Monday, May 29, 2023
🗽Monday's Memorial Moment(Memorial Day Edition)🗽: Heroes for Ghosts by Jackie North
Love Across Time #1
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.
Sunday's Short Stack
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.
Heroes for Ghosts #1
Series
Sunday, May 28, 2023
🗽Sunday's Short Stack(Memorial Day Edition)🗽: Out of the Blue by Josh Lanyon
France, 1916. The Great War. High above the carnage in the trenches, British and German aces joust like knights of old for control of the skies. The strain and tension of living every day on the edge of death leads to dangerous choices and wild risks. When British ace Bat Bryant's past catches up with him, he strikes out in panic and kills the man threatening him with exposure. But there's a witness: the big, handsome American pilot Cowboy Cooper.
Cowboy, it seems, has his own ideas of rough justice.
Re-Listen Audiobook Review November 2020:
Out of the Blue is one those stories that will never get old or that I'll tire of it. I can understand why some might not like Cowboy's domineering side, that kind of alpha male is not everybody's cup of tea, frankly I don't always care for it either but there's something about Josh Lanyon's character creation that makes him so enjoyable in my mind. As I've said before there is just not enough WW1/post-war stories for my liking but I've found pilots from that era an even bigger missing feature, I don't think people fully grasp the added danger pilots faced during the Great War. Josh Lanyon conveys that danger without the reader feeling like they are being taught a history lesson and that is a huge tick in my historical box: inform but don't lecture. Out of the Blue continues to be a win-win in my heart.
Out of the Blue is one those stories that will never get old or that I'll tire of it. I can understand why some might not like Cowboy's domineering side, that kind of alpha male is not everybody's cup of tea, frankly I don't always care for it either but there's something about Josh Lanyon's character creation that makes him so enjoyable in my mind. As I've said before there is just not enough WW1/post-war stories for my liking but I've found pilots from that era an even bigger missing feature, I don't think people fully grasp the added danger pilots faced during the Great War. Josh Lanyon conveys that danger without the reader feeling like they are being taught a history lesson and that is a huge tick in my historical box: inform but don't lecture. Out of the Blue continues to be a win-win in my heart.
Original Audiobook Review September 2019:
I rarely listen to audiobooks that I haven't already read and that's because I listen to them while I'm working on something else or doing chores so no matter how much I love the story I tend to zone out occasionally so having read the story previously then I know I won't be lost by missing minutes here and there. Out of the Blue is a novella that I've read three times previously and love it every time, well Alexander Masters voice kept me enthralled from beginning to end, not once did I "zone out" while listening to Bat and Cowboy's journey. There's just not enough WW1 stories in the M/M genre but I have a feeling if there 10X what there is, Out of the Blue would still be one of my favorites.
2nd Re-Read Review November 2018:
There is something about WW1 stories that always break my heart, even if it is a HEA of HFN, the lives lost alone is enough pain but with an M/M genre story there is an extra level of heartache added just because of the hiding they had to do. So when I find a story like Out of the Blue, even as my heart hurts for the conditions the characters are living in, when I can still smile, laugh, and reach the final page for the third time and know it won't be the last time then I know I have definitely found a keeper.
Re-Read Review 2016:
I have upped my rating to 5 with my re-read. Since reading it the first time 2 years ago, I have come to have a deeper respect for novellas and don't knock off 1/2 a bookmark just for it's shortness. As for the story, it was fantabulous!! I am a huge lover of WW1 stories so that just added to my enjoyment. Even knowing how the story goes, Cowboy's actions and attitude still left me reeling but loved every ounce of him.
Original Review 2014:
This story is several of my favorite genres all rolled into one: historical, male/male relationships, romance, drama, and erotica. With main characters named Bat and Cowboy you expect to be dropped in the middle of a western, which by the way is also a favorite genre of mine, but this time author has brought her way with words to the airfield of World War One. Now, I won't lie, the first time you meet Cowboy you're not real sure if you are suppose to like him or not but we quickly find out that there's more to him than he first lets on. The only reason I gave this a 4-1/2 bookmark instead of 5 is because I would have loved for it to have been longer. Simply put, I was just not ready to let go of this pair when the final page came. Once again, I was not let down by Ms. Lanyon's work.
2nd Re-Read Review November 2018:
There is something about WW1 stories that always break my heart, even if it is a HEA of HFN, the lives lost alone is enough pain but with an M/M genre story there is an extra level of heartache added just because of the hiding they had to do. So when I find a story like Out of the Blue, even as my heart hurts for the conditions the characters are living in, when I can still smile, laugh, and reach the final page for the third time and know it won't be the last time then I know I have definitely found a keeper.
Re-Read Review 2016:
I have upped my rating to 5 with my re-read. Since reading it the first time 2 years ago, I have come to have a deeper respect for novellas and don't knock off 1/2 a bookmark just for it's shortness. As for the story, it was fantabulous!! I am a huge lover of WW1 stories so that just added to my enjoyment. Even knowing how the story goes, Cowboy's actions and attitude still left me reeling but loved every ounce of him.
Original Review 2014:
This story is several of my favorite genres all rolled into one: historical, male/male relationships, romance, drama, and erotica. With main characters named Bat and Cowboy you expect to be dropped in the middle of a western, which by the way is also a favorite genre of mine, but this time author has brought her way with words to the airfield of World War One. Now, I won't lie, the first time you meet Cowboy you're not real sure if you are suppose to like him or not but we quickly find out that there's more to him than he first lets on. The only reason I gave this a 4-1/2 bookmark instead of 5 is because I would have loved for it to have been longer. Simply put, I was just not ready to let go of this pair when the final page came. Once again, I was not let down by Ms. Lanyon's work.
