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In honor of Mother's Day here in the US this coming Sunday, I wanted to showcase stories with strong, influential mother figures. I say "mother figures" because it isn't always a mom, sometimes it isn't even family, sometimes it can be a stranger who steps up and fills in. Some aren't necessarily even a lengthy factor in the story, perhaps it's even just one chapter, or a flashback, etc. The mother figure has however, left a lasting impression on the characters, the story, and the reader. For Mother's Day 2025, along with great motherly figures later in the week I wanted to showcase Mothers-from-Hell stories too, they may not all be from-Hell bad but bad enough not to be good, in my opinion😉. I find bad parental figures help shape the characters, intentionally or not, make them stronger and in doing so make the story even more brilliant. In some cases the bad mother figure may have no contact with MC but secondary but they left the same impression on the story. If you have any recommendations for bad motherly figures in the LGBTQIA genre, be sure and comment below or on the social media post that may have brought you here. The purchase links below are current as of the original posting but if they don't work be sure to check the authors' websites for up-to-date information.
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Stormhaven by Jordan L HawkSummary:
Whyborne & Griffin #3
Mysterious happenings are nothing new to reclusive scholar Percival Endicott Whyborne, but finding one of his colleagues screaming for help in the street is rather unusual. Allan Tambling claims he can’t remember any of the last hour—but someone murdered his uncle, and Allan is covered in blood.
Whyborne’s lover, dashing private detective Griffin Flaherty, agrees to prove Allan’s innocence. But when Allan is deemed insane and locked away in the Stormhaven Lunatic Asylum, Griffin finds himself reliving the horrifying memories of his own ordeal inside a madhouse.
Along with their friend Christine, the two men become drawn deeper and deeper into a dark web of conspiracy, magic, and murder. Their only clue: a missing artifact depicting an unknown god. Who stole the artifact, and why can’t Allan remember what happened? And what is the truth behind the terrible experiments conducted on Stormhaven’s forbidden fourth floor?
It will take all of Whyborne’s sorcery and Griffin’s derring-do to stop the murderers and save Allan. But first, they must survive an even greater challenge: a visit from Griffin’s family.
Stormhaven is the third book in the Whyborne & Griffin series, where magic, mystery, and m/m romance collide with Victorian era America.
Books #1-4(Widdershins, Eidolin, Threshold, Stormhaven, Carousel, Remnant, & Necropolis)
Original Overall Review May 30, 2014:
Original Overall Review May 30, 2014:
I'm doing an overall review because each book flows fluently into the next. Each book is a mystery in itself but the relationships are ongoing and growing so they really need to be read in order, although I did read the short story last and it wasn't really out of place.
The characters are not only well written but easily liked or hated, as the case may be. As much as I love both Whyborne & Griffin, I really enjoyed Christine. A woman before her time and smarter than her colleagues, she doesn't hold any punches with anyone and she is the only true friend that both men come to trust and rely on. As for the hated characters, for me it was pretty consistently Whyborne's father and brother, they are both self-evolved with tunnel vision. But we can't like everyone in a story.
The mysteries are intriguing and definitely well written. They do rely heavily on the supernatural or paranormal, which is a plus for me. It's done so well that for those who aren't necessarily fans of magic I think will still find these stories interesting. This series is an excellent read anytime but a perfect read for October and Halloween.
Summary:
A Nick & Carter Holiday #3
Tuesday, February 13, 1951
What does the man who can buy anything get the man who doesn't want anything?
That's the mystery Nick Williams is trying to solve.
He's a small-time private dick in San Francisco with a big-time trust he inherited from a rich uncle during the war.
With the help of his new secretary, Marnie Wilson, Nick is hoping he can come up with something that will let Carter Jones, the fireman he shares a house and a bed with, know how much he really loves him.
With a little luck, and some help from both friends and family, Valentine's Day of 1951 might just be one they'll both remember for a long, long time.
Welcome to a year of holidays with Nick Williams and Carter Jones!
This is the twenty-third in a series of short stories and novellas all centered around specific holidays.
Each story is a vignette that stands on its own and takes place from the 1920s to 2008.
Original Review February 2023:
I honestly am running out of ways to say to express how much I love this series of holiday shorts or how much each one is making the original Nick and Carter journey closer and closer to the top of my TBR list.
A couple of comments I can make without giving anything away to those like me who recently discovered this amazing universe Frank W Butterfield has created. Nick stewing over what to get the man who wants nothing is a delight especially seeing his growing friendship with his new secretary, Marnie. The convo between them that brought up the line of speaking honestly and not discussing with others is brief but goes a long way to showing us the kind of person each of them is all the while remaining every inch of entertaining.
As to what Nick's gift ends up being? Well you have to experience that for yourself but I found it refreshing, unique, heartwarming, and once again showing the truth of each character involved as to the kind of person at heart they are.
Lovely, lovely, lovely and if I wasn't already invested in this series, Valentine's Day, 1951 would definitely cement my need to read on.
George's Big Day by Mary Calmes
Summary:With George #3
George Hunt wants to get married. The fact that he does is utterly amazing and a huge leap of faith for a man who’s always been certain that happily ever afters only happen in fairy tales. The thing is, though, ever since Christmas, when Dr. Kurt Butler, the man he loves, gave him a ring, he’s changed his mind about what’s possible. But between deployments and venues that have to be booked years in advance, matrimonial bliss seems persistently out of reach. Fortunately, George’s friends come through, offering the perfect setting.
Of course, when your life is full of heroes, there are always villains looking to even the score. When the day of the nuptials conflicts with murderous agendas, the only thing that really matters is being married at the end of the day. If George can keep his eye on the prize and everyone does what they do best, it might just all work out.
Oiriginal Review March 2025:
RATING:
George's Big Day is such a delight! There may not be the same amount of mayhem(probably more hiccups than mayhem😉) that tends to find it's way into George and Kurt's life but when it does appear it's done in the same way that we've come to love: out of the blue, unexpected, and with snarky knee-slapping humor. I won't go further on that front other than to say a couple of cameo appearances fit the humor, the near-mayhem, and the characters involved.
George and Kurt are just as in love as ever if not moreso. I find there is so little I feel free to comment on here so as not to spoil anything. We get to see "three moments in time" for the pair throughout the year, each one has it's own hiccups to clear up or get through so in a way you could say this entry is a "collection of shorts" more than a "straight through novella". However you label it, George and Kurt are front and center and do what they do best: love each other through it. I can't wait to see what the next leg of their journey has to offer.
Whenever we get to visit Mary Calmes' Matter of Time universe, it's a good day. With George is the newest spin-off series within the universe that started with Jory and Sam and I love each entry. All of the connected series' are on my TBRlist but since Covid my reading mojo has kept me from reading them as I would like but having the inclusion of Hannah Kage in the first With George entry, Just George, made me make time for it and I loved it which makes this a series I do make myself make time for. I wish I could say it pushed me to read the others but unfortunately fate had other ideas but one of these days I will. I will say there are some of the cast that shows up were not familiar to me as I have not read their story/series yet. Now for some that might be confusing and even though I am typically a series/universe-read-in-order kind of gal, with this universe not falling in that category currently, I found no confusion, perhaps leaving a "I gotta get that series read" feeling but not enough effect on George's Big Day to make me say "WTH is going on?"
As so often with short stories & novellas, Big Day may be short on quantity but full to overflowing on quality. Mary Calmes has once again made me smile and chuckle which my real life needs that more than ever.
Summary:
Slow Burn Holidays #3
They both want it. They just need some help getting there.
The older I get, the less I care about all the BS in life... especially the things that have held me back from telling Nick how I feel about him. The fact that he’s my best friend. The fact that we live together. My parents’ outdated attitudes. Stupid insecurities. With forty looming just a few years down the road, it’s all starting to seem trivial.
But even the slightest chance of losing the friendship that saved my life? That’s one thing I still can’t quite move past. If I could just be certain Nick felt the same, I’d take the leap, no hesitation.
Luckily, Nick's mom is as tired of the limbo as I am, and she has absolutely no qualms about getting involved. She invites us to spend New Year’s Eve weekend at Nick’s childhood home, and she promises me: Before the weekend is up, I’ll get the confirmation I need. In exchange, she makes me promise: by the end of the weekend, I have to ‘put her poor son out of his misery’ and tell him how I feel.
We strike the deal. We make plans. Nick and I have never been closer. But we’ve been denying ourselves this for so long… can we finally ring in this new year as something more than friends?
Sing In the New is a 12,000-word low-angst M/M romantic novella featuring roommates-to-lovers, friends-to-lovers, meddling parents, only one bed, and a steamy first time when it all finally boils over. All books in the Slow Burn Holidays series can be read as stand-alones and in any order. Please note that this novella contains mentions of an unaccepting, homophobic family, all off-screen and in the past, as well as internalized homophobia that has been joyfully overcome.
Original Review December 2023:
Sometimes Moms know whats best for their kids and extended found family. Nick's mom is just that mom but what I really love about her is she is not only that mom to her son but also to Ezra. With some extra pushing she just might get to see her boys happy. I understand Ezra's fears of possibly losing his best friend if the feelings aren't returned but sometimes you just have to take that leap. What I really love about this Slow Burn Holiday entry is the blend of friendship, family, and fun that brings us readers a better-than-Hallmark holiday romance that may be short on quantity but long on quality. Sing in the New is a delicious delight to help bring in the new year.
Summary:
Secrets and Scrabble #3
Love is in the Salt Sea Air--and So is Murder!
Ellery Page, aspiring screenwriter, reigning Scrabble champion, and occasionally clueless owner of the village's only mystery bookstore, the Crow’s Nest, is both flattered and bemused when he’s invited to the annual Marauder’s Masquerade, the best and biggest social event of the season in the quaint seaside village of Pirate’s Cove, Rhode Island. The event is hosted by the wealthy Marguerite Bloodworth-Ainsley—a descendant of the famed pirate Tom Blood.
Ellery doesn’t even know Mrs. Bloodworth-Ainsley—nor, it turns out—does Mrs. Bloodworth-Ainsley know him. But Marguerite’s son, Julian wants to know Ellery. Julian, handsome, rich and engaging, is a huge mystery buff. In fact, he’s bought quite a few books at the Crow’s Nest bookstore, but never quite worked up the nerve to ask Ellery out.
As his relationship with Police Chief Carson seems to be dead in the water, Ellery is grateful for a little flattering attention from the village’s most eligible bachelor, but any hopes of romance hit the shoals when Julian is accused of murdering his mother’s unlikable second husband during the Masquerade's annual ghost hunt in the family’s spooky cemetery.
