Summary:
Twenty-two-year-old Alessandro Silva knows that returning to tiny Perch Creek to help his foster mother was the right thing to do. With no degree and a delinquent's reputation, he's lucky to have landed a job waiting tables. But not everyone is happy he's back, and the only thing keeping his move home from being a total bust is his boss's hot brother.
Jaime Winters spent most of his life watching the world go by, first from a series of hospitals and then from behind big stacks of textbooks. Studying is easier than facing the fact that years of heart failure means he's still a virgin at twenty-three. Until the new waiter in his sister's diner awakens desires he'd long ago given up on.
The last thing Alessandro wants is to fall for someone as fragile as Jaime. And Jaime may have a new heart, but he's scared of what giving it to another person would mean. Their no-strings-attached, instructional approach to sex keeps emotion safely at bay, until a secret from Alessandro's past forces them to confront their feelings in the present.
Summary:
As a regular at gay hotspot Pot O Gold, Ezra Kelley avoids his tangled emotions with the simplicity of one-night stands and attachment-free hookups. Until the night bartender Donner Davis picks him up off the floor after a misunderstanding and too much tequila. Ezra can't remember the last time someone was nice. It's more than he deserves.
Witnessing his lover's death two years ago has Donner trapped in a holding pattern living in his sister's basement, working at the Pot and flirting with the customers. He's not above spending a night with the gorgeous Ezra, but love is not in the cards. That's more than he's ready for.
A passionate night leads to a connection neither man expects, and they take the first steps to something that looks like a real relationship. But Ezra's been running from himself so long he doesn't know how to live any other way. And Donner can't risk his heart just to lose everything again. They'll both need the strength to let go of the past if they want to get it right this time.
Three months after his rescue from an abusive boyfriend, twenty-two-year-old Romy Myers has landed his first legitimate job bussing tables at his friend's new coffee shop. The job has brought him some stability after years of abuse have left him feeling damaged and broken. He's working hard on his panic and social anxiety, and those things are often tempered by the big, burly presence of Brendan Walker.
From the moment ex-football player Brendan helped rescue Romy from his ex's abuse, he's wanted to protect him. And he does, from a distance, with joking text messages, a new gym routine to toughen him up and a genuine friendship. So far it's been easy but Brendan's feelings aren't just friendly anymore.
When an argument spirals out of control, a hot and heavy make-out session causes Romy's friendship with supposedly straight Brendan to reach a new level. The last thing Romy wants is to fall for another guy who could potentially shatter him, but Brendan also wakes up a part of him he thought had been destroyed by violence his heart.
No Such Thing #1
Chapter One
Most days, Alessandro Silva would have walked right past a place like Baker’s Dozen. He’d seen and worked in too many like it since he was fifteen—a small, local hangout that catered to the same hardworking blue collars day after day, for lousy tips and long hours. The hand-painted sign outside Baker’s Dozen advertised, Breakfast Only! Open 5 am until 12pm, Closed on Sunday.
The little coffee shop hadn’t been there three years ago, the last time he’d been in Perch Creek, but that meant very little. A lot could, and did, change in a small town in such a brief amount of time, including businesses and who owned them. Nothing about Baker’s Dozen seemed special at first glance—not until Alessandro spotted the other sign in the window, scribbled out on a sheet of parchment paper.
He’d seen a lot of help-wanted signs in his day, but this was his very first Help Needed!!! sign. All three exclamation points included.
The sign stopped him in the middle of the sidewalk. He was on his way to the larger chain steakhouse down the block to see if they needed any help in the kitchen. Bussing tables wasn’t exactly a noteworthy profession, but jobs weren’t easy to come by for a twenty-two-year-old Brazilian-American with no college education. And he needed a job if he was going to stay in Perch Creek to help Eunice with her bills and the other kids.
Help Needed!!!
The bank of windows at the front of Baker’s Dozen was tinted, so he’d have to cup his hands and press his face to the glass to get an idea of the interior. Instead of being so obvious about it, he went in. Sleigh bells jangled on the inside of the door, and he stepped into a warm room full of chatter, clanging and the wonderful aromas of coffee and cinnamon.
The restaurant was long and narrow, with a counter in the rear and a few booths and tables set up along both walls. A freestanding sign said Seat Yourself. Most of the seats were full, and a white-haired woman was bustling around behind the rear counter, lording over what looked like a giant display case of baked goods, with a line of four people waiting to be served. It reminded him more of a bakery than a breakfast place until he saw the handwritten menu board over the counter advertising daily breakfast specials and flavored coffee.
He moved a few steps closer in order to observe. The white-haired woman was actually white-blonde and younger than he’d first guessed—probably in her early thirties, with a silver hoop in her nose and several piercings in each ear. She was stout, as well. Not overweight, but not exactly slim, either. She laughed and joked with the people in line as she bagged up items from one of the trays beneath the counter, then took the bag to a cash register.
Just as she handed both the bag and change to the woman in line, a bell dinged somewhere behind her and a distant voice said, “Six up!” The woman excused herself from the next person in line, dashed to the left and reached over what must have been a hidden counter. She came back with two plates of food that she sprinted to a booth near Alessandro. As she passed, she tossed him a sunny grin and a brief, “Hey, sugar.” She sailed right back to the register and helped the next person with their order. So far, he hadn’t seen a single other person working there—the disembodied voice of the cook didn’t count.
He got in line.
Two more plates of food came out before Alessandro made it to the front of the line, and three people were waiting behind him. The scents of apples, cinnamon, sugar, and various other things made his stomach growl and mouth water, but he wasn’t here for a muffin.
“What can I get you, sugar?” the pale-haired woman asked when it was his turn.
He gave her his very best smile, slightly startled to see how blue her eyes were. “I’m actually here about the sign in the window. Help needed?”
“Yeah? You got experience waiting tables?”
“Not waiting, no, but I’ve bussed in a lot of places and done some dishwashing. I’m a quick study, though.”
“What’s your name?”
“Alessandro Silva.”
Those startling blue eyes swept him up and down, and then she leaned closer. In a low voice, she asked, “You legal?”
Alessandro had long ago given up on being insulted when people saw his caramel skin and black hair and assumed he wasn’t born here in America—which he was, even if his parents had been illegal. “Perfectly legal in every way,” he replied with just a touch of sass.
