đI'm later than typical for my Best of postings but with my mom's passing last week everything was thrown upside down but it was always important to her that I had my blog as an outlet for "me time" so though it seems odd to do it right now, I'll continue because that's what she'd want.đ
2024 was a little less trying than 2023 until December. my reading mojo is slowly returning but not quite pre-Covid levels yet and I only read 150 books. So once again my Best of lists may be shorter but everything I read/listened to were so brilliant it was still a hard choice. So over the next few weeks I'll be featuring my Best Reads as well as Best ofs for my special day posts which are a combination of best reads and most viewed, I hope my Best of list helps you to find a new read, be it new-new or new-to-you or maybe it will help you to rediscover a forgotten favorite. Happy Reading and my heartfelt wish for everyone is that 2025 will be a year of recovery, growth, and in the world of reading a year of discovering a new favorite.
đI try to keep the purchasing links as current as possible but they've been known to change for dozens of reasons, in case any of those links no longer work be sure to check out the author's social media links for updated buying info.đ
Kill Me Sweetly by Davidson King
Summary:Saint Brothers #2
Sometimes reality is the nightmare you must conquer.
JJ has a good life. One where he lives with the people he loves, gets to work in Saintly Sweets with his delicious boyfriend, and takes things a day at a time. Of course, that is until he comes across a broken boy so lost in a nightmare, he vows to do everything he can to help him wake from it.
Thereâs nothing Shepard Saint wonât do for his JJ. Even help him figure out how to save someone that may be lost to the darkness. He knows this wonât be easy, and the deeper they go, the harder it becomes to climb out.
Shep, JJ, and the rest of the Saint brothers find themselves knee deep in the worst of humanity as they try to save a lot more than they bargained for. Saving people is something Shep and JJ are born to do, but when the enemy tries to destroy everything they love, they almost lose themselves to the evils of the world. Can the love they have for each other be enough to make it out alive or have they finally met an enemy far too powerful?
Kill Me Sweetly is book 2 in my Saint Brothers series. It can be read on its own but if youâre one for order, Slay Ride is book 1.
Original Review Book of the Month October 2024:
You'd think I would get tired of saying this but it's true and for that I never tire of mentioning it: Davidson King has done it again!!! Not that I ever any doubts that I was going to experience an entertaining read but her continued ability to harness the ever coveted "pulls the reader in" factor is just one of the greats of this book.
When I read Slay Ride last year, the book that introduced us to the Saint Brothers and their brand of justice, I knew JJ and Shep would be amazing together. Boy was I right. Kill Me Sweetly is definitely their story but I really love the inclusion of all the brothers as well as JJ's BFF and half of the starring couple in Slay Ride, Mason. Obviously all the Saints would be involved as they are a team but it was the inclusion of the amazing chemistry between all of the family and that's the best part, JJ and Mason are family too not just the significant other of 2 brothers.
I know that not everyone enjoys books with dual POVs but I find them to be among my favorites because we get to see a story from both characters and for me at least that helps to connect with them. From the lowest of the lows to the highest of the highs we feel and see everything which makes them more real and lets me feel I'm not just a reader on the outside looking in but right there in the room with them, a part of the story if you will not just an observer.
Now I won't go into too much detail so I don't spoil anything. Books with couples who are established prior to page one can lack a certain will-they-won't-they-go-get-them adrenaline rush but JJ and Shep quickly find themselves with a helluva loaded plate before them that in truth you'd expect the relationship part to take a backseat. Okay, perhaps it does but never so far back that there is ever any doubt where they stand in each other's lives and heart. To put it simply: they are just too darn cute together that I'll take any part of them the author gives us and let's face it, it's that chemistry and cute-iblity that drives them to do what is necessary to empty that loaded plate.
As for the mystery, the case of rescue and revenge JJ brings into the house. I'm not going to spill any deets. Won't spoil anything! I will say that darkness is there in droves. Personally, I'd say Slay Ride seemed to have more "on page" darkness, Kill Me Sweetly has plenty on page as well but IMO there seems to be more "hinting at". I'll try to briefly explain without spoiling, the darkness, the evil of the bad guys is definitely spelled out but I found my mind imagining the depth of the evil going far beyond the words. It's this imagining that put me inside the story right alongside the Saint Brothers dishing out their special brand of justice and why as a whole Kill Me Sweetly is far darker than Slay Ride. However you see it though just know the author gets your blood boiling and skin itching to help and that is what makes this a winning gem of storytelling masterpieces.
Personal observation that I've gotta add: if this is what ends up on paper/screen then what heights of devilish mayhem lurks in Davidson King's brain yet to be let out? I ain't saying it's a bad thing but I guess I'm thinking this is one woman you do not want to piss offđ. I'll admit, I feel blessed to be friends with her but know I only give truly honest reviews so that kindred spiritship does not factor into play when I review. I know she's an amazing woman, great wife, great mother, great daughter and great friend but when I read her stories I can't help but think that the margin of error for triggering her balance of whether her life story gets featured on ID's Deadly Women or made into a Hallmark movie is pretty darn slimđ. Either way the stories she brings us never fail to entertain and warm the heart, which is a an odd thing to say considering the usual darker tone of most of her books but I guess that blending of emotional response in me expresses my love of her storytelling acumen better than any other words I can think of.
Summary:
Bryson Franklin made bad choices in his past. When he inherits his grandparentsâ farm outside the small town of Willow River, however, he sees it as a chance for a fresh start. But patterns from his past resurface when Bryson takes up with Daniel Riggs, his bad boy neighbor, and he soon finds himself helping Daniel cover up a murder.
After Bryson breaks things off with Daniel, the kindness and attention of handsome sheriffâs deputy Sam LeClaire gives him hope, but when Daniel shows up on Brysonâs doorstep a year later, will Bryson be able to resist temptation?
Original Review October 2024:
Sometimes a good old fashioned mystery gets the blood pumping when Halloween is around the corner that can creep the reader out just as much if not more so sometimes than the more typically read paranormal tales. Buried Secrets is just one of those times. Hank Edwards combines heat, heart, internal doubts, and diabolical treachery in this "what will be gotten away with?" story. I say "what will be gotten away with" because though the truth is in question I had little doubts(though there are plenty of authors who like to throw in curveballs to keep the readers on their toes) as to the who but the why kept me on the edge of my seat and it was that "why" that had me thinking all sorts of troubles for the citizens of Willow River so for me it's less of a "who done it?" but a "why and what will be gotten away with?" mystery.
I suppose in a way my above statement makes you think Hank Edwards left clear answers or paths in the story but that's not true. I may have had little doubts but there was more than once that had me questioning my thought patterns. So just because I stated it the way I did, don't think I'm spoiling anything because Buried Secrets is just that: secrets buried everywhere.
As for the characters, well I don't want to dive too headfirst in and spoil it because the characters themselves hold certain mystery factors. I will say I wanted to shake Bryson to make him see that he's as good as anyone else but I understand internal doubts of the opposite. I guess I'm saying I wanted to give the poor guy the biggest Mama Bear Hug possible, then shake him, then hug again even tighter. Don't even get me started on Daniel, the blood boils and that's all I'm going to say on the matter. Sam the cop, he's the cop we all wished were living in every community but all too often don't see. And again, that's all I'll say so as not to spoil anything.
Buried Secrets is a story I stumbled across researching for my Halloween posts and I'm glad I did. I got mad, I got happy and all the feels in between. If you love a good mystery than Buried Secrets is for you and if you especially like them to counter or accompany your Halloween spooky times than again it's perfect October fare but any time of year you'll be sucked in and blown away.
