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I wish I could say these are all St Patrick's Day themed stories but, unfortunately it's a holiday that isn't often showcased. If you know of any in the LGBTQ+ genre please feel free to share the titles in the comment section below or if you found yourself here through my Facebook shares, feel free to comment there too. So, onto St. Patrick's Day 2025, below you'll find 5 tales with strong Irish connections and/or Ireland settings. As with all my holiday-themed posts, if the book links don't currently work, check the author's website and/or social media to find the availability.
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Summary:
Irish dancer Tiernan O’Rourke is given the chance of a lifetime with a holiday dance show. Or has Santa just delivered yet another nasty holiday surprise?
Devastated when COVID cancels his touring show of an Irish musical, Tiernan O’Rourke is given a chance shot at a special Christmas show. His ex-lover, Asher Bryson, is the one staging the show and tells him it will showcase his shillelagh, but not the kind Tiernan assumes. This opportunity seems to be the answer to his prayers, or is it?
Asher Bryson had big holiday plans until the pandemic squashed them. He lands a gig to stage a late-night, outdoor Christmas dance show for charity. Desperation forces him to reach out to the man he loved and left, Tiernan O’Rourke. Publicly he makes fun of Tiernan, calling him Lord of the Prance. Privately, his feelings are something else. Can he and Tiernan look past everything and just dance?
I have marked AJ Llewellyn a new-to-me author, truth is I have read the author before but ashamed to admit it has been nearly a decade since my last readings. So technically not new but enough time has passed that I felt it fair to mark it so.
As for Just Dance, I was looking for stories to fit St. Patrick's Day and although this is a Xmas story it's heavy on many elements Irish. Unfortunately St. Patrick's Day is not a holiday often explored in stories so I branch out to any kind of Irish connection. I'm glad I did because this is a fun little ditty that will make you smile.
A little warning, it's been 5 years since Covid hit and I think for the most part people are okay with reading about Covid times but I know a few who feel it's still too fresh or they had close personal experience with the effects and are not ready to explore the time in fiction, which is certainly understandable. Just Dance is set around Covid or at the very least the effects from lockdown and other facets of the pandemic so I just wanted to put that out there for those not ready yet.
As for Tiernan, or "Terry" as he shortens it for many baristas, is a man who had his big break yanked out from under him due to Covid but he keeps going, he doesn't let that weigh him down. Asher is . . . well at first appearance I did not like him to say it ladylike, being completely honest he had his points that didn't quite endear him to me throughout much of the story but I could see he was growing and he was trying and sometimes people just have their quirks that don't quite appeal to everyone, doesn't make them a bad person just not a favorite. But he might worm his way into my good graces but if that's true or not would be a spoiler too many I won't do😉😉.
Having stated the above about Asher did not lessen my enjoyment of this short. Perhaps the smiles it gave me did not evolve into full-on belly laughs but they don't have to, all I need and want is a story that lightens my mood and brightens my reading time and Just Dance did just that.
Summary:
Soulbound #3
Never promise a life that isn’t yours to give.
New York City is decked out for the holidays, and Special Agent Patrick Collins is looking forward to a reunion with his old team when he gets assigned a new case. A human child is missing, and the changeling left in her place causes a prominent witch family to demand justice from the fae.
Meanwhile, continued harassment from the New York City god pack forces Jonothon de Vere to formally establish his own with Patrick. Doing so will mean a civil war within the werecreature community—a war they risk losing from the start without alliances. Making bargains with the fae is never wise, but Patrick and Jono have nothing to lose when a fae lord comes asking for their help.
The Summer Lady has been kidnapped from the Seelie Court, and if they can find her, Patrick and Jono will cement an alliance with the fae. But the clues to her disappearance are found in Tír na nÓg, and the Otherworld has never been kind to mortals.
Venturing past the veil, Patrick and Jono risk losing territory, time, and their very lives while searching for answers. Because the Queen of Air and Darkness knows they are coming—and the ruler of the Unseelie Court has an offer for them they can’t possibly refuse.
A Crown of Iron & Silver is a 107k word m/m urban fantasy with a gay romantic subplot and a HFN ending. It is a direct sequel to All Souls Near & Nigh. Reading the prior books in the series would be helpful in enjoying this one.
Summary:
Flying into Love #3
Can a wee bit of Irish charm save an injured soldier from his wrenching heartache?
Injured ex-soldier, Kane Taylor, has lost everything—the job he loves, the use of his trigger hand, and the love of his life.
Publican Declan McCafferty has everything—a job he loves, a community he adores and a revolving door of lovers.
But when Declan sets eyes on the new sexy, brooding customer at his pub staring solemnly into his Guinness night after night, Declan realises he needs one more thing—him.
Kane is hesitant to open his heart again, but the charismatic and charming publican is hard to resist.
But can Declan ever compete with a ghost?
And can Kane lay to rest his painful past to take a chance on something new?
Irish Charm is a second chance, hurt/comfort standalone novel in the steamy contemporary Flying into Love MM romance series featuring an ex-military alpha male recovering from heartache and a cheeky Irish publican allergic to commitment.
"A heartfelt journey of love, resilience, and a touch of Irish magic."
Heart to Hart by Erin O'Quinn
Summary:Gaslight Mystery #1
Two unlikely men meet in 1923 Ireland.
Michael McCree seems to be a newspaperman, running from a past in Boston. He’s a lover of men and a drinker of whiskey, and yet one with some surprising depths and one huge secret.
Simon Hart is a surly, angry, altogether closeted and touch-me-not fellow, a Cambridge-educated private investigator whose business partner has been murdered. He meets Michael in a newspaper shop when turning in an obit notice.
They clash. Fisticuffs fly. And before Simon knows what’s happened, he’s gained a new flat-mate, a new business partner, and a wanna-be lover. It’s the “wanna-be” that drives the present story…and all that follow.
Original Review May 2014:
I read all three books and since the time frame from page 1 of Heart to Hart to the last page of To the Bone only covers about two to three weeks, I'm going to do an overall review for these entries. I won't lie, the beginning was a bit tricky to get into with the Irish slang of the time but I was able to become comfortable with it after only a chapter or so. As I write this I am thinking that it had more to do with me not letting go of the previous book before starting this series and less of the slang language, but whatever the reason, after that first chapter I was hooked. Simon and Michael grabbed my heart and didn't let go. I loved the humorous banter between the new found partners. I found them to be very enjoyable and likeable despite their moments of infuriating debates. At times, they reminded me very much of the banter and bickering of Bogey and Bacall in The Big Sleep. The mysteries are quite intriguing and definitely hold the reader's interest as does the humor and the obvious attraction between the pair. Michael McCree and Simon Hart are a captivating pair that I look forward to read many times over.
Overall Series 1st Re-Read Review 2016:
Gaslight Mysteries in another one of those series that even knowing who did what, why, and how it still gets me sitting on the edge of my seat. Simon and Michael may be polar opposites when it comes to attitude and how they face life but at the heart of it all they are a perfect match. The offset each other in a way that only makes them stronger. I'll definitely be revisiting this investigative duo more than once in the upcoming years, perhaps not annually but I'll say hi to them again.
Gaslight Mysteries in another one of those series that even knowing who did what, why, and how it still gets me sitting on the edge of my seat. Simon and Michael may be polar opposites when it comes to attitude and how they face life but at the heart of it all they are a perfect match. The offset each other in a way that only makes them stronger. I'll definitely be revisiting this investigative duo more than once in the upcoming years, perhaps not annually but I'll say hi to them again.
Point Pleasant Holiday #8
Can two people who hurt each other find their second chance at love?
They walked away from it all.
They spent their life regretting it.
Casey Fitzgerald gave up everything to come home when his family needed him. He left his band at the height of their newfound success. But more importantly, he left Levi. If he hadn’t been so stubborn, perhaps, they could have found a way to keep it all.
Levi Reilly tried to make it work. He was angry and devastated when Casey left him. Their success came fast, and it was taken away just as quickly by the man he loved. He tried to go on without him, but life without Casey had no harmony.
