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Here at Padme's Library I feature all genres but followers have probably noticed that 95% of the posts and 99% of my reviews fall under the LGBT genres, so for this year's Pride Month I am showcasing 20 of my favorite M/M hauntings in no particular order. Hauntings of all sorts perfectly blended with romance, drama, humor, and heart, creating unforgettable reads.
Personal Blogger Note:
Personal Blogger Note:
I know that Pride Month 2021 is officially over but as my mother has been in the hospital since the last week in May and I sit in a hotel room across the street, my blogging time fell behind. My Happy Pride Month series is important to me so I will be posting Pride throughout July.
One Last Note:
Some of those on my list I have read, reread, & even listened/re-listened so I've included the review posted in my latest read/listen. Also, those that are read/re-read as a series the latest review may be an overall series review. If any of the purchase links included here don't work be sure and check the authors' websites/social media for the most recent links as they can change over time for a variety of reasons.
One Last Note:
Some of those on my list I have read, reread, & even listened/re-listened so I've included the review posted in my latest read/listen. Also, those that are read/re-read as a series the latest review may be an overall series review. If any of the purchase links included here don't work be sure and check the authors' websites/social media for the most recent links as they can change over time for a variety of reasons.
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Summary:
Three haters. Two lovers. And a collision course with tragedy.
It should have been a perfect night out. Instead, Mark and Donald collide with tragedy when they leave their favorite night spot. That dark October night, three gay-bashers emerge from the gloom, armed with slurs, fists, and an aluminum baseball bat.
The hate crime leaves Donald lost and alone, clinging to the memory of the only man he ever loved. He is haunted, both literally and figuratively, by Mark and what might have been. Trapped in a limbo offering no closure, Donald can’t immediately accept the salvation his new neighbor, Walter, offers. Walter’s kindness and patience are qualities his sixteen-year-old nephew, Justin, understands well. Walter provides the only sense of family the boy’s ever known. But Justin holds a dark secret that threatens to tear Donald and Walter apart before their love even has a chance to blossom.
Donald and Mark were headed home after a wonderful night out at their favorite club when they have an encounter with fear, bigotry, and a baseball bat. Picking up the pieces, Donald tries to move on but even the friendliness of his new neighbor isn't enough to leave the past behind. Walter has his own troubles too trying to bring some normality into his nephews life but with Justin hiding a secret that isn't as easy as it use to be. When the secret comes to light, will Donald and Walter be able to move on?
I've said it before and I'll say it again: HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!! Rick R Reed brings an amazing story to life with Bashed. It is absolutely horrific that in 2018 this level of bigotry still exists but unfortunately it does, and even more unfortunately we will probably never be fully free of hate. Yes, Bashed is fiction and yes there is a certain(all be it sort of small-ish but still influential) paranormal element it is also very real and heartbreaking. I don't want to say too much more than what the author has given away in the blurb so let me just say that all though this is one of the most heartbreaking stories I've read in a long time there is also a sense of growth and warmth, not really joy but definitely edges on a sense of uplifting-ness to Donald's journey.
Donald's eventual determination to move forward gives one hope and Walter's equal determination to give his nephew a sense of home and family is also filled with hope. But I think Justin's fear of being friendless, his love for his uncle, and the constraints of his conscience show the most hope. Part of me wants to say "Seriously?!?!?! That's what you get from Justin's character?" but then I realize it really is how I see him. I won't even touch on Justin's "friend" because that will open a can of thoughts, words, and anger that will lead to spoilers so I just won't even go there.
I can't help but think of Pandora's Box when I think of Bashed and the characters within. When all the evils of the world were unleashed from Pandora's Box there was one thing left at the bottom: HOPE. You will be angry, you will be hurt, and you will want to see certain characters punished in the most painful ways possible but by the end of the book(and I don't mean to keep repeating the word and sounding tedious but it doesn't make it any less true) what I felt most was hope. But whether you agree with my assessment of hope for the characters' futures or not you will be entertained and that's all I really want when I pick up a book. But I warn you, Bashed is one of those stories that once you start you won't want to put it down till you reach the final page so be sure you have the time to finish before you pick this one up.
RATING:
Summary:
Nathaniel O’Donnelly likes his life quiet, his guests happy, and his ghosts well-behaved.
Although a boyfriend wouldn’t go amiss. Someone to share his beautiful B&B with, even if it is in the middle of nowhere and he’s long past the wrong side of thirty. Problem is, Nathaniel's living with a ghost who thinks he’s cupid, and whose arrows fly a little too straight.
Gabriel Wickfield had the unfortunate luck of dying before his time, and now he’s stuck trying to make romance happen to earn his right to move along. Not that he’s bored in the meantime--Nathaniel is just too easy to tease. And also a little bit scrumptious…
With the curse reaching its expiration date, Gabriel needs to make this final match this Christmas. Without it, nothing but darkness awaits.
Love can conquer all, but can it beat death?
This tale's Christmas setting might make the heart tug a little more but the truth is this story would have wormed it's way in even without the Christmas element. Gabriel's time may be nearing an end but he definitely seems to want to make the most of what he has left and Nathaniel is finally opening up to what is front of him. The Winter Spirit has a little bit of everything but I won't lie, you will most likely want to have a box of tissues handy, I know I did.
RATING:
Summary:
Read by Candlelight #1
Pip Leighton is in a fix. His sister’s marriage hinges on him staving off the family’s impending financial ruin by taking the job of secretary to Lord Cross, a reclusive man with a temper befitting his name. Developing a passion for his employer was not on the cards. Neither was getting caught up in the deep mystery surrounding Foxwood Court and its resident ghost, but Pip has never been one to shirk a duty.
As Pip delves deeper into the past, he discovers that his only hope for a future with Cross may depend on a man long dead—a man with a curious resemblance to himself.
Written for lovers of gothic romance and ghost stories, The Ghost and the Secretary is the first in a series of gay romance novellas.
A Gothic Paranormal Romance.
I've always loved the gothic side when it comes to paranormal romance, especially this time of year so when I came across The Secretary and the Ghost I jumped on it. I was not disappointed. Yes it's a novella and perhaps it could have been better had it been a full-length novel but sometimes extra pages don't make a story better. I always love the finer points of backstory or more in-depth details here and there but in my experience with gothic tales it often is the little gaps or less info that make the paranormal side more spooky, more creepy, more "what is around the corner?" so I loved that this was a novella.
As for the story itself, well I won't say much as every little bit might give too much away. I will say that the main characters, Pip and Lord Cross are not always the most likable(especially Cross) and I wanted to whack them upside the head more than once😉. The more you get to know them the more I began to understand and appreciate the way they are, I still wanted to bang their heads together at times but I also wanted to wrap them in bubblewrap and a giant Mama Bear hug too. It was these warring emotions they created in me that kept me on the edge of my seat. Throw in a lookalike ghost, a thieving uncle, and you have a very memorable tale that is absolutely perfect for any Halloween library but don't let that pesky ghost keep you from enjoying it whenever because it's a lovely gem for any time of year.
I'm not completely new to Gillian St Kevern's work but my readings are limited to just a few but I can safely and honestly say that The Secretary and the Ghost makes me want to read more in this gothic Read by Candlelight series, her overall backlist, and any future tales.
RATING:
Ghost of a Chance by TA Chase
Summary:For Padraig, finding himself face to face with the man he'd loved and lost a lifetime ago is the biggest thing on his mind.
