Sunday, February 28, 2021
February Book of the Month: Heroes for Ghosts by Jackie North
Soulmates across time. A sacrifice that could keep them apart forever.
In present day, near the village of Ornes, France, Devon works on his master's thesis in history as he fantasizes about meeting a WWI American Doughboy.
In 1916, during the Battle of Ornes, Stanley is a young soldier facing the horrors of the battlefield.
Mourning the death of his friends from enemy fire, Stanley volunteers to bring the message for retreat so he can save everyone else in his battalion. While on his mission, mustard gas surrounds Stanley and though he thinks he is dying, he finds himself in a peaceful green meadow where he literally trips over Devon.
Devon doesn't believe Stanley is who he says he is, a soldier from WWI. But a powerful attraction grows between them, and if Stanley is truly a visitor from the past, then he is Devon's dream come true. The problem is, Stanley's soul wants to finish his mission, and time keeps yanking him back to relive his fateful last morning over and over, even as his heart and body long to stay with Devon.
Will Stanley have to choose between Devon and saving his battalion? Will time betray their love, leaving each alone?
A male/male time travel romance, complete with hurt/comfort, French coffee, warm blankets, fireplace kisses, the angst of separation, and true love across time.
This was brought to my attention when I asked in a FB M/M book rec group for stories with a similar concept to the movie Groundhog Day, the whole repeating the day over scenario. When I also learned this had a WW1 element, I was all kinds of grabby hands. I was not disappointed.
I have to start off by saying this: I don't often make mentions of details in stories because I'm a spoiler-free reviewer but this isn't a spoiler, this is more of a feeling, a reason why I'm a history lover. When Devon is wobbly about his thesis, about telling the story, wondering if anyone will care, Stanley's answer is spot on how I feel about history and why it's an important subject and why everyone needs to learn it.
“The whole thing is stupid,” said Devon. “After everything you’ve been through. After hearing about it from you and having you show me the trenches, telling me about that guy who lost his leg—which isn’t in the records anywhere—because you were there, and you suffered for it. For me to write a paper about it, it’s like I’m benefiting from that without having paid the price.”The twisted feelings that had started when Stanley had shown up on the green grasses that were all that was left of a disastrous battle had risen to the surface, and he’d said them aloud. He could barely look at Stanley with this confession ringing in the air. His constant awareness about the futility of war was only the half of it. The other half was the loss that war brought, inexplicable and never-ceasing, and Stanley had been the one to go through that. Not Devon.“But you’re telling the story,” said Stanley as he stood up and came over to Devon, so close that as he took a step forward, Devon found himself against the wall. “You’re telling all of our stories, mine, Isaac’s, everybody’s.”“Nobody will care,” said Devon. His voice broke on the last word because he realized that it was true. None of his friends cared, and his thesis advisor had strongly suggested he focus on another aspect of the Great War. In the end he was alone, except for Stanley, who could be dragged back through time at any moment.“I care,” said Stanley. “And you care. You can put the stuff that I told you in your paper, and then one day, somebody will read it. It’ll matter to somebody, someday.”
Now, I know the whole time-travel sub-genre gives this historical a fantasy twist but this moment in time, this exchange the author gives between the two men is so important, it really resonated with me, it's how I have felt whenever someone says "why do I need to know, it happened years ago to people I don't know". Their actions had a bearing on life today, time is what connects us all but most importantly, those souls of yesteryear, be it on the world stage or your own family tree, lived, they mattered and those stories need to live on. In these few paragraphs that I shared the author put voice to the importance more than anything I've ever read before. For that alone, I have to say a huge "Thank You" to Jackie North.
Okay, off my soapbox and onto the story.
HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!! How have I not seen this series before? How did it not cross my reading path? Heroes for Ghosts is a brilliant tale of history, fantasy, science fiction, romance, and drama with characters that are likeable, loveable, wanting-to-know-able, I'll be honest it ticks every single one of my reading boxes. I've read historical paranormal/supernatural/fantasies before but too often the historical element gets lost in the world of fantasy so for Jackie North to combine all these factors AND keep the historical accuracies is just pure . . . well it's magical(and I'm not talking about the time-travel bit😉).
Devon is a history lover after my own heart, thesis or not if I didn't have family keeping me grounded now, the idea of going to the place history happened and living in a mostly state of seclusion to do the research sounds absolutely heavenly. I can also honestly say, if I came across Stanley the way Devon did, my mind would be a bit teeter-totter as to believing him and worried he escaped from an institution too. I don't see how anyone couldn't love either of these men, they are just so real and wonderfully written, there is no doubt to this reader they have to have their HEA. If you follow me you'll know what my next statement will be: to see how the men get there you'll have to experience their journey for yourself.
And what a journey it is! You won't regret it, historical lover or not, if you love an old fashion journey of storytelling than this is for you.
I'll add that this is my first Jackie North and it certainly won't be my last because if her backlist is only half as good as Heroes for Ghosts than it will still be a pleasure to dive in.
Chapter One
A mortar shell exploded at the far end of the trench, spraying black debris that slammed into the mud and sent up the acrid odor of burnt tar and hot, damp earth. Stanley hunkered down with mud up to his ankles, his backside pressed against the broken end of a mortar gun, his hands on his helmet as his body shook with the force of the blast. He tried to stem his tears as Lieutenant Billings stabbed at the radio with a bit of metal wiring to see if he could get it to work again. Between the mortar rounds, the radio responded with squawks and low pitched shrieks and then went quiet.
If the radio had been even six feet to the left, it would have been safe from being torn apart by the shell that had directly hit the trench mid-morning. And if Bertie, Isaac, and Rex had been on the other side of Stanley when that shell had hit, then they would be alive. Then he would have had someone to worry with, someone who would bolster his courage so he could respond to Lt. Billings’ earlier request.
He missed his friends, but he wanted to be brave for them now. Lt. Billings needed a volunteer to run across the trenches and the misty, frost-bitten fields to contact the major in charge to get the final message for retreat. The battalion needed a retreat or all of the 200 men were going to be smashed to bloody bits and their families would not hear from them come Christmas.
It was horrible. Stanley wondered how he ever imagined that signing up and shipping off would be an adventure worth having, something he could tell everybody about back home. There was no way he could convey the tragedy of it, the futility of a radio that didn’t work, of trying not to look at the bodies of his friends that were currently beneath a tarp for decency’s sake.
Whether there would be a break in the shelling so that they could be buried was anybody’s guess; the way it had been going, they would likely get frozen in place, spattered with mud and bits of shrapnel, and nobody would be able to bury them till spring. By which time, the war would be over, or they’d all be dead. Or both.
Stanley was shaking all over, and told himself it was because he was trying to warm his body up, but that was another futility, a lie he could barely hold on to. The Germans were coming closer with each passing hour. The shells were louder and more on target, and soon they would die. All of the battalion’s efforts would come to nothing, and Stanley would be another body beneath a tarp, and nobody would have the energy to bury him.
He would become part of the landscape, part of the stretch of brown mud and red blood, decorated with torn limbs. The uniform he wore so proudly would turn into the tattered remnants of desire to do good, to fight for one’s country, and to keep families and children and grandmothers safe. At least that’s what the recruitment posters had stated, and behind every one had been the American flag, rippling with patriotism and an overwhelming urgency.
Stanley had signed up alone, but had soon met his three friends during training. They’d stuck together, sharing the burden of fear, bolstering each other up, proud to fight and do right. Only it was wrong, so, so wrong because what was happening seemed to be for no reason at all, and everything they did as a battalion felt like they were merely going through the motions.
Men kept dying, though the sudden silence across the top of the trenches indicated that the Germans seemed to have let up for the moment. Which left Stanley alone with Lt. Billings, and on the verge of blubbering. He was shaking with the effort of not crying, though his face was hot with tears he kept having to blink away as he tried to focus on what Lt. Billings was doing.