Ten years later, Levi returns to their small hometown to work at a puppy rescue. How do you move on when you never really let go?
Will Casey and Levi find a way to put aside their past so they can have a future?
Just Dance by AJ Llewellyn
“It’s a bit bland.” Tiernan O’Rourke pushed the artfully piled lump of meat around the plate with his fork. This had been the most unusual experience of his life, taste-testing stacks of meat with varying degrees of flavor. This could really use some salt and pepper. It was his sixth sampling so far today. He hoped it would be the last.
He glanced out of the window, but the view of the red brick wall from the building next door hadn’t changed. From somewhere outside, jackhammers pierced the silence.
He was starting to feel claustrophobic. As he focused his gaze once again on the food in front of him, he couldn’t help thinking of the song, Somewhere That’s Green from The Little Shop of Horrors.
Tiernan glanced at the three chefs awaiting his response. How did they work all day without a glimpse of the sky or something a little bit green? Maybe New Yorkers got used to it. He longed for his old view... His old life.
Ugh.
Quit stalling. Man up. He mentally patted his belly. He already had a bad stomachache from the food samples he’d tested so far. I don’t think I can face this. He took a deep, cleansing breath. I have to do it. Another bite. “Okay. I like the pop of carrots and peas.” He let the food tumble around his tongue, aware of the sharp scrutiny of the kitchen staff. “And the sweet potato is a nice surprise.” He swallowed, hoping he could keep a pleasant expression on his face.
“What else?” Matthew Croft, the lead chef, stared at him.
Tiernan blinked. What else? “There’s um, apple in it, I think. Ah. I like it.”
A long but significant pause.
The taste tester sitting beside Tiernan shifted in her seat. Harsha Zhu was bright, bubbly, and super annoying with her blue-hued hair and her knowledgeable critiques. Not to mention her insane giggle at inappropriate moments. Tiernan had pegged her as a sociopath, despite the chefs’ apparent awe of her.
With a disdainful sneer in his direction, Harsha said, “The textures are there, and I think it’s extraordinary how you’ve managed to blend blueberries and chicken this way. The fruit and vegetables have been cooked to perfection, yet each retains its flavor.”
Tiernan stared at her. Wow. She’s good. She sounds like she knows what she’s talking about. I have to memorize that authoritative way she describes a lump of meat, in case I have to do this again.
“But do you think a dog would like it?” Matthew flicked glances at them, an icy tinge in his voice.
Tiernan forced a smile on his face even as he experienced a moment of pure panic. Why are you asking me that? How the heck would I know? Harsha seemed to sag on her stool.
When she didn’t respond, Tiernan jumped in. “If I were a dog, I would love it.”
“It’s my favorite, too,” Harsha piped up.
Tiernan glanced at her. The kitchen staff had all been in wonderment of the small but fierce Asian woman they told him in reverent whispers was an Instagram influencer. Did dogs rely on influencers? As far as Tiernan could tell, dogs were swayed by a bowl of edible food. And edible was in the eye of the beholder. He’d never heard of a single dog that checked with Internet strangers to tell them something was good to eat. He thought with a pang of his childhood dog, Sparky, who ate everything from socks to rolls of quarters.
“One more sample,” Matthew said.
Even Harsha couldn’t hide her dismay.
“Oh,” she said as though the wind had sunk her sails. Then she giggled once more.
“This is the last one, honest. You guys are doing great.” Matthew signaled, and a young female sous chef—who looked stressed—rushed forward and exchanged dishes.
Tiernan stared at the dark mound of mush in front of him. Dog food? Huh. That was human-grade food we’ve been testing. Needed seasoning, but still... I’m going to get a dog again one day. If Fanta lets me bring one home. The thought of his orange tabby cat waiting for him curled up on their shared bed made him dip his fork into the final plate of meat set before him.
He took a healthy bite. This one had a bit of a zing to it. Sort of slimy. Overcooked. Could he say that? Would he offend the chefs? No. He wouldn’t accuse them of overcooking food. The sample had gravy, which was an improvement on the lackluster offerings so far. He glanced over at Harsha, who was scraping at her mountain of food. She took a bite.
“It’s so good I want to take it home and finish it,” Tiernan lied, earning a round of applause from the chefs.
Harsha spat her mouthful into the small dish beside her. Tiernan realized only then she’d been spitting out her food the whole time.
“Me too.” She smiled, revealing a mouth with gold teeth.
Grillz. Holy moly. Were they still in fashion?
“You spat it out,” Tiernan couldn’t resist pointing out.
She patted her mouth with one of the starched napkins the staff had provided. “Of course, I did. You know that last sample was actual dog food, right?” She smacked her lips together. “Alpo, I think.”
The chefs roared with laughter and applauded her.
“You’re always amazing, Harsha.” Matthew beamed at her, glancing over at Tiernan. “You okay, guy? You did eat a big chunk of it.”
“Fine, just fine.” Tiernan waved off the chef’s words but really wanted to scream and barf. I just ate dog food. And I said I loved it!
“That’s it, guys. You did great. We’ll be sending out your checks today. And if we need you again, we’ll be in touch.” Matthew slid his face mask up and over his nose and mouth and pointed toward the elevator.
A Crown of Iron & Silver by Hailey Turner
1
Special Agent Patrick Collinsslammed the Mustang’s trunk closed, swearing when he almost dropped the umbrella and his grocery bags. Not that the umbrella was doing much good against the icy rain coming down sideways, driven by a strong wind. His damp clothes were getting wetter, and no amount of drying charms would fix that while he was outside.
“Fuck it,” Patrick muttered.
He pushed his personal shields out of his skin, letting the invisible barrier of magic protect him from the rain while under the umbrella. Patrick sighed in relief at the momentary respite from the weather. At 2130, Patrick was cold, tired, and hungry after a long day working out of the Supernatural Operations Agency’s field office. He’d stopped by Westside Market on the drive home to pick up the groceries he’d forgotten to get last night. He was too tired to cook tonight, but hopefully pizza was waiting for him at home.
Stepping onto the sidewalk, Patrick headed down the street toward the five-story brownstone apartment building he called home in Chelsea. He’d shared the top-floor apartment with Jonothon de Vere since July. He’d never realized how nice it was to have someone to come home to until he’d moved in with Jono. All those years of returning to a quiet apartment or hotel room paled in comparison of being met at the door with a kiss.
Some of the buildings he passed had windows decorated with Christmas lights and cutouts of Santa Claus and reindeer on the inside. A few had their curtains parted enough he could see the decorated Christmas trees inside the apartments. Ever since Thanksgiving, more and more homes were starting to decorate for the holidays, but everyone lagged behind the touristy spots in the city.
Patrick couldn’t wait to get home, eat, and crawl into his nice warm bed. His latest case had involved a group of kappas in the Hudson River hassling commuter ferries. He’d ended every work day for the past three soaked to the bone. Heat charms in his leather jacket aside, if some other creature took over the New York harbor during December, he was punting the job to someone else.
If he got sick, he was taking the rest of the month off and heading to Maui.
Patrick hefted the three reusable grocery bags in his right hand, ignoring the way the nylon handles dug into his palm. He needed to walk one block, and then he’d be home and warm.
When he was half a block away—so close, yet so far—recognition burned through Patrick’s magic with the heated spark of werecreatures. He squinted through the rain at the group of people standing in front of his apartment building and scowled.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Patrick groaned.
His semiautomatic HK USP 9mm tactical pistol was holstered on his right hip and the gods-given dagger was strapped to his right thigh. Even with his hands full, Patrick wasn’t without a weapon.
Patrick pushed more of his magic out of his soul, letting it form a mageglobe near his left shoulder. The small sphere of raw magic hovered in the air and kept pace with him as he closed the distance between himself and the suddenly attentive group of werecreatures.
