing his body to the limit and collapsing into bed at the end of the day, exhausted and aching. He knew how to play through muscle cramps and mental fatigue. He’d competed with pulled hamstrings and a sprained arm. As a kid, he’d even fractured his fingers during practice but waited to tell his coach until after they’d won the championship game a week later. Baseball hurt. He was used to that. But it had never hurt like this.
Don’t do this to me, he pleaded with his body. Don’t fail me now. I’m so fucking close.
Blind Side by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
The razor-sharp edge between Before and After. That’s what haunted Will.
That split second between the moment when all options were still on the table, when there were still infinite possibilities as to how it could all play out, and the moment when the choice was made and consequences rolled out with the inevitability of high tide.
He hadn’t seen it coming. That was part of it. He’d been blindsided.
And the thing was, it had started out as a perfectly ordinary evening. No indication of what lay ahead. In fact, the ordinariness of it was what made it perfect.
“Why don’t we celebrate?” he’d said.
Not quite five o’clock, it was nearly dark as they crossed the wooden bridge. The damp twilight smelled of car exhaust, Mexican food, and maybe, distantly, the ocean. Colorful lights blinked and twinkled in the ragged black silhouettes of the surrounding trees. In the manmade hollow beside the Spanish-style strip mall, the miniature golf course was decorated for the holidays with fake snow and leafy garland. It looked like Santa’s Village. Quaint, cute, commercialized.
Will didn’t mind. He sort of liked the holidays, even if they typically worked straight through them. People tended to be in a better mood around the holidays, and people in better moods were a good thing in their line of work. Less bullets. More bonuses.
Taylor answered, “Sure. What did you have in mind?”
“A couple of steaks. A couple of drinks. An early night.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Taylor’s “Okay” was said absently. He probably couldn’t have read Will’s expression in the dusk anyway, but he was no longer looking at Will. He was staring ahead at their office, the last space in the mall, where a blond man in a leather jacket was exiting through a glass door that read American Eagle.
“He changed his mind,” Will commented, following Taylor’s gaze. “He doesn’t want to know she’s cheating.”
Taylor made a dismissive sound. They didn’t do cheating spouses. They weren’t PIs. They were security consultants, and as of this afternoon’s successful landing of the Webster Fidelity account, they were moving into the big leagues just like they’d been talking about since they’d left the Diplomatic Security Service to strike out on their own three months earlier.
The man in the leather jacket hesitated for a moment, aimlessly jingling the keys in his pockets, and then started toward the bridge. Technically, there was parking in the mall, but the hair salon at the opposite end guaranteed that there was rarely any available space. Will and Taylor always parked on the street.
Anyway, it was just as well this guy was bailing. Securing the Webster account solidified the fact that they were understaffed. Not as understaffed as they had been two weeks earlier when Will had persuaded Euphonia Jones to quit her job at the DMV and come work for them. But for the first time ever, they did not need another client.
As though reading his mind, Taylor said, “Maybe he’s dropping off his résumé.”
Probably not. Nothing about that slender, slightly aimless figure gave off a law-enforcement vibe.
“So. Outback? Black Angus?” Will returned to more important matters. “Aloha Steakhouse?”
“Aloha,” Taylor said. No surprise there. He did not like chain restaurants. Well, and after Paris, neither did Will.
The blond man had reached the head of the bridge and was starting toward them. His aftershave, a distinctive and disagreeable blend of musk and patchouli—what was that? Obsession?—reached them first. Taylor checked mid-stride.
The man also seemed to lose step and waver, peering forward as though trying to see through the gloom. He said doubtfully, “Taylor?”
And in a voice Will had never heard out of him before, Taylor said, “Ashe?”
He sounded—well, the cliché would be he sounded like he’d seen a ghost. But actually, he sounded like he was a ghost. The ghost of his former younger self. Taylor’s husky voice sounded lighter and uncertain, and there was just the suggestion of a boyish crack. It startled Will.
Taylor and Ashe strode toward each other, and hugged—or rather, half hugged, half collided—before stepping back to have a look at each other. Or at least as good a look as they could get in the wavering shadows of the Christmas lights.
