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In honor of Father's Day here in the US this coming Sunday, I wanted to showcase stories with strong, influential father figures. Some aren't necessarily a lengthy factor in the story, perhaps it's even just one chapter, or a flashback, a memory, etc. The father figure has however, left a lasting impression on the characters, the story, and the reader. For Father's Day 2023, this post features 5 stories I felt had fathers-from-hell, or at the very least is definitely not in the good dad category. I find bad parental figures help shape the characters, intentionally or not, make them stronger and in doing so make the story even more brilliant. If you have any recommendations for bad father figures in the LGBTQIA genre, be sure and comment below or on the social media post that may have brought you here. The purchase links below are current as of the original posting but if they don't work be sure to check the authors' websites for up-to-date information.
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Summary:
Responsible Adult #1
Life isn’t always responsible.
After his mother tragically dies and his deadbeat father goes off the rails, nineteen-year-old Micky is left to care for his disabled little brother. Juggling college, a dead-end job and Flynn’s special needs means Micky has to put his bad-boy past behind him and be the responsible adult to keep his brother out of care. He doesn't have time for anything else in his life.
Still scarred from a past relationship that went bad, Dan’s not looking to complicate his life. Everything tells him he should stay away from Micky but he’s powerless in the face of his overwhelming attraction to his newest staff member. Especially when he begins to peel off Micky's layers to reveal the true man beneath the façade.
As their attraction builds, revealing more of themselves to one another, each is faced with a stark question: Can Micky allow himself to follow his heart, and can Dan risk falling in love with someone so tempestuous?
“Amazingly gritty and raw, it flays you.” Pride Publishing editor's choice.
Misdemeanor is the first book in the Responsible Adult trilogy and is a re-release of the previously published version by Pride. It has been edited with new content added.
Author note: Potential triggers include references to suicide, physical assault on a minor, criminal behaviour and bullying of a disabled child.
Mikey has to grow up fast when fate steps in, in the form of his mother's tragic death. He has to go from a bad boy teenager to a man who needs to look after his little brother who is living with Williams Syndrome. Dan on the other hand comes from a good home with support and stability, a great job, and is an all around well put together person. When they come together there is immediate fireworks that both pop and fizzle, but will it be enough to create something meaningful.
First, I want to say that I love a good opposites attract story and lets face it, Mikey and Dan couldn't be more opposite. Second, I really find stories where disabilities are huge factors to be be incredibly appealing having come from a family that has dealt with disability and major health issues, it's always refreshing to see that side of life explored even if it's not the main character with said disability. As for the disability that Mikey's little brother lives with, Williams Syndrome, a developmental disorder that I must admit I had to look up, I found interesting and well handled.
One issue I did have with Misdemeanor is the fat-shaming directed at Dougie, a secondary character. Seeing how this ends with a cliffhanger I am holding out hope that this is something that will be addressed and factor into the next installment of CF White's Responsible Adult series and I tried not to let it influence my final opinion too much. Having mentioned the cliffhanger, I know that not everyone is a cliffie fan so if that is the case for you, I recommend waiting until book 2, Hard Time, is published in September to begin Mikey and Dan's journey. Whether you read it now or later, I definitely recommend giving this series a read and/or place on your TBR list and as this is my first CF White read, I look forward to checking out her backlist and future releases.
RATING:
Summary:
A tender and triumphant story of forbidden love in the aftermath of war
When Captain Ashleigh Arthur Dalton went to war in 1914, he never expected to fall in love. Yet over three long years at the front, his dashing batman, Private West, became his reason for fighting—and his reason for living.
But Ash’s war ends in catastrophe. Gravely wounded, he’s evacuated home to his family’s country house in Highcliffe. Bereft of West, angry and alone, Ash struggles to re-join the genteel world he no longer understands.
For Harry West, an ostler from London’s East End, it was love at first sight when he met kind and complex Captain Dalton. Harry doubts their friendship can survive in the class-bound world back home, but he knows he’ll never forget his captain.
When the guns finally fall silent, Harry finds himself adrift in London. Unemployed and desperate, he swallows his pride and travels to Highcliffe in search of work and the man he loves. Under the nose of Ash’s overbearing father, the men’s intense wartime friendship deepens into a passionate, forbidden love affair.
But breaching the barriers of class and sexuality is dangerous and enemies lurk in Highcliffe’s rose-scented shadows.
After giving their all for their country, Harry and Ash face a terrible choice—defy family, society and the law to love as their hearts demand, or say goodbye forever...
Original Review November 2022:
This is going to be a review snippet as I just finished The Last Kiss, I imagine I'll have a few things to add to my review in the days ahead, but it's important for me to get this posted today on Veteran's Day.The Last Kiss is heartbreaking but also heartwarming, from brothers-in-arms to friendship to lovers, Harry and Ash's journey will play havoc with your heart by twisting your emotions every which way. You definitely can't walk away without truly learning a much needed appreciation for what our past endured.
Now having said that, don't think The Last Kiss is the author's attempt at a history lesson, it is still an exceptional cast of characters(some you'll love, some you'll hate, some you'll want to completely enshrine in bubble wrap to protect them) in a well crafted, brilliantly detailed setting that lets the reader live the time and still enjoy the fiction.
Even if you are not much on historicals, I highly recommend Sally Malcolm's The Last Kiss. Not only will you have a glimpse into the past, enjoy an incredible tale of friendship and love, but also you just might learn something about yourself and what is truly important in life. Definitely not one to be missed.
Edited Comments:
It's been a whole day since I finished The Last Kiss and truth is, my original yesterday touched my thoughts pretty accurately. I guess the only thing I didn't take a minute to mention was how much I loved Olive Allen. A character ahead of her time and yet equally representative of more women than one thinks about in post-WW1 era. She wants more than her sex and social status deems acceptable. For different reasons but the same restraints plagued her as the era placed on men like Ash and Harry. Side characters such as Olive don't always come across as genuine but Sally Malcolm has brought to the story another layer of what the era held for so many beyond the main pairing. What I wouldn't give to see where these people were in a post-WW2 era, to see how they were able to move forward and carve out a life for themselves when society was in line to fight them all the way.
Again, I highly recommend The Last Kiss for anyone who loves a well written tale of drama, romance, friendship, and heart.
Weight of Silence by AM Arthur
Summary:Cost of Repairs #3
Gavin Perez is fully aware that he's kind of a cliché. He works a dead-end job, shares a trailer with his waitress mom, has an abusive, absentee sperm donor, and he's poor. So color him shocked when middle-class, white-bread Jace Ramsey agrees to hang out with him. Granted, Gavin is trying to make it up to Junior McHottie for dumping a bowl of cranberry sauce on him at Thanksgiving dinner. And boy does Jace forgive him, over and over again…until he goes back to college and stops returning Gavin's calls. Oh well. Life goes on.
After living through the semester from hell, Jace Ramsey doesn't want to do anything more complicated than sleep through winter break. He has no idea how to come out to his family, never mind tell his parents he wants to quit college. He also has zero plans to socialize while he’s home, but Gavin's ready forgiveness draws them back together—both in and out of bed. But Gavin is out, and Jace knows he won't be able to stay in the closet much longer.
Gavin isn't good enough for Jace—at all—but Gavin simply can’t stay away from the younger, haunted man. Something happened to Jace during those weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Jace trusts Gavin with his body. He might even trust Gavin with his heart. But can he trust that a devastating secret that’s eating him up inside won’t destroy everything—and everyone—he loves?
NOTE: This book was previously published under the same title. It has updated cover art and has been re-edited. 3700 words of new content has been added, including a brand-new epilogue.
You can't help but love both Jace and Gavin. They both seem so disheartened by life but in each other they find a little piece of what life could really be. But are they both too jaded to take a chance on love and each other? For that you have to read Weight of Silence for yourself but trust me, you won't regret it. Definite win all the way around.
**Blogger Note: I reviewed the original published version in 2013, since then the author has released a re-edited version with a new epilogue which I have not read.**
RATING:
Snow Falling by Davidson King
Summary:Haven Hart #1
After running from a past destined to kill him, Snow has been hiding on the streets.
Tell nobody your name.
Tell nobody your secrets.
Trust nobody!
These are the rules of the streets.
His entire life changes when he saves an eight-year-old boy from a violent end.
Christopher Manos is one of the most powerful crime bosses in the country.
Don’t ask anyone to do something you aren’t willing to do yourself.
Secrets can get you killed.
Trust nobody!
These are the rules he lives by.
When his eight-year-old nephew disappears, he never expects the boy’s savior to end up being his own.
A man with a dangerous past and a man with a dangerous future find love amidst murder and mayhem. But with Snow's life being threatened at every turn, will Christopher's best be enough to prevent Snow Falling?
Original Audiobook Listen November 2019:
With the holidays, I actually reviewed book 4(From These Ashes) first but I did listen to the series in order. Snow still completely blows me away, Christopher is an awesome blending of hard ass and soft hugs. I guess that's what makes Snow and Christopher work so well, they compliment each other, they keep the other in check(or they try their hardest to do so😉).
As for the narration, well like I said in book 4, I've never listened to a book with dual narrators before but they worked perfectly. When I first started listening I thought Snow came across as jumpier, a little out of sync but the more I listened the more I realized that it was the perfect way to bring Snow's upbeat and snarky character to life. Could other narrators pull it off? Sure, but after hearing Joel Leslie and Philip Alces, I can't imagine anyone else bringing Haven Hart alive.
Original ebook Review December 2017:
When Snow comes upon a little boy in trouble and comes to his aid, he has no plans for it to lead to a new beginning he was just doing what he felt was right. Christopher may be the head of a family that has some questionable tactics but he is an honorable man so when his nephew is saved by a young man in an alley, he offers the man a job. Will either man let the future take root and grow or will their secrets get in the way?
Snow Falling is a masterpiece! That is the best way to explain what I read, nothing more, nothing less. It is a true masterpiece, a gem to be savored. When you factor in that this is a debut novel by the author, well frankly its hard to believe because its just so great. Now, I would be lying if I said I am unfamiliar with the author because I consider her a friend and kindred spirit and I have been cheering her on for several years. I knew her book would be good but even I was overwhelmed at how stunning and heartwarming Snow Falling is.
The characters, from Snow and Christopher to Roy and Bill to Lisa and Maggie, they all bring something to the story and not a single one is "window dressing" or "filler", they all have a part to play in the journey that is found within the covers of Snow Falling. I mention that because that is a rare thing, in my experience there is usually at least one character that could have been removed from the pages and the reader would not miss them but not here. Every character is intriguing in their own way and makes the story better.
As you know, I don't do spoilers so all I'll say in regards to the plot is WOW because I was hooked and had everyday life not got in the way I would have easily read this in one sitting. Talk about an easy read, and don't think I mean "easy" as in simple and short. No, I mean "easy" as in it grabs you from the first page and before you know it half the book is gone and then suddenly you find yourself at the epilogue. I started this review by saying Snow Falling is a masterpiece and I'll end with saying it has heart, no better way to say it: Snow Falling will break your heart, but it will also warm your heart.
RATING:
Tell nobody your name.
Tell nobody your secrets.
Trust nobody!
These are the rules of the streets.
His entire life changes when he saves an eight-year-old boy from a violent end.
Christopher Manos is one of the most powerful crime bosses in the country.
Don’t ask anyone to do something you aren’t willing to do yourself.
Secrets can get you killed.
Trust nobody!
These are the rules he lives by.
When his eight-year-old nephew disappears, he never expects the boy’s savior to end up being his own.
A man with a dangerous past and a man with a dangerous future find love amidst murder and mayhem. But with Snow's life being threatened at every turn, will Christopher's best be enough to prevent Snow Falling?