Padraig Monaghan has a problem. Most would consider dying in a bar fight ten years ago upsetting, and existing as a ghost wandering the world might be thought a real predicament. They might deem a second chance at life through a chance encounter with a dying man a serious dilemma. But for Padraig, finding himself face to face with the man he'd loved and lost a lifetime ago is the biggest thing on his mind. Gareth Reilly stops at O'Toole's for a drink before he heads home. Tomorrow's going to be another lonely birthday for him until he's approached by a stranger. There's something about Padraig's bright green eyes and Irish accent that reminds Gareth of a man he once knew. Unable to resist, Gareth breaks his cardinal rule and invites Padraig home. On St. Patrick's Day, when Irish magic is strongest, it'll take a belief in the impossible and help from a grateful elf to give Padraig and Gareth another chance at love.
Re-Read Review March 2021:
I've been searching for this book for the past 4 years every St. Patrick's Day. I've asked in FB rec groups and I got nothing, course I had very little to go on: St. Patrick's Day and a ghost, that was all I recalled. This year I finally decided to do the painstaking job of going through my kindle library, well it took awhile as it was nearly 6 years since I had purchased this gem but I finally found it and decided that after that effort I had to re-read it not just post it as part of my St. Patty Day 2021 blog series.
I won't go into any details because as you know this is a spoiler free zone but I'll just say, it was worth the effort to find. Ghost of a Chance by TA Chase was even better than I originally remembered. So I upgraded from 4-1/2 bookmarks to 5. Padraig and Gareth are brilliant and is love worth the wait? You have to read for yourself to find that out but you will enjoy every minute of this novella. Will this be an annual St. Patty Day re-read? Maybe, maybe not, but I'll definitely visit the story again and again.
This is a beautifully written tale of second chances or more to the point, taking that leap of faith. Padriag and Gareth both wanted each other but never seized the moment, now 10 years later they have a second chance at their moment, too bad Padraig has been dead the past decade. This is a fun read, sexy, loving, and it reminds you to take a chance when your heart speaks to you. You will laugh, you will cry, and if you are like me you will probably grumble a little at the shortness of the story but in the end you won't regret taking a chance because it will warm your heart.
RATING:
RATING:
Bashed by Rick R Reed
THE NIGHT had turned cold while they were in the Brig, one of Chicago’s oldest and most infamous leather establishments. A strong wind out of the north had blown away the cloud cover that allowed the city of Chicago to retain a little Indian summer heat this late October night. With the wind, the temperature had plunged nearly twenty degrees, from a relatively balmy sixty-two, down to the low forties. But the wind had also revealed a sprinkling of stars, visible even with the ambient light from downtown. And the moon had emerged, almost full, lending a silvery cast to North Clark Street.
Donald wrapped his arms around Mark as they headed south on Clark, toward the side street where they had left their car. Even with his chaps, biker jacket, and boots, Donald felt the chill bite into him, vicious. He couldn’t imagine how Mark was faring, wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. He’d get his boy into leather one of these days! It was just past three 3:00 a.m., and the far north side neighborhood called Andersonville, once the province of Swedes and working class folk, and now the home of yuppies and gays, was quiet. A lone taxi headed north up Clark, looking for fares. Someone even unsteadier on his feet came out of the adult bookstore ahead of them, blinking rapidly, and looking around, perhaps for more excitement than he had found in the bookstore. Donald thought that, once upon a time, he could have been the sad, singular man emerging from an adult bookstore while the rest of the world slept, but things had changed since he had met Mark six months ago.
“I feel almost—almost—like we’re the only two people on earth,” Donald said to Mark, drawing him in close for a sloppy, beery kiss. When he pulled his mouth away, he flashed the crooked grin he knew entranced his boyfriend and completed the thought with, “And that’s fine by me.”
Mark grinned back, then rubbed his upper arms. “It’s not fine by me. Not when it’s this frickin’ cold! Let’s get home!”
They wrapped their arms around each other to ward off the cold, much as they had done the night they met, back in March, in the same leather bar. And once again, they were just a bit boozy and flushed with need for each other. Tonight, the weather outside may have not been as frigidly cold as it had been last winter when they had first laid eyes upon one another, but the heat and electricity passing between them was still burning as brightly as that very first night.
Donald stopped again in the middle of the sidewalk, pulling Mark close and planting a kiss on his cheek. There was no one around, and in this neighborhood, such displays really were nothing to worry about, Donald thought. Hell, most anyone they encountered would either be sympathetic or jealous. He nipped at Mark’s earlobe and whispered, “I love you, you know that?” He paused to breathe in Mark’s scent and to nuzzle his nose in Mark’s blond curls.
And Mark stopped, right there in the middle of Clark Street, on an early Sunday morning, and placed his hands on Donald’s shoulders, so he would stop walking and so he could look right back into Mark’s penetrating stare. “And I love you, Donald.” He gave a small grin and looked down at the ground for just a second, almost as if he was embarrassed, and then said, “And I always will. This is a forever thing.”
Donald felt a rush of warmth go through him at the exact same moment a harsh wind, full of chill and with the smell of dark water, glided east from over Lake Michigan. He pulled Mark close and kissed him full on the mouth, his tongue lifting Mark’s and doing a little duel with it. Neither of them closed their eyes, preferring instead to stare into each other’s rapt gazes. Just as they were breaking apart, they stiffened as the roar of a souped-up engine shattered the still of the night. The backfire issuing forth from the car’s muffler made both men jump. They gave each other a quick glance, then laughed.
The car, an old maroon Duster that had been tricked out beyond good sense, taste, or fiscal responsibility, slowed across from the pair. Three shadowy figures moved inside. One of them rolled down a window, and a young male face, pale and marred by acne in the moon’s light, emerged making a kissing sound, exaggerated and prolonged. Donald heard the other guys in the car laughing. He stiffened and felt a trickle of sweat roll into the small of his back, in spite of the chill in the air.
Just as suddenly as they had arrived, they roared off, leaving them in a wake of sour-smelling exhaust. But they did not leave without casting a parting shot out the window. “Fucking faggots!”
Donald shook his head, glancing over at Mark, whose young face was creased with worry. “Don’t let shit like that get to you. They’re idiots. And chickenshits… it’s pretty easy to call names at people from a speeding car.”
The pair continued south. Up ahead, they needed to turn east to make their way to the little side street where they had parked Donald’s Prius. The street could usually be counted on for a spot, even on a busy Saturday night. Donald thought it was more the fact that the street was hard to get to than the fact that it ran along the northern border of St. Boniface Cemetery that made it such a good parking bet.
“I know. They’re just a bunch of assholes,” Mark said as they continued east. Donald could feel the defeat and fear in his voice. He hoped the hotrod homophobes hadn’t broken the spell of their night. Because Mark was much younger, he hadn’t been exposed to some of the same ridicule and taunting Donald had, growing up in the late sixties and seventies.
Donald bit his lower lip, suddenly feeling all the shame and embarrassment he had once associated with being gay rise up again. It never really disappears, does it? His face felt flushed, and a curious mixture of emotions warred within him. First, there was the shame, which he chastised himself for, but he still couldn’t stop the little inner voice that scolded him for the public displays of affection, even on an early Sunday morning and in a part of town that was very gay. Second, there was a more recent, more reasonable voice that was enraged and asked “How dare they?” This voice was ready to chase after the speeding car, shouting epithets right back at the cowards who hid behind the car’s macho posturing and tinted glass. And the final voice, the other half of the fight or flee duo, just wanted to grab Mark’s hand and run back to the car, jump inside, and make sure all the doors were locked before roaring off into the night themselves. Thank God they had a secure garage to park in at home.
