2025 was even more trying for me than any other year in my life as my mother passed away in January and the entire year just sucked. My reading mojo had slowly returned but not quite pre-Covid levels in 2024 but it left me again in 2025 and I only read 140 books, many were audiobooks and rereads. So once again my Best of lists may be shorter but everything I read/listened to were so brilliant it was still a hard choice because every author I read/listened to in 2025 played a part in the moments of distraction that helped keep me sane throughout the first year of my grief journey. So over the next few weeks I'll be featuring my Best Reads as well as Best ofs for my special day posts which are a combination of best reads and most viewed, I hope my Best of list helps you to find a new read, be it new-new or new-to-you or maybe it will help you to rediscover a forgotten favorite. These lists and posts are done chronologically throughout the years reading not ranking order. Happy Reading and my heartfelt wish for everyone is that 2026 will be a year of recovery, growth, and in the world of reading a year of discovering a new favorite.
👀I try to keep the purchasing links as current as possible but they've been known to change for dozens of reasons, in case any of those links no longer work be sure to check out the author's social media links for updated buying info.👀
Summary:
RATING:
Saint Brothers #3
Matt lives a pretty simple life. A physical therapist, he helps people to heal and become their best selves once again. When he’s offered a live-in position at the Saint residence, he accepts easily and for a while, things go smoothly. But then there’s a drunken night…and a possible stalker. Matt is really starting to miss that simple life.
Nick likes computers more than people…except maybe his twin brother. Matt living with them for months on end doesn’t affect him much…until one weird night. Now Nick sees Matt in a different light, and when someone else starts looking at Matt in a very dangerous way, he is filled with a need to help. But will Matt let him? And who is stalking Matt?
When the situation begins to escalate and it appears that Matt’s life may be on the line, Nick refuses to stand on the sidelines—he calls for his family to step in and help. As Nick and Matt get closer in every way, so does the threat. Can Nick and Matt keep one step ahead of danger, or is luck not on their side?
Mine to Keep is book three in the Saint Brothers Series. While the story is a standalone, characters from past books appear in this story so for the full experience I suggest reading in order Book one: Slay Ride. Book two: Kill Me Sweetly.
Original Book of the Month Review April 2025:
Davidson King brings everything to the kitchen and delivers a 5-star meal once again with Mine to Keep. The title gives you an idea the featured subject: stalking and she shines a spotlight on so many disturbing emotions felt when one is stalked. I don't speak from personal experience but from everything I've watched and read on the subject over the years, is within the pages of Mine. I certainly hope the author speaks from research and not experience but either way the respect for the topic is shown on every page. Don't get me wrong, there are many scenes of humor, generally between the Saint brothers and their loving banter we've come to know them for, to help balance the overall story.
I gotta say it. Mine to Keep freaked me out more than the first two entries in the author's Saint Brothers series. The first two were definitely more violent, more action-packed, frankly they bordered on horror as much as you can without a paranormal or slasher element in my book. To be honest, Mine was less bloody, less gory, less in your face violent mayhem and yet it terrified me more, or at least more deeply, it spoke to the fear inside me more. Stalking is scary and creepy on multiple levels but it is also something that happens every day, can happen to anyone at anytime. Does it happen that often? More than you probably realize but no, not often. But it can. Stalking speaks to the inner demon that we all have, of course only a select few actually act on it but the idea it can happen on any given day to any and every one you know, that is what makes it such a horrifying event. This is why Mine to Keep scared me more than the first two.
Really the above statement is surprising because just as you think Davidson King might have went a little soft with this entry, she kicks back, kicks butt, and terrified me to the very core. The author's last release in February did something that I wasn't expecting, it gave me moments of respite from the grief of losing my mother. I mention this not because the books are related as that was a standalone nor am I making any kind of content comparisons but because today I'm still grieving but also preparing to find a job and dealing with health issue with my dad so I'm crippled in fear most days. Davidson King has once again given me moments of respite so that I can step outside my inner fear and yes, she has catapulted me into a fear-filled realistic fictional world but it is so entertaining and so heart-grabbing that it was a distraction from my reality fear. For all the fear Matt and Nick face you allowed me to recharge here and there and I can't thank you enough, Davidson King for those moments that allowed me to breathe.
I want to mention Matt and Nick but I don't want to spoil anything so all I'll say is I wanted to wrap Matt in a giant Mama Bear hug to protect him just as Nick does but I also wanted to shake him to make him listen to Nick and his family before things escalated too far. As for Nick, well how can you not love him? He has super mad computer skills, which come in handy in this case, and he just wants to protect Matt even before they connect. The Saint brothers may not see him as family at first, but as JJ's physical therapist helping him heal after what occurred in Kill Me Sweetly(book 2) Matt is as close as one can get without a romantic connection but not so much as they want to break the family rules of voting on interfering. Even vigilantes have a playbook😉.