“The wire goes under,” said Stanley with a croak. “Under on the left.”
“Oh, yes?” asked Lt. Billings. His voice was gruff.
He didn’t look at Stanley, all of his attention on the radio. He moved the wire as Stanley had suggested, and while this brought a sound from the transmitter, it ended in another ineffectual squawk.
The worst of it was that Stanley had previously thought the radio was too much in the open and ought to be moved, just in case. He’d not wanted to step on Lt. Billings’ toes, though, as the lieutenant had only just taken over from Colonel Helmer, and had not said anything.
Helmer had been the worst commander anybody had ever seen, and the muttered comments among the enlisted men had almost grown into a roar. Though Stanley might have given him some leeway, due to his age, Colonel Helmer had taken the coward’s way, run off in the night, and had not been heard from since. With the tenseness among the men, Stanley hadn’t wanted to point out that the radio was in harm’s way. It might have been seen as a challenge to the order of command, which was the last thing that Stanley wanted to do.
He’d refrained from talking about Helmer, and had generally kept his mouth shut. But if he’d not done that, if he’d given into his natural proclivities to think with his mouth open, they might have a radio now, might already be in an officially sanctioned retreat, and Rex, and Bertie, and Isaac would not be dead. They’d be beside him as they all scuttled to the rear of the battle and clambered into trucks to be taken to somewhere a bit safer than where they were.
It was all his fault, then. All of it. His lungs felt as though they were running out of air, and his belly dipped so hard he thought he might shit himself in fear. The only thing for it was to do something so that it didn’t get worse. And that meant answering Lt. Billings’ question from earlier that morning.
“Sir?” asked Stanley, though he realized that his voice was too soft to be heard. “Sir?” he asked again, more loudly this time.
“It just sparked,” said Lt. Billings, completely focused on the radio. “If I move that wire again, I’m going to fry this fucking thing.”
Stanley scrambled up from where he was, his boots slipping on the mud as he surged forward to land on his knees at Lt. Billings’ side.
“Sir, I’ll go,” said Stanley. “I’ll take the message and bring the code back.”
Lt. Billings’ hands froze in the midst of what he was doing, and then he slowly turned his head. The lieutenant’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his face was be-grimed with smoke and mud that seemed to have pushed its way into his skin. He didn’t smile as he looked at Stanley, and his expression was grim.
“You might not come back,” said Lt. Billings. “In fact it’s a death sentence. Do you want that?”
Lt. Billings was so unlike Commander Helmer in every way; Stanley knew that it was a death sentence, so Lt. Billings, not one to suffer fools, was making sure that Stanley knew exactly what he was getting into. A zigzag run across a field of dead bodies, horse carcasses, guns, gouged earth, and barbed wire, all the while dodging bullets and shrapnel and mustard gas.
“There’s no other way,” said Stanley. He wiped his hand across his upper lip, and took a hard breath, feeling his metal ID tag like a circle of cold ice in the middle of his throat. “You said so this morning. If we don’t get the order to retreat, we’re all going to die. Right here in this trench.”
He did not add that they could retreat anyway, without the order, and save a whole lot of lives. But Lt. Billings was a seasoned army officer, and while he might take it upon himself to take control of a battalion that was currently officer-less, it was not in his makeup to call such a command without a direct order.
Stanley could try to convince Lt. Billings to overstep his authority, but that would only get everyone irritated, and as they were all so edgy already, it would be the worst way he could contribute. The best thing for him to do, besides throw himself on a land mine, was to step up and volunteer. It wouldn’t bring his friends back, but it would give their deaths meaning. Or would it? At any rate, it would be better than sitting with his ass in the mud watching Lt. Billings mess with equipment in a way that was probably making it worse. If only Stanley had spoken up and told him to move the radio.
If only Stanley had told his friends to sit someplace other than where they had. If only Stanley had been born at a different time, and had missed this stupid war entirely. One hundred years ago or a hundred years from now, it made no difference to him. But he was here now, and he needed to do his best for the sake of his friends’ memory.
He stood up and made an ineffectual pass at the front of his wool sweater vest. He winced as his fingers touched dried blood, the source of which he didn’t want to identify, but which had been the spatter from Rex’s head as it exploded. Rex would have gone with him, big and silent and close as they crossed the field of battle to carry the message.
“I’ll go,” said Stanley.
Lt. Billings stood up too, though he didn’t reach out to shake Stanley’s hand. Stanley was glad about the lack of the gesture because that would have truly meant that Lt. Billings did not expect him to return, but was only sending him out because there was nobody else who would go.
“Find Major Walker,” said Lt. Billings. “Give him half the message, and he’ll know I need the other half. He’ll tell you what that is, and when I have the whole message I can call retreat. Tell him I sent you, you got all that?”
“Yes, sir,” said Stanley. His heart was thumping in his chest, threatening to push its way out, and his knees started to knock together. “I’ll bring the message back, I promise.”
“It’s a foolish thing to make such promises,” said Lt. Billings. He shook his head, and looked down at the busted radio before looking up at Stanley. His expression was so deep and serious that Stanley knew he was going to die the minute he stepped out of the trench. The alternative, however, was to stay in the trench and watch while his friends’ bodies froze in the mud, taking his heart with them as they became one with the earth, and that he could not bear.
“Here’s a canteen and here’s your rifle,” said Lt. Billings. “You might need to kill some Krauts, and you won’t believe how thirsty you can get when you’re running hard, terrified enough to piss your uniform.”
Stanley took the canteen and looped it over his neck and shoulder, then hung the rifle across his chest in the other direction. He wasn’t exactly armed to the teeth, but he had a pouch of bullets and could give somebody a run for their money. After that, he’d be out of bullets and dead in a ditch somewhere.
He couldn’t think about that now. He needed to go over the top and start running. The major would be in a trench at the back of the field, at least that was the general idea in most battles.
“That way, right?” asked Stanley. He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb.
“More over that way,” said Lt. Billings. “Straight across and then over. He’ll be in the right quadrant. You won’t see any flags, but it’s going to have more sandbags and look a damn sight tidier than where we are now.”
“Yes, sir,” said Stanley.
He straightened up and gave Lt. Billings the most efficient salute he’d ever managed, out of respect. Then, not allowing himself one last glimpse at the pile of bodies at the end of the trench, he pushed his way past the three soldiers who were manning a Howitzer that was almost out of shells, and climbed up the ladder.
Stanley slipped at the bottom rung, and was tempted to call it done then and there. For the memory of Isaac, Rex, and Bertie, and all the others, he made himself go up and up till he was standing on top of the ridge, looking over the dip in the earth that ran next to the ruined castle and the small cottage whose roof was half gone.
The sprawl of barbed wire along the top of each trench was intertwined with the dark flags of smoke that twisted and moved as though it was alive. The sun was a smudge through the brown and black haze, and the smell of hot oil and human excrement shot itself into his lungs with his first breath. The air was cold and it seemed as though frost speckled the air like little bits of diamonds made half yellow by the smoke from fires and the general exhalation of despair and gloom and death. Stanley watched a shell explode a hundred feet to his left, turned the other way, and started running.
The idea was to get out of the line of fire, for that was where the major was to be found. The easiest way was to follow the line of trenches, to run inside of them, along the bottom, and make his way there. He started to run, his canteen bouncing, his rifle banging into his thigh the whole while.
At the edge of the trenches were the round tops of helmets. Beneath those glimmered the exhausted, tired eyes of soldiers who saw him go, who knew where he was headed, and who had no hope that he would make it. A few soldiers stood up and fired beyond Stanley to draw enemy attention away from him when he had to cross over the top of a trench to get to the next one. The shots zinged around him anyway. If he slowed down, he was going to take a hit, so he kept low in the trenches and kept running.