“Yeah… assholes,” Donald whispered, then spoke up. “I need to be getting you home, young man. It’s way past your bedtime.” Donald quickened his pace so that Mark would match his step and tried not to let the name-calling weigh too heavily on the evening. He was pissed about how a mood could be so easily shattered, especially by some more-than-likely suburban rubes that were not entitled to it. Fuck them! He wished he could make the mood come back, but not now, not with the “fucking faggots” still ringing fresh in his ears.
Maybe when they got home, Donald could put things right. No maybe about it! He would light candles, open a bottle of wine, put on some trance music, and urge Mark over to the couch. He would undress him slowly, gliding his strong hands over every inch of Mark’s silky skin as he exposed it. He could already taste Mark’s lips and the clean heat of his mouth.
They were almost to their car when they both tensed, slowing as they heard the growling muffler of a car behind them. Donald closed his eyes, thinking, Oh God, please not again. Not them. They both stopped for just an instant. Donald didn’t have to look back to know who was in the loudly idling car behind them. His heart began to thud, and he resisted an impulse to simply grab Mark’s hand and run the three or four feet it would take them to get to the car. But such a sissy maneuver was probably just the kind of thing those assholes would take particular delight in seeing. And the hot pursuit of a couple of scared queers would be the perfect capper to a boring night.
Donald spoke quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. “Let’s just walk to the car. Don’t look back. Don’t even give them the satisfaction we’re aware of them. We both know who it is. But to look back will just open the door to more shit.”
Mark kept pace. “Right.” His voice was clipped, and Donald could pick up on the fear and tension in it.
Behind them, they heard the kissing sound again, over the beat of some heavy metal music, the bass throbbing hard enough to shake the car’s frame. “Hey, boys!” A falsetto voice, mocking, rang out through the autumn night. Donald wanted to freeze in his tracks and could tell Mark did too by the way he tensed. But Donald had enough presence of mind to keep moving forward slowly, cautiously, the way one would back away from a lion about to pounce. No sudden moves. No eye contact. Donald had to remind himself to breathe.
A wolf whistle cut through the night air. “Hey, if you guys are gonna suck some dick tonight, can we get in on the action?” The car’s passengers erupted with laughter.
Donald dug in his tight-fitting Levi’s for his keys. His hand was trembling. His stomach was churning. He wished they had left much earlier. He wished they had parked on busier, more brightly lit Clark Street. He wished they had taken a cab. He wished he had left his leather gear at home, just for tonight. He managed to grasp the keys just as they arrived at the car. Mark hurried around to the passenger side. When Donald met Mark’s gaze, he saw that the younger man’s eyes were bright with fear. He mouthed the word “Hurry” to Donald.
The sound of car doors slamming behind them made Donald’s hands shake so badly he dropped the keys into the gravel by the side of the road. “Fuck,” he whispered. They were off busy Clark now, and the side street was dark. Empty. He couldn’t see where the keys had fallen. He could see where they should logically be, but of course, that’s not where they were.
Mark said, in a tense voice, “Hurry up, Donald.”
Donald didn’t have to look behind him to know the car’s occupants were no longer in the Duster and were getting closer. Each slam of a car door caused his heart to beat a little faster, his breath to quicken. One of their voices sounded almost right behind him.
“So what do you say, guys, how about a little head?”
Snickers. High fives. Laughter all around.
Donald swallowed painfully, his throat dry. He tried feeling around in the cinders beside the road with the toe of his boot and came up empty. He did what he had to do, bent down to grope in the gravel for his keys.
“Nice,” one of the boys hissed behind him. “Hey, Justin, look at that. He’s getting ready for you.”
Donald straightened quickly, the keys in his hand now, hoping the two of them could get in the car before the guys drew any closer.
He had his finger on the remote button that would unlock the door to the Prius when he felt the blow to his lower back. He tried to suck in some breath, but it seemed there was no air. The pain, rushing up, white hot, from his kidneys was fierce, intense, and agonizing. He saw stars. There was no air. He dropped the keys again and groaned, slowly reaching back to rub at the spot where something hard had landed powerfully against the tender area of his back. Through pain-blurred eyes, he looked down and saw the keys lying on the gravel once more, glinting back at him mockingly in the moonlight. He didn’t know if he could reach down and get them, couldn’t imagine how the movement might ratchet the pain in his back up to unbearable levels. And then he groaned again, not because of his own pain, but because he saw one of the other guys, his face hidden by a shadow from the Chicago White Sox baseball cap he wore, grab hold of Mark from behind and pull him close to his chest. The guy whispered something in Mark’s ear and made that infernal kissing sound again. Only this time, no one was laughing. He lifted Mark, whose bright, terrified eyes seemed to reach out to Donald across the hood of the car, pulling him aloft for a second and away from the car. Another of his buddies, this one wearing a do-rag and a leather jacket that would have looked very much at home in the Brig, stepped up, pulled back his arm, and punched Mark savagely in the stomach. Mark let out a great whoosh of air and then a groan.
The guy in the Sox cap let him go to watch Mark stumble, clutching his stomach. Donald heard Mark whisper, with what was left of his breath, “Please… no.” Donald attempted again to reach for the keys, but the pain, searing, prevented him.
And then another of the trio stepped up behind Mark, and Donald saw the hard, blunt object that had just so painfully connected with his own kidneys, an aluminum baseball bat. This guy wore no cap and had the face of a boy: ruddy, matching the dark red hair that topped his head. He handed the bat to the guy in the leather jacket, smiling. The man in the leather jacket took the bat from him, gripping it firmly around the base. “Batter up!” the guy in the Sox cap called and then guffawed. The guy in leather’s face was a mask of grim determination as he raised the bat and prepared to bring it down, with great force, on top of Mark’s head.
Donald cried out, heedless of his pain. “No! Get away from him, you son of a bitch.” Blindly furious, Donald stumbled forward, around the back of the car, to try to do whatever he could to stop that bat from connecting with Mark’s skull. But as in nightmares, his movements were agonizingly slow, as if he were moving through something thick and viscous, even as the beating on the other side of the car seemed to speed up, as if in fast-forward motion.
Donald stood frozen near the back bumper, breathless and wheezing, as the bat came down and landed with a sickening thud on Mark’s head, sounding like a watermelon being squashed. Mark dropped to the ground, and Donald rushed to help him.
Like a pack of animals, they were on Donald, and it was only seconds before he too was on the ground, watching as booted and running-shoed feet kicked at him everywhere they could find that was soft: his stomach, his balls, his face.
He rolled into a little ball and had enough presence of mind to chastise himself for not being able to save Mark. He also thought, in that split-second moment, how quiet it all was. And how fast—how very fast—everything was moving….
He turned to look up. The guy with the leather jacket stood above him, swinging the bat, on his face an expression that was a curious mixture of glee and rage. He smiled, and Donald noticed details: the gap in his teeth, the stubble on his face, how his nose skewed to one side, as if it had been broken once. But the last thing—the most horrible thing—Donald remembered seeing was the bat whistling down through the air toward him. He rolled away, hearing someone whisper, “Get him. Get the cocksucker.” He reached out for Mark’s foot, which was only inches away.
And then everything went black.