I feel like I've descended into rambling here so I'll finish with this: Mine to Keep will hit you in all the feels that will keep you hooked till the end and guessing right to the reveal, I know I was wrong. A winner on all fronts.
Original Audiobook Review October 2025:
Once again I listened to an audiobook the same year I first read the ebook, definitely a rarity for me. That alone speaks volumes as to how much I love this series. I'm all for unicorn and roses when it comes to romance but if I'm completely honest with myself, dark elements make the romances even better. Well, Davidson King has a knack for just that style of storytelling.
As it's been with the other entries, Darcy Stark and Alexander Cendese bring not only the characters to life but they make the whole Saint Brothers universe realistic, so much so that I feel I'm not just a fly on the wall hearing Nick and Matt's journey but part of it. And as it always is with dual narration, I don't know which reads which part but it doesn't matter because they are all so authentically done it makes a great story a very pleasant listen. That statement sounds odd, saying "pleasant" in regards to the dark setting but it's true, it is so easy to listen to that it truly is the whole package.
Summary:
Laurel Holidays Spring Romance
On a small maple farm in Pennsylvania a man seeking forgiveness is going to find much more than he hoped for.
They say the only place to go from the bottom is up. Frank Fitzgerald Jr. has learned how fast a man can fall from grace. A mere two years ago he was insanely wealthy and the next in line to inherit a multi-million dollar company. Now he’s standing on a dirt road in some hayseed backwoods town with one bag of possessions and a shiny new sobriety coin in his pocket. Not only did he tumble from a lofty perch, he crashed and burned in epic fashion, landing right on his pride and breaking it into tiny bits that he fears he may never be able to glue back together, no matter what his sponsor says.
Knowing he had to start over clean—both spiritually and physically—he goes to his younger brother Decker for help. Their first conversation isn’t pretty. Frank knows he has a lifetime of slights to make amends for. Amazingly, his brother and his husband open up their barn to Frank for free lodging while he sorts out his life. Part of that life is a new job which he finds at the Stallard Maple Farm just across the pond from the farm rescue his brother now calls home. While Frank works among the maples he finds himself drawn to the eldest Stallard sibling, Maalik. A friendship forms when he discovers that Maalik has his own demons to contend with. Frank is soon feeling things for Maalik he has never felt for anyone before, especially a man, but he’s willing to test those wild new feelings even if they scare the sap out of him.
The Easter Redemption is a slow burn, bi-awakening, small town romance with two men working to better themselves, goofy farm critters, stately trees, a tiny welcoming community, family lost and found, and a sweet as syrup happy ending.
Original Review April 2025:
Another lovely tale from VL Locey and her Laurel Holidays series, I haven't read them all but each one I have experienced, entertained from beginning to end and Easter Redemption was no different. The author wrote this story nearly 2 years ago and I'm not sure how it went unnoticed that long, especially factoring in the Easter element which I don't think is explored nearly enough in fiction.
Having been raised on a farm, I loved seeing how the farm and animals play a part in Frank's starting over and dealing with his recovery. I say "animals" but it really is down to little Hugo the pig Frank unofficially adopts as his own, or perhaps I should say Hugo is the one who adopted Frank😉. However you look at it, the connection Frank develops with the little guy is special and the scene where a name is chosen made me laugh at loud. I had a pet pig when I was about 5 while she grew before taking her to the stockyard and I named her Holly for my favorite doll, Holly Hobby. The relationship Frank has with Hugo brought all those happy memories back.
Some authors might have taken a dark turn putting Frank and Maalik together as they are both recovering and starting over(though in different places in their respective journeys) but the author didn't go there. Don't get me wrong, had she taken this story on that route, it would have been equally entertaining but it was nice to see a starting over story without a high level of over the top negative baggage. That statement makes it sound as if the men had it easy, that there journey of healing was all unicorns and rainbows, it certainly wasn't but the author didn't throw in every cliche speed bump and in doing so the reader is more able to connect, relate, and empathize with all those involved.
The Easter Redemption is an entertaining and enjoyable blend of drama, humor, friendship, family, healing, and romance. Simply put, this spring holiday story is just such a delight. I look forward to going back and catching up on the author's Laurel Holidays Xmas stories.
Summary:
Nick Williams Mystery #8
Monday, July 5, 1954
Mildred's Diner just isn't the welcoming place it once was. Looking forward to a nice breakfast, including that chewy bacon that Nick and Carter both love, they're asked to leave. Mildred has gone back to Texas and word is they "ain't welcome."
But it's a sunny July day, so Nick puts the top down on the Roadmaster and they head across the Golden Gate to Sausalito for eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. But it seems like trouble follows them along the way and, before they know it, Nick and Carter are sitting in jail for vagrancy.
