Sunday, March 17, 2024
🍀💚☘️ St. Patrick's Day 2023 ☘️💚🍀
☘️💚👬💚☘️💚👬💚☘️
I wish I could say these are all St Patrick's Day themed stories but, unfortunately it's a holiday that isn't often showcased so even though 4 of this year's 5 stories are in fact holiday set the fifth one is not. If you know of any in the LGBTQ+ genre please feel free to share the titles in the comment section below or if you found yourself here through my Facebook shares, feel free to comment there too. So, onto St. Patrick's Day 2024, below you'll find 5 tales with strong Irish connections and/or Ireland settings. As with all my holiday-themed posts, if the book links don't currently work, check the author's website and/or social media to find the availability.
☘️💚👬💚☘️💚👬💚☘️
St. Patrick's Day, 1945 by Frank W Butterfield
Summary:A Nick & Carter Holiday #7
Saturday, March 17, 1945
Nick Williams is in the U.S. Navy and working as a hospital corpsman. He was recently transferred to the Navy's Base Hospital 13 at Milne Bay, New Guinea, right on the edge of the jungle and pretty much in the middle of nowhere.
He's about to head over to Port Moresby for 24 hours of leave with his buddy, Hospital Apprentice First Class Reynolds, so they can fool around in private and in their own room at the Moresby Hotel. Nick is hoping they keep the place over there nice and clean and free of the snakes and bugs he runs into in his quarters at the base.
Friday, March 16, 1945
Carter Jones is working as a fireman at Station 3 on Polk Street in San Francisco. He's living on Turk Street in the apartment he and Henry shared before Henry, his first lover, joined the Army and shipped out to Europe.
He's having a hard time figuring out what to do with himself on a Friday before he begins his next shift. He starts the day by watching Meet Me In St. Louis for the third time at the Castro Theatre over in Eureka Valley. Then he runs into a new acquaintance he'd rather not see again. Can the day get any worse?
Once again I have read an entry in the Nick & Carter Holiday series before I have had a chance to read the "bulk" or "meat and potatoes" of their journey. Once again I loved it! I think I was less "on the fringe" in St. Patrick's Day, 1945 than the others. I use "on the fringe" because "lost" doesn't sound quite right as each one seems to have a beginning and end, there are characters that I'm sure are mentioned in more detail in their full journey but I don't feel I need to know that information to fully appreciate this short.
St. Patrick's Day, 1945 is what some might call "dual narration" as it is before the two men meet and we see where each man is that March. I don't know just when they actually met but I felt a better label would be "prequel to merging of fate's intention", yeah I know that's a bit over the top but hey, what can I say? I'm still new to this universe. However you choose to label it, this is a look at the two men before they their paths crossed and I have a feeling it explains a lot into their lonely hearts leading to that future meet.
I do want to take a minute to mention how I loved the scene where we see the internal heartache of Carter not having joined up. It's not an ache we see much in fiction because I'm afraid too many people today don't realize that not every able-bodied man was allowed to join. My grandfather and his youngest brother-in-law were told they were needed more on the homefront as they were farmers. As for my grandfather, he was also 4F due to a bout of rheumatic fever as a child but his BIL carried a fair amount guilt for not having served according to one of his daughters. I just wanted to applaud the author for accurately describing Carter's internal guilt, it was spot on.
Yet again, this snippet series has bumped the men's journey up another notch on my TBR list. I doubt I'll get to it before reading further holiday gems in Nick & Carter Holiday world but each one takes me closer and closer to jumping in. I also want to say another Thank You to Frank W Butterfield for spotlighting so many holidays that rarely get touched on in fiction, that aspect alone makes this series worth exploring so to have each one be so incredibly intriguing is just icing on the cake.
RATING:
Summary:
Love at Blind Date #2
St. Patrick’s Day is for many things, but a blind date isn’t one of them…
Omega Richard is starting his first job after finishing his residency, and he’s determined to be the best doctor the clinic has ever had with the hopes of being given his own family practice. That means no more falling in and out of love with every man he dates. It means no dates. Work is his first priority. Full stop.
Even if he keeps running into an alpha who makes his heart pitter patter.
Even if each offer by his coworker to set him up is enticing.
Even if the loneliness is setting in.
Alpha Harry loves his job as a lawyer, but he wants more in life, a family and two-point-five kids. His uncle wants the same for him, constantly trying to set him up with the new eligible doctor at his work. Harry is reluctant. He’s already met an omega who caught his eye and captured his attention—twice. Maybe the next time he might say yes to that date.
Besides, who wants to be set up by their uncle?
Okay, maybe St. Patrick’s Day is for blind dates…
When Harry and Richard arrive for their date, they are expecting it to be a disaster. Who goes to a place serving green beer as a sign of romance anyways? Neither even suspects that their blind date would be the one who has already wormed their way into the other’s heart. If only they were both on the same page about where this date should lead.
Blind Date for St. Patrick's is a super sweet with knotty heat non-shifter M/M Mpreg Romance featuring a doctor working hard to make a place for himself, an alpha who knows what he wants and isn’t willing to settle, a nosy old man who won’t take no for an answer, a dog that wins your heart and might be just a tad bit spoiled, a fake relationship that somehow turns real, a groomzilla you may or may not want to smack, an unexpected pregnancy, a fear of garden gnomes, and all the sweetness and humor you expect from Lorelei M. Hart and Colbie Dunbar. It is the second book in a series of standalones featuring blind dates, true love, and adorable babies.
Guess what? Another holiday/seasonal series that I started in the middle. What is happening to me😉. I had intended to read Blind Date for St. Patrick's last year but the calendar had other plans but this year I made sure I was in charge and made the calendar agree😉.
Blind Date for St. Patrick's is very rom-commy omegaverse style and I loved every minute of it. There is just the right amount of drama to make this an all-around yummilicious read. Hard to imagine 2 smart men like Harry and Richard didn't see it coming but then again, timing can be the key to everything. Watching these two men navigate the dating world is full of humor that you can't help but find yourself squeaking out a giggle or two but It's also full of heart that turns those giggles into full-blown smiles.
I have read one Lorelei M Hart Xmas novella a few years back so not completely new-to-me author. Colbie Dunbar is a new-to-me author as well as the first collaboration between these two so with a little *footnote this will be filed under "New-to-me Authors". I definitely look forward to checking out other collaborations between the two as well as their individual backlists.
Summary:
New York City, 1924
Once their paths cross, their worlds will never be the same.
Danny Moore and his crew only meant to rob the hotel suites of rich guests. He wasn’t supposed to find himself in gangster Ricky il Sacchi’s room. And il Sacchi wasn’t supposed to wind up dead. Now Danny has the attention of another notorious gangster.
Carmine Battaglia is intrigued by the Irish thieves who would have made off with a huge score if not for il Sacchi’s death. They’re cunning, careful, and exactly what he needs for his rum running operation. But Danny’s already lost two brothers to the violence between New York’s Irish and Sicilian gangs, and he’s not about to sell his soul to Carmine.
With a gangster’s blood on his hands, Danny needs protection, whether he likes it or not. And that’s to say nothing of the generous pay, which promises to pull him and his crew—not to mention their families—out of destitution.
Working together brings Danny and Carmine to a détente, then to something so intense neither can ignore it. Something nearly enough to make them both forget the brutal tensions between their countrymen.
But the death of Ricky il Sacchi hasn’t been forgotten. And someone is determined to make Danny bleed for it.
The Venetian and the Rum Runner is a gay historical romantic suspense novel set during Prohibition and the Roaring Twenties.
CW: graphic violence, PTSD
Original Audiobook Review March 2024:
When I discovered this book last St. Patrick's Day I was over the moon with such a delicious find so I couldn't think of a better time to give the audiobook a listen. I loved The Venetian and the Rum Runner just as much as my original read and now that I have the audio I can listen to it for years to come. Truth is I can't think of a single thing to add to my original review that would express my love of Danny and Carmine further without letting a spoiler slip out. As for the narrator, Michael Ferraiuolo, this is my third book I've heard him read and I enjoyed immensely. He really adds that extra something special to the story that needs to be met when listening for me. What is that extra special something? The feeling of being inside the story, being on the fringe, as if I am a patron in the bar seeing everything firsthand. Getting all the characters and emotions so personalized that I find myself waiting for the sponsor's ad to break in as it does in the old radio shows of the 40s & 50s I collect. Ferraiuolo has done just that, made the words come alive, together with LA Witt's storytelling this is a must experience in one form or another.
Original Review March 2023:
Every St. Patrick's Day I go to my book rec groups on FB asking for Irish-themed stories, maybe it's just Irish characters, set in Ireland at least in part, and a special kudos to any that actually have at least a St. Patrick's Day scene. This year someone rec'd The Venetian and the Rum Runner by LA Witt. So glad they did because . . . YUM! Talk about a story I've been looking for on multiple levels.
