💀🔪Random Tales of Murder & Mayhem 2025 Part 2 🔪💀

Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3

 

Enzo by RJ Scott

Summary:

Redcars #1

He’s hurt. Hunted. Barely holding on. But Enzo will kill to keep him safe.

Enzo has already found his place at Redcars—a garage turned sanctuary for men with dangerous pasts and loyal hearts. He’s built a life of purpose, surrounded by a chosen family who knows exactly what it means to survive.

Then a bloodied, barefoot stranger collapses at their gate.

Terrified, half-starved, and hunted for the key to millions, Robbie has nowhere left to run. But Enzo sees him. Not just the bruises or the shadows of his past—but the man underneath, all sharp edges and shattered trust. And something in Enzo refuses to let go.

Redcars isn’t just a place to hide. It’s a promise. And when the past comes calling, Enzo will do whatever it takes to protect what’s his.

Enzo is a gritty MM romantic suspense featuring high stakes, found family, and an ex-con willing to cross the line for love. Expect drama, danger, “I would die for you” devotion, and the kind of love that doesn’t ask permission to stay.

Original Review June 2025:

We were first introduced to some of the Redcars gang back in the author's Single Dad sixth entry, Pride.  It may have taken longer than I expected to meet the Redcars gang but characters can be stinkers when it comes to telling their stories.  The lads weren't quite ready yet but now they are and frankly, I can understand why Robbie wasn't eager to tell his tale.

Robbie.  What can I say about Robbie?  He is one resilient fella.  I don't want to give anything away so I'll just say this: I don't think I've ever read a character I wanted to protect more.  I've read many, many tortured souls but there is something about his past that will break you in pieces but the fact that he's still standing also fills you with so much hope.  I'd give him Mama Bear Hugs out the whazoo but I know he probably wouldn't like them too much so I'll just send him an endless supply of good vibe-filled virtual hugs.

Enzo. Where do I begin?  Enzo is a man with his own inner demons from his past, many of which he seems to have gotten a pretty solid handle on but there are things we never completely let go of and he has those too.  Seeing him with Robbie tells me more about his core character and true soul than any words or platitudes could.  If this was a daytime soap opera, the lads of Redcars would be labeled "anit-hero", as a fan of soaps growing up I am very familiar with the title but can't say I ever agreed with it really.  Oh, I get what it means, typical bad boy with a heart of gold especially when it comes to a certain good character and that's great, I love a good old fashion opposites attract trope but I never cared for the "anti-hero" moniker.  Anywho, that's what many might label Enzo as but I see him as a man who had very little choice in the past, did his time, and is working hard to overcome it and yet he's not afraid to return to the evils of old to protect those he loves.  

Honestly, it doesn't matter what label you put on the lads, they are each deserving of happy times.  Getting them to that point is what RJ Scott's Enzo is all about and it may be a bumpy ride but it's a trip worthy of a backseat stomach shaker.  It can be a hard read for sure, heartbreaking, heart-hurting, but it's also heartwarming and heart-healing that will make you smile and maybe even help bring some comfort to any hurting you might have in need of healing.

I've read stories with dark elements before, not often but definitely a dozen or so a year, so over time I've digested some pretty disturbing tales.  Enzo is not the darkest, we learn what the poor lad went through for years and it's hell on Earth but it's told in a way that is feelings at times more than events. Don't get me wrong, we see some pretty horrible memories but as a whole I say it's the fear, anger, and hurt that tells the pain more than showing the deeds.  Which in my opinion, can actually increase the darkness and does does just that in Enzo, but for me it's not the darkest I've read but I would easily put it in the top 5.  

So be aware, this is not for the feint of heart.  Having given that warning, don't think it's all doom and gloom. Yes, it does not have as much of the happy happy feels and some would label it more angst than drama(personally I see them as the same thing but that's just me😉), there is actually a lot that will fill your heart with, well perhaps not "joy" but definitely a feeling of uplifting contentment.  Once you meet Robbie and Enzo, it doesn't take long to become invested in their journey, good or bad, you quickly need to see it through.

One last note about the Redcars trilogy.  Each story is a standalone in the fact each tells a different character's journey but there are certain elements in Enzo that weren't completely fulfilled.  I wouldn't label it a cliffhanger but certainly a carryover.  I would say this is definitely a series meant to be read in order, though I have not seen the next two books of course but that's the take I got from it.

RATING:

Rise of the Ruthless by Davidson King

Summary:

Lucifer's Landing #2

Ren Ikeda’s world is falling apart. War has broken out in the streets of Lucifer’s Landing, and his entire empire is being dismantled one explosion at a time. Unsure of his men’s allegiance, but desperately needing protection, he snatches up an opportunity when it lands in his lap. Hiring Mykel Finlay, his complete opposite in every way, has the markings of being disastrous. Realizing Mykel may be the only person he can trust, he clings to the man despite the danger to his heart.

Mykel Finlay doesn’t like bad guys. As ex-police and military, he prides himself on walking the line of good, not evil. When his brother gets in a bind with Ren Ikeda, the Japanese mob boss, he must put aside his moral compass and dive into the murky waters of the mafia. The only thing Mykel isn’t prepared for is falling in love and willingly drowning for Ren, a man he should hate.

With the help of some very unlikely allies, Ren and Mykel try staying alive long enough to take down their enemies and grab a happily ever after neither man thought they wanted. Will their salvation end up leading them down a path of destruction, or will they actually prevail?

This is book two in my Lucifer’s Landing series and is not a standalone. It is highly recommended you read book one: War of the Wicked first.

Original Review Book of the Month January 2024:

Has it really been a whole year since we were first introduced to Lucifer's Landing? Doesn't seem possible, perhaps that's just me because when a book is as rich and thrilling as War of the Wicked was it never truly leaves my psyche.

When an author begins a new series, no matter how much I love the author's works to that point, there is always a layer of "can the author really knock another one out of the park?"  Lets face it, even the greatest authors of all time have been known to put out a clunker or 2 and be it next year or 20 years from now, the day will come when King has a slightly less than stellar release . . . 

BUT TODAY IS NOT THAT DAY!

Rise of the Ruthless is the exact opposite of clunker.

I'll admit I don't think I can say Ruthless topped Wicked but honestly that comes down to Wicked being the first.  The first is 99.999% of the time always my favorite.  Though Ren and Mykel definitely give Dante and Rainn a heated race for that notch in my heart representing Lucifer's Landing.  Does their pairing meet the "opposites attract" label? That's a toss up.  Yes they are definitely opposites in the "where my moral line in the sand sits" column(at least in the beginning) but their passion to protect loved ones and family is very much in the "equals" category.  The column I put them in is what I like to call "Snark and Cuddle".  They each give as good as they get, they can match snark for snark but they can both cuddle till their hearts explode from the emotional chemistry.  There is absolutely nothing I didn't like about them.

I can't forget Zeus.  How anyone could forget such a protective beast that can be both ferocious and gentle is unfathomable to me.  Animals often play a variety of roles in a story but I don't think I've ever loved one so dearly that they truly are their own character.  If Davidson King were to write a bonus chapter from Zeus' POV I would be first in line to gobble it up.

Now I won't touch on the mystery side of the story as I don't want to spoil anything for either Ruthless or Wicked for those who haven't visited Lucifer's Landing yet.  I will say that there might not be quite as many twists and turns as in Wicked but Ruthless still keeps you on your toes from page one.  There is never a dull moment for the characters or the reader.  

The passion and chemistry between not only Ren and Mykel but Ren and Dante's friendship is equally powerful(for different reasons but I still label it passionate chemistry).  I always find an extra special connection to stories and characters when there is more than just the romantic chemistry involved in the book which makes for an all encompassing storytelling experience.

It took me a few days to read the story and I wish I could say I did that on purpose to savor the King yumminess but it was time that dictated my reading clock.  Had time been on my side, I could easily have read this in one setting and then kicked myself for not savoring it, that's just how engrossing this entry is.  However you choose to set your reading pace, I highly recommend giving Lucifer's Landing a visit, if you haven't dipped your toe in yet you really should start with War of the Wicked because even though Rise of the Ruthless revolves around a different pairing there is an ongoing storyline.

RATING:

Wintering with George by Mary Calmes

Summary:

With George #2

George Hunt is certain that spending time with his boyfriend’s family over the holidays will be a disaster. How can it not? For starters, he knows nothing about families, never having had one, as for the rest…talk about pressure. What if he messes up, says the wrong thing, and ends up losing the most important person in his life? Dr. Kurt Butler is his miracle; George can’t afford any missteps. But if he’s careful and does everything right, perhaps they’ll see his good qualities instead of the lethal ones.

Sometimes, though, fate lets you put your best foot forward, and George gets to show off how handy he is to have around when bullets start flying. If he can keep everyone alive long enough to do some wintering, maybe he’ll discover that a family is something worth having after all.

Original Review March 2024:

George Hunt truly is the star of this holiday novella.  Obviously he was the main focus of Just George as well but we also had Hannah Kage and as she is nearly as a big of a trouble magnet as her father, Jory Kage, she has an unwitting tendency to draw the readers attention away from anything else around her😉.  That's not a bad thing, as a matter of fact it was a brilliant way for us to get sucked into George's journey.

I got sidetracked there. Let's talk George Hunt and the man who owns his heart, Dr. Kurt Butler in Wintering George . . . 