In August, Jono had declared his own god pack, separate from the New York City god pack run by Estelle Walker and Youssef Khan. That declaration had created a lot of tension between their newly formed god pack and most of the other packs in the city. More than once they’d been accosted around the one-block territory they claimed as theirs.
Patrick wasn’t in the mood for another fight. He wanted to get inside where it was warm.
“You know, the last time some of you came sniffing around, Jono broke a dozen bones. When your kind tried that shit with me, they ended up in the hospital before getting a trip to Rikers for assaulting a federal agent. You really want that same trip?”
“We’re not here to fight,” the tall, willowy black woman retorted, not moving from her spot.
“We came to talk,” the Mexican American man standing opposite of her added.
Maybe they had, but Patrick hadn’t survived this long by taking people’s word at face value. He didn’t recognize them, and he didn’t trust them.
“Talking usually happens at Tempest,” Patrick said.
The bar that Jono managed catered to the werecreature community. It had seen a slowdown in business since they’d formed their pack but was in no danger of closing. No longer seen as neutral territory, Tempest was where those willing to risk Estelle and Youssef’s wrath went for help.
“We went there first. Jono wasn’t in.”
Patrick eyed the six werecreatures huddled underneath umbrellas as he approached. Now that he was closer, he could see the wide space between them that only happened when more than one pack was in the same vicinity.
Patrick put the grocery bags on the wet ground and dug out his cell phone, never taking his eyes off the werecreatures.
“Yeah?” Jono’s deep voice answered after the first ring, his English accent thick in Patrick’s ear. “You almost home, mate?”
“Downstairs. Got some unwanted visitors.”
Jono ended the call on his side of the line without saying a word, and Patrick put his phone away. None of the werecreatures had moved much, except maybe to huddle closer together under their umbrellas. The stormy weather was shitty, and it was cold, and Patrick really didn’t want to deal with pack issues out on the street. He didn’t want to deal with any of it right now, not after the day he’d had, but Patrick didn’t really have a choice
Less than ten seconds later, Jono yanked open the building’s front door and stepped into the storm. The long-sleeved gray Henley he wore was immediately soaked, as were his jeans. Patrick spared him a glance when he would’ve preferred to let his gaze linger. A wet Jono was always nice to look at, but keeping his eyes on the threat in front of them took priority.
“We’re not here to fight,” the woman repeated, raising a hand in a defensive manner.
“Neither are we,” the man in the other pack said.
“Then why are you here?” Jono demanded, coming down the stoop, his wolf-bright blue eyes reflecting light from the nearby streetlamp.
The werecreatures glanced at each other uneasily. Before any of them could speak, a car braked to a stop in front of their building. Patrick mentally guided his mageglobe down to his hand, curling his fingers around it to keep his magic out of sight but still at the ready.
No one said a word as the driver opened his trunk from the inside of the car before getting out. Water fell off the brim of his cap that had the name of a delivery app company stamped across it. “Uh, did one of you order the extra-large pepperoni?”
“I did,” Jono said.
Jono moved between the two packs to accept the pizza box from the driver. Patrick stared mournfully at the box Jono held and how quickly the cardboard was getting drenched.
“I’m getting cold pizza tonight, aren’t I?” Patrick said.
Jono turned his back on the delivery driver in order to deal with the werecreatures who’d crossed into their territory uninvited. He waited until the guy drove off before saying, “Start talking.”
The woman cleared her throat. “Our packs live in apartment buildings across the street from each other.”
“They’re not sharing the block how we agreed,” the man said.
“You took over our north corner without asking.”
Jono held up one hand, and they both clamped their mouths shut. “You shouldn’t have come here. It’s not safe for you.”
The woman crossed her arms over her chest, the puffer coat she wore bunching at the elbows. The faux fur lining the hood was the same dark brown color as her skin. “We had no other choice because…”
Her voice trailed off, the silence that followed full of explanations Patrick didn’t need to guess at. God packs existed to protect the packs within their territories. That meant being in the public eye so others could live in hiding, but it also meant mediating problems between the packs under their care.
Estelle and Youssef were fucking terrible at that.
Back in August, they’d discovered the god pack alphas were selling independent werecreatures to a drug cartel and the Manhattan Night Court when it had been ruled by Tremaine. That master vampire was dead now, killed by his sire. Patrick had ignored Lucien’s dealings for months since the fight against Santa Muerte and Tremaine at Grand Central Terminal. He hadn’t ignored the shitty way Estelle and Youssef ruled over the packs who called the five boroughs home.
When Jono was an independent, there were times other werecreatures would discreetly meet with him for advice. It should have been Estelle and Youssef they went to, and it said a lot about the situation in New York that they’d gone to Jono before he even had a pack.
If that’s what this situation was about, Patrick knew they couldn’t turn the werecreatures away no matter how badly he wanted to. This wasn’t the first time since August they had been approached for advice rather than needing to defend their territory and status, but it was the first time it had happened at home.
Jono studied the werecreatures for a long few seconds before looking over at where Patrick stood. “Wade’s here.”
“He better not touch my pizza.” Patrick bent over to grab the grocery bags. “I’ll conduct hospitality if you really want to do it.”
“Rather you get inside where it’s warm. No sense in having a chat where everyone can hear.” Jono nodded at the apartment building’s door. “You lot, get moving.”
The werecreatures let Jono go first to open the door and filed up after him. Patrick strengthened his personal shields and raised one between Jono and the two packs, not taking any chances. He knew Jono could take care of himself, but it made Patrick feel better about the situation.
He closed his umbrella and walked up after everyone else, keeping the mageglobe between himself and the last werecreature in the group. More than one of them looked over their shoulder at Patrick, the wariness in their eyes impossible to miss. No one said a word until Jono let everyone into their home and the heart of their territory. A wave of hot air greeted Patrick, and he sighed in relief as he nudged the door shut with his elbow. He extinguished the mageglobe with a thought.
“Did you bring snacks?”
Patrick looked over at where Wade Espinoza was sprawled on the couch, eyeing the grocery bags hopefully. The Christmas tree that Jono had insisted on buying and decorating stood in front of the windows overlooking the street. The glow from strings of colorful, blinking lights was reflected in Wade’s brown eyes.
The eighteen-year-old fledgling fire dragon had filled out quite a bit since August when Patrick and Jono had rescued him from Tezcatlipoca, an Aztec god who owned the Omacatl Cartel. He was still lean though, courtesy of a high metabolism, and a walking bottomless pit for a stomach.
Technically, Wade was legally an adult, but mentally and emotionally he still needed a lot of support after what he’d been through. Wade had a lot of lingering issues that stemmed from being forced to fight to the death to stay alive since he was fourteen. That sort of trauma wasn’t easily overcome without help.
Three months of biweekly therapy visits paid out of Patrick’s own pocket had given Wade somewhere safe to channel his emotions over what he’d endured. Jono’s paycheck covered most of the food for all of them even though Wade didn’t live with them. Wade had put on weight and looked like a normal teenager these days rather than a starved, half-feral kid.
“Did you eat dinner?” Patrick asked.
“He ate,” Jono said, going into the kitchen to put the pizza box on the counter. “Made him spag bol.”
“Yeah, but I’m hungry again. You’re out of snacks,” Wade complained. “My cupboard here is empty.”
“If you didn’t devour a week’s worth of snacks in a single day, maybe you’d have some left over.” Patrick dug into one of the grocery bags and pulled out a box of Pop-Tarts, which he threw at Wade. “Don’t touch my pizza.”
Wade caught the box and tore into it, pulling out a packet of strawberry Pop-Tarts. He ripped it open and stuffed one into his mouth to take a bite, never taking his eyes off the werecreatures. “Wha’s goin’ on?”
“A headache,” Patrick replied as he followed Jono into the kitchen.
Patrick set the wet grocery bags on the floor to deal with later. While Jono went to get everyone situated, Patrick grabbed six glasses from the cupboard and filled them with water. A couple of slices of white bread was all that was left in the bag on top of the refrigerator, but it was enough to parcel out into six pieces.