In Memoriam by Alice Winn
Summary:
GMA BUZZ PICK âą INTERNATIONAL BEST SELLER AND AWARD WINNER âą A haunting, virtuosic debut novel about two young men who fall in love during World War I âą âWill live in your mind long after youâve closed the final pages.â âMaggie OâFarrell, best-selling author of Hamnet and The Marriage Portrait
A Best Book of the Year: The New Yorker, The Washington Post, NPR
âIn Memoriam is the story of a great tragedy, but it is also a moving portrait of young love.ââThe New York Times
Itâs 1914, and World War I is ceaselessly churning through thousands of young men on both sides of the fight. The violence of the front feels far away to Henry Gaunt, Sidney Ellwood and the rest of their classmates, safely ensconced in their idyllic boarding school in the English countryside. News of the heroic deaths of their friends only makes the war more exciting.
Gaunt, half German, is busy fighting his own private battle--an all-consuming infatuation with his best friend, the glamorous, charming Ellwood--without a clue that Ellwood is pining for him in return. When Gaunt's family asks him to enlist to forestall the anti-German sentiment they face, Gaunt does so immediately, relieved to escape his overwhelming feelings for Ellwood. To Gaunt's horror, Ellwood rushes to join him at the front, and the rest of their classmates soon follow. Now death surrounds them in all its grim reality, often inches away, and no one knows who will be next.
An epic tale of both the devastating tragedies of war and the forbidden romance that blooms in its grip, In Memoriam is a breathtaking debut.
Original Review Book of the Month November 2024:
How in the world did I not know about this book last year?!?!?!?! So good!!! And again, another new author for me, Alice Winn is a debut author so really the author is new to everyone, but why quibble over semanticsđ?
In Memoriam is a slow build, intricately told tale of different points in time, at least the first several chapters after a point it mostly stays on track chronologically. Some might find the time jumping a bit confusing but everything is well labeled so I had no issues. Ellwood and Gaunt will suck you in, break your heart, make you smile, bring you to tears, make you angry, and even make you chuckle here and there but it will also(most importantly) make you think about things that are still so very(unfortunately) relevant today.
The balance of love and horrors of war is so incredibly real, you can just feel both coming off the page and hitting you in the chest. The attention to detail can be hard to read at times but if you are reading a story about WW1 then you need to understand the scope of what reality was like for both the men in the trenches, in the hospitals, and the families back home. Now in In Memoriam the homefront scenes are not huge, are not significant page-wise but they are so significant story-wise. We also see the men back in England as well and what it was like for them, I don't want to spoil the situations and scenarios that happen at that point so I won't say more just that again, the author hits you in all the feels.
The person who rec'd this story to me said it could be the next The Song of Achilles and I've seen that statement mentioned in a few other reviews as well. I gotta tell you, I have not read Achilles yet but I've heard good things about it and if it's half as good as In Memoriam then it definitely is going on my 2025 TBR list. And Alice Winn has earned a spot on my authors-to-watch list because when an author hits you in all the feels multiple times throughout the book then I know I've found a gem to be respected and recommendable.
Nick Williams Mystery #29
Wednesday, November 24, 1965
It's the day before Thanksgiving and Nick and Carter have been in Paris for nearly a month when an early-morning call brings the news they've both been dreading for three years: Louis Jones Richardson, Carter's mother, has passed away in her sleep. The funeral will be on Monday in her hometown of Albany, Georgia.
With that, Nick is determined to find a way to get into Georgia since, in 1953, he and Carter signed an agreement they wouldn't enter the state without permission. And, in spite of the sad circumstances, neither the district attorney in Albany nor the state's attorney general are inclined to let them in.
Help comes in the form of two of their operatives: Tom Jarrell and Ronnie Grisham.
Meeting up in Miami on Thanksgiving Day, the four of them make the trek north and surreptitiously cross the Georgia-Florida state line in the early morning hours of Friday.
At Belle Terre, a plantation-style house nestled between cotton fields and the banks of the Flint River south of Albany, Nick and Carter begin to play hosts to friends and family who come by to pay their respects, since neither man will be able to safely show their faces on the day of the funeral.
But then something unexpected happens that turns a time for grieving into a devastating tragedy...
Original Review November 2024:
Once again I jumped ahead as I was in search of Turkey Day stories(and there aren't many of them in any genre but especially LGBTQ) and this time the jump was about 10 years or so. I wasn't lost by any means but there were a few characters and a few tidbits of info that had occurred in Nick and Carter's universe that I had not discovered yet but there was a scene where some backstory was given to a new-to-me couple who had not been aware of all the little facts that transpired over the years relating to Georgia. It was this scene that helped fill in a few blanks as well as refresh my mind on a few things I had experienced but overall it made me hungry to learn those missing years in 2025, always nice to have something to look forward to.
Onto The Redemptive Riflemen.
I would say(of those I've read) this one had less on the mystery front but it wasn't lacking in moments of danger for the men and their found family. I don't want to give anything away so this review will be shorter than most. Nick and Carter are just as in love as ever and their circle continues to grow but it has also lost a member as they are trying to find a way to give Carter's mom a proper goodbye when they aren't allowed back in Georgia. Never fear, their found family pulls together and finds a way, though not quite as involved as I'm sure the men would like to be in the final send off but sometimes being close and surrounded by loved ones is all that's needed. Just so much love all around that it can't help but make your heart warm and what better holiday than Thanksgiving to help them, and the reader, feel the love and thankfulness.
One little personal sidenote: As with the other entries(the one's I've read anyways) involving Carter's Georgia history, there is mention of the Klan. It made me think of how this spring after watching something on TV my dad mentioned how he remembers his dad telling stories of the Klan being around when he was younger. This is not in the South, we're Wisconsinites and have been for several generations so it really struck me how far reaching hatred and bigotry reached even in my grandparents generation. With Frank W Butterfield's Nick and Carter universe he helps to show just how far we've come, granted we have a long way to go(and unfortunately in this country recent events have shown we may be in for a bit of setback in the coming 4 years) but as heart-hurting as N&C's experiences are they do give one hope by showing the contrast of yesteryear to today, and more specifically how far we had come just within the timeframe of their journey. This may not have been something the author set out to do and not every reader may find it but Nick and Carter's journey brings a layer of comfort to me and for that I have to say a huge "thank you" to Mr. Butterfield.
A Christmas for Holly by RJ Scott
Summary:
Wishing Tree, Vermont #2
Trapped in a snowstorm, Paul and Lucas find that unresolved feelings from a single, impulsive kiss could spark something deeper, leading them toward the most magical Christmas miracles.
The festive season offers nothing but despair for Paul âHollyâ Hollister, the once-proud captain of the Albany Harriers. His once-glittering hockey career has crumbled, leaving him crippled with anxiety and without a sense of direction. After a stint in rehab, Holly is desperate for peaceâsomething his best friend Kai seems to have found in the snowy town of Wishing Tree. Despite his hatred for the cold, Holly is drawn there by friendshipâand by the unsettling dreams of Lucas Haynes, the man he drunkenly kissed at Kai and Baileyâs wedding and hasnât been able to forget since. The only problem? Lucas is determined to keep him at armâs length.
Lucas Haynes has never felt a romantic pull toward anyoneâuntil that unexpected kiss with Holly at his brotherâs wedding flipped his world upside down. Finding out Holly was already in a relationship afterward had only fueled his frustration and his decision to avoid the hockey star. But now that Holly is in Wishing Tree, single and adrift, Lucas canât deny the attraction that still simmers between them. When a snowstorm traps them together, Lucasâ sarcasm and distrust slowly crumble under Hollyâs vulnerability. As secrets come to light, old wounds are reopened, and the undeniable spark between them grows into something more, Lucas starts to wonder if this closeness could be the love he never thought heâd findâand if Holly might get the second chance at happiness he so desperately needs.