“Taylor. It is you,” Ashe said. “I was thinking it couldn’t be. That it had to be some other Taylor MacAllister.”
“Jesus. How long has it been? What are you doing here?” Taylor was already turning to Will, making the introductions. “Will, this is Ashe Dekker. Ashe is an old friend of mine.”
Will shook Dekker’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” There wasn’t much he could add to that because until that moment, he’d never heard of Ashe Dekker.
Taylor was still talking. “Ashe, meet Will Brandt. Will’s my partner. We worked together at DS.”
“Sure,” Dekker said. “How’re you doing, Will?” His grip was firm, though his hand was ice cold.
“Great.” Will studied Dekker curiously—and felt his interest returned.
Dekker was a good-looking guy. Average height, slim, with carefully groomed stubble and the kind of shaggy haircut that actually costs a fortune. His clothes were casual and expensive: designer jeans, leather jacket, alligator skin Western boots. Will didn’t think much of guys who wore cowboy boots as a fashion statement, but he was willing to make an exception for a pal of Taylor’s.
“Taylor and I were at UCLA together,” Dekker said.
“Right,” Will said. So this was a very old friend, predating any of Taylor’s other old friends—not that Will had met so many of them, and not that Taylor had so many of them. “What brings you to our neck of the woods?”
Dekker gave a self-conscious laugh. “To be honest, I was hoping to hire you. Hire American Eagle, that is.”
Taylor said, “You need security consulting services?”
“I’m not exactly sure what I need,” Dekker said. “But I think someone’s trying to kill me.”
Euphonia was locking the front door when they arrived at the office, Ashe Dekker in tow.
“That’s okay, we’ll lock up,” Will told her.
“The painters are coming at eight. I was going to run home, have dinner, and come back.” Euphonia—Nee to her friends—was a petite black woman with a mop of bronze-gold curls and wide brown eyes. For years she had been their go-to girl at the DMV, so it had been a surprise, when they finally met in person, to discover she really was a girl. She was only in her twenties.
Regardless, she was a paragon of efficiency and ingenuity, and within the first week they had promoted her from receptionist to office manager. Not that that meant a whole hell of a lot, given there were only the three of them employed at American Eagle.
“They’ve got an access code,” Will said. “You don’t need to drive out here again.”
Euphonia smiled the smile of a woman who was going to do exactly what she thought best. She glanced past Will, spotted Dekker, and said in surprise, “Oh, you changed your mind?”
Dekker grimaced. “Yeah. Sorry for being so mysterious.” He said to Taylor, “I was here earlier. I, er, declined to fill out any paperwork.”
“That’s okay. Let’s hear your story first,” Taylor said.
“Thanks, Nee. Is your car on the street?” Will asked Euphonia.
She sighed. “No, Agent Brandt. My vehicle is located in the lot as ordered.”
“Good. And we’re not feds anymore.”
“Uh-huh. You can take a boy out of the agency, but can you take agency out of a boy?”
They were still trying to come up with an answer to that as Euphonia swept out into the damp night, the brisk click of her heels fading quickly.
“She’s been waiting to use that line on us,” Taylor commented, resting his hip on the edge of Euphonia’s terrifyingly neat desk.
“I know.” Will ripped the plastic off one of the waiting room’s two brand-new chairs, saying to Dekker, “Have a seat, Ashe.”
“I’m sure I freaked her out,” Dekker confessed, taking the chair Will indicated. “I couldn’t stop pacing up and down.”
“She used to work for the DMV. She’s freak-proof.” Taylor absently picked up a paperweight shaped like a crumpled 1040 application, raised his brows, and replaced it.
Dekker watched him. In fact, Dekker seemed to have trouble taking his eyes off Taylor. Not that Will blamed him. With his black hair, burnished green eyes, and elegant bone structure Taylor was probably Will’s favorite thing to look at.
Maybe Dekker was comparing the college kid with the man. Maybe he was wondering about that striking single strand of silver in Taylor’s hair—a souvenir of his shooting almost two years ago now. Maybe he was looking at the wedding ring on Taylor’s left hand and wondering exactly what “partner” meant.