France, November 1916
“Don’t be too hasty, Captain Bryant,” Orton warned. “Not like I’m asking a king’s ransom. Not like you can’t find the ready, eh? What’s a couple a bob ’ere and there? Could ’ave gone to the major, but I didn’t, did I? Not one word to ’im about what you and poor Lieutenant Roberts used to —”
Bat punched him.
He was not as tall as the mechanic, but he was wiry and strong, and his fist connected to Orton’s jaw with a satisfying crack. Orton’s head snapped back. He staggered, tripped over something in the shadowy darkness of the stable, and went down slamming against the side of the stall.
The elderly dappled gray mare whickered softly. Leaning over the stall door, she lipped at Orton’s fallen form.
For a second, perhaps two, Bat stood shaking with rage — and grief.
“Get up, you swine,” he bit out.
Orton’s head lay out of reach of the uneven lamplight, but his limbs were still — and something in that broken stillness alerted Bat.
“Orton?”
He moved the lantern and the light illuminated Orton’s face. The man’s head was turned at an unnatural angle — watery eyes staring off into the loft above them.
Bat smothered an exclamation. Knelt beside Orton’s body.
The mare raised her head, nickering greeting. The lantern light flickered as though in a draft. He could see every detail in stark relief: the blue black bristle on the older man’s jaw, the flecks of gray in his mustache, oil and dirt beneath his fingernails.
There was a little speck of blood at the corner of his mouth where Bat’s ring had cut him. But he was not bleeding. Was not breathing.
Bat put fingers to Orton’s flaccid throat and felt for a pulse.
There was no pulse.
Sid Orton was dead.
Bat rose. Gazed down at the body.
Christ. It seemed...unreal.
He was used to thinking swiftly, making life-and-death decisions for the entire squadron with only seconds to spare, but he could think of nothing. He’d have to go to the CO. Chase would have to go to the Red Caps...
Bat wiped his forehead with his sleeve. First he’d need to come up with some story — some reason for what he’d done. Gene mustn’t be dragged into it. No one could know about Gene and him. Wasn’t only Gene’s name at stake. There was Bat’s own family and name to think of. This ... just this ... murder ... was liable to finish the old man.
He couldn’t seem to think beyond it. Disgrace. Dishonor.
He ought to feel something for Orton, surely? Pity. Remorse. He didn’t. He hadn’t meant to kill him, but Orton was no loss. Not even an awfully good mechanic. And Bat had killed better men than Orton — ten at last count — for much worse reason.
A miserable specimen, Orton.
But you couldn’t murder a chap for that.
Gaze riveted on the ink stain on the frayed cuff of Orton’s disheveled uniform, Bat tried to force his sluggish brain to action. Yes, he needed a story before he went to the major. More, he had to convince himself of it — get it straight in every detail — in case he was cross-examined. Mustn’t get tripped up.
If only he had ignored Orton’s note ... Why the devil hadn’t he?
“You waiting for him to tell you what to do?” a voice asked laconically from behind him.
Bat jerked about.
Cowboy leaned against the closed stable door. His eyes glinted in the queer light. Bright. Almost feral as he watched from the half shadows.
“P-pardon?” Bat asked stupidly.
“If you don’t plan on getting jugged by the MPs, you better get a move on.”
It was as though he were speaking to Bat in a foreign language. Granted, Cowboy was a Yank — a Texan, at that — and did take a bit of translation at the best of times.
Bat said, “I don’t — what d’you mean? I-I shall have to report this.”
“Why’s that?” Cowboy left his post at the door and came to join him. Oddly, it gave Bat comfort, Cowboy’s broad shoulder brushing his own. Together they stared down at Orton’s body.
Already he had changed. His face had a waxy, sunken look. The smell of death mingled with kerosene and horse and hay.
Bat’s stomach gave a sudden lurch and he moved away, leaning over a rusted harrow. But there was nothing to vomit. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Hadn’t eaten since Gene bought his packet and crashed in flames in the woods of the estate his family once owned near Hesdin.
Instead, he hung white-knuckled onto the rough metal frame heaving dry, empty coughs and nothing coming out but a few exhausted tears. Not for Orton. For Gene.
“You better pull yourself together, boy,” Cowboy told him when the worst of it was over. Listening distantly to that terse voice, Bat knew he was right. He shuddered all over. Forced himself upright, blinking at the American.
Cowboy was a big man. Several inches taller than Bat. Broad shoulders and narrow hips. Long legs. Must be the way they grew them in Texas. Cowboy certainly fit Bat’s notion — based entirely on the works of Zane Grey and Max Brand — of a man of the West. He’d been attached to the RFC for about two months. Which was a bloody long time in this war. Several lifetimes, really.
The old mare stretched her long neck and nibbled at the collar of Cowboy’s tunic. He patted her absently and drawled, “Orton was a sidewinder. A low-down, miserable piece of shit pretending to be a man. He wasn’t even a very good mechanic. Whatever else you might be, you’re one hell of a pilot. And the RFC is running short on pilots these days. Let alone aces.”
Bat blinked at him, wiped his face again. He felt hot and cold, sick and sweaty. He felt as though he were coming down with something — something fatal. He was unable to think beyond the thing at their feet. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying what the hell’s the point of you going to jail for killing that skunk? Anyway, I saw what happened. It was an accident. You slugged him and he fell and hit his head.”
“It’s still...” But he didn’t finish it. He felt a flicker of hope. “You’ll back me up then? When I go to Major Chase?”
“I don’t think you want to do that.”
Too right there. Bat didn’t. But...