His boots slipped as he headed down a small hollow, and he almost fell to his knees as he went up the other side; it was like trying to run up a waterfall, only this one was of mud, with bits of shell and hunks of rock. Just as Stanley got halfway to the top, he heard the high-pitched pop of a canister as it opened, and even before he smelled the bitter tang, a yellow cloud of mustard gas descended around him like a blanket of pure poison.
He brought his hand to his mouth, and staggered to the top of a trench, and though he kept his breath shallow, he felt his lungs collapsing, and fell to his knees, coughing up spit, his hands in the mud, his eyes closed. The yellow swirl filled his brain until there was nothing left but an empty ache and the sting in his lungs. He barely felt his head hit the mud and then sighed, thinking that it would be good to stay right where he was, for what did it matter anyhow? And then it became blackness, so, so much blackness.
Chapter Two
Devon checked his notes, which he kept in a suitably old-fashioned canvas notebook, and continued typing on his laptop. It was always easy if he just started and kept typing for a good solid hour. That way, he didn’t have the time or brain energy to doubt his own ideas. Besides he was on the tail end of the project, so there was no shifting to another thesis now, no changing themes. No going back. Soon the miracle of the grant would come to an end, and his time in the cottage near the little French village of Ornes, where once the brave 44th Battalion had met its sad fate, would come to an end as well.
He paused to consult the chart that the university’s meteorology department had emailed him, though he didn’t really need to. He had it memorized, as well as the other five spreadsheets, and the 15 colored charts that indicated the weather over the course of the battle. He’d picked this one battle because his advisor had told him to focus, which would help keep the thesis from going all over the place.
It was slightly amusing to know so much about a single event, but it was a little sad, too, with the futility of it all. The lack of supplies, plus the terrible rain that had remained positioned over the small valley, made life in the trenches a living hell. The men in the battalion had all been young and inexperienced, fighting and dying without having much effect on the overall war, which had ended three years after the battalion had met its fateful demise.
Devon pulled up Google and entered WW1, which the search engine finished for him, as he’d entered the term so many times that he and the search phrase were practically on kissing terms. He didn’t even have to capitalize it, though he did, out of respect. Then he clicked on Images, and scrolled through what came up.
It was always the same, hundreds and hundreds of black and white images of battlefields. Some of the images were streaked with the dust that was on the camera lens when the photo was taken, others scratched, some sepia toned. Then he typed soldiers, and pressed enter, and sighed as the familiar array of pictures of World War I soldiers displayed before him.
The young men who had fought the war had had no idea what they were getting into. At the beginning, it must have seemed like a lark to join a war as their uncles and grandfathers had. But the brutal conditions in the trenches, the lack of technology to coordinate efforts over vast tracks of land, not to mention the flu pandemic, all of that had been bad enough. To Devon, the worst of it had been the innocence that had been destroyed.
If he really wanted to torture himself, he’d entered American doughboys in the search field, as the nickname would bring up hundreds of pictures of young American soldiers fresh-faced and ready to ship out to war, but his heart wasn’t in it this morning. He couldn’t bear to see them, not when he was writing about the lack of bullets, the bad food, and the cold front that had lingered over the area for weeks, making the boys cold and damp and miserable.
He was fascinated, however, with how they looked, though it wasn’t always good to let himself give in to his obsession. He loved their American faces, sweet and innocent, their eyes full of adventure. Their hair was typically greased back in a jaunty way, as if they assumed that once they got to the front that there’d be more Macassar oil and mirrors available so that they could check their look once they’d applied it.
So he didn’t do more searches. Instead, after writing a few hundred more words, he got up and stretched, and thought about making some coffee. The French had the best coffee he’d ever tasted, smooth and silky; even the regular stuff was miles better than it was in the States, though maybe that had to do with the lack of haste in which the French drank it. Though that was only in town, as there was nobody in the cottage to watch him whip up a cup in his French press, and then to stand there drinking it black, hoping it would wake him up so he could finish his stint for the day.
Or maybe he should just go for a walk now? Anything to take him away from the dull task of replicating spreadsheets of data into small, manageable tables. He hated working with tables, and never could remember how to get them to break between rows instead of across them. Besides, it was good to step back from his obsession every now and then so that he wouldn’t be so much the mad grad student who couldn’t think of anything else other than doughboys or coffee rations, or canvas tents, or canvas puttees, or canvas-covered canteens with lift-the-dot fasteners, which had been invented in the Civil War, or before that—
With a shake of his head, Devon put on a pair of sneakers that would instantly mark him as being an American, but he wasn’t going into town, only across the fields. Then he grabbed a sweater and jacket, and after he’d bundled up in layers, went out into the misty afternoon. He could leave the door unlocked, and usually did, unless he was going into the village or would be gone for a while.
Back home, he was lonely, just as he was now, mostly because he was always involved in his work. But also it was because nobody else he knew was doing a master’s thesis on how weather affected the battle of the 44th Battalion outside of the village of Ornes. Nobody from his college days could understand his passion for the subject, let alone take the time to listen. He bored everybody he knew within moments of meeting them, and his loneliness had grown.
At least in France, he could imagine that he was alone because there was nobody around; the grant that he’d received had included a stipend and use of a cottage that had once stood at the edge of the trenches that the 44th had dug. The cottage was a mile from the village, which had a compact but thorough museum and history center about the war. Most academics, however, preferred to study the area that had been closer to the Western Front. That was where the Battle of the Somme had been fought, and which, incidentally, was closer to Paris, where all the amenities of life could be found, according to one of his very few fellow students.
Devon had been to Paris, of course, you couldn’t come to France without going, and it had been wonderful in a lot of ways. In the end, though, Paris was just another city like Denver, big and crowded and noisy. He told himself he was here, in Ornes, because he preferred the quiet countryside, which he did. Except now that the field stretched out before him, the cool rain falling, he couldn’t decide whether he was contented or lonely. Perhaps both. So he began to walk.
The air was fresh on his face, and a keen wind kicked up as he clambered up one of the mounds of earth. The edges of the trench had been dug long enough ago that they were softened by time and covered with a carpet of green grass. He was high enough that he could look across at the cemetery, which occupied the flat valley at the edge of the trenches. It was dotted with white crosses, ten rows of twenty, two hundred and one in all. There was the memorial at the far end with an inscription to the over 200 brave men of the 44th Battalion who’d lost their lives.
Some days, he liked to go all the way around and stand in front of the memorial. He liked to admire the marble carved to look like American and French flags, crossed across their flagpoles. Beneath the flags, the stone was meant to look like mourning swags, but which, especially in the rain, usually looked like cold stone that couldn’t possibly reflect, let alone empathize with, the condition of being mortal and dying in a strange country far from home.
Today was one of those days where he didn’t think he could bear it. Instead he faced away from the memorial and looked out over the acre or so of earth, the rippled rows of lush green corduroy where once the battlements of barbed wire and old railroad ties had fortified the trenches and kept out the enemy.
The wind was in his face now, but it whipped the cobwebs from his thoughts and allowed him to just look and see and not take mental notes. To not think about what would happen after he finished his exams, oral and written, to not think about what it would be like to be an associate professor whose days and nights were so focused that he would get paid for feeling bad about American doughboys. He felt bad for all of the young men, even those who had been among the enemy. The war had been a stupid, foolish rush for power, as all wars were, only this one had been tragic beyond belief. Had there been any benefits? Few, very few.
Devon shook himself and strolled along the top of a trench, his hands in his pockets, his sneakers growing damp with each step in the wet grass. With his head down, he tried to imagine that he was a young soldier, perhaps on watch in the middle of the night, or when dawn was just breaking over the edge of the battlefield.
There might be the smell of coffee, or the mournful, faraway sound of voices as the men woke up and prepared for another day of fighting. What would that coffee taste like? Who would his friends be? What was his rank? How did he feel about the shovel he’d used to dig the trenches he and his buddies were now hunkered down in? Where was the shovel, and did he have blisters from using it?