A Christmas for Holly is an opposites-attract, hurt/comfort, Christmas romance featuring a retired hockey captain with crippling anxiety, a guarded gift store owner grappling with unexpected attraction, unresolved tension from a drunken wedding kiss, a charming small town blanketed in snow, meddling but loving family, and a snowstorm that brings honesty and vulnerability to lightâleading to a heartwarming holiday happily ever after.
Original Review Book of the Month December 2024:
Due to some family health issues this won't be as long a review as I typically do. Also, due to those health issues it took me a bit longer to read A Christmas for Holly than usual as well but don't for a minute think if was because RJ Scott's 2024 Xmas story wasn't as good as any of her others, because it was brilliant. Not only was the story full of love, friendship, chemistry, family, drama, healing, and all around heart it also included some Thanksgiving talk which is hard to find in the LGBT genre.
There are early moments where you want to give Holly a smack but at the same time it is pretty obvious he is dealing with some internal issues so despite the hurt he causes you just want to wrap him a huge Mama Bear Hug. As a caregiver, I appreciate the patience Lucas has, probably more than I would have in that situation. There is just so much packed into this holiday fare, you can't help but feel completely enveloped by the emotions of the season and connected to all the characters. Truly an all around holiday entertaining gem.
And if you've read The Wishing Tree(book 1), you get a glimpse of Kai and Bailey as well and their story was such a lovely read that getting to see them again was just the bow on the package. If you have yet to read Wishing Tree, Vermont book 1, you won't be lost as they are separate couples with their own stories but I think knowing their journey helps paint a more complete picture.
Kill Me Sweetly by Davidson King
Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you canât help them, at least donât hurt them. ~Dalai Lama
CHAPTER ONE
JJ (JAXON)
I adored Shepard Saint.I really, really did. It had been two and half years since heâd entered my world and the second Iâd laid eyes on that man, Iâd known my life would never be the same.
Granted, weâd met under serious duress. My best friend forever, Mason, had been assaulted, and the five Saint brothers: Shep, Angel, Noel, Nick, and Gabeânow his forever loveâhad come to his rescue. Then theyâd kidnapped him.âŠPeople are weird. Anyway, turned out the Saint brothers had been righting a lot of wrongs. Some seriously high-powered people had killed their foster parents and sister, and by happenstance, weâd later found out that the fire Masonâs folks had been killed in was set by these bigwigs whoâd wanted to own the whole town.
Of course, drama breeds dramaâand that had ended up exposing a human trafficking ring, and again Mason had been taken and hurt so badly. My sweet friend was never the same after that, but the light was slowly returning to his eyes.
Weâd rescued two amazing kids from the clutches of their parents and these disgusting assholes. Heather and Andrew Gilly were happily living with their aunt Tessa and in the two-years-plus that had passed, theyâd made huge strides.
Every person responsible for the pain theyâd causedâŠwell, they were dead. Weird, right? Donât answer thatâplausible deniability!
When we left that town of nightmares and moved across the country, Mason bought a plot of land and built a big house on it so we could all live together while not being on top of each other. If you hadnât guessed, my BFF was loaded.
We started a business to protect and help people. Angel was very passionate about it and while Gabe and Mason took part, they didnât have too much on their plate with regard to clients. Business was slow, and that had a lot to do with the fact that we werenât advertising. I mean, it wasnât like we could say, âWant someone dead? Weâre here for you.â
So, Shep, my hunk of a man who loves to cook, opened a bakery, which was also a front for our murder-ish business. This past year with no drama had forced Shep and me to really see who we were and if we could be something without all the gunfire and mayhem.
It was challenging, but like my dad always said, âIf you can take all the parts you donât like about someone and say the good far outweighs the bad, itâs worth fighting for.â
That was what weâd been doing, fighting for each other. A day at a time. I mean, the good did outweigh the bad. The sex wasâŠamazing. See, Shep was a big guy in all areas: Six foot three, he was broad with mouthwatering muscles. Brown hair with hints of red adorned his beard, and his Viking hairstyle was to die forâshaved on the sides and long and thick down the middle. And those eyes, blue like the most gorgeous sea. Whenever his gaze met mine, I turned to goo. And that whiskey-rough voiceâŠ
More than that, he was a good man. He cared about me a lot. He was ridiculously observant, and all I needed to do was sigh, and heâd be like, âWhatâs up, babe?â He was also my first-ever boyfriend. I didnât commit, but with life being what it wasâŠtwo years had sped by, and here we were. Together. Why was I afraid of us, when at the same time I couldnât imagine us not being together?
Iâd have to figure this all out, and soon. Shep was getting antsy with my odd mood swings, and that wasnât fair to him. He knew I wasnât sure what the future held, and all he wanted was a future with me.
I pulled the covers off my body. It was morning, and Iâd promised Shep Iâd run to the store and pick up the flour and eggs he needed for a wedding cake he was making. I stared at the empty side of the bed, which was cold to the touch. Heâd been up for hours, unable to sleep past six. Not meâIâd sleep all day if youâd let me.
The clock read eight thirty, so I had to shake my butt. He was getting started on the cake at ten. Fortunately, the store was only two blocks from his bakery, and the weather appeared to be perfect, so Iâd be able to park and walk it.
After a quick shower, I brushed my teeth and combed my blond hair out of my face. I needed a haircut. I wasnât ugly; I was good-looking, actually. But very different from Shep. I was blond with green eyes, five foot seven, and while I wasnât lanky, I didnât have muscles. I had defined skinâŠsure, weâll go with that.
I left the bedroom and the house was quiet, which meant everyone was already out for the day, because no one in this house slept late. Did nobody appreciate sleeping in?
In the kitchen, Mason sat at the table with his laptop open.
âMorning,â I said as I went straight for the coffeepot.
âHey, youâre up early for you.â
I rolled my eyes and poured the sweet nectar into my mug.
âI see you woke up and chose sass for the day.â I moved over to the table with my coffee and sat with him.
âAlways.â He smiled and went back to whatever was pulling his attention to the screen.
âWhat are you doing?â
âNothing really. Angel, Nick, and Noel left to help some client and they canât find any decent lodging, and then the twins started fighting and Angel called me.â
I nodded into my cup. Sounded right. Noel and Nick were identical twins with similar personalities, but boy could they fight. Poor Angel for being stuck with them.
âYouâre trying to find a place for them?â
âI am.â
âYouâre kind.â I drained my cup and brought it to the sink to rinse out.
âI just donât want Angel to drive the car down an embankment and kill them all. We just bought the thing.â
Chuckling, I opened the pantry and grabbed the reusable bags for shopping. âI love how your concern is for the car and not the lives.â
He shrugged. He adored the brothers, as did I. No one would ever question that.
âIâm off to go get my man some flour and eggs.â
âHave a good day.â He was distracted, so I kissed the top of his head and left.
We had several cars, which was nice. Nothing ostentatious, thankfully. I often opted for one of the SUVs, and today it was the Traverse. Iâd drive to the bakery and walk to the store. While the bakery was close to where I had to shop, it was a good twenty minutes to get there, and I wasnât one of those âExercise is fun,â kinds of people.
As I pulled the SUV up next to his motorcycleâbecause my boyfriend, he was that kind of guyâI noticed the bakery was buzzing. I was thrilled it was doing so well. Heâd even had to hire someone to man the register, and I knew heâd need more help soon. I loved assisting him, and Iâd continue to do so until then.
I bypassed going in, knowing heâd distract me, and walked along the street toward the little mom-and-pop grocery store.