1920s✅
Prohibition✅
Mafia✅
Irish characters✅
Mentions of Influenza Epidemic of 1918✅
Post WW1✅
Just so many of my boxes ticked.
I love the whole slow burn trope and this may be one of the slowest slow burns I've read in recent memory and that is not a bad thing. The era and even more so the alpha male label that gangsters are known for wasn't exactly conducive for those who were LGBT. Besides the immoral umbrella too many saw LGBT as falling under, it was also seen as weakness when it came to the mafia. Let me tell you there isn't any man in this story that is weak. There are characters who may see themselves as weak for a variety of reasons but they aren't, nor are they broken. They have just seen too many horrors in the world that leaves them hurting. Danny's friend James is a perfect example. He may be a priest but he also served during WW1 and those nightmares will always follow him. I loved the friendship between James and Danny, they understand each other and accept each other.
As for Danny, as one who has many Irish branches in my family tree I may not understand the battles between the Irish and Italians in 1920s New York-based mafia(my ancestors came through Canada to Wisconsin in the mid-1800s) but I do understand the stubbornness Danny feels in his opinion of Italians. I am definitely stubborn and know that I mainly inherited that trait from the Irish side. I think it's that stubborn certainty to have ill will against all Italians for the actions of a few and still be able to work for them when he is faced with no other options, it shows a lot of courage on his part.
Carmine. What can I say about Carmine? He too has some preconceived notions on the Irish but it's not really deep seated in hatred like Danny's for Italians. His willingness to work with them also shows a level of courage and growth. His relationship with his sister, Giulia, is your standard brother/sister and though he only has her protection in mind with his actions, it is pretty clear early on that Giulia is not shrinking violet.
Put these two men together and you have a chemistry that is instant(although not explored other than inner monologues for quite a while) and never ending. Frankly I loved the progression the men take from boss man/rum runner to oh so much more. I will admit I can see where it could almost be too slowburny for some but not me. Could the author have lessened some of the inner musings? Sure. Would those cuts have made the story better? Maybe. Would I have wanted to see it shorter? Hell No!
I can't imagine it being written any other way than how the author has told it. It's that combination of main characters growing, secondary characters showing their friendship and loyalty, bad guys being super bad, good guys having some bad tendencies but done with a purpose, romance, mystery, heat, suspense, and heart that makes The Venetian and the Rum Runner so bloody brilliant!
As for what draws me to the genre . . .
Maybe it's having grown up about 30 minutes from St. Paul that went a long way to pique my interest in the era. I don't think enough people realize just how many gangsters of that era came through the area. You can still find the tommy gun bullet holes in the Wabasha Caves nearly 100 years later. Maybe it's the glamour side that Hollywood has always portrayed that decade to be. Obviously it's not all glamour and Hollywood has never had a problem with fact-stretching but as a little girl I can't deny that film genre went a long way to forming my interest and as I got older and the realities of the time became more clear, my interest was already embedded.
I've read a few stories that touched on my earlier checklist and loved them all, there's just not enough in the LGBTQ+ historical mafia genre to feed my hunger. Or perhaps there are and I'm just not looking in the right place. Whatever the answer is to that, at least this LA Witt novel crossed my reading journey and I'm beyond thankful for that.
Whether you are a fan of historical 1920s prohibition era mafia stories or not, I still highly recommend giving The Venetian and the Rum Runner a chance. It is most certainly not a quick read but it is an entertaining one that kept me hooked all the way through and left me sad when I reached the last page. I've already purchased the audiobook and look forward to many re-visits to come.
Summary:
Welcome to Morningwood #4
Dusty’s the town clown. Joseph is the uptight Sheriff. Sparks fly when these opposites collide.
Sheriff Joseph has kept a controlled eye on the quiet shifter community of Morningwood. As an alpha lion, he watches his town like he would his pride. Most days are peaceful, and that’s how he likes it. So, when Clydesdale shifter—and budding bad boy—Dusty starts pulling pranks, Joseph is quick to shut down his antics. Except, with each event, it becomes clear to Joseph that Dusty might be something more than just a thorn in his side.
Though they are in college, Dusty’s friends have all begun finding their mates, leaving him bored and lonely. Instead of sowing his wild oats, he’s left alone with his worries. His whole life he’s assumed he was an alpha, had lied to his friends claiming he was, but really, he doesn’t know. And won’t until he can find someone to be his first. Not so easy in a small, secluded town. He knows who he wishes would volunteer—his crush on the sheriff has grown to embarrassing proportions. Sheriff Joseph has all the emotions of a statue, and there is nothing Dusty would love more than to crack that cool facade. If only the Sheriff felt the same way.
When a new shifter comes to town, sniffing around Dusty and offering him a wild, carefree life, Joseph can’t ignore his attraction. He won’t let his fear of the town finding out, or Dusty’s age to dissuade him. He has to claim his mate or lose him forever. But can someone like him be the alpha Dusty needs?
Sack of Gold is the fourth book in the Welcome to Morningwood Omegaverse series and can be read as a standalone. It’s a steamy, fun romp that may or may not include sexy leprechauns. Hint: It definitely does.
Kiki Burrelli is another new-to-me-author that just so happened to have a holiday-themed series, Welcome to Morningwood, that fit multiple reading recs I asked for. So once again I jumped into an entry that was in the middle of said series. As I said before I am a series-read-in-order kind of gal so to do it once is unusual but to do so 3 times in less than a month is almost unheard of for me.
Sometimes desires must be fed . . .
So let's talk Sack of Gold, the 4th entry in the author's Welcome to Morningwood series. Sometimes you meet characters(main or secondary) that you just know in your heart they are not going to be on the likeable scale, be it pure evil, a flat-out ass, or just misunderstood, whatever the reason you know you won't be cheering for them. Dusty's friend, Cam is one of those people. I won't spoil anything else about that just know he won't be winning any BFF of the Year Awards.
As for Dusty and Sheriff Joseph, well they definitely have a few ups and downs and just when you thought a HEA was in the review mirror, the sheriff believes his eyes over his heart, which can be a good thing at times but not here. Dusty on the other hand could have seen this coming, I'm not placing blame on Dusty by any means, I'm just saying the signs were there but he is far too trusting and either didn't see them or ignored them not wanting to think bad of his friend. I mention these points because there are moments that are a bit darker than often found in a holiday shorts series. As I started in a middle entry I can't speak to the other entries in Burelli's Morningwood series and their darkness levels but for Sack of Gold there was some minor dark elements.
Overall, Sack of Gold(despite being a #4 in an established series for this read-in-order gal) is a perfect way to introduce myself to Kiki Burrelli's library and look forward to exploring Morningwood and other works, backlist and future releases.
Holiday Surprise #4
Wes’s life may not be perfect, but he works hard to make it as good as he can.
Wes will never be his parents’ ideal son, and he knows it. Worse is that they retaliate against him when their attempts to mold him into what they want fail. Still, he carves out what happiness he can while trying to stay within the lines. He’s made himself a career as a dance instructor, and loves teaching kids. Unfortunately, it all threatens to come crashing down when the owner of the dance studio announces its closure. With no open spaces at other dance studios Wes decides to open his own, but he knows his parents will be vehemently against it.
José has never gotten over his high school boyfriend, but how can he ask forgiveness after failing him?
José has a good life. He’s a successful mortgage broker with plenty of friends and a loving family. But he has one major regret: not being able to protect his high school boyfriend, Wes, from his terrible parents. If he’d done things differently, maybe the omega would have had a different life. However, when he hears that Wes has a new dream on the line he vows to do what it takes to make the man he loves happy.
But will it be enough this time?
Lucky Dance Date is a 18K word, non-shifter, M/M, mpreg, omegaverse romance
Content note: Narcissistic and racist parents play a role in this book. Therefore it may not be suitable for readers sensitive to those topics.
I don't know how Wes isn't more of a basket case after everything his parents put him through. I have such an amazing relationship with my parents it's hard for me to wrap my head around people like Wes' folks but it also makes me want to crush the life out him with such a ginormous Mama Bear Hug. There is just no way you can't cheer for Wes and José to get their HEA, no real spoiler saying they will get there eventually because the story is in the journey and that journey you will have to read for yourself to learn and appreciate the paths that get them there.
With each mpreg I read I fall even deeper in love with the genre, my experience in variety of authors within the genre is still limited but I've loved every Lacey Daize story I've read. Again I was looking for a holiday theme story, this time St. Patty's Day, so another in-middle-of-series read but with the exceptions of a few friends from earlier entries, Lucky Dance Date is a complete standalone in the author's Holiday Surprise series.