“Good. Consider this your job interview.” She reached behind her, grabbed a green apron and notepad, then handed the bundle to him. “Tables are in numerical order, one there and count in a U-shape from the front. When Rusty shouts a number, it’s the table. Get the plates and deliver. Someone sits down, take their order. Menu is on the board, and the coffee is endless as long as it’s eat-in. Got it?”
Even though his head was spinning a bit, Alessandro nodded. He stepped out of line so he could tie on his apron while she served the next customer.
“Nine up!”
That was his first cue. He stepped behind the counter and down the short hall. A chest-high counter stood between him and the rest of the kitchen, which was commanded by a single, slightly grizzled man who looked as old as dirt and glared at him with suspicion. “Rusty?” Alessandro asked.
The old cook grunted. “You new?”
“Extremely.”
“Good luck, Paco.”
“Alessandro.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“My parents were from Brazil.”
“Mine were from Poland.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Alessandro blinked first. He picked up the white porcelain plates, both heaped with some kind of pancakes and bacon, then carried them back to the dining room. He started with the first table on the left, then counted to nine. He ended at a booth on the right side of the room, where two teenage girls were sitting, playing with their phones.
“Your food, ladies,” he said. He flashed them his most charming smile as he deposited their plates, which made them both blush and giggle. “Can I get you anything else?”
“Can I order your phone number?” one girl asked with a too-confident grin.
Alessandro placed a hand over his heart, faking sadness. “Alas, my dear, my heart belongs to someone else.” To another sex entirely, as a matter of fact, but he wasn’t going to advertise that when he hadn’t been officially hired. Being nonwhite brought its own unique set of problems, as did being a foster kid; being gay, too, was just an additional layer of complications in his already complicated life.
“Too bad,” his flirtatious teenage customer said.
“Enjoy the food.” He took a moment to survey the tables and take in the details. He spotted at least half-a-dozen ceramic mugs that screamed “in-house coffee” that needed refilling. Two other tables had no food at all, so he remained alert to Rusty’s shouts. Some patrons were eating muffins or baked goods out of brown paper bags with takeout cups of coffee, so he made a note to leave them alone unless summoned.
He could do this. No sweat.
The coffeepot was set up behind the counter, with two steaming carafes ready and a third brewing. One brown handle and one orange—regular and decaf, he’d bet. He took both, then did a quick circuit of the dining room, topping off mugs and chatting idly with folks he’d never met a day in his life. While he was pouring, an older gentleman came in and settled in the place’s only empty booth.
Alessandro gave him a moment to settle himself, then came over. “Coffee to start you off?” he asked.
“Sure, regular’s good.” The man turned over his mug and Alessandro poured. “Shannon got flapjacks on today?”
He glanced up at the board just to double-check himself before answering. “Stack of cakes with bacon, yep.”
“Sounds good, with one of her corn muffins on the side.”
“Got it.”
Once Alessandro had redeposited the coffee carafes, he wrote the order down on the pad, then took it to the rear counter. “New order?” he asked Rusty.
“There.” Rusty pointed his greasy spatula at a silver wheel with little clips on it.
Alessandro attached the order, then went up to his maybe-boss. “I need a corn muffin set aside for table ten.”
“Got it,” she said as she slid what looked like an apple fritter into a bag.
Two full hours passed like that and Alessandro never stopped moving. For such a small place, it did incredibly brisk business, and as the hands on his watch crept closer to noon, the baked-goods counter emptied out and so did the tables and booths. He was able to slow down and catch his breath. His apron pocket rattled with loose change and dollar bills—tip money he’d collected from the tables he’d also bussed. He wasn’t sure what to do with it.
Only two booths were still occupied, so he grabbed a damp cloth and began wiping down the tables. By the time he’d gone around, only one booth held customers. He collected two plates and mugs from the empty table, as well as a five-dollar tip. A hastily scribbled phone number went into the pool of syrup left on one of the plates. He added the plates to the bus bin on the back counter.
“You really are a fast learner,” the boss—who he guessed to be Shannon, even though she hadn’t introduced herself—said.
“I believe in truth in advertising,” he replied.
“You did good today and you helped me out of a real jam. Thank you, Alessandro.”
“Alè, please.”
“Alè.” She pronounced it like all white folks did, like alley, but he didn’t mind. “My name’s Shannon Winters. I own the place.”
“I guessed as much. Nice to meet you.” He shook her hand. “It was definitely the most hands-on interview I’ve never had.”
“If you want the job, you’re hired.”
He blinked. “For real?”
“Yes, absolutely. It’s all morning work, though. We’re open six to twelve, so you’d work five to one Monday through Friday. I have a Saturday person, and we’re closed Sundays. You’d be doing pretty much what you just did, for six hours a day, five days a week. You game for that?”
His mind calculated the benefits of such an arrangement. Having set hours meant a schedule that Eunice could more easily work around. If she could figure out mornings, he’d be there every day when the kids came home from school. He’d have to get used to such early working hours, but he’d done worse.
“I’m game,” he replied. “I accept.”
“Fabulous. Welcome to Baker’s Dozen. We’ll do your paperwork after we close, yeah?”
“Okay.”
He kept himself busy by relying on his old busboy training—collecting dishes, cleaning tables, generally tidying up the place—as the hour hand crept toward the twelve. The last lingering guests seemed to understand they were getting close to overstaying their welcome. The pair tossed some money onto the wood table, then left. Alessandro hit the table and started cleaning.
He hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the shop’s clock before, but at noon it chimed, then began playing strains of “Closing Time.” He laughed his way through scrubbing down the table.
The front door bells clanged, and he glanced up, a little startled. He hadn’t asked Shannon if he should lock the front door. A man about his own age came inside, wearing the worn clothes of a poor college student, a canvas cross-body bag slung over his shoulder. He was slim with thick brown hair and wide, blue eyes that stopped Alessandro short. He also had the most kissable red lips Alessandro had ever seen on a man. Not really handsome, but leaning toward the cute side, and those lips…
Alessandro’s dick twitched.
He’d take a phone number scribbled on a receipt from this guy any day of the week. Too bad. “We’re closed.”
Vivid blue eyes latched on and drank him in, taking just a split second longer to check Alessandro out than any perfectly straight man would have. “My sister owns the place,” he said in a slightly mocking tone. “She won’t mind.” As if to prove his point, Shannon’s supposed brother reached back and turned the door’s lock. “Who are you?”