After making bail, the whole team is on the job figuring what the heck is going on in sleepy Sausalito while also chasing down the missing Mildred, who may have been kidnapped or worse!
Original Review June 2025:
Once again, a typical, nothing special kind of day turns into something bigger for the guys and their friends. Breakfast across the bridge should be harmless but it's Nick and Carter, you know there will be nothing "easy" about this trip😉.
As I stated in my review for The Mangled Mobster, my daily stress levels are factoring into my time and energy for the reviews I want to write. I wish I could step outside myself to convey my love of the story, but unfortunately, it's just not happening right now.
There is so much going on in The Iniquitous Investigator, as it always does, one piece of info and/or action leads to another, and another, and another, etc. Watching the guys navigate each step is a delight and entertaining right to the end.
It's that breakfast mentioned above that leads to, well more than expected, along with the trouble they find themselves facing they might just end up collecting yet another member of their ever-growing found family. Who knows, maybe Nick's matchmaking skills might find a new victim😉. Despite all that the innocent breakfast leads to, the lads are determined to find out what happened to Mildred, the friendly and always welcoming owner of the diner they usually enjoy frequenting. It's that determination in the face of their own battles that speaks volumes to the kind of people they and their found family members are, which is one of the reasons I love these stories so much and conveys how much I recommend this story and overall series more than any words I could put here.
RATING:
Speed by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Summary:Railers Legacy #1
Hard ice. Fast cars. Fierce love. And a race against fate.
Hockey is as natural as breathing for Noah Gunnarsson. Growing up with two famous hockey stars as his dads, Noah has always aspired to join the Railers to continue the Lyamin-Gunnarsson legacy. With his degree done, it’s time to live that dream, and the first step is being drafted by the team his hall-of-fame dad played for. The second step is to pull on that dusky blue-gray sweater and make his fathers proud. His rookie year is bound to be a season of incredible highs and lows, but one of the biggest highlights is meeting Brody Vance at a fundraiser. Brody is the living epitome of a bad boy hiding his pain behind a devil-may-care attitude. As Noah struggles to keep one eye on the puck and not on Brody, it’s only a matter of time before both loves collide in a chaotic splash of media attention.
Bad boy racing driver Brody Vance has spent his life chasing speed and glory and is only points away from his first world championship when a devastating crash ends his season. Determined to make a triumphant comeback, Brody is blindsided by a diagnosis that forces him off the track for good. With his world flipped upside down and family and fans questioning why he left, Brody hides his pain by pushing the limits and refusing to let anyone see the cracks. But after a chance meeting with a sweet, sexy hockey player turns into an unforgettable one-night stand, fate keeps putting Noah in his path. With his heart on the line and his body racing against time, Brody must decide if he’s willing to risk it all for love—or if he’ll let fear and pride leave him in the dust.
Speed is a steamy M/M romance with a hockey rookie living his family legacy, a bad-boy racing driver with secrets, media attention that would break even the strongest of men, an unforgettable one-night stand, a love that means risking it all, and a hard-won happily ever after.
Original Review May Book of the Month 2025:
I'll admit, when I found out the authors had begun a second generation series in their ongoing hockey universe, I had mixed feelings. Not because I was unsure of the level of quality the story would be, let's face it, everything these two bring to their universe is topnotch, some higher than others but all brilliantly fun. No, it was the whole "moving on" factor that comes with second generation series. I don't know what this means for the first generation, if the door has been closed or just set aside for now, I'm just not sure if I'm ready for the possibility of no more Ten/Jared, Stan/Erik, Ryder/Jacob, and many others central to the stories. Time will tell, I guess.
On to Speed.
With Scott & Locey beginning the next generation of their hockey universe, I couldn't think of a better character to start with, Erik and Stan's little bunny, Noah. Such a wonderful choice for openers. Those who are familiar with their hockey universe will certainly remember little Noah, well he's all grown up and a hockey legend-in-the-making, and not just because he's hockey royalty, he has mad hockey skills to go along with those high energy hockey genes. As much as I may not have been ready for a new generation, I was excited to see where little bunny Noah was headed.
We meet Brody Vance in a not very good place in his life having to be forced to retire early from his racing future due to a medical diagnosis. He seems to have accepted his fate, reluctantly but still dealing with(kind of), but that doesn't mean he is ready for the public to know. When the two of them meet it's not exactly going to be a cute meet story to be told for years to come, though eventually I can see them telling a tamed down version of it to their families but in the here and now? Not so much. Though he may have accepted his health issues on the surface, he still holds plenty of resentment inside and it plays out here and I certainly wanted to give him a good solid shake.