I love the blend of drama, mpreg, love, friendship, second chances, and of course how sometimes found families can be all the family you need. Wes and José's journey in Lucky Dance Date is definitely a winning gem that will warm your heart.
St. Patrick's Day, 1945 by Frank W Butterfield
U.S.N. Base Hospital 13
Hospital Corpsmen Quarters
Milne Bay, New Guinea
Sat 17 March 1945
0730 Kilo Time
. . .
Castro Theatre
429 Castro Street
San Francisco, Cal.
Friday, March 16, 1945
2:30 p.m. Pacific War Time
Nick Williams opened his eyes and turned over on his cot with a sigh. He reached over to the little bamboo table next to the cot and found his pack of Camels and his Zippo lighter. With just his one hand, he pulled out a cigarette, stuck it between his lips, and lit it.
Holding onto the lighter, he took a deep drag and could feel himself waking up to the hot and humid morning.
"You up, Frisco?" That was Reynolds, a fellow Navy corpsman. He was from Louisiana and, by all rights, should have had a nickname like "Cajun" or "Dixie Boy." But, for whatever reason, everyone called him by his last name. Nick had never heard the kid's first name that he could remember.
As he exhaled a small cloud of blue smoke, Nick said, "Yeah. I'm up."
"How'd you sleep through everyone else bangin' around and makin' such a god-awful noise?"
Nick laughed, took another drag, and, on the exhale, said, "I must've been sleepin' the sleep of the innocent."
From across the small Quonset hut that made up their quarters, he heard Reynolds snort. "Right."
After a long moment, Nick clamped his lips tightly around his Camel, and picked up his left boot with his right hand. He turned it upside-down and shook it. Sure enough, a big shiny beetle fell out and made its wobbly way across the black dirt that served as a floor. Nick repeated the same action with his right boot, and was slightly disappointed when nothing fell out.
. . .
Carter Jones walked out of the Castro Theatre and blinked in the bright Friday afternoon sunshine. Looking up at the Twin Peaks above the Eureka Valley neighborhood, he could see that the afternoon fog was already beginning to crawl around the hills. The fog didn't always make it to the Tenderloin, where he lived. He looked at his watch and, after realizing it was half past 2 in the afternoon, he thought it just might.
He pulled his coat tight as the wind suddenly gusted around the corner. When it hit him the second time, he managed to pull his hat down before it was blown down the street like had just happened to the bald man who was about to walk into the Twin Peaks Tavern at the corner.
He'd just seen Meet Me in St. Louis with Judy Garland for the third time. As he walked up Castro Street towards Market, trying to decide whether to walk home and have a sandwich there or to grab one on the way, he sidestepped a pair of twin blonde girls who came running towards him, both bundled up in rose-colored coats and both giggling.
Their mother, a blonde woman whose hair was bound tightly in a bun and who looked like she was on her way to work at the shipyard down at Hunter's Point for the second shift, smiled grimly at Carter and said, "Welcome back, soldier."
Carter nodded without replying and lengthened his gait as he walked as fast as he could to get away from the woman and her mistaken assumption.
. . .
The one shower that the eight corpsmen shared behind their quarters was in a shady spot protected by the wide leaves of some tree Nick had never seen until he'd arrived in New Guinea a couple of months earlier. Unlike the Quonset hut, the shower had a wood slat floor that sat a few inches above the ground and allowed the water to run off.
Like everywhere he went, the first thing he did when he pulled open the door to the three-by-three shower was to look for whatever might be taking a nap on the wood slats or hanging from the overhead plumbing. On that particular morning all he found was a bright green snake about four feet long who was hanging by its tail from the shower head. The snake turned its head and looked at him quizzically. Nick grabbed the creature just under its long chin and flicking red tongue, quickly yanked it from its perch, and casually threw it back into the jungle.
The trick to taking a shower at Milne Bay was not to get bitten or stung while doing so. Some of the guys, and it only made sense, would wear their boots. Nick liked to live on the wild side, so he only wore his boots as he walked from his cot, through the hut, and along the short dirt path to the shower but then kicked them off and left them just outside the swinging door before getting wet. The other guys, those who wore their boots, were always getting jungle rot on their feet since the boots never would dry out. That meant they had to deal with the wisecracking doctors every week or so but considered the infection and the pointed barbs better than a bite by something hiding under the slats. The doctors could afford to be assholes with the lowly corpsmen since their quarters had wood floors, wood walls, and glass windows while their shower rested on a small slab of poured concrete.
When taking a shower, Nick had a process he'd developed during his three years living and working on a big Navy hospital ship (which was where he'd been assigned before New Guinea). He pulled on the chain that released warm water from the overhead tank and got himself as wet as possible while counting to fifteen. He then let go of the chain and, using a handmade bar of saltwater soap, would lather himself up from head to toe. There was an old Australian lady who lived in a hut along the beach, just south of the hospital, who made the soap and sold it in small bars for an American nickel, four Australian pennies, or three British pennies. They had to use the special soap since Ivory didn't do much of anything in the water they used for showers because it was about half saltwater.
After lathering up, Nick pulled the chain again and counted to thirty while he rinsed off. He was fast at getting rid of the suds and usually had a whole ten seconds when he could just stand under the warm water and think about what it would be like to stand under a civilian shower for a good ten minutes or more.
. . .
By the time he made his way to Van Ness, Carter had finally relaxed. He hated it when someone assumed he'd been in the service. He'd wanted to go but, since he was a fireman in San Francisco, his captain had strongly suggested he not sign up back in 1941 after Pearl Harbor. The assumption at the time had been that the Japanese would strike California and all the policemen and firemen would be needed. Plenty had volunteered, and his station was definitely short-staffed, but Carter had done what his captain wanted and had regretted it ever since.
Just that morning, he'd read a story in the Examiner about how Churchill believed the war might be over by the end of the summer. Carter hoped so. He wanted it to be over and for life to get back to normal.
He didn't care about the rationing, which is what most people who complained about the war would talk about. He could happily eat beans and rice, with a fresh tomato thrown in every now and then, for most every meal. That way he saved up his red points for a good Porterhouse steak, well-done. He'd learned to tolerate fish, particularly if it was fried, but only when he was eating out. He didn't have a car, so he didn't have to worry about gas and tire coupons.
The truth was that Carter didn't like to complain about much anything, not even war-time conditions, so he didn't. There wasn't much use in doing so, anyway. The war was going to last as long as it was going to last, no matter what Carter thought about it. If he had been a complainer, he would have talked to those who were sympathetic regarding such things about finally getting to see his lover, Henry, who was a captain in the Army over in Europe.
Carter and Henry Winters had grown up together back in Albany, Georgia. In 1939, they'd driven cross-country to San Francisco and became lovers in the process. As soon as they arrived in the City, Carter had fulfilled his lifelong desire to become a fireman. Henry, for his part, had started school at Cal, going across the bay to Berkeley every day in pursuit of a degree in engineering. When the war started, Henry was told by the draft board to finish his degree. He graduated in 1943 and went to sign up. The Army took him on as a captain and, after boot camp and training school, sent him over to somewhere in Europe. In all the time he'd been gone, Henry had never been allowed to tell Carter where he was stationed or what he was doing. But the letters came and they were as regular as could be expected, so Carter was happy about that.
As he pushed through the door into Gene Compton's Cafeteria on Market, just past 11th Street, he sighed a little as he wondered about Henry and what he was doing and what life was like in the Army. Being the middle of the afternoon, the place was quiet. The only patrons were two sets of older ladies dressed for shopping and having coffee and a bite of something sweet. Being the middle of Lent, the smell of fried fish was in the air and Carter decided he'd get a plate of halibut smothered in tartar sauce, a bowl of tomato soup, and a wedge of raisin pie.
After he paid for his food and grabbed a cup of coffee, Carter found a table by the street-facing window and had a seat. He was halfway through wolfing down the halibut when he heard a sharp rap on the glass. Looking up, he saw Paul Downey smiling back at him through the window. In spite of himself, Carter smiled back and nodded. Paul then dashed towards the door while Carter sighed deeply, wishing he'd sat at a table that wasn't visible from the street.
. . .
Nick was sitting on his cot, reading Stars and Stripes for the third time that week, when Reynolds made his way back into the Quonset hut after taking his shower. Looking up, Nick noticed his friend was dressed only in his white BVDs and had wrapped his towel around his neck. Nick looked at his watch. It was a quarter past 8. He said, "You better get a move on. That Navy flyboy said we're taking off at 9 sharp and we still have to make our way through that bunch of overactive juveniles to get to the dock."