George and Kurt are just as great together in their established relationship as they were when they first were thrown together in Just George.  George is returning from an unexpected mission, who am I kidding😉, all his missions are unexpected that just comes with the territory but he does it so well and he has a routine to unwind, to readjust, to regroup his mind and body after the action.  Unfortunately as there was the typical SNAFU that comes with his profession he is unable to have his routine and has to fly straight to Kurt's family holiday.  Despite not being able to let his mind and body come down as needed he is still the gentleman with the family meets but he also has the presence of mind to spot trouble as they near the family's home. 

That's all the details you're getting from me as I don't want to spoil any of the possible mayhem that ensues.  I will say it's not the family holiday that Kurt's sister and family planned but in the end it's the holiday they probably all needed the most.  I know it sounds cryptic but no spoilers from me so cryptic is what you are getting😉.

George may not be a trouble magnet like the earlier mentioned Jory and Hannah Kage are but he does seem to have a knack of being in the wrong place, wrong time or perhaps more accurately stated: right place, right time considering his expertise in the area of mayhem.

For those who are looking for a heartwarming Xmassy tale, then don't be put off by the mayhem label because Wintering George definitely leaves you full of all the loving holiday feels.  For those(like me) who enjoy a little danger to combat all the happy happy, Wintering is perfect for you too because there is a perfect blend of sweet and salty in this novella.  If you only like reading about Christmas in December(possibly July for Xmas in July) then be sure and bookmark this tale so it doesn't get lost in 2024's additions to you TBR list. 

One last note: if wondering, you don't have to read Just George first, Mary Calmes does a lovely job referencing how George and Kurt met so you won't be lost but I know I'm glad I read it, I just think I have a deeper heartfelt connection to both men having read it but it's not a must.

RATING:

Puzzle for Two by Josh Lanyon

Summary:

Two can play at this game...

Fledging PI Zachariah Davies’s wealthy and eccentric client, toymaker Alton Beacher, wants to hire an investigator who can pose as his boyfriend while figuring out who is behind the recent attempts on his life. And Zach, struggling to save the business his father built, is just desperate enough to set aside his misgivings and take the job.

But it doesn’t take long to realize all is not as it seems—and given that it all seems pretty weird, that’s saying something. The only person Zach can turn to for help is equally struggling, equally desperate, but a whole lot more experienced rival PI Flint Carey.

Former Marine Flint has been waiting for Zach to throw in the towel and sell whatever’s left of the Davies Detective Agency to him. But when the game, inexperienced accountant-turned-shamus turns to him for help, Flint finds himself unwilling—or maybe unable—to say no.

Original Review August 2023:

It's been a long time when I've read a mystery that had such a small cast of characters that still managed to keep me guessing almost right up to the reveal.  That's not a bad thing, oh no, in fact it's a very, very good thing.  Sometimes mysteries can get lost in the vast ocean of characters but not Puzzle for Two.  

I'm not going to say too much about the mystery so as not to spoil it but it was a "who done it?" all the way and quite honestly, more than once it left me questioning "who is the victim?" instead of "who is the culprit?".  Those very questions is what lifted Puzzle for Two from "great mystery gotta slow to savor the read" to "HOLY FREAKIN' HANNAH BATMAN must know now read".  Just when you think you have it figured out, Lanyon throws in a little pocket wrench to muck up your guesses leaving "gotta be ??? oh but maybe it's ??? then again it could be ???" rattling in your brain.  If you have long hair you'll want to put it up and if short-haired wrap a scarf around it, otherwise you'll have huge chunks of bald spots from pulling it out during those moments of "oh crap who is it?!?!?!?!"😉😉.

As for Zach(or Zachariah as Flint likes to say) and Flint, well they are another brilliant example of snark and cuddle, my favorite trope.  Flint might have the snark down to a way of life but Zach isn't exactly a newbie to snarkville.  Zach and Flint may not top Adrien/Jake, Kit/JX, or Sam/Jason on my Josh Lanyon detecting duo list but they don't lag far behind.  And when little sister Brooke can't take anymore and puts the obvious solution to the non-case trouble on the table you just want to scream "Thank You!", I certainly know I wouldn't have had the patience enough to wait as she did.  Whether the author has any further cases for this detecting team you just know that Brooke will be in charge(even if Zach and Flint aren't brave enough to admit it😉).

Puzzle for Two blends mystery, romance, drama, and humor in just the right portions that Lanyon fans are familiar with and in doing so, has given us a fictional gem that will suck you in, keep you guessing, and leave you highly entertained.  As the saying goes: "I can't ask for anything more" 😉.

RATING:

The Sartorial Senator by Frank W Butterfield

Summary:

Nick Williams Mystery #3

Friday, May 29, 1953

Nick and Carter just want to go home to San Francisco after their adventures in Mexico.

But, before they can sail into the Golden Gate, Nick receives a subpoena from America's most infamous witch hunter in Washington, D.C.

Meanwhile, an old schoolmate from Carter's childhood shows up out of nowhere and revives painful memories.

Once they get to the nation's capitol, they are plunged into helping yet another flirtatious police detective solve a curious murder that leads to some very dark places.

In the end, Nick and Carter set a trap to catch the killer and get much more than they bargained for.

Original Review June 2024:

Just when Nick finally thought he'd get home(and get to stay for awhile) another journey appears and this time to Washington, DC in the form of a subpoena from Senator Joe McCarthy.  Once he arrives there are other matters that require attention.  A familiar face from Carter's past that doesn't exactly make Carter smile which in turn upsets Nick.  So not only are they dealing with a blast from the past but also are being asked to discover what happened to a different senator's son.

Cases just seem to follow Nick around.  

The Sartorial Senator is a wonderful mystery that though the who may not have kept me guessing to the reveal, the whys certainly had me on the edge of my seat.  Just so much goodness and if I don't stop now I'm afraid my spoil-free zone will be compromised.  But know this: Nick and Carter will never be dull and will always keep you on your toes.

Blogger Note for 1-3:

I'm glad I went to the beginning because at least for the first 3 I had opportunity to read now, there is a few things that linger from one story to the next.  Would you be lost? Not really as the author does a wonderful job keeping the reader in the know but I'm glad I read it this way and not just because I'm typically a series read-in-order gal.  The overall feel just meshed so perfectly.

RATING:

Enzo by RJ Scott 

ONE

Roman

He left me on my knees.

I didn’t even feel the cold at first—I was numb. My body and mind was locked into an endless cycle of pain and submission. Hope had been stripped from me, torn away, until all that remained was the emptiness inside my chest. I used to believe I could survive anything, but here, in this place, I knew better. Survival was a cruel joke, a whisper I barely remembered. Maybe it would be easier if I just… stopped.

Not yet.

Not until I was sure there was nothing left to fight for.

The rough concrete bit into my skin through my torn jeans, the damp chill of the basement seeping into my bones. My arms ached, bound tight behind me, wrists raw from the coarse rope holding me captive. The chains on either side rattled when I moved, a cruel reminder of my place, my punishment.

Beyond the locked door, I could hear muffled laughter. It was distant, careless. The kind of laughter that belonged to men who had choices, who weren’t caged in the dark like an animal. I swallowed, my throat dry, my ribs throbbing where his boots had found their mark. The coppery tang of blood sat thick on my tongue, mixing with the taste of failure.

John had been drinking. He was always drinking.

Stealing. Making me hide the evidence. Drinking.

Hurting me.

That first time, when he’d found me, I thought maybe—just maybe—it would be different. He’d fed me, given me water, promised me safety. That was the hook. The lie. Safety didn’t exist in his world, only control. Only what he decided I was worth. And he decided I wasn’t worth much at all.

Every day was the same. The cycle. The routine.

A hand in my hair, dragging me from sleep. Words slurred; orders given. I was a thing. A possession. Something to be kept. He’d whisper it like a promise, “Your brain belongs to me now, Roman.”

I lost track of how long it had been. The days blurred together and became years. No windows. No way to mark time beyond his moods, beyond the weight of his fists or the sharp crack of a belt when I failed him, and the bite of the cage on my penis, locked, and the key thrown away right in front of me.

“They want you locked up, I don’t want to see that pathetic thing. I’m not fucking queer and you don’t get to feel anything as long as you keep your mouth shut.”

The cage twisted with hair and blood and cut my skin when they wrenched on it.

“They don’t know what you can do! You remember boy, you don’t tell them shit!”

Tonight, it had been more numbers to remember, statistics to work out, letters to memorize. Then, a visit from the two who join in, who use me, who hurt me, who laugh.

I was too exhausted to get them right, my mind sluggish, my body trembling from lack of food. I’d tried. I always tried. But trying wasn’t enough. Mistakes had consequences.

Now, I knelt in the dark, the air thick with mildew and the acrid scent of old sweat. The cold steel of the collar at my throat was a constant, pressing weight. A mark. His mark.

I used to have a name. A life.

I used to be Roman Lowe.

I wasn’t always this pathetic thing. I used to matter. But John had taken every part of me away, crushing everything good until I couldn’t remember what it felt like to be whole.

Piece by piece, he’d destroyed me until all that was left was what he’d made of me.

And if I stayed here much longer, I wouldn’t survive.

He told me they were coming tomorrow—the people he answered to—and I knew this was my last chance because when they realized what he’d done with their money, and then he realized I’d hidden money that money out of everyone’s reach…

I’m dead.