Alessandro squared his shoulders, not at all intimidated by the slightly shorter, much skinnier man in front of him. “Alessandro Silva. Shannon just hired me.”
“Damn, that was fast. We only hung the sign three hours ago.”
“Right place, right time, I guess.”
“I guess. I’m—”
“Jaime, hey,” Shannon said. She came down the center aisle, wiping her hands on a towel. “You’re cutting it close, kid. You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Jaime replied. “I had to get some books from the library and lost track of time. You know I never miss a chance to scrounge for leftovers and harass you while you try to close up.”
“Go harass Rusty instead. Fill the dishwasher.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jaime tossed his bag onto a chair and strolled to the back of the shop.
Alessandro caught himself watching Jaime go, so he turned his attention back to Shannon. “Your brother?”
“Half brother, yeah,” she replied. “Pain in my ass, but I can’t seem to find any traveling sideshows that will buy him off me.”
He snorted laughter. The comment was sarcastic, but he didn’t miss the underlying affection in her words. “Have you considered selling him to science?”
She grinned. “Oh, I like you, Alè. I like you.”
They spent the next hour going over how the shop ran and the kinds of food they served. They were first and foremost a bakery, specializing in thirteen varieties of muffins every day, and they changed based on the time of year. Baker’s Dozen also served a variety of other baked goods. Everything was made from scratch in the morning—Shannon came in at three—and once it sold out, it was out. She also put food specials up, five dishes that Rusty could crank out quickly, and she prided herself on serving a great cup of coffee.
They discussed pay and tips, as well as his general responsibilities, while they cleaned and set up for the next day. He got a tour of the kitchen and the small back room that doubled as a break room and office space and the closet-sized bathroom. Once they sat down and started on his official paperwork, their conversation shifted from professional to a little more personal.
“So did you just move to Perch Creek?” Shannon asked.
“I grew up here, but I moved away for a few years.” His nerves jumped a bit. “I came back to help out at home.”
“Best reason to come back to a place is family.”
“Agreed.”
As he filled in his emergency-contact information, Shannon read over his shoulder. “Eunice Deforio? Hey, are you one of her kids?”
He looked up from the form, ready to defend Eunice and himself, but Shannon didn’t have “that look” on her face. That look of disappointment and suspicion he often saw from people who immediately distrusted folks who’d grown up in the foster-care system, as though the system bred criminals. She looked curious, even a little pleased.
“Yeah, I am. Eunice has been really good to me.”
“I heard about her husband passing away. I’m real sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Sullivan Deforio had been an excellent foster father and role model, and the polite platitude was a cruel reminder of the man’s recent passing.
“Eunice must be glad to have you.”
He nodded. “She’s a mighty strong lady, but she was married to Sully for forty years. It’s like losing a leg, you know? I’m doing what I can.”
“How will your work schedule here affect her?”
“I think it will work out good, actually. Eunice is home in the morning to get the kids on the bus, and I’ll be free to take them every day after school.”
“Excellent.”
They went through a few more legal documents. Shannon handed him a stapled printout of recipes. “Helps to know what you’re serving,” she said. “We don’t have gluten-free or vegan, but I do occasionally manage a low-fat muffin.”
“Thanks.”
“You got any other questions for me?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Excellent. Then I’ll see you tomorrow at five.”
“At five.”
He didn’t see Jaime again on his way out, which was mildly disappointing. But he had a funny feeling he’d see Shannon’s brother on a pretty regular basis from now on—and the idea made him smile.
Maybe This Time #2
Chapter One
Donner didn’t particularly like coming into work at Pot O Gold directly after one of his scavenging expeditions, but tonight he’d run out of time. One of the Dumpsters behind the Natural Market had been chock-full of edibles, more than he and Brendan could carry in a single trip. They’d agreed to take the extra time and go back for the rest. Their trouble would make a big difference at tomorrow night’s delivery, and knowing that made the idea of working for six hours with the stink of rotten cheese clinging to his hair a little more bearable.
He waved at Riley, who was buzzing around behind the bar, then slipped through the crowd toward the bathrooms in the rear. The place was already hopping for a Thursday night, which surprised him a little. No holidays, no events tonight. Maybe the gay population of northern Delaware had all decided to come out to Pot O Gold for a good time and flair pouring. He spotted familiar faces among a scattering of new ones.
The bathroom was still being used for its proper function when he slammed inside—as far as he could tell, anyway—rather than as private stalls for hooking up. Donner slipped into the nearest empty stall and started to strip. The majority of the smell haunting his nostrils dissipated as he took off his stained jeans and thermal shirt, swapping them for skintight black leather pants and a green mesh T-shirt. Pot O Gold didn’t have a particular dress code for its bartenders, other than black pants and green shirts of any variety, and Donner found that sexy clothes got him bigger tips. Bigger tips helped him ignore the fact that the clothes often made him look like an aging queen trying to recapture his lost youth. Thirty didn’t feel the same as twenty-five, even though he was in physically better shape than he had been even at twenty.
He swapped his dirty sneakers for black combat boots that laced up to midcalf, then shoved his old clothes into his backpack. Coming out of the stall, he slammed into someone who stumbled back with a terse, “Jesus fuck, man.”
Donner rolled his eyes, more concerned with how late he already was than with the cute guy he’d walked into. “Sorry, friend. My fault.”
“No kidding.”
The change in tone, from annoyed to flirty, made Donner pause. And inspect. Tall, at least six-three, and slim, with a head of artificially white-blond hair, purple contact lenses and a silver stud through his left eyebrow. He wore tight black jeans that hugged his narrow hips, a purple belt and a wife beater the same shade as his lenses. Blondie was smiling too, which upgraded him from cute to drop-dead gorgeous.
Donner made his appraisal obvious. “I’d offer to buy you a drink as an apology, but I’m just getting on the clock.”
“I figured.”
“How’s that?” It took him a moment, and then Donner recognized him. The blond was a weekend regular at Pot O Gold. He often left with someone, and the last few times Donner had seen him here, he’d been with another couple.
“I’ve noticed you behind the bar, is all,” Blondie said. He made his own appraisal as blatant as Donner’s had been, those purple lenses lingering down south. “I’m Ezra.”