If it was the last, good, because Taylor was definitely off-limits to Ashe Dekker.
Now that he could see Dekker in the light, Will reconsidered his original impression. The guy was attractive, true. He had that kind of bad-boy sexy vibe that Will found annoying, but that appealed to some people—Taylor maybe? His features were a little too sharp, his eyes a little too narrow, his mouth a little too thin. He looked quite a bit older than Taylor, but that could be because he was also—appeared to Will, anyway—a drinker. That slight puffiness around his pale blue eyes, the tiny broken capillaries on the tip of his otherwise perfect nose? Taylor’s dad was a drinker, so alcohol abuse was not a trait he found endearing. Although everybody had their exceptions to the rule.
It was hard picturing this guy being close to Taylor. Close enough that a decade later he felt he could call on him when he was in trouble.
Maybe that was more about Taylor than their friendship, because one thing about MacAllister: he was loyal. He was also not what you’d call a naturally gregarious guy. He had friends, of course, a few good men, as the saying went. And for the most part, those were relationships that stretched back years.
Will tuned back in to hear Dekker saying, “I’ve been living in Europe a while now. Anyway, after my mother passed, I came back to sell the beach house and found a bunch of squatters had moved in.”
“Squatters,” Will repeated, glancing automatically at Taylor.
“Right. They call themselves a family, but if they are, it’s more like the Mansons than the Brady Bunch.”
Squatters? That was the threat? That was what had driven Dekker to reach across time and tap Taylor? Will couldn’t help thinking it was kind of a flimsy excuse. Or were they now supposed to be in the trash removal business?
“What did you do?” Taylor’s attention was still focused on Dekker.
“I went through all the legal steps. Posted a three-day notice, filed an unlawful detainer, made sure they were served—”
“Made sure who was served?” Taylor interrupted. He was not the stickler for details Will was, but he liked his facts straight.
“A guy by the name of Mike Zamarion seemed to be the head man. His was the name I used for the lawsuit. He never responded, so I got a default judgment.”
“This has been going on for a while, I take it?” Will asked.
“It’s been going on for about six months.”
Will nodded.
Taylor said, “Then what happened?”
“I took that judgment to the sheriff’s department, but when the deputies went out to the beach house, everyone was gone. Their stuff was still there, though, so I figured they were hanging around, watching the place, waiting for a chance to come back.”
“Probably,” Will said. He was starting to wonder why Dekker had had second thoughts about asking for their help. Since he didn’t seem to realize this was not the kind of service they provided, it couldn’t be that. But he had changed his mind about hiring them. He had been in the process of leaving their office without giving Euphonia his contact info. If the traffic had been just a little worse, they’d have missed him and that would have been that.
Of all the nights for smooth sailing on the 101.
“The deputies went ahead and changed the locks, although I guess technically, they were only supposed to post a five-day notice. If you can believe that bullshit. I hired a company to clean out the place—which the assholes had trashed—and to dump their junk.”
“Ah.” Taylor glanced at Will. “Problematical.”
“Yep.”
In California, the laws concerning squatters vs. trespassers were a little more complicated than in some other parts of the country. Trespassing was a criminal charge and much simpler to resolve, whereas, depending on a variety of factors, squatters actually had rights and protections. Even after a formal eviction, dumping or destroying a squatter’s belongings could lead to legal problems for the property owner.
Plus, it was a shitty thing to do.
Granted, so was squatting in most cases.
“Well, I know that now,” Dekker agreed, “because Zamarion came back demanding I hand over their personal property, and when I told them everything had been carted to the dump, they threatened to burn down the house, which they tried to do a week later.”
“Are you sure—” Taylor was, by nature, a skeptic. It was one of the things Will liked about him.
“I’m sure,” Dekker said with finality. “According to the fire department, it looked like arson.”
This was getting better and better.
“Sounds to me like a case for the sheriff’s department,” Will said. Maybe working in conjunction with the fire department investigators. Maybe not. Looked like arson wasn’t exactly conclusive. What none of this sounded like was a case for a global security consulting firm.