I had a plan. It wasn’t much—a desperate, last-ditch gamble born of sheer panic. I was at the edge, teetering between hope and surrender. I’d decided I wouldn’t let him keep me if I couldn’t break free. I’d make him kill me first. I’d rather die than let John and his friends win. Every time he forced the drugs down my throat, I learned how to half swallow, gag after he’d gone, how to spit them out when he wasn’t looking, how to scrape them into the fibers of the rug or let them dissolve in the drain, and then to stash them in my secret place. The more I resisted, the clearer my mind became. The haze he tried to keep me under was lifting, but with that clarity came a sharper, more unbearable desperation to escape.

Escape or die.

Escape or swallow every pill I’d stashed.

After he left, I counted to a thousand—sometimes, he came back to check on me, and I’d figured out that a thousand was the magic number before I could be sure he wasn’t returning that night. Only then did I dare to move, to test my restraints. I pulled at the left chain, my fingers raw from nights of the same ritual, of the same desperate hope. The metal links groaned under the strain, the resistance familiar, yet like before, I felt it—movement, however slight. The mortar in the old wall crumbled a tiny bit, a whisper of freedom. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to keep me going, enough to keep me fighting, sufficient to remind me I might be able to get out.

I yanked again, harder this time, the chain biting into my skin as I twisted it with all the strength I had left. My wrists burned, slick with blood, the raw wounds reopening with every desperate yank. My ribs ached, each breath a sharp stab of pain, the bruises deep and unforgiving. The air was thin and damp, but I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop. Freedom was there, just beyond my reach—I had to keep pulling.

When the chain finally gave way, I toppled sideways, the sudden lack of resistance sending me sprawling onto the cold, hard floor. Papers scattered beneath me, their crisp edges sharp against my skin as blood smeared across them—ruining the numbers, the letters he’d forced me to memorize. My head struck the floor, and a dull thud reverberated through my skull while my ribs flared in agony, each breath shallow and sharp. But the chain was loose.

I froze. What if someone heard it hit the floor? What if he came back?

I forced myself to stay still, to listen. One hundred. Two hundred. Three. Silence. Only then did I move, scrambling to my feet, sluggish with pain and exhaustion. I crossed the room toward the table where he always left the keys—a cruel taunt, within sight but never within reach My fingers trembled as I grasped them, slipping the key into the cuffs and twisting until I felt the click of freedom, then doing the same thing for the collar around my neck. I couldn’t take off the cage encasing my cock, didn’t matter how hard I pulled or bled, it didn’t move. It would have to stay.

Carefully, I lowered the chains to the floor, arranging them as if they had never been disturbed. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, I nudged the stool under the tiny window—the same stool he sat on when he loomed over me, his voice sharp, his words like knives. The same stool where he would shout at me, scream at me.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I would be gone. One way or another—whether I made it out or whether John found me before I could—I knew this was my last chance. I was either walking out of here or I’d die trying.

The tiny window—sometimes he’d open it just enough so the cold air would run over my skin. I was so skinny that I could fit through. Scraping wood and splinters tore into my arms, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I squeezed through, hit the ground hard, and ran.

I ran. And I kept running across sidewalks, the freeway, and down side roads. My legs burned, my lungs screamed for relief, but I couldn’t stop. Every time I slowed, I imagined his voice, cruel and close. I pictured his face in the window, imagining his hand dragging me back. I ran harder. Deep inside, I thought about my name, the way it used to sound when I said it aloud. I thought about sunshine, the feel of clean sheets, a breeze through an open window—the tiniest scraps of memories I refused to let go of. I clung to them, to the tiniest spark of hope I could find something better. It was dark, and empty, and I didn’t care who saw me… not yet. Not when the city sprawled ahead, vast and unforgiving, the streetlights’ glow offered no safe spots to hide.

My body gave in. My legs buckled, and I stumbled into an alley, barely upright. The air was thick with the stench of rot, old garbage, and motor oil as I dragged myself into the narrow gap behind a row of bins, pressing into the shadows as if I could disappear entirely.

A harsh and sporadic light flickered above me, casting jagged beams across the brick walls. I wanted to move, to keep going, but my body refused. Every muscle ached, every breath was a ragged gasp, and exhaustion weighed me down like chains still wrapped around my wrists.

I curled up as tight as possible, drawing my knees to my chest, shaking. The taste of blood lingered in my mouth; the phantom grip of iron still fresh around my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut. I was free.

But John’s voice still echoed in my head, cruel and possessive, branding me with every syllable. I could still feel his hands, although they weren’t there, the bruises on my skin like a map of everything he’d taken from me. My body had escaped, but my mind and thoughts were still shackled to that place. Was this what freedom felt like? Hollow and terrifying?

I heard voices—one gruff, the other lighter. “I don’t like rats,” the lighter one muttered. “It’s just rats,” he added, as if trying to convince himself.

“Grow a pair,” the gruff one snapped. “The alarm tripped; we’re checking it out.”

I whimpered, trying to stifle the pain and fear.

“Is that a dog?” one of them asked, voice uncertain. “No, it’s—” The flashlight beam wobbled around, searching. My pulse pounded. I grabbed the closest thing I could find—a tin slick with something slimy inside. It had sharp edges, and I dug my hand into it, rubbing it against my wrist. If I could cut myself deep enough, I could bleed out here, and John would never be able to take me back. The beam landed on my face, blinding me. Panic surged, and I attacked, swinging wildly, my makeshift weapon connecting with a solid body: a grunt, a stumble. I scrambled, desperate, clawing for any chance to escape.

“No! No! No!” I screamed, “I won’t go back!” But a big guy held me tight, forcing me onto my belly.

The can was out of reach, his hand clamped over my mouth. The scent of oil was more pungent now, thick in my nose. “Shhh,” he ordered. I kicked, thrashed, and clawed, desperate to break free. The guy holding me grunted, his grip tightening painfully around my arms. “Shit, he’s strong,” he muttered, shifting his stance to keep me pinned.

“He’s hurt, bad,” the lighter voice said, shocked.

“Get a hold of him!”

“There’s too much blood!”

“Jesus, call the paramedics.”

“No! Help me!” My voice cracked beneath the oily palm, raw with panic. I jerked, twisting like a trapped animal, but the big guy only held me tighter, his grip like iron. I managed to free a hand and clawed at his face, my nails scraping the skin. He let out a sharp curse. “Please… don’t tell anyone… don’t!”

“Jesus! Stop!” But I didn’t stop. I thrashed harder, my foot connecting with his shin. He grunted, but his hold didn’t loosen. If anything, he tightened it, his arm crushing my chest. My breath hitched, panic spiking. I dug my nails in again, desperate to break free. “Damn it, he’s fighting like hell!” he growled.

But I didn’t care. I wasn’t going back. Not ever. In that moment, I was sure this was it. That I’d escaped only to be caught by someone worse. My mind spun with fear, the edges of my vision dimming. Were they with John? Had he found me already? Was this some new punishment? I’d never see the sky again. I bucked in his hold, but it was useless. I was being dragged into the unknown. I writhed, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

“Hold still!” the gruff one snapped, but his grip was too tight, his arms like a vice around me. My wrists burned where they had been rubbed raw, blood slicking my skin.

“Kill me! Please!” Then I screamed, but he slammed a hand over my mouth.

I won’t go back.

I’d rather die than be dragged back into that nightmare.

Rise of the Ruthless by Davidson King

CHAPTER ONE

Ren Ikeda

“Thank you for dinner, Dante.”  Rainn handed me my coat, a small grin adorning his face. He was a beautiful man, a good soul. Maybe too good for this cruel world. He’d shown great courage in the face of true evil when it came to Joseph Etienne.

Having been kidnapped and almost raped simply because he fell in love with Dante Scavo, the head of the Italian mob, didn’t diminish his shine one bit. If anything, it made it brighter.

“My pleasure. But, Ren, I have to ask you again if you’d like to stay here in this house. It’s not going to be safe for any of us right now, and you’re down in numbers.” The concern in Dante’s gaze warmed my heart. I was happy to have my friend again, and it touched me to see how worried he was for me. But my pride was too great.

“No, I will be fine. Asahi is with me, as is Minoto. I may have lost some protection, but I will replenish.” I buttoned my coat and mustered a smile for Dante and Rainn, who seemed to need convincing. “Besides, I’m safer in my penthouse than I am here. There, they have to climb twenty-seven floors in order to get me. Here, just one, maybe two.”

Rainn chuckled. “Please be safe.”

I knew if it hadn’t been for Rainn, Joseph would have killed me the night he’d destroyed my house. But Rainn’s quick thinking in cutting my hand and painting my neck and face in blood made them think I was dead, and that in turn had kept me alive. I would be forever grateful to this man.

“We will meet weekly. Nothing will change. I suggest we keep a united front on this, and perhaps people will think twice before attacking either of us.” Even with my smaller numbers, I believed that.

Dante held the door open for me. “I hope you’re right. But I’d feel better if you took some of my men.”

I’d known this would be his next request. “No, thank you. Let me handle my own house, Dante.”

He nodded curtly and followed me out to my car. Rainn stayed back but waved as soon as I reached the vehicle.

“Ren.” Dante stepped closer, and Asahi got into the passenger seat, giving us some privacy.