Having been my mother's 24/7 caregiver for many years up until her recent passing, I tend to be hyper aware to the point of over critical when health factors into a story. Though my dad is currently being treated for the possibility of diabetes, it is one diagnosis I haven't had much personal experience dealing with but from what I do know, the author has dealt with Noah's diabetes with respect and gentle care. When an author(s) tackles these elements with such respect, I have to mention it and honor their research(or taking from personal experience) because not all authors do. That's not to say I need a medical lecture or symptom checklist in the story, I just feel the topic of health is important and needs to be respected, so when an author(s) does it, recognition is deserved. And RJ Scott and VL Locey presents it right, balancing fact with fiction on the nose.
As I mentioned above, Speed is second generation story with a new class of players but don't think that means we never get to see the Railers we all know and love. There are a few cameos here and as Noah Gunnarsson is one of the main characters it is only natural that we see his dads, Railer greats Stan and Erik. They are just as awesome as player's parents as they were players. And yes, I still read Stan's character with a Russian accent in my head, he could speak up in 100 books and be well into his 90s and I think I'd still hear him the way I did from day one when he appeared in Changing Lines.
Whether, Railers Legacy entry #1, Speed, is a hello to a new generation and a goodbye to the old, or Scott & Locey will be creating stories in both timelines, doesn't really matter. What matters most is the quality of Noah and Brody's journey and it is superb and I look forward to whatever comes next.
What's Left of Me by Davidson King
Summary:Saint Brothers #4
Phoenix
My once carefree life—dancing, smiling, and never looking over my shoulder—ended the day I was kidnapped and held by a serial killer for three months. A part of me was certain I was never getting out of there alive…and then when I thought my end was near, I was rescued.
But the killer is still out there, and he wants me back.
The police and FBI are bound by red tape and procedures and because of that, my sister believes they can’t protect me…not like the Saint brothers can. Soon, I’m in a house filled with gorgeous, brilliant, dangerous men, and yet I feel safer than I ever have. Most of that has to do with a certain sunglass-wearing tech genius named Noel. For the first time since being rescued, I feel something toward someone, and I want to explore that.
Noel
I thought my brothers were idiots as I watched them each fall in love. I don’t want to be held down—I love my computers, freedom, and not having to answer to anyone. Then we take on a protection case and Phoenix Briar walks into my life. With a blink of his hazel eyes and barely there smile, I find myself willing to not just protect him but to do it at the cost of my life.
With the Broken Doll Killer on the loose and determined to get his perfect doll back, my brothers and I are in a race against time to keep Phoenix safe and to find his monster before he shatters whatever is left of Phoenix. I’m determined to give Phoenix the love he deserves…and the revenge he needs.
What’s Left of Me is book four in my Saint Brothers series. While it could be read as a standalone it is highly recommended you read Slay Ride, Kill Me Sweetly, and Mine to Keep first since characters from those books play a part in this story.
Original Review June Book of the Month 2025:
What can I say about Saint Brothers #4, What's Left of Me, that could even come close to what I'm feeling? Those who follow me on SM or my reviews know that my life was turned upside down with the passing of my mother back in January. Some days are better than others, but to be perfectly honest, my stress levels and anxiety grow with every day as I try to navigate a new path forward as I attempt finding a job that allows me time to still care for my dad. This admission has nothing to do with Davidson King's book other than the story has given me an outlet for moments of relief and yet the stress makes my reviewing brain more clouded. So I want to put that out there in my hope this review comes out clear. The fact that it does give me moments of relief speaks the loudest to my enjoyment of this story.
Though I am part of the author's FB group, I always try to stay clear of her teaser Tuesday posts when I can, sometimes you just have to have a peak but in general, I like to be completely taken off guard when reading. Boy was I ever! I knew there was a serial killer element to the story waybackwhen, but I had no idea just what that would entail. I won't go into specifics, having been so unaware heightened the fear factor for me and I would never want to rob any reader of that same "WOW!" moments.
Before I talk about Noel and Phoenix, I want to mention that, even though What's Left of Me, is laden with dark moments, violence, and fear, I personally think the author's #3 Mine to Keep, is still the darkest and most soul-crushing entry as it dealt with both the subtlety and in your face effects of stalking. Having said that, just as I'm writing this review, I realized that the entire Saint Brothers series plays heavily into the psychological side and after effects of the crimes. Not sure how I missed that before this moment, because it's so clear to me now. Hindsight can be our biggest moment of clarity.
So, on to the men at the center of this amazing and disturbing story.
Phoenix. I loved how the author dealt with his fears. Through his inner monologue we have a fuller picture of what the serial killer did to him, or more significantly, what impact the vitriol he hammered into Phoenix has left on his psyche. Through his interactions with his sister, Hazel and gradually the Saint brothers, we see how it has affected his day to day emotions. As drawn to Noel Saint, Phoenix is, I think it's actually the interactions he has with the brothers' partners that begin to ground him and see that healing and overcoming trauma is doable. Don't get me wrong, this is a Phoenix and Noel story, but the author's use of the partners, though small in page-time, is huge in healing.