Patrick carried everything out to the dining table in two trips, lining up the glasses and dropping a piece of bread near each one. He gestured at the offering. “Be welcome.”
The werecreatures didn’t move, not until Jono cleared his throat. “We’re not discussing anything until you lot accept hospitality. If you decline, you can leave.”
The woman and man—alphas of their respective packs, Patrick assumed—stepped forward to pass out the glasses and bread to their people.
Hospitality greetings were binding welcomes that protected a person’s hearth and home. Breaking the welcome meant the transgressor was never able to cross the threshold and enter the home again. Patrick could feel the threshold wrapped around the apartment react to the intent of the act, magic prickling against the shields he still had up. The werecreatures seemed oblivious to the subtle power.
“You got this?” Patrick asked Jono.
“Go eat your pizza, Pat.”
Patrick retreated to the kitchen and popped open the pizza box. He half listened to the conversation happening in the other room, but most of his attention was on his dinner. The pizza was still warm, and Patrick chewed his way through two pieces before slowing down long enough to grab a plate. Piling two more slices onto it, he carried the plate out of the kitchen.
Wade had raised the volume on the television a little, attention focused on the hockey game. It must have been a West Coast game to be broadcasted so late.
“Did you finish your homework?” Patrick wanted to know.
“Yes,” Wade said, eyes glued to the flat-screen television.
Jono paused in whatever he was discussing with the two packs and said, “Wade.”
“What? I finished!”
Patrick snorted. “Finished putting the homework away or actually doing it?”
“It’s an essay, and it’s not due until next week.”
“Do your homework,” Patrick and Jono said in unison.
Wade scowled and reached for the remote to turn off the television. He dragged his backpack onto the couch with a loud, obnoxious sigh. Patrick rolled his eyes at the dramatics of it all.
Sage Beacot, the fourth member of their pack, had helped Wade enroll in the Manhattan Educational Opportunity Center out of the Borough of Manhattan Community College. They’d started him off in the Introduction to High School Equivalency course that would lead into the HSE Diploma course. Wade hadn’t finished high school due to running away at the age of fourteen and being subsequently kidnapped. He was basically starting over from scratch, and they were all determined to support his efforts.
Even though he was a dragon, Wade still thought of himself as mostly human and wanted to do human things. Patrick and Jono had both agreed Wade was better off going to school than working a low-wage job or joining the military. Getting Wade to focus was easier on some days than on others. They had better luck if he was here visiting or sleeping over at their place rather than staying at his own apartment. He didn’t live with them, because Patrick knew the importance of having your own space after surviving something that should have killed you.
The one-bedroom apartment Wade called home in the East Village wasn’t technically part of their territory, but Patrick had made it clear that Wade was pack and under their protection. Marek Taylor, a tech billionaire who owned the PreterWorld social media company and was the United States’ one true seer, had covered Wade’s rent for a full year. It was one less thing Patrick had to worry about.
Taking another bite of pizza, Patrick wandered over to where Jono was huddled with the two packs at their dining table. The table was circular, but the two packs had still managed to stay separated around it. Jono sat on a chair between them, listening to their varied arguments about who owned what territory on a single street in the Bronx.
Territory in large metropolitan cities was almost always measured in blocks rather than square miles. Packs claimed territory through agreements or fights, allowing pass-through rights to other packs if the rivalry wasn’t huge. Borders were expanded or lost one house at a time, and that seemed to be the case here, mostly perpetuated by a newly arrived independent werecreature renting a home on the corner. Which meant Marco’s Escorpión pack had encroached on Letitia’s Gold pack, and no one was happy.
“Asking the independent to give up their miniscule territory on the corner isn’t an option. Have they ever gone before the other god pack about territory other than during the initial move into the Bronx?” Jono said.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Letitia said.
“Fine. I’ll take their territory into consideration even though they aren’t represented here.”
“If they want their territory, then they should be here. They aren’t, so I don’t see why they matter,” Marco retorted.
Jono raised an eyebrow. “Did you ask them to come with you?”
The silence from both packs was indicative of a resounding no. Patrick finished his third slice of pizza. Before starting on his fourth, Patrick flicked his fingers over the wet Henley stretched across Jono’s shoulders, sending a drying charm coursing through Jono’s clothes. Steam puffed up from his clothes and shoes. Jono tilted his head toward Patrick in silent thanks.
Patrick didn’t do the same for himself, because he had plans to shower with Jono the second everyone left.
“You came to me, not Estelle and Youssef,” Jono pointed out. “My pack doesn’t decide shit the way they do. Which means we’re not going to deny someone their right to territory just because they aren’t present and didn’t know to be present. That’s not a game we play.”
“We?” Letitia asked carefully, gaze flickering Patrick’s way.
“We,” Jono stated in a hard voice. “Patrick co-leads our pack. You have a problem with that, then the door is right behind you.”
Patrick took another bite of his pizza and stared them down. The uncomfortable silence lasted a few more seconds before they went back to arguing their respective cases before Jono. Patrick finished his slice of pizza and was contemplating a fifth when his phone rang.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered. He set the plate down and wiped his fingers clean on his jeans before pulling his phone out of his pocket to answer it. “Collins. Line and location are not secure.”
“Make yourself secure,” Special Agent in Charge Henry Ng replied.
Patrick headed for the master bedroom. He closed the door behind him and used his finger to write out a silence ward on the wood. He pushed his magic out of his tainted soul and into the ward, letting static fill the bedroom. The world went quiet around him. All the werecreatures in the other room wouldn’t be able to hear the conversation he was about to have.
Wade could, because magic didn’t work on dragons, but the teenager knew better than to talk about what he overheard around people who weren’t pack.
“Secured, sir,” Patrick said. “Is this about the kappas? I turned in my report.”
“No. This is different. We got a report of a missing child.”
“That’s usually a police matter, not federal, unless it crosses state lines.”
“It becomes ours when it’s believed the child was replaced by a changeling.”
Patrick banged his forehead lightly against the door a couple of times. Crossing the veil between worlds definitely put a case within federal jurisdiction. “Gods fucking damn it. I hate dealing with the fae. Are you sure?”
“The PCB forwarded the case at the couple’s request. They want an agent to take their statement, and they want it done immediately.”
“Tonight? Sir, if it’s a changeling, the kid will still be there tomorrow morning.”
“Tonight,” Henry said firmly. “I know you just got off the clock, but I need you to take this case. The family involved is the Wisterias.”
Patrick banged his forehead against the door one more time for good measure. “Well, fuck.”
The Wisterias were a rich, powerful blueblood family of witches and warlocks, who had cornered the potions market during the Gilded Age. They considered their conservative family its own coven, who only admitted new members when those new people married into the family. The Wisterias were politically and magically well connected, having supported some of the more xenophobic policies and candidates the government had put forth over the years.
Patrick was not looking forward to dealing with them.
“What’s the address?” he asked. Henry rattled it off and Patrick committed it to memory. “Let them know I’m on my way.”
“They’ll be informed.”
Henry ended the call. Patrick sighed tiredly before dragging his hand over the sigil on the door to break up his magic. The silence ward faded away, sound returning to his ears. Patrick looked down at his damp clothes and scuffed combat boots and made a face. Not the sort of clothes he should probably meet the Wisterias in, but if he was going back into the storm tonight, he wasn’t getting two outfits rained on.
Yanking open the bedroom door, Patrick headed back to the dining area, surprised to see the packs had disappeared. Jono still sat at the dining table, staring blankly at the opposite wall where they’d hung a watercolor print of the London skyline.
“Did they leave or are they coming back?” Patrick asked.
Jono blinked, looking over at him. “They’re gone. They accepted my decision.”
“Which was?”
“An equal reduction of territory on the street to compensate for the independent weregrizzly, and one pack dinner a month to work out a possible alliance between the three.”
“Sounds fair.”
“We’ll see if they accept it or turn to Estelle and Youssef.”
“If they came to you, I doubt they’ll run to those two.”