With the holidays, I actually reviewed book 4(From These Ashes) first but I did listen to the series in order. Snow still completely blows me away, Christopher is an awesome blending of hard ass and soft hugs. I guess that's what makes Snow and Christopher work so well, they compliment each other, they keep the other in check(or they try their hardest to do so😉).
As for the narration, well like I said in book 4, I've never listened to a book with dual narrators before but they worked perfectly. When I first started listening I thought Snow came across as jumpier, a little out of sync but the more I listened the more I realized that it was the perfect way to bring Snow's upbeat and snarky character to life. Could other narrators pull it off? Sure, but after hearing Joel Leslie and Philip Alces, I can't imagine anyone else bringing Haven Hart alive.
Original ebook Review December 2017:
When Snow comes upon a little boy in trouble and comes to his aid, he has no plans for it to lead to a new beginning he was just doing what he felt was right. Christopher may be the head of a family that has some questionable tactics but he is an honorable man so when his nephew is saved by a young man in an alley, he offers the man a job. Will either man let the future take root and grow or will their secrets get in the way?
Snow Falling is a masterpiece! That is the best way to explain what I read, nothing more, nothing less. It is a true masterpiece, a gem to be savored. When you factor in that this is a debut novel by the author, well frankly its hard to believe because its just so great. Now, I would be lying if I said I am unfamiliar with the author because I consider her a friend and kindred spirit and I have been cheering her on for several years. I knew her book would be good but even I was overwhelmed at how stunning and heartwarming Snow Falling is.
The characters, from Snow and Christopher to Roy and Bill to Lisa and Maggie, they all bring something to the story and not a single one is "window dressing" or "filler", they all have a part to play in the journey that is found within the covers of Snow Falling. I mention that because that is a rare thing, in my experience there is usually at least one character that could have been removed from the pages and the reader would not miss them but not here. Every character is intriguing in their own way and makes the story better.
As you know, I don't do spoilers so all I'll say in regards to the plot is WOW because I was hooked and had everyday life not got in the way I would have easily read this in one sitting. Talk about an easy read, and don't think I mean "easy" as in simple and short. No, I mean "easy" as in it grabs you from the first page and before you know it half the book is gone and then suddenly you find yourself at the epilogue. I started this review by saying Snow Falling is a masterpiece and I'll end with saying it has heart, no better way to say it: Snow Falling will break your heart, but it will also warm your heart.
The Heart of Texas by RJ Scott
Summary:
Texas #1
Texas #1
Riley Hayes, the playboy of the Hayes family, is a young man who seems to have it all: money, a career he loves, and his pick of beautiful women. His father, CEO of HayesOil, passes control of the corporation to his two sons; but a stipulation is attached to Riley's portion. Concerned about Riley's lack of maturity, his father requires that Riley 'marry and stay married for one year to someone he loves'.
Angered by the requirement, Riley seeks a means of bypassing his father's stipulation. Blackmailing Jack Campbell into marrying him "for love" suits Riley's purpose. There is no mention in his father's documents that the marriage had to be with a woman and Jack Campbell is the son of Riley Senior's arch rival. Win win.
Riley marries Jack and abruptly his entire world is turned inside out. Riley hadn't counted on the fact that Jack Campbell, quiet and unassuming rancher, is a force of nature in his own right.
This is a story of murder, deceit, the struggle for power, lust and love, the sprawling life of a rancher and the whirlwind existence of a playboy. But under and through it all, as Riley learns over the months, this is a tale about family and everything that that word means.
Angered by the requirement, Riley seeks a means of bypassing his father's stipulation. Blackmailing Jack Campbell into marrying him "for love" suits Riley's purpose. There is no mention in his father's documents that the marriage had to be with a woman and Jack Campbell is the son of Riley Senior's arch rival. Win win.
Riley marries Jack and abruptly his entire world is turned inside out. Riley hadn't counted on the fact that Jack Campbell, quiet and unassuming rancher, is a force of nature in his own right.
This is a story of murder, deceit, the struggle for power, lust and love, the sprawling life of a rancher and the whirlwind existence of a playboy. But under and through it all, as Riley learns over the months, this is a tale about family and everything that that word means.
It's been nearly 10 years since I first discovered The Heart of Texas and at the time I wasn't blogging and fairly new to writing reviews so my original was short and sweet but still captured all the feels:
Original 2013 Goodreads Review: WOW!!! The characters are so well written, you'll love them, you'll hate some of them and I was definitely sucked into the story.
Starting the summer of 2015, this series has become an annual re-read/re-listen and so I'm putting my last overall series reviews here because though I am featuring only the first in the series for this post, I can't read/listen to just one. It's all or nothing😉😍!
Audiobook Overall Series Review 2019:
As I've said many times before, RJ Scott's Texas series was the first published M/M genre book that I read so they will always hold a place of pride in my heart. No matter how many times I read or listen to the journey Jack and Riley Campbell-Hayes, their friends and family take I never tire of it. The characters and the paths they take are so real, so honest, the good and the bad, the heartache and the healing, it never fails to put a smile on face.
As for the audio versions, I can't imagine anyone other than Sean Crisden bringing these stories to life. Sean's voice make Jack, Riley, and the whole Texas family(which grows with each entry because its not just blood that connects everyone) real. Honestly I felt as if I looked up I'd see Jack with Solo Cal out in the yard or Riley on the floor with his maps.
If you haven't read/listened to Texas before I highly recommend giving it a go but it is a series needed to be experienced in order. I warn you though Jack and Riley can be addictive, you'll never want to say goodbye and now thanks to audio you really don't have to😉😉.
Overall Series Re-Read Review 2018:
I seriously have no idea what more I can say about Texas that I haven't already. This is the series that brought me into the world of published M/M genre so Jack & Riley Campbell-Hayes and the Double D universe will always hold a special place in my heart. No matter how many times I read this series, I always smile, cry, laugh, and just completely escape into their world. I may never experience that first time adrenaline rush but it still gets my blood pumping and heart racing. Texas is not just Jack and Riley's journey, yes they are the primary leads but we also get to see their children, their family, their friends all navigate life on and off the ranch. The Double D has a way of bringing people together, giving them hope and purpose, a fresh start, a place to grow and become who they are meant to be, but at the heart of each story is just that: heart. When RJ Scott wrote The Heart of Texas, I doubt she had any idea what she started, how far it would go or how many people it would touch but I'm just glad she gave life to Jack and Riley and everything that came from their love. This is one series that isn't getting old any time soon for me.
I seriously have no idea what more I can say about Texas that I haven't already. This is the series that brought me into the world of published M/M genre so Jack & Riley Campbell-Hayes and the Double D universe will always hold a special place in my heart. No matter how many times I read this series, I always smile, cry, laugh, and just completely escape into their world. I may never experience that first time adrenaline rush but it still gets my blood pumping and heart racing. Texas is not just Jack and Riley's journey, yes they are the primary leads but we also get to see their children, their family, their friends all navigate life on and off the ranch. The Double D has a way of bringing people together, giving them hope and purpose, a fresh start, a place to grow and become who they are meant to be, but at the heart of each story is just that: heart. When RJ Scott wrote The Heart of Texas, I doubt she had any idea what she started, how far it would go or how many people it would touch but I'm just glad she gave life to Jack and Riley and everything that came from their love. This is one series that isn't getting old any time soon for me.
Audiobook Overall Series Review 2019:
As I've said many times before, RJ Scott's Texas series was the first published M/M genre book that I read so they will always hold a place of pride in my heart. No matter how many times I read or listen to the journey Jack and Riley Campbell-Hayes, their friends and family take I never tire of it. The characters and the paths they take are so real, so honest, the good and the bad, the heartache and the healing, it never fails to put a smile on face.
As for the audio versions, I can't imagine anyone other than Sean Crisden bringing these stories to life. Sean's voice make Jack, Riley, and the whole Texas family(which grows with each entry because its not just blood that connects everyone) real. Honestly I felt as if I looked up I'd see Jack with Solo Cal out in the yard or Riley on the floor with his maps.
If you haven't read/listened to Texas before I highly recommend giving it a go but it is a series needed to be experienced in order. I warn you though Jack and Riley can be addictive, you'll never want to say goodbye and now thanks to audio you really don't have to😉😉.
Misdemeanor by CF White
The Sun Keeps Rising
“Shit!”
Micky cursed loudly and squinted through the morning glare to read the alarm clock that was obviously having trouble performing its one and only basic function. He threw off his duvet and jumped out of bed, his foot landing on a plastic wind-up toy penguin discarded on the floor. The penguin openly mocked him by tossing itself into a noisy backflip.
“Fuck!”
Micky cursed again, bending down to pick up the toy and throw it savagely against the wall. It shattered into a million pieces and Micky felt instantly guilty.
“Flynn!” he yelled, hopping over to his bedroom door and yanking it open. Treading more carefully to the bathroom opposite, he rubbed his eyes before coming face-to-face with himself in the mirror above the sink.
He looked like shit. No change there. The three hours of almost sleep he’d gotten obviously hadn’t done anything to improve on his disheveled appearance. He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. He needed to shave but now didn’t have the time. Micky turned on the tap, dunked his head under the cold stream and squeezed paste onto his toothbrush.
“Flynn!” he shouted again, louder this time, before shoving the toothbrush into his gob and brushing vigorously. The minty taste did nothing for his dry mouth.
“Yes, Micky,” came a quiet little voice from the bathroom doorway.
Still holding the toothbrush between his lips, foam dripping out from the side of his mouth, Micky turned.
“We’re late,” he said, trying to suck the minty drool back up and stop it escaping from the corners.
“I’m dressed,” Flynn replied with a huge proud smile.
Flynn stood in the doorway, clutching another wind-up plastic toy. He kept spinning the thing around, setting off an ear-piercing buzz as it unwound at double speed. He appeared so small and fragile. More like a five-year-old than his actual eight years. He’d gotten dressed. Sort of. He’d managed to pull on his gray school trousers over his pajama bottoms and his army-green jumper clung inside out. No socks, and his mousy-brown curls stuck out from his head in all directions.
Micky’s heart melted a little at the sight.
“Well done, Flynn.” Micky finished brushing his teeth, spat down the plughole and cupped a handful of water into his mouth to rinse. Turning back to his brother, Micky then crouched in front of him. “But how about we try taking the pajamas off?”
Flynn looked down, waggling his toes, and back up at his big brother. “Why?” he asked, confused. “I put them back on later.”
Micky laughed. The kid had a point.
“Come on.” Micky took hold of Flynn’s hand to walk him back into the small box room. It had twin beds, pushed up against opposite sides. One had used to belong to Micky before he’d moved into the master bedroom.
“What time did you get up today?” Micky asked, dragging Flynn’s jumper over his head.
“Five five two,” Flynn replied.
He wound up the blasted plastic toy again and Micky breathed in deeply, preventing his immediate instinctive reaction to take the thing and smash it against the wall in comradeship with its penguin mate.
“That’s early,” Micky said, pulling off Flynn’s pajama top then rooting around in the drawer for his brother’s school polo shirt. He found it scrunched at the bottom and helped Flynn squirm into it while trying to smooth out the creases.
“For what?” Flynn asked, holding on to Micky’s shoulder as he knelt and stepped out of his trousers.
“Everything,” Micky replied with a yawn.
“Daddy didn’t say it was.”
Micky looked into Flynn’s blue eyes. The white starburst pattern within them gave him the feeling of being hypnotized. Micky blinked.
“Dad’s not here, Flynn,” Micky said slowly, standing to inspect his now school-uniform-clad little brother.