The day was really perfect, and I couldnât help but smile as the sun shone, the birds chirped, people laughed, the boy stared at the dumpster, the⊠Hold on a moment.
I took a few steps back and double-checked the alley. Yep, there was someone leering at the dumpster. He couldnât have been very old, maybe sixteen. He was filthy, no shoes or socks on his feet, rags for clothes. He was covered in dirt, and I couldnât tell much else about him.
I looked up and down the sidewalk, and while I should have texted someone something like, âHey, guess what? I found a dirty man who might be insane and eat my face, but I decided to take a chance. Pray for me,â I didnât. I just took a few steps closer.
âHey.â
Nothing. Not a twitch, nothing at all.
âAre you okay?â I asked a little louder.
Still no movement. âMy name is JJ, whatâs yours?â
Okay, was he a lifelike mannequin or something? That would be so embarrassing. No, I was able to see his chest rise and fall.
âAre you hungry? I was just going to the grocery store; I can get you something.â
Shit. I was going to have to nudge him. I put my bags on the ground, slipped my hand into my pocket to grip the knife Shep demanded I carry at all times, and stepped a little closer to the man.
âHello, can you hear me?â Maybe he was deaf. I poked his arm with my finger and he did a slow pan, stopping when he met my eyes.
âYou donât look so great. Can I help you?â
He cocked his head but still didnât talk. His eyes were brownâthat much I could tell. And vacant, like the lights were on but nobody was home.
I held out my hand to him, silently praying he didnât attack. âCome on, I can get you some food.â
He stared at my hand for a beat then back at me. I watched as he lifted his arm and placed hisâoh Lordâbloody hand into mine.
âThereâs a bakery right over here, has cupcakes and muffins, whatever you want.â
I started to walk, glad that he came with me. Maybe once he sat, ate, and got cleaned up, weâd be able to figure out what was going on.
One thing I was sure of was that Shep wasnât gonna be happy.
Buried Secrets by Hank Edwards
Bryson set his coffee cup in the stainless steel sink on his way to the front of the house, proud that his stride didnât falter when he saw the sheriff and Sam waiting on the other side of the screen door.
âSheriff Billings,â Bryson said, keeping his tone as level as possible as he opened the door. âThis is a surprise.â He nodded to Deputy Sam LeClaire who stood just behind the sheriff, and then he flashed what he hoped was a calm, innocent smile at the both of them. Bryson thought he saw something in Samâs expression, but the sheriff started talking and Bryson was forced to look away from him.
âHopefully not a bad surprise,â Billings said. âHow are things out here?â
Bryson shrugged. âFine. Iâve been doing some fix up chores around the place, and I planted a vegetable garden out back. Itâs kind of small, but Iâm hoping to get at least one of the fields planted next year. Try and get some of the old Franklin magic back.â
âJust you here?â Billings asked.
Bryson nodded as the first twist of fear tightened within his gut. âYep. Just me.â He pushed the door open wide. âCare to come in and see for yourself?â
âIf itâs not an imposition,â Billings said. âDeputy LeClaire and I would surely love a cup of joe.â
âOh, yeah, I could put on a fresh pot,â Bryson said as the men stepped past him into the house.
âNo coffee for me, thanks,â Sam said with a smile that seemed genuine and maybe something more. Nervous? Bashful? Bryson tried to follow the train of thought, tried to find a moment to study the curve of his jaw, the pointed chin, the prominent Adamâs apple that begged to be kissed. But the sheriff kept talking, forcing Bryson to turn his attention to Billings as he walked along the hallway toward the kitchen.
âWell, if the deputy isnât partaking, I can wait until we get back to town for a fresh cup, I guess,â Billings said. By then he had reached the kitchen and stood looking around the room as if inspecting the place.
âYou sure?â Bryson asked. âItâs no trouble. Iâll probably end up making a fresh pot in a few hours anyway, just save me the trouble later.â
âWell, since youâre offering.â Billings smiled, showing small teeth that made Bryson think of those dolls from years ago that came with teeth, and he had to fight to suppress a shudder. Bryson got busy making the coffee and said over his shoulder, âSo besides the coffee, what brings you out my way?â
âSure itâs just you here in the house?â Billings asked.
Bryson frowned and faced the men. âWhatâs this about, sheriff?â
âJust us here?â Billings repeated.
âYes, of course,â Bryson replied, the fear twisting inside him like hot barbed wire. âWho else were you expecting?â
âNot sure, to be honest,â Billings said and pulled out a chair at the table, then looked up at Bryson. âMay I?â
âPlease, of course.â Bryson started the coffee maker and faced the men. The sheriff was seated at the table, his hands folded before him and his small eyes locked on Bryson. Sam stood a few feet behind the sheriff, hat in hand, a sheepish, apologetic, expression on his handsome face that seemed, interestingly enough, still alert and watchful.
âYouâre a fit young man, out here all alone,â Billings continued. âShame to see you waste your youth in such isolation.â
âIâm not isolated. Iâve got Internet access here, and I get into town now and then for dinner or lunch and shopping. Meet some friends for drinks on occasion.â
âFriends?â Billings turned to look at Sam. âYou hear of Bryson meeting anyone in town?â
âWhat?â Sam looked at Billings with wide eyes, as if the sheriffâs question had startled him out of some deep thoughts. âOh, I donât know. Iâm not sure.â
Billings stared at Sam a moment in silence, then turned back to Bryson. âWell, I havenât heard of you meeting anyone in town. Who might that be? These friends of yours?â
Bryson looked between the men, then focused his attention on the sheriff. âAm I in trouble for something?â
âI donât know, Mr. Franklin, are you?â Billings asked.
In Memoriam by Alice Winn
ONE
Ellwood was a prefect, so his room that year was a splendid one, with a window that opened onto a strange outcrop of roof. He was always scrambling around places he shouldnât. It was Gaunt, however, who truly loved the roof perch. He liked watching boys dipping in and out of Fletcher Hall to pilfer biscuits, prefects swanning across the grass in Court, the organ master coming out of Chapel. It soothed him to see the school functioning without him, and to know that he was above it. Ellwood also liked to sit on the roof. He fashioned his hands into guns and shot at the passers-by.
âBloody Fritz! Got him in the eye! Take that home to the Kaiser!â
Gaunt, who had grown up summering in Munich, did not tend to join in these soldier games.
Balancing The Preshutian on his knee as he turned the page, Gaunt finished reading the last âIn Memoriam.â He had known seven of the nine boys killed. The longest âIn Memoriamâ was for Clarence Roseveare, the older brother of one of Ellwoodâs friends. As to Gauntâs own friendâand enemyâCuthbert-Smith, a measly paragraph had sufficed to sum him up. Both boys, The Preshutian assured him, had died gallant deaths. Just like every other Preshute student who had been killed so far in the War.
âPow!â muttered Ellwood beside him. âAuf Wiedersehen!â
Gaunt took a long drag of his cigarette and folded up the paper.
âTheyâve got rather more to say about Roseveare than about Cuthbert-Smith, havenât they?â
Ellwoodâs guns turned back to hands. Nimble, long-fingered, ink-stained.
âYes,â he said, patting his hair absentmindedly. It was dark and unruly. He kept it slicked back with wax, but lived in fear of a stray curl coming unfixed and drawing the wrong kind of attention to himself. âYes, I thought that was a shame.â
âShot in the stomach!â Gauntâs hand went automatically to his own. He imagined it opened up by a streaking piece of metal. Messy.