This series just keeps getting better and better. The chemistry between Ellery and Jack is so fun, they may not be there yet but you just know it's coming. When two people have that kind of camaraderie, that push and pull, snark and cuddle, you know they won't be able to stay away for long and watching every minute of both sides of their interactions is, well just fun.
Who doesn't love a good masquerade ball, especially in the world of mystery? Ellery finds himself with an invitation to the party of the year in Pirate's Cove, the Marauder’s Masquerade and of course being Pirate's Cove it has to include the annual ghost hunt. Can anyone say "perfect setup for murder"?
As for the cozy mystery in Mystery at the Masquerade? You know I won't go into details because there will be no spoiling it from me but it does keep you on your toes and a delight to read.
Ellery finds himself in the middle of yet another mystery. I say mystery because he stumbles upon another possible high-end burglaries that Jack has been investigating as well as the murder in the ball. Could they be connected? Perhaps, perhaps not, but either way I have yet to decide if Ellery has the best or worst luck in the world😉😉. But I love the journey of discovering what kind of luck Ellery Page has, it's just delicious fun.
RATING:
Stormhaven by Jordan L Hawk
An array of probes lay on the table in front of it, some of whose use was made obvious by their shape. Bile stung my throat, and I glanced at Griffin, whose empty-eyed gaze had locked on the probes.
If he slipped into a fit now, we’d be caught for sure. I had to get him out of here. “Griffin,” I said, low and urgent. “Hang on. We’re almost there. I know you can do this.”
He swallowed convulsively, then nodded. “Yes. Just…lead the way.”
I did so, trying not to think of him locked in one of those cribs or chairs, let alone receiving shocks from the instruments. I wanted to take him far from here, wrap my arms around him, and shield him from every possible harm. But I couldn’t.
I led him further down the ward, wondering how many men might be confined here. Unlike the first floor ward, these walls weren’t painted a cheerful yellow. Instead, strange, swirling lines and symbols covered the raw plaster. I stopped to look at them, certain I’d seen many of the sigils in the Arcanorum and other occult tomes. A symbol hung above every cell, with sigils and lines twisting out from it, both inside the cell and to tangle with its neighbors.
What the devil was Zeiler doing with these men?
Griffin tugged at my hand. There was no time to gawk, I reminded myself. As we hurried down the ward, I shone my lantern into each cell, hoping for a glimpse of Allan. The wretched patients were little more than huddled shapes, for the most part, with the occasional gleam of eyes. The low moaning grew louder, and I realized it came from a cell halfway down the ward. Through some trick of the ventilation, the scent of the sea strengthened as we approached, drowning out the foulness of human effluvia. The air grew heavy and damp, smelling of salt and rot, dead fish and cold, cold mud.
My footsteps turned sluggish, as if mired in sludge. I needed to keep walking…and yet for some reason I felt compelled to look into the cell. Everything seemed to move very slowly, as if I’d slipped into some strange dream.
My feet came to a halt altogether, and I shone the beam of my lantern on the moaning man. The occupant of the cell crouched with his back to me. Unlike the shabbily-clothed patients I’d seen thus far, he seemed to be naked, his vertebrae strung like stones beneath his skin. Tattoos of strange design covered his arms and part of his back. Had he been a sailor, perhaps? Even one of the cultists?
The moaning fell suddenly silent. When the madman spoke, his cracked voice lilted strangely, like a child half-singing the words of a taunt. “You hear its song.”
My breath caught in my throat. “I d-don’t know what you mean,” I lied.
A low laugh started…then spread to the other cells, until we stood in the midst of a whole ward of laughing, cackling, giggling lunatics. “Don’t you?” the sailor asked. “It sings to you as it sings to us. In our dreams.”
“Whyborne,” Griffin said urgently, but he seemed very far away. On the other side of the world, or at the bottom of a well.
I took a step closer to the cell, fascinated by the tattoos on the sailor’s back. Was it a trick of the light, or had they begun to move?
The lunatic sprang to his feet, slamming into the bars, mere inches from my face. “It sings to you!” he screamed, spittle flying everywhere.
No, not spittle—sea foam. Somehow—I didn’t know how—the ocean had risen into Stormhaven, an inch of water splashing beneath my feet, the scent of the murky depths filling my nose. It wasn’t possible—it would take a cataclysm indeed for the ocean to rise so high, and surely the building would have been swept away. But where did the water come from?
What was happening to me?
“It’s coming!” the madman howled, shaking the bars of his cage. “The dweller in the deep is coming! The god is coming, singing; don’t you hear it, don’t you hear it?”
A hand touched my arm.
If he slipped into a fit now, we’d be caught for sure. I had to get him out of here. “Griffin,” I said, low and urgent. “Hang on. We’re almost there. I know you can do this.”
He swallowed convulsively, then nodded. “Yes. Just…lead the way.”
I did so, trying not to think of him locked in one of those cribs or chairs, let alone receiving shocks from the instruments. I wanted to take him far from here, wrap my arms around him, and shield him from every possible harm. But I couldn’t.
I led him further down the ward, wondering how many men might be confined here. Unlike the first floor ward, these walls weren’t painted a cheerful yellow. Instead, strange, swirling lines and symbols covered the raw plaster. I stopped to look at them, certain I’d seen many of the sigils in the Arcanorum and other occult tomes. A symbol hung above every cell, with sigils and lines twisting out from it, both inside the cell and to tangle with its neighbors.
What the devil was Zeiler doing with these men?
Griffin tugged at my hand. There was no time to gawk, I reminded myself. As we hurried down the ward, I shone my lantern into each cell, hoping for a glimpse of Allan. The wretched patients were little more than huddled shapes, for the most part, with the occasional gleam of eyes. The low moaning grew louder, and I realized it came from a cell halfway down the ward. Through some trick of the ventilation, the scent of the sea strengthened as we approached, drowning out the foulness of human effluvia. The air grew heavy and damp, smelling of salt and rot, dead fish and cold, cold mud.
My footsteps turned sluggish, as if mired in sludge. I needed to keep walking…and yet for some reason I felt compelled to look into the cell. Everything seemed to move very slowly, as if I’d slipped into some strange dream.
My feet came to a halt altogether, and I shone the beam of my lantern on the moaning man. The occupant of the cell crouched with his back to me. Unlike the shabbily-clothed patients I’d seen thus far, he seemed to be naked, his vertebrae strung like stones beneath his skin. Tattoos of strange design covered his arms and part of his back. Had he been a sailor, perhaps? Even one of the cultists?
The moaning fell suddenly silent. When the madman spoke, his cracked voice lilted strangely, like a child half-singing the words of a taunt. “You hear its song.”
My breath caught in my throat. “I d-don’t know what you mean,” I lied.
A low laugh started…then spread to the other cells, until we stood in the midst of a whole ward of laughing, cackling, giggling lunatics. “Don’t you?” the sailor asked. “It sings to you as it sings to us. In our dreams.”
“Whyborne,” Griffin said urgently, but he seemed very far away. On the other side of the world, or at the bottom of a well.
I took a step closer to the cell, fascinated by the tattoos on the sailor’s back. Was it a trick of the light, or had they begun to move?
The lunatic sprang to his feet, slamming into the bars, mere inches from my face. “It sings to you!” he screamed, spittle flying everywhere.
No, not spittle—sea foam. Somehow—I didn’t know how—the ocean had risen into Stormhaven, an inch of water splashing beneath my feet, the scent of the murky depths filling my nose. It wasn’t possible—it would take a cataclysm indeed for the ocean to rise so high, and surely the building would have been swept away. But where did the water come from?
What was happening to me?
“It’s coming!” the madman howled, shaking the bars of his cage. “The dweller in the deep is coming! The god is coming, singing; don’t you hear it, don’t you hear it?”
A hand touched my arm.
Valentine's Day, 1951 by Frank W Butterfield
Chapter 1
137 Hartford Street
San Francisco, Cal.
Tuesday, February 13, 1951
Just past dawn
I opened my eyes. The light in the room was dim but the sun was up. And the room was freezing. Someone had stolen all the covers and I was cold. I rolled off the frigid bed and made my way into the bathroom. The tile was cold on my feet. As I did my business, I remembered that, starting at 4 that afternoon, Carter would be working a forty-eight hour shift at the firehouse, Station Three to be precise.
Carter Jones was my lover of about three and a half years. He was tall, standing at 6'4", and muscular with sandy-blond hair and a ruddy complexion. He was from South Georgia and talked like you'd expect. I loved him even if he did tend to steal the covers on a cold February morning.
As I waited for the hot water tap in the bathtub to deliver the goods, I sighed as I worried, one more time, about what to give him for Valentine's Day. He would be working all that day, so it was going to have be Friday, the 15th, before we could do anything. The obvious choice was to take him for dinner at the Top of the Mark, a swank joint at the top of the Mark Hopkins Hotel on Nob Hill. But I wanted to do something more than just dinner. I wanted to give him something to let him know how much I loved him.
By the time the hot water heater began to crank out, I could hear the springs creak a little in the bedroom.
"Damn, son, it's freezing in here."
"How would you know?"
As he padded into the bathroom with a sleepy grin, he said, "Sorry 'bout that." He started doing his business as I plugged the hole at the bottom of the ancient cast-iron bathtub. I walked over to the gas heater that sat in the corner and lit it. I sat on my haunches and held my cold hands in front of the gas flame in an attempt to warm them up.
Carter flushed, walked over to the sink, and washed his hands. He asked, "You first?"
I stood. "Sure."
We both slept in the buff, so I walked to the side of the tub, lifted my left leg over, and gingerly put my foot in the tub, testing the water as I did. It was perfect. Once I was in, I stretched out and looked up at the man I loved. He was grinning down at me. His hair was pointing in every direction.
I looked down at the water and then back up at him. "You gonna help me out here?"
Smirking, Carter walked over to the side of the tub and squatted. Reaching across me and taking the tube of Perl from the little shelf by the tub, he looked at it for a moment. "I've never understood why you like this stuff."
"It's green. And it smells good. Don't you want my hair to be radiantly clean?" I tried to say that last part as dead-pan as I could.
He rolled his eyes, put his big right hand on the top of my head, and asked, "Ready?"
I held my breath as he pushed me down into the sloshing bath water and ran his hand through my hair to rinse out the previous day's mass of pomade. Once that was done, I sat up and wiped the water off my face with my hands.
"See, this is why I don't like baths. Now you're sitting in warm water and pomade." He unscrewed the shampoo tube and, holding it over my head, squirted a little on top.
"I'm still cold."