These were the thoughts that really drove him, really interested him. He wanted to know what it had felt like to be a doughboy, to really be one. Only this was the path that led his thesis advisor to roundly scold him for getting distracted from the main point, and which had driven off his more casual friends and the guys he met with on the weekend to go running or to go to the bar.
One friend had actually told him that gay guys weren’t supposed to be as geeky as Devon was, which seemed a rather limited view, not to mention rude. For who was to say? Devon liked guys, but he liked burying his nose in a book and spending hours in the library. He also enjoyed walking around, like he was now, pretending he was somebody else.
He stopped and saluted an imaginary commander on watch so that he could be relieved of his duty and go get something to eat. There would only be bully beef and tea, and maybe some sugar, if he were lucky. He’d eat with his pals, and together they would make jokes about how hard the biscuits were, and laugh in the face of danger. Then maybe they’d stack shells so they could be used in battle, firing at the enemy.
In truth, though, Devon’s imaginings always turned away from actual fighting and ended with an image of him in a circle of soldiers, one of whom was bending to light a primus stove so they could make some hot tea. That was the moment that always drew him, that huddle of soldiers, their faces lit by some imaginary light as if in a painting, joined together in adversity, strengthened each by the other. That’s what he really wanted to be a part of, and what he always felt he’d missed out on.
Which was foolish because the price to pay for that was being involved in the war where the possibility of dying, probably needlessly, was almost one hundred percent.
Devon reached the far end of the field where the trenches ended and dipped down as though fading away as they turned into a blacktop road that led to the village. The edge of the field was marked by a copse of trees that gave the whole area a solitary feel. Standing there always felt as though he was miles from anywhere, though only a single mile separated Devon from the small village with its shops, and museum, the patisserie that sold mostly sweet things, and the one that sold mostly daily bread, and the string of restaurants, of which there were surprisingly many for such a small place.
He turned and started walking back, trying to resist the impulse to take off his shoes so that he could connect with the earth. Truth be told, his real desire was to touch his skin to a flake of dust that somebody from the war had touched. He kept his thoughts from the idea that he might one day find bone, or blood-darkened earth caked around a bayonet because it had been over a century since the fateful battle, and surely all of that had been dug up by now. But the image was a vivid one, so he took off his sneakers and socks anyway so he could at least stand there and think about the doughboys in this one little moment, and pretend that he was one of them.
Which, as it inevitably did, led him to lie down in the wet grass along the slope of a trench, his arms and legs spread wide to absorb as much of the energy of the place as he could. He also felt that if he held still enough, he could absorb the memory he was sure the earth held, an idea that he’d never shared with anyone because they would not believe him. Worse, they would make fun of him, and while he was a steady sort of person, this one thing, this tiny part of his heart, was one he could not bear to have broken.
With the soft rain falling on his face, he looked up at the sky and thought about being a soldier. He breathed so slowly that he became almost still. This was one of his favorite moments, when the cottage seemed a faraway place that he might have made up in his imagination, and technology was farther away than that. Where the world was only the sky above, the green grass beneath, his breath misting in the cool air, mingling with the breath of soldiers, his beloved American doughboys, from years past.
He ignored the fact that the dampness was soaking into his clothes, and that soon his spine would feel like it had been fused to the earth in one long column of ice. In another minute, he would realize how foolish this was and rise into consciousness. He needed to come back to reality, go back into the cottage, change into dry clothes, and put another two good hours into his thesis. Then he could have something to eat, another cup of coffee, and then he could pull up Netflix and do his very best to watch something other than a movie or documentary about World War I.
Jackie North has been writing stories since grade school and her dream was to someday leave her corporate day job behind and travel the world. She also wanted to put her English degree to good use and write romance novels, because for years she's had a never-ending movie of made-up love stories in her head that simply wouldn't leave her alone.
Luckily, she discovered m/m romance and decided that men falling in love with other men was exactly what she wanted to write about. In this dazzling new world, she turned her grocery-store romance ideas around and is now putting them to paper as fast as her fingers can type. She creates characters who are a bit flawed and broken, who find themselves on the edge of society, and maybe a few who are a little bit lost, but who all deserve a happily ever after. (And she makes sure they get it!)
She likes long walks on the beach, the smell of lavender and rainstorms, and enjoys sleeping in on snowy mornings. She is especially fond of pizza and beer and, when time allows, long road trips with soda fountain drinks and rock and roll music. In her heart, there is peace to be found everywhere, but since in the real world this isn't always true, Jackie writes for love.
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EMAIL: jackienorthauthor@gmail.com
Heroes for Ghosts #1
Series
Sunday's Safe Word Shelf: When Morning Comes by Avril Ashton
Rich kid playboy Logan Sabourin has long been in love with his best friend. He’s learned to keep his game face on and smile, despite wanting to be Ryan Mora’s submissive in the worst way. He can’t be with Ryan the way he wishes, so when Ryan’s birthday rolls around, Logan buys his friend a fantasy. A submissive for the night.
Ryan Mora agrees to the elaborate gift his best friend gives him, only if Logan joins in. Lucky for them, his one night submissive, Cassidy James is all for it. What started as Logan and Ryan sharing Cassidy turns into something deeper as a whipping scene reveals Logan’s submissive side. Soon Ryan is entertaining the prospect of having more with both men. But when morning comes, and Cassidy and Logan are nowhere to be found, it’s up to Ryan to turn their one-night fantasy into reality.
When Morning Comes is a short and sexy read featuring light BDSM elements, friends-to-lovers, and M/M/M loving with a HFN ending. No cliffhangers or cheating over here. This is a previously published work. The cover and publisher has changed. The content has not.
Chapter 1
There is no name, no website, no building. You won’t find an ad in the classified anywhere. No one knows who owns and operates the business. All that exists is a phone number passed on in hushed, reverent tones to those who need it. This isn’t an escort service. It’s about fantasies, having them fulfilled. Customers pay to have their every sexual fantasy realized. For one night only, no rules apply. Between consenting adults, anything goes.
“Why are we here?”
Logan Sabourin smiled at the confusion on his best friend’s face. “It’s a surprise.”
That earned him a scowl. Ryan didn’t care for surprises. He liked being in control. Which was why Logan had planned this night for him. He’d give Ryan what he knew his best friend wanted and needed. Even if it meant heartache for Logan.
“You know I don’t like surprises, Logan.” Ryan sat down on the edge of the bed in the room at the Brooklyn Marriott. He leaned forward, staring into Logan’s eyes. “Tell me what you’re up to.”
“What makes you think I’m up to anything?” Logan tried to sound innocent, but he didn’t think he pulled it off.
“I know you,” Ryan said. “I know that look in your eyes.”
Ryan did know him. They’d been best friends since they were sixteen years old. But Ryan didn’t know everything. If he did he’d hate Logan. “What look do you think you see in my eyes?” Logan glanced at the clock on the wall. Time was fast approaching when he’d have to walk out of the room and leave Ryan to spend the night with someone else. Someone who could give him what he needed, what Logan wished he was brave enough to offer.
“Logan, stop playing.” Ryan got to his feet and started pacing. “I don’t want to be here tonight of all nights.”
“When else would you be here?” Logan went to him, allowed himself the pleasure of touching Ryan’s shoulder before quickly dropping his hand. “It’s your birthday, for God’s sake. Relax and enjoy the treat I got for you.” He winked. “I spent a shitload of money.”
Ryan sighed. “I don’t need anything, you know that.”
It was true. Neither of them needed material things. They’d been born into privilege, had trust funds no one man could spend in two lifetimes. Still, Ryan was a bestselling mystery writer in his own right, using a pen name to escape the scrutiny being a Mora would bring. Logan had put his art degree to use and opened up a gallery. Sabourin Art galleries were now in L.A., Brooklyn, and Manhattan, with more to open in other major cities. He’d made his own money as well, away from his parents’ influence.