“How are you going to explain what he said that got you so mad you punched him? Or what the hell you were doing in the stables this time of night?”
Before Bat thought of an answer — assuming he’d have come up with one — Cowboy added, “I guess Orton ain’t the only one who ever noticed you and Lieutenant Roberts were kinda sweet on each other.”
Bat lunged, and Cowboy sidestepped, grabbing him and twisting his arm behind his back in a wrestling move they never taught in any officer’s training course Bat had received. It was fast and efficient. Pain shot through his shoulder and arm and he stopped struggling, sagging against Cowboy. The American was so big, so powerfully built, it was easy to underestimate how fast he was when he needed to be. Not least because he never seemed to be in a hurry. He spoke in a lazy drawl and moved with easy, loose-limbed grace. Even when he flew into battle, he picked off enemy planes as though he were potting birds off a branch with a rifle. As though he had all the time in the world.
Listening to the calm, strong thud of Cowboy’s heart, Bat thought dizzily that this was the closest he’d come to being in a man’s arms ever again.
Cowboy’s voice vibrated in his chest as he intoned, “Never realized you had such a temper, Captain Bryant. One of these days it’s going to land you in a fix you can’t get out of.”
Bat yanked free and Cowboy let him go.
“Not tonight, though.”
Bat rubbed his wrist where Cowboy’s fingers had dug into the tendons. “What d’you mean?”
“I mean, if you can simmer down long enough to listen, I’m going to help you.”
“Help me how?”
Cowboy wasn’t looking at Bat. He stared down at Orton’s body. Thoughtfully, as though only making his mind up to it, he said, “I’m going to get rid of him once and for all.”
“How?”
“Never mind how. It’ll be better if you don’t know. Go back to the mess, and make sure everyone sees you. Close the place down. Then head up to your quarters. Understand?”
The flicker of hope flared. Bat knew a cowardly longing to do exactly as Cowboy instructed. Leave it to him, go get blind drunk, then retire to bed and forget any of this happened.
He forced himself to say, “Awfully good of you, old chap, but you must see I can’t ... can’t let you do this.”
Amused, Cowboy retorted, “You don’t even know what I’m going to do, old chap, so why argue about it?”
He was staring at Bat, smiling that funny crooked grin of his. Bat had never noticed how blue Cowboy’s eyes were. Blue as the sky — back when the sky was empty of anything worse than clouds — light and bright in his deeply tanned face. His hair was soft gold. Palomino gold.
Helplessly, Bat said, “Why should you do this? Why should you help me? I haven’t been ... it’s not as though...”
“You’ve acted like a stuck-up sonofabitch since the day I arrived, is that what you were going to say?” Cowboy asked easily. “Not a member of your old boys’ club, am I? Well, I guess it could be that I like you anyway. Or it could be having you around makes my life easier — ’cept days like today when you seem bent on getting yourself blown out of the sky.”
His gaze held Bat’s, and there wasn’t anything Bat could say. Today. Yes. What a long time ago it seemed.
If Cowboy hadn’t been there today ... Sid Orton would still be alive.
“Git,” Cowboy said softly. “I’ll find you later.”
And so ... Bat got.
“Don’t be too hasty, Captain Bryant,” Orton warned. “Not like I’m asking a king’s ransom. Not like you can’t find the ready, eh? What’s a couple a bob ’ere and there? Could ’ave gone to the major, but I didn’t, did I? Not one word to ’im about what you and poor Lieutenant Roberts used to —”
Bat punched him.
He was not as tall as the mechanic, but he was wiry and strong, and his fist connected to Orton’s jaw with a satisfying crack. Orton’s head snapped back. He staggered, tripped over something in the shadowy darkness of the stable, and went down slamming against the side of the stall.
The elderly dappled gray mare whickered softly. Leaning over the stall door, she lipped at Orton’s fallen form.
For a second, perhaps two, Bat stood shaking with rage — and grief.
“Get up, you swine,” he bit out.
Orton’s head lay out of reach of the uneven lamplight, but his limbs were still — and something in that broken stillness alerted Bat.
“Orton?”
He moved the lantern and the light illuminated Orton’s face. The man’s head was turned at an unnatural angle — watery eyes staring off into the loft above them.
Bat smothered an exclamation. Knelt beside Orton’s body.
The mare raised her head, nickering greeting. The lantern light flickered as though in a draft. He could see every detail in stark relief: the blue black bristle on the older man’s jaw, the flecks of gray in his mustache, oil and dirt beneath his fingernails.
There was a little speck of blood at the corner of his mouth where Bat’s ring had cut him. But he was not bleeding. Was not breathing.
Bat put fingers to Orton’s flaccid throat and felt for a pulse.
There was no pulse.
Sid Orton was dead.
Bat rose. Gazed down at the body.
Christ. It seemed...unreal.
He was used to thinking swiftly, making life-and-death decisions for the entire squadron with only seconds to spare, but he could think of nothing. He’d have to go to the CO. Chase would have to go to the Red Caps...
Bat wiped his forehead with his sleeve. First he’d need to come up with some story — some reason for what he’d done. Gene mustn’t be dragged into it. No one could know about Gene and him. Wasn’t only Gene’s name at stake. There was Bat’s own family and name to think of. This ... just this ... murder ... was liable to finish the old man.
He couldn’t seem to think beyond it. Disgrace. Dishonor.
He ought to feel something for Orton, surely? Pity. Remorse. He didn’t. He hadn’t meant to kill him, but Orton was no loss. Not even an awfully good mechanic. And Bat had killed better men than Orton — ten at last count — for much worse reason.
A miserable specimen, Orton.
But you couldn’t murder a chap for that.