Noel. Him and his brother, Nick(the Saint star in Mine to Keep) are the computer nerds of the operation and the frustration with the non-tech family members are front and center of the humorous scenes of the story. Won't lie, there are not many comedic moments but these family funnies help balance the darkness and left a calming effect on me. I really love how he relies on Dr.Aziza when it comes to making sure Phoenix is protected and the best ways to approach certain factors. This is not something you often see in stories about revenge and physical protection, generally those who are doing the protecting are all about the do-now-think-later but not the Saint brothers, they get the importance of the survivor's mental health(I said "survivor", I don't like "victim"). Again, don't get me wrong, they are all about the doing but not without the thinking, for the most part😉.
Put these men together and you have a very powerful and rewarding love story that rounds out this psychological suspense thriller, creating a whole package of entertainment. What's Left of Me is oh so disturbingly yummy.
One last thing, for those wondering about reading order, I highly recommend reading Saint Brothers in order of release. Yes, each book is about a new brother and a separate crime but because the past entry's relationships play a huge found family part of each new story, everything just falls into place more realistically when read chronologically.
Original Audiobook Review November 2025:
I rarely listen to books in the same year I first read them, IMO that says more to how much I love this book(and series) than anything I could possibly add to my original review. Once again, the dual narration is perfect for this genre and Darcy Stark and Alexander Cendese capture the characters to a tee. Davidson King's words pulled me in and the narration kept me on the edge of my seat even though the book was still fresh in my mind from June's reading. So many powerful emotions from beginning to end
Mine to Keep by Davidson King
CHAPTER ONE
One Month Ago
Matt
“I’m so happy you finally agreed to come out with us.” Joan’s violet-painted lips were wide, her eyes glassy. She’d been drinking a lot since we arrived…which had been only an hour ago.
“Sorry. I wanted to hang sooner, but this new client, he was in bad shape. I had to be more hands-on than normal. The first month was a lot of recovery, but they still needed me there. By the end of every day, I was beat.”
She nodded. “Camie gave you that assault victim.” She snapped her fingers. “J something.”
“He’s a great guy—he’s come a long way. I know Camie gave him to me, thinking I’d quit when I found out it was in-house physical therapy, but it’s cool. Pay is amazing, and the house is gorgeous.”
“This the house with all those guys living there…brothers, right?” Lewis, who worked with me and Joan, came to the table with a cold beer.
“Saint brothers. Yep, that’s them.” I pursed my lips as I thought about those men.
It was a huge house, and they were all foster brothers except for the twins. Those two were blood related. I hadn’t seen a lot of them—mostly just my patient, JJ, and his boyfriend, Shepard. I’d been there every day, even the weekends, until recently. JJ was doing a lot better. Another month and he’d cut down to maybe two days a week.
Joan fanned herself. “That’s some serious hotness. They run that bakery, Saintly Sweets. Delicious food—even yummier owners.”
I rolled my eyes. “Joan, go dance and work off some of that…” I made a figure eight with my hand. “Whatever that is.”
She laughed, pulled Lewis up, and dragged him to the dance floor. The Alibi was our favorite club. I loved its diversity and while loud at times, there was never any drama, fights, or major issues.
“All alone?”
I looked up to see Darnell holding two drinks. “Joan forced Lewis to dance.”
Darnell sat and pushed one of the drinks over to me, then sipped his own. “They need to just fuck and be done with it.”
I guffawed. “Lord, no. That can’t happen.”
Darnell hummed. “She’d eat him alive.”
“True facts, my friend.”
Darnell, Joan, Lewis, and I worked at Rybelt Physical Therapy and Sports Management. Once a month, we’d get together at The Alibi and decompress. This was the first time I’d been able to join them since I’d started working with JJ.
“I gotta ask.” Darnell leaned forward. “What’s it really like being in a house with all those guys?” He jerked his head toward Joan and Lewis. “I heard them talking to you about it.”
I had to be careful. While Darnell was my closest friend at work—hell, we’d dated for a few months a while back—I still had to maintain privacy.
“It’s different. I hadn’t done live-in therapy before, so if I’m being honest, it took me more time to adjust to that than to get to know any of them.”
“Well, what’s a typical day for you?”
I sipped my drink, wondering what I could say to appease him. “Get up, eat, then usually meet JJ. We do morning routines, break, and after that do afternoon ones. In the evening, it’s mostly massage and relaxation—things like that. Then I pass out.”
He nodded. “Was that why Tony and you broke up, you not being around?”
I snorted, thinking about that asshole. “No. I mean, it wasn’t the final straw for him, but Tony and I were never going to work. He was demanding, a serious control freak, and closed-minded.”
“How so?” Darnell cocked his head.