“Donner.”
“Like Santa’s reindeer?”
He snorted. “Nah, more like the people who got lost in the mountains and ate each other.”
Ezra looked momentarily confused. “Oh, right. I guess you hear those jokes all the time.”
“You have no idea.”
“You could tell me all about it later.” Ezra leaned in, his lips curling into a teasing grin that Donner found kind of appealing. “When you get off, of course.”
Donner quirked an eyebrow at the double entendre. Ezra never seemed to have trouble finding someone to go home with. He’d lose interest in waiting around for Donner the second a more available piece of ass wiggled his way into Ezra’s personal space. “Unless you get a better offer, right?”
“Don’t sell yourself short, sugar.”
“I don’t sell myself for any price.” Donner used his final, flip comment as a good-bye and shifted over to one of the empty sinks. He didn’t have time to stand around and flirt with Ezra. He carefully applied enough eyeliner to make his hazel eyes stand out, followed by lip gloss three shades darker than his natural color. The makeup worked with his costume; he never wore the makeup or clothes outside of work.
He made his way back out to the bar, dumped his backpack on a shelf reserved for employee coats and crap, then washed his hands in one of the bar sinks.
“Three on the end need drinks,” Riley said as he breezed past with two highball glasses and a pitcher of Guinness.
Donner exhaled hard, plastered on a grin, and went to take the trio’s order. He danced behind the bar to the tune of drink orders, catcalls and attempts to flirt with him. He liked the routine, he liked the energy, and he liked the fact that on any given night, he knew at least a dozen faces in the crowd. He did not like the fact that his hair still smelled like old cheese.
He mixed and poured, doing his best to put on a good show for tips. He’d taken mixology classes, as well as a brief lesson on flair bartending. He reserved the flair for less busy times, because he could put on a better show and not risk being run into by one of the other Pot employees. Tonight he spun a few bottles for strangers, as much for his own tips as for the bar’s reputation.
The later it got, the more crowded the dance floor became, which cleared out the bar’s orders enough for Donner to swig some water. His stomach sloshed unhappily. He hadn’t eaten before coming in. He’d have to try to grab a snack before the kitchen closed at midnight.
White-blond hair flashed in his peripheral vision. Donner studied the moving bodies until he spotted Ezra grinding against Tag. He didn’t know Tag well—only that Tag had a big cock, and he knew how to use it. Donner had gone home with him a few weeks ago, to blow off some steam, and he’d had to sit on a pillow the next day. Not to say Donner didn’t like rough sex once in a while, but Tag was intense and a serious top. And bar gossip was that Ezra didn’t bottom, so what were those two up to?
Donner mentally shrugged and dunked a couple of glasses in the sink. Ezra wasn’t his responsibility. He wasn’t even his friend. Who he did and why was Ezra’s business.
“Hey, man, gotta take a piss,” Riley said.
“Okay.”
He passed out three beers and made two Cosmos before a familiar shape plunked down on a stool across from his station.
“Margarita on the rocks,” Ezra said. “No salt.”
“Coming up.”
He filled a shaker with ice, then grabbed the tequila and gave it a single flip before doing a one-and-a-half-ounce pour into the shaker. Lime juice. Cointreau. Simple syrup. Cap. Shake. He strained it into an ice-filled glass, then added a skinny straw and lime slice to the rim. Easy drink.
Ezra slid a ten across the bar. “Keep it.”
“Thanks.” Donner put the sale and money into the register. When he turned around, Ezra was still sitting there, sipping his drink. “Taking a dancing break?”
“You know it, sugar.”
“I thought you had a reputation for being able to go for hours?”
Ezra snarfed his drink. He started coughing. Donner shoved a glass of water at him, as well as a few napkins. Ezra’s coughing turned to laughter, and once he’d gotten his lungs under control, he snapped off a salute. “Well played.”
Donner smiled. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like a guy who can keep up.” The innuendo was pretty blatant, as was the way Ezra seemed to be sizing him up.
Someone at the other end of the bar signaled him. Donner left the comment hanging. He felt Ezra’s eyes on him while he prepared two Long Islands, then rang the sale. Ezra drank his margarita right at the bar, and by the time Riley returned, he’d finished and slid off the stool. Donner watched him disappear into the crowd of grinding bodies, a little disappointed he couldn’t join him.
He glanced at the clock. Five after midnight. He’d missed the kitchen. Last call was at two forty-five and they kicked everyone out at three. More than enough time for Ezra to come up with a better offer. Donner wouldn’t have minded a one-off with Ezra, but it wasn’t happening tonight. Too many hours between now and closing. Too many other possible choices. So he turned back to a trio of regulars and took their drink orders.
* * *
Ezra Kelley didn’t usually come to Pot O Gold on Thursday nights. The decision had been an impulsive one, born of loneliness, restlessness and the fact that he didn’t work the next day. Staying up late and exhausting himself was always more fun when he could sleep in the following morning, like he planned to tomorrow. Hopefully with someone in bed next to him.
He’d had no particular type in mind tonight, beyond cute and fuckable. That was, until the one he wanted walked right into him. He didn’t know Donner well, had only barely noticed him behind the bar for the last few months. The slightly goth look didn’t work for him, but before Donner put on his makeup, he’d been kind of adorable in a slightly older, man-next-door, puppy dog way. The fact that Donner didn’t come to work already wearing the makeup was an interesting tidbit that Ezra filed away for future reference. He was very interested in the makeup-free Donner.
He watched Donner off and on all night long, curious about the man. The way he handled those liquor bottles hinted at a manual dexterity level Ezra definitely wanted to test out—preferably on his dick. Ordering his margarita had been an interesting treat, despite embarrassing himself by choking. Donner, on the other hand, was giving seriously mixed signals. Ezra wanted sex tonight. He could attach himself firmly to a sure thing and head out, or he could hang out at the bar and risk Donner turning him down.
Normally he would attach himself firmly to Donner, dance them both into an erotic frenzy, and then suggest they head back to his place. In two years, Ezra had never been turned down. The one major obstacle between him and that plan was the horseshoe-shaped bar Donner was stuck behind all night long.
“You disappeared on me, babe.” Tag’s muscular body slid around him and began moving with the steady beat of the music.