“What is it, Dante? I’m not taking any of your men.”

He shook his head and seemed unable to meet my eyes. “I understand. You’re as stubborn as I am, and it’s why I want you to listen to me.”

“Very well, what is it?” I scanned the area closest to the front of the house. A few of Dante’s men milled along the grounds, but far enough to be out of earshot. My men were in the car, also out of earshot.

“We often don’t show our pain to those around us, for fear it exposes us, shows weakness. I understand this deeply. When Rainn was missing, and we knew Joseph had him, that was when I realized I loved him—I’d never felt such terror, such fear over anything in my entire life.”

Was Dante confiding in me as a therapist? Was the worry over Rainn causing him pain even with him being home and safe?

“He’s okay, Dante. No one will harm him again.”

He nodded. “I know…I’m fucking this up, Ren.” Now he did meet my gaze, his eyes filled with sorrow and pain. “I know you cared greatly for Yuma, and I’m just here to tell you that if you need someone to talk to…if you need to⁠—”

Oh, absolutely not. I wouldn’t have this at all. “Dante, I wish for you to stop talking.” I was relieved when he snapped his mouth shut. “What Yuma was or wasn’t to me is my own business. While I appreciate what you’re stumbling through to say, I wish the matter to be dropped.” I rapped on the window, and Asahi stepped out. “Have a good night, Dante.”

Asahi opened my door, and I quickly got into the vehicle. To Dante’s credit, he did not try to push the issue, nor did he stop me from leaving.

On the drive to my penthouse, I thought a great deal about what Dante had said, and he was right. I needed more protection. The men I had were loyal and talented. But they were still only a few, and I couldn’t expect them to cover every shadow.

“Asahi?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’d like you to look into recruiting some people for protection. With everything going on here in Lucifer’s Landing, and this impending war between the Irish and the Greeks, I can’t deny that Dante is right and my numbers need replenishing.”

“Not a problem. I will get right on it. Would you like to meet with each person or⁠—”

“I trust you’ll choose the right people for the job, Asahi.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I leaned back on the headrest and closed my eyes. Dante was also right about my feelings regarding Yuma. I’d loved that man, and while I knew he’d understood my feelings, Yuma had been one hundred percent straight. A memory assaulted me of one night as we’d sat by my koi pond in the backyard. Yuma had been bolder than anyone I knew, and that conversation would always stay fresh in my mind.

“I wish I could love you, Ren, the way I know you love me.”

I turned toward him as he stared at the pond. The moonlight was bright, his every feature in view. I could see the heartbreak not loving me was causing him.

“Love is as evil as it is kind, Yuma. I wish I hated you. It would make everything so much easier.”

“I wish you hated me too.”

Before that moment, I’d never verbalized my feelings to Yuma, but clearly, I’d been more transparent than I’d thought. Yuma had been my number one, so it shouldn’t have surprised me that he’d seen right through me and picked up on every little thing. Through the years my love for Yuma had changed…morphed into a strong respect. He’d died for me, and while I missed him terribly, I had put to rest any chance of him being my partner long ago.

“We’re here, sir,” Asahi said, interrupting my melancholy. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, fine, just tired.”

He didn’t say more, and it was something I was grateful to Asahi for. He was never intrusive when it came to feelings or emotions.

Earlier today, knowing I was going to Dante’s, I’d instructed two of my men to stay behind at the penthouse to make sure there were no issues. So, it was just Asahi and me on the elevator up while Minoto secured the car in the garage, and I was grateful he didn’t fill the silence with mindless babble.

The elevator doors opened, and I was assaulted by the sounds of yelling. One glance at Asahi and he stepped in front of me.

“Stay here,” he said, slowly walking in the direction of the noise.

I was a stubborn man, another fact Dante was correct about, and while I knew it would frustrate Asahi, I followed him to see what the commotion was.

“The way I see it is you’re out a hundred grand, and Mr. Ikeda’s house won’t be completed on time.” I heard one of my men speaking sternly.

“How am I out a hundred grand?” I knew that voice. It belonged to Louis Finlay, the contractor I’d hired to finish my house.

“Because he isn’t paying you a dime. Now that I think about it, you’re out two hundred grand, ’cause you’re going to fix it out of your own pocket.”

“I can’t do that!” Louis sounded desperate, and I decided it was the perfect time to make my presence known.

“Good evening, Mr. Finlay.” I darted a look at Asahi, who wasn’t too happy I’d left the elevator.

“Mr. Ikeda.”

“I’m going to venture a guess and say there’s an issue with my home?” I divested myself of my jacket and handed it to Loni, my housekeeper.

“It was a wiring issue, Mr. Ikeda.”

One of my guys, Eiko, rolled his eyes. “It was a guy you personally chose, Louis, to wire the house. And what happened after he was halfway done?”

I turned to Louis, awaiting his answer.

“He disappeared, and the lighting sparked, setting the wall on fire.” Louis practically mumbled his response, but I knew what I was hearing. The house wasn’t close to being done and now this setback.

“This is quite disappointing, Louis.” I slipped my shoes off.

“I’d worked with him before, and there’d never been an issue. I think something happened or⁠—”

“Be silent.” I held up a hand. “I want my home back, and I will pay to finish it. However, Satoshi is correct. You will be on the hook for the payment.”

“Mr. Ikeda…I…I can’t afford that.” Beads of sweat were forming on Louis’s forehead, and his lips quivered.

“Louis.” I sat on my couch, enjoying the soft leather and calming feel of the cushion as it hugged my body. “You will owe me, not whomever you hire to do the job. If you select someone and they fail, you are accountable.”

Louis’s eyes widened. I was positive owing a crime boss was far more frightening than owing a plumber or electrician. There was no question he was in a bad spot.

“How am I going to do that?” His voice shook, and I knew if he didn’t sit soon, he’d likely collapse.

“Satoshi, please get Louis a chair.” Satoshi grabbed a stool from the kitchen and slammed it next to Louis, who jumped. “Sit.” I gestured to the chair. “In a lot of instances, people who owe me don’t always have cash, so tell me something you have that might be lucrative to me.”

As the Old English proverb said, “You can’t get blood out of a stone,” so I’d be sure to get payment another way from Louis.

“Like trinkets, a house, some sort of collateral?” Louis was talking to me, but his gaze darted all around the room, looking at my men and me.

“Loni, would you get Louis a glass of water?” I took a breath and met Louis’s very terrified expression. “Relax, please. I’m not going to kill you. But I’m also not going to sweep this under the rug. Do you understand?”

He nodded quickly.

“Collateral works with banks, Louis. It’s something they hold in case you don’t pay. You’ve already told me you can’t pay. So what will you give me that equals the amount owed?”

Loni came in and handed Louis a tall glass of water, which he took with unsteady hands. “Thank you,” he whispered. Loni said nothing and left the room. Louis sipped the water, his brow furrowed, no doubt thinking about what he had that he could give me.

“Louis?”

My voice caused him to jump, and he spilled water over the front of his shirt. “S…sorry.”

“What do you have that I’m able to use?” I ignored his sputtering and his now-wet shirt, wanting very much for this conversation to end so I could go to sleep.

“I…I don’t know, Mr. Ikeda, I need to think.”

I nodded. It was a fair request. “Very well. You have forty-eight hours to come up with something. Eiko will retrieve you then and bring you to me.”

“And if I don’t have anything?”

It was a dangerous question to ask because I knew Louis understood what not paying a crime boss meant.

“Let’s hope you are a clever man and can think something up.” I stood, the soreness in my back reminding me of the stress that was my life making itself known. “Asahi will see you out.”

Louis muttered his thanks, but I was already walking down the hallway, toward my bedroom. I was exhausted, constantly putting on a front that said I was aware, powerful, and always ready, only lasted so long. I’d reached my quota for the day.

“Sir?”

I was about to undress when Eiko came to the doorway.

“What is it, Eiko?”

“Someone should watch Louis, in case he runs.” I nodded in agreement, unsure who I had to spare for such a task. “I can do it, sir. But what if he does try?”

I sat on my bed, exhaustion finally winning out. “If Louis tries to run, he makes his payment with his life.”

“Kill him?”

“Yes.”

Wintering with George by Mary Calmes

ONE

It was a mistake.

From the jump, I should have said no.

The first year we were together, I wasn’t ready, and I had assured him, no worries. You go ahead with your plans for the holidays. Go see your sister and her family in Portland. Take the dogs. I would be fine. My little black cat and I could do Christmas alone. And it would be good. Beelzebub—Bubs, for short—and I would be just great.

Kurt Butler, the man I was crazy about, laughed at me, then took my face in his hands and kissed me until I couldn’t think about anything but getting him into bed. “No, baby. I would never leave you.”

I loved that he put me first. It said a lot.

It didn’t end up mattering, though, because right before Christmas, I was deployed. So he took the dogs and my cat to Portland with him because clearly, he was a glutton for punishment. I told him he could leave Bubs and I’d send Hannah, my minion, over to watch him, but he wasn’t having that. He took the demon with him because he loved my stupid cat too.

So this year, there was no question. Of course I would go. I had to go even if it was going to give me hives. I had to go even if just thinking about it was making me nauseous. I really hoped that whatever I did, or whatever way I acted, wouldn’t be the end of us.