“About two weeks before I’d started working for JJ, I came out of the shower and he was looking at one of my photo albums. And not just any—the one Trinity made me.”
“You just had that laying out there?”
“Nope. It was in my closet. But that’s the least of it. He pointed to a picture of Trinity and said, what’s that?”
“That?” Darnell whistled.
“Mmmhmm. Trinity was dressed up in one of their awesome creations, and I told Tony they were my ex, Trinity. He slammed the book closed and yelled that he thought I was gay.”
Darnell held his hands up. “Whoa, he looked at Trinity and…I don’t get it.”
“You know how Trinity hates labels: pangender, nonbinary. I told him Trinity was fluid, didn’t conform to one gender, and in this picture Trin was wearing a dress and makeup.”
“And he thought they were a woman?”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter; I didn’t feed into it. I just told him that I never said I was gay, and that I was, in fact, pansexual. Then I explained that Trinity was nonbinary, and did my best to educate him as well as I could. He shook his head and was all, ‘No, there’s only straight, gay, or lesbian.’ ”
“No, he did not!” Darnell pressed a palm to his chest.
“Oh, he did, and I explained that he needed to go home because if he felt that way, we weren’t a good fit.”
Darnell slapped the table. “Good on you. How’d that go?”
I chuckled. “We broke up, remember?”
“Shit…well, you dodged a bullet with him. What a dickhead.”
“For sure.” I drained my drink and stood. “I’m going to get another. I’d like to be drunk tonight.”
Darnell beamed. “Fuck, yeah. That’s why we Ubered it here. Go get all the alcohol.”
I headed to the bar to order myself and Darnell the next round of drinks since he’d gotten the last. While I waited, I scanned the club. Lewis and Joan were really going at it…Hmm, maybe they should fuck and get it over with.
“Here you go.” The bartender slid the drinks to me, and I tossed him a twenty.
For the next hour or so, I drank, danced, and drank some more. I had nowhere to be tomorrow, and I was going to stay in bed in my apartment. It was nice to have weekends back.
“Shots!” Lewis shouted.
“I’ll go up with you.” I followed Lewis cautiously. Seriously, the floor moved when my feet touched it.
“Four Nasty Nipples,” he ordered, and I glared at him.
“What the fuck is that?” I thought that was what came out of my mouth, but judging by the look on Lewis’s face, maybe not.
“Hey.”
I spun around…too fast actually, and stumbled. Steady hands gripped my arms. “Careful there.” The man’s voice was low and gravelly.
“Sorry.”
“I got him,” Lewis said as he tried to pull me away.
“I don’t need to be gotten.”
The stranger smiled with perfectly straight white teeth. Oh, he was lovely. “You carry the drinks; I can walk…what’s your name?”
“Matt.”
“I can walk Matt back.”
“Fine.”
We followed behind Lewis. No one else was at the table; I could see them on the dance floor.
Lewis took his shot and faced me. “I’m gonna let them know their shots are here.” He pointed at the stranger. “I’ll just be a minute.”
The guy chuckled. “He’s protective.”
I looked at the man. He was tall, built, and I tried to focus on his face but couldn’t really. “Wanna make out?”
The man grinned even wider. “Very much.”
I couldn’t believe that had worked. “Come on, fast, before Lewis returns.”
I dragged Hottie Stranger with me toward the bathroom. There wasn’t a great place for any quickies at The Alibi, so a stall would have to do. We were halfway down the hallway when I heard someone call my name.
We stopped and I turned to see a figure walking our way. There was something familiar about him.
“Matt, hey.”
“Hi?”
“You know this guy?” Hottie Stranger asked…and that was annoying.
“What’s your name?” I squinted so I could focus on his pretty face.
He smirked. “Steve.”
I was staring at him, feeling all warm and gooey inside, and then my bubble burst.
“Mattie, what’s up?”
Mattie, literally nobody called me that.
“Who are you calling Mattie?” I squinted at the man…Oh, he was pretty too. So many gorgeous specimens. He truly was familiar. I knew him from somewhere.
“Sorry, dude, I’m not letting you take him to the bathroom to do whatever it is you think you’re about to do.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but Steve beat me to it. “I’d never do anything without consent, Matt invited me.”
Hottie-familiar-man quirked a brow…I think. “An inebriated person.” He eyed me from head to toe. “A very inebriated person invited you? Anytime someone is this drunk, there’s no consent.”
“Who are you to police his choices?”
This was right out of a fantasy. Two delicious guys fighting over little old me. I leaned against the wall…Oh, it was nice and cool.
“He can barely stand, shitdick, so if you want to keep your legs, face, and arms intact, I suggest you piss right the fuck off!” Familiar man was winning.
“Fuck this. No one is worth this drama.” Steve glared at me and stormed off.