"I know, son, I know," drawled Reynolds as he threw his towel down on his cot and began to pull on his Navy blues. Nick watched the tall, muscular kid dress himself and could feel a familiar warmth move through his body.
He and Reynolds had twenty-four hours leave to head over to Port Moresby. They had to be back at Milne Bay by 0900 the next morning. The hospital commander was expecting the first wave of wounded from the remnants of the Iwo Jima battle to arrive by noon the next day and their unit had to be ready to handle them. Nick thought it was a hell of a long way for a bunch of injured sailors and marines to travel but, from what he'd heard, there were more wounded than had been expected. That was why the tiny hospital in the middle of nowhere New Guinea was expecting its largest contingent of patients since it had stood up back in '43.
About three hundred feet up the beach, there was a slightly larger U.S. Army hospital and, about half a mile further, an even larger facility run by the Australian Royal Air Force. The Army hospital wasn't much better than their digs, but the Navy doctors liked to fraternize with the Army nurses since, to a woman, the small group of Navy nurses were all known to be lesbians, although that wasn't the word the doctors used.
Nick had arrived at Milne Bay in January. It had taken about a week to figure out that he and Reynolds made a good pair. The kid was just Nick's type. He was blond, had bright blue eyes, and stood around 6'3". He'd worked in his daddy's factory back home, just outside of New Orleans, and was covered with muscles. Nick's only complaint was that Reynolds was hairless and smooth as a rock, except around his crotch. However, he knew how to use his equipment, which was always a good thing. They fooled around when they could get away with it and, as far as Nick knew, none of the other corpsmen were any the wiser.
Their leave in Port Moresby, a small town in the backwater of New Guinea, was their first chance to be truly alone and Nick was hoping Reynolds would finally go all the way to home base with him that night.
Blind Date for St. Patrick's by Lorelei M Hart & Colbie Dunbar
1
Richard
“Relax, you’re doing great, Rich.” Enrique, the office manager of the medical clinic came up behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder. He’d made me feel welcome when I first walked through the door three months ago and had become the closest thing I had to family in this town. “It was crazy busy too, with the strep running amok in the schools.”
He wasn’t wrong. I’d given more strep tests and scripts for amoxicillin in my first solo shift than I had the past few months combined. At least it was one of the easy-to-diagnose things. I’d spent the night before thinking of all the illnesses and injuries that might come in that I was in no way prepared for.
Because that would help absolutely nothing.
“Thanks.” I wanted to say so much more. Enrique helped slow the flow when things got hectic, fixed paperwork I botched without a complaint, and put out any fires that started along the way. I’d heard such horror stories of the “office manager” type medical clinic set-up and almost didn’t consider this position, and then they dangled the carrot, the one I just couldn’t resist; prove yourself in urgent care and you will be given first consideration for your own family practice when an office opens up.
Which was a great deal more than the other places that even considered me. No one ever said it out loud, but being an omega had them seeing paternity leave and logistic nightmares for most places I looked into.
“You should take a shower and go grab a nice dinner and then sleep for a week.” Both of those things sounded fanfreakingtastic. I’d skipped lunch trying not to let the wait times get too far ahead of me, and I was ready to eat my arm. Maybe not my arm, I needed it, but even the protein bars my coworker left in the shared office were looking like food, and from the one time I’d eaten them, I knew that not to be the case.
“I work tomorrow,” I reminded Enrique. I could still get a decent sleep, but sleeping in wasn’t going to happen.
“Okay, not a week, but get some sleep, or better yet...find a nice alpha and go out and have a good time.” And here we were back on this train. Enrique—dear, sweet, efficient, and helpful Enrique—saw his happy life with his hubby as what everyone should aspire to. Which would’ve been fine if his mentioning it didn’t hit me in the gut. I wanted that too, more than anything. Watching my roommate back home fall in love and start a family already had me on that track.
The problem remained; I was quick to fall in love, but it never stuck. Turned out I was in love with the idea of falling in love, and honestly, my career needed to come before that bullshit. This was my chance not to work in a hospital and make a practice for myself. I wasn’t going to bung it up by dating.
“Sleep’s the plan. I’m still figuring out all this.” I swished my hands indicating the office. It was bustling, but two doctors came in to take my place for the evening shift which was usually the crazy one thanks to the closing of most family practices for the day. “Dating is going to wait.”
“Sacrificing your happiness for work is never a good plan.” Why did the older man have to make so much sense? Still, this came first. So many of the people I graduated with were floundering since completing their residencies, choosing positions they didn’t want simply because it was better than nothing. I wasn’t going to blow this opportunity.
“Dating doesn’t equal happiness either.” At least not in my experience, not at the end, anyways. And I tried the no-strings thing and discovered I sucked at it. I either left wanting more than they could give or wasn’t interested, period. No, casual was not my friend.
“But a balance between home and work does, and right now you just have work.” He tsked his finger.
“Because I have to find my place here.” And play all my cards right so I could slide into one of the practices rumored to be opening up in the next couple of years thanks to a proposed expansion plan.
“Whatever you need to tell yourself.” He closed his eyes and shook his head as if exasperated. “Just think about what I said. All work and no play makes Dick a lonely boy.”
Gods, I hated that abbreviation of my name, especially said like that by someone who I regarded as a father figure.
“Ewwww...just ewww.”
“You’re welcome.” He stepped back. “Now scram. You had a long day, and tomorrow will probably be just as bad.” If the incoming stream of people was any indication, he was spot on. “They need to send a case of disinfectant to that school, I tell you,” he half-teased.
“Possibly a pallet of it.” I took off my doctor coat and hung it on my hook. “Night, Enrique.”
I gathered my things and ordered take-away instead of going out to eat. I just wanted to be home and in my own bed. The next day I had an extra-long shift, and thanks to Dr. Tyler being on a cruise, I was going to go without a day off for the next while. Worth it, if it meant I could realize my dreams.
Pulling into the driveway of the small bungalow I managed to get for far below market value, I saw what looked like an animal scurry under the porch. Great. Looked like I needed to fix that hole where the lattice lost a crossbar sooner rather than later. The last thing I wanted was a family of skunks or the like nesting under there.
I brought my food inside, put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and headed out to the garage for my tools and to see if I had anything that could temporarily close the hole and buying some time for the creature I spooked under there to leave before I got back out there.
The family who sold me the home had wanted to dump it quickly after they lost their grandmother who had lived there for over fifty years, and they left a lot of junk pretty much everywhere, much of it surprisingly useful, including the scrap board I was able to dig out for the lattice repair.
I turned on the flashlight app on my phone as I made my way to the hole, crossing my fingers the creature was gone or at the very least not a skunk or some rabid opossum or any of the other things my imagination was currently conjuring up. Setting down the board, nails, and hammer, I got on my knees a distance from the fence and flashed the light to see two little eyes glaring back at me, two eyes belonging to a cat.
“Here, kitty kitty,” I clucked my tongue and held out my hand, and to my surprise, he came out. And even more to my surprise, the cat wasn’t a cat at all; it was a small, very scrawny and matty dog. Poor thing.
He came right over and plopped himself in front of me, his chin on my knees, looking up at me with sad little eyes.
“Let’s see who you belong to, little fellow. Maybe I can get you back to your family.” I tentatively reached over and rotated his collar, finding a bone-shaped If Found tag, and as I flipped it over, my heart stopped...the address was mine. “Let’s get you some water and see if there are any vets open tonight, little fellow.”
It turned out the little fellow was Sophia, and she belonged to the previous owner, and by the time I went to bed that evening, I was the new human of the mysterious Miss Sophia, who had been on a wild adventure, the details of which she wasn’t giving up.
See, Enrique, I’m not alone.
Except even with my new furry companion, I very much was.
The Venetian and the Rum Runner by LA Witt
Chapter 1
Manhattan
January 2nd, 1924
At quarter to ten the second night after New Year’s, having arrived at the address on the card he’d been given, Danny Moore found himself standing in the falling snow outside a butcher shop.
It was still open despite the late hour. He supposed that wasn’t a surprise, especially as a young couple sauntered in through the front door in attire no one wore to visit the butcher. Clearly, then, this was not unlike the florist shop that acted as a benign and perfectly legal front for the speakeasy Danny frequented. Given that the man he was here to see was a powerful bootlegger, a front seemed more likely than Carmine Battaglia moonlighting in the meat business, particularly the business of staying open late to sell meat to customers in their finest evening wear.
Danny cast a wary glance around the dark and mostly deserted street, then walked inside. The butcher shop itself was nothing remarkable. Sausages and cuts of everything imaginable hung in the windows or were displayed in a glass case beside a large scale and a cash register. On the wall, prices were listed, but Danny didn’t bother to read them. He was not, after all, here to buy meat.