One
JUSTIN WAS breathless, shaking, and it felt like the fries, Italian beef sandwich, and five beers he had consumed that night were about to make a hasty and searing exit from his gut at any moment. He and Ronny were covered in blood. The smell of it, its sharp metallic tang, was one of the things that made Justin fear losing the contents of his stomach. The other thing was the violence they had just perpetrated. How had some innocent name-calling morphed into something so brutal? He couldn’t allow himself to think about that now, couldn’t allow that hot touch to his memory. But somehow, he managed to hold the bile back, tasting its bitter acid in the back of his throat, because he knew Ronny would think he was a wimp. Just like he thought Luis was a wimp for running off into the night after they bashed those fags down in Andersonville. Justin simply thought Luis was smart, scared, and yes, sensible, to want to get away from him and Ronny and the bloody mess the three of them had just made less than an hour ago.
Justin wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold things together. He had started trembling after the attack and was still shaking. They had put a serious hurt on those guys, and he wasn’t sure how, or if, they were getting on. Earlier, in the car, he had begged Ronny to let him call 911 from his cell to report the attack so that someone might send an ambulance.
Ronny had sneered at him, a Marlboro clamped into the corner of his mouth as he steered with one hand. “What are you, fuckin’ nuts? They got GPS or some shit on those phones. They’ll find us, dickhead. Is that what you want?” Disgustedly, he dragged in on the cigarette, making its cherry glow in the dark interior, and angrily exhaled through his nose. “They’re a couple of fags, dude. They got what they deserved.”
Justin had just stared quietly out the window as they sailed up Lake Shore Drive, headed for Sheridan Road and the far north side neighborhood known as Rogers Park, where Ronny had his own little studio on Morse. Ronny must have been doing eighty or ninety, and Justin wondered just how smart that was. What if they got pulled over, covered in blood as they were? How would they explain that away?
But Justin knew better than to nag at Ronny about his speed. It wouldn’t be the first time his best friend gave him a backhand across the mouth. Justin simply slid down in his seat and kept his own counsel. Hopefully, there would be no cops out on Lake Shore or Sheridan tonight.
And now, here they were in Ronny’s tiny, filthy bathroom, crowded together, in nothing but boxers. They had thrown their bloody clothes into the tub and were scrubbing vigorously with soap and steaming water at their hands and faces to remove any trace of splatter. Ronny had already wiped down his leather jacket and was satisfied it was clean.
Ronny shut the water off and placed his hands on Justin’s shoulders, looking him over. “Sweet, man, clean as a baby.” He pulled him close and sniffed at his neck. “No smell, no tell.” He leaned back and grinned. “We’ll bag up the clothes and drop ’em in a dumpster.”
Justin continued to shiver, trying to tell himself it was from a chill and not from the fact he was still scared. “Uh, so you think we’ll be okay?”
“No witnesses, man. And those queers will keep their mouths shut if they know what’s good for them.”
“And Luis won’t say anything?” Luis was the friend they had hooked up with earlier in the night at the arcade on Belmont. He was half Mexican, half Irish, and up for anything.
“Nah. Unless he wants to implicate himself.”
Justin shivered.
“You cold, little bro?”
Justin nodded. Even though he and Ronny were in no way blood relatives, it always made him feel better somehow when Ronny referred to him in this manner.
“Let me get you some clothes. I got some sweats you can put on.”
Justin watched him rummaging around on the floor, through the piles of clothes scattered there, looking for something suitable. Ronny’s frame was lean and hard, the upper part of him covered in red, green, and black tattoos, a crazy mixture of Chinese letters, stars, dragons, and tribal symbols that all somehow seemed to work together. He was ten years older than sixteen-year-old Justin, and the fact that Ronny chose to hang around with him made him feel proud, like he was cool.
Except for tonight. They had never veered into territory this violent before. Sure, they had yelled at the fags on Halsted and Clark, even pitched a few beer cans their way, but that was the extent of it. And sure, their activities hadn’t always been strictly legal but had never gone much further than smoking a little weed and maybe lifting a lighter or two off the counter at 7-Eleven while the clerk’s back was turned, reaching for smokes. But they had never done anything like tonight. It still seemed like a dream.
Or a nightmare.
Ronny was coming toward him with a long-sleeved T-shirt and balled-up gray sweats under one arm.
“You think those guys are gonna be okay, don’t you?”
Ronny handed him the clothes, and Justin began pulling them on. Ronny lit another cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “You worried about the sweethearts?”
“Well, maybe a little. Wouldn’t want them to be dead or nothin’ like that, you know?”
“They’re queers, man, remember? Those guys are like cockroaches. You can’t wipe ’em out. When I was a kid, my old man told me AIDS was gonna do that… just get rid of ’em all, but you see how they beat that.”
Justin wasn’t sure how that was logical, or even in the realm of sanity, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
Ronny grinned. “Still, we put a good hurt on both of them. They’re not gonna be doing much suckin’ or fuckin’ in the near future.” Ronny barked out a short laugh. “Or talkin’.” He shook his head. “But they’ll be okay. Don’t worry about it, little man.” He reached out and ruffled Justin’s reddish brown hair. “When are we gonna get this buzzed? Like mine?”
Justin’s stomach churned. “Dunno.”
“I am going to smoke a bowl and get some sleep, man. You in?”
Justin followed Ronny out of the bathroom and sat next to him on the stained sheets of his bed, sinking down into the mattress, watching as Ronny pulled a bag of bud from beneath his bed. He wished he could go home tonight, but his mother, Patty, had a date and had told him that she would appreciate “a little privacy” if Justin wouldn’t mind “having a sleepover” at one of his friends’.
Justin had had a lot of sleepovers during his short life.
And a lot of them lately had been with Ronny, which was cool, except the place was filthy, stank, and had cockroaches.
“Here you go,” Ronny croaked, breathless, and held out the metal one-hitter to him.
That was one good thing about Ronny and staying here: he always had good weed, and if you smoked enough of it, you forgot all about what a pigsty you were in.
Justin took the one-hitter, fired it up, and drew in deeply. Tonight there was a lot he wanted to forget.
EVEN WITH several hits clouding his brain, Justin found sleep elusive. He only felt groggy and sick, and the oblivion he sought stayed stubbornly just out of reach. He lay beside Ronny, who slept on his back, one arm flung over his forehead, snoring loudly. He wondered how the guy could have done what he just did and then go home and sleep, as if nothing had happened.
Images kept coming back to him. He would see the terrified look on the younger guy’s face, the pleading in his eyes just before Ronny brought down the bat on his head. Justin didn’t know if he could ever get that out of his mind, the sickening crunch of bone as the bat made impact. He saw the other guy, the older one, decked out in leather, stumbling behind his car to try to get to his friend. He was whimpering, and the terror stamped on his features was real. Luis was laughing, but Justin just couldn’t see the humor in what they were doing. It was sick. He just hoped the guys were able to crawl away, to get the help they would undoubtedly need.
So he lay there, restless, after spending hours of tossing, turning, and glancing at the little digital clock on Ronny’s nightstand, surprised to see that only minutes had passed since the last time he had looked. He just wanted to go home, if there was such a place. But he knew his mother, Patty, wouldn’t like it if he showed up too early, wouldn’t want there to be an uncomfortable meet and greet across their scarred breakfast table.
Now the light was peeking in from the spaces around the sheet Ronny had hung over his sole window. Justin looked again at the clock. It was going on seven. He turned on his side, drawing his knees up closer to his chest. The movement sent Ronny onto his side, and then he was lying up against Justin’s back. One sleepy arm fell across Justin’s chest, and he stiffened. He could feel Ronny’s dick, hard, against his ass. He must be having some dream! He wanted to slide from the bed but didn’t want to wake Ronny, didn’t want to face his queries about why he was getting up so early.