“There are some things you still need,” he told Ryan. “I know you like to be in control.” He broke eye contact and walked away, putting space between them, as otherwise Ryan might see what Logan had been hiding since the day he got a glimpse of Ryan’s naked chest. “You like being in control, especially in the bedroom.”
“So?”
“When was the last time you had that?” he asked over his shoulder. “You’ve been busy writing, always on a deadline.”
“It’s my job, Logan.” Ryan frowned. “I love it.”
“I know.” Logan softened his tone and faced him. “I know, but you’ve just sent the latest to your editor, and it’s your birthday. It’s time to celebrate.”
“Is that why we’re in this hotel room?” Ryan looked around. “To celebrate?”
“I got you someone.” Logan hid his hands behind his back, fingers crossed. He wanted Ryan to say yes, and he wanted him to say no. He wanted to hear Ryan say he felt the same way Logan did, that he loved him and only him and didn’t want anybody else. That wasn’t going to happen.
Ryan stared at him blankly. “You got me someone?” He shook his head. “What does that mean?”
“Someone to control, someone who wants to be dominated by you.” His throat went dry, so he swallowed. He and Ryan shared partners once in a while, sometimes when they went out to the clubs. They’d share a fuck, but they’d never crossed the line, as much as Logan wished they had. They shared, but were never intimate with each other. He’d watched that feral look darken Ryan’s eyes when he slid into his commanding persona. More than once Logan wished that dominance was directed at him. He never gave up control, not even when he bottomed, but he wanted Ryan in him, and he wanted his best friend to take him over. Completely.
Logan would never have it, but Ryan needed it, so as his best friend, Logan ordered up a fantasy. A phone call and a whole lot of money later, here they were.
“You bought me a prostitute?” Ryan stepped forward, fury on his face and his fists balled. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“What? No.” Logan held up his hands. “It’s not—”
“A fucking prostitute, Logan?” Ryan grabbed the front of Logan’s shirt and shook him. “Cancel it, right now.”
Logan licked his dry lips. He shouldn’t like it, but he did. Ryan’s angry eyes flashing at him. The tight grip on his shirt, Ryan’s knuckles grazing the bare skin at his neck. He liked it. His cock throbbed, and he looked away. He’d lose his best friend, and that wasn’t a chance he was ever willing to take. The alternative was better, so he resolved to suffer in silence.
“This isn’t a prostitute thing, Ry.” He jerked away from Ryan’s hold. “This is about fantasies, yours and those of the guy who’s on his way here. Fulfilling them.” A gorgeous blond with blue eyes. Someone he knew Ryan wouldn’t be able to resist.
Ryan combed his fingers through his dark hair. “You’d better give me something better than that bullshit. Explain yourself, Logan.”
Logan swallowed the Yes, Sir that swelled on his tongue. “This is about bringing likeminded people together. You want someone to control, and someone else wants to be controlled. The company simply brings you two together.”
Ryan scoffed. “What kind of place is it, and how did you hear of it?”
Logan shrugged. “I hear things. All I, and the other people who’ve used the services got, is a phone number. There’s no website, no name. Just that phone number. You call them and tell them what you want, and they find someone who fits your needs.” He’d spent a fair amount of time on the phone, talking to an automated female voice as he put his plans together.
Ryan sank onto the bed. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”
Logan smiled. “The guy who’ll be yours for the night paid a fee, a very handsome fee, I might add, to have the pleasure of being with you. Of having you dominate him. It’s a onetime deal. People pay to have their pleasures sated, one night only.”
“So, he’s not—”
“An escort? A prostitute?” Logan shook his head. “No. He’s a professional, a businessman in his own right.” He’d been sent information on the guy, Cassidy James, along with a photo. He was twenty-nine, had a clean bill of health, and was a lawyer. “His fantasy is to be controlled, so he paid for it. Yours is to control, and I paid for that. The company only exists to make sure you two meet.”
Ryan stared up at him, eyes bright and focused. Logan fought a shiver. “You did this for me?”
Sadness squeezed Logan’s chest. He forced a smile. “I’m your best friend. I’d do anything for you.” God, that hurt to say, because it was so fucking true. He’d do anything, even deny himself what he wanted.
Ryan jumped to his feet and pulled him into a tight hug. “You’re crazy, you know that?” he mumbled against Logan’s neck. Logan barked a shaky laugh. “I know.” He slapped Ryan on the back, took a quick whiff of his hot skin, then stepped back before his friend felt the erection Logan couldn’t contain. “I’m gonna go. Leave you to it.”
“What? No way.” Ryan grabbed his arm. “We can enjoy him together, can’t we?”
Oh, God. No they couldn’t. Not tonight. Logan couldn’t handle it tonight. “No.” The word was a whisper. He cleared his throat. “This is for you. Besides, I’ve got my own plans. Gonna go get me some ass as well.” Actually his plans were to go back to his condo and drown his sorrows in scotch, but Ryan didn’t need to know that. Lots of things his friend didn’t need to know.
“No, you’re not.” Ryan smiled at him, a smile wide and blinding in its brightness. Logan loved that smile. “You’re staying put.”
“Ry, no. He didn’t sign up for two people. That’s a different fantasy altogether. We can’t blindside the poor guy like that.”
“We’ll give him the choice.” Ryan shrugged. “It’ll be up to him.”
“No.” Logan shook his head. His nails dug into his palm. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” His throat hurt. He couldn’t do it.
“You will.”
A knock sounded on the door. Logan’s pulse leapt. “Open the door, Ryan.” He looked around for his car keys. “I gotta go.” He turned away.
“No, Logan.” Ryan touched him, his shoulder, but the heat sank through Logan’s shirt and seeped into his skin.
Logan closed his eyes. His control was frayed beyond belief. All the years of keeping himself in check were finally getting to him. He had to get away before he lost it completely.
The knock came again.
“Open the door, Ryan,” he said sharply. “I have to go.”
“Don’t move, Logan.”
He froze, his cock throbbing. Fuck. How many times had he lain in bed and jacked off to that stern voice in his head, telling him what to do? How many times had he shouted Ryan’s name as he came, spilling in his fist? How many times had he fucked someone, wishing he was the one at the bottom and Ryan was above him, pounding him into the mattress? He’d never have it, not if he spilled his guts, not if he told Ryan how much he loved him. And tonight of all nights, sharing a partner, watching Ryan dominate someone all while wishing he was the submissive?
No. Hell no.
He spun around as Ryan opened the door. A tall blond stood in the doorway, a hesitant smile on his face.
“Hi, I’m Cassidy James. I—” His gaze lifted from Ryan to Logan hovering nearby. A shadow crossed the guy’s face. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t...”
A Grenadian transplant, Award-winning author, Avril Ashton, now lives in Tucker, GA, with a madly tolerant husband. Together they raise a daughter who’s pretty meh about reading and school. Avril’s earliest memories of reading revolve around discussing plot points of Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys with an equally book-minded mother.
Always in love with the written word, Avril finally decided to do the writing in August of ’09 and never looked back. Spicy love scenes, delicious heroes, and wicked women burn up the pages of Avril’s stories, but there’ll always be a happy ending; Av remains a believer of love in all its forms.
To date, Avril’s books have hit Amazon’s Top 100, Top 10, and Top 5 Bestseller’s lists countless times. She’s also been nominated for numerous awards, including Best Author, Best series (Brooklyn Sinners), and Favorite All-Time Author. In 2013 Avril won Evernight Publishing’s Reader’s Choice Award for the LGBT (Male/Male) category. Recently she took home the Golden Ankh award for best Male/Male romance for her bestselling novel, Sinner’s Fall.
Addicted to cake, the ID Channel and the UFC, Avril writes Gay and Erotic Romance.