“Maybe. I think they’re mine,” Jono said slowly. “I think when I gave the order for Nicholas to change form in the challenge ring, those two alphas shifted as well. So maybe they’ll abide.”
“Yours, huh?” He hadn’t been present that day in August when Jono had left to meet with the god pack alphas and came back having claimed Sage as part of their pack. He couldn’t say he minded the results. “Then maybe you’re right and they will listen.”
Jono shrugged, getting to his feet. “What was your call about?”
Patrick sighed. “I have a case. I need to go interview someone.”
“Right now? In this weather? Please tell me it’s not those bloody water bastards again.”
“The kappas? Nah, that case finished today. Something different. There’s a missing child.”
“If you’re this busy when Gerard gets here, I don’t know when you’ll have the time to see him.”
“I’ll make time.” Patrick smiled crookedly. “I have to, remember?”
Captain Gerard Breckenridge was Patrick’s former commanding officer and leader of the Hellraisers, Patrick’s old Special Forces team. It’d been over three years since Patrick last wore the Mage Corps uniform, but Gerard would never hold that against him.
Gerard and a couple other teammates Patrick had fought with were taking a few days out of their leave to come to New York. Part of that reason was to make good on a promise to have Patrick buy them all drinks and to check up on him. Mostly, they were coming to meet with him about the off-the-record mission General Noah Reed had assigned all of them. The three-star Army general—who was a fire dragon in human form—hadn’t let Patrick’s lack of uniform stop him from handing out orders and expecting to be obeyed.
The Morrígan’s staff, once thought locked away in the United States’ Repository in Area 51, had gone missing during the Thirty-Day War three and a half years ago—or so that was what Odin’s ravens had led Patrick to believe. While gods were known to lie, Patrick knew in his gut they weren’t lying about this.
An audit on the staff after Patrick’s meeting with Reed in August proved it was missing. No one knew who had it. No one knew for certain who had stolen it in the first place, though most laid the blame on Ethan Greene and the Dominion Sect. Ethan’s quest to claim a godhead had nearly destroyed Manhattan back in summer. His desire for power was a dangerous thing that Patrick was intimately familiar with.
All anyone knew was that the staff—and whatever magic a war goddess had bestowed upon it—could not end up in Ethan Greene’s hands.
The Hellraisers had been tasked with finding the weapon, as had Special Agent Nadine Mulroney and several other small groups of federal agents within the Preternatural Intelligence Agency. Patrick’s best friend had been read in on the mission before he had because Nadine was PIA.
Patrick didn’t blame General Reed for keeping the SOA out of the loop despite equal control of the Repository shared between the two agencies and branch of military. SOA Director Setsuna Abuku was still trying to clean house at their agency.
At the end of the day, Ethan was his father, and Patrick had a soul debt owned by a different goddess that said this was his problem above all others who might lay claim to it.
Patrick was looking forward to seeing his old team again, he only wished it was under better circumstances.
“If you gotta leave, can I have the rest of your pizza?” Wade asked. “I’m hungry.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “You’re always hungry.”
Jono leaned down to kiss him, lips dry and warm against his own. “I’ll wait up for you.”
“I don’t know how long this interview will take.”
“Like I said.” Jono nipped at his mouth, sending a shiver down Patrick’s spine. “I’ll wait up.”
After months of coming home to Jono, it still felt like a revelation some days. Despite the soulbond tying them together, Patrick was learning to believe that Jono stayed not because he had to, but because he wanted to.
“See you later,” Patrick said.
He left the apartment, only pausing long enough to retrieve his umbrella from the bin on the landing where they stored them. Walking down the stairs, Patrick headed back into the storm.
Irish Charm by CF White
“What you grinning for?” Ciara was at his office door, nose scrunched.
Declan composed the returning message, then clicked off the phone and dropped it on his desk.
“You’ll get an extra hundred in your pay this month. Euan coughed up.”
“You got that tight arse to pay? How did you do
that?”
“My obvious charm.”
“Did you deny him his drink?”
“Aye.”
Ciara snorted.
“You’re still okay to stay until closing tonight? Paddy’ll be with you, so you won’t be alone to lock up.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
Ciara’s dubious grin had Declan’s brow furrowing. “You might reconsider that.”
Declan stood, smoothing down his shirt. “Doubt that.” He did. He needed to get laid. However it came. “Does this shirt make me look—”
“Old?”
“Publican?”
“Aye.”
“Oh.”
“Cause y’are.”
“I know, but sometimes I like to hide that fact.” He unbuttoned the shirt, ruffling it out from his jeans and flapped it off his arms.
“What vocation you going for?”
“Model? Actor? Front man of a boy band.”
Ciara cracked out a laugh. “Only way you’ll pass for that is if you serve the bloke your lock, stock and barrels, getting him so bollocksed he can’t see.”
“You’re good for the soul, y’know, Ciara.”
Ciara curtseyed. “You’re welcome. You still won’t go out though.”
Declan shot a confused look over his shoulder as he rummaged around in his office wardrobe. He kept spare clothes down here for those times he needed a quick change rather than having to venture up three flights of stairs. Mostly it was shirts for when he’d been drenched with beer. Or the occasional jacket for when he had the brewers in. Or a jumper for when he needed to head into the cellar at night. But, right at the back, were a few go-tos for last minute dates. He yanked a T-shirt off a hanger and checked it over. Least it didn’t spell middle-aged owner of a centuries-old pub. It was tight. Might as well be a base layer. Perhaps it was. He wriggled into it. Thank Mary he still had a decent body. He turned to Ciara and smoothed down the creases, tucking the tee into his waistband.
“This?”
“Aye, you could pass for one of the fellas from Boyzone. The oldest one.”
“Grand.” Declan ruffled his curls.
“You still won’t go out though.”
“Why not?”
Ciara smirked, then angled her head for Declan to follow her. He tutted. If it was Jacob, he’d call the Garda. Or his daughter. He’d put the fella in a home himself. Because nothing was going to prevent him getting laid tonight. He needed rid of the loitering scent of Rowan, and to work off the lingering fantasy of a certain army captain.
Ciara led Declan from his back office, through the inn’s reception and into the main bar. Irish folk played on a loop for the few customers chatting into their drinks and finishing off the special of steak and ale pie with greens. Ciara stopped, folded her arms and nodded toward one of the tables.
Declan regretted his choice of top as it restricted his lungs expanding.
In an exact recreation of the previous night, Captain Kane Taylor stared forlornly into a pint of Guinness. Declan doubted a single drop had passed his lips and it wouldn’t be anything to do with how Shane had poured it. A shadow of a man—hunched and childlike—there was too much and nothing at all going on behind sad eyes. Declan’s desire to go to him wrenched hard. Harder than his need to release his pent- up load into a stranger.
Ignoring Ciara’s triumphant “told ye so”, he went to him and slipped into the seat opposite.
“Howaya?”
Kane met his gaze, eyes dreary and empty yet filled with need. With hope. With longing. He dug deep into his jeans pocket, fished out a coin and slid it across the table.
Declan tilted his head. “Don’t usually accept British currency. I’ll make an exception for you though.” He picked up the two pound coin and tossed it into the air, catching it in his fist. “You want change, it’ll have to be in cents.”
“No need for change. I have a lot of thoughts to pay
for.”
Declan’s lips curved into a benevolent smile. Ciara had been right. With thoughts of nothing but this man, Declan wasn’t going anywhere.
“Bottle of Jameson’s, Ciara,” he called over to the bar. “Two glasses.” He then wrapped his hand around Kane’s pint and dragged it toward him. “I take it you’re not going to drink this?”
“No. As much as I want to.”
“I hope, one day, that I can drink it.”
“That day not today?”
“That day isn’t today.”
Declan held up the glass in salute. “Then I’ll take one for your team.” He drank the lot, dumping the empty onto the beer mat, and wiped the froth from his lips. “Can’t waste the best poured pint outside Dublin.”