That was what scared me the most. I didn’t want to push him away, but I feared that him seeing me through the lens of his family would only be bad for me.

Family.

The hell did I know about family? The closest I ever came were the guys in my unit. It was why I was still a reservist. I would not, could not, let them go into combat situations without me. And I wasn’t the best at my job, but I was better than others I currently knew would take my place if I took myself off the board. The difference being, the men I went into life-and-death situations with knew and trusted me. Kurt’s family didn’t know me, and the worst thing I could think of was that they’d find me lacking. The problem was, there were more things wrong with me than right, and I could own that.

I didn’t share easily. I had to trust you before I gave up anything remotely close to my heart. I could be stoically quiet for no good reason other than I had nothing substantive to add to a conversation, and I wasn’t great about change. Like, at all. And while those things didn’t sound so horrible in my head when I listed them, in real life, not talking, not sharing anecdotes or wanting to “go with the flow” were not great things to be. I was not an easy person to love, but Kurt hadn’t noticed yet. He didn’t see my many flaws. What if being with the people who loved him opened his eyes? Suddenly he’d realize I wasn’t much of a catch. I couldn’t have that. My only recourse was to make sure they adored me. The inherent problem there being that whatever the opposite of a people person was, that was me.

“Stop worrying,” Kurt told me over the phone. “My sister’s going to love you.”

I scoffed. “Why would I be worried?”

He chuckled, not buying it at all. “I adore you, and so will my family.”

The thing was, when he used that word—family—I wanted to be what he thought of first. And that was ridiculous. How was he supposed to know that when I’d never said anything like that to him? Ever.

This was what came from being a total shit at communication.

Kurt’s sister, Thomasin—a name I’d never heard before in my life—and her husband and two kids were the only real family Kurt had. Their mother had walked out on them when Kurt was seven and Thomasin five, leaving them with an abusive, alcoholic father. Now, as an adult, Kurt understood why she had to leave—or said he did—but at the time, the abandonment cut deep. He and his sister navigated violence and uncertainty for years until Kurt got a job at fifteen at a grocery store, stocking on the overnight shift. Thomasin was allowed to stay in the manager’s office while he worked. She got snacks, could sleep on the couch, and most importantly, it was warm and safe. When she was old enough, she got a job there as well, and the two of them got a miracle when Kurt was a junior and his boss helped him file paperwork to become an emancipated minor. Then at eighteen, Kurt received a full ride to Emerson College in Texas, and Thomasin got a scholarship to finish her high school at a boarding school in New York. It changed the lives of the two St. Paul, Minnesota, teenagers, and they both made the best of their opportunities.

In Texas, Kurt smoked a lot of weed, slept with a lot of girls, talked to his little sister every Saturday, and brought her to live with him each summer in the house he shared with his roommate. Along the way, after an unrequited crush on a friend opened his eyes to the fact that he was bisexual, Kurt got to sleep with even more people. He enjoyed that quite a bit. He always said he was an aimless whore in college, but he took care of his sister, so I always stuck up for his younger self. When Thomasin got a full ride to Brown, no one was prouder than Kurt.

Now, his sister was a celebrity life coach, had one of the top podcasts in the country, and had three bestselling books to her name that told people how to overcome demons. Not the fire-and-brimstone kind, but personal ones that stunted growth, triggered pain and depression, kept you from goals, and lied to you about your own value. I thought it was all stupid, and because I’d promised never to lie to Kurt, I said nothing. Better to keep my feelings to myself.

With Thomasin becoming wildly successful and Kurt himself an in-demand psychiatrist, both had enough money to fund their dream homes. For Kurt, it was an open-concept, airy-but-cozy, three-bedroom, two-bathroom house with lots of windows on a beautiful, secluded street in Chicago, where his backyard backed up to a nature preserve. For Thomasin, it was a mansion with spectacular mountain views down a private drive in Portland, Oregon. The place had five bedrooms and six bathrooms, so there was more than enough room for us to spend our holidays there. No Airbnb needed.

We had plans to fly out together on a chartered plane, with his two dogs and my cat—the jet being yet another perk their wealth afforded them. But then I was deployed after Thanksgiving.

Kurt was miserable, thinking we were having a repeat of the year prior. I had just gotten back in mid-October from a short stint, so the fact that I was going again so soon was a surprise.

“I do like my alone time,” he told me the night before as he watched me pack with hungry eyes, “but this is getting ridiculous.”

Having been briefed on the op, I assured him I would be home for the holidays.

He didn’t look convinced, and really, there was nothing I could say to convince him. The mission was classified. I couldn’t share that my unit was off to extract a Polish journalist working in Belarus, who’d been illegally detained. If I had told him, Kurt—who was a smart man—would’ve known we had no right to be in Minsk. He’d be terrified for me and rightly so. A Black Ops team was not supposed to be there, and if caught, we were all dead. It was one of those times where if we were captured, our government would deny any knowledge of us and claim we were mercenaries and acting on our own, perhaps hired by the family of the reporter we were there to save. If I had related a word of what I knew, Kurt would have begged me not to go. But I had no choice. My team needed me, and I would not, under any circumstances, have him worry while I was gone. So I did the only thing I could, which was assure him my op would be a quick one.

Technically, that part was true. On paper, it was a simple extraction. Pick up target, get target out of country. Snatch and grab that I could do in my sleep. Of course, our intel was for shit, everything from the maps to the checkpoints were compromised, and only because I had my own network and knew some good people in Lubelskie, which was where we crossed into Poland, did we make it out. The thing was, it took longer than it was supposed to, three weeks in total. Kurt ended up having to fly out without me.

But now, getting off the plane in Portland two days before Christmas, from how excited he was on the phone the night before, I knew I’d made him happy. It was all that mattered.

As Poznan, where I’d flown out of, was nine hours ahead, by the time I was walking through the terminal toward the arrival area, I was dead on my feet. The thing was, I’d had to get a military transport out of Poznan to New York, and when you flew that way, you caught whatever flight was available. It was their timetable, not yours. I really wanted to make a good impression on his family, but I was both sleep-deprived and starving, not at all a winning combination.

As I had no luggage, just my Army duffel, I headed toward where it said ground transport was and called Kurt.

“Hey,” he greeted me, answering on the second ring. “We parked, and we’re on the way to baggage claim to meet you.”

First off, we? I hadn’t slept in four days, I was bruised—nothing broken though it felt like it—and with no food, greeting others was a mistake. Of course, since this was the first time I’d spoken to him, other than the quick I’m on my way when I called earlier, there was no way for him to know I wasn’t ready for a meet-and-greet. But what annoyed me was that he knew better. He knew me. And he certainly understood that when I’d just gotten off a plane after a mission was not the time for introductions of any kind.

“Well, I’m headed to where all the taxis are because I don’t have anything but my duffel, so there’s no baggage to get.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he groaned. “Crap.”

Immediately, I felt bad because Kurt running himself down, for any reason, bothered me. He was such a kind man, and I told him that often. “It’s fine. I’ll wait inside. Just come back up the stairs; I’ll be right there.”

“Okay, perfect,” he said with a sigh. “I can’t wait to see you.”

I wished I looked a bit better, but I was in my ACUs, my Army Combat Uniform, and my field jacket that was not as clean as I would have liked it to be. Seemed like good first impressions were out the window, and I felt bad about that. I hoped they weren’t huggers either, because yes, I’d been medically cleared at the base in Poznan once the op was done, but I had fresh stitches and bruises. Being squeezed, by anyone but Kurt, could be uncomfortable.

Standing there, waiting, I thought of all the times no one had been there to get me, and reminded myself that this was a blessing, having someone like Kurt in my life, someone who showed up. I had to stop being a prick, being selfish, just thinking about myself. And I could. I would. Because he was worth it.

“George!”

Turning, I saw Kurt rushing through the crowd—or trying to, with so many people blocking his way. He stopped moving, lifted his finger to signal for me to wait a moment, and then finally threw up his arms in frustration. I couldn’t help smiling. The second there was an opening in the crowd, he bolted toward me.

It hurt a little when he collided with me, but it was worth it to feel his warm, muscular frame wedged close, his lips on the side of my neck, then my cheek, and finally, his mouth on mine as he kissed me once and then again.

“You missed me,” I whispered against his mouth when he leaned back with a whimper. Clearly, he wanted to go right on kissing me.

“I always miss you,” he replied hoarsely. “Are you hurt?”

“Do I look hurt?”

“It’s hard to tell,” he said before kissing me again.

“Let the man breathe, K,” a woman said with a laugh. She was a stunning blonde with the same gunmetal-gray eyes her brother had.

“Breathing isn’t necessary,” he assured her. “George, this is my sister, Thomasin, but you can call her Sin.”

Her smile was big as she stepped in close and offered me her hand. “Please don’t call me Sin. Thom is great, or Tommy as my friends do.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” I said softly, shaking her hand.

“This is my husband, Brad.” She let go of my hand so her handsome husband, who looked like the investment banker he was, leaned in to shake.