When Morning Comes #1
As Night Falls #2
Until the Sunset #3
Saturday, February 27, 2021
Saturday's Series Spotlight: Amber Falls by Rheland Richmond Part 1
Summary:
Holiday at home, check. Snowstorm, check. Hot boss ... check?
Ford Erickson didn't plan to take his hot, and very rich boss home for Christmas. But when an incoming snowstorm grounds flights and there are no vacancies in the small town of Amber Falls, Ford finds himself in close quarters with the aloof man he’s been lusting over.
He’s bound to make Santa’s naughty list with all that temptation.
A family Christmas in a small town was not how Sawyer Lancaster expected his holiday to go… and his plans definitely hadn’t included his adorable assistant and his lovely parents welcoming him into their home. More like a holiday in his cold apartment… alone.
But then again, the best gifts don’t always come wrapped in pretty bows.
When the weather clears, will Sawyer find to the courage to accept that maybe, just maybe, he’s found the perfect gift in Ford?
Summary:
Ford broke the rules and fell for his boss. Hard. All that time stranded together over Christmas, who could blame him?
And maybe it was the magic of sleigh rides and kisses under the mistletoe, but... Sawyer fell for him too. Or, heck, maybe not. Because now that Sawyer had been called back to NYC, he'd gone radio silent.
Like... nothing, nada, zilch.
He was only supposed to be gone ten days, but now it's been a month and Ford is losing his cool. Would it be too crazy to hop a plane and go looking for him?
But what Ford finds when he gets there only deepens his confusion, because his boss is holding a toddler and suddenly everything Ford had thought about his boss makes him question if he even knows the man he’s fallen for.
Has Sawyer been leading a double-life this whole time and he's just too lovestruck to notice?
Read Stranded With The Boss first to enjoy this finale of Sawyer and Ford's story!
Summary:
A single, grieving father.
A manny with a big heart.
Two kids who need them both.
When Dean loses his wife, he wonders how he’s supposed to raise his children alone. Meeting Owen is like a wake-up call... Owen was the lifeline keeping them from drowning… he still is.
Owen loves taking care of Dean and the kids, but he's broken the manny’s cardinal rule: No falling for the father. Especially a straight one.
After six years of one-sided emotions, he knows he can't stay.
Faced with losing Owen, Dean must confront his true feelings for the man who's helped heal his family, and his heart. He only hopes he hasn't waited too long to find the happiness they all deserve.
It's time for a change — and another wake-up call for Dean, before he loses his second chance at love.
Stranded with His Boss #1
1
Ford
“All flights have been canceled until after Christmas. Private planes are no exception. I’m sorry, sir, but nobody’s going anywhere.” Ford hung up the phone and forcibly swallowed the scream of frustration building in his throat.
His boss, Sawyer Lancaster, was the definition of an entrepreneur. He had what the Financial Times had called the “Midas touch,” meaning whatever company he invested in usually ended up making a mint. The Amber Falls resort was his current one.
The door to Mr. Lancaster’s temporary office was open, and he was currently clearing his desk of all the files and blueprints until they returned in the new year. Ford looked at his boss moving around in the office, all sleek and suave like a jungle cat. Jungle cat! Really Ford… He shook his head at himself. Whatever. The fact was his boss was possibly the most good-looking man Ford had ever laid his eyes on, not to mention successful, meaning he won the most eligible bachelor lottery.
So there’s no way he’s noticed you, Ford. Maybe if he said it enough, his stupid heart, or maybe places further south, would get the memo.
That was probably how Mr. Lancaster had convinced old man Roberts to sell the small ski hotel his family had owned for almost three generations. Now, his boss would be turning it into a high-end ski resort in the winter, and in the summer, it would offer a number of recreational activities, including hiking, mountain biking, zip-lining, and all the other wonderful outdoor things you could dream of doing during the warmer months.
Construction would start in the new year, and that was when Mr. Lancaster was supposed to be returning after he’d left for the holidays, but it looked like he wouldn’t be leaving at all. With the weather the way it was, there was no way Mr. Lancaster was making it to New York for the holiday season.
Ford knew it wasn’t his fault that his boss had chosen to leave things until the last minute to book a flight, or that they were snowed in. But it now fell on him to tell Mr. Lancaster he wouldn’t be going anywhere.
How on Earth was Ford supposed to tell a man, who probably didn’t know the meaning of failure, that there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of getting a flight out of town?
I’m so screwed.
Everyone else had left for their Christmas vacation, and it was just him and Mr. Lancaster remaining in the office. Christmas fell on Tuesday this year, and today was Thursday. According to the weather forecast he’d checked, after speaking to the very unhelpful woman on the phone, they were likely going to be snowed in until Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.
Ford loved living in the small town of Amber Falls. To him, it was perfect. They had the ski slopes, the gorgeous lakes, the mountains, and the most awesome hot spring ever. He’d grown up in Amber Falls, and he would probably die here if he had anything to say about it.
Amber Falls was the best of small-town America. There were bigger cities within driving distance, but they were still, in essence, a small-town community where neighbors still looked out for each other.
The town’s main source of income was tourism, yet they were selective on who they allowed to open up shop. Ford saw it as the best of all worlds, but he wasn’t sure how to tell his uber-sophisticated boss that he would be having an Amber Falls Christmas instead of spending the holidays in New York.
Ford hadn’t been outside of Colorado, but if every TV show and movie was to be believed, a New York Christmas was all about the glitz. While Amber Falls was stunning, it couldn’t compare to New York.
When he’d applied for the job of Mr. Lancaster’s assistant during this project and had gotten it, he’d been so excited—especially because it meant he would be up for a job at the resort once it opened. But now, he was cursing his good luck.
Then again, it seemed like said luck had run out because if he couldn’t get his boss out of the state, hell, out of this town, then he’d be screwed six ways to Sunday. And not in a good way either.
I’ll probably have to start looking for a new job by the new year, Ford thought bleakly.
Ford didn’t know where his boss would stay. He’d called around to the four B&B’s in town and had been told that they were all booked up. Amber Falls was picturesque this time of year, so they got a lot of people from around the country who wanted to experience a snowy Christmas. Then there were also the avid skiers. That meant that his boss, who’d already checked out of one of those B&B’s, was now stuck in town with nowhere to go.
Yeah. Not good.
Fuck my life! Fuck my life! Fuck my life!
Ford wiped his face in frustration, trying to come up with a way to not only tell his boss there were no departing flights but also that the cozy B&B he’d been staying at was now fully booked. Sawyer was a good boss, but he had high expectations and expected them to be met. The thing was he held himself to the same standard, so Ford couldn’t really complain.
Forever With His Boss #2
1
Ford
Sunlight filtered through the blinds and lit up Sawyer’s perfect skin. The urge to stroke his body almost won out, but Ford wanted to simply lie there and stare a little while longer. The world was quiet and still. His heart sped up as the man he loved slept right beside him. His deep breathing, in and out, was almost hypnotic.
Ford’s eyes traced every inch of a still-sleeping Sawyer’s face, and he couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across his lips. It was probably super cheesy watching your boyfriend sleep, but he honestly didn’t care. The fact that Sawyer was actually his made him want to stand on top of a rooftop and scream so everyone knew it.
“Are you going to keep watching me sleep?” Sawyer’s voice was all deep and gruff from his slumber and sounded even sexier—not like he needed any help in that department.
“You are very nice to look at.” His eyes traveled down to Sawyer’s exposed chest, and he couldn’t help licking his lips. His man was gorgeous. A light dusting of fine, dark hair spread out under Sawyer’s collarbone, then trailed between his firm pecs to form the happy trail that made its way down his washboard abs, hidden at the moment by the sheet. Ford thought he had the most lickable nipples. “Plus, if you know I’m watching you, you’re technically not sleeping.”