Gaze riveted on the ink stain on the frayed cuff of Orton’s disheveled uniform, Bat tried to force his sluggish brain to action. Yes, he needed a story before he went to the major. More, he had to convince himself of it — get it straight in every detail — in case he was cross-examined. Mustn’t get tripped up.
If only he had ignored Orton’s note ... Why the devil hadn’t he?
“You waiting for him to tell you what to do?” a voice asked laconically from behind him.
Bat jerked about.
Cowboy leaned against the closed stable door. His eyes glinted in the queer light. Bright. Almost feral as he watched from the half shadows.
“P-pardon?” Bat asked stupidly.
“If you don’t plan on getting jugged by the MPs, you better get a move on.”
It was as though he were speaking to Bat in a foreign language. Granted, Cowboy was a Yank — a Texan, at that — and did take a bit of translation at the best of times.
Bat said, “I don’t — what d’you mean? I-I shall have to report this.”
“Why’s that?” Cowboy left his post at the door and came to join him. Oddly, it gave Bat comfort, Cowboy’s broad shoulder brushing his own. Together they stared down at Orton’s body.
Already he had changed. His face had a waxy, sunken look. The smell of death mingled with kerosene and horse and hay.
Bat’s stomach gave a sudden lurch and he moved away, leaning over a rusted harrow. But there was nothing to vomit. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Hadn’t eaten since Gene bought his packet and crashed in flames in the woods of the estate his family once owned near Hesdin.
Instead, he hung white-knuckled onto the rough metal frame heaving dry, empty coughs and nothing coming out but a few exhausted tears. Not for Orton. For Gene.
“You better pull yourself together, boy,” Cowboy told him when the worst of it was over. Listening distantly to that terse voice, Bat knew he was right. He shuddered all over. Forced himself upright, blinking at the American.
Cowboy was a big man. Several inches taller than Bat. Broad shoulders and narrow hips. Long legs. Must be the way they grew them in Texas. Cowboy certainly fit Bat’s notion — based entirely on the works of Zane Grey and Max Brand — of a man of the West. He’d been attached to the RFC for about two months. Which was a bloody long time in this war. Several lifetimes, really.
The old mare stretched her long neck and nibbled at the collar of Cowboy’s tunic. He patted her absently and drawled, “Orton was a sidewinder. A low-down, miserable piece of shit pretending to be a man. He wasn’t even a very good mechanic. Whatever else you might be, you’re one hell of a pilot. And the RFC is running short on pilots these days. Let alone aces.”
Bat blinked at him, wiped his face again. He felt hot and cold, sick and sweaty. He felt as though he were coming down with something — something fatal. He was unable to think beyond the thing at their feet. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying what the hell’s the point of you going to jail for killing that skunk? Anyway, I saw what happened. It was an accident. You slugged him and he fell and hit his head.”
“It’s still...” But he didn’t finish it. He felt a flicker of hope. “You’ll back me up then? When I go to Major Chase?”
“I don’t think you want to do that.”
Too right there. Bat didn’t. But...
“How are you going to explain what he said that got you so mad you punched him? Or what the hell you were doing in the stables this time of night?”
Before Bat thought of an answer — assuming he’d have come up with one — Cowboy added, “I guess Orton ain’t the only one who ever noticed you and Lieutenant Roberts were kinda sweet on each other.”
Bat lunged, and Cowboy sidestepped, grabbing him and twisting his arm behind his back in a wrestling move they never taught in any officer’s training course Bat had received. It was fast and efficient. Pain shot through his shoulder and arm and he stopped struggling, sagging against Cowboy. The American was so big, so powerfully built, it was easy to underestimate how fast he was when he needed to be. Not least because he never seemed to be in a hurry. He spoke in a lazy drawl and moved with easy, loose-limbed grace. Even when he flew into battle, he picked off enemy planes as though he were potting birds off a branch with a rifle. As though he had all the time in the world.
Listening to the calm, strong thud of Cowboy’s heart, Bat thought dizzily that this was the closest he’d come to being in a man’s arms ever again.
Cowboy’s voice vibrated in his chest as he intoned, “Never realized you had such a temper, Captain Bryant. One of these days it’s going to land you in a fix you can’t get out of.”
Bat yanked free and Cowboy let him go.
“Not tonight, though.”
Bat rubbed his wrist where Cowboy’s fingers had dug into the tendons. “What d’you mean?”
“I mean, if you can simmer down long enough to listen, I’m going to help you.”
“Help me how?”
Cowboy wasn’t looking at Bat. He stared down at Orton’s body. Thoughtfully, as though only making his mind up to it, he said, “I’m going to get rid of him once and for all.”
“How?”
“Never mind how. It’ll be better if you don’t know. Go back to the mess, and make sure everyone sees you. Close the place down. Then head up to your quarters. Understand?”
The flicker of hope flared. Bat knew a cowardly longing to do exactly as Cowboy instructed. Leave it to him, go get blind drunk, then retire to bed and forget any of this happened.
He forced himself to say, “Awfully good of you, old chap, but you must see I can’t ... can’t let you do this.”
Amused, Cowboy retorted, “You don’t even know what I’m going to do, old chap, so why argue about it?”
He was staring at Bat, smiling that funny crooked grin of his. Bat had never noticed how blue Cowboy’s eyes were. Blue as the sky — back when the sky was empty of anything worse than clouds — light and bright in his deeply tanned face. His hair was soft gold. Palomino gold.
Helplessly, Bat said, “Why should you do this? Why should you help me? I haven’t been ... it’s not as though...”