“Yes, he is.” Flynn smiled widely, his plastic toy buzzing in his hands.
Micky stared down at for a brief moment, then spun around and ran full pelt down the stairs and into the living room. The place was dark and dank, stinking of booze and fags with beer cans littering the floor.
Micky yanked open the curtains to witness the disgusting figure sprawled on the sofa. Tatty stonewashed denim jeans bagged around his knees and the T-shirt he wore, once white in color, was stained yellow with patches of Micky didn’t want to know what. His greasy, graying hair hung around his face like rats’ tails. He was snoring and every breath out from his wide-open mouth filled the room with a putrid stench.
Micky kicked at the arm dangling off the sofa. The man grumbled but didn’t move. Micky kicked him again, more fiercely. Opening one eye, the brute belched as he squinted through the glaring sunlight.
“Get the fuck out,” Micky demanded.
The laughter that followed made Micky’s skin crawl, along with the irritating scratching of fingernails across the man’s chest. The shirt rubbed against the curly dark hairs scattering his fat body and made the unbearable scraping of nails down a chalk board.
“Now,” Micky growled.
The grunted response wasn’t something Micky could decipher, nor did he care to. Micky watched with contempt as he rolled off the sofa and landed on the floor with a thump. Several beer cans crunched under his heavy frame and he rolled again to push up on to all fours. Grunting once more, he heaved himself to stand. He tripped on his own feet and clutched at the wall. Micky clenched his fists at the ready as the second loud belch blasted out and Micky had to turn away from the oncoming stink.
“Money,” he demanded, holding out a hand.
“Get fucked,” Micky spat back.
“Then I take his.”
He staggered over to the fireplace mantelpiece and made a grab for the handmade clay moneybox shaped like a car. Micky wrapped firm fingers around his wrist and squeezed tightly.
“Over my dead body.” Micky gritted his teeth. Clutching the wrist harder, he used his other hand to root around in the dirty jeans pocket and yanked out a key. Shaking his head, Micky shoved him away. “Now leave, before I fucking kill you.”
“Micky?” Flynn’s delicate little voice squeaked from the living room door. He clung to the plastic toy still in his hand, his eyes tightly shut.
Micky ran over, picked him up and settled him on his hip. For an eight-year-old, Flynn weighed no more than a couple of stone, his body skin and bones. It wasn’t his fault. It was the condition. Flynn rested his head on Micky’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around his big brother’s neck, still clamping his eyes shut.
“It’s okay, Flynn. Dad’s leaving now.”
The Last Kiss by Sally Malcolm
CHAPTER ONE
12th October 1917, Flanders, Belgium
Ash’s fingers had grown stiff and cold around the pen. He’d lost track of how long he’d been sitting there, staring at the blank sheet of paper before him, watching it waver in the flinching candlelight. Above him, the guns thundered on, spitting their full-throated hatred at the enemy.
There were, perhaps, two hours until dawn.
Dislodged by the bombardment, dirt sifted down onto his makeshift desk — something West had cobbled together to allow him to take a stab at writing the letter before the next push. If only the words would come.
The gas curtain across the doorway stirred and Ash looked up as footsteps clumped down the wooden stairs. They weren’t very deep here; firing line dugouts never were. He was lucky to have this modicum of privacy and didn’t object to the intrusion. Welcomed it, in fact, because he recognised that steady tread and the broad figure that accompanied it: Private West, his batman. And friend, though propriety kept them from admitting as much.
“Thought you’d be sleeping, Captain.”
Ash smiled. “You thought no such thing.”
“Hoped then.” West had to stoop beneath the corrugated iron ceiling; he was a fine figure of a man, taller and broader than Ash. He set a mug of tea on the desk. “Made you a cuppa, sir.”
“I won’t ask by what miracle you managed that.” Laying down his pen, Ash wrapped his cold fingers around the enamel mug and inhaled the steam. Not much like the tea his mother would serve at Highcliffe House, but a bloody luxury in the firing line. He lifted it to his lips and took a sip. “I hope you made one for yourself, West.”
An equivocal wave of one hand — no, then. “Did you get any sleep, sir?”
“With this racket going on?”
“You need your rest. Busy morning ahead.”
Yes, busy was one word for it. Ash’s guts went watery in anticipation of what was to come. “I have to write this blasted letter to Tilney’s mother first. She deserves — ” He put down his mug with a thump, sloshing the tea, embarrassed that his hand had started shaking. Again.
Thing was, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jimmy Tilney.
The lad had bought it a week ago, during a night time reconnaissance patrol. Under fire, Tilney had fallen into a flooded shell hole and, despite their frantic efforts to reach him, he’d drowned in the mud. Over the years, Ash had grown numb to death, but that desperate drowning haunted him day and night. Tilney had been barely more than a boy and one of Ash’s men. He should have been able to save him.
West squeezed his shoulder, making Ash jump. He hadn’t noticed West move around behind the desk, and that wasn’t the first time he’d lost track of things in the last few days. Thoughts of Tilney kept intruding and distracting him. “We did what we could for him, sir,” West said. “Nothing more we could have done. Not with those sodding machine guns at work.”
The weight of his hand was a warm comfort and Ash leaned into his touch. He needed to write this bloody letter and put an end to the matter. “I don’t know where to start, is the thing. I’ve got no comfort to offer his poor mother.”
“Then tell her the truth.”
“The truth?” Startled, he looked up into West’s grim face. His eyes, a warm hazel in daylight, gleamed darkly in the guttering candlelight and his sunny blond curls were dulled to tarnished gold. But for all that, he was a beautiful man. Beautiful to Ash, at any rate.
“Tell her Jimmy was a fine lad. Tell her he made his friends laugh and the local girls swoon, and that we enjoyed listening to him playing that sodding penny whistle. Tell her he served his king and country with honour and that he died bravely.”
“He died crying for his mother.”
West squeezed his shoulder again. “Spare her that, sir. But the rest is true — or, true enough.”
“True enough. Perhaps, if the people at home knew the real truth, they’d find a way to end this...this bloody farrago of a war.”
“She’s his mother, sir.”
“I know. But it feels like lying. I don’t want to lie anymore, West. Bad enough that I’m the one who...who...” Suddenly, he could taste the metallic tang of the whistle in his mouth. Hear its sharp screech in his ears.
Over we go boys. Good luck!
“Drink your tea, sir. And write your letter — you won’t rest till it’s done. Then maybe we could read for a spell, until... Until it’s time. We left Watson at a dramatic moment yesterday.”
Despite everything, Ash found a smile. West had the astonishing ability to cheer him even in the bleakest of circumstances. “Yes. Let’s do that.”
He picked up his pen and began to write, plucking out as much truth as he could find and offering what small comfort was possible. God knew it wasn’t much. After all this time, it should have become easier and yet each letter was harder than the last. They all felt like lies.
When the job was done, he took his tea over to the narrow pallet on which he’d failed to find any rest. West joined him there and they sat shoulder-to-shoulder, backs against the sandbags, with the candle set on an overturned crate at West’s side. From his breast pocket, West pulled out Ash’s copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles and opened it to the right page. Ash sipped his tea and then offered the mug to West. “Go on,” he said when West declined, “I know you’ve had none yourself. We’ll share it. I’ll read first, then we’ll swap.”
And so he began. “Chapter Twelve: Death on the Moor. ‘For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world... ‘Holmes!’ I cried — ‘Holmes!’”
He read on until West nudged the mug against his hand and they swapped again, Harry reading while Ash finished the tea. Overhead the guns continued to smash the German lines — such was the plan, at least — and despite the noise, with West’s warm body next to him, Ash’s exhaustion finally began to overwhelm him. Setting the empty mug aside, he let his head sink onto West’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He didn’t move when he felt West’s cheek come to rest against the top of his head, but smiled as he listened to him read until the words blurred and slurred...
“Captain Dalton.” He was woken by West’s hand on his arm, a gentle shake. “Sorry, sir, but it’s time.”
West sat next to him still, but the book was put away and Ash could see first light creeping around the edges of the gas curtain. His stomach clenched, his heart racing sharply. Morning had arrived, cold and cruel.
West’s hand tightened on his arm. “We’ll have to finish that chapter later, sir.”
Later. It felt as longed for and unreachable as home.
“I’m afraid I dropped off. We might have to repeat some of it.” Their gazes tangled and locked, too raw for bravado now. Ash’s faux bonhomie fell away. “Good luck today, West.”
West’s throat moved as he swallowed. “You too, Captain.”
Above them, the barrage continued unrelenting, their guns firing five miles west, towards the village they were attempting to take. Had been attempting to take since July. What the hell could be left of it now?
“It’s six-thirty, sir.”
Less than an hour to go. It was past time he was outside with the men. Ash rose and West helped him on with his trench coat, buttoning it like a London valet before handing him his tin hat. Another pause followed. Then Ash said, “I don’t want to…to let the men down today.”
“You, Captain? Not a chance.” West squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll get through it, don’t you worry. We’ll get through it together.”
How to explain that it wasn’t for himself that he worried, that there was something he feared more than his own death? Impossible, of course. The best he could do was grip West’s forearm. “Together.”
There was no more to be said. Ash led the way out into the miserable morning where his men watched him from drawn, frightened faces. None of them had slept, counting down the hours until the attack, and he felt guiltily grateful for his short reprieve with West.
“Taff,” he greeted the dark-eyed Welshman sitting smoking on the fire step.
Taff’s fingers shook as he lifted the gasper to his lips. “Captain Dalton.” His guarded gaze moved to the dugout and back, aware as all the men were — as Ash was — of the unearned privileges his rank enjoyed. “Get some kip?”
When the job was done, he took his tea over to the narrow pallet on which he’d failed to find any rest. West joined him there and they sat shoulder-to-shoulder, backs against the sandbags, with the candle set on an overturned crate at West’s side. From his breast pocket, West pulled out Ash’s copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles and opened it to the right page. Ash sipped his tea and then offered the mug to West. “Go on,” he said when West declined, “I know you’ve had none yourself. We’ll share it. I’ll read first, then we’ll swap.”
And so he began. “Chapter Twelve: Death on the Moor. ‘For a moment or two I sat breathless, hardly able to believe my ears. Then my senses and my voice came back to me, while a crushing weight of responsibility seemed in an instant to be lifted from my soul. That cold, incisive, ironical voice could belong to but one man in all the world... ‘Holmes!’ I cried — ‘Holmes!’”
He read on until West nudged the mug against his hand and they swapped again, Harry reading while Ash finished the tea. Overhead the guns continued to smash the German lines — such was the plan, at least — and despite the noise, with West’s warm body next to him, Ash’s exhaustion finally began to overwhelm him. Setting the empty mug aside, he let his head sink onto West’s shoulder and closed his eyes. He didn’t move when he felt West’s cheek come to rest against the top of his head, but smiled as he listened to him read until the words blurred and slurred...
“Captain Dalton.” He was woken by West’s hand on his arm, a gentle shake. “Sorry, sir, but it’s time.”
West sat next to him still, but the book was put away and Ash could see first light creeping around the edges of the gas curtain. His stomach clenched, his heart racing sharply. Morning had arrived, cold and cruel.
West’s hand tightened on his arm. “We’ll have to finish that chapter later, sir.”
Later. It felt as longed for and unreachable as home.
“I’m afraid I dropped off. We might have to repeat some of it.” Their gazes tangled and locked, too raw for bravado now. Ash’s faux bonhomie fell away. “Good luck today, West.”
West’s throat moved as he swallowed. “You too, Captain.”
Above them, the barrage continued unrelenting, their guns firing five miles west, towards the village they were attempting to take. Had been attempting to take since July. What the hell could be left of it now?