He didn't reply as he began to rub the shampoo into my hair, creating a lather as he did. The bathroom filled with the aroma of the green shampoo. I'd never been able to figure out if it was supposed to be grass or flowers or what. But whatever it was, I liked it.
After a moment, Carter said, "OK, down you go." He pushed down on my head as I held my breath and slid under the water. Using both of his hands, he rinsed my hair off.
Once that was done, I sat back up and sputtered the water away from my face. He stood, handed me a fresh washcloth, and said, "You're on your own, son. I'm headed downstairs to put on the percolator."
I took the square piece of cotton and, looking significantly at the water, said, "You're missing the best part."
He grinned down at me. It was obvious he was interested. "What about coffee?"
I shrugged. "It can wait."
He grinned and squatted down again. "I was thinking about Mildred's for breakfast anyhow."
As he reached down into the murky water to clean the most important place on a man's body, I sighed contentedly and replied, "Yeah, that's good."
George's Big Day by Mary Calmes
Chapter One
SPRING EPIPHANY
Sitting in a T-shirt and mostly clean fatigues—they had been laundered at the hospital—watching my fiancé bustle around the kitchen, I had a revelation.
“Hey,” I croaked out, my voice still trying to come back from yelling over gunfire and explosions for a week straight, “I don’t think we’re gonna make it to the altar.”
“Oh yes we are,” he corrected me quickly, smiling as he put down in front of me a big bowl of tomato bisque and a large grilled-cheese sandwich on sourdough. “Now eat.”
He had watched me moments before stagger and hop to the sink to wash my hands—my ankle had been crushed under rubble and now had four pins in it—and he’d decided right then that I needed to eat first and then take a shower. Normally I got under the hot water first, and then, clean, let him feed me. But he was right. Today I might not have made it back out. I was dead on my feet. And I didn’t come home bloody or dirty, which had happened more than once, as I’d spent the last two weeks in a hospital in Balad, fifty miles out of Baghdad, but to be in my own shower under endless hot water with strong pressure that wouldn’t run out, that would be a treat. Of course, I hadn’t told him anything about a hospital stay. All he knew was that I arrived home with a broken ankle, nothing more. He didn’t need to know how touch and go it had been.
“No,” I said, my chin resting on my palm, my elbow the only thing keeping my face out of the soup. “I don’t mean never. I mean sometime in the next few months.”
Dr. Kurt Butler, the man I loved, chuckled. “Yes, dear, I know that.”
I squinted at him. “You do?”
He scoffed. “It makes sense. You’ve had back-to-back deployments, and then you went out with that FBI hurt team—”
“HRT team,” I corrected him.
“Which stands for what, so I can store that away in my brain?”
I didn’t like the idea of him having to memorize anything that wasn’t good in relation to me. I worried about that. Like one day he’d wake up and think how much easier it would be if he married a pharmacist. “Why would you need to—”
“Just tell me,” he coaxed, cutting my sandwich into strips because he knew I liked to dip things. It also made it easier to eat.
“Hostage Rescue Team,” I clarified, picking up one of the pieces of sandwich oozing with cheesy goodness. He made it with smoky gouda, Gruyère, provolone, and sharp cheddar. I’d have thought the sharp kind wouldn’t be good, but it was amazing. Added to that, he made tomato bisque, not soup, but bisque, and now, starving and bruised, I was more than thankful.
“Okay, got it.” He leaned on the counter of the kitchen island. “But as I was saying, after this last mission you were sent on, I knew that a spring wedding was not in our future. But a fall wedding sounds lovely as well.”
“I don’t want you to think…”
He reached for me, but his hand stopped before he made contact.
“What’s with that?” I growled at him. “You don’t wanna touch me?”
On cue, I got the head tip, the bored look, and the huff of breath.
“Yeah, all right,” I muttered. “I heard how stupid that was.”
“Did you? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Quick grimace from him. “Love, I don’t think you realize how bruised your face looks, and there are cuts everywhere. I don’t know where to touch and not hurt you.”
“I promise, anything you do could never hurt me,” I said with an exaggerated wink.
“Easy, tiger. Why don’t you eat and take a shower and a nap. I’ll cancel the get-together I was having tonight.”
“No, don’t cancel anything. I can come down if I want, or veg upstairs, and you can check on me. It’s not a big deal.”
“No, I—”
“C’mon. It’s fine. I promise.”
“I would much rather get some work done while you recuperate.”
“Do me a favor and have your friends over, all right? It’ll be fine. You work really hard. You deserve a nice night.”
“First off, they’re our friends, not—what was that for?”
“What?”
“Don’t do that,” he warned me. “You said your friends, and I was correcting you, and you made a face.”
“That’s because they’re yours. I bleed with mine.”
His groan was loud.
“Now look who’s making a face,” I deadpanned.
“All my friends think you’re amazing by yourself and for me, so knock it off. You just need to spend more time with them. Never in my life have I seen a group of people more interested in getting to know someone.”
I grunted.
“It’s true.” He was adamant. “And for your information, I’m already going to have a nice night, a great one, actually, now that you’re home and I don’t—” He stopped abruptly, pressing his lush lips together.
“You don’t what?”
He shook his head.
I grinned at him. “I know, yeah? So you should probably just g’head and say it.”
Long exhale. “I worry when you’re gone. I can’t help it. And I know you’re terribly capable, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Okay,” I husked.
“It’s not like I can change how I feel.”
“I’m aware.”
After a moment, he tipped his head as he continued to look at me. “I appreciate you not asking me a stupid question like if this is what I want my life to be.”
I shrugged. “You’re a smart man. You knew who I was when you brought me home the first time. If I were different, you might not have wanted me.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “This is what I signed up for.”
“But you’re still going to worry, aren’t you.”
He nodded. “Yes. And I can’t help that, and I refuse to try and change that any more than I would ask you to change for me.”
There was no arguing with that. “Okay, then,” I said with a smile.
“I love you dearly.”
It was so easy for him to speak from his heart. I had not mastered that quite yet. “So then, you’re not looking to cut me loose.”
“No,” he husked. “I’m keeping you.”
It was good to hear.
The food was the best thing I’d had in two months—he made me a fruit salad too—and then he sent me upstairs while he cleaned, promising he was right behind me with a garbage bag and painter’s tape.
“Kinky,” I teased him.
He shook his head. “I want to keep the cast dry.”
“That’s unnecessary. This is fiberglass, that’s why it’s blue.”
After a moment he said, “None of that made sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re saying I was supposed to know it’s fiberglass because it’s blue?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” he said like I was nuts.
“You’re placating me.”
His grin was adorable. “I am. Yes. Now tell me from the beginning.”
I pointed at the cast on my leg. “This is fiberglass. It’s much lighter weight than plaster, and it can get wet. Also, it comes in all these groovy colors.”
He nodded. “You were misinformed, my love.”
“How?”
“The shell is okay to get wet, but think about the inside and––”
“No. It has a waterproof liner.”
“Fancy.”
“I’m a sniper. You think those come along every day?” I was indignant.
Quick chuckle. “My mistake.”
“That’s right.”
“But still, liner or not, extra fancy fiberglass or not, water in between your skin and the cast will be irritating, so we’re going to wrap it.”
“Whatever you want.” I gave up. “You’re the doctor.”
“Thank you. Now how long will you be on the crutches?”
“Apparently in two weeks”—which would make a month total, but he didn’t need to know that—“I will transition into one of those air-cast walking boots, and the doctor who fixed me up didn’t say how long I’d have to wear that.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied me. “Do you have paperwork I can look at?”
“How do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, don’t play dumb.”
“Pardon me?” I hedged.
“I want to see what was done. I want to read it.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know if you have to go to physical therapy? And why a cast and the boot? I want to see what exactly you broke.”
“I broke my ankle,” I said matter-of-factly, pointing at the cast.
“Don’t be funny.”
I smirked at him. “That’s gonna be hard.”
“George Hunt,” he barked, “Produce the paperwork.”
But that would be bad for me, so I went with what always worked from an excuse standpoint. “This is the US military, man, it’s all in my jacket. There is no discharge-from-the-hospital paper trail for a black ops sniper. Gimme a break.”
“I––”
“And c’mon, all these questions are killin’ the mood.”
“There’s no mood, love. You can barely keep your eyes open.”
That was true. If you wanted rest, a hospital, especially a military one, wasn’t the place. But still, when he went to his knees, securing the cast with plastic and tape, I couldn’t help smiling wolfishly and waggling my eyebrows at him.
“Stop,” he said chuckling. “You’re in no condition to flirt with me.”
“I dunno about that.”
“You know, it occurs to me that this cast is really robust. Two weeks in the fiberglass cast and then into the boot—that seems like a long time for a break.”
“I don’t––”
“And why not a boot right away? Why this one first at all?”
What to say. “It might have been all they had at the field hospital,” I said, shrugging, without explaining about the titanium pins keeping my ankle together.
His eyes narrowed. “That makes no sense. You would think the boot would be more readily available.”
“I have no idea,” I lied.
“Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing to tell. I twisted it too far in the wrong direction. You know how it goes.”
He nodded and stood up. “Get in the shower.”
“Yessir.”
Once I was in with the water going, he opened the door. “Do you need me to hold you up in there?”
“Oh yes, please,” I rushed out. “Get in here with me.”
I got the headshaking then.
“Fine,” I grumbled.
“We’ll get you one of those medical stools to put in the shower.”
“Uh—never,” I warned him. “Just seeing that thing will make my dick go soft.”
His laugh tumbled out of him. “That’s ridiculous.”
I shrugged.
“And why don’t you have your crutches in here? You can’t go hopping around everywhere in the house.”
“I made it in here easy.”
“You need to use your crutches,” he replied sternly. “Until you’re out of the cast and into the boot, that means you’re not supposed to put any weight on that ankle.”
The crossed arms were a bad sign, so I promised quickly. I didn’t want him thinking about my ankle too hard, so anything to bring an end to the conversation about it was good. Because I really didn’t want to confess that I was lucky to have a functioning limb. Nothing good could come of telling the whole truth. Reiterating that it was broken was enough. Since the operation had been classified, I figured that not sharing all the pertinent points with him was okay. It was how I rationalized always leaving out all the big life-and-death details. And again, this went back to not wanting him wondering if marrying me was, in fact, the best thing for him. Planting that thought in his head had no upside.
I took a long, hot shower, and though I had plans to ravish him when I got out, instead, he was there to dry my hair, pull the tape and bag off my cast, put something on my face that cooled my wind-chafed, sunburned skin, then steered me to the bed.