“You’ve acted like a stuck-up sonofabitch since the day I arrived, is that what you were going to say?” Cowboy asked easily. “Not a member of your old boys’ club, am I? Well, I guess it could be that I like you anyway. Or it could be having you around makes my life easier — ’cept days like today when you seem bent on getting yourself blown out of the sky.”
His gaze held Bat’s, and there wasn’t anything Bat could say. Today. Yes. What a long time ago it seemed.
If Cowboy hadn’t been there today ... Sid Orton would still be alive.
“Git,” Cowboy said softly. “I’ll find you later.”
And so ... Bat got.
Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
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Saturday, May 27, 2023
🗽Saturday's Series Spotlight(Memorial Day Edition)🗽: Shore Leave by Annabeth Albert
Summary:
The sexy Navy chief and his best friend’s adorkable little brother…
It’s petty, but Naval Chief Derrick Fox wishes he could exact a little revenge on his ex by showing off a rebound fling. His submarine is due to return to its Bremerton, Washington, home base soon and Derrick knows all too well there won't be anyone waiting with a big, showy welcome.
Enter one ill-advised plan…
Arthur Euler is the guy you go to in a pinch—he's excellent at out-of-the-box solutions. It's what the genius music-slash-computer nerd is known for. So when he finds out Derrick needs a favor, he’s happy to help. He can muster the sort of welcome a Naval Chief deserves, no problem at all.
Except it is a problem. A very big problem.
When Arthur’s homecoming welcome is a little too convincing, when a video of their gangplank smooch goes enormously viral, they're caught between a dock and a hard place. Neither of them ever expected a temporary fake relationship to look—or feel—so real. And Arthur certainly never considered he'd be fighting for a very much not-fake forever with a military man.
Winning and losing are subject to sexy interpretation…
Navy chief Calder Euler loves to win big. His latest score? A remote mountain cabin. Checking it out is supposed to be a quick trip, but Calder’s luck abruptly turns when a freak injury and a freakier snowstorm leave him stranded.
Oh, and the cabin isn’t empty. A silver fox caring for two young girls claims that the property is his, but Calder’s paperwork says otherwise.
Felix Sigurd is on a losing streak, and his ex-husband risking the cabin in a reckless bet is only the latest in a series of misfortunes. He’ll tolerate the handsome stranger for a couple nights--even care for his injuries—but that’s it.
Calder doesn’t know a damn thing about kids, but making pancakes for Felix’s girls is a surprising delight. Trapped in the cabin, the four of them slip easily into the rhythms of a family. But when the ice melts, they’ll have to decide if a future together is in the cards.
Sailor Proof #1
Chapter One
Derrick
It was going to happen. Today was finally the day I was going to deck an officer and thus end any hope I had of ever making chief of the boat, and probably earn myself a court-martial to boot. But Fernsby had it coming, and he knew it, the way he met my eyes as he gave a cocky laugh. He might be a junior-grade lieutenant who had to answer to the other officers, but he wasn’t stupid. It didn’t matter how much he had it coming, a chief fighting with an officer of any rank over a personal matter was going to be harshly punished.
But it might be worth it.
Fernsby had been goading me the entire long deployment, every chance he got, which considering the close quarters on a submarine was pretty damn often. And now here he was, joking with another officer about winning the first-kiss raffle for our homecoming, knowing full well that I was standing right there. And that he’d be kissing my ex.
Personal matter indeed.
And totally worth punching that smug smile away.
“I hope we go viral. Social media loves two hot dudes kissing.” Fernsby smirked as he waggled his eyebrows at the big-eyed ensign who’d been hero-worshipping him all damn tour. And of course he was smirking. First kiss was a storied tradition for most navy deployments, and sailors loved vying for the honor of being first to disembark and greet their loved ones. Usually I was happy for whoever won, and over the years I’d seen more than one proposal as a result of that first kiss.
God, I hoped Fernsby wasn’t planning that. Bad enough that he couldn’t stop ribbing me that Steve chose him over me and that I’d been the last to know Steve was cheating. Watching them be all happy was going to suck.
“I’m gonna get so lucky.” Fernsby’s knowing gaze met mine over the ensign’s head.
An angry noise escaped my throat. “And I hope—”
“Fox. A word. Now.” My friend Calder appeared seemingly out of nowhere in the narrow corridor and hauled me backward, effectively cutting off my tirade along with a good deal of my circulation.
“Yeah, Fox. Go on with you.” Fernsby made a dismissive gesture as I growled, but Calder kept moving, giving me little choice but to follow. He dragged me past various compartments through the mess, where two of our fellow chiefs were playing cards. He didn’t stop until we were in the chief’s section of the bunking with its rows of triple beds, steering me into the far corner by our bunks and about as close to privacy as we were going to get.
“What the fuck?” Calder wasted no time in unleashing on me.
“It’s nothing.” I looked down at my narrow bunk. I had the bottom bunk, another chief had the middle, and the top bunk was Calder’s. And I was more than a little tempted to disappear into mine and pull the blue privacy curtain. “Fernsby was running his mouth again.”
“You sure as hell looked like you were gearing up to slug him. I saw your clenched fist. I’m surprised smoke wasn’t coming out of your ears.”
Calder wasn’t wrong, so I shrugged. “I need to stop letting him get to me. I know.”
“Yeah, you do.” He shoved my shoulder the way only a longtime best friend could get away with. We’d been lucky, meeting up in submarine school, both getting assigned to Bremerton, and then ending up on the same boat together as chiefs. Calder had a vested interest in me not fucking up, and my skin heated from how close I’d come to doing just that.
“I’m pissed because it looks like he won first kiss and now I have to watch that,” I admitted in a low whisper.
“What you need is a kiss of your own,” said the guy who probably had different dates scheduled for each of our first three days home.