âRoseveareâs cut up about his brother,â said Ellwood. âThey were awfully close, the three Roseveare boys.â
âHe seemed all right in the dining hall.â
âHeâs not one to make a fuss,â said Ellwood, frowning. He took Gauntâs cigarette, scrupulously avoiding touching Gauntâs hand as he did so. Despite Ellwoodâs tactile relationship with his other friends, he rarely laid a finger on Gaunt unless they were play-fighting. Gaunt would have died rather than let Ellwood know how it bothered him.
Ellwood took a drag and handed the cigarette back to Gaunt.
âI wonder what my âIn Memoriamâ would say,â he mused.
âââVain boy dies in freak umbrella mishap. Investigations pending.âââ
âNo,â said Ellwood. âNo, I think something more like âEnglish literature today has lost its brightest starâ.â.â.â!âââ He grinned at Gaunt, but Gaunt did not smile back. He still had his hand on his stomach, as if his guts would spill out like Cuthbert-Smithâs if he moved it. He saw Ellwood take this in.
âIâd write yours, you know,â said Ellwood, quietly.
âAll in verse, I suppose.â
âOf course. As Tennyson did, for Arthur Hallam.â
Ellwood frequently compared himself to Tennyson and Gaunt to Tennysonâs closest friend. Mostly, Gaunt found it charming, except when he remembered that Arthur Hallam had died at the age of twenty-two and Tennyson had spent the next seventeen years writing grief poetry. Then Gaunt found it all a bit morbid, as if Ellwood wanted him to die, so that he would have something to write about.
Gaunt had kneed Cuthbert-Smith in the stomach, once. How different did a bullet feel from a blow?
âYour sister thought Cuthbert-Smith was rather good-looking,â said Ellwood. âShe told me at Lady Asquithâs, last summer.â
âDid she?â asked Gaunt, unenthusiastically. âAwfully nice of her to confide in you like that.â
âMaudâs A1,â said Ellwood, standing abruptly. âCapital sort of girl.â A bit of slate crumbled under his feet and fell to the ground, three stories below.
âChrist, Elly, donât do that!â said Gaunt, clutching the window ledge. Ellwood grinned and clambered back into the bedroom.
âCome on in, itâs wet out there,â he said.
Gaunt hurriedly took another breath of smoke and dropped his cigarette down a drainpipe. Ellwood was splayed out on the sofa, but when Gaunt sat on his legs, he curled them hastily out of the way.
âYou loathed Cuthbert-Smith,â said Ellwood.
âYes. Well. I shall miss loathing him.â
Ellwood laughed.
âYouâll find someone new to hate. You always do.â
âUndoubtedly,â said Gaunt. But that wasnât the point. He had written nasty poems about Cuthbert-Smith, and Cuthbert-Smith (Gaunt was almost certain it was him) had scrawled, âHenry Gaunt is a German SPYâ on the wall of the library cloakroom. Gaunt had punched him for that, but he would never have shot him in the stomach.
âI think I believe heâll be back next term, smug and full of tall tales from the front,â said Ellwood, slowly.
âMaybe none of them will come back.â
âThat sort of defeatist attitude will lose us the War.â Ellwood cocked his head. âHenry. Old Cuthbert-Smith was an idiot. He probably walked straight into a bullet for a lark. Thatâs not what it will be like when we go.â
âIâm not signing up.â
Ellwood wrapped his arms around his knees, staring at Gaunt.
âRot,â he said.
âIâm not against all war,â said Gaunt. âIâm just against this war. âGerman militarismââas if we didnât hold our empire through military might! Why should I get shot at because some Austrian archduke was killed by an angry Serb?â
âBut Belgiumââ
âYes, yes, Belgian atrocities,â said Gaunt. They had discussed all this before. They had even debated it, and Ellwood had beaten him, 596 votes to 4. Ellwood would have won any debate: the school loved him.
âBut you have to enlist,â said Ellwood. âIf the War is even still on when we finish school.â
âWhy? Because you will?â
Ellwood clenched his jaw and looked away.
âYou will fight, Gaunt,â he said.
âOh, yes?â
âYou always fight. Everyone.â Ellwood rubbed a small flat spot on his nose with one finger. He often did that. Gaunt wondered if Ellwood resented that he had punched it there. They had only fought once. It hadnât been Gaunt who started it.
âI donât fight you,â he said.
âÏÎœáż¶ÎžÎč ÏΔαÏ
ÏÏÎœ,â said Ellwood.
âI do know myself!â said Gaunt, lunging at Ellwood to smother him with a pillow, and for a moment neither of them could talk, because Ellwood was squirming and shrieking with laughter while Gaunt tried to wrestle him off the sofa. Gaunt was strong, but Ellwood was quicker, and he slipped through Gauntâs arms and fell to the floor, helpless with laughter. Gaunt hung his head over the side, and they pressed their foreheads together.
âFighting like this, you mean?â said Gaunt, when they had got their breath back. âWrestle the Germans to death?â
Ellwood stopped laughing, but he didnât move his forehead. They were still for a moment, hard skull against hard skull, until Ellwood pulled away and leant his face into Gauntâs arm.
All of Gauntâs muscles tensed at the movement. Ellwoodâs breath was hot. It reminded Gaunt of his dog back home, Trooper. Perhaps that was why he ruffled Ellwoodâs hair, his fingers searching for strands the wax had missed. He hadnât stroked Ellwoodâs hair in years, not since they were thirteen-year-olds in their first year at Preshute and he would find Ellwood huddled in a heap of tears under his desk.
But they were in Upper Sixth now, their final year, and almost never touched each other.
Ellwood was very still.
âYouâre like my dog,â said Gaunt, because the silence was heavy with something.
Ellwood tugged away.
âThanks.â
âItâs a good thing. Iâm very fond of dogs.â
âRight. Anything youâd like me to fetch? Iâm starting to get the hang of newspapers, although my teeth still leave marks.â
âDonât be daft.â
Ellwood laughed a little unhappily.
âIâm sad about Roseveare and Cuthbert-Smith too, you know,â he said.
âOh, yes,â said Gaunt. âAnd Straker. Remember how you two used to tie the younger boys to chairs and beat them all night?â
It had been years since Ellwood bullied anyone, but Gaunt knew he was still ashamed of the vein of ungovernable violence that burnt through him. Just last term, Gaunt had seen him cry tears of rage when he lost a cricket match. Gaunt hadnât cried since he was nine.
âStraker and I were much less rotten than the boys in the year above were to us,â said Ellwood, his face red. âCharlie Pritchard shot us with rifle blanks.â
Gaunt smirked, conscious that he was taunting Ellwood because he felt he had embarrassed himself by touching his hair. It was the sort of thing Ellwood did to other boys all the time, he reasoned with himself. Yes, a voice answered. But never to him.
âI wasnât close with Straker, anyway,â said Ellwood. âHe was a brute.â
âAll your friends are brutes, Ellwood.â
âIâm tired of all this.â Ellwood stood. âLetâs go for a walk.â
They were forbidden to leave their rooms during prep, so they had to slip quietly out of Cemetery House. They crept down the back stairs, past the study where their housemaster, Mr. Hammick, was berating a Shell boy for sneaking. (Preshute was a younger public school, and eagerly used the terminology of older, more prestigious institutions: Shell for first year, Remove for second, Hundreds for third, followed by Lower and Upper Sixth.)
âIt is a low and dishonourable thing, Gosset. Do you wish to be low and dishonourable?â
âNo, sir,â whimpered the unfortunate Gosset.
âPoor chap,â said Ellwood when they had shut the back door behind them. They walked down the gravel path into the graveyard that gave Cemetery House its name. âThe Shell have been perfectly beastly to him, just because he told them all on his first day that he was a duke.â
âIs he?â asked Gaunt, skimming the tops of tombstones with his fingertips as he walked.