Ronny snuggled closer in his sleep, and his hand brushed across Justin’s stomach, then dropped farther south. He cupped Justin’s crotch and then let out a big snore.
Justin jumped from the bed. His heart was beating fast.
Ronny opened bleary and bloodshot eyes and looked up at him.
“What the fuck?” Justin asked.
“Huh?”
Justin gave out a little laugh, but there was no mirth in it. “You were grabbin’ my dick, man.”
Ronny rolled over on his back and groped on the bedside table for his smokes, lit one up, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about, man?”
Justin began to feel sheepish. “In your sleep, uh, your hand grabbed at my dick.” Justin felt himself begin to tremble again, so he reached down and pulled on the sweats and T-shirt Ronny had given him the night before. He stared at his friend.
“So what? You think I’m going queer for you or somethin’?”
Justin shook his head. “Naw. It was just weird, is all.”
Ronny propped himself up on one elbow. “’Cause if you think I’m queer, I ask you to please think about last night, dude. That should give you all the evidence you need that I am straight as they come.” He took a drag and blew out the smoke angrily. “I was asleep, end of story.”
“Okay,” Justin whispered, as much to himself as to Ronny. “I’m gonna book. The coast is probably clear at my ma’s by now. I’ll get the clothes and throw ’em in a dumpster on my way home. I’ll make sure to throw them in one that’s nowhere near here.”
“You do that.” Ronny snuffed out his cigarette and rolled back over on his side. Justin waited until he was snoring again. It didn’t take long.
Justin moved toward the kitchenette and found a black plastic garbage bag under the sink, then went into the bathroom and lifted the jeans and T-shirts they had thrown into the bathtub the night before. He stuffed them into the bag, trying not to look at the garments as he did so. He snatched his South Park T-shirt from the porcelain and placed it atop the pile of balled-up clothes in the bag. As he did so, he caught sight of a little blob of pinkish matter on the leg of one of the jeans.
And finally, it happened. Everything came up, and he turned just in time to hurl into the toilet, his eyes watering as he heaved on and on, until there was nothing left inside.
Nothing but remorse.
He tied the bag and heard Ronny call out, “Lightweight!” He realized he probably just thought Justin was hungover. God, didn’t he understand what they had done?
He hurried toward the door.
The Winter Spirit by Indra Vaughn
I glared at the mirror of my en-suite bathroom, enhancing the crow’s feet fanning out from my dark grey eyes. A thick tuft of brown hair obscured my view, so I blew it out of my face. “Just this once,” I said, pointing a finger at my own reflection. “Behave yourself. Just this once.”
No reply, of course. There never was one when I really needed it. With a sigh of annoyance I turned away. Heading downstairs, I pushed the cuff of my checkered sleeve back and looked at my watch. Only six am. There were two guests at the Lake House B&B. Neither of them would be up before eight, so I had plenty of time to put some effort into my own breakfast.
On my way past the reception desk, I slowed and glanced at the check-in log. It was still handwritten, even though I did keep records on the computer too these days.
Owen Ashurst, arrival two pm. The booking had been made through the B&B website, not over the phone. But I just knew. I knew. I eased a long breath through pursed lips, hoping it’d settle the squirmy nerves in my belly.
“It’s fine, Nathaniel,” I told myself. “It’s fine.” I wanted to close my eyes and remember all the ways in which Owen and I had been best friends for life. Until life got between us.
I forced myself to walk on toward the kitchen and open the swinging door. Elisa Brown wasn’t in yet, and that suited me fine. I usually didn’t mind her bright and cheerful personality as she did the dishes and restocked the food pantry. But today I wanted a little peace and quiet to ease my whirling mind.
Without giving much thought to what I was doing, I set about making an asparagus and feta cheese omelet, toasted and buttered two slices of bread, roasted a couple of tomatoes and mushrooms, and slid it all on a plate with perfect timing. The old house with the white country kitchen was still quiet. I settled in the seat at the head of the huge wooden table with a sigh of relief. My nerves were ebbing. There was nothing to worry about. Owen was just another guest.
I scooped some egg onto my fork and aimed it at my mouth, when the pan I’d left in the sink rattled. I put the fork down again.
“Gabe, I swear, if you mess with me today I will cover every mirror in this place for an entire month. Don’t think I won’t.”
Silence.
Satisfied, I lifted my fork again. I opened my mouth. The pan gave a tiny rebellious rattle and I was about to say something else, when the door behind me opened. Elisa burst inside in a flurry of snow and…Christmas lights?
“Morning Elisa.” I knew better than to comment, despite the fact that the outside of the Lake House already looked like an exploded Christmas tree.
“Before you say anything, these are for inside. And morning, Nathaniel.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“I could hear you think it from here. It’s time for a Christmas tree in the house again.”
I gave her a long steady look. She shrugged out of the oversized winter coat needed in these Michigan winters. Her curly blonde hair drifted with static around her round, pretty face. “You do remember what happened the last time we had a Christmas tree, don’t you?” I still suspected Gabe, but innocent until proven guilty and all that.
“I do. That was five years ago. I got a fake one, so this one won’t catch fire. It’s still in my trunk.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me. “If you’d be so kind.”
Resigned, I shoveled eggs in my mouth as Elisa went to hang her coat away. When she returned she busied herself with tidying up the pots and pans I’d used. I’d feel bad about her cleaning up my mess if it wasn’t her job.
“So still just Anderson and Houzer? No stragglers wandered in last night?”
“No, but we do have a new guest coming in today at two.”
“I saw, yes. Owen something. I freshened up the Bear room yesterday.”
“Actually, I’d like to put him in the Superior room.”
Elisa zeroed in on me like a well-aimed missile and I mournfully stared at my empty plate. I had a vague idea a mouthful of food would come in handy any second n—
Two tiny fists planted themselves on a pair of well-formed hips just inside my field of vision. “Nathaniel O’Donnelly, is there something you have to tell me?”
The B&B had twelve double rooms, and each of them was named after a lake in Michigan. It’d make sense to put Owen in the Bear room because it was down the same hallway as the other guests’ rooms. Efficient, when it came to changing sheets and towels. Conflicting with my plans to keep Owen close to my own room, which was at the opposite end of the large old house.
No reply, of course. There never was one when I really needed it. With a sigh of annoyance I turned away. Heading downstairs, I pushed the cuff of my checkered sleeve back and looked at my watch. Only six am. There were two guests at the Lake House B&B. Neither of them would be up before eight, so I had plenty of time to put some effort into my own breakfast.
On my way past the reception desk, I slowed and glanced at the check-in log. It was still handwritten, even though I did keep records on the computer too these days.
Owen Ashurst, arrival two pm. The booking had been made through the B&B website, not over the phone. But I just knew. I knew. I eased a long breath through pursed lips, hoping it’d settle the squirmy nerves in my belly.
“It’s fine, Nathaniel,” I told myself. “It’s fine.” I wanted to close my eyes and remember all the ways in which Owen and I had been best friends for life. Until life got between us.
I forced myself to walk on toward the kitchen and open the swinging door. Elisa Brown wasn’t in yet, and that suited me fine. I usually didn’t mind her bright and cheerful personality as she did the dishes and restocked the food pantry. But today I wanted a little peace and quiet to ease my whirling mind.