“It’s six-thirty, sir.”
Less than an hour to go. It was past time he was outside with the men. Ash rose and West helped him on with his trench coat, buttoning it like a London valet before handing him his tin hat. Another pause followed. Then Ash said, “I don’t want to…to let the men down today.”
“You, Captain? Not a chance.” West squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll get through it, don’t you worry. We’ll get through it together.”
How to explain that it wasn’t for himself that he worried, that there was something he feared more than his own death? Impossible, of course. The best he could do was grip West’s forearm. “Together.”
There was no more to be said. Ash led the way out into the miserable morning where his men watched him from drawn, frightened faces. None of them had slept, counting down the hours until the attack, and he felt guiltily grateful for his short reprieve with West.
“Taff,” he greeted the dark-eyed Welshman sitting smoking on the fire step.
Taff’s fingers shook as he lifted the gasper to his lips. “Captain Dalton.” His guarded gaze moved to the dugout and back, aware as all the men were — as Ash was — of the unearned privileges his rank enjoyed. “Get some kip?”
“Hardly, with this racket.” Ash forced levity into his voice. “I dare say there’ll be post waiting when we get back to the relief trench. It feels like an age since you’ve had a letter. All of two days, I should think.”
Taff gave a reluctant smile. “My missus does like to write, sir.”
“And we all want to know what happened about…what was his name? Your neighbour’s story about the vicar and the missing pig.”
A flash of teeth. “Mrs. Evans. Terrible gossip, she is, sir. I don’t believe half of what she says.”
And so it went on, the excruciating duty of finding a word here and there for each of the men while they endured these last dreadful minutes of waiting, a grotesque noblesse oblige that Ash probably resented as much as his sullen, frightened men. His rank gave him no special insight when staring death in the eye and nobody knew that better than himself. But Little Bill looked rough, scared almost out of his wits, and Ash spared him a firm hand on the shoulder as he passed. “You’ll have a story to tell your sweetheart when you’re home, eh?” The boy nodded, eyes wide and glassy. Ash resisted the urge to hug him. Instead he had the rum passed around and let Little Bill drink liberally.
He checked his watch. Six forty-five. Half an hour to go.
His head felt woolly, blood pounding in his ears. Fear did that, he’d learned. Scattered your wits, broke your nerve. He looked up into the sky, fading remorselessly to grey, and made out the tangle of wire above them. A scrap of uniform fluttered there, dank in the dank morning. Some poor sod, dead. Him, maybe, in a matter of minutes.
Terror closed his throat, accelerated his racing heartbeat. He felt clammy and sick. God, he hoped he didn’t lose his nerve, not in front of the men. Men? Boys, some of them. Beautiful and full of life when they were laughing together behind the lines, kicking about a football or telling off-colour jokes. Grey-faced now, they looked even younger than their too-few years.
An odd thought struck him: at least Tilney had been spared this dreadful bloody wait. His drowning had been sudden, unanticipated. The thought almost made him laugh, but he swallowed the terrifying bubble of hysteria. Dangerous, that. Rum lingered in the back of his throat and his watery guts squirmed. If he survived this damned war, he’d never touch the stuff again.
Carefully, he set one foot on the ladder that would take him over. How far would he make it before he was cut down? Ten yards, a hundred? Would it be a shell or machine gun fire that did for him? If he made it to the German lines, maybe a bayonet to the belly. Or would he get stuck on the wire? His fingers, of their own accord, drummed out a tune on the ladder as if playing a mute piano.
If you want to find the private, I know where he is,
I know where he is, I know where he is.
If you want to find the private, I know where he is,
He’s hanging on the old barbed wire…
He felt for his whistle, secure on its leather lanyard. His mouth was dry. From along the line came a rumpus, someone shouting and quickly stifled. It took men like that sometimes, the long wait. It broke their nerve. And who could blame them? This was tortuous.
He checked his watch. Six fifty-nine.
Time was crawling, he’d never known it to move so slowly. And yet too fast. Their lives were measured in moments now. He cleared his throat. “Fifteen-minutes,” he told the men.
Behind him, feet shuffled as the men moved about, making whatever peace they could, bracing themselves to meet their fate. It would be easier to be one of them. The weight of giving the order, of leading men to their ends, felt heavy as iron.
A shoulder brushed his, solid and steady. He glanced sideways and found West watching him. In the growing daylight, he could see the warm hazel of his eyes and the curl of his golden hair beneath his tin hat. West’s friendship was everything to him here. He’d made the last three years bearable, even pleasurable at times. It wasn’t right, of course, for a man like Captain Ashleigh Arthur Dalton, son of Sir Arthur, to be friends with plain old Private Harry West. But friends they were, closer than brothers. How many nights had they spent in conversation or in reading aloud to each other, playing cards with the men or in Ash’s quarters? How many nights had they hunkered down side-by-side in the support trench, sharing warmth and the comfort of each other’s presence?
And if anything happened to West today, Ash didn’t know how he’d bear it.
Well, he couldn’t bear it. Simple as that.
He’d rather die himself than lose Harry West.
“I’ve still got your book in my bloody pocket,” West said quietly, smiling ruefully as he tapped his hip pocket. “Hope it doesn’t get too wet.”
Ash had to clear his throat before he said, “Sherlock Holmes?”
“Aye, sir. Should have left it in the dugout with the rest of your kit. Sorry.”
“Well.” Ash huffed an approximation of a laugh. “If we’re pinned down for any length of time, perhaps we’ll read the next chapter?”
West laughed at that. He had a deep, contagious chuckle. “Imagine that, sir. Fritz stumbling over us sitting there, reading a book, happy as can be.”
Ash snorted, his tension easing for a moment. And then rushing back in as a dozen horrible images unfolded in his mind, each more likely than the absurd one they’d painted. He checked his watch. “Ten minutes.”
West nudged his shoulder again. Not so much nudged as pressed their arms together. Ash returned the pressure, taking comfort from it. He hoped West did, too. “Mother said they’ve had a terrific crop of apples this year. I hope — ” He glanced at West. “When this is all over, I hope you’ll visit me at Highcliffe House. Our cook makes a marvellous apple crumble.”
A smile tugged West’s lips. “I’d like to see your stables, sir. And perhaps take a ride in that forest of yours.”
“The New Forest? Yes, it’s beautiful. Especially at this time of year — with the turning leaves, you know. The colours…” His throat tightened with a terrible yearning for the trees and heathland of his boyhood. “Christ, this was woodland once, West. And there’s not a single damn leaf to see for miles.”
“There will be again. One day.”
There was some comfort in that, he supposed. He flexed his fingers on the ladder, tapping out that little tune again.
If you want to find the private, I know where he is…
Time ticked on. “Five minutes, boys.”
“Captain Dalton?” West sounded different, low and urgent. He reached out and covered Ash’s hand where it rested on the ladder. “I want…” Their gaze locked and for a moment Ash saw in West’s eyes everything he couldn’t say, all the words neither of them could speak.
Ash turned his hand beneath West’s and wove their fingers together, squeezing hard. “Another chapter of Holmes later.” He made it a promise. “And a shot of whiskey at Toc H, if we’re lucky.”
After a lingering moment, West pulled his hand free. “Yes, sir.”
Ash checked the time. “Three minutes, boys.” His stomach pitched. “Affix bayonets.”
He managed his own, ruthlessly suppressing the tremors in his hands. Just as it clicked into place, the barrage stopped. The morning rang with sudden silence, Ash’s ears buzzing in the absence of noise. This was it then. “Two minutes,” he said quietly, heart pounding like a terrified rabbit’s. He had to swallow twice before he said, “First rank to the fire step.”
Behind him and at his side, his men lined up. Looking down the line, he could hardly bear to see their ashen faces, some fixed as granite, others mobile with fear, lips moving in silent prayer or other incantation. Ordinary men, ordinary boys staring death in the eye. God, but he ached with the pity of it all.
“One minute.” Thank God his voice didn’t shake. Eyes fixed on his watch, he lifted the whistle to his lips. It tasted chill and metallic, worse than the rum.
The minute hand ticked to 07:15.
From down the line came the first shrill blast, slicing through the deathly silence. Ash blew his own piercing whistle and began to climb. “Off we go, boys. Good luck!”
Hard on his heels, West growled, “And God help us all.”
Then no man’s land stretched out before them, a pockmarked hellscape of blasted trees and mud and death. Low cloud crouched above them, as heavy and bleak as the cratered ground beneath their feet. Ash’s mind turned sluggish with fear, focus narrowing only to the few yards around him, heart hammering loud in his ears. He knew only that he must advance and keep his men with him. “Stay in line!” he shouted, conscious of West’s steady presence at his left as they ran forward in a half-crouch, slip-sliding in the treacherous, drowning mud. Gunfire sounded to their right, but nothing close to them yet. Perhaps they’d be lucky. Perhaps this time the bombardment really had taken out the German guns. He kept going, leading his men on, deeper into the wasteland.
They’d covered almost a hundred yards before machineguns opened fire, raking across their line. Someone dragged Ash down into the mud: West, his hand fisted in Ash’s uniform.
“Find cover!” Ash yelled as his men fell and scattered.
And then the shells began, screaming overhead so close Ash could feel their scorching heat across his back. One hit behind them — almost in their trench — and the ground convulsed, raining mud and debris down over them. Laying prone, heart pounding hard against the earth, Ash prayed they wouldn’t be buried alive. Christ, any end but that.
Then West was tugging on his arm again, yelling something Ash couldn’t hear. Was he deaf? He scrambled to his feet. Smoke blew everywhere and he couldn’t see his men, but he sounded the whistle anyway to help them find their way to him as he staggered forward. Still advancing, as ordered.
They were under heavy fire now. So much for the bombardment knocking out the German guns. Another shell hit to their right, the concussion knocking Ash back to his knees and he went half-sliding over the lip of a flooded shell hole. Machine gun fire kept him down, arms over his head as bullets peppered the ground behind and before him.
West wasn’t holding his arm anymore. He couldn’t see him. Fuck.
“West?” He turned, squirming in the mud, and saw West on his hands and knees several yards back, shaking his head as if dazed. Ash’s heart seized. “West!” He couldn’t hear his own shout; the noise of the bombardment was ear-splitting. “West!”
He slithered backward, trying to find his feet. Through the blowing smoke, West kept appearing and then disappearing like a mirage. Or a ghost.
No. No, no, no. Not that. He wouldn’t lose him. He couldn’t.
Another smoky plume blew over them and away. West had struggled to his feet, still shaking his head. And in a single moment of clarity, as if the mists had parted, West lifted his head and their eyes met across the field of slaughter. Such a look! Relief, terror, desperation.
Love.
But then West’s eyes widened in horror. He flung his arm out, reaching for him, as the earth erupted beneath Ash’s feet.
For a second, he was airborne and the world fell silent. Then it rushed up to meet him, smashing the air from his lungs. Searing pain engulfed him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t move. Oblivion.
When he came back to himself, he was sprawled on his back, cradled in West’s arms, looking up at his dear face. His first thought was relief. West was alive. He looked unhurt as he held Ash up out of the sucking mud, a filthy hand stroking the hair from his face. But his eyes were red-rimmed, his mud-splattered face ashen. “It’s alright, Captain. I’ve got you. Everything’s alright.”
It wasn’t. Something was very wrong.
Ash felt paper thin, cold and fading. It was an effort to keep his eyes open. He couldn’t feel his legs and didn’t dare look, gazed only into West’s desolate eyes. All he needed to know was written plainly there. He tried to lift a hand to touch West’s face, but even that was too much. His lips formed a word — West’s name — but no sound came.