“Bye, Steve,” I yelled, then ogled the hottie blond. “So, you win…Do I get my surprise?” I reached for his belt, but he backed away.
“I’m taking you home.”
“Pardon me? I mean…did I say pardon? Did that come out right?”
“Jesus,” he mumbled. “Come on, Matt, I already told your friends I’d take you home.”
“Who are you? They’d never let a stranger whisk me away to the whatevers.”
“It’s Nick, Matt. Nick Saint. You’ve been staying at our house for five months, and you can’t recognize me? You’re trashed. Let’s go.” He went to grab me, but I pulled away.
This of course made me spin, the room spin…my stomach spin, and that was when I threw up all over Nick.
The Easter Redemption by VL Locey
Chapter One
“Thank you, sir,” I shouted to be heard over the booming exhaust system on the rusty red Studebaker pickup.
The old man in the John Deere ball cap yelled something at me then sped off, speeding in this instance being a roaring twenty miles per hour. A black ball of choking exhaust exploded out of the rotted muffler. There I stood in the middle of a dirt road, my old Yale duffel bag on my shoulder, hacking up a lung. Thankfully there was a soft breeze moving past and it lifted the fumes away. I stared at the lone mailbox sitting on the right hand side of the road and had to smile a little. The black box sat atop half an old telephone pole, which was about as rural as one could get, you’d think. But no, someone—and I suspected I knew who that someone was—had painted little farm animals on the sides of the battered postal box.
I stood in the spring sun, chilled in my thin jacket, staring at the black mailbox as if it held some ancient secrets. I even went so far as to open it and stare inside. The damn thing was cavernous. The flag a little weak. There were bills inside waiting to be picked up by the mailman. Mailperson. Postal carrier. Ugh. Being PC was tiring. Life was so much easier when I was cranked up on coke and plastered on Jim Beam. I could just be a raging asshole and everyone was willing to accept it because I was ripped. And since I had been high on something since I was in boarding school, I’d had lots of practice being a raging asshole. Which meant lots of amends to make. Starting with the most important one.
“You’re stalling,” I said, closed the box, and turned to face the long dirt drive that would lead me to Happy Laurel Farm. Hefting my duffel higher on my shoulder, I took a few steps, pausing at the foot of the drive to cock my head and listen. There was no traffic noise. The only sounds were the soft rustle of a cool wind moving through trees about to bud and the distant blats and moos of farm animals.
Farm animals. I still could not wrap my head around the fact my younger brother, Decker, lived on a farm. If ever there was a man who was not cut out for farm life it was my baby brother. He was the picture of urban gay chic. Or had been. I’d not seen or spoken to him for close to two years. Fifteen or so months to be precise. A lot had gone down in that time. My brother had left the family business, punched my father in the face—Christ, I wish I had been there to see that—and had moved out here to Hick Town, Pennsylvania, to settle down with a vegan liberal. Of all the things. Father had been outraged. Mother had been mildly upset and so had gone out to get a new lover on the side. Which was how she handled things. Sex and booze to numb the misery of a life unfulfilled.
Sound familiar, Frank?
Oh yeah, it really did. The only difference was that Mother had enough sense to keep her addictions well-hidden whereas I kind of made a splash with mine. Maybe splash was the wrong word. More like I did an Icarus and flew so high and close to the sun that my wings melted and I crashed back to earth with such a resounding thud that the tremors were felt from Pittsburgh all the way to a certain resort in Florida where my father had been playing golf and whoring. Oh, sorry, not whoring. Spending time with clients.
“Whatever,” I mumbled then began the walk up the driveway. Fencing ran along the drive, and several muddy goats came waddling to the woven wire fence to gape at me with their funny goat eyes. They were all colors and incredibly fat. None of them seemed to like me, which was pretty judgmental on their part but, to be fair, I had enjoyed chevon a few times. My lower back and thighs ached. I’d walked for I didn’t know how long to reach the end of this road. Then my cell service died off. I mean, what the hell was wrong with this county? How could there be places in America that didn’t have cell phone service? What the hell was the government spending money on if not for infrastructure?
Since when do you care about internet service for the rural folk?
“Point to you,” I mumbled to my inner Frank. Sometimes I really hated my inner Frank. He made me drink. No lie. Of course that was just one of many reasons I soaked in a bottle or sniffed up anything able to be sniffed. Monty, my sponsor, had told me I shouldn’t hate that inner voice as it was my conscience trying to tell me to wake the fuck up. Which, yeah, it was probably that. I’d spent over thirty-five years trying to bury that little shitty whisper inside my head because facing the truth it spoke was simply too damned painful.
A big black goat trotted up to the fence and made rude noises at me. The spring winds carried a funky musky smell. A stink that had not been there before the big black goat had arrived to flop his lips at me.
I paused, took a step closer, and stood on this side of the fence, a half-melted bank of snow keeping me from getting any closer.