Heart to Hart by Erin O'Quinn
CHAPTER 1
The Dun Linden New Dawn
Monday, May 1, 1923
Your Sun of Ireland 1 P
Michael’s life began all over again on Monday. The rain that had been threatening for weeks finally banged Dun Linden with bare fists just as dawn broke, pummeling and pounding, leaving everyone a little off balance. Setting the banner line for the day’s newspaper edition, he’d looked up from the linotype into the most arresting pair of eyes he’d ever seen. They were soulful and tormented, of a color somewhere between teal and turquoise, like a rare metal seen once in a lifetime. Or an undiscovered ocean on the edge of a wet dream. He stared in spite of himself at the man behind the eyes.
He was tall—all of six feet, almost as tall as Michael. A black felt bowler hat covered his hair. But Michael knew it had to be as dark as the eyebrows and the growing shadow around his upper lip and chin. Had the man even slept last night? The mouth itself was sulky, arrogant, almost angry.
Michael’s cock set up a slow hammering beneath the stiff leather apron.
He grinned and shifted a wooden match between his teeth. “’Tis help ye need, now?”
Under a fine woolen greatcoat, invitingly open, the man was wearing an impeccably smooth silk brocade jacket, with a neck scarf to reflect the unusual blue of his eyes.
“Yes.” His voice was as clipped and rude as his mouth. “You may place this obituary in the newspaper. And you may insert an advert as well.”
I may, may I? Maybe I’ll insert something else, lad. To himself, Michael mimicked the other’s tone of voice. He knew the man had been educated at a few up-yer-arse schools, probably Eton, then Cambridge. He barely moved his mouth when he articulated every syllable. Here was a man who wouldn’t know a back-alley expression if it slid up his bunghole.
“An’ what’ve we here, then?” Broadening his accent even more, he reached for the first square of paper, the one the stranger held as if reluctant to hand it over.
“A death announcement. To be placed in the first page of the obituaries, four-point black barred, four columns width, one column depth.”
Michael reached for the paper, but the man placed it just out of reach on the surface of the linotype, as if reluctant to see it in the hands of any but himself, smoothing it and letting the expensive woven surface crackle.
“The obituary notice is to run immediately, as soon as this morning’s press run, until and including Thursday. No later. The other, the advert, must run daily until I remove it personally or send a courier. Is all this quite clear?”
If the man hadn’t been so suck-my-dick handsome, Michael would have turned his back and walked into the pressroom of the newspaper, sending an apprentice typesetter to contend with the rude bastard. But, in fact, he was that riveting. Michael was hooked like a bloated fish, but he’d be goddamned if he’d show it to this uppity-muppity.
“An’ there be something else, m’lord?” He knew he was being insolent, but it was the only way he saw at the moment to insert a pinprick a very small way into the man’s starchy veneer.
The man’s eyes flicked across him briefly, as though loathe to acknowledge his presence. “As a matter of fact, there is. I wish to send a telegram to New York. Is there anyone at this establishment capable of doing it or must I send it myself?”
Michael held out his hand. “Ye’re fortunate I’m a cheerful lad. I’ll do everything ye’ve asked today, for a quid-ten.”
The other man stood, adjusting his cuff as if he had not heard a word.
Michael walked from behind the giant linotype, wiping ink-stained fingers on his heavy printer’s smock, sizing up the visitor. Here was a man who badly needed a few things. One was a good frigging lay. He also, by God, needed a man who could take some of the starch from his collar—and he was just the one to do it. He was easily three inches bigger around in the chest than this too-proper prick, and probably in the biceps, too. And a few other places besides. His cock shifted menacingly under the apron.
The sulky mouth spoke. “A pound and ten is robbery, pure and simple.”
“An’ ’tis a pity Dun Linden has but one respectable newspaper.”
“But luckily the newspaper has but one street hooligan from the underbelly of Boston. Probably Boyle Street, from the guttural edges of his accent.”
Now Michael was not just delighted. He knew he had to have this man, at his speed, and in his own way.
A man like this no doubt was a member of some gentleman’s club-or-other, taking lessons once a week in how to defend oneself from the spit-riddled sidewalks. He was careful to speak with a sneer. “No man in Dun Linden would be me equal in a bare-knuckles bout.”
“That same quid and ten says you are quite mistaken.”
“I’ll take your wager, mister. But it has to be at me own call. When and where I say.”
He was astonished when the man squarely met his gaze. “Very well. Call it.”
“Pay now. An’ if ye beat me fair and square, I’ll hand it back to ye.”
For the first time, the other man smiled. It was a slow smile, but one that caught him up in those ocean-sky eyes and threatened to drown him. Michael could not wrench his eyes away. The man unfolded his advert and a telegram message printed in block letters and laid them next to the obit on the type machine’s gleaming black metal surface.
“Tell me, then. The place? The time?” He arched his exquisite eyebrows.
“Within one week. The place? I’ll let ye know.”
Now the man threw his head back and laughed outright. “You Yanks. I look forward to taking your money. Send my telegram right away. Good day.”
In two swift gestures, he inserted his hand in his trouser pocket and threw a sovereign, then ten shillings on the surface of the large typesetting machine. He strode to the exit and pulled open the heavy, glass-paned door. A sullen rain continued to pound the sidewalk outside, and he took a moment to re-button his coat at the waist. Once outside, the man snapped his cane, a movement causing it to billow into a large umbrella. The last sight of him Michael enjoyed was a figure in a greatcoat holding a black silken barrier against the sky.
By now, a small ache had begun in his balls. He grinned and fingered the stiff paper as he read the handsome script.
The friends and family of Sullivan “Sargent” Castleton grieve the passing of the former decorated Lieutenant, stricken in his twenty-and-fifth year. He is survived by his brother, James Riverstone Castleton; his brother’s wife, Mrs. Rose O’Hara Castleton of Baybridge South; and by his father, John J. Castleton, of New York. A brief Memorial will be held at noon on Friday the fifth of May in the year of our Lord 1923, at the Blackpool Circle of Remembrance, twenty and a half Markham Lane. Funeral follows at the Blackpool Cemetery.
Strange a man so young was dead. “Stricken.” An accident? A dread disease? Michael wondered whether the deceased had been a brother, a friend, or a lover. Somehow, the angry stranger didn’t seem the type to keep a lover. Maybe this dish was James, the brother. It came to him without pondering overlong when he picked up the other paper and read the advert. It, too, was written in an elaborate script, in deep black ink, with an emphatic flourish under the letters SH.
Roomer needed. Must be neat & quiet. Two quid a month for gentleman’s quarters near the Zool Gardens. Inquire at number three Rolling Street, 3-C, from four in the afternoon. ~SH
Yes, the departed had no doubt been a roomer, perhaps even a friend. Knowing now where this fellow lived, he’d call on him and politely extract another quid-and-ten. An’ maybe a little more besides. His grin widened as he re-folded the advert and put it in his pocket.
The telegram was addressed to John J. Castleton, Clothiers, in Manhattan, New York.
SARGENT DEAD-STOP-SERVICE FRIDAY MAY 5-STOP-IN SORROW SIMON HART-STOP
Suddenly, Michael lost his grin. There was something ironic and sad about the last two words: Hart-stop. No wonder the man had seemed distant and snappish. The dead man really had been held dear, and this stranger, Simon Hart, was in mourning.
He decided to give it a few days before he exacted the quid-and-ten. Pushing his visor back from his forehead into his long blond-red hair, he finished setting the first page, sliding the type slugs into place with practiced fingers, before calling his apprentices to complete Monday’s edition. The rain was still falling in fits and starts when he left the newspaper building two hours later and headed for the Zoological Gardens.
* * *
Michael McCree let his stiff bowler be a rain shield, pulling it down over his too-thick hair as he lounged back against a stout brick wall. He was in a small alcove across from a group of two- and three-story brick houses near the city park. The structures were no doubt a few hundred years old and included a pub, a butcher’s shop, a lady’s millinery and a dry goods grocers.molly house 200
He eyed the Silver Hind, a middlish-class pub whose address marked it as the living quarters of Simon Hart. In this city and throughout the British Isles, keeping rooms above a pub, or even a bookshop or other place of business, was common enough. He wondered idly if the man he sought had chosen the pub for its initials. SH. Stor. Haisce. Both Gaelic words for “treasure.”