“Sorry, I got thirsty.” Ezra didn’t know what the hell kind of a name Tag was, but his dance partner for the night was ten kinds of sexy. And impossible to get a good read on as a top or a switch. He could handle a switch, but Ezra didn’t want to waste his energy on another top, because they’d both end up disappointed in the fucking department.
Tag pretended to pout. “I told you I’d buy you one.”
“I like buying my own drinks.”
“If you say so.”
Tag pulled him closer, his hard cock digging into Ezra’s hip. Ezra’s cock took notice of the situation, and he ground against Tag’s thigh as they danced. Ezra led, and Tag didn’t fight it. The slight submission pinged his switch sensor—yeah, this was going to be a good night. The crowd rolled with the beat, a shifting wave of bodies, sweat and liquor, always colored with the promise of sex.
“You are so fucking hot,” Tag breathed into his ear. Hands drifted down to cup Ezra’s ass and pull him closer, tighter.
Ezra mimicked the hold, pleased by the plump firmness of Tag’s ass and the hard package pressing into him from the front. He really wanted to see this guy naked. “So are you, sugar.” He licked the skin directly below Tag’s ear, and the bigger man shivered.
He lost track of time as they danced, each taking several breaks for more drinks. Ezra ordered his other margaritas from Riley. He needed to give his attention to Tag (whose signals promised future sexy times), and not Donner (whose signals promised absolutely nothing). Ezra hadn’t come out tonight for nothing, so avoidance seemed like a good tactic. Time to take the bird in hand.
Ezra’s head was spinning from alcohol and adrenaline by the time Tag kissed a line from his neck to his ear, then nibbled on his lobe, teasing the various earrings there.
Arousal surged through him, and the grinding wasn’t enough anymore.
“Wanna suck you off,” Tag whispered, barely audible over the music.
“Yeah.” He wanted to suck Tag too. Mutual blow jobs wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind for the evening, but he loved getting his dick sucked. He’d be a fucking idiot to turn down this offer. Besides, Tag looked like a guy with stamina. Fucking would be round two.
“Come on.”
He expected Tag to take him outside. Instead, he led him to the bathroom and right into the far left stall. Of the six stalls, the two on the ends each had a solid brick wall, and they were the most popular for activities. Ezra had blown quite a few loads in this particular stall, so he didn’t protest too much when Tag shoved him up against the wall and slammed his mouth down on Ezra’s.
The kiss was intense, hard and claiming, with little negotiating or room to take control. Ezra could do nothing except breathe through his nose and pluck at Tag’s clothes. He shoved his hands below the waist of Tag’s jeans and gripped his ass. Tag growled into his mouth, his big body crowding Ezra into the wall. His nerves jumped as much with fear as excitement. He tried to push Tag back, to regain some control of the situation.
Tag released him from the kiss, then dropped to one knee like a man about to propose. He yanked at the fly of Ezra’s jeans. Pulled down the jeans and briefs with one motion, far enough to release Ezra’s stiff cock. Tag wrapped his fist around the base and then wet heat engulfed him. Ezra groaned, the sound barely audible over the rush of pleasure in his blood.
Music from the bar echoed in the bathroom, mixing with other grunts and voices saying dirty things, and drowned out the voice of reason telling him to negotiate this before it went any further. His brain was wrapped up in mouth cock yes, and nothing else computed. He slid his fingers through Tag’s soft black hair, giving encouragement that wasn’t needed. Tag attacked his cock like he’d gone without for years, his free hand massaging Ezra’s balls in a way that had his orgasm pooling way sooner than usual.
For once, Ezra didn’t mind that he was going to blow fast. Tag was a fabulous cocksucker, and Ezra was eager to find out what Tag tasted like, felt like in his mouth, sounded like when he came. Ezra felt his orgasm surging. His fingers tightened in Tag’s hair and he grunted a warning. Tag sucked him through it and surprised Ezra by swallowing his load. Ezra didn’t mind sucking a near-stranger raw, but no way did he swallow.
Words. Negotiate.
He needed to say something, but his orgasm-softened brain stumbled over how to phrase it. Tag stood up, cheeks flushed, lips deliciously wet. Ezra blinked stupidly, expecting another rough kiss before they switched places. Tag grabbed his shoulders and spun him around, pressing his chest and face against the brick, while a knee kicked his legs apart.
Ice water filled his veins, and any remnant of pleasure from his orgasm fled as fear took over. “What the hell, man?” Ezra said.
“My turn.”
“For a blow.” Movement near his bare ass startled him, as did the jangle of a belt buckle. “Not a fuck.”
“Well, baby, a fuck is what I came out for tonight.”
Ezra too, but this was not what he’d had in mind. He tried to push off the brick, but Tag was bigger than him. Not taller, just bigger, and he had some scary muscles working in his favor. “I don’t get fucked.”
Tag leaned in, big arms caging Ezra. His cloth-covered erection pressed against Ezra’s crack, and horror surged through him, souring the liquid in his stomach. “This wiggling ass of yours doesn’t seem to agree.”
Ezra stopped struggling, because that was only sending mixed signals to Tag’s liquor-pickled brain. Time for blunt. “No.”
Tag’s hand curled around his waist, and the touch sent the bile in his stomach swirling upward. “You a fucking tease, Kelley? Is that it?” His breath reeked of the liquor he’d been consuming all night.
Ezra was pretty sure he was about to get sick. “Not a tease.” He couldn’t get a good breath and his chest ached. Tag had him pinned, and the brick was rough against his left cheek. “Never said I’d let you fuck me.”
“That sexy body of yours sure as hell did, grinding on me all night like that.”
Ezra’s stomach heaved. His eyes watered. Oh God. “Get off.”
“Whatever.” Tag released him and took half a step back. “You better at least suck—”
The roar in his head preceded his entire body folding in on itself as Ezra fell to his knees and vomited into the toilet.
Stand By You #3
Chapter One
Romy Myers stepped back from the coffee shop’s service counter, not entirely convinced the words he’d just printed on the Specials board were straight. It shouldn’t be hard to manage “Coffee Half Price Until Noon” on a chalkboard, but it had to look perfect.
“Something’s not right,” he said to no one in particular.