Taylor directed an unreadable look his way.
Dekker said, “That’s what I thought too. Except the sheriff’s department says there’s nothing they can do. Even after someone ran me off the road a couple of nights ago.”
“Wait a minute. Back up.” That was Taylor. “You went to the sheriff’s department with an arson report? And told them about threats made by—”
“Zamarion. Like I said, he’s the ringleader. He claimed he’d been paying property taxes for the past two years and had a legal right to the house. He said he hadn’t received the eviction notice and that it had been illegal to change the locks and dump their belongings.”
Which, if this Zamarion guy was telling the truth, was correct.
Will said, “Ashe, I know you’re not going to want to hear it, but this is a civil matter, not a criminal one.”
That time the look Taylor threw him was one of impatience. But Will was just telling it like it was. Clearly, the sheriffs weren’t impressed by the arson report, assuming there had been one. This whole thing was a mess and a matter for the courts. It sure as hell wasn’t something they needed to be involved in—although if someone really had tried to kill Dekker…
“Did Zamarion pay the property taxes?” Taylor questioned.
“Yes, but so did I. The way it works, his payments were applied to future bills, but there won’t be any future bills because I always pay my taxes. The fact that he’s paid toward the property taxes complicates my selling the house. It’s the craziest situation.”
“You said Zamarion made threats,” Will said. “What kind of threats exactly?”
“The kind you take seriously.” Dekker’s blue eyes grew glittery with emotion. “He came to the house and told me, in front of witnesses, he’d see me dead before he’d let me force him and his so-called family out.”
“That’s a criminal threat. If he made it in front of witnesses, you can—”
“Take him to court?” Dekker’s laugh was bitter. “Sure. If the sheriffs can find him. He’s a transient. He doesn’t have a legal residence. He’s using my house as his mailing address. And if I can persuade the painters to testify—that’s another big if right there since their own legal status is questionable. In the meantime, Zamarion is going to keep on trying to kill me.”
Taylor chewed his lip, said, “Do you have proof that the person who tried to run you off the road was Zamarion?”
“You mean like a convenient snapshot of the license plate number? Hell no! I nearly went off a cliff. There wasn’t time to grab my cell phone and start snapping photos!”
“Okay.” Taylor was calm, his voice neutral. “How are you so sure Zamarion was the other driver?”
“Of course he was! Who else? He had just threatened to kill me the day before! That’s not a coincidence.”
Taylor opened his mouth, but Will cut in. “MacAllister. Can I have a word?”
“Sure.” Taylor’s tone was easy, but the look he gave Will was direct and uncompromising. Clearly, his mind was already made up.
Well, he could just unmake it.
They went through the reception area door, crossed the hall, navigating ladders and cans of paint, and stepped into the boudoir-pink room that would ultimately be Will’s office. Their building space had previously belonged to a bridal shop, and the walls were painted in delicate shades of peach and pink. Pastel wallpaper borders featured parasols (why parasols?) and wedding cakes and lovebirds nibbling gold bands. None of which projected the appropriate YOUR SAFETY IS IN OUR HANDS! vibe—or even, in Will’s view, a reassuring preview of marriage.
They were hoping to have the renovations finished before the end of the year, but the holidays turned out to be an unexpectedly busy time for contractors. Most of the work at American Eagle was having to be done after-hours—and at a premium price.
Will closed the door to his office. He kept his voice low. “Okay, listen. Dekker is a friend, and I understand that you want to help him, but this is clearly a case for the sheriffs.”
“Sure,” Taylor replied. “That doesn’t mean we can’t take a look around, ask a few questions.”
Will didn’t trust that reasonable tone. “Yes. If that’s all you’re talking about. Because we’ve got to be realistic. You know as well as I do, we’re not in a position to take on another client.”
Taylor shrugged dismissively. “If you don’t want to take Ashe on as a client, that’s okay with me. I wasn’t planning on billing him. I’ll handle this as a favor. In my spare time.”
This was exactly what Will had feared. Taylor had not only already made his mind up, he was busily working out the details before they could even finish identifying what those details might be.