After reading the stranger’s advert, he’d decided two quid a month was fair exchange for a change of living style. He’d been staying with a distant aunt and her three sons in a large, run-down flat near the docks, paying her one quid a month for room and board. He loved his good-natured, hard drinking kin, but he found himself often prowling the seamy underside of the docks, staying with fellow rough-trade omi-palones, not often finding answers, but always looking.
Michael was, by nature, a man’s man who craved men, but he shied from the bitches—effeminates who ogled every bulge in a man’s pants. He’d always been attracted to men like himself, roustabout street boys, those with a grudge and a few dark secrets. Men with an attitude. Especially heterosexuals—omis—who didn’t yet know their innermost cravings. Men like Simon Hart, he was sure of it.
Now that he’d encountered Hart, he wouldn’t easily let him go. The man needed someone right now, he had already decided, and he would be there when Hart was ready. Now he must find out more about the man and how a fair-to-middling-looking newspaperman and runaway Irishman could fit into his life.
His thoughts flicked for a moment back to Boyle Street, the so-called Mick Metro, a haven for immigrant Irish near the Boston Harbor. Simon Hart had guessed his neighborhood, even to the very street. Yes, he was Irish and proud of it. But from the moment his family, a generation back, had arrived in the town, they’d been reviled and driven to pockets of “New Ireland,” places where only the Irish lived and only the Irish felt safe. To make his living at the Boston newspaper, he’d dyed his hair and carefully lost his accent. Of course, he’d lied about his name, calling himself Mo Mammoth, his own tongue-in-cheek reference to his genitalia.
He kept his recent past shrouded in mystery, even from his relatives. Three years ago, he told them, his identity had been discovered, forcing him to run for his life. Emphatically, no Micks were allowed at the Boston World, or any similar respectable place of business. He had two choices: return to the docks or flee to Ireland. And so, to hear Michael tell his tale to his cousins, he had arrived in Dun Linden with a small stipend in his pocket, a large chip on his shoulder, and his prick tucked between his legs like the tail of a whimpering hound.
The truth was much more inconvenient. He shifted a little, pulling his bowler lower on his forehead when the rain eased a bit. Michael was a man who could slip into any role, and his employer thought his Irish heritage would allow him to step onto any stage, from the High Mall to the docks. He was, in short, a brain and body for a shadowy agency that ostensibly did not operate in Ireland at all.
The rain had ended, but Michael kept the hat lowered. If Simon Hart were to appear, he needed to blend into the brick wall. He alternately leaned, squatted and knelt in the corner, half hidden from the street by a large dustbin, which the proprietors must use as a common repository for everything foul-smelling.
“Say, mister, got a ha’penny?”
He stiffened. The voice belonged to a child. Yet a child could be a betrayer as easily as a grown man.
“Off wi’ ye lad,” he said gruffly.
“Ye new here?” the voice persisted. It was coming from the far side of the dustbin. Michael glanced up from his crouch and saw the stiff, copper-hued hair of a boy maybe ten or eleven years old. He must have been standing, or crouching like himself, in the rain. But why?
“Waitin’ on a friend,” he muttered, wishing the boy would leave.
“Blue blag?”
Shit, criminy, this kid was street wise. He had just asked Michael if he was trolling for a homosexual bang.
“Right ye are, lad. So bugger off.”
“A ha’penny makes me invisible.”
Michael dug in his pocket, pulled out a ha’ppence, and flipped it to him. Even from eight feet, the boy caught it with a practiced flourish and took off running.
Michael settled back into his squat and returned his gaze to the Silver Hind. It might be a very long night. When he got tired of this post, he’d go inside for a pint and keep an eye out for his quarry from a different vantage point. There must be a roomer’s portal around back. Yes, he could wait. He must be sure of the man he’d selected on a moment’s whim, a one-second leap o’ the cock.
The sky opened again.
He lapsed back into thoughts of three years ago when he’d arrived in Dun Linden as a man with a secret. Actually, many secrets. He’d right away melted into the coarse fabric of the docks. By day, he’d bought himself into becoming a newspaperman, thanks to the funds provided by a sudden “death in the family.” By night, he soon learned every seam of the sprawling town-becoming-a-city—from the tenements to the granite homes of the wealthy.
His natural language was the street lingo every homosexual spoke, from Boston to Belfast, from Cambridge to the continent beyond, a way of effectively shielding themselves from the hetero world around them. Yet Michael knew how to enter a fine drawing room, how to speak politics with the uppity-muppities, how to blend with any crowd he selected.
Always he came home to the brawling, rollicking, free-drinking docks of Dun Linden, the ones reminding him of home. He’d gone from New Ireland to the real Ireland, and he loved it.
Now he was consciously seeking a change in his life, drawn by his own unruly prick to the promise of a desirable man. From the life I enjoy to the one I crave. Grinning, he shook his head, and the gesture caused accumulated rain to drip from his hat into the collar of his thin linen shirt and run down his back. He balled his hands into fists as he squatted, letting the sky bash him, never taking his eyes from a doorway across the cobblestone street.
It occurred to him that today was Beltane, a day replete with centuries of meaning. A day for lovers. His grin widened.
Getting Shamrocked by Shane K Morton
1
Levi
“Alright, Seattle! You guys have been fucking amazing tonight. Thanks for coming to my going away show. It’s… It’s been a blast, and I’m going to miss the shit out of you. Here’s one last song before I go.” I looked out into the rather impressive crowd that filled the Crocodile and picked up my guitar. The room was filled with every friend I knew in this great city, and I actually had to hold back my emotions before I let them get the best of me.
“I think most of you will remember this one. It was our only hit, but it means a lot to me, and I think it’s the best way to say goodbye.” I nodded over at the bassist, and he started the one song that brought back all of the bad memories of a life lived a long time ago. Los Angeles, living high with a hit song and a record deal, being in love, and watching it all fall apart because of ego and duty. It should have been the most fantastic time of my life. It wasn’t. I had never felt lower, and I had never fallen lower than I did during that time.
“Better days are all I ask, and that’s what you can give.Wrapped up safely in your arms is how I want to liveTime is harsh, and days are longOur hearts are full of songBut we see the world all wrongIf you take off your rose-colored glasses, you will seeThe world is black and white, and it hates you and meTime stalls; Worlds fall, and we go on and onOur life dissipates with the dawn.”
I started the first verse and chorus slower than we sang it when I wasn’t a solo artist. Back then, Casey and I were the musical duo called, The Pleasant. We busted our asses in Los Angeles and fought our way up the musical chain enough to get noticed. It took us over a year of playing dive bars and shit houses before we started playing the real music halls like The Viper Room and Whiskey A Go-Go. An A&R guy caught us one night when we were headlining a Friday night at The Rainbow, and that following Monday, we were sitting in an office signing a contract. It happened fast.
Life went downhill a year later. It happened fast, too.
This song had saved our lives, we thought. It was a fun, upbeat song that you could dance to, but I remembered it as a requiem. It had been a fitting end to our love story. A dirge…That’s usually how I played it these days. But tonight, I decided to go out on an upbeat note. I hit the stride into the second verse the way Casey and I used to sing it.
Fast and furious, driving the melody home in a way that made you want to smile and let go of your worries, even if the lyrics were sad and depressing. Casey and I had listened to too much Cure in our youth.
“Look out to the horizon- deaths marching to our doorHe knows where we are and sees into our coreDays are dark, and nights are bleakNo words come as we speakThis is how humanity has peakedIf you take off your rose-colored glasses, you will seeThe world is black and white, and it hates you and meTime stalls; Worlds fall, and we go on and onOur life dissipates with the dawn.”