Without giving much thought to what I was doing, I set about making an asparagus and feta cheese omelet, toasted and buttered two slices of bread, roasted a couple of tomatoes and mushrooms, and slid it all on a plate with perfect timing. The old house with the white country kitchen was still quiet. I settled in the seat at the head of the huge wooden table with a sigh of relief. My nerves were ebbing. There was nothing to worry about. Owen was just another guest.
I scooped some egg onto my fork and aimed it at my mouth, when the pan I’d left in the sink rattled. I put the fork down again.
“Gabe, I swear, if you mess with me today I will cover every mirror in this place for an entire month. Don’t think I won’t.”
Silence.
Satisfied, I lifted my fork again. I opened my mouth. The pan gave a tiny rebellious rattle and I was about to say something else, when the door behind me opened. Elisa burst inside in a flurry of snow and…Christmas lights?
“Morning Elisa.” I knew better than to comment, despite the fact that the outside of the Lake House already looked like an exploded Christmas tree.
“Before you say anything, these are for inside. And morning, Nathaniel.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“I could hear you think it from here. It’s time for a Christmas tree in the house again.”
I gave her a long steady look. She shrugged out of the oversized winter coat needed in these Michigan winters. Her curly blonde hair drifted with static around her round, pretty face. “You do remember what happened the last time we had a Christmas tree, don’t you?” I still suspected Gabe, but innocent until proven guilty and all that.
“I do. That was five years ago. I got a fake one, so this one won’t catch fire. It’s still in my trunk.” She fluttered her eyelashes at me. “If you’d be so kind.”
Resigned, I shoveled eggs in my mouth as Elisa went to hang her coat away. When she returned she busied herself with tidying up the pots and pans I’d used. I’d feel bad about her cleaning up my mess if it wasn’t her job.
“So still just Anderson and Houzer? No stragglers wandered in last night?”
“No, but we do have a new guest coming in today at two.”
“I saw, yes. Owen something. I freshened up the Bear room yesterday.”
“Actually, I’d like to put him in the Superior room.”
Elisa zeroed in on me like a well-aimed missile and I mournfully stared at my empty plate. I had a vague idea a mouthful of food would come in handy any second n—
Two tiny fists planted themselves on a pair of well-formed hips just inside my field of vision. “Nathaniel O’Donnelly, is there something you have to tell me?”
The B&B had twelve double rooms, and each of them was named after a lake in Michigan. It’d make sense to put Owen in the Bear room because it was down the same hallway as the other guests’ rooms. Efficient, when it came to changing sheets and towels. Conflicting with my plans to keep Owen close to my own room, which was at the opposite end of the large old house.
The Secretary and the Ghost by Gillian St Kevern
Mr Leighton and Pip went to Charing Cross Station by carriage, but upon alighting at Rotheram, Mr Leighton elected to walk. "A charming day," he said loudly. "A walk in the countryside will suit us well. Come on, Pip."
Months of endurance had not hardened Pip to these affectations of his father. He said nothing until they were walking down a country lane, the hedgerow either side blocking any view of the surrounding scenery. "I do wish you wouldn't."
"My dear boy, it would be a disaster if anyone suspected we could not afford even a dog cart."
"In London, yes." People were always watching in London, and worse, people were always talking. While the Leighton family was far from well known, they belonged to that section of society where reputation—and thus, appearance—was everything. "But Foxwood is as deep in the country as you can get without a shovel. We know no one here, and more importantly, no one knows us."
You will not annoy me with misplaced witticisms. There is one here who knows me, and it is vital Lord Cross does not know the true extent of our"—Mr Leighton wavered, as if overwhelmed by the very thought of it—"situation."
Pip winced. The less said about the situation, the better.
Father and son continued down the lane, hedgerows gave way to open fields, and the well maintained country lane dwindled to a track with pretensions. Pip now understood why his father had insisted on an unfashionably early departure from London. They'd been walking an hour at least, but there was no sign of Lord Cross' habitation.
Pip couldn't help a smile. Lord Cross. How ridiculous! He would, of course, be old, his face set in a mask of permanent disapproval, with a sour, thin mouth habitually scowling—for no one named 'Cross' could ever be merry. True to his name, Lord Cross had quarrelled with Society years ago, and retired to his country seat to nurse his grievances. A regular tartar of an employer. Pip's smile faded, and he tightened his grip on the carpet bag he carried. It was for a good cause.
An hour later, they reached the gates of Foxwood Court. Twenty minutes after that they reached the house. Judging from the thickness of the ivy covering the red-bricked exterior, this was the work of previous members of the Cross family. Foxwood Court consisted of a solid rectangle in the Queen Anne style, gleefully augmented by later generations of Crosses as the family's fortunes had improved.
The sheer amount of Gothic augmentation in the form of grey stone arches, additional wings and the chapel attached to the house, demonstrated the considerable wealth of the Cross family. Yet in later years, the forest had encroached. The trees that lined the approach overshadowed the front of the house, allowing moss to carpet the steps. Pip watched his father ring the bell, sensible of a deep chill in the air.
After a short pause, a man in footman's livery opened the door. He took Mr Leighton's card and allowed them to stand in the drawing room while he informed his master of their presence. Pip watched him go. Odd that Lord Cross insisted on liveried servants in the depth of the country where no one but himself saw them, while allowing his garden to go to seed.
The footman returned, ushering them into the library, and Pip could gauge the full extent of Lord Cross' oddness.
He stood as they entered, his form momentarily in shadow. Something deep within Pip thrilled. His heart beat first faltered, then resume its operation with an emphasis, beating harder to compensate for its momentary lapse. Pip's cheeks heated, his throat tightening, but he could only stand, his eyes on Lord Cross.
Cross had such a powerful effect on him that Pip struggled to take him in. He was aware the man had tensed, freezing in the act of stepping forward to meet them. Pip had a vague impression of height and breadth; mostly he was transfixed by his lordship's eyes, a light shade of brown speckled through with so much yellow the effect was like a well-aged whiskey, down to their intoxicating effect. He couldn't look away.
He was dimly aware that his father spoke. "I hope you'll pardon the intrusion. I have a proposition I hope will prove satisfactory to us both and am anxious to learn what you think of it."
With what appeared to be a massive effort, Cross wrenched his gaze away from the son and onto the father. He gripped Leighton's hand and then resumed his seat. "Make it brief. I am, as you state, a busy man."
Pip swallowed disappointment. Lord Cross might not be an old curmudgeon, but he was uncommonly rude.
"I present my son, Phillip. It is about him I wish to speak." Leighton paused, but received no encouragement. "As you're well aware, I have, thanks to your lordship's generosity, borrowed a not inconsiderable amount—"
Cross snorted, shuffling the pile of papers foremost on his desk. "I have not forgotten you owe me a large sum of money, no. If you think you can get out of paying me what you owe—"
Mr Leighton drew himself up. "I would not attempt anything of the sort. I respect your lordship too much to ever... The very idea!"
Pip winced. As much as he despised the petty schemes and deceptions to which his father was party, he could not but sympathise. Leighton was essentially an upright man and felt his position keenly. "My father is a man of his word. Listen to his proposal before you dismiss it."
Cross looked up. Pip experienced again the shock of encountering the man. He was younger than he'd first assumed, his manner placing him in his forties rather than his thirties, a man of force and energy, tempered but not yet softened by age. His jet-black hair made his skin more noticeable—fashionably pale, but there was nothing of the dandy about him. His desk was littered with papers and books, and his dress the understated everyday suit of a country gentleman, albeit a country gentleman with a first-rate tailor. Pip traced the length of his arms, noting the snug fit, to his hands, which had stilled. They were long hands, with the appearance of having worked outside, and something about them made Pip swallow, tasting something unknown.