“It looks great, sugar,” Ezra Kelley said as he strode past, long legs taking him down the aisle between the square two-top tables on the left wall and the rectangular four-tops in the center. Today was opening day of Baker’s Half-Dozen, a brand new coffee shop co-owned by Ezra, and the clock was ticking down.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
The first H was taller than the two L’s, but it was Ezra’s place, not his. He was there to bus and wipe down tables, fill up coffee mugs for eat-ins, and keep supplies stocked.
Ezra peeked around one of the front window shades. “There’s a line of, like, thirty people out there.” Ezra’s voice was a funny mix of high-pitched excitement and shrill terror, and his lack of confidence was not helping Romy any.
“Seriously?” Alessandro Silva, Ezra’s business partner, joined him at the front of the shop.
“That’s good, right?” Romy asked.
Ezra made a helpless noise, like he wasn’t even sure himself. “Of course lots of customers is good, but a lot of customers at once is panic-inducing.”
Like Romy needed more shit to panic about.
“Who’s panicking now?” Donner asked as he walked out of the kitchen with a tray of muffins in his hands.
“Ezra.” That earned Romy a mock glare from Ezra.
“Again?”
Donner Davis slid the tray into the rack behind the shop’s main counter, then walked down to the front windows. He slipped both arms around Ezra’s waist and hugged him from behind. Romy looked away before that silly, stupid, ugly flare of jealousy came back. He got it a lot lately, especially when Donner and Ezra got cutesy with each other. Ezra was, like, his best friend, really, but he and Donner were so happy together that sometimes he really, truly hated them both.
He shut out those macabre thoughts by taking in the details of the shop, checking for anything out of place as he walked the aisles for the umpteenth time. The shop was long and narrow. The rear service counter held a cash register, tip bucket and four vacuum airpots for the day’s four freshly brewed free trade coffees. Immediately to the left of the pickup area was a small service station for sugar, creamer, lids, stirrers and little shakers of cinnamon and cocoa. He wiped a smudge off a cinnamon shaker.
The tables and chairs they’d found cheap at local auctions, and they’d all pitched in refinishing them. In a flash of brilliance—Donner had called it insanity—Ezra had purchased a bunch of cheap, damaged books from Page by Page, and they’d decoupaged pages from a different book onto each table, along with the front cover, and then water-sealed them. Blown-up images of other famous book covers took up the wall space above those tables.
Romy was most proud of the Watership Down table, second two-top from the door. He’d picked that one, done all of the pages, and painted the chairs and table legs yellow. He’d never read the book. For a guy who worked in a coffee shop next door to a bookstore, Romy didn’t drink coffee anymore—he was fucking jittery enough most days—and he hated reading. The words got fuzzy after too long at it, so he always got fed up and quit. But he’d seen the cartoon movie once and really liked it. Even if it was about a bunch of rabbits, he’d cheered for them when they finally found a home of their own.
The right wall contained a long wood bar with ten stools, and that wall was covered in framed poems—everything from Shakespeare to Robert Frost to Seamus Heaney. He liked the poems because most of them were short enough that he could read them without his eyes getting all swimmy. And the words were pretty.
The bar had the right number of napkin dispensers. Each table had a glass vase of some kind from a local thrift store, filled with colorful bunches of alstroemeria, a pretty little flower that Ezra’s research said could last up to fourteen days as long as they were bought fresh. Romy wasn’t sure about fresh flowers, but Ezra wanted them.
Alessandro pointed at the clock above the chalkboard menu. “Almost time.”
“Oh fuck me.” Ezra bounced away from the windows, hands smoothing up and down the front of his shirt. They’d all been given plain black short-sleeved polos to wear. Ezra had tried to talk Alessandro into teal or lime green, because Ezra did not wear subtle, but Alessandro overruled him.
Ezra vibrated to the middle of the shop and turned in fast circles. “Do we have everything? Are we sure? There’s napkins in the dispensers? Toilet paper in the bathrooms? Do we have enough muffins?”
Donner marched over to him, grabbed his boyfriend’s cheeks in both hands, and held him in place. Ezra went instantly still. Romy looked away.
“Calm. Down.” Donner’s voice was firm, commanding. “We’re fine. It’s going to be fine, I promise.”
“This is everything, babe,” Ezra said.
“I know, but we’ve got this.”
It had taken a few weeks to get the truth out of him, but Ezra had finally confessed to Romy that the money he’d scrounged up to finance the shop had been a “fuck you, get out of our lives” payoff from his asshole of a father. Romy’s own payoff from his stepmother seven years ago had been laughable compared to the check Mr. Kelley wrote for his son, but Romy had genuine sympathy for Ezra over it. He knew how it felt to be dispensable.
His life had only been worth five hundred bucks and a bus ticket to New York City.
Taking the job from Ezra had been a huge fucking compromise for Romy. For the last two months, Romy had been sleeping in Ezra and Donner’s guest bedroom, eating their food, and hanging around like a stray cat they couldn’t, in good conscience, turn out into the streets. And he was a stray cat. They’d gotten him out of a waking nightmare, but he’d left with nothing—no money, no job, not even his own clothes. Everything Romy had, including the black jeans he wore and the sneakers on his feet, were because of Ezra’s generosity. Romy had tried to trade for the things he was being given, because nothing was really free, right? In the past he would have offered up his ass, but that wasn’t happening for a lot more reasons than the fact that his roommates were a monogamous couple. So he helped out by keeping the apartment sparkling and spotless, and by cooking meals as often as possible, but he still felt like a freeloader.
He was a freeloader. He had been for years, latching on to a guy who’d take care of him in exchange for sex, and up until this past year, he’d been okay.
Until Carlos nearly killed him.
Romy’s guts tightened and roiled, and he thunked down into a chair at the Romeo and Juliet table. He’d lost track of the other conversations. Ezra, Donner and Alessandro had been joined by Alessandro’s boyfriend Jaime Winters, and Brandy Redwine, a part-time college student with a lot of barista experience. They were all talking, preparing for their grand opening while Romy quietly freaked out.
He stared at the overlapping pages of text on the table until the words blurred into tan and black nothingness. His knuckles ached, and he focused on the pain until his mind centered again. Shifted away from those long weeks of agony and helplessness and terror at Carlos’s sadistic hands. Hands that had once been loving and strong, and that had turned bitter and cruel.
His gut cramped. He contemplated how quickly he could dash to the unisex bathroom door behind the service station.