He felt no pain, only grief to be leaving him.
All around them the shrieking riot of war continued, but between them fell a terrible silence. “Oh God.” West’s voice broke and he clutched Ash against the sodden kaki of his jacket. “God, please.”
Ash was sinking, grey crowding the edges of his vision, but he tried again to speak. He had to. “Harry…” The name whispered past his lips, just loud enough to make West look at him. Ash tried to smile, to convey in these last moments how West had been everything to him in this nightmare — his solace, his succour, his burgeoning joy.
“Captain.” Pale tracks cut through the dirt on West’s face, tears gathering at the corner of his mouth. “Ashleigh….” He leaned down and kissed his brow like a mother might kiss her child, a last kiss offered to the dying.
Then he shifted and Ash felt the unfamiliar pressure of lips against his own, tasted mud and blood and salt tears. A lover’s kiss at last, its sweet promise unfulfilled.
When Ash woke again it was in a clearing station and to raging agony.
But Harry West was gone, sent back up the line to hell.
Weight of Silence by AM Arthur
One
Thanksgiving Day
At precisely 1:21 p.m., Gavin Perez dumped an entire serving bowl’s worth of cranberry sauce on the most adorable boy he’d ever seen. Gavin knew the exact time of the saucing because his mother had just asked him for it (the time, not the sauce), and the only reason he wasn’t looking in front of him was because he’d glanced down at his cell phone.
Head down + Push door = Disaster.
He couldn’t blame his mother. She’d asked an innocent question. Gavin should have stopped walking long enough to check his phone and answer her question. Should have. Did not. Usually did not and/or could not. They’d never had the money for an official doctor’s diagnosis, but Gavin had all the major traits of adult hyperactivity.
Plus he’d read a bunch of books on the topic. After twenty-three years, he figured he knew a heck of a lot about himself, including his incurable need to multitask from waking to bedtime. He also had a long mental list of mishaps and accidents caused by his need to be on the move and going at optimum speed. The cranberry sauce collision just jumped to the top of said list.
And to be fair to himself, the incredible cutie he’d sauced hadn’t seen him either, or gotten out of the way. They were both trying to go through the same door at the rear of the diner—Gavin into the back room and Cutie Pie out of it and into the dining room. The door had a wide window at eye-level, probably to prevent such accidents during regular business hours, and neither of them had used it.
Gavin had stopped short the moment he realized he’d caused an accident, and Mama ran right into his back, which nearly made him ram into the door a second time. He grabbed it as it swung back at him, ignored Mama’s curious squawk, and peeked around the corner.
Cutie Pie gaped down at the huge splotch of red goo clinging to the front of his white dress shirt. Most of the sauce was still in the bowl, but some had dripped to the floor and onto his shoes. He hadn’t even looked up yet to see who’d dressed him up like a Thanksgiving turkey. But in a diner as small as Dixie’s Cup—and with so many people rushing around getting food out to the counter—they’d already drawn a small audience.
“Dios mio,” Mama said. She’d inched around Gavin to see what had stopped him. “Oh dear, that’s going to stain.”
“My mother made this from scratch,” Cutie Pie said to the bowl of sauce.
“Most of it is still in there,” Gavin replied.
He thought it sounded helpful, but Cutie Pie gave him a sour look. “It splashed all up on my shirt. Do you think people want to eat cotton fibers with their cranberry relish?”
“Sorry.” That sounded horrible, even to Gavin’s ears. “I mean, I’m sorry about hitting you with the door.”
“My fault too.” He gave the cranberry relish such a forlorn, kicked-puppy look that Gavin was struck momentarily speechless—and that didn’t happen often.
“Look, dinner doesn’t start for twenty minutes,” Gavin said. “I’m sure we can find some canned sauce somewhere.”
“On Thanksgiving Day?”
“No need,” Mama said. “We have some in the stock room. We can doctor that up and use it for today.”
Cutie Pie blinked. “Why does Dixie have canned cranberry sauce in stock?”
“For Barrett’s Gobbler Panini. It’s a lovely sandwich he does on special once a week.”
“Oh.”
Gavin gave himself a mental head-knock. Ever since Dixie had splurged on a Panini press two months ago, her night cook Barrett McCall had been experimenting with combinations. The Gobbler had been a success from the first day. Mama had called Gavin in to taste test it before it went public, and he’d called it “Thanksgiving on a bun”.
Barrett had corrected him and said it was “Thanksgiving on ciabatta”.
“Great. Problem solved,” Gavin said.
Mama ushered the three of them into the small, cramped back room of the diner. She took the bowl of ruined sauce from Cutie and stuck it in the large industrial sink, then disappeared to root around for the canned sauce.
“Half the problem is solved,” Cutie said. “I need to change.”
There is absolutely nothing wrong with you, sweetie, very nearly popped out of Gavin’s mouth. That would have been incredibly embarrassing. The simple fact that Cutie Pie was here helping out with Dixie Foskey’s annual Thanksgiving Feast meant she knew his family, which meant Gavin should know him too. After all, Gavin’s mom had worked for Dixie for over ten years and Cutie Pie was awfully familiar.
“I mean, my shirt’s ruined,” Cutie added.
“Not necessarily,” Gavin said.
“So big red spots on white shirts are fashionable now?”
The light-hearted tease gave Gavin hope that he hadn’t made a total disaster of a first impression. “Well, maybe in a hipper town than Stratton, but we can save the shirt.”
“How?”
“Take it off.”
“Hey, Jace, what’s—oh.” A brown-haired girl stopped in the back room doorway, eyes wide as she took in the pair of them. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Minor accident,” said Cutie Pie, whose name was apparently Jace.
Light bulb!
Gavin knew exactly who they both were now. Jace and Rachel Ramsey, twins, college sophomores, children of Keith Ramsey, local police officer. The Ramseys had been staples of the diner for years, and Gavin had seen Jace dozens of times before without getting lost in the dark shaggy hair, the wide brown eyes or the dimples that wanted to say hello even when he wasn’t smiling.
College had been good to Jace Ramsey.
“But we’re going to fix it,” Gavin said, giving Rachel a bright smile.
“How?” she asked. “With blindfolds?”
“Cute. No.”
Gavin rescued the ruined cranberry relish from the sink, grabbed Jace by the wrist, and dragged both items around to the small bathroom. He ran the water in the sink until it warmed up, then pulled the stopper and dumped half the cranberries into it.
“Take your shirt off, please,” he said again.
Jace gave him a dubious look but unbuttoned his shirt. Gavin reigned in his instinctive need to check him out—ogling while trying to be helpful was rude—and took the shirt once Jace had stripped it off. Gavin shoved the whole thing into the pink water, which enticed an adorable squeak of protest from Jace.
“Trust me,” Gavin said.
“Do I have to?”
“It’s too late now.”
When the sink was half-full, Gavin turned off the water and swirled the shirt around in it. He realized too late he should have been using gloves, because the water quickly stained his cuticles pink. After a minute of soaking in silence, he released the stopper.
“There should be a hair dryer in that basket of stuff beside the toilet,” Gavin said. “Can you find it and plug it in?”
Jace hesitated then turned around to rummage. He bent over, instead of squatting down, and the narrow room gave Gavin a lovely view of his ass in those black linen dress pants. An ass that was connected to a trim waist and a lean, smooth back… Nope. Gavin snapped his attention back to rinsing out the shirt. The white material was now stained pink all over, instead of only on the front, and by the time the rinse water ran clear, Jace was back with the hair dryer at the ready.
They tag-teamed the shirt until the newly pink fabric was dry enough to wear and only smelled slightly of fruit.
“That was kind of brilliant,” Jace said after he’d put the hair dryer away.
“I was an accident prone kid. Sometimes you have to get creative when there’s no money to buy new clothes.” Gavin wasn’t ashamed of growing up poor. Most people in Stratton knew him and his mother, and they also knew his father was a deadbeat asshole who Gavin had vowed to kill if he ever laid a hand on him or his mother again.
Jace eyed the shirt but didn’t put it on. He didn’t seem to know where to focus his attention—the shirt, the floor or Gavin. The bizarre nervousness made hopeful little butterflies spring loose in Gavin’s stomach. He hadn’t actually lucked into meeting someone his own age in town who was—
“Hey, you guys coming?” Rachel asked. She appeared in the doorway, and her thin eyebrows shot up when she saw the shirt in Jace’s hands. “Wow, you fixed it.”
“Kind of,” Jace said.
“It’s all one color now. I call that fixed.”
“It’s pink.”
“Yeah? So are roses and baby butts. Suit up, bro, I’m hungry.”
Gavin laughed before he could stop himself. He liked Rachel already.
Jace gave him a look that seemed to say, “Don’t encourage her,” then put on the shirt. Gavin didn’t say it out loud, but he allowed himself a moment to appreciate the fact that Jace looked very good in pale pink. It lightened up his brown hair and made him even more boyishly adorable than he already was. Gavin, with his mixed Mexican and Hawaiian heritage, never had the complexion for pastels.
“All you need is a black string tie,” Gavin said once Jace buttoned back up and presented himself for inspection. “And maybe a jacket to sling over your shoulder. It’s very Sinatra.”
“Great, I’m channeling a dead singer,” Jace said. He was smiling though, which gave Gavin hope that he hadn’t made a complete fool of himself.
“A dead singer who had men and women falling all over him.”
Jace’s eyebrows jumped. “And probably a mafia boss or two puppeteering his entire career.”
“A man who knows old Hollywood.” Gavin had to mentally stop himself from falling head over heels into insta-crush with Jace. “Where have you been my whole life?”
A clever comeback failed Jace, and Rachel turned away with a soft giggle that made the hairs on the back of Gavin’s neck prickle. Gavin had come out to his mother when he was fourteen, and he’d never been shy about his sexuality around his peers. A small town like Stratton left him with few dating options, which mean frequent trips into Harrisburg for more exciting weekend entertainment than watching his straight friends get laid. But Jace Ramsey, who Gavin had always considered a straight WASP from the suburbs, was actually blushing over Gavin’s comment.
Jace + Gay = Too good to be true.
“Anywho,” Gavin said, “they’re probably ready to start serving out there.”
“Yeah, we should go.”
And they did, out into a diner full of people chatting in small groups. Dixie had begun the Thanksgiving Day tradition more than ten years ago when she found out her recently hired waitress Lucìa and her son Gavin didn’t have money for even a basic Turkey Day meal. She invited them to eat with her and her nephew Schuyler, who was home from college with a roommate who couldn’t afford the trip home to be with his own family. The following year, Dixie held the dinner in the diner and invited more people. By its fifth year, Thanksgiving at the diner was a tradition, with more than a dozen families coming to eat. Most contributed some sort of side dish or dessert, and all of the food was set up at the counter assembly-line style.
Schuyler Rhodes, local art teacher and snazzy dresser, was in his usual spot at the far end of the counter, ready to carve the first of two turkeys. Several other folks were lined up with him to help serve different dishes that included sweet potatoes, cracker dressing, cornbread dressing, several different kinds of vegetables, macaroni and cheese and a green bean casserole that Barrett McCall had deconstructed and remade from scratch.
Deconstructed for the fun of it, he’d told Gavin earlier that morning, to which Gavin had rolled his eyes. His own culinary endeavors extended to frozen dinners and instant rice. The microwave was his best friend in the kitchen. He was the only person he knew who could burn water.
Jace and Rachel rejoined their family—Keith and his wife, Becky, and their older sister Lauren. The five of them made a perfect middle-class unit, with their nice clothes and matching brown hair and smiles. Gavin was used to sticking out in a crowd, but for some reason, today his unique look and the thrift store dress shoes made him feel uncomfortable. He hadn’t felt so uncomfortable in a crowded room of people since he’d presented an eighth-grade science project in front of an auditorium full of his classmates.