"I apologise," Cross said at last. "By all means. What is your proposition, Mr Leighton?"
"I can't fault your lordship's assumption." Leighton seated himself in one of two chairs set before the desk. "As a matter of fact, I am in a rather delicate position. One of my interests—the one I anticipated using to pay you back—is delayed. I received promising reports of its progress and expect it within the month. But my account to you is due next week."
"So close up your house in London and retire to your country seat," Cross said. "It's been done before."
"Indeed," Leighton said. "But there is my daughter to consider. Julia has made an attachment that we have hopes of. At this stage things are still in their infancy, and to retire precipitately to the country would be to deprive her of a great chance."
Cross sneered. "In other words, the girl stands a chance of making a catch and you don't wish the fish to escape."
Anger surged, displacing Pip's unaccountable fascination with Lord Cross' hands. "You are speaking of my sister's future happiness. Her joy, no, her entire life rests on her finding a suitable mate. This gentleman is fond of her. He would respect and treat her well."
Again Cross paused. "Have we met before? Newmarket, perhaps, or Epsom?"
Pip shook his head. "I'm not much for horses, Lord Cross. Besides, I am sure that if I had met you, I would not forget the occasion." To his own ears, he sounded breathless. What was wrong with him? This was not the time to go to pieces! And for what—because Lord Cross looked at him and had nice hands?
Cross looked at him still. "What part do you play in this proposition?"
"I was just getting to that, your lordship," Mr Leighton said evenly. "In asking for more time in which to pay our debt, I ask a lot of your lordship's patience, and I am naturally eager to fulfil my obligations. However, I heard your lordship was recently obliged to dismiss his secretary. My son is eminently suited to such a role. I propose Phillip replaces your secretary, and in lieu of wages, his work is counted against my debt."
Cross leaned back in his chair, raising his eyebrows. "A most irregular proposition."
Mr Leighton smiled, a little grimly. "As I explained, the family situation is a trifle delicate. If I was to attempt to raise funds in a more usual way, it might be misinterpreted."
"You mean that if your fish learns your family is in straits, he will slip the hook."
"You sneer, Lord Cross, but you know as well as I the damage that can be done to an individual's entire career by rumour."
Phillip stood rigid. There was a weight in those words, and although they carried no bite, it seemed that Lord Cross held himself remarkably still.
"I imagine you will find it hard to replace your secretary, given you live so far removed from society," Mr Leighton continued. "Fortunately, Phillip is not of the temperament that craves excitement. The country life suits him perfectly. I do not doubt you will find in him exactly what you need."
Cross snarled. "Am I to take your word for it? Failing to find a place for your unsuitable son, you instead hope to pawn him off on me—in the pretence of doing me a favour! What gall, Leighton."
"On the contrary," Pip snapped. "Castlewight and Thawne were sorry to lose me."
Cross' gaze flicked back to him. He stroked his chin, a measuring light in his eyes. "I have had some dealings with Castlewight and Thawne. I found them quite competent." His statement was grudging. "You are a lawyer?"
Pip shook his head. "A clerk. I read for the bar, but realised I do not possess the right temperament or ambition for court. To be a legal clerk is enough for me." He set his carpet bag on a side table, and snapped it open. "A letter of reference from Castlewight." He held it out.
Cross took it from him with a grunt. He scanned the page. "And your vices?"
"I protest," Mr Leighton. "Pip is a steady worker and a most—"
Pip placed his hand on his father's shoulder. "I have been known to fall asleep in church services, if I remember to attend at all. Left to my own devices, I can sleep till the afternoon and am overly fond of novels."
For the first time in the interview, a smile played about Cross' lips. They were thin but powerfully suggestive. As they moved now, Cross transformed. He looked almost human. "I see."
"He is good-natured," Mr Leighton allowed. "Not that this is a fault in itself, but it does mean Pip tends to be imposed on by his friends... But of course, here in the country, he is not likely to meet them."
Cross' expression tightened. "No," he said, all the indulgence vanishing from his voice. "He is not." He addressed Pip. "We lead a lonely existence here at Foxwood Court. You need not expect any amusements or luxuries while you're here."
"I understand."
Cross studied him closely. "You agree to this scheme of your father's, irregular as it is?"
"I do."
"And if I refuse this proposition?"
"I shall go back to Castlewight and Thawne, cap in hand, and ask for my job back. Or seek new employment."
Cross raised his head. "You already resigned your post?"
"Precipitate, of course," Mr Leighton said. "But the chance was too good to miss, and Phillip is dedicated to his sister's happiness."
Cross narrowed his eyes. "I’ll try you for one week. If, at that time, I am satisfied with your work, then I will agree to this scheme of your father's."
Pip bowed. "I will endeavour to give satisfaction." He cleared his throat. "When shall I start?"
Cross' hard stare seemed to pierce him. "Any urgent business elsewhere?" Pip shook his head. "At once. Your father can send your things from London. It will do you no harm to rough it for a couple of days." Evidently considering the interview over, Cross rung a bell on his desk.
A few moments later, the door opened noiselessly. A thin man, attired with the precision that marks a first-class butler, appeared as if conjured.
Cross waved towards Pip. "Mr Phillip Leighton and father. My butler, Surplis. Phillip will be acting as my secretary for the next week. See Mr Leighton off, and then show Phillip the ropes. Be quick about it. I want the mess Yardley left sorted out."
Pip's face coloured, but he said nothing. It was a secretary's lot to be ordered about and dismissed peremptorily. He followed his father and Surplis down the staircase.
"Walk with me a few steps," Mr Leighton said. "I must say goodbye to you properly."
Surplis remained on the front steps, examining the stonework with studied indifference as father and son walked down the path.
"I don't feel easy leaving you here." Mr Leighton put his hand on Pip's arm. "You'll have work to do to prove yourself. Cross is a man whose only reference is his own judgement."
"I'll be fine, don't you worry." Pip patted his father on the shoulder.
"It's only until Julia's safely married. After that, well, it doesn't matter what becomes of the rest of us. You're a young man any father could be proud of. You'll make your own way, I have no doubt."
"But what of you and Mother?" Pip asked quietly.
"Don't trouble your head about us," Mr Leighton said. "We've weathered many a storm, your mother and I. We'll survive this."
Pip swallowed. "Death is too merciful for Uncle Andrew. If I see him—"
"He is still your uncle. Be respectful." Mr Leighton squeezed his son's hand. "Leave him to your mother and I. You've got your whole life before you. He can't rob you of that."
It was about the only thing Uncle Andrew could not take. Pip watched his father begin his weary trudge back to the station. Again, the chill of Foxwood Court stole over him.
Ghost of a Chance by TA Chase
Chapter One
The sound of scuffling drew Padraig's attention, and he drifted over to an alley. One slender guy was struggling against two bulkier men. He'd seen enough robberies in his time to know what was happening there. Curiosity drove him closer, even though there wasn't any way he could help the poor sod getting his ass kicked. Sometimes being a ghost sucked.
He couldn't make out much in the shadows cast by what little light the street lamps threw down the alley, but he caught the glint of a knife, and he started to shout out a warning. Too late, Padraig remembered no one could hear him.
Gasping, their victim sank to his knees. Padraig was afraid it wasn't going to end well.