He was wearing a puffer vest, and so was she. They looked adorable, like they belonged in Town & Country Magazine, both crisp and polished, she in her brushed-leather Prada loafers, he in his Ferragamo driving ones. And as a rule, I didn’t know one pair of shoes from another, but Kurt was a brand-conscious guy and was slowly adding to my wardrobe from the shoes up. I now had both of those in my own closet and so recognized them. He liked me to have nice things, and I appreciated that. I’d been wary at first, thinking he needed a far richer partner than me, but it came down to him loving spoiling me, and that was all. But his sister and her husband were definitely in a different tax bracket than me, and it was more than evident in everything, from their shoes to his massive watch to her jewelry—an enormous diamond ring and several gold and precious-stone bracelets on her wrist. Neither was shopping at Target with me, that’s for sure. And that wasn’t a judgment, just an observation. And because of how those things would have sounded if I said them out loud, as a rule I made comments like that to very few people. Kurt and I weren’t there yet, even after two years. I didn’t want to lose him, so I was careful about everything I said.

But I shouldn’t have been, and I knew that. Beyond not saying anything unkind, I should have been able to speak my mind about anything I was thinking, especially since Kurt truly wanted to know. He wanted to learn everything about me.

“I worry about that,” I told him once.

“What?”

“Me telling you what’s in my head.”

“Why?”

Hard to explain that I worried about the fact that how I saw things wasn’t how other people did. And if Kurt and I weren’t aligned, was that it for us? Would he throw me away? “What if you disagree with me, or worse, think I’m psychotic or something?”

He chuckled. “I see.”

“Don’t laugh. I worry about this. I’m desensitized to some things, and I know that. I might not react how you think I should, and what if that’s a deal breaker?”

He nodded. “Maybe let’s wait and worry about that when the time comes.”

But what would happen if that time came?

Fears like that, and others, kept me from just blurting out my thoughts. I could, and did, with the guys in my unit. I never worried they’d think I was wired wrong. It was the same with my boss in the private sector where I worked now. I didn’t worry that if I responded differently than expected, I’d be ridiculed or second-guessed. It never occurred to me that a disagreement could lead to dismissal.

But with Kurt, I could mess up, and that might be the end of us. If I said something about his sister or her kids that he disagreed with, I had no safety net. The best thing, the smart thing, was to simply be better than myself. Be Stepford George. Just smile and be agreeable.

“George, you must be exhausted,” Thomasin said, smiling. “We should get you home and get some food in you, then let you rest before the festivities begin.”

I didn’t react, which I was very proud of myself for, since, again, no food plus no sleep normally equaled no filter.

“Let’s go,” Kurt said, lacing his fingers with mine, tugging gently to get me moving.

The car we walked to, a white Lexus SUV, had all the bells and whistles and was comfortable inside.

“Sin made her world-famous pot roast for you,” Kurt informed me, “which is much better than mine.”

“I dunno,” I said, grinning at him. “Yours is pretty good.”

“Oh dear God,” he groaned, leaning in close, his fingers brushing over the side of my neck. “You have bruises all over⁠—”

“It’s fine,” I soothed him.

His sigh was heavy. “Do you have stitches?”

My gaze met his. “Don’t make a big⁠—”

“It is a big deal,” he stated, and I saw Brad, who was driving, look at me in the rearview mirror before Thomasin turned around in her seat.

“My understanding is that you’re a sniper?”

“Yes.”

“I suspect, then, that my brother wonders how you got hurt.”

“No,” Kurt snapped at her, which surprised me. “I know how. He has to go in just like everyone else, and there’s always hand-to-hand combat at some—” He took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. “I would just like to know how many new stitches.”

I grinned at him. “I dunno, honey, but you can count ’em later.”

Kurt’s breath caught, and those expressive eyes of his went dark and liquid, pupils blown that quickly with lust.

Thomasin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, I wasn’t sure over what, but perhaps she wasn’t used to seeing her brother react physically to his partner.

Kurt watched me, eyes locked on my face as I lifted his hand, kissed the back of his knuckles, then lowered it back down to the seat, never once letting go of him.

“Everything is going to be fine,” I promised him.

From the way he was looking at me, he believed me.

Puzzle for Two by Josh Lanyon

Chapter One

Was someone pranking him?

For the first four minutes of his interview with prospective client Alton Beacher, Zach couldn’t quite decide.

It was the kind of elaborate joke Ben would find funny, but Ben was not about to invest energy (or money) in making Zach look foolish given that he already thought Zach looked like a fool for struggling to keep his dad’s PI business afloat. Ben was probably right. Tactless, as usual, but probably right.

Nobody knew the dire financial situation of Davies Detective Agency better than Zachariah Davies, former accountant turned lead investigator.

Turned only investigator.

In the midst of these bleak reflections, Alton Beacher’s light, slightly affected voice trailed off. The silence that followed was punctuated only by a faint chatter of Davies’s receptionist (and Zach’s kid sister) Brooke, coming from behind the office door. Judging by the giggles, Brooke was not speaking with another client.

Not least because they didn’t have any other clients.

He’d spent the last month making new contacts in Monterey County, paying visits to insurance companies, lawyers, the risk-management directors of local municipalities, and anybody else he could think of who might need the services of a private investigator. Eventually, some of that footwork was bound to pay off, but so far nada.

Beacher’s pale brows drew together in a frown as he waited for some sign of life from Zach.

Zach pulled himself together. He lifted his coffee mug, took a stalling-for-time swallow, said finally, “Let me get this straight. You’re hiring me to pose as your boyfriend while I investigate a series of death threats you’ve received over the past couple of weeks?”

If he sounded skeptical—well, who wouldn’t sound skeptical? For one thing, Beacher was wearing a gold wedding band. For another, well, this was as far-fetched as anything in those goofy PI novels Zach used to devour as a kid.

No, actually, it was more like something out of a screwball comedy movie from the 1940s. This could not be a serious job proposal.

Could it?

Beacher’s “Correct,” sounded stiff and a little defensive.

“Really?”

“Surely, you’ve run into this kind of situation before? You’ve been in business twenty years.”

Right. Did Beacher actually think Zach had been working as a PI when he was ten years old? Cracking the case of Ms. Gordon’s missing Wall Street Journal in between Little League practice and mastering common factors and multiples?

In fairness, Davies Detection Agency had been around for twenty years. Zach tried to imagine his bluff, gruff ex-cop dad being asked to pose as someone’s boyfriend and nearly choked on his coffee.

No question Pop would have said hard pass to the Beacher case. Though less politely.

“What made you choose us?”

What Zach really meant was why pick a little indie operation rather than a large security firm with all the bells, whistles, and resources someone as rich as Alton Beacher would presumably expect. But Zach already knew the answer. A big, classy company would laugh Beacher right out of their expensively appointed lobby.

For one fleeting instant, Beacher looked uncomfortable. “To be honest, I was going to try that place at the other end of the shopping center.”

Zach set his coffee cup down very carefully. “Carey Confidential?”

Beacher nodded curtly. “But I didn’t like the look of the man. Those beady eyes. That sarcastic smile. No.”

Oh my God. Zach would have given anything, ANYTHING, to see Alton Beacher ask Flint Carey to be his pretend boyfriend. And the beady-eyes comment? That was pure gold.

But Beacher was right about the sarcastic smile. Flint did have—could have—an unpleasant smile when he thought you were being a bigger ass than usual. His eyes weren’t beady, though. They were hazel, that elusive combination of brown-green-gold, and disarmingly long-lashed. Maybe a little narrow, especially when he laughed, which admittedly, was rarely.

Zach said gravely, “He’s a tough customer, that guy,” ignoring the feeling that somewhere, somehow Pop was shaking his head at him.

“Then I saw your sign, and it seemed like a…a…”

“Sign?” Zach offered.

Beacher smiled. “Well, yes.”

“The thing of it is, we don’t really offer the kind of services you seem to req—”

As if to head him off, Beacher reached into the chest pocket of his abstract squares Patrick James sports shirt and pulled out a money order. He pulled out a second money order and laid it on top of the first. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth…a total of twelve money orders, which he slid across the desk.

Zach adjusted his glasses, glanced down at the amount of the top money order, and then could not look away. It was as if his eyes were magnetized by the figures written in that precise, angular hand.

$1,000.

Twelve money orders for one thousand dollars each.

Twelve. Thousand. Dollars.

He found his voice. “Now I’m worried.”

Beacher laughed. “Why so? I did my homework. The going rate for a good PI in California is about two hundred dollars an hour. Five hundred if special skills are involved, and I think we can both agree special skills are required for this job. So, for two-plus days’ work…I’m sure you can do the math.”

Oh yes. If there was one thing Zach was good at, it was doing the math.

“Just to be sure we’re on the same page. I’m not a bodyguard.”

“I already have a bodyguard.”

Really? Where? But Zach wasn’t going to argue. “That’s probably a good idea.”

“I need someone to figure out where these threats are coming from as soon as possible. I don’t want to jump to the wrong conclusion.”

“I’m flattered you think I can figure out who’s behind this in two days, but—”

“I don’t think that for a moment. This is simply an advance to cover the weekend at Pebble Beach.”

“Right,” Zach said blankly. It was possible he’d missed a few details during the initial minutes of their interview, but he was damn sure he hadn’t missed that detail.

But it was true what they said, money did change everything, and it was with renewed attention that he studied his client, sitting unblinking in the blinding glare of California’s autumn sun streaming through the tinted office windows.

From the oversize rubber soles of his Alexander McQueen leather sneakers to the snipped tips of his blond classic side sweep, Alton Beacher, the handsome, aggressively Nordic-looking fortysomething owner and CEO of the Beacher Toy Company, exuded money and privilege.