“Ha. Would be nice, but not happening.” It went without saying that I wouldn’t have anyone in the throngs of family and friends waiting on me. Simply wasn’t how my life was structured, and most of the time I was fine with it. Calder was the one who would have a big contingent of friends and family. And I was well-acquainted with his undying belief that the solution to one terrible relationship was to find another more casual arrangement. “I’m not exactly a rebound sort of guy.”
“Everyone knows that about you.” Calder rolled his eyes. He was both taller and broader than me, which was saying something because I wasn’t exactly tiny. However, his playful demeanor always made him seem younger. “But you should be. And I’m not even talking about getting laid. I’m saying you need to make Fernsby and Steve-the-lying-ex-from-hell jealous by having some hottie there to greet you.”
“God. I wish.” I let my head thump back against the panel where the bunks met the wall. Unlike Calder, I wasn’t counting down the minutes until I could get lucky, but I had entertained more than fantasy about how to pay Steve back. A rebound held limited appeal from an emotional standpoint. But jealousy? Yeah, I wouldn’t mind trotting out someone hotter than Steve, who always was a vain fucker. “But we’re only a couple of weeks out from homecoming, and I’m not exactly in a position to meet someone while we’re deployed.”
Unlike some other deployments, the submarine force had very limited communication access. No cell phones, no swiping right, no mindless surfing of hookup sites. Hell, simply getting messages to friends and family could be challenging, let alone trying to conduct a revenge romance on the down-low.
“Call in a favor?” Calder quirked his mouth. He undoubtedly had multiple persons who would love nothing more than to pretend to be madly in lust with him.
“From who?” My back tensed and my nerves were still jangling from listening to Fernsby brag. “It’s not like my contact list is awash in friends with benefits or even friends period.”
“You need to work on that whole brooding-loner persona.” Calder clapped me on the shoulder, nicer now. “It’s not doing you any favors.”
“Why be the life of the party when I have you?” I laughed, years of shared memories flowing between us. Any social life I did have, I owed almost entirely to Calder. He’d even introduced me to Steve.
“I do like to bring the party.”
“You do.” Closing my eyes, I took another deep breath, trying to steady myself. I truly did not want to fight Fernsby even if my fist tended to forget that. “You’re right, though. Someone there, even pretend, would make me feel less like a fucking loser.”
“Exactly,” Calder agreed a little too readily, making my gut clench. Maybe I was that pathetic.
“But I’m not doing something stupid like an ad.” I cracked an eye open in time to catch him laughing at me.
“Of course not. You save your stupidity for fighting with officers.”
I groaned because he was right. “I’m not the personal-ads type. But who do you know? Surely there’s a guy into guys who owes you a favor whom you could loan me?”
I wasn’t too proud to borrow from Calder’s vast social network.
“Hmm.” Tilting his head, Calder narrowed his eyes, the same intense thinking he did when poring over the latest supply manifest. As a logistics specialist, Calder had a solution to almost every problem that could crop up, apparently my love life included. He muttered to himself for a few moments before straightening. “Arthur would do it.”
“Ha. Very funny. Try again.” I kept my voice down, but my laugh was a lot freer this time. Arthur. The nerve. I had to go ahead and sit on a bunk before I lost it laughing.
“He would,” Calder insisted, serious expression never wavering. “He owes me.”
I shook my head. Arthur. I’d known Calder’s family for a decade now, including his spindly youngest brother who was some sort of musical genius. And also terminally hopeless. “You want me to use your too-nerdy-for-band-camp little brother to make Fernsby jealous?”
“He’s almost twenty-five now. Not so little. He’s been out since high school, so no issues about a public kiss. And Haggerty said Arthur’s hot now. Kid went and got all buff in Boston.”
“Haggerty said that? And you let him live?” Our mutual friend did like them young and pretty. I had vague memories of Arthur having a riot of unruly hair, far redder than his brothers’, and big green eyes, but he’d been barely legal last time I’d seen him a couple of years back. And as I’d already been seeing Steve, and Arthur was Calder’s little brother, I hadn’t looked too terribly hard.
“It was an observation, not a request to go break his heart.” Calder kicked my foot. “Come on. It’s perfect. Arthur has always liked you, but he doesn’t like you.”
“Hey!” I should have been relieved that Arthur wasn’t harboring some giant crush, not indignant.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a catch.” Calder fiddled with the strap on his bunk. Everything got strapped down on a sub, even us. “But he’s always said he’d never get involved long-term with someone military.”
“I don’t blame him.” This was why I was never doing another relationship myself. Romance and the navy simply didn’t mix, especially not submarine personnel. We were bad relationship bets, and I could admit that.
“See? This is why he’d be good for this. He can fake it long enough to get Steve and Fernsby off your back, but it’s not like he’d actually date you.”
“Of course not.”
“Plus all that experience as a dorm RA has him good at shit like signs and banners and cutesy gestures. And he’s been back in Seattle a couple of months now. He’d do it.”
“I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. How are you going to get a message to him anyway?” The last thing I needed was anyone else getting wind of this ill-advised plan. There was no such thing as privacy on a sub.
“Trust me. I’ve got my ways.” Calder’s voice went from confident to hushed as voices sounded near the front row of bunks.
“Dude. Did you hear about Fernsby?” asked one of the youngest chiefs, a Nuke with a chipped front tooth and no filter. I couldn’t see him or his buddy but his surfer-boy drawl was unmistakable.
“Yep. Fox is gonna be so pissed.” The other person had to be Beauregard, who worked with me in Weapons. The Southern accent gave him away. “It’s a wonder they haven’t murdered each other this whole deployment. If a crew member stole my girl—or guy—I’m not sure I could stand the humiliation.”