"Shit." One of the assailants whirled on the other. "Why the hell did you do that?"
"I didn't stab him on purpose. You pushed him into me."
"Fuck. It doesn't matter. We need to get out of here before anyone sees us."
He didn't move as the two assailants rushed toward him. They shivered as they passed through him. Padraig had to let them go. Being invisible made it impossible for him to do anything, really. Concern drove him closer to the body on the ground.
Crouching down, he looked at the man dying among the garbage in the alley. Even if Padraig had been human, he wouldn't have been able to save the man. Blood pumped from the man's stomach and pooled under him. Padraig reached out, knowing he couldn't offer comfort to the victim, but needing to make some effort.
He gasped as his hand touched the warm liquid surrounding the wound. The dying man's eyelids fluttered, and Padraig jerked when those eyes opened and focused on him.
"Are you an angel?"
He shook his head. He'd never been accused of being angelic, even when he was alive, just being scary and creepy. "You can see me?" Padraig glanced over his shoulder, wondering if anyone was going to come help this man.
"Yes. Am I not supposed to?"
He coughed, and Padraig grimaced at the wet sound in the man's lungs.
"No one except crazy people and dogs have been able to see me for ten years." He shrugged. "And now it seems that dying people can see me. I'm Padraig."
"I'm Steven. I'm dying, huh?" The effort to talk strained Steven's voice.
There was no point in lying to the man. "I'm afraid so, Steven. I can't help you, and it doesn't look like anyone else is coming."
A slight lift of Steven's shoulders caused the man to groan. Padraig tried removing his hand from the wound but couldn't. Blood stuck to Padraig's hand like warm glue. He tugged and his hand sank in deeper. It was like he was being sucked into Steven's body.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, wondering what the fuck was going on.
"Do you see a light?" Steven's unfocused gaze went over Padraig's shoulder.
Fighting the urge to look, he grimaced as he slid up to his elbow in the gaping wound. "If I saw a bloody fucking light, I wouldn't be here." He rolled his eyes.
Steven's lips moved, but nothing came out.
Padraig struggled, pulling away as he tried to free himself. What the bloody hell was happening to him? Was he suddenly going to Heaven or Hell, whichever place the higher power chose to send him to? It was like sticking his hand in quicksand. Every time he tried to get free, it sucked him deeper in. There was no way he could get out, and he slipped farther into Steven's body.
The sound of scuffling drew Padraig's attention, and he drifted over to an alley. One slender guy was struggling against two bulkier men. He'd seen enough robberies in his time to know what was happening there. Curiosity drove him closer, even though there wasn't any way he could help the poor sod getting his ass kicked. Sometimes being a ghost sucked.
He couldn't make out much in the shadows cast by what little light the street lamps threw down the alley, but he caught the glint of a knife, and he started to shout out a warning. Too late, Padraig remembered no one could hear him.
Gasping, their victim sank to his knees. Padraig was afraid it wasn't going to end well.
"Shit." One of the assailants whirled on the other. "Why the hell did you do that?"
"I didn't stab him on purpose. You pushed him into me."
"Fuck. It doesn't matter. We need to get out of here before anyone sees us."
He didn't move as the two assailants rushed toward him. They shivered as they passed through him. Padraig had to let them go. Being invisible made it impossible for him to do anything, really. Concern drove him closer to the body on the ground.
Crouching down, he looked at the man dying among the garbage in the alley. Even if Padraig had been human, he wouldn't have been able to save the man. Blood pumped from the man's stomach and pooled under him. Padraig reached out, knowing he couldn't offer comfort to the victim, but needing to make some effort.
He gasped as his hand touched the warm liquid surrounding the wound. The dying man's eyelids fluttered, and Padraig jerked when those eyes opened and focused on him.
"Are you an angel?"
He shook his head. He'd never been accused of being angelic, even when he was alive, just being scary and creepy. "You can see me?" Padraig glanced over his shoulder, wondering if anyone was going to come help this man.
"Yes. Am I not supposed to?"
He coughed, and Padraig grimaced at the wet sound in the man's lungs.
"No one except crazy people and dogs have been able to see me for ten years." He shrugged. "And now it seems that dying people can see me. I'm Padraig."
"I'm Steven. I'm dying, huh?" The effort to talk strained Steven's voice.
There was no point in lying to the man. "I'm afraid so, Steven. I can't help you, and it doesn't look like anyone else is coming."
A slight lift of Steven's shoulders caused the man to groan. Padraig tried removing his hand from the wound but couldn't. Blood stuck to Padraig's hand like warm glue. He tugged and his hand sank in deeper. It was like he was being sucked into Steven's body.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, wondering what the fuck was going on.
"Do you see a light?" Steven's unfocused gaze went over Padraig's shoulder.
Fighting the urge to look, he grimaced as he slid up to his elbow in the gaping wound. "If I saw a bloody fucking light, I wouldn't be here." He rolled his eyes.
Steven's lips moved, but nothing came out.
Padraig struggled, pulling away as he tried to free himself. What the bloody hell was happening to him? Was he suddenly going to Heaven or Hell, whichever place the higher power chose to send him to? It was like sticking his hand in quicksand. Every time he tried to get free, it sucked him deeper in. There was no way he could get out, and he slipped farther into Steven's body.
Real Men. True Love.
Rick R. Reed draws inspiration from the lives of gay men to craft stories that quicken the heartbeat, engage emotions, and keep the pages turning. Although he dabbles in horror, dark suspense, and comedy, his attention always returns to the power of love. He’s the award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction and is forever at work on yet another book. Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” You can find him at his website or blog. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA with his beloved husband and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix.
After living in Michigan, USA for seven wonderful years, Indra Vaughn returned back to her Belgian roots. There she will continue to consume herbal tea, do yoga wherever the mat fits, and devour books while single parenting a little boy and working as a nurse.
Gillian St. Kevern is the author of the Deep Magic series, the Thorns and Fangs series, the For the Love of Christmas series, and standalone novels, The Biggest Scoop and The Wing Commander's Curse. Gillian currently lives in her native New Zealand, but spent eleven years in Japan and has visited over twenty different countries.
As a chronic traveller, Gillian is more interested in journeys than endings, with characters that grow and change to achieve their happy ending. She's not afraid to let her characters make mistakes or take the story in an unexpected direction. Her stories cross genres, time-periods and continents, taking readers along for an unforgettable ride. Both Deep Magic and The Biggest Scoop were nominated for Best LOR story in the 2015 M/M Romance Groups Member's Choice awards. Deep Magic also received nominations in Best Cover, Best Main Character and Best Paranormal, while The Biggest Scoop was nominated for Best Coming of Age.
There is beauty in every kind of love, so why not live a life without boundaries? Experiencing everything the world offers fascinates me and writing about the things that make each of us unique is how I share those insights. I live in the Midwest with a wonderful partner of thirteen years. When not writing, I’m watching movies, reading and living life to the fullest.
Rick R Reed
EMAIL: rickrreedbooks@gmail.com
Indra Vaughn
Gillian St. Kevern
BLOG / NEWSLETTER / KOBO
SMASHWORDS / NINE STAR / B&N
EMAIL: gillian.stkevern@gmail.com
TA Chase
EMAIL: chase.ta@gmail.com
Bashed by Rick R Reed
B&N / KOBO / iTUNES AUDIO
The Winter Spirit by Indra Vaughn
The Secretary and the Ghost by Gillian St Kevern
Ghost of a Chance by TA Chase
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