“You need to lie down so I can have my wicked way with you,” I mumbled, sounding a bit whiny—which wasn’t surprising, given that my ankle still twinged and I hadn’t slept in over seventy-two hours.
He chuckled, put the covers over me, and kissed my forehead.
“No, really. Been thinkin’ about you.”
“I would hope so,” he soothed, hand in my hair, then rose off the bed.
I was going to get up and grab him, but my cat, Bubs—Beelzebub—flopped down against my back—delicate he was not—and started purring. He sounded like an outboard motor, but it was like a constant hum, and that was it. I was out like a light.
I did not enjoy dreaming, so I was happy I hadn’t. I had been told that everyone dreamed every night, but sometimes when you woke up, you simply didn’t remember them. When I’d asked Kurt, who I figured would know, he couldn’t say for certain whether that was true or not. All I knew was that I went from being dead to the world to awake in seconds and could recall nothing.
What woke me was a weird noise. Not something scary, not someone walking nearby. Not the snap of a twig or a catch of breath, and not the slide of a pistol loading. The noise didn’t scare me, but it concerned me. It was halfway between a whimper and a soft growl. Again, because I was still in deployment mode, not having had enough time to return to home mode yet, my eyes snapped open and I sat up.
I was glad Kurt wasn’t in the room. He didn’t like it when I woke up like that. He called it my vampire rising, and he was not a fan.
Since this was March, and it was dark, and in Chicago we had returned to spring forward with daylight saving time, that meant it was late. Evidently, I’d been comatose for hours. But at the moment, my stomach was trying to eat itself, and the door, strangely, was closed. I didn’t like to be quartered off when I was at home, and Kurt knew that. Even if I got woken up, that was preferable to not being able to hear what was going on around me.
Turning on the light on the nightstand, I found that Bubs was not next to me anymore, but instead at the French doors to the right of the bed, along with the dogs.
“What the hell are you guys doing in here?” I asked them as though they could answer. More importantly, they didn’t turn their heads to me.
That morning, when I’d limped through the door, they’d both been all over me, so happy I had returned, their little nubby tails going a million miles an hour as they whined and licked my face and hands. Now I was being completely ignored, which was weird.
Grabbing my crutches that were beside the bed, I walked over to where they were, looked outside, and after a moment, saw Kurt emerge from beside one of the many enormous oak trees in the backyard, hands flailing, which meant he was yelling, with a man following behind him. From where I was, it didn’t look scary or concerning, but the dogs were laser-focused on the guy, and that worried me. The likely reason for their heightened agitation was that they’d been closed in the room with me. The dogs were always allowed full run of the house. Same with the cat. If you were allergic or afraid or whatever, then you couldn’t come to our house. Those were the rules. So what were they doing sequestered with me? It made no sense.
“You two are freaking me out,” I advised them, grabbing my crutches and crossing over to my Mission Antique chest of drawers Kurt had bought me to match his.
Rummaging, I shed my sleep shorts, pulled on briefs, joggers, and a T-shirt, then ordered the dogs to follow as I grabbed the crutches again and briskly left the room.
We all went downstairs together, and I could see the living room as I slowly descended. Several people were drinking wine and picking at charcuterie boards.
“Hi,” Alice called to me. I liked her and her husband, Derek. Actually, I liked all Kurt’s friends. “You’re up. Should you be up?”
“Shit,” Derek said, sounding worried. “Were we too loud? Did we wake you?”
“Are you okay coming down the stairs on your crutches?” Javier asked.
It was a lot of questions at once.
“I’m really good with crutches,” I responded to Javier, one of Kurt’s oldest friends in Chicago. “Unfortunately, I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“Which is so not great.”
“It happens.”
“We did wake you, didn’t we?” Alice sounded remorseful as she looked at the others. “We’re bad people. Worse—bad friends.”
“No, not at all. The dogs were in the room with me, and they wanted out.”
“See? I told you,” Brian said to the group. “Baylor was being an ass. Why couldn’t he let the dogs go outside with them?”
So some guy named Baylor was the man Kurt was yelling at. “Baylor who?” I asked.
“Baylor Donovan,” Alice advised me.
“And it was stupid that Baylor didn’t want the dogs outside with him and Kurt,” Liz, Brian’s wife, concurred. “We should have insisted he take them, but we were in a fierce game of Uno here, George, and you know how we all hate to lose.”
“I do,” I said, grinning at her. “You people take your games far too seriously.”
“Would we say too seriously?” Brian mused.
“Plus, it was so fast,” Javier commented. “Kurt and Baylor were headed outside before we even knew what was happening.”
“Well, I’m gonna take the dogs out now,” I told him, already on my way to the door.
“Maybe Baylor’s afraid of them,” Claudia offered as she poured herself a glass of wine. “I mean, why else would he insist the dogs stay inside?”
Good question.
“But you can go back to bed,” Alice offered kindly. “Vince and Car are out on the deck. They can let the dogs down into the yard.”
Why were Carson and Vince out there as well instead of inside with everyone else?
I wasn’t actually worried, because if I had been, I would have grabbed one of the two guns I kept in my nightstand before heading downstairs. Kurt was involved in some kind of discussion outside, not fighting for his life.
Crossing to the sliding glass door leading to the patio, I exited fast, the dogs on my heels, and they immediately charged over to the tall gate that, strangely, was closed. Normally, we kept the one on the deck open. If we were going out, we closed it, as it kept the two Dobermans from taking the flight of stairs down to the backyard. The property was not fenced, and we didn’t want them roaming onto the preserve. They probably wouldn’t, but neither of us was taking any chances with their lives.
“Fuck this,” Carson growled, moving around me to reach a tub of sports equipment Kurt kept on the deck for his patients. Sometimes it was easier for kids, and some adults, to talk to him while their hands were engaged.
“Amazing what a kid will tell you while they’re bouncing a basketball,” he’d told me when I’d first inquired about the various items.
When I reached the railing, I could see Kurt pacing as Baylor tried, unsuccessfully, to grab hold of his arms. Whatever the talk was about, Kurt didn’t want to hear it.
“Let the dogs out,” Vince told me, then turned to his husband, who rotated his right arm once, then gripped the ball. One second it was in his hand, and I had a moment to think, Is he going to throw that? before he fired the ball like his arm was a rifle.
I had watched lots of football in my life, seen lots of quarterbacks throw the ball, but I’d never seen anyone I personally knew hurl anything that fast. I barely had enough time to turn my head before there was a scream of pain.
Across the yard, Kurt was now bent over Baylor, who was writhing on the ground, clutching his left shoulder. After a moment, Kurt straightened up. When he did, the dogs, who had been at the gate, dying to get out, suddenly calmed. They could see, as well as I could, that Kurt was fine and the threat had been quashed.
“You’re in trouble.” Vince snickered a second before Kurt yelled.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“What?” Carson volleyed back as though he couldn’t hear him. I knew that ruse; I’d used it many times myself.
“That’s not gonna work,” Vince assured his husband with a soft chuckle.
“I have no control of my arm, you know that.”
Vince scoffed. Loudly. “What I know is that you’ve still got it.”
“Yeah,” Carson agreed, rotating his shoulder. “But it hurt.”
“You could have broken his arm!” Kurt called over.
Vince groaned like that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. I was right there with him.
Did it hurt, getting hit in the arm? Yes, I was sure it did. Had it been absolutely jolting and probably scary? Most likely. Would he have a bruise? Undoubtedly. But broken? Absolutely not.
“Seriously, Carson, have you completely lost your mind?” Kurt sounded really mad.
Carson pointed to his ear. “Still can’t hear you. You need to come inside.”
Vince took that moment to charge over to the gate.
“Don’t let the dogs out,” Kurt bellowed.
“What?” Vince returned, immediately doing just that. The dogs were down the stairs in seconds, and we all watched as the two enormous Dobermans streaked across the lawn toward the man they loved.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Carson told Vince. “You’re gonna get in trouble, and I’m already throwing you under the bus.”
“I figured as much,” Vince said with a sigh as he reached Carson’s side.
“It’s not my fault I don’t like Baylor. The guy’s a tool.”
“Yes, but you used to play on the same team in college.”
“So what? Doesn’t mean he’s not a douchebag.”
It struck me then, and I was surprised I hadn’t made the connection. “You played ball in college at the same place Kurt went? At Emerson?”
“I went there too,” Vince announced, leaning against his husband, who put his left arm around his shoulders and tucked him into his side.
“Yeah,” Carson said. “Me and Vince met there right before I got banged up.”
A couple of beats of time passed before Vince took a step away and looked up into Carson’s face.
“Steady now,” Carson cautioned him.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Vince asked him pointedly.
“Love—”
“Did the words ‘right before I got banged up’ just come out of your mouth?”
His words, banged up, were the understatement of the century. How he could even be so cavalier about it was truly a testament to the healing power of time. Because the injury Carson Cress sustained that night in Phoenix twenty years ago under the bright lights of the Fiesta Bowl was nothing less than devastating.
I could vividly recall the hit that ended his football career in one gruesome moment of perfectly timed, bone-crushing, muscle-and-tendon-snapping disaster. Many experts had debated if his right arm would ever be even remotely functional. Lifting a cup, writing his name, had seemed ridiculously optimistic. Since it was a catastrophic injury, of course the footage had been played over and over on practically every channel. I, along with most people, had been sincerely happy he’d been knocked unconscious by the hit. It was for the best. An arm was not meant to bend like that. It had been horrible to witness. So now, watching him use the arm again was mind-blowing.
“That throw was amazing,” I told him, checking on Kurt, who now had a hand raised to keep the dogs away from Baylor. The guy was finally sitting up but still cradling his left bicep. “But what made you think you had to?”
“I dunno,” Carson admitted, and when I met his gaze, I noted again, as I had on our first meeting, that his indigo eyes were really something. An amazing color I’d never seen on anyone else. “Whatever they were talking about went on too long.”
“You’re the conversation police, are you?”
He shrugged. “You know what I mean. From here it looked uncomfortable.”
It had looked that way from where I was standing as well.
“Kurt kept trying to come back to the house, and Baylor kept getting in his way.”
I nodded, feeling concern, irritation, and anger start to rise in the pit of my stomach.
“Kurt put the dogs in with you,” Vince informed me, “so they could talk out here uninterrupted, which made no sense. Why did Baylor need the dogs locked in the house when they talked privately?”
“I dunno,” I answered, my eyes back on Kurt, who was trying to help Baylor stand. The problem was, whenever he bent over to try and assist his acquaintance—I didn’t want to say friend because they weren’t that; they’d just known each other forever—the dogs went to move in close to guard Kurt. Once he straightened up, they stepped back. It looked like a dance. He kept pointing toward the house, but the dogs weren’t budging, clearly not about to leave him. What was funny was that they always listened to him, always followed his direction except for right this second. To me, it was quite telling. They were not fans of Baylor Donovan, and no way, no how, were they leaving Kurt alone with the man.