The crowd was moving and swaying to the music, and I hated to bring them back down, but this wasn’t a celebration. It was the death knell of what little career I had left. I played an extended jam break that became almost frenetic before the band followed me down the rabbit hole, back to the slow lament this song had become for me over the last ten years. They knew it was the end and held up their phones with the light on as their way to show they cared.
“Breath is just an artifice, and now we need it notMoved beyond the world we knew- a plot of land we boughtLife is done, and peace has comeLimbs intertwine all numbThis is what all of us will becomeOur Rose-colored glasses have broken to their coreHate and love emotions that don’t matter anymoreThe ends here; So No fear about our life no moreLife dissipates at death’s door.Life dissipates at death’s door.”
I hit the last chord and looked out to all of the people who have supported me since I moved to Seattle with my tail between my legs. Seattle was as far away from Casey as I could get at the time. This audience – my friends, co-workers, and the fans who attended a lot of my shows over the last few years... These people had kept me going.
I felt that song in my core. The lyrics, which had always haunted me, left me feeling cold and alone, just as I knew I would one day feel when it was finally my time. Numbness crawled across my body, and I strained to smile at everyone. I pushed the feelings back down as far as I could. This was my last time on stage… Probably. At least like this, and I wanted the memory to be a good one. I had enough crappy ones already.
I took a deep breath and felt my lungs expand, the oxygen giving me the courage to finally walk away from it all. I nodded at the crowd, their cheers filling me with their love and joy. What I did… What I tried to do… it brought people happiness, even if it had brought me only loneliness and pain in the end. It was time to say goodbye - to all of it.
“Goodnight, Seattle. I don’t know if this is goodbye… So, I will just say… so long and live happy lives. Thank you, and goodnight!”
I sat down the guitar in its stand and walked off stage, leaving the band behind. I knew I had to put on my happy face and try to get through the rest of the night. I had farewells to say and people to hug before I got in my car tomorrow. I had already sent the movers with all of my shit yesterday, and if there was a God, it would be waiting for me when I arrived back home.
Well… Ok, not home. I hadn’t been home since my parents passed away years ago. But it was the place I was from. It was the place where I grew up and became the overconfident asshole that moved to Los Angeles with his boyfriend to take on the world.
“Holy shit! That was fucking amazing, Levi. You sounded better than ever, honey.” Nefertiti exclaimed as she popped her head into the small room that served as the green room. “I told everyone to meet us in the back bar. I reserved the back room for us so we could all be together one last time.”
She walked over and placed her hand on my arm, and caressed it gently. I took her in my arms and held her tightly. She had become my best friend, and leaving her was killing me.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving, Levi… It feels surreal, you know? Like…It’s a dream and can’t really be happening. I’m gonna miss the fuck out of you.” She kissed me on the cheek. “But I guess I have a place to visit. I heard from someone who used to live there that the skiing is excellent.” She smirked. “You're sweaty as shit, hon.”
I chuckled and nuzzled into her neck. “I’ll miss you too, Nef. You have…” I shook my head and held her tighter.
“Saved you from the brink.” Her voice was soft and so full of compassion that no more words were needed. I was a lost soul when I moved here, and she truly saved me. If she hadn’t been the nosiest next-door neighbor, I don’t know what would have become of me.
“Yeah… That’ll do. I guess we should…” I pulled back and grabbed the towel I had laid across the back of the chair and started drying my face.
“You couldn’t have changed before you used me as a body pillow?” She pursed her red lips and looked into the mirror, running her hands through her tight braids.
“Hey. It’s my last night. I get to rub my sweat on anyone I want.” I pulled my t-shirt off and threw it onto the chair before pulling out a Soundgarden t-shirt from my bag. I handed her the towel, and she took it, bless her heart, as if it were one of the grossest things she had ever touched. “Will you please dry my back? You’re making me feel self-conscious.”
She quickly wiped me down, and I slipped on the fresh t-shirt. I picked up the rest of my crap and threw it into the bag.
“You ready?” She perused me, as she always did, to see if I was about to crack in two again.
“I’ll meet you back there. I have to go grab my guitars. Do you mind taking this with you?” I handed her the old brown leather bag I had used for over a decade whenever I had a show. It was worn down to almost nothing, the leather smooth and spotted with my life’s grit.
“Alright, I’ll see you back there, boo.” Nefertiti walked out of the room and glanced back to check on me one more time. I was going to miss her so badly. There was no one like her waiting for me back home. I hadn’t spoken to any of my old friends in over a decade. I knew which side they took in the death of me and Casey’s as a couple. At least he didn’t live there anymore. Our old agent told me he moved to Houston for a job eight years ago. I was grateful I didn’t have to worry about bumping into him.
I walked to the stage and took a deep breath before I stepped back onto it. The audience had all left, and it was just me in the empty theatre. Moments like this should feel cathartic, shouldn’t they? An empty stage is a life waiting to be lived. A stage holds many births and many deaths.
The metaphors flowed through me, threatening to choke me with their sappy idioms until I pulled myself together and walked over to my instruments. When we broke up, I wasn’t sure if I could be a solo artist, and to be honest, I hated it. Music had always been my dream, our dream, and when he left… When I left… When we were no longer a… we… onstage or off, I wasn’t sure I would ever play for an audience again. But slowly, I came back to myself. A couple years later, I did my first show.
I picked up my favorite guitar and slid it into its case. It was the nicest gift I have ever received, and I cherished it even if playing it hurts my heart sometimes. The acoustic guitar I play was the first one I ever bought with my own money. I laid it down into its case and shut it. I picked them up and hauled them towards the back bar, where my real friends in Seattle waited.
I had to say goodbye.
Tomorrow - I will drive back home to The Pleasant.
A.J. Llewellyn lives in California, but dreams of living in Hawaii. Frequent trips to all the islands, bags of Kona coffee in the fridge and a healthy collection of Hawaiian records keep this writer refueled.
A.J's passion for the islands led to writing a play about the overthrow of Queen Lili'uokalani's kingdom.
A.J. never lacks inspiration for writing erotic romances but has many other passions: collecting books on Hawaiiana, surfing and spending time with family, friends and animal companions.
A.J. Llewellyn believes that love is a song best sung out loud.
Hailey Turner is big city girl who spoils her cats rotten and has a demanding day job that she loves, but not as much as she loves writing. She’s been writing since she was a young child and enjoys reading almost as much as creating a new story. Hailey loves stories with lots of action, gritty relationships, and an eventual HEA that satisfies the heart.
Brought up in a relatively small town in Hertfordshire, C F White managed to do what most other residents try to do and fail—leave.
She eventually settled for pie and mash, cockles and winkles and a bit of Knees Up Mother Brown to live in the East End of London; securing a job and creating a life, a home and a family.
She writes gritty British based stories about imperfect men falling in love against the odds and has been accused of sprinkling a little humour into them too.
Erin O’Quinn earned a BA (English) and MA (Comparative Literature) from the University of Southern California. Her life has been a pastiche of fascinating vocations—newspaper marketing manager, university teacher, car salesperson, landscape gardener—until now, in relative retirement, she lives and writes in a small town in central Texas.
O'Quinn has authored more thgan 50 books. Two-thirds are M/M mystery-romance. The others are fantasy for all ages and M/F romance-fantasy.
Shane Morton has performed in all 48 continental United States as well as Canada, Mexico and Germany. He lives in California with his husband and their sweet pup. Shane's series include Point Pleasant Holiday Series, Drag Queen Detective Cozy Mysteries, and The Bluegrass Boys. He has written quite a few standalones and even ventured into the world of YA. He likes writing stories of the LGBT experience.
When not writing, he can be found in a dark dive bar performing cabaret or at a film festival.
AJ Llewellyn
GOOGLE PLAY / INSTAGRAM / B&N
EMAIL: ajllewellyn@gmail.com
Hailey Turner
EMAIL: haileyturnerwriter@gmail.com
CF White
Erin O'Quinn
Irish Charm by CF White
Getting Shamrocked by Shane K Morton