Which was exactly what Zach needed right now.

Money, that is.

Even with the sky-high prices of Ensenada del Sello’s commercial real estate, the short stack of money orders lying on his desk would cover their lease for the next three months and the tuition of Brooke’s junior year of college. It wasn’t the answer to all Zach’s problems, but it was the answer to the most pressing.

If it seemed too good to be true, it probably was.

Still. That money.

Zach picked up the Cross-Townsend pen he’d bought Pop last Christmas, drew the yellow legal pad his way. “Okay, Mr. Beacher. Let’s start with the threats.”

“Alton, please.” Beacher gave Zach an odd smile. “I imagine we’ll have to get used to addressing each other by our first names if our little ruse is going to work.”

Zach cleared his throat. “Right.” He was no actor, but how hard could it be to feign interest in a guy you weren’t all that interested in? Hadn’t he managed to do it with Ben for those last six months while he struggled to steel himself to end things? Beacher was not his type, but he was handsome and rich, and maybe Zach would get a couple of nice meals out of their…dates. Pebble Beach for the weekend might even be fun. Maybe?

Nothing he could ever talk about, of course, because the first thing Alton Beacher had done when he walked into Zach’s office was have him sign an NDA. That had probably been the point at which Flint’s sarcastic smile had appeared.

Anyway, everything was contingent upon how far this ruse was supposed to go. If it was supposed to continue into the bedroom, then no.

As hard as it would be to pass up all those thousands of beautiful dollars. No. No way. Like Pop always said, a guy had to be able to face himself in the mirror every morning.

Zach repeated firmly, “About those threats?”

“They started two weeks ago. At first, I didn’t make too much of it. Silly jokes or hate mail aren’t unknown to a man in my position.”

Zach’s brows rose as he jotted down this information. It was hard to imagine what hate mail the owner of a toy company would receive. Still, given the current social climate, anyone whose circle of acquaintanceship stretched wider than their immediate family could probably expect to receive hate mail eventually. He’d received a couple of doozies from Ben, though Ben had never threatened him with bodily harm.

“Email or snail mail?” Both could be prosecuted as state or federal crimes. As could threatening phone calls. Funny how many people didn’t know that.

“Mail. Post. They always came by post to my home address in the shape of toys.”

“Toys?”

“Correct.”

“Did you—”

Zach didn’t have to complete the question. Beacher opened his leather messenger bag and produced a small gold box, no more than six inches tall, which he set on the desk.

Casting Zach a grim look, Beacher pressed a button, and a flimsy plastic clown sprang from the box, bouncing gently back and forth on springs. The clown held a business card in its tiny mitts. Printed in block letters were the words: YOU ARE DEAD.

Tiny clowns bearing death threats. Because this case wasn’t weird enough already.

“Cute.” Zach tossed his pen aside, pulled a pair of plastic gloves from the desk drawer—undoubtedly pointless, given that Beacher had handled the toy barehanded how many times? He picked up the little box. “This is how it started?”

The jack-in-the-box was a cheap, mass-produced novelty item manufactured by Old Timey Fun Ltd.

“No.” For the first time, Beacher seemed uncomfortable. “The first one was a crossword puzzle. The answer cells were filled in with words like murder, blood, pain, death, payback, etc. It was clumsy, lazy. Not a true crossword puzzle. The entries were unkeyed.”

“Unkeyed?”

“Unchecked. Uncrossed. The answers didn’t intersect.”

“Gotcha.”

Beacher sighed. “As I said, I get my share of hate mail. I simply assumed someone was being more creative than usual, and tossed both the crossword and the envelope it arrived in.”

Zach grimaced, but in fairness, he’d have probably done the same.

“A week later I received a doll’s severed head with the eyes gouged out and the hair burned.” Beacher propped Exhibit B on Zach’s desk. The doll’s ripped eye holes seemed to gaze accusingly at Zach. “Then two days ago, the jack-in-the-box arrived. I decided that level of…commitment should perhaps be taken seriously.”

“I think you’re right about taking this seriously. But why hire a private investigator? Why not go to the police?”

Beacher shook his head. “The police are better at prosecuting than preventing. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Well, not n—”

“I’m a businessman, Zach. I can’t afford the scandal of a police investigation. I need someone to handle this quietly, discreetly.”

“Sure, but—”

“Besides, there’s still the other thing.” Beacher raised his eyebrows meaningfully, reminding Zach of the part of this job he was least thrilled about. The part that took the case from weird to wacko.

“Right. The, er, dating game. I couldn’t help noticing that you’re wearing a wedding ring, Alton.”

For the first time Beacher’s smile reached his pale-blue eyes, briefly warming them. “Thank you for noticing.”

“Um, my pleasure?”

Beacher laughed. “I admit, the idea of hiring an investigator who could also pose as my companion only occurred to me a little while ago.”

Zach asked warily, “How little a while ago?”

Beacher shrugged. “When I was sitting in your waiting room, listening to you argue with your former boyfriend.”

Zach winced. Their Del Sello Center office space was not just small, the walls were practically see-through. They were definitely hear-through, and had he realized they had a prospective client waiting, he’d have declined to take Ben’s call.

“Of course, it’s rude to eavesdrop, and I apologize, but I do think our little…charade will work to both our advantages.”

Zach opened his mouth, but his gaze fell upon the mutilated face of the severed doll head. He pressed his lips together.

“Granted, I could only hear your side of the conversation, but that was enough to persuade me that you’re a patient and…empathetic young man. Too much so, I imagine. I’m neither of those things.”

“Good to know.”

“It’s difficult to explain without making myself sound worse than I am.”

Yeah, probably not. It wasn’t just about what Zach wanted. He had to think of what was best for Brooke and for his mom as well. This scheme sounded shadier by the second.

He reached to push that little stack of temporary solutions back toward Beacher, but Beacher covered his hand with his own.

He said quietly, “Please hear me out.”

Zach stared down at the well-shaped hand gripping his own with surprising strength. Beacher’s nails were trimmed and buffed, his palm soft and well-cared for. A platinum Rolex gleamed on his tanned wrist.

Zach withdrew his hand, sitting back in his chair. “I’m listening.”

Beacher’s pale gaze bored into him. “I want desperately, desperately to divorce my wife. But it’s complicated.”

It always was, as Zach, working in an industry where more than fifty percent of the business had to do with divorce and marital discord, could have told him.

“Zora is truly…unstable. For years she’s accused me of having affairs with other women and done her best to punish me accordingly.”

“Have you had affairs?” Zach wasn’t judging. He just needed to know the score.

“No. I’ve never been unfaithful. Frankly, I wouldn’t dare. I have been miserably unhappy. As has Zora. That’s the most ridiculous part of this. She’s an unhappy as I am. I honestly believe she hates me. But anytime I try to bring up the topic of divorce, she threatens to destroy me. Destroy me personally and financially.”

“Does she have the power to do that? Destroy you financially, I mean.”

“Unfortunately, yes. When I first started out, I was broke. I had no capital. Zora’s family invested heavily in my company. And profited accordingly, I might add. I’ve tried many times through the years to buy Zora out, but she won’t sell. She wants that hold over me. I think she’d prefer to bankrupt us both rather than allow me my freedom.”

“I see.”

Beacher’s sigh spoke volumes. “That’s not even the worst of it. She’s also threatened numerous times to kill herself if I leave her. Kill herself in such a way that I’m framed for her murder.”

Zach blinked. “That’s…pretty extreme.”

“Zora is the definition of extreme. And no wonder. The whole family, the Kaschak clan, are certifiable. Believe me when I say this is no idle threat on Zora’s part. You’ll understand when—if—you read the dossier I’ve compiled. Anyway, when I was sitting in your lobby, it suddenly came to me. If I were to come out as gay, everything would be different.”

“Would it, though?”

Beacher leaned forward in his eagerness, and Zach had to stop himself from rolling his chair backward. It wasn’t that Beacher was unattractive, but something about the guy…

Possibly the whole pretend-to-be-my-boyfriend-to-decoy-my-maybe-suicidal-wife thing?

“Yes. Yes. Zora is very insecure and competitive. She can’t bear the idea of losing me to another woman. But losing to a man? That’s not about her. That’s about me.”

“She’s still short a husband.”

“Yes. But it’s a loss her ego can survive.”

Zach nodded, though he wasn’t convinced by Beacher’s reasoning. Granted, Beacher knew Mrs. Beacher and Zach did not.

He had to ask. “Are you gay?”

Beacher got a funny expression. He licked his lips as though his mouth was suddenly dry.

“I…”

“Forgive me if this feels intrusive, but what I mean is, would there be any truth to this…scenario? Have you had gay relationships in the past?”

A tiny, barely perceptible wince from Beacher. “No. Not yet, at any rate. As I said, I wouldn’t have dreamed of being unfaithful. But that doesn’t mean…”

Zach waited, but Beacher didn’t finish his thought.

Finally, Zach said, “Of course not. I really only bring it up because, well, if your plan is to succeed, we’d—you’d—have to be convincing in your role.”

Beacher smiled a slow, strange smile that sent a little frisson of unease rippling down Zach’s spine. Beacher’s light gaze studied Zach’s face, dropped as if to assess the width of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, and though Zach was seated behind a very sturdy desk, he had the uncomfortable sensation of being stripped naked and assessed from head to foot.