“We came out here to check and make sure everything was all right,” Vince explained. “I mean, it’s good to keep an eye on all your friends, but with Kurt, you know, after the attack, I never want him to feel uncomfortable with anyone.”
Neither did I.
“It was different before the incident,” Vince added. “I never worried before then.”
“Sure.”
“It’s not like he’s small, and he can defend himself.”
He could. Even more so now, as he’d been taking Tae Kwon Do classes with my… I had no idea how to classify her. With Hannah. My Hannah. A piece of my civilian job, at Sutter Incorporated, was to protect Aaron Sutter’s goddaughter, Hannah Kage. I was her driver, her bodyguard, basically the guy who kept her safe. But that was such a small part of what she was to me, of what she’d become over the years. It felt more like she was the little sister I never asked for but might have actually wanted.
She taught Tae Kwon Do, and in class she had been giving Kurt, along with the rest of her students, select skills that could help them out of tight spots. Just the very basics. The point was not to stand and fight, but to do quick damage and run. Escape was the point, not winning at hand-to-hand combat. But Kurt had wanted to learn more, so he went further, and was now a blue belt. I was happy for him, and even more so for me. The better he was at defending himself, the less I worried. So I understood what Vince was saying. Kurt was no shrinking violet. He would not fall apart if threatened. Not that he had all those years ago. He’d fought like hell then as well. It was the reason he was still alive.
Ten years ago now, Kurt was attacked and nearly killed by a patient. Tobin Wellesley had originally gone to prison, but a year ago, was moved to a psychiatric facility. He was now being treated, and once his doctors were certain he was sane enough to finish serving his sentence, he would be transferred back. From what Kurt told me, Wellesley wanted to return because he didn’t like the drugs and mandatory visits with so many different doctors. He preferred to be left alone. But until he was no longer a danger to himself or others, there was no other option. Kurt, for his part, hoped his former patient received the care he needed. He also preferred him medicated and on the receiving end of mandatory psychiatric therapy. Kurt had hopes that someday Wellesley would fully understand what he’d done. Being a pessimist by nature, I had no such thoughts. I was prepared to disembowel the man if he ever came near the man I loved. And some people said things like that, but when push came to shove, no one could say for certain if they would be able to end another’s life. For me, I didn’t have to guess. I knew. I’d killed men in defense of my country, and in defense of people I was paid to protect. For the man I held in my arms, I wouldn’t even have to think twice.
“Not that Baylor would ever hurt him,” Carson apprised me, returning my focus to him. “But still, whatever he needed to say, like Vince said, why the hell couldn’t the dogs be there? What were they gonna do, come back inside and tap it out for us in Morse code?”
I liked them both, had from the first time I met them.
Kurt had realized after the attack that he needed a complete change of scenery to even begin to heal. Vince had suggested Kurt leave California and move in with him and Carson. They had room in their home in the Gold Coast area of Chicago, and Kurt meant a lot to both of them. After Carson and Vince had changed colleges, Kurt and Vince’s friend Matt Cooksey—who actually worked with Vince now—had been the two people who’d made sure to visit Vince and Carson, and they remained close. I was glad Kurt had people like that in his life.
“It’s funny,” Carson said as we watched Baylor weave toward the house with Kurt beside him. The dogs flanked them, stopping and moving into an alert stance several times, likely concerned with how Baylor was lurching. “When Vince and I first got together and Kurt would visit, I was so jealous because I knew Kurt had a thing for him.”
I glanced at Vince, who shook his head.
“He did,” Carson insisted, slipping a hand around Vince’s neck and drawing him close, tucking him into his side. “But I also quickly put it together that at that time, Kurt had never had sex with a man. It was his interest in Vince, as was mine, that told us both we were bisexual.”
“Wow, Vince,” I teased him. “Turning all the boys on, huh?”
He rolled his eyes. “Ridiculous.”
“Nope,” Carson was adamant. “That’s the God’s honest truth right there.”
“But you got to him first, huh?” I asked Carson.
“No. Kurt knew Vince before I did. I just got lucky that he liked me better.”
Vince was shaking his head again, letting me know that the man he loved was an idiot.
“No?” Carson gave an over-the-top mock gasp, clutching at his heart. “It was Kurt?”
“You’re such an ass.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Once you steamrolled into my life, I couldn’t see anyone but you.”
Carson kissed his husband on the temple. “Yeah, well, what can I say. I knew who I needed to make my life perfect.”
“Perfect is laying it on a bit thick.”
“Not to me,” Carson said sincerely. “I knew you were the one.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Vince muttered, reaching up to take hold of Carson’s face and ease him down for a quick kiss, after which he asked, “May I go and get you some ice for your shoulder? Do we think that would be a good idea?”
“Yes, please. And maybe get some for Baylor as well.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“What?” He cackled. “He’s dyin’ out there.”
“You wait right there!” Kurt threatened him as he and Baylor took the stairs toward us, a dog in front and one behind.
“Can’t,” Vince replied. “My husband needs to ice his shoulder.”
“So do I!” Baylor yelled.
“This is what I said a second ago,” Carson declared innocently.
“Well, he wouldn’t have to ice it if he didn’t throw the goddamn ball.” Kurt sounded both indignant and accusatory.
“C’mon. That was an accident,” Vince deflected. “I dared him to hit the tree, and he missed and hit Baylor.”
“That’s your story?” Kurt thundered at him. “It was unintentional?”
“Of course, that ball wasn’t even traveling that fast. If he’d hit him with his full power from back in the day, that ball would have been moving at between sixty-two and sixty-five miles per hour.” Vince sounded so matter-of-fact. “Now that would have stung a bit.”
“No shit,” I said to Carson.
He waggled his eyebrows at me.
“Stung a bit?” Baylor was still yelling, even though we were all together on the deck now. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me? That, what he did, hurt like a motherfucker, Vince!”
“I could see that if he’d hit you in the head.” Vince shrugged. “But it’s just your bicep, isn’t it?”
“Is there ibuprofen in your medicine cabinet?” Carson asked me.
“Yes, there’s—”
“I’m going to sue you,” Baylor told Carson.
“For what? An accident? A tap with a ball?”
“A tap?” He was incredulous. “You hit me with a football in the arm. I might have nerve damage.”
“From a ball thrown by me?” Carson mocked. “Me?”
“Yes, by you. Are you kidding? I know how hard and fast you—”
“Not anymore,” Carson said with an evil grin. “Not for years. I mean, c’mon, Baylor, every one of my doctors will tell you I can’t possibly throw with any real power. Those days are long gone.”
“You’re insane! I felt how—”
“No, you’re mistaken,” Carson mollified him. “That’s impossible, and everything about my throwing arm is documented.”
“The hell are you talking about?” Baylor sounded worked up now.
“It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal!” His face was getting red.
Before Carson could say anything else, Vince took hold of the arm that was a miracle of modern medicine and rehabilitation, and led him toward the house.
“I think maybe you should be happy it was a tap with a football and not a tap with a bullet,” I warned him.
“What?” Baylor gasped.
“You had to have heard me,” I goaded him.
“Is that a threat?”
“What else could it possibly be?” I sneered at him.
When he took a step toward me, Geri was there so fast, head down, teeth bared, a low warning growl in the back of his throat.
Baylor made the mistake of wheeling on Kurt then, and Freki pushed between them, same stance, unsure of Baylor’s intentions.
“Ohmygod, your dogs are insane! That’s why I told you they had to stay in the house.”
“C’mon let’s—let’s just go in. Javi will check you out.”
“He’s an ear, nose, and throat specialist, Kurt. What the hell is he going to do?”
“He’s still an MD, Bay. He can at least tell you if you should go to the ER.”
Go to the emergency room for what?
Baylor charged toward the sliding glass door that Vince and Carson had purposely not closed, leaving me and Kurt alone on the patio with the dogs.
I squinted at him, and he shook his head.
“Carson overreacted,” Kurt said. “It was nothing.”
“It was obviously something.”
“Baylor and I knew each in college—he actually played on the team with Carson back in the day.”
This was old news I already knew from Vince, but I said nothing.
“We were also in California at the same time, after my run-in with Wellesley.”
I remained quiet, listening.
“He moved here a couple of months ago and was happy to find out I did as well, and—”
“This was before the dogs?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You didn’t have the dogs when you were both in California?”
“No, I had them.”
I nodded. “That’s interesting.”
“How so?”
“The dogs are really smart, yeah? They remember your friends.”
“But it’s been years since I last saw him.”
I shrugged. “Plus, they warm up fast to others.”
“I—”
“Take me, for instance.”
“You’re very—”
“And Vince and Carson.”
Quick huff of air. “I get where you’re going with this.”
“Do you?”
“Listen––”
“So they never warmed to Baylor.” It was a statement. I wasn’t asking a question because I already knew the answer.
“They—no. No, they did not.”
“Which is why he didn’t want them outside with the two of you.”
“Probably.”
“Or maybe,” I said as he stepped in close to me, hands on my hips, “he didn’t want the dogs out there with you for some other reason.”
“There was no nefarious intent,” he said, really looking at my face. “You know, you have bags under your eyes that look like bruises, they’re so dark.”
“Maybe there was flirtatious intent.”
“Stop,” he ordered, far more interested in me than talking about Baylor Donovan.
“He hit on you, didn’t he?”
“Not really,” he stated, which was an absurd thing to say because he either had or hadn’t made a pass at my fiancé. Not really made no sense.
“Care to elaborate?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Love, it doesn’t even merit a discussion.”
Normally, I would have been incensed that a man had come to my own house to hit on my fiancé, but there was no doubt in my mind that Kurt was treating this like nothing because to him, that’s how insignificant it was. I had all his attention and concern.
“That’s really fuckin’ rude of him, wouldn’t you say?”
“God, why are you even up? You should be upstairs, comatose.” His face crumpled as he looked at me. “I knew I should have canceled this whole thing.”
“No,” I murmured, letting my crutch go and grabbing him tight with my right arm, crushing him against me, liking the sharp gasp I got as I showed him the strength in my body. “I want you to keep all your friends. I don’t want to isolate you in any way.”
“You don’t. You wouldn’t,” he said with a sigh, carefully wrapping his arms around me, both of us enjoying the closeness.
“I’m not going to break.”