Then his hip buzzed. Romy fumbled his pay-by-month phone out of his pocket without dropping it. Brendan’s name on the text message calmed some of the horror churning inside of him.
You doing okay, R?
The big brick of a man had the funniest knack for sensing Romy’s moods, even when he wasn’t in the same room. Brendan was standing outside the front door, waiting to act as an unofficial bouncer when they opened. The shop was tiny compared to most places, and with their early bird special Ezra wasn’t taking any chances with crowd control or the fire marshal. Six-foot-four and built like a pro wrestler, Brendan could intimidate anyone simply by cracking his knuckles. But for all of his bruiser façade, Brendan had the gentlest soul of anyone Romy had ever met.
He texted back. Nervous. U?
Nah. Got this. U don’t need 2b nervous.
Easy 4 u to say. YR scary. I can’t intimidate kittens.
LOL. Deep breaths. You’ll b fine.
Hope so.
Know so.
Romy put his phone away, oddly calmed by the exchange. Brendan was pretty quiet in person, and they tended to talk the most over text message, which Romy didn’t mind. He sounded like a dork on the phone, and he never had anything interesting to say. Texting kept everything simple. He liked simple. He craved simple.
Being here on opening day was not simple.
Why had he agreed to do this again?
Oh yeah, he was broke and mooching off his friends like a loser.
Romy had wanted to find his own job, to finally take responsibility for the shit-heap he’d made of his life, but he didn’t have a car. He didn’t have any real work experience—putting “prostitute” in a resume was not going to get him any callbacks—and he had no skills other than scrubbing bathroom floors and making a mean vegetable lasagna. Bussing tables and washing dishes only required a little bit of physical coordination and an ability to not drop basins full of ceramic mugs.
He fixed the position of the chair he’d been clutching, ensuring it was exactly opposite its mate. Every chair down the wall side was perfectly aligned. It didn’t matter that people would soon be pulling them out and pushing them in all askew. For a few minutes, they’d be exactly as they should. Straight. Clean. Ordered.
Brandy, Ezra and Alessandro scurried behind the counter, preparing to fill the orders and make coffee drinks. Romy’s job was to clean up. Jaime and Donner—neither official employees—were there to mingle and talk to people and support their boyfriends. Romy scooted behind the counter to stand near the bathroom door, out of the way.
He plucked a dishtowel out of his back pocket and began polishing the bathroom doorknob. It already shined like new, but he couldn’t take any chances. This was Ezra’s dream and his livelihood, and everything had to be perfect.
The shades on the front windows hissed up, and the interior of the shop brightened.
Romy ran the edge of the towel around the knob’s base.
The little cowbell above the front door jangled.
“Welcome to the Half-Dozen,” Donner said.
A cheer went up outside, so many voices, so many strangers. A tremor danced down Romy’s spine. He polished harder, unwilling to look up as the voices drew closer. His job was to clean, not to be seen. Not to interact. He didn’t have to talk to anyone, except to ask if they wanted more coffee if they ordered the Bottomless Cup as dine-in. Ezra said so.
The doorknob couldn’t possibly get any cleaner. He tucked the towel back into his pocket just as a shadow moved toward him. He skipped backward a few steps. A young woman with a muffin and a paper coffee cup settled her items on the service station. She flipped him a friendly smile as she reached for a packet of raw sugar.
The line extended to the door, the faces all smiling strangers, sharing conversations while they waited. The small area to his left was a buzz of activity as Ezra rang up orders and chatted with his new customers while Brandy and Alessandro made coffee drinks and bagged up muffins—or plated them for dine-in.
So far so good.
Brendan’s big body acted as a door stop, holding it open for the line of people that disappeared out of sight down the sidewalk. The thought of all those potential customers was as exciting as it was horrifying. Would they be crowded all day? What about when he had to start bussing tables? He’d be out there in a sea of strangers.
His pulse jumped and deep breaths got harder to take. He backed up until he was pressed against the bathroom door, away from the crowd. And then the white flash of Brendan’s grin caught his eye from across the shop. Brendan winked, and some of the fear buzzing in his brain settled. Brendan had kind eyes. From the instant that Brendan had scooped him off his feet and carried him out of Carlos’s house, Romy had felt safe—even though Brendan had been a total stranger and strong enough to snap him in half without breaking a sweat. Brendan hadn’t let go, not once, not until Romy was safe inside of Ezra’s apartment. It was that memory he clung to when the bad ones tried to taunt him.
Romy forced out a smile so Brendan would think he was okay and stop worrying. He had his own job to do at the door without fussing over Romy.
“Pickup for Courtney.”
“Pickup for Larry.”
Sugar, stirrers, cups, sleeves—they flew off the service station. Empty packets dropped into the wastebasket. A scrap of yellow paper fluttered to the floor. Romy scooped it up and tossed it. Most of the tables and seats at the bar were occupied now. He watched them, attention bouncing around the crowded room.
His phone buzzed. Another text from Brendan.
Smile. U look constipated.
Romy laughed. Gee, thanks.
Here 2 help.
And tease.
Brendan sent back a smiley face, and then a second text. 2 Cities leaving.
Romy stared at the text until it translated. The Tale of Two Cities table, the two-top closest to the door, was leaving. He grabbed his basin and threaded his way down the aisle to clear away a pair of ceramic mugs, two plates and the trash from their sugar packets. He plucked the small spray bottle from his belt, squirted the table, then wiped it down.
A small streak shined in the sunlight. He swiped it away.
The table was immediately occupied by a middle-aged male/female couple, and the next few hours passed in a blur of bussing dishes, wiping tables and picking up stray bits of trash from the floor. He restocked the raw sugar packets and stirrers. He put mugs and plates through the dishwasher several times, so that Alessandro and Brandy always had clean dishes for serving.
Despite the vast quantities of muffins they’d been baking since 3:00 a.m., the first to run out was the Chocolate Banana Nut—four hours after they opened. The store had four hours of business left and only a quarter of their starting muffin quantities.
Alessandro pulled Jaime behind the counter to plate muffins and pour basic drinks, then disappeared into the kitchen to replenish their baked goods. He could whip up a batch of batter pretty quickly, but the oven still needed time to warm to temperature.
The crowd had thinned somewhat, and any semblance of an actual line was gone, so Brendan came inside the shop. Probably a good thing, so they’d stop air conditioning the outdoors with their electricity budget. Romy drew up a little straighter. He moved through the aisles between tables with confidence he didn’t understand but latched on to.