The young couple was gone, having likely been escorted through a secret door into the speakeasy beyond. A middle-aged Italian woman watched him through wire-rimmed spectacles.
Clearing his throat, Danny showed her the card. “I’m here to see—”
“You got an appointment?” The question was terse.
“I do, yes. At ten o’clock. With, um… With Mr. Carpenter.”
She gave a curt nod, turned away, picked up the telephone, and dialed. After a moment, she said, “Mr. Carpenter’s ten o’clock appointment is here.” She hung up and turned to him. “Wait right here.”
Danny waited. Another couple came through the door, the woman waving a long cigarette holder between her fingers as she and her companion laughed at something one of them must have said outside. She was blond, dressed in sparkling silver and green beneath a snow-dusted overcoat, and both her hair and skirt were as short as was fashionable these days. Her companion was in a smart suit and shined shoes. Clearly here to buy meat.
The man murmured something to the woman behind the counter, and the woman again picked up the telephone, this time saying something Danny didn’t hear. A moment later, an unseen door in the back opened, and the butcher stepped out, wiping his hands on his dingy white apron. With a sharp nod, he beckoned for the couple to come with him, and they followed without hesitation.
Outside, a pair of policemen strolled by. One cast a disinterested look through the windows, put his cigarette to his lips, and kept right on walking into the frigid night. They had to know what went on in here. It was hardly a secret what it meant when a regular business had patrons dressed for a night out coming in through the front door at this hour. Either the policemen didn’t care or they didn’t bother because there were dozens of places like this nearby. More likely, they didn’t see anything because a few crisp bills in their pockets said there was nothing to see.
“You here for Mr. Carpenter?” The voice pulled Danny’s attention from the vacant sidewalk where the police had been patrolling, and he turned to see a hulking Italian man in a suit glaring at him from behind the counter.
Danny cleared his throat. “I am, yes.”
A sharp gesture summoned him into the back of the butcher shop. Danny hesitated—whether or not it was a front for a speakeasy, this was a legitimate butcher shop, and he wasn’t sure he liked venturing away from the windows into a place with knives and meat hooks. Not with an Italian wise guy, and especially not after what had happened on New Year’s Eve.
The Italian glared at him. “You coming?”
Well, if he didn’t, then four of his friends would likely land in the workhouse soon. Or worse.
So, swallowing his nerves, Danny followed the man into a larger room in the back. Here, the butcher was methodically cleaving apart some creature’s hindquarters, and he eyed Danny and the Italian with no expression on his face.
At the other side of the room was a door. Danny and the Italian stepped through it, and Danny jumped when it banged shut behind him, sealing them into a narrow, dark stairway that was as cold as the January night outside. They walked silently down the stairs, and Danny tried not to liken this to descending into the pits of hell for a meeting with the Devil himself.
When they reached the bottom, the Italian faced him and held up a canvas bag.
“Put this on,” he ordered.
“Put it…” Danny eyed the bag, then the wise guy. “Why?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You want to meet Mr. Carpenter or not?”
Well, no, now that he’d asked, but Danny didn’t have a lot of choice here. And he supposed now that he’d been into the tunnel behind the butcher shop, there was no turning back. He’d already seen too much.
Muttering a few choice words in Irish, Danny pulled the bag over his own head, and he tried not to let his mind linger on what exactly he was smelling. Something sour and decayed. Thinking any deeper than that, he’d probably throw up inside the bag. In fact, maybe that was what—
“This way.” The Italian took his arm, and what could Danny do but follow him?
They walked for what felt like miles. Maybe that was just his nerves, or maybe time seemed to be crawling by because of the horrid stench so close to his face. All he knew was he’d long since lost track of the turns and switchbacks, and that with every set of stairs—even those going up—he was sure he was getting closer to literal hell.
Finally, he was ordered to halt. Something squeaked, and he thought he heard a door open, but he wasn’t told to move, so he stood there stupidly and waited for something to happen.
The Italian’s gruff voice made him jump: “Your ten o’clock is here, boss.”
The response came in a smoother voice that made Danny’s already racing heart beat faster: “Bring him in.”
Danny was shoved unceremoniously forward, and he just managed to keep himself from falling. When he’d righted himself, the bag was yanked off his head.
He blinked a few times—the room was dimly lit by a few bare bulbs strung around where crown molding would have been in a classier place, but it was still bright for a man who’d been in darkness for the last… the last however long he’d been hooded.
A heavy metal door slammed shut behind him, and a lock clanged into place. It sounded like the kind of door they used for bank vaults, and that didn’t settle Danny’s nerves at all. There was a reason he and his crew had never bothered trying to rob banks.
As his eyes adjusted, he shivered and took in his surroundings. Aside from being cold, the room was rough, its floor made of wood but its walls out of ragged concrete. A few pipes went across the ceiling and along one wall, but otherwise it looked like an office—a desk with a couple of chairs and a telephone. Several ledgers and pens. It wasn’t even as big as the modest parlor in Danny’s Broome Street tenement apartment, and the low ceiling and dim light made it feel even more cramped and tight.
Or perhaps that was because of the locked door and the man gazing back at him from behind the broad desk.
He was Italian in the usual expensive suit, and he was plainly a gangster. As easy to recognize as Ricky il Sacchi. The way he carried himself, even while sitting down. The way he looked at Danny like he owned everything in this room including him. The pinstriped slate gray suit and the fedora on the desk. And who else but gangsters held meetings in dark basements with men summoned by threats? He couldn’t have been anyone other than a gangster, and Danny suspected this “Mr. Carpenter” was, in fact, Carmine Battaglia.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“It ain’t ‘kid,’” Danny growled, hoping his nerves didn’t betray him.
A dark eyebrow arched.
Danny gulped. “Daniel. My name is Daniel Moore.”
To his surprise the Italian got up and came around the desk. He was slightly shorter than Danny—an inch at most—and he looked Danny right in the eye as he extended a hand. “Carmine Battaglia.”
Unsure what else to do, Danny shook Battaglia’s hand.
So this was him. Carmine Battaglia. The gangster who’d demanded Danny’s presence and threatened to send four of his friends to the workhouse if he didn’t show.
And maybe if Danny hadn’t been so uneasy with this whole situation, he’d have spent a little more time focusing on those full lips and near-black eyes. Or the way the bare electric bulbs cast harsh shadows on sharp, olive-skinned features.
He’s one of them, Danny fiercely reminded himself. Stop staring and find a way out of here.
“Well? You wanted to see me.” Danny spread his arms. “I’m here.”
“Yes, you are.” Battaglia leaned casually against his desk, head tilted his head as he studied Danny intently. “I understand you’re in charge of a group of thieves who broke into some suites at the Plaza Hotel on New Year’s Eve.”
Danny swallowed, not sure how to proceed.
An odd smile formed on Battaglia’s lips. “I’m not the police, Daniel. I’m—”
“You’re a gangster.” The words came out with more venom than perhaps was wise. “Just tell me what you want so you won’t send my friends to the workhouse.”
Battaglia shook his head, chuckling softly. “I’m not interested in sending you or your friends to the workhouse.”
“But you said… If I didn’t come…”
“And you did come.” Battaglia shrugged. “You held up your end of the deal, and now I’ll hold up mine.”
It wasn’t that simple. It couldn’t be. Nothing ever was with gangsters involved.
“So what is it you want?”
“What I want is to put you and your crew to work.”
Danny blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I want to put—”
“Yeah, I heard that part.” Danny stared at him in disbelief. “You want us to come work for you. For gangsters. For Sicilian gangsters.”
Battaglia inclined his head. “You would hardly be the first Irishmen on my payroll.”
Setting his jaw, Danny glared at him. “Your kind put two of my brothers in the ground. I’d sooner work at Tammany Hall than with the likes of you.”
Battaglia’s expression hardened just slightly, but his voice stayed calm. “And you don’t think plenty of my kind are in the ground thanks to Irishmen?”
“With any luck, they’re in hell.”
The gangster’s eyebrow rose slowly.
Danny’s heart went wild. This was dangerous. So dangerous. He may as well have spat in the man’s face and cursed his mother.
Perhaps not the wisest thing to do when he was in a locked underground office with a powerful gangster and not the faintest clue how to get back to street level.
But he didn’t take it back.
Sack of Gold by Kiki Burrelli
Chapter One
DUSTY
"Heads up, Dusty!" Cam called out from the shore a moment before launching a can of beer into the lake. I sank down, then rocketed myself up into the air in order to catch the can as it nearly arched over my head. I landed with a loud splash that showed no mercy to the people around me. Soph shrieked while Seamus dodged the splash by ducking underwater. A little pointless if you asked me, but no one ever did.