“Yes, but when you were in the shower, I saw all the damage…”
“I was cleared to come home,” I reminded him. “Which means you can hold me as tight as you want.”
“I worry about hurting you.”
“Only way you hurt me is by not showing me that I was missed.”
His exhale was long. “You’re always missed.”
“I dunno, maybe you were thinking Baylor would be easier to have around.”
“Honestly, that’s beneath you,” he said flatly.
“Oh, is it?”
“Yes, and you’re insane, and you’re lucky I’m into that.”
I grunted.
“Don’t even kid. You know you’re perfect for me. That’s why I’m marrying you.”
“I need convincing.”
“Annoying man,” he griped before he lifted to kiss me.
I kissed him breathless, and when I finally eased back, he leaned with me, keeping the contact, until I smiled.
“You’re awful,” he pronounced.
“You are less than believable at this moment,” I ribbed him as he slipped his hand up my nape and into my hair.
He suddenly chuckled.
“What?”
Tipping his head, I turned mine so we were both looking at Freki, who was sitting and holding my crutch.
“I wondered why I didn’t hear that hit the ground,” he said smiling. “You’re lucky he caught that.”
“I knew he would,” I told him. “He’s a good boy.”
“Plus you’ve got him trained to catch all kinds of things these days.”
“Yep, Frisbees, tennis balls, cooked spaghetti, French fries––”
“You shouldn’t give him––”
“––an umbrella so he doesn’t get wet if it starts to rain on our walks, the broom when I forget to grab the dust pan, that drone that asshole from three doors down sent into the yard. Big mistake when he flew it too low.”
“Yes, you and your dog are quite ferocious.”
“Hey, don’t forget Geri,” I said, and when I did, I noted Freki’s brother wagging his tail. “He can catch things too. He caught my favorite beer when I accidentally knocked the bottle off the counter. Both of them have amazing reflexes.”
Kurt smiled at me.
“What? They do.”
He sighed deeply. “They do, yes.”
“Then what’s with the smile like I’m crazy?”
“You’re not crazy and I’m so happy you’re home.”
“Me too. Especially since I wasn’t aware that Baylor was on the prowl.”
Huff of breath then. “Listen to me, all kidding aside, Baylor has not made any other advances or––”
“I don’t want him at the wedding.”
“Okay,” he agreed without a moment’s hesitation.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“And I don’t think he should be invited back to game night. Nobody seems to like him.”
Warm chuckle. “Yeah, I’m getting that.”
“I mean, you don’t want Carson to hurt himself throwing footballs at Baylor’s arms or maybe even his legs next time.”
“That’s true, but for the record, I had no idea he could even do that anymore. It was amazing—once I got past the shock.”
“Yeah.”
“And not nice of him.”
Did I agree with that?
“Hey,” Javier said, leaning out onto the deck.
I turned to look at him. Kurt couldn’t be bothered, more interested in gently kissing along my jaw.
“Did that asshat hit on you while you were outside?”
Kurt was too busy slipping his hands up under my shirt to give his friend any attention.
“He’s talking to you,” I told Kurt.
Slowly, with a great deal of effort, he turned to look at Javier. “What?”
“I want to know if Baylor hit on you.”
Kurt grimaced. “Not really.”
Javier shook his head. “The answer can only be yes or no.”
“I second that.”
Kurt shushed me, and then looked back at Javier. “Fine. He did. Yes.”
“Then he’s banned from game night, because that’s a shitty thing to do, and especially not cool in the house you share with your fiancé.”
“I agree,” I muttered. “It’s very poor form.”
“It’s fucked up is what it is,” Javier growled.
Surprising to hear the normally mellow ENT with the kind eyes swear. The surprise must have shown on my face.
“What? It is,” he assured me.
“I’m not arguing with you.”
“No more game nights for him,” Kurt stated. “And he’s not invited to the wedding.”
“Good.” Javier took a breath. “So Claudia put ice on Baylor’s arm, and it’s a little red, but I think that’s gonna be about it. I mean, will it bruise? Possibly. Did I hurt myself more falling off the ladder while cleaning my rain gutters last week? Yes. Yes, I did.”
“You fell off a ladder?” Kurt asked, squinting at him.
“Don’t say it like that. It’s not my fault. We’re not all…” He gestured at me.
“What does George have to do with this?”
He scowled back. “Is there anything George can’t do?”
“I’m not a doctor like you, buddy,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but I’m sure you’ve saved more lives than I have.”
“That’s very nice of you to say.”
“Only stating the obvious. But tell me, have you ever fallen off anything?”
I had to think.
“See?”
“Aw, you sound so sad,” Kurt commiserated.
He got flipped off for that.
“So about Baylor’s arm, will he still have full use of it?” I tried to sound serious.
“Is that an honest-to-God real question?”
“He was pretty upset about getting hit with the ball,” I pointed out.
“If he wants to compare injuries, you’re the one with blood in your right eye and a bruise on your left cheek. I suspect there’s more damage than that, yes?”
I shrugged.
“I don’t suppose you’d let me take a look at you.”
“I thought you were an ear guy,” I teased him. “And I have to tell you, mine are fine.”
“That’s a specialty, you understand? I’m still a doctor.”
“Yes, I know. Kurt vouched for you earlier.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course.” Kurt chuckled.
“But so you know, I was cleared to come home by the US military.”
“That does in no way fill me with confidence.”
“I’m good,” I said as Kurt wrapped his arms around my neck. “He’s got me.”
“Yeah, well, that’s probably for the best. I don’t think any of us can get out there to you anyway.”
“Why not?” Kurt asked.
Javier pointed at Bubs, who was sitting on the deck, a foot from the entrance. He was puffed up and making that low warning noise cats made right before they ripped your face off. “He’s much scarier than the dogs.”
That was probably true.
“I hope Baylor doesn’t keep up the whining, because Claudia is this close to telling him what he can do with his whole I-can’t-move-my-arm bullshit. It’s really ridiculous.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Yeah. Like Carson can throw a ball hard enough or fast enough to hurt anyone anymore,” he scoffed. “I mean, didn’t Baylor see what happened to him at the Fiesta Bowl all those years ago? No one gets better from something like that.”
“Absolutely not,” Kurt was in total agreement. “That’s crazy.”
It certainly was.
Sing in the New by Nico Flynn
Chapter One
The drive out to Nick’s childhood home is undeniably beautiful. It's like some kind of rustic postcard scene; evening sun spilling across the horizon, painting gold over white farmhouses and herds of cattle, then fading as the early December dark approaches. It’s been a cold but sunny winter day, something Nick says is a rare treat in the gray winters of Western Pennsylvania.
One that I’m completely ignoring in favor of my phone.
“Who are you texting?” Nick demands, looking away from the road to peer over at my phone. “You’re missing the pristine beauty of my homeland and shit.”
I tilt my phone away. “Eyes on the road, madman.”
Nick huffs but complies anyway, giving his curls a toss to emphasize his irritation. “There. Eyes on the road. Who are you texting? Is it Jack? Have he and Ezra finally crawled out of bed? It’s December 30th, surely they’ve stopped having sex by now.”
I ignore him and send one last text.
Tyler: This is my last chance to back out. You’re absolutely sure?Mrs. Warren: Tyler, dear, you’re being obnoxious.Mrs. Warren: I am completely sure.Mrs. Warren: Now don’t text me again, love. Keep it together.
I have to fight to keep my face neutral, the corner of my mouth twitching with suppressed laughter. Nick is so clearly his mother’s child in a way that makes me fiercely fond of them both and incredibly bitter about my own family at the same time. My parents fed me homophobic garbage when I was growing up, pushed me to propose to every girl I ever dated in college, then made more homophobic comments with every year that went by without me settling down. I finally quit talking to them a year ago.
Then, there are Nick's parents, who called me on Christmas Day to make sure I knew they were thinking of me. And to let me know that they were tired of my shit.
“I know you’re in love with my son,” Nick's mom said during that Christmas call. “When are you going to do something about it?”
I didn't bother wasting my breath with denials. Partly because Nick's mom is a certifiable genius, but also because I was just... tired. They’ve seen us together so much over the last six years that it’s a miracle they didn’t catch on sooner. I'd shot a glance at Nick’s closed bedroom door, then replied, “It’s not quite that easy.”
“It is exactly that easy,” she’d said. “Put my boy out of his misery, Tyler. You’ve had his heart for years, and I'm completely exhausted by watching him wait for you.”
My heart had ached at that, had thumped rabbit-fast with panic as I'd looked to the bedroom door again, waiting to be caught.
“I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around,” I’d finally admitted in a murmur. “I don’t think he’s interested in… relationships.”
I hadn't wanted to elaborate because, you know, it was Nick's mom. But Nick isn't really the... settling type. He sees guys for a bit. He goes out and hooks up on occasion. But for as long as we've known each other (six years) and lived together (four years), he's never had a long-term boyfriend. And that's part of what's scared me off, honestly.
Mama Warren wasn't having it, though.
“Tyler Oberlin,” she'd snapped, and my spine had automatically straightened to attention. “I know my son. I watched him build that wall he uses to hide his heart as a young man. I know it for what it is. Armor. Protection, Tyler. People were not kind to him growing up. Trust me. All he’s waiting for is a sign from you.”
I’d done my best to tamp down the painful swell of hope her words had stoked, but it was impossible. I’d become obsessed.
I texted her the next day.
Tyler: What if I need a sign from him, too?Mrs. Warren: Then you’ll have it. Get him here for New Year’s Eve. I’ll take care of the rest.Tyler: You’re sure?Mrs. Warren: Completely. But I’ll need you to be brave, too, and give as much as you’re asking for.Mrs. Warren: Make my boy happy, Tyler.
In the moment, I'd doubted I had any actual say in the matter. Mama Warren had a mission in her head, and she was gonna push the issue anyway, no matter what.
But once the idea was in my head, I couldn’t let it go.
Tyler: Okay.Tyler: Okay, let’s do it. We’ll be there.Mrs. Warren: Good man. You’ll be thanking me in the new year.
And with a furtive glance at Nick, half unconscious in a bowl of cereal at our kitchen table, I’d deleted the text thread. I remember the feeling so vividly; my cheeks burning red and my heart racing with fear, elation, embarrassment... and hope.
So much hope.
And now here we are. The day before New Year’s Eve. Nick driving us in his little Mazda 3 that I barely fit into, taking the corners way too fast with that sort of driving muscle memory that kicks in on the roads of your hometown. On our way to what feels like my doom, even though in theory it’s going to be my ultimate happiness?
I turn my phone off and stash it in my back pocket, as far from Nick as it can possibly get while remaining on my person. Can’t have him catching his mom’s name on the screen and getting suspicious.