“Shush.” A third voice sounded farther back, and then there was a lot of fumbling around before Beauregard slapped his bunk.
“Okay, okay, here’s my new deck,” he announced as the three of them exited the quarters.
“See?” I gestured up at Calder. “It would be justifiable homicide.”
“It would. But wouldn’t revenge be better?”
“I dunno. Fernsby’s head would look pretty great mounted on my wall back on base.” I groaned as I thought about returning to my little room in the barracks. I’d let Steve keep the apartment, because I was such a nice guy and all. Damn it, I was tired of being nice. Tired of being taken advantage of and pitied and gossiped about. Fuck it all. “Okay. Whatever. See what you can arrange.”
“Leave it all to me.” Calder straightened to his full height, which came just shy of the low ceiling. “You won’t regret this.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I will.” Dread churned in my too-empty gut, but it was a distraction from all the weeks of hurt and anger I’d been stamping down. At least we had a plan.
Sink or Swim #2
Chapter One
Calder
“You seriously won a whole house? Man, you are the luckiest fucker I know.” Max’s voice crackled over my car speaker. My signal kept fading in and out the farther outside Seattle I drove, but his skepticism came through loud and clear.
“Cabin. And yeah, it’s probably my biggest score yet.” I couldn’t help doing a little bragging as I navigated a curve on the country highway that kept advising travelers of their elevation and the distance to Mount Rainier. “I lucked into the invite for this high-stakes poker party, and this one jackass kept going all-in. Totally out of his league. But he wasn’t drunk or otherwise impaired, so his loss is totally my gain.”
“Hell, yeah. So when do we get to come for a ski weekend?” Max sounded predictably eager to get away from base. “Cards and ski bunnies sound pretty damn good right now. Not that you have anything left to play for.”
“There’s always something to play for.” I had to slow for an RV plodding along. I was relying on some sketchy directions and my GPS to get me to this place. Now that I’d left the suburbs behind, the terrain had turned decidedly mountainous, little towns with folksy names fewer and farther between long stretches of evergreen trees marching up and down scenic vistas. “You can come soon, but I need to check the place out first. For all I know it’s a shack inhabited by a family of elk. This guy wasn’t especially high on the place, but I figured what the hell. Even if it turns out that calling the place a ski chalet is pushing it, property is property.”
“Yup. And knowing you, you weren’t about to walk away from the table with a winning hand either.” Max snorted.
“Too true.” I wouldn’t take bets I couldn’t win, but I also wasn’t one to back down from a challenge either. A passing lane finally opened up, and I seized the chance to pass the RV. “If the cabin is too much of a dump, I’ll unload it in a quick sale as soon as I get the paperwork straightened out. But in the meantime, having my own getaway sounds pretty sweet.”
“Sure does. And hell, the way Seattle real estate prices are going, some sucker’s gonna be willing to buy it to attempt the long-ass commute.”
“Exactly.” Those same ridiculous prices were a big reason why I kept living in the barracks. As a chief I had options, but in the Seattle area all those options required more bread than I was willing to part with. For all that I loved the thrill of winning a bet, I was also notoriously tight with my money. My brothers liked to joke that getting a loan out of me required three signatures and collateral, and they weren’t that far from the truth. Saving cash by staying in the barracks made sense, but all the regulations, cramped spaces, and constant drama of other sailors got damn old. Having a place to escape to and bring my buddies was going to be awesome.
As long as the place wasn’t falling down. Even I wasn’t enough of a risk-taker to bring the crew to a cabin that wasn’t structurally sound. I’d take this weekend, inspect everything, make it as clean as possible, and draft some to-do and to-buy lists. Then I could set a date for the weekend away I’d been promising my crew. Traveling alone wasn’t usually my style and my car had felt too quiet until I’d dialed Max, but I didn’t want anyone around to laugh if it turned out I’d been had and the key didn’t even work.
“So, how’s the new duty assignment going?” Max asked, voice too careful to pass off as totally casual. Fuck. Maybe calling him hadn’t been so smart after all.
“Awesome,” I lied. “Shouldn’t be too much longer before I’m out from behind a desk.”
“Good to hear it. Couldn’t pay me to get chained to an office.” Max was a crane operator at the pier and possibly even more outdoorsy than me. Another reason to not have him along. If there were things I had to figure out, like lighting a tricky woodstove or something, I preferred to get it right before I had an audience eager to swoop in and help.
“Quit reminding me how much I wanna be back out there,” I grumbled right as the phone crackled again. “Damn it. Signal’s dropping again.”
“No worries. I should probably run anyway. I’ve got a date tonight. Maybe you’re not the only one with some recent luck.” Max’s warm laugh made me a little less grumbly. “This hottie swiped right and slid into my DMs with some killer pics.”
“Have a good time. Hope they’re not actually some pimple-faced kid.” I kept my tone light, the sort of ribbing we gave each other all day.
“Hey, that only happened one time.” The static increased, garbling whatever else he was trying to say until the call dropped completely. For once though I wasn’t cursing the trees and lack of cell towers. Max had been wandering into territory I didn’t want to think about, so I cranked the stereo rather than attempt a call back.
Without passengers I could indulge the musical tastes my brother the composer called hopelessly basic. Whatever. I liked what I liked, but I’d barely gotten two songs in before the GPS bleated that it was time to turn onto an even smaller side road and then another, each road more narrow and less maintained than the last. They’d been plowed at least, but not well. My sports car had all-wheel drive and was rated decent for winter, but I was still glad the forecast called for only a light dusting this weekend.