He tried very hard to keep his exasperation from showing. “What spare time? You don’t have spare time. Neither of us do.”
“What’s your point, Will?” Taylor rested his hand on his canted hip, and studied him with cool, green eyes.
That—in fairness, unconsciously—cocky posture, that skeptical really? stare, were the reason so many people longed to punch Taylor five seconds after meeting him. It wasn’t really who Taylor was. Or rather, yeah, the confidence, the cynicism, were facets of his personality, but not the main facets, and not traits he typically turned on Will.
Obviously, this was a unique case, and Will needed to respect that. Which he was trying to do.
He said, “All I’m saying is, doesn’t it make more sense—isn’t it better for all of us—if we direct Dekker back to the sheriff’s department? And if you don’t feel like that’s enough, we can refer him to another—”
Taylor cut him off. “Uh-uh. We’re not referring him anywhere. Ashe came to me.”
“I know that. That’s why I’m saying—”
“I gave Ashe my word that if he ever needed help, I’d be there. I didn’t say, if you ever need help, I can refer you to someone. I promised I’d be there for him.”
“I get that.” Will did. It would be unreasonable to be irritated with Taylor for making those kinds of promises years before they’d ever met. He wasn’t irritated, and he definitely wasn’t jealous—he didn’t think—but Christ, Taylor could be so bullheaded.
“Do you?” There it was. That hint of cynical smile. “Because that’s not what I’m hearing.”
“What you’re hearing is me trying to work out what’s going to be best for all of us. We’re not bodyguards—”
“We’ve handled plenty of protection details, so don’t give me that. What’s your real beef?”
“My real beef is not two hours ago we landed the kind of job we’ve been hunting since we left the DS, and we both know we don’t actually have the manpower to carry it off.”
“So we’re going to be stretched thin. We should be used to that by now.”
“So, taking on another job—one that’s liable to be as time-consuming and distracting as this one sounds—is not smart.” He shook his head.
“It’ll take a day. Two at most.”
“You’re dreaming.”
“The hell. You think I can’t handle tracking down this Zamarion guy?”
“Of course I don’t think that. But come on, you know what this is going to be. Chasing smoke in the wind.”
“I know.”
“Then you admit it’s not an efficient use of our resources.”
Taylor opened his mouth, and Will added, “And while we’re on the topic of resources, I thought you were frantic to pay Richard back? Just this morning you said again how much you didn’t want to be in debt to him. Which is all the more reason not to take on a pro-bono gig that’s liable to jeopardize the first job we’ve had that might allow us to start paying off that debt.”
Everything Will was saying was true, so it was maddening to have Taylor keep looking at him with that skeptical expression like…what? What did think was really motivating Will?
“I see,” Taylor drawled. “If David Bradley came to us for help, you’d just give him the name of a good local firm and send him on his way?”
Will felt himself change color. “It’s not the same situation. David is—was—”
He stopped, realizing he was wading into quicksand.
Brows arched in pointed inquiry, Taylor said mildly, “David is—was—?”
“David is our friend—”
“He’s no friend of mine.”
“He’s not someone from my distant past asking for a favor. And anyway, I’d have to tell David the same thing I’m telling you now. We don’t have the resources to handle this.”
“Bullshit.”
Somehow the quietness of that was more jarring than if Taylor had shouted at him. “If David Fucking Bradley came through that door, asking for your help, you’d move heaven and earth to give it to him. We both know it. And guess what? I understand that. I even respect it. Which is why I expect you to understand and respect my position. I’m not asking you to put in extra hours. I’ll handle this on my own. And I’ll make damn sure that it doesn’t interfere with the Webster Fidelity job. Okay? Fair enough?”
No, it was not okay, it was not fair. It was foolish and impractical. But after Taylor invoked David’s name, what else could Will say? No way in hell could he risk arguing with Taylor about David, and clearly that’s where this conversation was headed.
Will said curtly, “Fair enough.”
Taylor nodded, yanked open the door, and they walked in silence back into the front office. They found Ashe scrutinizing a stack of framed photos. He looked up with an expression of hope mixed with wariness, and set aside a seven-year-old picture of Will accepting his marksmanship qualification badge.