“There. No more phone,” I say. “Pristine beauty of your homeland and shit. Got it.”
Nick isn’t so easily distracted, though, so I deploy one of my recently discovered distraction techniques: physical contact. I lay a hand on Nick’s leg and give a light squeeze, relishing the soft slide of expensive fabric under my fingers. Nick freezes for half a second… then relaxes, his legs falling ever so slightly farther apart. His face stays perfectly blank, but his breathing hitches the tiniest bit—a tell I’ve learned to look for, a tiny seed of hope that’s grown into a tangled wanting that suffocates me on the best of days and aches without relenting on the worst.
It could still be something else. Friendship. Touch starvation, maybe. (Nick hasn’t had a steady hookup in over a year. Not that I’m counting. Too busy at the hospital, he says.) He could even be uncomfortable with the touch but not willing to say so. But sometimes, rarely, Nick will give the smallest sign: the corner of his mouth turned slightly up, a brush of fingers against mine, a faint hum.
It takes all of my considerable self-control to keep my hand from sliding higher in search of a gasp, a blush, a—something. I want, so much that sometimes I worry the wanting will eat me alive. Now that I know what it is. Now that I’ve accepted it.
Distraction. Music, conversation, something, or else I really will let my hands wander and my mouth start running, probably crash the car and our friendship and my life all in one dramatic move. I pull back and desperately latch onto the first topic of conversation that comes to mind.
“So, what do you think your parents have planned for the weekend? Anything special? New Year’s Eve traditions?”
“My grandmother used to visit and cook the traditional pork and sauerkraut for New Year’s Eve and Day when I was a kid,” Nick says. “I hear my mom still does pork, but she always hated sauerkraut. Don’t tell anyone, it’s a sin around here.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I would have to pass on that.”
A small smile curls at the corner of Nick’s mouth. “I haven’t been back for New Year’s Eve since I was seventeen, but I imagine we’ll eat way too much around one in the afternoon, graze on leftovers and desserts for the rest of the day, and drink too much champagne in front of the fire while my mom murders us all at cards. She’s a shark, don’t let her fool you.”
He glances over at me. “They’re probably going to be embarrassingly clingy with you this weekend. I hope you’re prepared.”
I look out the window to hide my grin.
“I don’t mind.”
Honestly, it’ll be nice to have a family that cares, that’s accepting and affectionate instead of expectant and cold. My father’s disapproving sneer forces its way into my mind, whispering poison about soft men and their feelings, but I shove it all away. He has no power over me. Not anymore.
“Hey, where’d you go?” Nick asks, startling me out of my unpleasant memories.
“I’m here, sorry,” I say. “Just thinking about how different our families are. I’m looking forward to this.”
“Yeah, we don’t exactly grow herds of big burly boys in my family,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Just little old me.”
“I don’t think I could handle a whole herd of you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Nick says with a sly grin. “I bet you could hold your own.”
Man, it’s a good thing Nick never comes around my job sites, because if my crews of foul-mouthed construction workers and subcontractors could see the way I flush at a little light flirting, I’d never hear the end of it. No one expects the general contractor to be a blushing flower. Then again, no one expects the general contractor to be bisexual, either.
Still trying to get used to the sound of that.
You’d think it would be easy, considering our friend group. Probably half the people we hang out with are queer. But it took years of conversations with Nick and my best friend, Nia, to wade through a lifetime of brainwashing. To finally realize that yes, I’ve had sex with women and liked it, liked them, but I’ve never fallen in love with any of them. And it’s not because I’m broken, and not because I’m aromantic. Sexual attraction and romantic attraction don’t always map one to one. And me? I can only fall in love with a man, it seems.
Once you figure this shit out, it’s so obvious, looking back. But looking back is too painful. So, all I want to do is look forward. Nick, my closest friend, the man who saved me from the lowest point of my life… and the man I’m in love with.
Hopefully, after this weekend, the man I’ll be with.
Nick takes a left turn down a narrow-paved road and flashes me a grin. “We’re here. Prepare yourself for Hurricane Warren.”
“I can take it,” I say, keeping my voice light even as panic tries to force it higher.
Nick laughs. “Damn right you can. You’re built like an oak tree.”
I roll my eyes. I’m not that big, I’m just… sturdy. All the Oberlin boys are. We grew up hauling lumber and bags of concrete on dad’s job sites, and that’ll leave its mark.
Even so, as the house comes into view, I find myself wiping sweaty palms on my jeans. The house is adorable, a remodeled farmhouse that was clearly added onto a time or two. Our friend Chris would probably have a fit—he’s a building inspector and this thing has “handyman special” written all over it. I’ll eat my hard hat if all the proper permits were filed for those add-ons. It looks well-maintained and cozy, though, bursting with personality and care even from the outside. Those flower beds have Mr. Warren’s green thumbprints all over them, even in the dead of winter. There are a few evergreen plants evenly spaced to make sure there’s always a bit of color and telltale mounds where perennials have been covered to overwinter.
Nick barely has time to shut the engine off before the front door flies open. His mom comes out first, wrapped in a shawl and heading straight for the driver’s side. Nick’s dad follows close behind in a well-worn brown jacket, and he greets me with a firm handshake-turned-hug.
“So good to see you, Tyler, truly,” he says, thumping me hard on the back. “I hear my wife has been meddling.”
Nick’s head shoots up from where it had been resting against his mother’s in a rare show of affection, and he steps back from her hug like she’d attacked him.
“Meddling how?” he demands, hands on his hips, but his mother waves him off.
“You never would have shown up if I hadn’t gotten Tyler to bring you and you know it.” With that, she turns her back on her son to wrap me in a long motherly hug.
“Don’t you dare ask it again, Tyler, I mean it!” she says in a low voice. “I see that look on your face. You look half sick and ready to bolt. You remember the deal and do your part. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” I reply as I pull back from the hug, catching a glimpse of Nick over his mother’s shoulder in the moment before he masters his expression. It was just a brief thing, a stolen snatch of time, but Nick’s face had gone unbearably soft at the sight of his parents embracing me. I get it—I already feel at home in a way I never have with my own family, and Nick’s expression seems to say all the things I want to hear: I want this, be my family, this is right, please stay forever.
If all goes well this weekend, then that’s exactly where we’ll end up.
I pull our overnight bags from the trunk and hand Nick’s over, not letting go until our fingers touch. “Let’s go get settled in.”
Nick’s gaze is oddly charged when our eyes meet, and he nods.
Nick’s mother is a devious one, I have to hand it to her. The house is romantically lit with candles and fairy lights, a fire crackling in the fireplace, the last of the fading sunlight leaving everything dim and warm and cozy.
Including the bedroom.
Singular.
I expected a lot of things, but the dusty wreck of a construction zone in the spare bedroom was not one of them.
“What happened?” I ask, eyes wide.
Mrs. Warren closes the door to the room with a gentle click, a cloud of plaster dust puffing out. “We’ve had a slow roof leak for years, and you know how it goes once you start opening up ceilings and walls.”
I wince. “Yeah, house projects have a way of unexpectedly growing.”
She pats Nick on the cheek with an indulgent smile. “Nick’s old bed is plenty big enough for two. Now, put those things down and get out of here, you’ll need to get to the brewery soon if you want food before the kitchen closes at eight.”
And with that, she whirls away and disappears down the stairs, leaving me with bright red cheeks and a very awkward Nick.
Here’s a chance, I tell myself. This is why you’re here.
“Come on,” I say, nudging Nick’s shoulder with a smile. “Let’s ditch these bags. What’s this about a brewery?”
Nick opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, his gaze flicking over my face.
“I can sleep on the couch…” he finally offers, hesitant, but I cut him off.
“Don’t worry about it. Unless you’re against cuddling, of course, because I’m a notorious sleep cuddler.”
A beat of silence.
Then Nick snorts, and we break down into ridiculous giggles. And here we are—an opportunity to be just a bit daring, to push the boundaries just a hair.
I reach out and grab Nick by the wrist, tugging him along as I walk backward toward the bedroom door.
“Come on, madman. You can handle me for one night.”
I do a great job of pretending not to notice the way Nick stumbles at that, if I do say so myself.
Mystery at the Masquerade by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
“Burglary?” Ellery asked doubtfully.
“It looks like it.” Jack selected a French fry, considered it, folded it into his mouth.
They were having lunch on the outside patio at the Gull’s Wing Café. The patio was surrounded by July’s summer visitors to Pirate’s Cove and, yes, gulls. A lot of seagulls swooping in for the bites of burger and fried fish tourists offered up, despite the forest-worth of signs requesting people NOT to feed the birds.
“In your town?” Ellery joked.
Jack’s grin was sardonic. “I know. I must be losing my touch.”
Once upon a time, and not so long ago, Ellery would have made some little jokey, flirty comment about Jack’s touch, but they had recently decided to, er, hold the position. The position being friends. Strictly friends. Without benefits.
Well, no, because there were definitely benefits to being friends. Ellery was glad they were friends. Sure, he would have liked to see where things might have gone with Jack, but he was a guy who could take no for an answer.
“Why do you think it took the owners so long to report the break-in?” Ellery asked, staring down a particularly large gull watching him from the white railing.
“Nobody noticed. The burglar climbed vines on a trellis and got in through an upstairs window. There isn’t any staff when the Bloodworths aren’t staying on the island. The caretaker is about a hundred years old.”
“Was the window unlocked?”
“Nope. They had to break in.”
A gull landed on the pebble top table and fastened its beady gaze on Ellery’s grinder. Jack snapped, “Hey.”
The gull jumped, offered an affronted squawk, and took flight, wings beating the sparkling air. A few of the other diners—including Ellery—jumped as well. Jack’s hey was pretty commanding, even when it was off-duty. Not that Buck Island’s police chief was ever really off-duty.
Ellery said, “Maybe you should cut down on the caffeine, Jack. Just sayin’.”
Jack muttered, “It takes all winter to train them not to beg, and the first week of summer, it’s like living through the movie The Birds.”
“Mm-hm.”
Ellery was mostly kidding, though Jack did seem a little wound-up lately.
Jack grimaced acknowledgment. “Maybe.”
“So what did the burglar get away with?”
“Several thousand dollars’ worth of antique sterling silver. Picture frames, trays, serving sets and, of course, a whole lot of silverware.”
“Small items easily disposed of?” Five months ago, Ellery had inherited the island’s only mystery bookshop, and he was now something of an armchair detective. Not that it took a detective, armchair or otherwise, to draw that conclusion.
“Correct.”