“Is that all I am? Eye candy?” Sawyer’s tone was serious, but his beautiful gray eyes danced, betraying his true emotions. As he spoke, he pushed the duvet down, putting his naked body fully on display.
Ford lifted his gaze to meet Sawyer’s, and his breath caught at the look in his eyes. He followed Sawyer’s movement as his hand wrapped around his hard cock, and like a hypnotist, he had Ford’s full attention.
“When it’s such amazing eye candy, can you blame me?” Ford swallowed and bit his lip just thinking about the feel of Sawyer’s thick cock stretching him, the feel of Sawyer’s weight covering his body, the man’s taste on his tongue. “Besides, showing off like that? I think you want me to look, babe.”
Sawyer’s voice deepened, and he crooked a finger. “Come here.”
Ford didn’t have to be asked twice. He crawled until he was straddling Sawyer’s hips.
“I wish you didn’t have to go.” Ford lowered himself so he was chest to chest with Sawyer.
“I know, love”—Sawyer’s arms wound around him—“but I need to go and sort a few things out. I was supposed to go back to New York for Christmas, then again at New Year’s. It’s February in two days… I think Mark is about to send a rescue party.”
“I know.” Didn’t mean he had to like it.
Ford loved when Sawyer called him love. It made him feel all gooey inside because it wasn’t just a throwaway word. When he said it, Sawyer meant it.
“I know.” He lifted his head so he could look Sawyer in the eye. “It’s just…” He put his head back on Sawyer’s chest and listened to his heart beating. The steady thump-thump soothed him. “I’ll miss you.”
Sawyer’s arms tightened around him. “Me too, love. Me too. But I’ll only be gone a couple of weeks, and then I’ll be back to make this my permanent home base.”
“And are you… Do you think…?” Ford’s voice trailed off, not sure he wanted to finish his question. He didn’t want to sound needy. He wasn’t usually clingy, but Sawyer turned him into an octopus, and he wanted to hold on with all his limbs.
“Besides, you’ll be busy. Don’t forget you need to find an office space for us. Plus, all Larry’s requests need to be reviewed, and he needs closer supervision.” He paused for a moment before adding in as an afterthought, “Oh, and a place for me to live.” Sawyer’s hand trailed up and down his spine.
He raised his head from Sawyer’s chest. “Why would you have to get a place? My parents offered you the ‘in-law’ cottage out back.”
“Yeah, but are you sure you want me in your pocket so much? We just got started.” Sawyer’s eyes closed, and his chest moved as he breathed in deeply before releasing it. “I don’t want to screw this up.”
Ford placed a hand on Sawyer’s cheek. “You won’t… we won’t, babe. I don’t need space from you. Besides, there’s a mile between us and the cottage, so technically, we won’t be living together.”
“I just thought maybe we need to follow all the steps relationships take. I don’t want you to get sick of me.” Sawyer ducked his chin, looking away for a moment. When their eyes met again, Ford’s pulse raced at the look in them, and he did what came naturally and leaned in for a kiss.
Sometimes his confident man showed parts of himself that had Ford wanting to hug him and tell him that he wasn’t going anywhere. Sawyer was more vulnerable than he would ever admit, and Ford was so grateful that he got to see that side of him. His boyfriend didn’t need to worry because Ford would hop a train, plane, or automobile to be with him.
“I could never get sick of you. I want to know everything I can about you.” He touched their foreheads together, holding Sawyer’s gaze. “I’m not going anywhere, babe.”
“Promise?” Sawyer’s eyes held his, so full of trust that he hoped he never broke it.
Sawyer wasn’t the most demonstrative, but with him, he was getting better. He tried. And Ford loved him all the more for it.
“I promise.” And it was a solemn vow.
Ford sat up quickly, reached behind him, and grabbed Sawyer’s hard shaft. A low moan escaped from Sawyer’s lips as Ford used the head of his cock—already wet from leaking precum—to tease and slick his rim. His whole body broke out in goose bumps of anticipation. He loved that they’d dispensed with condoms after they’d gone over to Denver to get tested.
There was a clinic in town, but since he didn’t want his business to spread around Amber Falls in five minutes or less, they’d decided to make the trip to the larger city.
Ford was already stretched from the night before, so he held Sawyer’s gaze as he slowly lifted himself and then sank down on Sawyer’s cock. Their joint moans were the only sounds in the room as Sawyer’s cock stretched him until he was fully seated.
“Fuck,” Sawyer cursed. His hands tightened on Ford’s hips.
Ford shivered as he lifted himself up, and Sawyer’s tip hit his prostate just right. Sawyer’s grip on his hips tightened further, hard enough that there would be bruises, and for some reason, that only upped his arousal.
Ford rose and lowered himself again onto Sawyer’s cock. His eyes widened, and a moan left his lips as Sawyer thrust upward to meet him. Every movement was a direct hit to his gland. Their combined moans and grunts filled the room, and he was glad his parents were on the far side of the hall.
The scent of arousal and sex filled the air as he rode Sawyer’s cock. Sweat slid down his back as his orgasm built. His balls tightened, and electricity shot down his spine.
“More. Please. Please.” He was rambling, but Sawyer had fried his brain. Sawyer’s hips kept rising to meet each of his downward thrusts. The sound of skin slapping against skin and their mutual groans as they chased their orgasms only served to push him closer to the edge.
Sawyer grabbed his ass, spreading him open wider, and thrust up deeper into him. Sawyer’s finger stretched his hole further, and the feeling went straight to his dick, making him leak even more precum.
“Fuck. Fuck. So good. Please.” Ford threw his head back and rode Sawyer as if his life depended on it. The muscles in his legs screamed in protest, but he didn’t care. The lure of a spectacular release was right around the corner, and he would endure anything to get there.
Ford had never been stretched so much; he was so full. Fuck. Every inch of him was stuffed with Sawyer, and he drowned in the pleasure that built in his stomach as words slipped from his lips that he never even heard. “So good. So good. Sawyer, more. I need you.” He clutched Sawyer’s shoulder, and his fingers left marks behind. “It’s too good!”
Sawyer lifted a hand to his chest and squeezed the tight bud of a nipple as his cock continued to nail Ford’s prostate. That feeling, along with the fullness in his ass, had Ford screaming as his orgasm ripped through his body and ropes of cum shot from his cock, painting Sawyer’s chest and abs.
Sawyer fucked into him faster, and as the last waves of his orgasm coursed through him, Sawyer stilled and threw his head back before letting out a deep moan as his cum shot deep into Ford’s body.
He collapsed on top of Sawyer, not caring about the cum between them, and whispered, “I wish you didn’t have to go.”
Sawyer’s arms went around him, and he placed a kiss on Ford’s head before replying, “I’ll be back so fast, you won’t even know I’m gone.”
“I’ll always know when you’re gone.” Ford trailed a finger down Sawyer’s side. He would never get tired of touching this man. “I won’t be able to sleep well until I have you next to me again.”
“Me too, love. Me too.”
He drew in a long breath and then let it out. Ford reminded himself that Sawyer would be back in ten days. He’d booked the ticket himself, and he could do ten days.
Holding On to His Manny #3
Prologue
Dean
Did it make him a horrible parent for not wanting to go home yet? Maybe he could go on a long drive and find somewhere nice to scream before returning to the chaos that was his life.
Dean zoned out, watching the cashier swipe the items across the scanner, the flashing, repetitive motion soothing in its own way.
All he needed was some cereal… just cereal. But of course, the lines had been long since this was the only lane still open. As much as he’d hated standing in line, he also dreaded his turn coming up. I don't know if I can do this!
I don't know if I can do this! The words were like an alarm clock on snooze, and even though they quieted for a bit, they always came back louder than before.
He pushed all his panic and fear down because his kids needed him. The last few months had been chaotic, and the move had just added to it.
“Sir? Sir?” The cashier’s voice had him looking up.
Dean jerked and turned to face the woman. “Huh?”