Gavin joined Dixie, Schuyler, Barrett, Mama and their overnight cook Old Joe behind the counter to serve. Gavin had volunteered to serve this year when Rey King bowed out of the entire dinner. Apparently he’d gone to New Mexico with his boyfriend to spend time with Samuel’s family; but nice guy (and fantastic chef) that he was, he’d left a cold broccoli slaw behind to be served to Dixie’s guests.
A new bowl of cranberry sauce sat next to the other cold salads. Gavin glanced down the line to Mama and she winked.
After a piercing whistle quieted the room, Dixie stood up on a chair to address everyone. Her wild, frizzy white hair was tied back beneath a pilgrim hat-printed bandana, and she was wearing her favorite turkey apron. “Hey, everyone,” she said. “Welcome. As always, we’ve got some new faces, and we’ve got some old faces. We’ve also got some really old faces—” she pointed at herself, and everyone laughed, “—and a few faces who aren’t here this year. But now that we’re together under one roof, let’s celebrate what we’re thankful for and eat some fabulous food.”
Dixie went on to say a brief grace, which Gavin tuned out—he didn’t see much point in thanking someone who never seemed to pay much attention to him or his mother—and then it was time to serve. He chatted with everyone who came through the line. Even if his mother didn’t still work here, he’d been a busboy all through high school, so he knew pretty much everyone anyway.
The Ramseys came through with their plates and Gavin doled out spoonfuls of their chosen vegetables. Jace was last, and he couldn’t seem to look Gavin in the eye, which Gavin found incredibly endearing. Jace did, however, manage to ask for a little extra of the candied carrots and creamed spinach, which Gavin filed away for future reference. He never knew when favorite foods might become useful information.
Once the line was down and everyone else was served, the servers grabbed plates and helped themselves. Gavin loaded his with turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, and as many of the other sides as he could handle without it all spilling onto the floor. His somewhat plump mother always bemoaned his bizarre metabolism and ability to eat anything he wanted and still stay thin as a rail. Gavin blamed it on being tall. And hyperactive.
All of the tables had been arranged in the center of the diner as one long, continuous line so they could eat community-style. Gavin was mildly disappointed that Jace was sandwiched on both sides by his sisters, so Gavin took a seat near the far end with Mama, Schuyler and Barrett.
“—swear his shirt was white when they got here,” Schuyler was saying when Gavin sat down.
“Whose shirt was white?” he asked innocently.
“Jace’s. It was white and now it’s pink.”
“Are you sure?”
Mama laughed and covered with a cough. Barrett patted Schuyler’s shoulder and said, “It’s okay. I think you’re just getting senile.”
Schuyler frowned. “Look who’s talking, old man.”
Gavin grinned. The pair were nowhere near old, but they were pretty funny to watch together. Outside of his art room at school, Schuyler had always been so stiff and boring. Barrett seemed to bring out his fun, livelier side.
Gavin was too busy stuffing his face to contribute to the various conversations happening around him. He ate fast, always had and always would, because he hated sitting still for too long. Even for meals. Mama said he’d been a terror as a toddler, never wanting to stay put longer than three minutes at a time before running off to play. It had been hell on his father’s temper, though, which he’d take out on Mama, and that was one of the few things Gavin actively regretted.
He’d filled his plate so well that he didn’t need to go for seconds, but the opportunity to chat with Jace presented itself when the object of his attention stood up and headed for the food. Gavin grabbed his plate and quickly excused himself. His stomach was tight and full to bursting, and his neck prickled with awareness when he stood next to Jace in front of the vegetable dishes.
“So how’s the cranberry sauce?” Gavin whispered.
Jace choked and nearly dropped the carrot spoon. “Apparently your mom explained the accident to my mom, and now my mom is considering the merits of natural fruit fabric dyes.”
Gavin snickered. “I didn’t know your mom was that crafty.”
“She’s not, she just spends too much time on Pinterest.”
“Ah.” He watched Jace scoop up more carrots, spinach and someone’s three-bean salad. Gavin’s stomach hated him for the spoonful of carrots he added to his own plate. He would never take food he didn’t intend to eat, but he didn’t want to be so obvious about why he’d returned to the counter.
“So you go to Temple, right?” Gavin asked, hoping to stall the conversation a while longer.
“Yeah, Rachel and I both go there.”
They moved out of the way of some other folks who wanted food and stood off to the side with their plates.
“Do you like it?”
Jace hesitated. “It’s okay. I’ve never been the academic type like my sisters, so it’s hard for me. We’ve got finals two weeks after I get back.” He said the word finals like it tasted nasty in his mouth.
“I was never great at school.” Gavin got in trouble so often that he was lucky he’d graduated on time with his classmates. “Loved sports, though.”
“Yeah?” Jace gave him a once-over—probably confirming that yes, Gavin had an athlete’s body—but it came off as checking him out. And Jace blushed for the second time that day. Adorable. “What sports?”
“Football, basketball, baseball, you name it and I’ve played it. I wasn’t great at all of them, but I tried them all at least once.”
“It’s good to try new things.”
“So I’ve heard.” Jace seemed to correctly interpret the flirty line. Only instead of getting embarrassed, his awkward smile actually looked interested. Even though this was too good to be true, Gavin sped forward because he had nothing to lose. “You’re home for the whole weekend?”
“Until Sunday morning, yeah,” Jace said. “It’s not a long drive to Philly, but I have a paper due Monday and I didn’t want to bring the work home with me.”
“Makes sense. Look, my buddy Casper is having a party tomorrow night. Not a huge one, but some people I know, so if you’re interested it could be fun to hang or something.” Gavin was babbling, so he shut up and let his offer stand.
“You have a friend named Casper?”
“Nickname. Dude wouldn’t tan if you spray-painted him.”
Jace laughed, then his smile turned upside down. “You know I’m only nineteen, right?”
“Oh, well, you don’t have to drink. I usually don’t.” And that wasn’t a line. He hated alcohol—yet something else he could thank his jerk of a sperm donor for. “It was just a thought.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
Jace grinned. “I don’t have any plans tomorrow. What time’s the party?”
“Nine-ish. I can pick you up.”
“Okay, cool. I’ll get your number before I leave today.”
“Sure, awesome.”
Gavin stood there for several seconds after Jace walked back to his family. He wasn’t going to make anything out of the “date” until something actually happened, but the fact that he was going to hang out with this crush-worthy boy for a few hours was enough to float him through the rest of the afternoon.
College had definitely been good to Jace Ramsey.
Snow Falling by Davidson King
I should have known I wouldn’t get far. Frank grabbed my arm. “He’s not my kid. His pop will very much want to speak with you. Something tells me if you walk out that door, you’ll disappear, and I don’t have time to go lookin’ for you. So, I think you’ll come with us for now.” His firm tone made it clear it wasn’t a question.
When I looked around the police station, I was shocked that no cops were interfering in what was clearly a kidnapping. I shouldn’t have been too surprised. After all, in my book, police didn’t have a very good track record for doing what was right.
“Stranger danger!” I yelled, which just made Simon laugh.
“No, Snow, we aren’t strangers anymore. You come home and my pop will protect you. That’s what he does.”
Who the hell was his pop? Surviving was a lot about picking your battles. Looking around the precinct, it was obvious my choices weren’t going to win out. Frank and his goons weren’t going to let me pass. On the off chance I got away, then I’d have Roy and these guys chasing me.
“I don’t think I have a choice, do I?” Frank shook his head. “Okay then. Onward, my good man!”
If the limo wasn’t a huge giveaway that Simon’s pop was disgustingly rich, the enormous mansion with the iron gate was. Two large Ms were worked into the iron. The house had a medieval look about it. A fountain of fear was on display in the middle of the circular driveway, some sort of gargoyles spitting water out of their mouths… or was it their eyes? Gray stone, iron, and darkness made up this house. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t just rich, he was powerful. Leaning over, I whispered in Simon’s ear, “Is your pop Tony Stark?”
Simon chuckled. “No silly, he’s Christopher Manos.”
Christopher Manos? Oh, son of a bitch. At least Iron Man was on the right side of justice.
“Come on, Snow, you can meet my pop!” Simon grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the limo with all his might. When we came to the stone steps and I looked up, I came face to face with not only the most dangerous man in this city, but the most gorgeous. He was broad, and I could see the muscles in his arms and legs even through his expensive suit. He had midnight black hair and obsidian eyes. There was no doubt he and Simon were related.
“Pop!” Simon ran into his arms. The man didn’t miss a beat. He scooped Simon up without ever taking his eyes off me. “That’s Snow. He saved me.”
“Mr. Manos, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ll have you know, I didn’t want to come here. I was forced. You have a beautiful home and a great kid and if you just let me go, I’ll happily walk home.”
He stared at me coldly. “You don’t know my home is beautiful, you haven’t seen it. Let’s rectify that. Come in.” He turned and walked inside. The nudge from Frank was likely the only encouragement I’d get.
I hope I don’t die.
When I looked around the police station, I was shocked that no cops were interfering in what was clearly a kidnapping. I shouldn’t have been too surprised. After all, in my book, police didn’t have a very good track record for doing what was right.
“No, Snow, we aren’t strangers anymore. You come home and my pop will protect you. That’s what he does.”
Who the hell was his pop? Surviving was a lot about picking your battles. Looking around the precinct, it was obvious my choices weren’t going to win out. Frank and his goons weren’t going to let me pass. On the off chance I got away, then I’d have Roy and these guys chasing me.
“I don’t think I have a choice, do I?” Frank shook his head. “Okay then. Onward, my good man!”
If the limo wasn’t a huge giveaway that Simon’s pop was disgustingly rich, the enormous mansion with the iron gate was. Two large Ms were worked into the iron. The house had a medieval look about it. A fountain of fear was on display in the middle of the circular driveway, some sort of gargoyles spitting water out of their mouths… or was it their eyes? Gray stone, iron, and darkness made up this house. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t just rich, he was powerful. Leaning over, I whispered in Simon’s ear, “Is your pop Tony Stark?”
Simon chuckled. “No silly, he’s Christopher Manos.”
Christopher Manos? Oh, son of a bitch. At least Iron Man was on the right side of justice.
“Come on, Snow, you can meet my pop!” Simon grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the limo with all his might. When we came to the stone steps and I looked up, I came face to face with not only the most dangerous man in this city, but the most gorgeous. He was broad, and I could see the muscles in his arms and legs even through his expensive suit. He had midnight black hair and obsidian eyes. There was no doubt he and Simon were related.
“Pop!” Simon ran into his arms. The man didn’t miss a beat. He scooped Simon up without ever taking his eyes off me. “That’s Snow. He saved me.”
“Mr. Manos, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ll have you know, I didn’t want to come here. I was forced. You have a beautiful home and a great kid and if you just let me go, I’ll happily walk home.”
He stared at me coldly. “You don’t know my home is beautiful, you haven’t seen it. Let’s rectify that. Come in.” He turned and walked inside. The nudge from Frank was likely the only encouragement I’d get.
I hope I don’t die.
The Heart of Texas by RJ Scott
Chapter 1
"Sit down, boys," Gerald Hayes said firmly, his back to the Dallas skyline and his arms folded across his chest. They complied with his request since it was more of a command, both sliding into the leather chairs opposite the desk. They wore different expressions, though both were his sons.