He was not shy nor insecure about his looks, but that kind of auction-block appraisal wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

Beacher continued to smirk in that troubling way, saying lightly, “No need to worry. That won’t be a problem.”

The Sartorial Senator by Frank W Butterfield

Chapter 1 

Aboard the Jules Verne

Newport Harbor

Newport Beach, Cal.

Friday, May 29, 1953

Just past 3 in the afternoon 

We sailed into Newport Harbor around 3 in the afternoon on Friday, May 29th. I stood on the deck with Carter Jones, my lover and partner, and enjoyed the view as our ship's captain expertly piloted the craft through the channel and into the marina where we tied up for the day. 

Carter was a big man, standing just about six inches taller than me at 6'4". He had sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and a seductive Georgia drawl. 

We'd sailed up from San Diego earlier that day. The ocean had been smooth. It was quite a change for both of us to spend so much time doing so little. 

Mike Robertson, my best friend and first lover, had been busy. He finally came above deck at noon to give his new boyfriend, a small, compact guy and member of the crew, some time to recover and to actually do his job. 

Mike was an inch taller than Carter, had dark black hair, and what was best described as monster good looks. When he was happy and smiling, he was handsome.  But when he was unhappy, it made me want to look around for innocent villagers who were about to be attacked by the monster. 

Earlier in the day, the three of us, Mike, Carter, and myself, had a picnic lunch at the table aft that had become my favorite place to sit and eat outside of San Francisco. 

We said little. We were each handling the bad memories of the day before in different ways. 

Mike was having as much sex as he could. 

Carter had his nose in his dwarves and dragon book. 

I kept looking for more dolphins. 

. . . 

After we tied up at the marina, Carter and I disembarked in search of a phone. I needed to check on what was happening at home. 

We found a payphone just outside the marina store. While I dropped my dime, Carter wandered in to pick up a few things. 

I dialed the operator. 

"Number, please." 

"Long distance." 

"Thank you." 

There was a click on the line and I waited. 

"Long distance." 

"San Francisco. Prospect 7777. Charge the call to that number."

She repeated this back to me to confirm. I confirmed. 

I waited for a long moment. 

"Private investigator." It was the service. 

"Hi, this is Nick Williams." 

"Yes, Mr. Williams. Good afternoon." 

"Yeah. Do you have any idea why my secretary isn't at the office?" 

"No, sir. I do have messages for you, if you would like them." 

"Yeah." 

"The first one is from Mr. Klein. He has sent a wire to France." 

"Good." 

"He also says that the two best days to own a boat are the day you buy it and the day you sell it." 

I laughed. "I suppose that's probably true. Anything else?" 

"A message from Washington, D.C. It's from a Roger Young. He works for the Senate. He wants to talk to you about an investigation." She paused. 

"Does he mention what kind of investigation he wants done?" 

"Yes, he does. But I prefer not to repeat it." 

I sighed and put my hand over my eyes. "I see. Lemme guess. It's me they're investigatin' and it may have to do with the reason I was in the paper a couple of weeks ago." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Beyond that, is there anything else he says?"

"He says you can call him as soon as you get the message, regardless of the time." 

By this time, Carter was standing by the phone booth with a small bag and a handful of newspapers. I put my hand on the receiver. "Have a pencil?" Normally I carried one, but I was standing there in swim trunks and a cotton t-shirt. 

Carter said, "Be right back," and disappeared into the store. 

I spoke down the phone. "I'm waiting for a pencil. Any other messages?" 

"One last one. From Mr. Klein again. He wants you to call him as soon as you can." 

"He called again?" 

"Yes, sir. After Mr. Young." 

"I see. Well, I'm sorry you had to be the bearer of bad news. I'm sure it's not nice." 

"No, sir." 

Carter handed me a small notebook and a pencil. I smiled up at my husband and winked. I got a nice southern smile in return and began to notice the hazard of wearing such tight swim trunks. 

"I have a pencil. Go ahead with that number." 

"The number in Washington is Capitol 2400. Ask for room 122. The name, again, is Roger Young." 

"Thanks. Anything else?" 

"No, sir."

"Have a good afternoon. Thanks." 

"The same to you, Mr. Williams." 

With that, the line went dead. 

I looked up at Carter and said, "Two more calls." He nodded and then asked, "Do you want me to wait?" 

"Yeah. I'm not sure how well this'll go." 

I took the dime out of the return slot and dropped it again. 

"Number, please." 

"Long distance." 

I waited and looked at Carter's long, muscled, and hairy legs. They deserved to be looked at. 

The same operator, or so it seemed, came back on the line. 

"Long distance." 

"Washington, D.C. Capitol 2400. And I want to charge this call." 

"To what number?" 

"San Francisco. Prospect 7777." 

She repeated all this and I confirmed. 

"Please hold." 

There was a brief pause and then the line began to ring. A friendly voice answered. "United States Senate." 

"Room 122." 

"Thank you."

There were a couple of buzzes. 

A male voice answered and simply said, "Yes?" 

"I'm calling for Roger Young." 

"This is he." 

"This is Nick Williams returning your call." 

The voice on the other end spoke. "Yes, Mr. Williams. Thank you for calling me back. Can you be here on Monday?" 

I replied, "I don't know. What's this about?" 

"Didn't your secretary tell you?" 

"I want you to tell me." 

There was a pause while some papers shuffled in the background. "The Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations would like to ask you some questions about the infiltration of San Francisco by homosexuals." 

"I see. And why me?" 

"Well, you are an admitted and avowed practicing homosexual, are you not?" 

"I'm not sure how that's relevant. Do you have a subpoena?" 

"Yes, of course we do. And we decide what's relevant." 

"I see. So, you serve the subpoena and then I'll respond. Isn't that how this works?" 

"Mr. Williams, I happen to know you can be here by Monday. Why don't you come out here for a friendly conversation with the subcommittee?"

"There's nothing about that subcommittee that's friendly. You serve the subpoena and we'll take it from there." 

I dropped the receiver on its hook. 

Carter said, "Well, that was fast." 

I looked up and asked, "What do you mean?" 

He handed me a folded-over copy of the Los Angeles Examiner, a Hearst paper. 

McCarthy To Investigate Homos 

Senator Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin announced earlier today the beginning of a new phase in his investigations. Front and center is wealthy Nicholas Williams, notorious scion of the Williams family of San Francisco's Nob Hill. Just recently released by Mexican police for his possible involvement in the murder of M-G-M star Taylor Wells, Williams is expected in Washington on Monday for an appearance before Senator McCarthy's committee. An avowed homosexual, Williams is expected to tell the subcommittee how homosexuality is putting the nation's defense at risk. 

"For Pete's sake," was the best I could come up with. 

. . .

After talking to Jeffery, Carter and I decided to go to Washington. Jeffery hadn't seen the subpoena but he had seen The San Francisco Examiner and the coverage there was more sensational than in L.A. 

The Hearst papers were going after me, and hard. After a nasty article where they'd published the names and addresses of several men caught in a police raid at The Kit Kat Club on Polk Street, I'd stood up to George Hearst, son of William Randolph Hearst, and nominal publisher of that yellow rag called The San Francisco Examiner and told him exactly what I thought about it. We'd been out at the Top of the Mark for dinner that night, had our pictures taken on the way out the door, and ended up on the cover of all the papers the next morning, except the Examiner, of course. Ever since then, the Hearst chain had been taking pot-shots at me whenever they could. I didn't care much. I had a thick skin and was rich enough not to. 

We walked back to the slip where the ship was tied up. As we boarded, I saw that Mike was stretched out on the top deck. I pointed that out to Carter. We slowly crept up the stair. 

As we did, Mike said, "I can hear you two plotting from a mile away. So, whatever it is, cool it." 

I laughed. We sat down next to him. I looked at his pale skin getting some much-needed exposure to the sun. After a couple of days of lying around the ship, I had started to turn brown, just like I remembered happening in the south Pacific. Carter's skin hadn't turned brown as much as it had looked toasted, which, as with anything, made him even more handsome. 

Carter threw the Examiner on Mike's bare midriff. "Here. Read this. Nick's in the papers again." 

Mike leaned up on one arm and shielded the sun from his eyes with his other arm. "Again? When aren't you in the paper these days?" 

I just shrugged. He turned his attention to the front page and scanned it briefly. "'Avowed homosexual?' When did you take that vow?" 

I looked at him for a long moment. Carter seized the opening and said, "You should know, Mike." 

We all laughed.

RJ Scott

Writing love stories with a happy ever after – 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 isn’t with family either reading or writing. The last time she had a week’s break from writing, she didn’t like it one little bit, and she has yet to meet a box of chocolates she couldn’t defeat.

Davidson King

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, she’d tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you’re afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.

Mary Calmes

Mary Calmes lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with her husband and two children and loves all the seasons except summer. She graduated from the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, with a bachelor's degree in English literature. Due to the fact that it is English lit and not English grammar, do not ask her to point out a clause for you, as it will so not happen. She loves writing, becoming immersed in the process, and falling into the work. She can even tell you what her characters smell like. She loves buying books and going to conventions to meet her fans.

Josh Lanyon

Bestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."

Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).

The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.

Josh is married and they live in Southern California.

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.

RJ Scott

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Frank W Butterfield

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Enzo by RJ Scott

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Rise of the Ruthless by Davidson King

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