âYes, he is, but thatâs the sort of thing one ought to let people discover. Itâs rather like me introducing myself by saying, âHello, Iâm Sidney Ellwood, Iâm devastatingly attractive.â Itâs not for me to say.â
âIf youâre waiting for me to confirm your vanityââ
âI wouldnât dream of it,â said Ellwood with a cheery little skip. âI havenât had a compliment from you in about three months. I know, because I always write them down and put them in a drawer.â
âPeacock.â
âWell, the point is, Gosset has been thoroughly sat on by the rest of his form, and I feel awfully sorry for him.â
They were coming to the crumbling Old Priory at the bottom of the graveyard. It was getting colder and wetter as night fell. The sky darkened to navy blue, and in the wind their tailcoats billowed. Gaunt hugged his arms around himself. There was something expectant about winter evenings at Preshute. It was the contrast, perhaps, between the hulking hills behind the school, the black forest, the windswept meadows, all so silentâand the crackling loudness of the boys when you returned to House. Walking through the empty fields, they might have been the only people left alive. Ellwood lived in a grand country estate in East Sussex, but Gaunt had grown up in London. Silence was distinctly magical.
âListen,â said Ellwood, closing his eyes and tilting up his face. âCanât you just imagine the Romans thrashing the Celts if youâre quiet?â
They stopped.
Gaunt couldnât imagine anything through the silence.
âDo you believe in magic?â he asked. Ellwood paused for a while, so long that if he had been anyone else, Gaunt might have repeated the question.
âI believe in beauty,â said Ellwood, finally.
âYes,â said Gaunt, fervently. âMe too.â He wondered what it was like to be someone like Ellwood, who contributed to the beauty of a place, rather than blighting it.
âItâs a form of magic, all this,â said Ellwood, walking on. âCricket and hunting and ices on the lawn on summer afternoons. England is magic.â
Gaunt had a feeling he knew what Ellwood was going to say next.
âThatâs why weâve got to fight for it.â
Ellwoodâs England was magical, thought Gaunt, picking his way around nettles. But it wasnât England. Gaunt had been to the East End once, when his mother took him to give soup and bread to Irish weavers. There had been no cricket or hunting or ices, there. But Ellwood had never been interested in ugliness, whereas Gauntâbecause of Maud, perhaps, because she read Bernard Shaw and Bertrand Russell and wrote mad things about the colonies in her lettersâfeared that ugliness was too important to ignore.
âDo you remember the Peloponnesian War?â said Gaunt.
Ellwood let out a breathy laugh. âHonestly, Gaunt, I donât know why I bother with you. We skipped prep so that we wouldnât have to think about Thucydides.â
âAthens was the greatest power in Europe, perhaps even the world. They had democracy, art, splendid architecture. But Sparta was almost as powerful. Not quite, but close enough. And Sparta was militaristic.â
âIs this a parable, Gaunt? Are you Christ?â
âAnd so the Athenians fought the Spartans.â
âAnd they lost,â said Ellwood, kicking at a rotting log.
âYes.â
Ellwood didnât answer for a long time.
âWe wonât lose,â he said, finally. âWeâre the greatest empire thatâs ever been.â
They were in Hundreds the first time they got drunk together. Gaunt was sixteen and Ellwood fifteen. Pritchard had somehowââat great personal cost,â he told them darklyâconvinced his older brother to give him five bottles of cheap whisky. They locked themselves in the bathroom at the top of Cemetery House: Pritchard, West, Roseveare, Ellwood, and Gaunt. Ellwood, Gaunt later discovered, had insisted on buying his bottle off Pritchard. Ellwood had a morbid fear of being perceived as miserly.
West spat his first mouthful of whisky into the sink. He was a big-eared, clumsy, disastrous sort of person: stupid at lessons, average at games, a cheerful failure.
âChrist alive! Thatâs abominable stuff,â he said. His tie was crooked. It always was, no matter how many times he was punished for sloppiness.
âKeep drinking,â advised Roseveare, from his lazy position on the floor. Gaunt glanced at him and noticed with some irritation that, even dishevelled, he was immaculate. He was the youngest of three perfect Roseveare boys, each more exemplary than the last, and he was good-looking in a careless, gilded way that Gaunt resented.
âI quite like it,â said Ellwood, turning his bottle to look at the label. âPerhaps I shall develop a habit. I think Byron had a habit.â
âSo do monks,â said Gaunt.
âThat was nearly funny, Gaunt,â said Roseveare encouragingly. âYouâll get there.â
The Redemptive Rifleman by Frank W Butterfield
6, rue Catherine la Grande
Paris, France
Wednesday, November 24, 1965
4:04 p.m.
"Nick?"
"Good morning, Dr. Sylvester." Dr. Ernest Sylvester was a psychoanalyst I'd been seeing and talking to over the phone since the summer of '60, nearly five and a half years.
"Good morning. Or should I say, 'Good afternoon'?"
I chuckled.
"What can I help you with? I think this may be our first Wednesday appointment."
"Yeah." I took a deep breath and looked around. I was sitting in the library of our house in Paris, right under the kitchen and right above the Turkish bath. I had pulled the big, black phone over to the love seat and was curled up on it, something I rarely did.
"Nick? What's happened?"
"Well, first things first. Thanks for meeting with me so early. I wasn't sure if you'd be able to do so at 7 in the morning. And I'm sorry they called and woke you up in the middle of the night."
"I'm at home and, of course, will be billing you for this phone call."
I laughed. "Of course."
There was a crackling silence over the phone. I could hear the echo of another conversation happening. The callers were speaking French and, as usual, I understood none of it. That reminded me of something important I had to say. "Before we start, I wanna remind you about Uncle Chester." That was our code word which meant that it was likely someone was listening in on the call, probably the C.I.A., but it could have been anyone. When I'd picked up the ringing phone, I'd heard a subtle click, followed by two more in rapid succession. As far as I could tell, that was the clue that there was at least one extra pair of ears on the line.
"Ah, yes, dear old Uncle Chester. One of these days, I'd like to have him on the couch." I knew he was specifically talking about J. Edgar Hoover, the long-time head of the F.B.I.
I laughed. "That would be interesting."
"At a dollar or more a minute, Nick..."
I sighed. "I know and I'm sorry." I took a deep breath and then said, "Louise passed away last night your time." Louise Jones Richardson was the mother of Carter Jones who was my tall, muscular, ex-fireman of a husband.
"I'm very sorry to hear that, Nick. How are you feeling?"
"To be honest, the main thing on my mind is that it seems like it was just a day or two ago when we first got the news she was sick."
"That was during your trial in 1962, correct?"
"It was a hearing, but, yeah." There was another long, crackling pause. The French couple were still at it. Finally, I said, "Ed called us at about 8 this morning, which was at 2, Eastern Time. Louise went to sleep and just stopped breathing."
"I am very sorry."
"She'd been doing so much better. She was here, you know. Just a couple of weeks ago."
"I remember your saying so."
"I feel hollow." That sounded like something I'd once read in a book, but it was also right on the money.
"That, of course, makes sense. You've suffered a loss. You feel the absence of Louise."
I sighed. "Yeah."
More crackling silence. The pair who'd been chatting in French hung up. I could hear the click. The crackling got a little louder and a hiss that I hadn't noticed started up.
"I sense there is something more you wish to tell me."
"Yeah. It's about Carter."
"How is he?"
"Pretty bad. He had already planned a day trip to Marseilles to check on a couple of his gyms down there. He decided to go and should be back in an hour or two, depending on traffic."
"And what have you done all day?"