Jeff was the mirror of his father, six-five, strong, not averse to getting his own way through means others might consider somewhat underhanded or devious. He'd achieved good things for Hayes Oil, very good things. Under his control, the company had grown in strength due to some well placed deals and some serious, if somewhat questionable, pay-offs to just the right people.
It was how Hayes Oil had gotten where it was today; the second largest oil company in Dallas, billions passing through their coffers on an annual basis, with a staff of over seven hundred in the head office alone. Jeff was a chip off the old block; he knew when to deal, and when to back off, when to buy off. It was a joy for an old man to watch. Jeff was sitting in his chair, his back straight. He was calm, with a virtually inexpressive demeanor, and his eyes were like chips of ice. He was dressed in dark gray Armani, perfectly groomed, his shirt crisp and white, and his tie a deep maroon. His hands were placed on the material of his pants, his nails perfectly manicured. He had an air of expectancy layered about him in palpable waves. Gerald couldn't have been prouder of his eldest son. Jeff was the right choice to form part of the new era of Hayes Oil, his student, and his success.
Riley, his middle child, only an inch shorter than Jeff and nearly as cold, was sitting just as calmly. Nearly. He too was wearing Armani, this time a charcoal black with a black silk shirt and no tie. He exuded the same confidence as his older brother, but with a subtle difference. He was an untamed version of his brother. His middle child had his mother's way about him and eenjoyed the money the Hayes family had, way more than was really necessary. But to give him his due, under his guidance, Research and Development had flourished, and Gerald was as watchful of Riley as he was of his oldest— but for very different reasons.
Riley made decisions driven by his heart, by immeasurable instinct, too many times to make Gerald entirely happy with leaving Hayes Oil under his control for any length of time. Still, Riley deserved a place at Hayes Oil; after all, he supposed, whatever his thoughts, and whatever decisions were made, it was his legacy too.
Riley looked tired today, and Gerald glanced down at the Dallas Morning News on his desk, knowing what was on page seven, the gossip page, knowing what was in evidence before him, and knowing it made his decision easier.
"How is Lisa?" he asked Jeff conversationally, glancing over at the pictures grouped on one side of his desk— his family, Jeff with his arms around his perfect blonde wife, with his two grandchildren posed just so. It filled him with pride to see the Hayes Oil generations all set to carry on the Hayes name. He glanced at photos of his youngest, Eden, and at Riley, both in their photos alone, both for very different reasons.
Sighing, he unfolded his arms, wondering if what he was about to say would change the face of Hayes Oil forever.
Jim Bailey was furious. He could only imagine what Riley was going through at this very minute, and he knew someone had to go and find him before the middle Hayes boy took a gun to his father's head. He had watched as Gerald and the favored son had left. The older man's arm was loose across Jeff's shoulders, their heads close in conversation, and it cut him to the core. It was Jim who had prepared the legal papers, Jim who had argued against the idiocy Hayes Senior was proposing. Someone had to be on Riley's side in this whole freaking mess, even if it meant this was the end of his tenure at Hayes Oil, and he knew where to find Riley. Taking the elevator, he left at the sixty-fifth floor, following the darkening corridor to the map room. It was the one place where Riley could always be found if the stress of his family got too much, sitting cross-legged on the floor poring over his beloved maps. He would spend hours with the geological surveys, the statistical results, his instinct for oil leading R&D to make decisions that had quadrupled Hayes Oil's output over the last two years. It astounded Jim that such a young man, only twenty-seven, had such an instinct. IIt reminded him of the old days, when Gerald and Alan would fly by the seat of their pants to locate new oil reserves based on nothing other than instinct.
Jim hesitated outside the door, steeling himself for what he would find within. Riley was rightly going to be furious with him for withholding the legal changes at Hayes Oil from him. He considered Jim a friend and, as such, probably had the right to expect more. Breathing deeply, he pushed open the door to find the large room echoing and in darkness, the only light from the closing Texas evening and the growing glow of the city outside. It wasn't difficult to locate Riley. Jim could almost touch the anger radiating from the tall man standing at the window silhouetted in the increasing gloom. Jim said nothing, just closing the door behind him and leaning against it. He loosened his tie and focused hard on the dark form. Riley was locked into silent stillness, looking out through the glass.
"Twenty-two percent," Riley finally said, his words clipped and tense. Jim could see himself reflected in that same glass, hesitating, lost, just waiting for the explosion. Jim had known. He had known as soon as the figures hit the desk. For fuck's sake, he was the company's lawyer. He was the one to write up the contracts for handover, the one who'd known the full details for three days longer than Riley.
His anger at what Gerald had forced him to do was manifesting itself as guilt. God knows he had wanted to say something. Every time he looked at the young man who worked so damn hard for this company, he had wanted to tell Riley what Gerald was planning. Never the right moment, never the right reason, and now… now he was paying for the betrayal. "Riley?"
Temper snapped and spat from Riley. "Fucking less than a third, the same as my sister!" He started pacing, gesturing with his hands, frustration in every exaggerated movement. Jim grimaced, because he knew that the percentage Eden got wasn't the point of Riley's temper. Riley was close to his sister, loved her and her shopping ways, and didn't begrudge his Paris Hilton wannabe sibling anything. No, the point was that it hadn't been fair at all. His brother, his acknowledged bastard of a Stepford brother, had just been handed forty-eight percent of Hayes Oil, and effective control of the company.
In a flurry of sudden but controlled movement, Riley spun on his heel, throwing whatever was in his hand across the room, missing Jim by inches. It was a map-reader, fifty thousand dollars of technology smashed into fractured pieces against the glass wall, and then it began. The words that Jim had been expecting.
"He sat there, in his fucking throne room, and he took everything away from me and gave it all to Jeff!" The temper in him was high and rare, and Jim flinched as Riley stalked around the tables that separated them with no direction other than just to walk. "And do you know why?" He stopped, grabbed at the newspapers that were lying in a tangled mess on the final map table by the door, and in one motion, Riley swept everything other than one sheet to the floor. He jabbed at the picture that had been snapped the night before, Riley and Steve at a club, arms around each other, Steve with his usual wide smile, Riley looking somewhat worse for wear from his brush with Jack Daniels and José Cuervo. "This."
It was the usual blurred image from the paparazzi who followed Riley, the playboy prince with a bottomless pit of money, everywhere he went. He shook his head. Now he was really confused and couldn't understand what Riley was getting at. Gerald had explained very clearly that his eldest son was the best for the company, the one switched on to commerce, the one with the business brain. He hadn't listened when Jim had pointed out the amazing upturn in R&D, the increase in oil locations, the way Riley was so committed to Hayes Oil. He had just shaken his head as if he couldn't believe, or didn't want to believe. "The photo?" Jim wasn't stupid; the picture didn't exactly show Riley in his best light. There was the blur of his smile and an unwarranted amount of skin on display as he tumbled half in and half out of the cab, stopping obviously to pose with his best friend.
"He said," Riley paused, a sneer on his face, "that the friendship I have with Steve is unhealthy— unhealthy, shit. He was concerned by Steve's association with Campbell!" The name Campbell came out on a spit and a sneer, the perfect take-off of how Gerald Hayes would have said it, how Jim knew he would have said it. "Oh, and also, because I haven't got myself a brood mare like my oh so fucking perfect brother, then of course I must be confused about my sexuality."
Jim winced, both at the description of Jeff's wife as a brood mare, and at the whole confusion statement. Steve Murray, Riley's best friend since college, was openly bisexual, but Riley, despite having a history of mixing it up with men as well as women, was a lot less defined by a label. He had a different woman every night, younger, older, richer, poorer, it didn't matter, and neither did the boys he did on rarer occasions in the bathrooms of wherever they were. However it panned out, Riley always had tail.
"Said I should look at him and Mom." Again came the sneer, and Jim saw how the temper twisted his normally calm face. "Fuck. Like my mom had the perfect husband in my dad, like Jeff had the perfect fucking marriage with Lisa and her drinking." His voice trailed off, the venom in it spitting and harsh as he dismissed the marriages of his closest family as society based, financially arranged facades.
"Riley," Jim started, thinking maybe a time-out here, some down time, might be good.
"No, Jim. No," Riley interrupted, his hands clenched in fists. "Know what he said?" Riley stopped. Of course Jim knew what Hayes Senior had said. After all, it would have been Jim who had written the damn contract. Riley bowed his head, his face revealing disappointment at his friend's betrayal. Jim prayed that Riley could see that Gerald had forced him into this position. "He said it would be okay if I just got myself married in the next three months—if I found myself some stable brood mare time, and stayed married for a year. Then he would hand over more of Hayes Oil. Not based on the work I do, or the fact that, without me, Hayes Oil would have been landless for the next eighteen months, but based on a marriage. I mean, what the fuck, Jim? This is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth."
"I know," Jim said simply, holding his hands up in his defense. "I tried, Riley, I tried to get him to see sense. I'm so sorry." He knew his voice sounded exhausted, sad. All the emotions that were trapped inside at what he'd had to do came swimming to the surface, puncturing the civility he had to show to the world whenever he was at the office. It was almost as if his words pushed through Riley's temper as suddenly and as finally as the thrust of a knife, and Riley visibly deflated in front of him. His head was bowed, his short blond hair disheveled. He looked calmer, but Jim knew this man well; his temper was clearly just below the surface.
"How do I do this, Jim? How do I fucking show the bastard that he can't win, that he can't push me to marry just to get what was rightfully mine anyway?" He looked up at him, the dim light from outside the window casting shadows across high cheekbones and green-hazel eyes. His lower lip was caught in his teeth, and the pain on his face was something Jim had never seen before. "I work fucking hard for this company. What more can I do?"
"So we find someone for you to marry, Riley, some quiet Texan debutante who will agree to a pre-nup, yeah? Someone who ticks the boxes, and then after this prescribed year is up, you can quietly divorce."
Jim could see that Riley wanted to say he couldn't do that, wanted to say that no woman in her right mind would agree to this, but they both knew it would be easy to find a bride. Both knew that the chance of marrying Riley Hayes was going to bring everyone out of the woodwork, fairly begging for the chance.
"I can't do that," Riley said simply. "I won't give Dad the satisfaction of winning like this."
Jim sighed. "So you let him win by not doing it, then. For him it's a win-win situation. Let's face it, you either let him win by doing something, or you let him win by doing nothing. Either way, Riley, you're fucked."
"Sit down, boys," Gerald Hayes said firmly, his back to the Dallas skyline and his arms folded across his chest. They complied with his request since it was more of a command, both sliding into the leather chairs opposite the desk. They wore different expressions, though both were his sons.
Jeff was the mirror of his father, six-five, strong, not averse to getting his own way through means others might consider somewhat underhanded or devious. He'd achieved good things for Hayes Oil, very good things. Under his control, the company had grown in strength due to some well placed deals and some serious, if somewhat questionable, pay-offs to just the right people.
It was how Hayes Oil had gotten where it was today; the second largest oil company in Dallas, billions passing through their coffers on an annual basis, with a staff of over seven hundred in the head office alone. Jeff was a chip off the old block; he knew when to deal, and when to back off, when to buy off. It was a joy for an old man to watch. Jeff was sitting in his chair, his back straight. He was calm, with a virtually inexpressive demeanor, and his eyes were like chips of ice. He was dressed in dark gray Armani, perfectly groomed, his shirt crisp and white, and his tie a deep maroon. His hands were placed on the material of his pants, his nails perfectly manicured. He had an air of expectancy layered about him in palpable waves. Gerald couldn't have been prouder of his eldest son. Jeff was the right choice to form part of the new era of Hayes Oil, his student, and his success.