Ellery said bracingly, “You’ll get ’em. It’s an island. People talk. Someone knows who your bad guy or bad guys are.”
“Or bad girls.” Jack chose another French fry. Sunlight gleamed off his wedding band.
Ellery wasn’t sure when Jack had started wearing his ring again—but then, he couldn’t pinpoint when Jack had stopped wearing his ring. He had not worn it on their sole “date,” but it had reappeared in the weeks since.
Honestly? Better not to try to analyze what was happening there.
But it was confusing sometimes. Sometimes like now, when Jack’s gaze would catch his own and linger, linger, until Jack finally looked away. Or sometimes Ellery would glance up and find Jack studying him as though Ellery presented a puzzle Jack just couldn’t figure out.
His thoughts broke off as a woman sitting a couple of tables away from their own suddenly squealed, “NO! NO WAY!”
She plucked a small black envelope from her companion, tore it open, and pulled out the small card inside. A wisp of tissue paper drifted on the breeze and was snatched up by a kamikaze seagull.
The other woman laughed, watching her friend, and then winced when the first woman lightly bonked her on the head with the card.
“I don’t believe it!” the first woman exclaimed. “Why you?”
The second woman laughed again. People at neighboring tables also laughed.
“What the what?” Ellery glanced at Jack, who was watching the exchange with a resigned expression.
“It’s the same every year.”
“What’s the same?”
“The countdown for the last golden tickets to the chocolate factory.”
Ellery always found Jack’s familiarity with children’s literary classics kind of charming, but this time he didn’t get the reference.
“Huh?”
“The hullabaloo over who rates an invite to the Marauder’s Masquerade and who doesn’t.”
Hullabaloo. What a great word. Ellery made a mental note, said patiently, “I think you think that I know what you’re talking about.”
Jack looked surprised, started to speak, but was interrupted by the crackle of the radio mic on his shoulder.
“Chief? Chief?” cackled Officer Martin. “Are you there, Chief?”
Jack sighed, threw Ellery a look of apology, and rose from the table.
* * * * *
“The Marauder’s Masquerade is one of the biggest social events of the season. Certainly, the most prestigious.” Nora Sweeny, head of the now-defunct Pirate’s Cove Historical Society, and Ellery’s assistant at the Crow’s Nest, was talking in an animated fashion. Ostensibly to Ellery, but really to anyone in listening distance.
“That’s interesting,” Ellery said absently. “So it’s a ball? A masquerade ball?” He was mostly being polite, his real focus on shelving new stock from the morning’s shipment from HarperCollins.
“Yes. Exactly. A gala ball and ghost hunt.”
“Ghost hunt?” That caught Ellery’s attention. He wasn’t much for gala balls, but a ghost hunt? That sounded like fun.
“Yes. The ghost hunt is the main event.”
“Whose ghost is being hunted?”
Nora’s face screwed up in thought. She was a small, slight, seventy-something with the energy of a woman half her age and the inbred fortitude of seven generations of staunch New Englanders. “There’s a difference of opinion there. Some claim the ghost of Tom Blood walks among the gravestones and statues of his descendants. That seems rather unlikely, as Captain Blood went down with his crew when the Blood Red Rose was lost at sea.”
“If it’s not Captain Blood, then who is it?”
Nora loved mysteries. Especially the real-life historical ones. It was safe to assume she would have a theory.
“His bride. Maria Catalina Isabella de Fontana. A seventeen-year-old Spanish noblewoman Blood abducted and then wed—supposedly with her full and willing consent. Which, given her age, doesn’t mean much. When his ship went down, she threw herself into the sea.”
“That seems to happen a lot on this island,” Ellery commented. “I’m starting to wonder if there’s something in the water.”
Watson, Ellery’s six-month-old black spaniel-mix puppy, waddled over and curled up between Ellery’s feet with a groan reminiscent of an elderly man lowering himself into his easy chair. Ellery had nearly tripped over Watson twice that morning already, but Watson seemed to be suffering a mild case of separation anxiety.
“Has Ellery been invited to the Marauder’s Masquerade?” Mrs. Clarence demanded, dropping her pile of books onto the counter for Nora to ring up.
Ellery laughed at the idea.
“Not yet,” Nora said cheerfully, grabbing the first of Mrs. Clarence’s paperbacks and ringing it up. Mrs. Clarence was a fan of spy and espionage books. “I’m sure he will be.”
“Why would I be?” Ellery objected.
Mrs. Clarence said, “Everyone who’s anyone is invited. Isn’t that right, dear?”
Nora nodded. “Exactly right.”
“I repeat, why would I be invited?”
The ladies ignored him. Nora beamed at Mrs. Clarence. “Have you received your invite, dear?”
“Me?” Mrs. Clarence chuckled. She was somewhere in her late sixties, very tall, very blonde, sleek and surprisingly stylish for one of Pirate Cove’s matrons. “Oh, I don’t think I’m on the Bloodworths’ social radar.”
“You never know, Edna. Nora’s been invited to the Masquerade many times.” Mrs. Nelson’s voice floated from the Cozy Mystery section. Mrs. Nelson was another of Ellery’s regular customers, although maybe customer wasn’t the exact word, given that she returned as many books as she kept. She was a member of Tuesday night’s Silver Sleuths Book Club.
Thanks largely to Nora’s tireless efforts and, probably, her standing as one of Pirate Cove’s best-informed gossips, the Crow’s Nest was becoming one of the village’s unofficial community centers.
Nora looked regretful. “Not since I wrote that biography of Tom Blood for the Historical Society’s newsletter.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Clarence looked sympathetic. “I’ve always thought Marguerite lacked a sense of humor.”
The invisible Mrs. Nelson concurred.
Nora sighed. “It’s a shame. The spread they put on is magnificent. Nothing less than magnificent. But I refuse to whitewash history. Not for all the crab puffs in New England.”
Ellery faced out the final book, and wheeled the empty book cart back to the counter, followed by Watson. He reached the counter just as Mr. Starling, another of the Crow’s Nest regulars, joined Nora and Mrs. Clarence at the cash register. Ellery regretted ever bringing up the topic of the Marauder’s Masquerade.
“There’s some talk the Masquerade was nearly canceled this year,” Mr. Starling announced. “That’s why the invitations went out so late.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Clarence. “That would be the first time in nearly eighty years.”
“No, dear,” Mrs. Nelson called. “They didn’t hold the Masquerade during the war.”
“Where did you hear such a thing, Stanley?” Nora no doubt felt she had been scooped.
Mr. Starling’s news even brought Mrs. Nelson, broad and stalwart as a schooner, sailing out from behind the tall shelves. “Are you sure it’s true?”
Mr. Starling nodded solemnly. “I have it on the best authority.”
Nora’s gray eyes narrowed. “I suppose you mean Jonas Landry. How someone that loose-lipped has survived as a lawyer for fifty years boggles the mind.” She glanced at Ellery, read his expression correctly, and blushed.
“Have you been invited to the Masquerade, Mr. Starling?” Ellery threw over his shoulder, pushing the book cart into his office.
Mr. Starling made a noise that around the holidays would be classified as bah-humbug. “I have no interest in that kind of nonsense.”
The doorbell chimed, and a group of young women wearing sunglasses and toting shopping bags pushed inside. Tourists. Which meant they might actually sell some books that afternoon. Except… The day trippers took one look at the club meeting taking place at the sales desk, exchanged looks, and backed right out again.
Ellery swallowed his disappointment. It was hard to find the right balance. He didn’t want to offend his regulars, but the Crow’s Nest needed more business to survive. A lot more business.
Meanwhile…
“Yes, that would explain why the invitations are going out so late,” Mrs. Nelson was musing. “She handed over a single paperback to Nora. “I’ll take this one, Nora.”
“You’ve already purchased and returned that one twice,” Nora informed her.
“Have I?” Mrs. Nelson looked astonished. She studied the cartoony figures on the bright pastel cover. “Oh, I believe you’re right. It was the pastry chef, wasn’t it? Ellery, you’re really going to have to order more stock.”
“No way,” Ellery said. “Not until every single title of existing stock has been sold.”
The four of them gaped at him, and Ellery laughed. “Kidding. I just shelved a whole new shipment.”
Mrs. Nelson shook her head. She said to Nora, “He’s such an odd boy, isn’t he, dear?”
“But charming,” Mrs. Clarence put in.
This was too much for Mr. Starling. He grumbled something and headed for the door.
“Will we see you tonight, Stanley?” Nora called.
Mr. Starling waved his hand and growled something unintelligible. The bell on the door chimed cheerfully as he departed. The ladies at the counter smiled at each other.
“You must join our book club, dear,” Mrs. Nelson told Mrs. Clarence. “We’re reading Diana Killian’s Corpse Pose.”
“Still?” Ellery said. “Weren’t you reading that last month?”
Nora and Mrs. Nelson stared blankly at him, and Ellery put his hands up in surrender. “Okay. Whatever. So long as you’re enjoying yourselves.”
Nora smiled approvingly and then beamed in welcome as another customer made her way diffidently to the counter.
“What have we here?” Nora held up the book to her eyeline to gain a closer look. “Ah, Brandon Abbott’s last book. Very good. His books have been selling like hotcakes since…” Her gaze slid to Ellery. “Since the dreadful tragedy!” Nora finished cheerfully.
Ellery sighed and went to tear down the signage from last weekend’s sale.
Jordan L. Hawk is a trans author from North Carolina. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave him a life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When he isn’t writing, he brews his own beer and tries to keep the cats from destroying the house. His best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook.
If you want to contact Jordan, just click on the links below or send an email.
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.
Mary Calmes
Mary Calmes lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with her husband and two children and loves all the seasons except summer. She graduated from the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, with a bachelor's degree in English literature. Due to the fact that it is English lit and not English grammar, do not ask her to point out a clause for you, as it will so not happen. She loves writing, becoming immersed in the process, and falling into the work. She can even tell you what her characters smell like. She loves buying books and going to conventions to meet her fans.
Nico FlynnNico Flynn is all about stories that are heartwarming and steamy in equal measure, always with a healthy dose of humor. Bring on the snappy banter, mutual pining, and well-earned happy endings!
Nico lives a wild life out in the country with too many dogs, a family, video games, and a whole lot of books. If new releases suddenly stop, you can assume Nico was swallowed up by an out-of-control tomato plant or eaten by a bear.
After years of writing across age groups and genres in the traditional publishing arena, Nico is thrilled (and terrified) to finally be taking this first step on the indie side. It's a wide and wonderful world out here!
Josh LanyonBestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Jordan L Hawk
Frank W Butterfield
Mary Calmes
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