"I've been out walking around. I popped into one of our hotels for lunch. But, mostly, I've been walking around."
"Where did you go?"
"Mostly up to Monkmarter. I love going up there. It reminds me of Uncle Paul and Joujou." My Great Uncle Paul Williams, who had passed away in 1932 and whom I had only met once when I was a kid, had spent a lot of time in the very house where I was sitting. That had been back during the Belle Ăpoque. He had lived elsewhere and spent a goodly amount of time up on the hill above Paris.
"Monkmarter? Do you mean Montmartre?"
I laughed. "Yeah. You should know by now, doc, how bad my French is."
"I still believe that, if you tried..." He sighed. "I'm rather off the point, aren't I?" Before I could answer, he said, "My apologies. Please, go on."
"Before I had lunch, I called Carter at his gym in Marseilles. He could barely talk, he was crying so hard."
"That's quite understandable. How did you feel about that?"
"I don't know." I thought about that for a moment. "I think Carter is upset because he didn't get a chance to really say goodbye to his mother."
"How does that make you feel?"
I knew why he asked that question. Over and over and over again. It was a good question to ask. But, still, it irritated me. "Well, I'm ready to go any time, doc. You know because we've talked about it. There's no one in my life who doesn't know how I feel about them. I could pop off right now, and no one would be confused or surprised. Kenneth"âKenneth Wilcox was our lawyerâ"keeps my will in shape. I'm ready to die any time, doc."
"Nick?"
"Yeah?"
"Take a deep breath."
I did just that.
"Now, how does it make you feel that Carter is upset?"
I immediately knew the answer. It was the reason I'd begged Dr. Sylvester's answering service to call him at home. I took a deep breath and just said it, "I said goodbye to Louise when they were here earlier this month."
"Does Carter know that?"
"Yeah. I begged him to do the same thing and I think he tried, but I don't know."
"You don't know if he tried?"
"Right."
Dr. Sylvester paused and then asked, "What, if anything, do you think your job is here?"
That was a good question. "Well, I love Carter and I want him to know that and to feel that."
"You once told me about the first night you spent in that house. In the Turkish bath."
I grinned in spite of everything. "Yeah. That was quite a night."
"I believe you told me that was the only place in the house that was warm."
"Yeah."
"It seems to me, Nick, that Carter might respond to an action like that much better than to any words."
I nodded to myself, suddenly feeling like I had something I could do. "Thanks, doc. That's what I needed. Now I know what I can do."
"My pleasure, Nick. May I ask something?"
"Sure."
"Please don't offer to buy out the answering service the next time you need to reach me."
"Sorry about that."
"That's quite alright. Simply tell them you're a priority client. But use that word judiciously, Nick."
"I will. Thanks, doc."
"I have two more questions."
"Shoot."
"Where will the funeral service be?"
I took a deep breath. "Well, that's another part of what has Carter upset. It's gonna be in Albany, in Georgia, in his and his mother's hometown, on Monday."
"Does he wish to go?"
"It's hard to say. I think we should." I sighed. "We were both surprised that she wanted to be buried there instead of in Vermont. But, then again, maybe she was too much of a southerner to bear the thought of being buried with a bunch of Yankees."
I could hear Dr. Sylvester chuckle over the line.
I asked, "What was your second question?"
"Do you actually intend to buy the answering service?"
I laughed. "I will if you think I should. I know you're not supposed to tell me what to do as my analyst, but this is business."
He chuckled again. "I think you should. Margaret is getting on in years and could use the break. And the money, to be honest."
"It's a deal then."
"Good." He paused. "You know, of course, that means I'll have to hire another service."
"Why?"
"It's hardly fair to ask the girls who work there to say no to their boss."
I laughed. "You're right about that. Thanks, doc."
"You're welcome, Nick. Goodbye."
"Goodbye." I waited and listened as he hung up. Half a second later, there was a series of clicks. I put the receiver on the base and sighed deeply.
A Christmas for Holly by RJ Scott
Chapter 1
Lucas
Last Christmas
With fresh snow falling and everyoneâs breath turning to mist in the cold, I watched my little brother Bailey marry my best friend Kai. I never imagined seeing them exchange vows would hit me this hard, because I wasnât swept up in romance or fairy-tale moments. But there was something about how Kaiâs eyes lit up when Bailey slid the ring onto his finger, about how they looked at each other as if nothing else mattered. It wasnât jealousy that I feltâjust a pang of⊠something.
Of what, I couldnât say.
As one of four boysâCallum, Duncan, me, then Bailey, the youngestâBailey had plenty of choices for best man, and Callum had gotten the honor by default. He was doing an admirable job, standing tall and proud, as if heâd waited his whole life to usher his kid brother into marriage. I already had my role as shared best manâKaiâs. It was a title I co-owned with Paul âHollyâ Hollister, current captain of the Albany Harriers, the team Kai had just retired from.
Holly was bright, loud, and always on, and today was no different. He flirted with everyone and made so many people smile.
Including me.
And, for some reason, whenever he smiled at me, it made my heart do strange things, as it had done since I first met him when we were both eighteen. Iâd gone to the draft in Winnipeg with Kai, and the Harriers took him and Paul, or Holly as he was nicknamed for obvious reasons. I was thirty-two now⊠fourteen years in the making, but my affection, for want of a better word, for Holly got stronger with every interaction. I dated here and there when the mood struck me, but it always felt more like an obligation than something I wanted. I didnât spark easily. With all three of my brothers now married, I sometimes wondered if I ever really would.
But then there was Holly.
It had started at the draft. Heâd gone first round, the media darling of the event, and as a diehard hockey fan, I couldnât help but be in awe of himâthe boy the media had dubbed the savior of whichever team landed him.
From that moment, Holly became part of my world. At first, it was through Kai, given I was Kaiâs best friend from small-town Vermont, and Holly was Kaiâs best friend in the city. We shared the best friend title, and Holly became woven into my story through that.
Over time, though, things shifted. Holly wasnât just the captain of the Harriers, the two-time Stanley Cup champions, the guy whoâd led his team to back-to-back wins in his early twenties. He wasnât only Kaiâs best friend or the player who pulled in millions while dazzling the media with his bright grin and quick charm. He was⊠Holly. A guy who winked at me across the ice the second time he lifted the Cup, handed it off to Kai, and celebrated with a laugh that echoed in my chest long after the moment had passed.
Maybe the wink had been for me. Perhaps it had been for the whole family, sitting behind the bench and cheering for the team. But something had sparked that day, and I hadnât been able to let it go since.
It never became anything tangible, not really. A few moments of gentle flirting here and there, nothing more than teasing smiles and stray glances that confused me about what they meantâif they meant anything. But it was enough to plant the seed, to make me start noticing things about him Iâd never noticed about anyone else. The way he carried himself was confident but never cocky. The way his laugh could light up a room. He seemed to draw people into his orbit effortlessly as though he was the center of some unseen source of gravity.
And now, here at the wedding when I caught sight of him across the crowd, laughing at something Duncan had said, my heart leaped. It didnât make sense. I wasnât supposed to feel this way about someone like Hollyâa star so bright he seemed untouchable. But somehow, without me realizing it, Iâd been drawn in, caught in his orbit. And now, I wasnât sure how to untangle myself, or if I even wanted to.
But the man whoâd come to the wedding wasnât the same Holly Iâd slowly fallen for. Heâd still winked, flirted, laughed, teased Kai, and hugged Bailey, but there was something off in him.
Broken. Remote.
Was I the only one who could see it?