Riley, his middle child, only an inch shorter than Jeff and nearly as cold, was sitting just as calmly. Nearly. He too was wearing Armani, this time a charcoal black with a black silk shirt and no tie. He exuded the same confidence as his older brother, but with a subtle difference. He was an untamed version of his brother. His middle child had his mother's way about him and eenjoyed the money the Hayes family had, way more than was really necessary. But to give him his due, under his guidance, Research and Development had flourished, and Gerald was as watchful of Riley as he was of his oldest— but for very different reasons.
Riley made decisions driven by his heart, by immeasurable instinct, too many times to make Gerald entirely happy with leaving Hayes Oil under his control for any length of time. Still, Riley deserved a place at Hayes Oil; after all, he supposed, whatever his thoughts, and whatever decisions were made, it was his legacy too.
Riley looked tired today, and Gerald glanced down at the Dallas Morning News on his desk, knowing what was on page seven, the gossip page, knowing what was in evidence before him, and knowing it made his decision easier.
"How is Lisa?" he asked Jeff conversationally, glancing over at the pictures grouped on one side of his desk— his family, Jeff with his arms around his perfect blonde wife, with his two grandchildren posed just so. It filled him with pride to see the Hayes Oil generations all set to carry on the Hayes name. He glanced at photos of his youngest, Eden, and at Riley, both in their photos alone, both for very different reasons.
Sighing, he unfolded his arms, wondering if what he was about to say would change the face of Hayes Oil forever.
* * * * *
Jim Bailey was furious. He could only imagine what Riley was going through at this very minute, and he knew someone had to go and find him before the middle Hayes boy took a gun to his father's head. He had watched as Gerald and the favored son had left. The older man's arm was loose across Jeff's shoulders, their heads close in conversation, and it cut him to the core. It was Jim who had prepared the legal papers, Jim who had argued against the idiocy Hayes Senior was proposing. Someone had to be on Riley's side in this whole freaking mess, even if it meant this was the end of his tenure at Hayes Oil, and he knew where to find Riley. Taking the elevator, he left at the sixty-fifth floor, following the darkening corridor to the map room. It was the one place where Riley could always be found if the stress of his family got too much, sitting cross-legged on the floor poring over his beloved maps. He would spend hours with the geological surveys, the statistical results, his instinct for oil leading R&D to make decisions that had quadrupled Hayes Oil's output over the last two years. It astounded Jim that such a young man, only twenty-seven, had such an instinct. IIt reminded him of the old days, when Gerald and Alan would fly by the seat of their pants to locate new oil reserves based on nothing other than instinct.
Jim hesitated outside the door, steeling himself for what he would find within. Riley was rightly going to be furious with him for withholding the legal changes at Hayes Oil from him. He considered Jim a friend and, as such, probably had the right to expect more. Breathing deeply, he pushed open the door to find the large room echoing and in darkness, the only light from the closing Texas evening and the growing glow of the city outside. It wasn't difficult to locate Riley. Jim could almost touch the anger radiating from the tall man standing at the window silhouetted in the increasing gloom. Jim said nothing, just closing the door behind him and leaning against it. He loosened his tie and focused hard on the dark form. Riley was locked into silent stillness, looking out through the glass.
"Twenty-two percent," Riley finally said, his words clipped and tense. Jim could see himself reflected in that same glass, hesitating, lost, just waiting for the explosion. Jim had known. He had known as soon as the figures hit the desk. For fuck's sake, he was the company's lawyer. He was the one to write up the contracts for handover, the one who'd known the full details for three days longer than Riley.
His anger at what Gerald had forced him to do was manifesting itself as guilt. God knows he had wanted to say something. Every time he looked at the young man who worked so damn hard for this company, he had wanted to tell Riley what Gerald was planning. Never the right moment, never the right reason, and now… now he was paying for the betrayal. "Riley?"
Temper snapped and spat from Riley. "Fucking less than a third, the same as my sister!" He started pacing, gesturing with his hands, frustration in every exaggerated movement. Jim grimaced, because he knew that the percentage Eden got wasn't the point of Riley's temper. Riley was close to his sister, loved her and her shopping ways, and didn't begrudge his Paris Hilton wannabe sibling anything. No, the point was that it hadn't been fair at all. His brother, his acknowledged bastard of a Stepford brother, had just been handed forty-eight percent of Hayes Oil, and effective control of the company.
In a flurry of sudden but controlled movement, Riley spun on his heel, throwing whatever was in his hand across the room, missing Jim by inches. It was a map-reader, fifty thousand dollars of technology smashed into fractured pieces against the glass wall, and then it began. The words that Jim had been expecting.
"He sat there, in his fucking throne room, and he took everything away from me and gave it all to Jeff!" The temper in him was high and rare, and Jim flinched as Riley stalked around the tables that separated them with no direction other than just to walk. "And do you know why?" He stopped, grabbed at the newspapers that were lying in a tangled mess on the final map table by the door, and in one motion, Riley swept everything other than one sheet to the floor. He jabbed at the picture that had been snapped the night before, Riley and Steve at a club, arms around each other, Steve with his usual wide smile, Riley looking somewhat worse for wear from his brush with Jack Daniels and José Cuervo. "This."
It was the usual blurred image from the paparazzi who followed Riley, the playboy prince with a bottomless pit of money, everywhere he went. He shook his head. Now he was really confused and couldn't understand what Riley was getting at. Gerald had explained very clearly that his eldest son was the best for the company, the one switched on to commerce, the one with the business brain. He hadn't listened when Jim had pointed out the amazing upturn in R&D, the increase in oil locations, the way Riley was so committed to Hayes Oil. He had just shaken his head as if he couldn't believe, or didn't want to believe. "The photo?" Jim wasn't stupid; the picture didn't exactly show Riley in his best light. There was the blur of his smile and an unwarranted amount of skin on display as he tumbled half in and half out of the cab, stopping obviously to pose with his best friend.
"He said," Riley paused, a sneer on his face, "that the friendship I have with Steve is unhealthy— unhealthy, shit. He was concerned by Steve's association with Campbell!" The name Campbell came out on a spit and a sneer, the perfect take-off of how Gerald Hayes would have said it, how Jim knew he would have said it. "Oh, and also, because I haven't got myself a brood mare like my oh so fucking perfect brother, then of course I must be confused about my sexuality."
Jim winced, both at the description of Jeff's wife as a brood mare, and at the whole confusion statement. Steve Murray, Riley's best friend since college, was openly bisexual, but Riley, despite having a history of mixing it up with men as well as women, was a lot less defined by a label. He had a different woman every night, younger, older, richer, poorer, it didn't matter, and neither did the boys he did on rarer occasions in the bathrooms of wherever they were. However it panned out, Riley always had tail.
"Said I should look at him and Mom." Again came the sneer, and Jim saw how the temper twisted his normally calm face. "Fuck. Like my mom had the perfect husband in my dad, like Jeff had the perfect fucking marriage with Lisa and her drinking." His voice trailed off, the venom in it spitting and harsh as he dismissed the marriages of his closest family as society based, financially arranged facades.
"Riley," Jim started, thinking maybe a time-out here, some down time, might be good.
"No, Jim. No," Riley interrupted, his hands clenched in fists. "Know what he said?" Riley stopped. Of course Jim knew what Hayes Senior had said. After all, it would have been Jim who had written the damn contract. Riley bowed his head, his face revealing disappointment at his friend's betrayal. Jim prayed that Riley could see that Gerald had forced him into this position. "He said it would be okay if I just got myself married in the next three months—if I found myself some stable brood mare time, and stayed married for a year. Then he would hand over more of Hayes Oil. Not based on the work I do, or the fact that, without me, Hayes Oil would have been landless for the next eighteen months, but based on a marriage. I mean, what the fuck, Jim? This is the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth."
"I know," Jim said simply, holding his hands up in his defense. "I tried, Riley, I tried to get him to see sense. I'm so sorry." He knew his voice sounded exhausted, sad. All the emotions that were trapped inside at what he'd had to do came swimming to the surface, puncturing the civility he had to show to the world whenever he was at the office. It was almost as if his words pushed through Riley's temper as suddenly and as finally as the thrust of a knife, and Riley visibly deflated in front of him. His head was bowed, his short blond hair disheveled. He looked calmer, but Jim knew this man well; his temper was clearly just below the surface.
"How do I do this, Jim? How do I fucking show the bastard that he can't win, that he can't push me to marry just to get what was rightfully mine anyway?" He looked up at him, the dim light from outside the window casting shadows across high cheekbones and green-hazel eyes. His lower lip was caught in his teeth, and the pain on his face was something Jim had never seen before. "I work fucking hard for this company. What more can I do?"
"So we find someone for you to marry, Riley, some quiet Texan debutante who will agree to a pre-nup, yeah? Someone who ticks the boxes, and then after this prescribed year is up, you can quietly divorce."
Jim could see that Riley wanted to say he couldn't do that, wanted to say that no woman in her right mind would agree to this, but they both knew it would be easy to find a bride. Both knew that the chance of marrying Riley Hayes was going to bring everyone out of the woodwork, fairly begging for the chance.
"I can't do that," Riley said simply. "I won't give Dad the satisfaction of winning like this."
Jim sighed. "So you let him win by not doing it, then. For him it's a win-win situation. Let's face it, you either let him win by doing something, or you let him win by doing nothing. Either way, Riley, you're fucked."
Brought up in a relatively small town in Hertfordshire, C F White managed to do what most other residents try to do and fail—leave.
Studying at a West London university, she realised there was a whole city out there waiting to be discovered, so, much like Dick Whittington before her, she never made it back home and still endlessly search for the streets paved with gold, slowly coming to the realisation they’re mostly paved with chewing gum. And the odd bit of graffiti. And those little circles of yellow spray paint where the council point out the pot holes to someone who is supposedly meant to fix them instead of staring at them vacantly whilst holding a polystyrene cup of watered-down coffee.
She eventually moved West to East along that vast District Line and settled for pie and mash, cockles and winkles and a bit of Knees Up Mother Brown to live in the East End of London; securing a job and creating a life, a home and a family.
After her second son was born with a rare disability, C F White’s life changed and brought pen back to paper having written stories as a child but never the confidence to show them to the world. Now, having embarked on this writing journey, she can’t stop. So strap in, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
Sally was bitten by the male/male romance bug in 2016 and hasn’t looked back. Her stories are emotional, sweetly angsty, and always have happy endings.
She also writes tie-in novels for the hit TV shows STARGATE: SG-1 and STARGATE ATLANTIS. To date she’s penned nine STARGATE novels and novellas, and four audio dramas.
Sally lives in South West London with her American husband, two lovely children, and two lazy cats.
A.M. Arthur was born and raised in the same kind of small town that she likes to write about, a stone's throw from both beach resorts and generational farmland. She's been creating stories in her head since she was a child and scribbling them down nearly as long, in a losing battle to make the fictional voices stop. She credits an early fascination with male friendships (bromance hadn't been coined yet back then) with her later discovery of and subsequent love affair with m/m romance stories. A.M. Arthur's work is available from Carina Press, SMP Swerve, and Briggs-King Books.
When not exorcising the voices in her head, she toils away in a retail job that tests her patience and gives her lots of story fodder. She can also be found in her kitchen, pretending she's an amateur chef and trying to not poison herself or others with her cuisine experiments.
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
When she's not writing you can find her blogging away on Diverse Reader, her review and promotional site. She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she'd tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you're afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
Writing love stories with a happy ever after – cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.
CF White
EMAIL: C.F.WhiteAuthor@gmail.com
Sally Malcolm
AM Arthur
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Davidson King
Misdemeanor by CF White
Weight of Silence by AM Arthur
Snow Falling by Davidson King
The Heart of Texas by RJ Scott
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