Cracking open the can, I let the yeasty, sour liquid pour down my throat. I loved the burn almost as much as I loved the appreciative looks I received when I'd leapt from the water. "Perfect ten out of ten!" I announced to the groans of all those around me.
"It would've been perfect…" Soph replied, turning onto her back so she could look up at the night sky. There wasn't a cloud in sight and the stars stretched on for miles. On this clear of a night, it was so crowded with stars the sky looked milky in places. "…if you hadn't lost your shorts."
Sure enough, floating beside me like a turd in the wind were my boxers. I thought I felt a little freer. I scooped them out of the water, hanging them on my index finger. "Well this night just got a lot more exciting," I announced, receiving many whoops and whoos in reply. Cam had gathered a pretty sizable group tonight, promising they could all be part of an epic prank at Morningwood Lake.
"Those bottoms are mine!" Cam yelled. I flung them toward him, slingshot style, and he caught them as easily as I'd caught the beer. Being a shifter with enhanced speed and agility came in handy pretty often. He draped them over his head like a floppy hat, making everyone around him laugh.
I found myself laughing with them, caught up with the emotion of the night. These days, moments like this were my only chance to relax and unwind. I found Cam's face and he winked, making me warm and wonder if there wasn't more to his words. But I wasn't a bottom—another word for omega in Morningwood, even though omegas weren't required to bottom all the time—I was an alpha!
At least, I thought so.
Still, I thought of the day that Cam came into my life as one of my luckiest days. Right after New Year's, I'd been dying of boredom and all of my friends were finding their mates. All except Soph who was so busy with college and track most of the time that nights like tonight were far too infrequent. My dads had tried to tell me it was because my friends were growing up, becoming the adults they were meant to be and that I should consider joining them.
I didn't know how to tell them that I didn't know how.
I tipped my head back, swallowing the rest of the beer along with my troubled thoughts. I had to worry about all of that every other second of the day, I wasn't going to let it ruin right now. Crushing the can in one hand, I threw it back to shore while hollering for someone to toss me another bottle of bubble bath. A fin appeared in the water, slicing through the black surface like a scene from a horror movie as Jake—great white shark shifter—swam to me with a bottle of bubble bath in his jagged teeth.
Everyone moved out of Jake's way looking like the laziest extras in Jaws. Jake released the bottle as he swam by and I plucked it from the water. Pearlescent pink fluid ran down my hand and wrist, leaking out from the teeth holes in the plastic.
"Dude!" I popped the top off the bubble bath and squirted it into the water around me, taking extra care to rinse off.
When Cam had texted saying he had an idea for a bubbles and beer party, I'd been psyched. It seemed like the texts from my other friends—if I even got texts from my other friends—were all about brunches and baby showers. Harris had called the other week to ask if I wanted to go antiquing with him and Dean Boothe—who kept trying to get us to call him Andrew, or Mr. Boothe, but both were just too weird. Needless to say, I'd declined the invite. I had a hunch Harris had only asked because my dads had begged him too anyway.
I needed more excitement in my life and Cam's plan for the night was simple but perfect: get a few cases of bubbles, a few cases of beer, face the frigid lake waters and see what happened. So far, my skin was so numb I couldn't feel the cold, we were almost through all the cases of bubble bath, and halfway through the beer.
In the distance, an owl screeched.
Cam put his hands out, shushing the crowd. "Hold on, that's the sig—" Hiccup. "Signal."
Every head, including mine, turned his direction. Christine Echo—bat shifter—was the first to curse. The next moment, her clothes fluttered to the ground and she emerged in her bat form, flapping her wings to take her higher into the sky.
My hearing wasn't as good as most of those around me but by the way the more auditorily sensitive shifters around me were fleeing, it was safe to say, our party was about to get crashed.
And yet, I felt no fear. Only excitement.
You're sick, Dusty. Or maybe just a glutton for punishment.
"Dusty, c'mon, it's the Sheriff!" Cam called from the bank. He stretched his hand out toward me, his face devoid of his usual smirk.
"Soph, babe, you gotta swim," I called back to her.
All around us teens and those just a bit older, like Soph, Cam and I, were transforming into their animals. Jake simply swam away to the other side of the large lake while the bird shifters, like Seamus, all took to the sky. Lights of red and blue swirled through the trees throwing their own private rave, but the man behind those lights couldn't have been further from a carefree partier.
Sheriff Joseph.
My legs tingled, and I tried to convince myself that it was because I was trying to swim so quickly, waking up nerve endings that had fallen asleep.
I paused to check on Soph's progress. If anything, she was farther behind me.
"Your mother is going to kill you and then me," I yelled to her. She understood what it was like to have parents that said they wanted to let go and watch you grow, while also never letting go. If Sophie Weaves was delivered to her parent's doorstep tonight in the custody of the Morningwood Sheriff, she'd be locked up for life—likely in some woven cage that her parents made with their own ass strings. It didn't matter that she was nineteen, almost twenty, any more than it mattered that I had just turned twenty and therefore no longer had the word teen attached to any part of me.
I checked back in with Cam at the shore, but when I saw his desperation, I waved him off. "It's okay, go! I'll be right behind with Soph." Everyone else had made it out of the lake, into the lake, or into the sky. It was just the three of us left and as I watched Cam give me one last wink before transforming into his horse and running the opposite direction in the woods, I mentally dropped that number to two.
I turned around and when I was close enough, grabbed Soph's hand to haul her onto my back. I wasn't in my horse form, but I could still swim faster than her this way. She clutched her legs around my middle while I burst into a forward stroke.
"I touched your penis!" she shrieked, jerking her foot away so quickly she kneed me in the jaw. "No! I'm sorry! Save yourself!"
Water filled my lungs when I hissed with pain and I began to cough. "Shift, you idiot," I tried to say between coughs. The lights were brighter now, and I thought I'd heard a door open before closing.
The moment I hit the shore, Sophie shifted and used all eight of her legs to scurry off into the woods. I lay there, panting in the sand and dirt for a second before lifting my body with my upper arms and jumping to my feet—
Just in time for the Sheriff to break through the tree line and shine his massively bright light on my completely naked body.
I squinted, closing one eye while blocking the floodlight with my hand. "Sheriff Joseph, what a surprise," I said, trying to sound sure of myself, but this was too much for even me to keep cool and my words came out more breathy than anything else.
I heard his disapproving sigh and immediately forced every disgusting thought I could conjure into my head to keep from growing hard. Sheriff Joseph was a lost cause for me, a crush I needed to kill, and yet…
"Why do I keep finding you in varying stages of undressed?" the Sheriff replied. He had a rich voice, like whiskey in an old western song. He didn't have a southern twang, but sometimes, when I let myself think about him and all the stuff I wanted to do with him, I would imagine he did. A country accent would suit a staunch, upright guy like him nicely.
"I didn't want to mention this, since you're obviously a never nude but—"
"I'm a what?" the Sheriff asked, his tone a mixture between gruff and curious. I had to be making up the curious part though since all the Sheriff ever seemed to be around me was annoyed.
"Your condition?" I prompted, lowering my voice like I was afraid of someone else hearing us. "The one that keeps you from getting naked?"
"I get naked," the Sheriff replied.
I grinned and tried to hide it behind my hand. I had always been self-conscious of my mouth. And, no, not because I never stopped talking, but because it was so big. Sometimes it felt like half of my face was just mouth and when I smiled, it got that much worse. "Truth is in the eye of the beholder."
The Sheriff sighed again—it was his favorite expression in my presence—and clicked off his flashlight, forcing my eyes to slowly adjust to the partial darkness. The moon still shone brightly overhead, and his cop car lights swirled silently behind him. "That isn't how the saying goes, Mr. Bridle. You don't have to take the whole wrap for this, you know. I've counted at least twenty empty beer cans, and several more unopened." He shone his light on the stack of beers by one of the trees. "You clearly weren't out here by yourself while you all… what were you all doing?"
"Trying to fill the lake with bubble," I admitted, my bottom lip began to tremble from standing naked and wet in the cold. The next second, Sheriff Joseph handed me one of those wool blankets that you always see people wearing in aftermath pictures.
"That's ridiculous. You would need thousands of gallons of bubble bath. You have enough here to maybe fill a hot tub."
"No one said it was a good plan," I mumbled, bringing the blanket tighter around my front. I dipped my face, giving it a low-key sniff. Of course it smelled like the man, like cedar and citrus. Did he spend his time making fresh squeezed orange juice in the woods? I wouldn't doubt it. Though, thinking that Sheriff Joseph did anything for fun was against everything I knew of the man.