As the clock inched closer to four, the shop began to clear out a bit. Romy flew from table to table, cleaning and straightening chairs. He mopped up a big splash of coffee on his Watership Down table, and someone had spilled tea on the bar nearest the counter. Twice he had to get a new dishtowel. He restocked items on the service station, partly to keep busy and also to prepare for tomorrow.
At four, the clock chimed and began to play strains of “Closing Time,” a trick Alessandro freely admitted he’d stolen from Jaime’s sister’s bakery. Shannon Winters owned the original Baker’s Dozen, and she’d allowed Ezra and Alessandro to use her recipes and copy the sign logo. They weren’t officially a branch of Baker’s Dozen. More like a cousin store. Ezra had business cards for both shops on the counter.
Brendan flipped a lock on the door—a clever contraption that allowed the knob to turn from the inside, so people could leave, but no one could open it from outside.
A man in a green T-shirt was chatting with Ezra at the counter and scribbling notes onto a pad of paper. Romy circled the tables to get a better look. Andy Murphy. He’d interviewed Ezra and Alessandro about a week ago, and he’d promised to follow up on opening day.
The last few customers filtered out the door, and Romy attacked their tables. Spray. Wipe. Straighten chairs. Adjust flower vases. Perfect. He dumped his last basin of dishes into the dishwasher, along with muffin tins, bowls, spatulas and measuring cups. He didn’t turn it on yet. Ezra might have more things to add.
A shadow moved behind him in the small kitchen and he jumped, then ducked like a fool.
“Sorry.” Brendan’s eyes went wide and he held his hands up, palms out. “Sorry, Roe, thought you heard me.”
“I should have. You’re hard to miss.”
His lips twitched. “You survived, huh?”
“So far, so good.” Romy’s heart rate was coasting back down to normal. “You know, this is the first legit job I’ve ever had.”
“For serious?”
“Yeah. And I’m twenty-two years old. How fucking pathetic is that?”
“That’s not so old. Some guys don’t work until they’re outta college. Same age.”
Romy blew a hard breath that fanned his bangs up. “I never went to college. Fuck, I didn’t finish high school.” At least Brendan had three years of college under his belt. Maybe he didn’t graduate, but he’d started and he’d tried. Brendan had even said he got pretty decent grades, until he wrecked his knee and lost his football scholarship.
“Some really smart people never finished high school.”
“Yeah? Name one.”
Brendan blinked, then frowned.
“Thought so,” Romy said. But it had been nice of him to try.
Something in Brendan’s face got real determined.
“Hey, guys?” Ezra stuck his white-blond head around the corner. “Andy wants a picture of us all for the paper. Get your awesome, helpful asses out front.”
“Helpful?” Romy said at the same time Brendan said, “Awesome?”
I do have a pretty awesome ass. The old, flirty Romy who changed beds as often as he changed shirts wanted to say that line, because it was still pretty true. He’d regained some of the weight he’d lost thanks to Carlos, which had given him back the bubble butt he’d always been so proud of. But he kept silent. Being funny and flirty and adorable had nearly gotten him killed. Even though Brendan was his friend and Romy believed he’d never lay a hand on him in anger, the joke felt dangerous.
He never wanted to be that vulnerable again.
Ezra rolled his eyes at them, then disappeared.
“Never did like having my picture taken,” Brendan said. For such a big, imposing guy, he actually seemed a little...bashful.
“How come?”
“Dunno. Never figured what people thought was so interesting, I guess.”
Romy could name a few things about Brendan he found quite interesting, aside from his height and muscle-bound bulk. His skin was like a perfect dark-roast espresso. He was a solid seven-point-five on the one-to-ten scale of hotness—not quite Tyrese, but way hotter than LL Cool J. And he exuded a kind of peace. Like Brendan knew his limitations, accepted that this was his life, and then went about his day. Romy believed the guy was capable of way more than his position as a traveling janitor for a waste management company.
And Brendan was nice. Truly, genuinely nice, and not a lot of people were.
“You probably don’t have to be in the picture, since you don’t technically work here,” Romy said.
“That’s true.”
“I’ll ask Ez, I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Brendan nodded. “Okay.”
They shuffled out into the front of the shop, where Andy had positioned Ezra, Donner, Brandy, Alessandro and Jaime in front of the counter. Andy waved them both over. Romy scooted over to stand close to Ezra, who was practically draped over Donner. Everyone looked as exhausted as Romy felt.
“Bren wants to sit this out,” Romy whispered.
“His call,” Ezra said. To Andy, “This is all of us.”
Andy fussed a little with their positions—mostly to peel Ezra off Donner and get everyone looking forward—then snapped a few in a row on his digital camera. Romy’s cheeks ached from his forced smile. He was grateful they’d gotten through the first day, and he looked forward to doing it all again tomorrow, and for a lot of days after.
“Okay, let’s clean it up and shut it down,” Alessandro said. “Some of us have to be back at the ass crack of dawn.”
“Celebratory dinner at our place,” Ezra said.
“Are you cooking?”
“Hell no, I’m too exhausted to boil water. We’ll order Chinese.”
“So I’m guessing no celebrating at the Pot tonight?”
“Ask me again in a month.”
“What?” Donner’s eyebrows went up. “A whole month before I see you shaking your ass on the dance floor?”
“You’ll survive without my shaking ass. Not like you don’t feel it up every night.”
“That’s true.”
Romy excused himself from the flirty banter occurring in the shop and skipped into the kitchen to finish his cleanup. The Pot translated to Pot O Gold, a local gay-friendly Irish pub where Donner bartended full-time. After nine-thirty, the Pot became a gay dance club that Romy had once frequented several nights a week. It’s where he’d first met Ezra, and where Ezra first met Alessandro and Jaime and Donner.
It was also where he met Carlos.
He hadn’t been back to the Pot in months. Too many people. Too many memories.
No.
He couldn’t imagine his life without Ezra in it, but late nights out looking for attention were over. No more hookups. No more Pot O Gold. He would not risk meeting another mistake like Carlos. He wouldn’t survive that.
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.
EMAIL: AM_Arthur@yahoo.com
No Such Thing #1
Maybe This Time #2
Stand By You #3
Series
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