âGreat wedding!â heâd shouted in my ear, already halfway to sloppy drunk, leaning on me, then moving on before I could answer, loud and showboating and grabbing everyone around him for a laugh. He was as smooth as ever in his Armani suit, polished to perfection, all show, and not much more, so where was the real Paul Hollister who made my heart skip and my cock go hard?
âWhatâs going on with Holly?â
Iâd been asked the same question by way too many people, as if I was the knowledge keeper of all things Holly. Callum was confused when Holly swept Brooke from his arms and dipped her so low they ended up on the floor. Then Duncan told me Holly had scared some of the kids by making lion noises from the bushes. Finally, Mom asked me to help when Holly tried to limbo under the cake table, nearly causing the whole thing to fall.
I was the best man to Kai, not a watchdog for a drunken idiot, but still, I followed him at a distance.
âAlways next to me, sexy!â he shouted at me again, then yanked me onto the dance floor as though he were possessed. I managed to wrangle him so we ended up at the edge of the room, far enough away from the bar that he couldnât get another drink.
âWhat is wrong with you!â I whispered for his ears only. âCalm the fuck down!â
He laughed at me, then I couldnât hold onto the slippery sucker, and he was away faster than the fastest fast thing.
By the time theyâd cut the cake, which was still in one piece, Holly was already down several more glasses of champagne, laughing louder than anyone, avoiding me at all costs. I saw the stares he was getting. Some disapprovalâhow could he disrupt a cozy winter wedding? Some fondnessâaww, he doesnât do quiet or contained.
Holly was everywhere at once, larger than life. Except tonight, Mr. Entertainerâs laughter was too loud, his smiles forced, and it got so bad that Kai nodded at him and then me.
âCan you keep an eye on him?â he asked, his brow furrowed as he glanced over at Holly, who was now halfway through what had to be his fifth drink. âIâd do it myself, butâ ââ
âNo problem,â I replied. I got it. Today was Kaiâs day, and Bailey deserved every second of his attention.
âAny idea why heâs like this?â I asked, watching Holly stumble toward the bar again.
Kai shrugged. âTeamâs not doing so well.â
âRight. The fate of the world,â I muttered, rolling my eyes.
Holly captained his team as if it were a matter of life or death, and I understood why heâd be upset with a few lossesâwell, a lot of losses. It took many zero points to be three points from the bottom of the league.
But to act out as if his whole world was falling apart because of themâŠ
I went to the bar where Holly was ordering another drink. âI think youâre good for now,â I told him, reaching out to steady him when he swayed.
Holly turned, eyebrows lifted. âLucas! Sexy man!â He slung an arm around my shoulders, and I could smell the sharp tang of whiskey on his breath. âHere to join the party?â
âHere to make sure you donât ruin the party,â I said, peeling his arm off me. âHow much have you had?â
âNot enough,â he grinned, a hard edge to his voice.
âWell, stop,â I said, nodding toward Kai and Bailey. âRemember them?â
Hollyâs gaze softened momentarily, and he seemed to remember where he was. âYeah. Iâm happy for them. Just wishâŠâ He shook his head, turning away.
âWish what?â I asked before I couldnât stop myself from stepping around him so I could meet his dark brown eyes.
My breath hitched at the emotion I saw there, and I wanted to hug him so badly. I was the guy who was always content on his own. The guy who watched friends fall in and out of love while he focused on work, family, and a handful of friendships that didnât come with strings or expectations.
But here I was, staring at Paul Hollister, wondering why, tonight, when he was acting like an asshole, I was still there with this tug in my chest.
âWish what, Holly?â I asked again, hearing the softness in my voice.
He blinked at me, his gaze sharp for someone with too much liquor in him. âNothing.â He gestured to the dance floor, where many people had started swaying to some Christmas tune. âLetâs dance,â he said, his tone half challenge, half plea.
I snorted. âYeah, I donât dance.â
âThen hold my drink,â he said, thrusting his near-empty glass at me before staggering toward the middle of the dance floor.
I stood there awkwardly, holding his drink as he stumbled and spun, coaxing laughter from people around him, grabbing the hands of strangers and putting on a show.
âYou can sit down, you know,â I muttered when he made his way back for a refill, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, a grin plastered across his face that didnât quite reach his eyes.
âSit? At a wedding?â he scoffed, grabbing his drink and taking a long sip. âWhat are you, ninety?â
âYou donât have to keep up the act, you know,â I said, the words slipping out before I could second-guess them.
For a moment, his smile dropped, and his eyes met mine, searching. Then he laughed. âWhat act?â
âYou tell me,â I replied, my voice low.
He opened his mouth as if he were about to answer, but then he just shook his head. âYou wouldnât get it.â
âTry me.â
His bravado kept slipping, showing these quick flashes of vulnerability before he covered it up with another laugh. Or perhaps it was that, for once, I wanted to share that vulnerability, and I donât know⊠fix it?
He stared at me, his eyes narrowing. âWhy do you care?â His voice was rough, almost accusing.
âGood question,â I muttered. Because I didnât know. I didnât know why his ridiculous act, half-sober smirk, or stupid laugh didnât stop me from feeling the pull toward him.
âYou donât know me, Lucas,â he said, his voice a low rasp, his eyes bright with emotion. âAnd trust me, you donât want to.â
I held his gaze, refusing to look away. âBut here I am.â I shrugged, though my chest felt tight with something I didnât recognize.
Hollyâs expression softened. He opened his mouth, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might say something real. But then he smirked, taking another swig of his drink. âYour funeral, buddy.â
As he walked back onto the dance floor, his laughter ringing out, I watched him, a familiar ache gripping my chest. Not for the first time in my life, I wanted to understand this pull toward another personâthis urge to hug him, hold him close, and make things better.
And it scared me.
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.
She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.
If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, sheâd tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when youâre afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
Hank Edwards has been writing gay romantic fiction for more than twenty years. He has published over thirty novels and dozens of short stories. His writing crosses many sub-genres, including romantic comedy, contemporary, paranormal, suspense, mystery, and wacky comedy.
He has written a number of series such as the funny and spooky Critter Catchers, Old West historical horror Venom Valley Series, suspenseful Up to Trouble series, and the very erotic and very funny Fluffers, Inc., He is also part of the shared universe Williamsville Inn series of contemporary gay romance books that feature stories by Brigham Vaughn as well. He's written a YA urban fantasy gay romance series called The Town of Superstition, which is published under the pen name R. G. Thomas.
No matter what genre he writes, Hank likes to keep things steamy, kind of sassy, and heartfelt. He was born and still lives in a northwest suburb of the Motor City, Detroit, Michigan.
Alice Winn
Alice Winn is the author of In Memoriam. She grew up in Paris and was educated in the UK. She has a degree in English literature from Oxford University. She lives in Brooklyn. 
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.
Writing love stories with a happy ever after â cowboys, heroes, family, hockey, single dads, bodyguards
USA Today bestselling author RJ Scott has written over one hundred romance books. Emotional stories of complicated characters, cowboys, single dads, hockey players, millionaires, princes, bodyguards, Navy SEALs, soldiers, doctors, paramedics, firefighters, cops, and the men who get mixed up in their lives, always with a happy ever after.
She lives just outside London and spends every waking minute she isnât with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a weekâs break from writing, she didnât like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldnât defeat.
Davidson King
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com
Hank Edwards
Alice Winn
iTUNES / AUDIBLE / GOOGLE PLAY
AUDIOBOOKS / CHIRP / INSTAGRAM
Frank W Butterfield
RJ Scott
BOOKBUB / KOBO / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: rj@rjscott.co.uk
In Memoriam by Alice Winn
KOBO / iTUNES / iTUNES AUDIO
WEBSITE / AUDIBLE / AUDIOBOOKS