My eyes had almost adjusted to normal so I could see the Sheriff better. It wasn't as if I didn't have his face memorized already. He was handsome in a lame Disney prince sort of way. He had tanned skin, always a shade darker than everyone else no matter the time of year and golden hair—the color matching his lion counterpart almost exactly. His face was square and sturdy with defined cheekbones and a chiseled jaw that made the framework for a prominent chin complete with one of those ridiculous dimples at the end. He was gorgeous but in a wholesome sort of way that I should have rebelled against.
Hell, I was rebelling against it. Because the sad fact was, ever since volunteering at the jail for penitence after making some truly tragic mistakes—way worse than trying to bring bubble joy and whimsy to this boring town—I'd realized how head over heels I was for the much older man. His age would be one thing, an issue I'd be happy to look past, but I couldn't look past the way he never gave me the time of day. Unless…
I bent down to pick up one of the empty cans but discovered the can was yet unopened. Cracking the top, I gestured toward the Sheriff. "You don't mind?"
"You're twenty, I mind."
"This is Morningwood, not the normie world, officer," I retorted, bringing the can slowly to my lips.
I felt the heat of his body, stark against my lake-frozen skin. "I mind," he repeated softly as he reached for the can. He was careful not to touch my hand, grabbing it by the top to take it away. After pouring it into the woods—litterer—he turned back to me. "Find your clothes, Bridle. Clean up this mess and then I'm delivering you to your parents."
I groaned and then wished I hadn't. No wonder the Sheriff wouldn't look at me like the man I was.
"Unless you know a few names of people who should be here to help you?" he taunted.
I lifted my chin. "Snitches get stitches."
Again, he was in my bubble, too close—no such thing—for comfort. "Did someone threaten you?" he asked, his voice dipping several octaves.
For a split second I wondered what he would do if I said yes. Then, I answered my own question. He would file an official police report and assign you a number. I shook my head. "It's a saying, Sheriff. It means I saw nothing and will say nothing." I crossed my arms over my chest forcing him to take a few steps back or else we would be touching. I may have been stupidly infatuated, but I wasn't about to get pushed around. I was a horse shifter—not just that, a Clydesdale! And I wasn't going to pretend to be timid for anyone.
"It doesn't have to be like this, Dusty," he said then, much more quietly. "In fact, it wasn't this way until about two months ago. You barely got into trouble, and now, I'm catching you every other week. If something has happened, if someone is making you—"
"No one is making me do anything." It was my turn to use my tough guy voice. "I'll find my clothes and clean up."
I could tell he wasn't happy, but that was simply too bad.
He didn't speak while I rummaged around the leftover piles for my clothing. I wasn't sure where my boxers were, but I found my jeans and slipped them on. I never found my shirt, or hoodie, but Cam had left his black leather jacket behind, so I slipped that over my shoulders. I didn't want to return the blanket Joseph had given me but that was just more of a reason why I should, so I took it off and bunched it up. "Thanks for this," I muttered, setting it down on a log while I got busy gathering the empty soap bottles and beer cans.
"What about this stuff?" I asked, gesturing to the leftover cases.
"I'll donate it to the firehouse," the Sheriff replied.
"Poor Cam," I muttered. He'd brought all the beer.
"Who?" Sheriff Joseph asked keenly.
"No one," I said louder. "Isn't that illegal? Don't you have to take it in as evidence?"
"I would, if I were arresting anyone or charging anyone of anything. But, we can't keep doing this, Dusty. You already have more community service hours than you'll be able to feasibly finish before you graduate. And I don't want to put you in another cell, but I will. It's odd, son. You were always such a good kid, but recently, it's like you're making up for lost time. Is it this Cam? Is he influencing you?"
I tied up the last trash bag—courtesy of everyone's favorite Sheriff—and bent down to haul the bags and the cases back to his cruiser. After, I stood next to his car, my chin lifted again to indicate my obstinate silence.
"Fine," he snapped, jerking the bags out of my grasp and tossing them into the trunk.
My heart fluttered making me wonder if I really was broken. Why did I like his anger so much? I was a goof to everyone else, I knew that. Dusty was always just the class clown—great now I was thinking of myself in the third person.
But I didn't always want to be just a goof and I wasn't going to tell on Cam, even if it got me out of trouble. Not only was he a fellow horse shifter, but he was new in town, a recent transfer from another shifter town somewhere on the east coast called Dix Wallow. He claimed that town was as lame as Morningwood, which always stung because I really did like Morningwood—despite the dumb ass name. I just wished I knew where my place was.
And the main reason why I wasn't going to tell on Cam was because these days, he seemed like the only person who liked having me around. In fact, sometimes, he out-pranked even me.
"Get in," the Sheriff ordered, slipping into the driver seat.
Weren't cops supposed to help you into the car? I couldn't even get him to do that.
"My parents aren't home," I started to say as I slid in the passenger seat. If he wasn't going to put me in the backseat behind the bars, I wasn't going to put myself there.
I shut the door and strapped on my seatbelt while the Sheriff just sat there. When I finally looked over, he was seething.
And I loved it.
"Do you want to try that again, Mr. Bridle?" he asked quietly.
"Try what?"
He grabbed the steering wheel tightly despite the fact that he hadn't yet started the engine. "Lying to me."
"I wasn't—"
"Dusty," he said my name, but it didn't sound like just my name. It sounded like a threat but also like a promise. A promise to do what? Punish me for lying? Would he put me in the back seat? I didn't mind, as long as he wanted to go back there with me.
And yet, something inside of me longed to bend to his will, to listen and obey. I didn't like that part of me because it was confusing. Alphas weren't supposed to be swayed as easily as I was around Sheriff Joseph. "Fine. They are home, but if you bring me back with the siren blaring it's just going to stress them out. They're already on edge because of the new baby and—"
"How is he doing?" he asked, sounding authentically curious.
"Dennis is doing what newborns do, I guess," I replied with a shrug. It was only a little weird to go from being an only child to an older brother at twenty. "I mean… he's a lot of trouble and my dads just started getting him to sleep for some of the night so if you bring me back—"
"Okay, okay," the Sheriff said, waving my words away. And, was that a smirk I spotted? No. It was gone as quickly as I thought I'd spotted it. "You know, if you stopped getting in trouble, you wouldn't have to worry so much about stressing them out."
I leaned back, settling into the passenger seat and readjusting the seatbelt over my jacket. "What's the fun in that?" I asked, adding a shrug that I hoped conveyed nonchalance. "And I could if I wanted to. I promise, mister, I can stop anytime."
That was when the Sheriff laughed. An actual, open mouth, smiley eyes laugh.
I forgot how to breathe.
"If you managed to stay out of my cuffs for two weeks, I would walk around Morningwood in a leprechaun costume."
I tried picturing the staunch figure dressed down in green, a top hat and a sack of gold at his side. "Not that I'm complaining, but why a leprechaun?"
"It's the next holiday," he replied.
This was as close to goofing around as I'd ever seen the man, so my reply was quick. "Deal."
Sheriff Joseph sobered as he pulled out onto the road, his brief moment of merriment long forgotten. "I'm serious about naming names, Dusty. We can't have you guys out here causing trouble. I got three calls about your little party tonight."
"Bunch of rats," I mumbled.
"No, it was Trent, he's a trout—"
"Figure of speech."
"Well, all that I've said still stands. How about we start with the owner of that jacket you're wearing, though I have an idea."
There was more growl to his words than there had been previously and although I wanted to lean over and make him growl again, I slunk away, burying my face behind the collar of Cam's jacket. It smelled like him, like hay and molasses and a little something extra that might've been Mountain Dew. "You might as well give up. I'm not going to tell you anything. One, as I've said, I am not a snitch and two, I might have something going with this jacket's owner and I don't want to ruin it."
"Oh?" the Sheriff asked casually, but his hands tightened to white knuckles on the steering wheel.
"Yes," I said, gaining momentum. I didn't know if the Sheriff had picked up on my ill-formed crush, but I wasn't going to seem desperate in front of him. "He's fun and actually seems to like being around me instead of treating it like a chore, or something that's been court appointed," I added so he knew that I counted him firmly in the other category.
"Is that what these nights are to you? Having fun with your new boyfriend?" His words came out clipped, like he couldn't be bothered to speak them clearly, or even continue with this conversation.
"It was, till you ruined it," I replied, my anger rising. And why was I angry? I was the one sort of lying after all. Was it because I wasn't getting the reaction that I wanted? "Maybe next time you can show up just a half hour later, so I have time to seal the deal." I sat back and looked out my window watching the trees thin. I spotted a street light up ahead and despite the tone in the car my heart lurched. I had minutes left, if he drove slowly.
We came to a stop sign that he breezed through.