“Sixteen twenty-seven,” she said as she pointed to the screen, and his eyes followed.
“Oh, right,” he mumbled. Dean fished his wallet from his pocket and handed over some cash to pay for the box of cereal, milk, a carton of strawberries, and a pack of his daughter Kennedy’s favorite tubes of yogurt. After taking the money, the cashier stuck it in the till and handed him his change.
He nodded. “Thanks.” Dean stuffed the money back into his wallet before shoving it back into his pocket.
“Have a pleasant day,” the cashier said.
Dean tried for a smile but wasn’t sure he pulled it off. It was the best he could do.
That seemed to be the motto of his life at the moment.
“You too.” Her attention went on to the person behind him, and Dean walked out of the store, his brain already back to what he knew he would find when he returned home. He had just about reached his car when he heard someone calling out.
“Sir! Sir!” The voice came from behind him and he whirled around. A young man, he couldn’t be over seventeen, maybe eighteen or nineteen, came running up behind him, a few bags in his hand. He stopped once he reached Dean. “You forgot these.” He held up the bags.
“Oh!” Dean shook his head and released a sigh as he took them from the associate. “I guess I have more on my mind than I thought.” He let out a breath. “I apologize.”
The young man shrugged. “No worries.”
Why did it feel like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders? Dean felt like a rubber band stretched too far, and you could already see where it would snap.
“I have a three and an eight-year-old at home.” Dean let everything bubble over like a pot of pasta you didn’t watch, and all the anxiety inside of him poured out. “They haven’t stopped crying, and I swear a permanent headache has taken up residence behind my eyes.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave said headache off, but it was too late. “We just moved here after losing their mother… my wife in the line of duty.” His hand went to his chest and he pressed down, rubbing. It didn’t stop that pain that made him feel both empty and as if someone were squeezing his heart at the same time.
Every time he thought of his wife, it was the same. God, why hadn’t he been there? If they’d stayed as partners on the force, this wouldn’t have happened. But then the kids came and they decided one of them should always be home. Dean closed his eyes briefly and took several deep breaths. When he opened them, he was surprised to find the young man was still standing there. He probably should have just said thank you and gotten in his car, but instead, he went on speaking, “My oldest won’t stop yelling for cereal, and the youngest, well, he has not stopped crying for his mama since the day we lost her. I don’t know what to do. What do I do?”
Dean didn’t know why he was sharing his life story with the young man, but he felt like a pressure cooker that hadn’t had the steam let out. He bit down on his lips trying to stop the tears because he just knew if they started, he wouldn’t be able to stop them.
“I’m sorry.” He swiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I guess I just needed to vent to someone, but I shouldn’t have dumped all that on you.”
“I understand.” The young man nodded as if he did, his blue eyes filled with understanding—or maybe that was wishful thinking on Dean’s part. “Sometimes you can’t help falling apart, especially if you keep trying to hold it in.” His eyes on Dean were knowing, almost as though he were seeing into his very soul and could tell that the broken man in front of him hadn’t cried since the moment a squad car showed up at his house to take him to the hospital. “It’s only human nature.”—the voice pulled him back from that memory—“especially when we keep pushing it down. After a while… boom.”
The young man smiled after making the explosion gesture with his hands, and Dean couldn’t help returning one of his own. Maybe it was the boom, or maybe there was something to spilling your guts to a stranger.
“Uh, so listen…” The kid sounded unsure now. “So, I’m a babysitter and an excellent one at that. CPR certified and all. Oh, and my name is Owen.”
His hand went into a bag slung over his chest Dean had initially missed, and he pulled out a notebook that he put it in his mouth while rummaging around for a pen. Dean watched as the kid scribbled something down, then ripped the page out and handed it to him.
“It’s my number. Since you’re new to the area, if you ever need any assistance, please call me. I’d be glad to help you.” His smile was genuine, and Dean gladly took the piece of paper. He looked down at it and slipped it into his pocket.”
“Thank you,” Dean said, and for the first time in a long while, he meant it.
Owen nodded. “Anytime. But even if you never call, take care.” He waved as he turned and walked away from Dean.
Dean covered the rest of the distance to his vehicle and walked over to his door, unlocking it with his key fob. He got inside and tossed the groceries onto the passenger seat, then started the car and backed out of the parking spot.
Maybe there was something to letting it out. It hadn’t taken the weight off, but he didn’t feel like he was five seconds from losing his mind anymore. Being both a mother and a father to two kids was something he never thought he’d have to face. He wasn’t sure how he would deal with it all on his own.
You’ll do what you have to do. And that was all he could do. That didn’t stop him from worrying about having more meltdowns just like the one he had in the grocery store parking lot. God, he hoped not. For his kids’ sakes, he would be strong.
Dean looked in the rearview mirror once he pulled into the driveway and parked the car; he didn’t need his kids seeing that he’d been close to tears. He wiped his face for good measure and plastered on a smile.
“As good as I’ll get,” he muttered. He shrugged and grabbed the bags before getting out of the car. He had just made it to the porch when he heard the screaming coming from inside the house. He stopped on the steps and closed his eyes. Man, he’d really hoped they would have cried themselves out by now.
This was not the plan, Angela.
Dean rubbed his forehead and groaned, but then straightened again. He was all his kids had left; he couldn’t fail them. He finally opened the front door and dropped the groceries on the table in the foyer and headed straight for the living room.
“Daddy’s back,” he said, attempting to sound more upbeat than he felt. Dean surveyed the scene in front of him. His three-year-old son was bawling in his mother-in-law’s arms while eight-year-old Kennedy was in front of the television. He knew he should limit her screen time, but right now it was more than he had energy for.
“I hope he didn’t cry the whole time I was out.” He bent down and lifted the toddler from his mother-in-law’s arms. The look on her face was answer enough; she looked like she was on the verge of tears herself. But still she shook her head and smiled, although he could see the frays around the edges of it. “Not at all,” Eleanor said. “He just wanted his daddy. That’s all.”
Neither of them could bring themselves to admit that mommy was the other person he was missing and wanted.
Dean looked down at Asher. His little boy was almost four, but he knew something was wrong. He knew mommy hadn’t come home. As he shifted him from one hip to the other, he thought about the kid with the startling blue eyes… Owen.
It was possible he would need to make that call sooner rather than later because fuck knew he needed to find someone who could help him out. Sadly, he wasn’t able to do it all on his own, and his in-laws were also grieving the loss of their only daughter. Even though Dean moved his little family from LA to Amber Falls so he could be closer to his in-laws and the kids would have their only grandparents in their lives, he still needed help.
Maybe Owen was his godsend. Or maybe his family had another guardian angel.
Dean sank into his chair and let out a sigh, his arms tightening around his son.
I hope I made the right choice, Angie. Moving had been a mostly spur-of-the-moment decision. Watching the casket that held the mother of his children and the woman who had taught him what living was nearly destroyed him. Dean closed his eyes, trying to will the memory of that day away. After that, being a cop in LA wasn’t something he could comfortably do anymore. His kids had already lost one parent on the job, and he refused to let them grow up the way he did—with relatives who loved him but also thought of him as a burden. So it was this small-town life and Amber Falls P.D. that was exactly what they needed.
Everything would work out. It just had to.
For as long as she can remember Rheland's had her nose stuck in a book, getting lost in the world of someone else's creation (She still does). Her love for writing came from her love for reading. She could never have one without the other.
Writing has always been a hobby and a cathartic experience for her. There are many stories lost to the never to be completed or published pile but needed to be written at the time.
She's just a girl that loved stories so much she wrote hers.
Rheland would love to hear from her readers and learn more about Y'all. So if you get a chance... please get in touch.
She also writes Omegaverse as Skye R. Richmond.
EMAIL: rhelandrichmond@gmail.com
Stranded with His Boss #1
Forever With His Boss #2
Holding On to His Manny #3
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