A rogue flake danced across my windshield. Probably an escapee from a nearby snowbank and not an omen. Here’s hoping. Finally, the GPS led me up a gravel drive to a red mailbox beside a large carved wooden bear holding a cheery sign that read Dutch Bear’s Hideaway. Hmm. Hideaway could be anything from a shed to a tree house, and a weird Christmas-morning-level excitement gathered in my gut as I made the turn. The house wasn’t immediately visible from the road, and when the driveway turned to reveal a red Swiss-style cottage with white trim hidden among the trees, I couldn’t help grinning.
This I could work with. It was older, sure, probably fifty years at least, and humble, but it looked sound, no saggy roof or missing windows. Its footprint was a basic rectangle with deep eaves, and a little white balcony indicated there was a second story tucked under the sloping roof. I followed the drive around back to where it ended at a little outbuilding painted the same red as the house. Tim, the guy at the poker party, had made it sound way shabbier than this.
True, it was remote, with no neighbors that I could see, but as long as that chimney worked and we had something resembling electricity, this could be a nice bro hangout. Like the little clubhouse we’d had in the backyard at one of Dad’s duty stations. Man, I’d loved that place. Maybe I’d change the sign to something more me. Keep the bear. He was cute and homey, kind of like the place itself.
After I parked, I started exploring on foot. A little fire circle with carved wooden benches and an ancient hot tub on a deck lurked behind the house. The hot tub might have to be replaced, but there was plenty of firewood in the little outbuilding, and lo and behold, one of my keys opened the white door to reveal snow shovels and other winter supplies. Not a bad start.
When I ducked back out of the outbuilding, a few more snowflakes fluttered over my face. Luckily I wasn’t planning on going anywhere before morning, and I’d have wood and the food and supplies I’d brought if nothing else. The rear patio door next to the hot tub didn’t take the first key I tried or the second or the same one as the outbuilding either. But then I went back to the first key, jiggled the knob a little, and the lock turned.
“Who’s got the magic touch?” I crowed to the empty woods before opening the door. It let out a loud creak but would be an easy fix to put on my list. The door opened into a hallway with a neat row of hooks for coats and a mat for shoes and boots. Taking the hint, I took a second to take off my boots so I wouldn’t track mud and snow all over the house. I left my coat on until I could assess the heat situation. The hallway led me past a modest bedroom with what looked to be a queen and bedding already on. Score.
A breaker box hung on the wall between the bedroom and bathroom. The electric was already on, so I tested the light in the bathroom. Worked. The bath was cramped with a cracked vanity, but I’d done multiple submarine tours. The tub/shower combo was practically palatial compared with the head on a sub. And after a brief pause with a gasp and sputter, the sink turned on. A little hard to turn and the water was rusty. However, I could let it run later, and I’d brought bottled for drinking, anyway.
“Running water! We’re in business now.” Happy, I hummed to myself as I continued down the hall, which opened into a U-shaped kitchen. Old appliances, but neat and tidy. Like the bath, it was cramped, but it opened to a living area, making it appear bigger. I could already picture games of cards at the built-in eating nook. It’d be a tight fit for my build, but I could always pull up a chair.
The living area was dominated by a stone fireplace and woodstove. I’d come back to that in a moment, but first the stairs beckoned me. I felt like some storybook character exploring a fairy-tale cottage. So far, everything was just right.
“Come on, Goldilocks. Let’s see what’s upstairs.” Talking to myself was helping me feel less alone, especially when the third stair creaked like in a horror movie. I’d brought a portable speaker for my phone. Maybe I could play some music while I messed with the woodstove.
The upstairs had a sleeping loft with three twin beds all in a row made up with identical quilts. “Wow. This really is some fairy-tale shit.”
My nieces and nephews would go nuts for this space. My adult-sized pals were gonna be a tight fit in those beds, but it beat making them bunk down on the floor, and there was also a small room with crowded bookshelves, a rocking chair, and a small desk next to a teeny half bath tucked into the eaves.
“Nice.” Giving the space one last look, I turned to head back downstairs. For a second, I thought I heard the echo of children’s voices. Damn. All this aloneness really was getting to me. Click. I heard another sound, but the noise didn’t repeat. Still, I hastened my trek down the stairs.
Whoosh. A rush of cold air made my whole body tense, every sense on red alert as the front door burst open.
“What the—” Whatever curse I’d been about to bellow was cut off by an ear-piercing shriek as a young girl appeared in the door. If I’d tried to conjure up an actual Goldilocks, I couldn’t have done much better than her pale blond curls, pink cheeks, old-fashioned wool coat, and startled expression.
“There’s someone here!” Her alarmed shout echoed off the wood walls.
“Wait,” I called out right as my sock slid against the stair step. “Whoa!”
I thrust an arm out, but it was already too late and I was tumbling down the last three steps, landing on my ass in a heap at the bottom. Ouch. Trying to figure out what I’d injured, I was still catching my breath when another form appeared in the front doorway, this one adult, male, and mad as a grizzly.
“Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my cabin?”
Annabeth Albert grew up sneaking romance novels under the bed covers. Now, she devours all subgenres of romance out in the open--no flashlights required! When she's not adding to her keeper shelf, she's a multi-published Pacific Northwest romance writer.
Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two children.
Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two children.
Sailor Proof #1
B&N / iTUNES AUDIO / iTUNES
AUDIBLE / CHIRP / AUDIOBOOKS
KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / CARINA
Sink or Swim #2
B&N / iTUNES / iTUNES AUDIO
AUDIBLE / CHIRP / AUDIOBOOKS
KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / CARINA
Series
B&N / KOBO / iTUNES AUDIO
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