I jerked my face in his direction, but he kept his eyes on the road. I noticed his pulse beating in his clenched jaw. That upset to be around me?
He turned up the street to Barnyard Court, the road I lived on along with all the farming and cattle shifters. We didn't have to be segregated like we were, it just seemed to work best. Every house on Barnyard Court had its own field in the back, perfect for lazy afternoons spent grazing.
My brain went into overdrive, firing off ideas of how to prolong my time in the car like fireworks exploding during a Fourth of July show. By the time he parked at the end of the cul-de-sac, I still had no idea and my panic to stay was quickly being replaced with anger. I spotted my house at the very end. All the lights were off except the front porch and the nursery light upstairs. That meant at least one of my dads was awake, but likely not in any shape to care if or when I got home.
Sheriff Joseph was so oblivious to me outside of my role as a troublemaker, I wanted to hurt him like how I hurt. I unbuckled my belt and opened the door, causing the dome light to turn on. The Sheriff's normally golden gaze was dark.
"Yeah, so, thanks. And like I said, try to hold back a little longer at the next party, I'm smooth, but I still need time to work my moves."
"There won't be another party, Dusty," the Sheriff replied darkly.
The hair on my nape prickled against his tone but I tried not to let it show. "Of course not. Night." I got out and shut the door. As I walked to my porch, I felt his eyes on my backside. Would it be weird if I tried to saunter? With my luck, I would just end up falling over.
Still, when I got to my door and the Sheriff was still there, I turned and slowly reached into my jacket pocket, pulling out the full, unopened can of beer I'd felt there when I put it on. I cracked it open, smiled at the cruiser's windshield since I couldn't see inside, and took a sip. I imagined the Sheriff's hands tightening on the steering wheel.
Did they tighten like that when he grabbed a lover? Did he use that same dark tone in the bedroom, the one that brooked no disobedience but somehow made me want to do the exact opposite? My stomach clenched, but it had nothing to do with the alcohol I'd consumed.
Deflated, I opened the door, slamming it as loudly as I dared behind me—which ended up being not loud at all.
Outside, Sheriff Joseph drove away, his tires squealing in his haste to escape from my presence.
"Dust?" my dad called from the top of the stairs. He bounced on the balls of his feet with Dennis propped against his shoulder as he patted his bottom.
"I'm here, I'm home," I said softly, hiding the can behind my back.
"Try not to make too much noise, Dennis should go down for a few more hours," he said, never descending the stairs.
"Yeah, no problem. I'm just gonna grab some food and go to bed." I waited to hear his footsteps retreating, but there was only silence.
"Dust? Did something happen tonight?" he asked with a tired edge.
How did I tell him? How did I describe the way it felt to realize the man I wanted would have nothing to do with me? That knowledge felt like it was slowly sinking into my bones, etching into the hard surfaces so that when I died and dried up, the message would be easily readable:
Sheriff Joseph wants nothing to do with you.
"Nope, everything is fine. Love you, goodnight." I didn't wait for his reply, I wasn't sure if he even gave one. He hadn't been worried about me, just about the possibility that I'd disgraced them both again by coming home in the back seat of a cruiser again. Loophole, it was the front seat this time.
I poured the rest of the beer down the sink, buried the can at the bottom of the recycling bin and disappeared into my room. Taking off my jacket, I hung it on my desk chair and then flopped down on my bed, facing the ceiling.
"Give it up, Dust," I told my ceiling.
It was about time I forgot my wild fantasies.
Lucky Dance Date by Lacey Daize
Chapter 1 - Wes
~January~
Ismiled at my camera and ring light. “That’s it for today’s mini-lesson. Make sure to subscribe to my channel for access to full lessons. And if you live in Valle Granja, stop in and join our real life dance classes.”
My smile widened and I made heart-hands as I prepared for my traditional send-off. “Until next time, keep those toes tapping. Wes, out.”
I struck a pose and held it for several seconds so that my editor would have plenty of time for a clean outtro. Then I strode to the camera and turned it off.
The sound of small footsteps running up the stairs to the studio filtered in, and I knew that the first of my after-school students had arrived. I quickly carried my recording equipment to the instructors’ office, closed the door just enough to check that my dance belt was still where I wanted it, then headed back out to the lobby.
“No street shoes on the dance floor,” I stated, even though all of my students knew the drill.
“Ok!” Madison, the niece of one of my best friends, said as she sat on one of the benches, kicked off her character sneakers, and pulled on a pair of split-sole dance shoes.
“Can I go warm up?” she asked as she shoved her street shoes in one of the cubbies.
“Go ahead,” I replied as other kids started to filter in.
“Thank you!” she squealed as she bolted into the studio proper.
I smiled as I reminded the others to change their shoes. Madison was one of my most enthusiastic students, and I saw the potential for her to be an incredible dancer. I even planned to talk to her papa about having her audition for the summer musical held by the Valle Granja Performing Arts Initiative.
It would be a step up from the small performances held by our dance association, but I was sure that she was ready.
I waited for the stragglers, checked my messages to see if parents had contacted me about any of the no-shows, then strode into the studio.
“Let’s warm up everybody,” I said, clapping my hands to get their attention. “To the barre for stretches.”
The kids all took their places, and I smiled as they settled from excited chatter to serious practice.
We went through our warm up routine before reviewing our triple-steps. Then I settled into the lesson for the day.
I couldn’t help but smile as the kids tripped over their own feet before learning the new steps.
My life was nearly perfect. I had a job that I loved: teaching dance. Even better was that it paid the bills. I had a cute apartment all to myself. I performed regularly with the local theater initiative, and I was an advocate for local investment in the arts.
There were only two downsides: my parents, who were vehemently against everything I did, and my lack of a mate or children.
Unfortunately I couldn’t fix my parents, and the only alpha I’d ever wanted had been scared off by them more than a decade ago. Even now I dreamt of his sun-kissed skin and black hair.
Still, I was surrounded by small blessings, and I’d long since learned to appreciate them.
Frank W Butterfield
Frank W. Butterfield is the Amazon best-selling author of 89 (and counting) self-published novels, novellas, and short stories. Born and raised in Lubbock, Texas, he has traveled all over the US and Canada and now makes his home in Daytona Beach, Florida. His first attempt at writing at the age of nine with a ball-point pen and a notepad was a failure. Forty years later, he tried again and hasn't stopped since.
Lorelei M. Hart is the cowriting team of USA Today Bestselling Authors Kate Richards and Ever Coming. Friends for years, the duo decided to come together and write one of their favorite guilty pleasures: Mpreg. There is something that just does it for them about smexy men who love each other enough to start a family together in a world where they can do it the old-fashioned way ;).
My characters are sexy, hot, adorable—and often filthy—alphas and omegas. Feudal lords with dark secrets, lonely omegas running away from their past, and alphas who refuse to commit.
Lurking in the background are kings, mafia dons, undercover agents and highwaymen with a naughty gleam in their eye.
As for me? I dictate my steamy stories with a glass of champagne in one hand. Because why not?
L.A. Witt and her husband have been exiled from Spain and sent to live in Maine because rhymes are fun. She now divides her time between writing, assuring people she is aware that Maine is cold, wondering where to put her next tattoo, and trying to reason with a surly Maine coon. Rumor has it her arch nemesis, Lauren Gallagher, is also somewhere in the wilds of New England, which is why L.A. is also spending a portion of her time training a team of spec ops lobsters. Authors Ann Gallagher and Lori A. Witt have been asked to assist in lobster training, but they "have books to write" and "need to focus on our careers" and "don't you think this rivalry has gotten a little out of hand?" They're probably just helping Lauren raise her army of squirrels trained to ride moose into battle.
Kiki Burrelli lives in the Pacific Northwest with the bears and raccoons. She dreams of owning a pack of goats that she can cuddle and dress in form-fitting sweaters. Kiki loves writing and reading and is always chasing that next character that will make her insides shiver. Consider getting to know Kiki at her website, on Facebook, or send her an email: kikiburrelli@gmail.com.
Lacey DaizeLacey lives in New Mexico with her four critters. She’s a Jill-of-all-trades by day, but loves writing in her spare time. She dabbles in a variety of pairings, but jumped feet-first into the deep end of omegaverse the first time she read it. She loves the play on social expectations and the different ways to express romance.
Frank W Butterfield
Lorelei M Hart
EMAIL: Lorelei@mpregwithhart.com
LA Witt
Michael Ferraiuolo(Narrator)
St. Patrick's Day, 1945 by Frank W Butterfield
Blind Date for St. Patrick's by Lorelei M Hart & Colbie Dunbar
The Venetian and the Rum Runner by LA Witt
Sack of Gold by Kiki Burrelli
Lucky Dance Date by Lacey Daize
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