“Okay,” Taylor told him. “We talked it over. We’re taking your case.”
“You are?” Ashe threw a quick, doubtful look at Will.
“Yes,” Will said.
Ashe still seemed unsure. “If this isn’t the kind of thing you do—”
“We do whatever needs doing,” Taylor said.
“It’s our company’s slogan,” Will said sardonically. “We’re going to get it printed on coffee mugs.”
Taylor gave him an unamused look before saying to Dekker, “Where are you staying?”
“The beach house. Carpinteria.”
“Okay, I’ll drive up first thing tomorrow and take a look around. You can fill me in on the rest of the story. We’ll start there and see where it leads us.”
“That’s… I don’t know what to say. Thank you,” Dekker said, with another of those slightly ill-at-ease glances at Will. “Thank you both.”
He did seem thankful. But Will couldn’t help thinking Dekker also seemed more scared than when he’d first walked into their office.
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
When she's not writing you can find her blogging away on Diverse Reader, her review and promotional site. She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she'd tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you're afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
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.
K. Evan Coles is a mother and tech pirate by day and a writer by night. She is a dreamer who, with a little hard work and a lot of good coffee, coaxes words out of her head and onto paper.
K. lives in the northeast United States, where she complains bitterly about the winters, but truly loves the region and its diverse, tenacious and deceptively compassionate people. You’ll usually find K. nerding out over books, movies and television with friends and family. She’s especially proud to be raising her son as part of a new generation of unabashed geeks.
K.’s books explore LGBTQ+ romance in contemporary settings.
Brigham Vaughn
Brigham Vaughn is on the adventure of a lifetime as a full-time writer. She devours books at an alarming rate and hasn’t let her short arms and long torso stop her from doing yoga. She makes a killer key lime pie, hates green peppers, and loves wine tasting tours. A collector of vintage Nancy Drew books and green glassware, she enjoys poking around in antique shops and refinishing thrift store furniture. An avid photographer, she dreams of traveling the world and she can’t wait to discover everything else life has to offer her.Her books range from short stories to novellas. They explore gay, lesbian, and polyamorous romance in contemporary settings.
To stay up to date on her latest releases, sign up for the Coles & Vaughn Newsletter.
Jordan Castillo PriceAuthor and artist Jordan Castillo Price is the owner of JCP Books LLC. Her paranormal thrillers are colored by her time in the midwest, from inner city Chicago, to small town Wisconsin, to liberal Madison.
Jordan is best known as the author of the PsyCop series, an unfolding tale of paranormal mystery and suspense starring Victor Bayne, a gay medium who's plagued by ghostly visitations. Also check out her new series, Mnevermind, where memories are made...one client at a time.
With her education in fine arts and practical experience as a graphic designer, Jordan set out to create high quality ebooks with lavish cover art, quality editing and gripping content. The result is JCP Books, offering stories you'll want to read again and again.
RJ Scott
RJ Scott is a USA TODAY bestselling author of over 140 romance and suspense novels. From bodyguards to hockey stars, princes to millionaires, cowboys to military heroes to every-day heroes, she believes that love is love and every man deserves a happy ending.
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Davidson King
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com
Charlie Cochrane
EMAIL: cochrane.charlie2@googlemail.com
K Evan Coles
GOOGLE PLAY / BOOKBUB / B&N
EMAIL: coles.k.evan@gmail.com
Brigham Vaughn
SMASHWORDS / PINTEREST / SCRIBd / B&N
EMAIL: brighamvaughn@gmail.com
Jordan Castillo Price
WEBSITE / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
SMASHWORDS / LIVEJOURNAL / B&N
EMAILS: jordan@psycop.com
jcp.heat@gmail.com
RJ Scott
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
My Whole World by Davidson King
Lessons in Following a Poisonous Trail by Charlie Cochrane
Straight Up by K Evan Coles & Brigham Vaughn
Don't Rock the Boardwalk by Jordan Castillo Price
All That Remains by RJ Scott
Touch & Go by Brigham Vaughn
Blind Side by Josh Lanyon
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