“You don’t scare me. I grew up in the Fitzgerald mansion.” I folded my arms over my chest and waited for the goat to reply. He blatted and gave me another round of rubber lips. Then it hit me I was having a conversation with a goat. A. Goat. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” I sighed to no-one in particular before stalking back up the drive, my sight touching on the abundance of trees everywhere. Not just pines either. All kinds of trees and big blue skies. What I knew about trees could fit into a thimble. Mr. Willings had taught us trees made oxygen so that was good. And yeah, that was about all I knew about trees.
My feet ached. They were cold and wet. The walk from the bus depot outside Miller’s Lake had been rough on a body that only knew how to laze around and get glazed like a damn donut. My stomach rumbled at the thought of a doughnut. I’d not eaten since last night when the bus from Charlotte had pulled into Philly and we’d had to change companies. Seemed the big bus lines didn’t travel this far into the boonies so I’d had to hop a smaller bus after a quick stop at a gas station. I’d dropped the last ten bucks to my name to buy a bottle of water and a questionable tuna sandwich that had a blurred best before date on the back. I’d not shit myself on the ride from the City of Brotherly Love to the tiny drop-off by a lake in town, so all was good on that front.
The back of my neck was sweaty despite the chill in the air. March was iffy still on the east coast. Spring was trying to force its way to the fore but winter wasn’t sure if it was done being a cold-hearted bitch yet. There were signs of both seasons everywhere. Snow plowed up along the drive for instance while a patch of purple crocus pushed through the lingering frost to brighten the otherwise wet and sloppy ground.
Coming up on the barn, I felt a flutter in my stomach that had nothing to do with a lack of food. Decker was somewhere around here with his new husband, Acosta Melios, the owner of the rescue. I’d not been kind to my brother the last time we had spoken. After stopping dead in the center of the drive I stared at the old barn. Red chickens were out in the yard, digging in the mud. A big ginger rooster crowed, the sound carrying down the valley and bouncing off the thawing mountains. It really was quite nice here. I situated my duffel bag nervously, wondering if I’d be greeted by a loving family member or a shotgun. It could go either way. Rural folks were known to have guns for hunting and shooting bears. I threw a fast look around at all the woodland surrounding me. Shit. I’d not thought about bears as I’d been wandering along country roads with no means of self-defense besides half a stale tuna sandwich. I should hang onto that. I could use it as a means to distract the bear or clobber it over the head, although the bread was too soggy to make a good bludgeon.
“You lost, friend?” a man called from the door of the barn, shaking me from my bear concerns.
I blinked and took a slow step forward. This man had longish hair, a lean face, and was eying me with careful concern. I’d seen him on the rescue website standing with my brother, arm-in-arm, with a goat in a racing harness or some sort of contraption. They’d both appeared to be crazy in love and I’d felt a tiny thrum of pleasure knowing my brother was happy. God knows I’d not done much to bring him any joy.
Amends, Frankie. We’re here to make amends and find a better life. A clean life.
There were times my inner Frank was okay. Like right now. One day at a time. Right. I could do this.
“No, I’m at the right place. I’m looking for Decker?” That made him tense up just a bit. “Decker Fitzgerald? Well, I guess he’s not using that last name anymore not that I blame him.”
“What do you want with him?” my brother-in-law asked, folding his arms across a green and blue checkered flannel shirt.
I mulled that over before speaking. Something that rehab and AA had been quite helpful in teaching me. Actions and words matter so think before speaking or doing. I bit back the snarky answer that popped to life on my tongue. It was a tacky quip so it really didn’t need to see the light of day. I shoved my hands into my front pockets to find my hard-earned tokens. Rubbing them when I felt anxious helped me center. Centering. Also a new thing rehab and group meetings had taught me. You’d think a man with an Ivy League education would be super smart, but nope.
“I’m his brother,” I called as I held my ground.
A tractor sat by the barn; some big cart thing backed into the second floor. The smell of animals was growing richer the closer I got to the building.
“I know who you are,” Acosta shouted back, his legs now braced for a scuffle maybe? Yeah, probably. I sighed but held my ground.
“I’d like to talk to him if I could,” I yelled as a cat and duck walked past, the duck giving me a dark look. Who knew ducks could glare?
“I’m not sure that you really should,” Acosta called, his tone firm. “From what I hear you’ve been nothing but a rotten bastard to my husband for most of his life.”
“Yeah, I have been,” I replied, fingers moving over my tokens so quickly they were starting to warm from the friction. “And I want to make amends. I need to. It’s part of the journey.”
Acosta eyeballed me just like that big black goat had. He began shaking his head when Decker walked out of the barn, cradling a tiny baby goat.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” Decker said, the little brown goat in his arms trying to suckle on his chin. It was really pretty cute and I wasn’t an animal person. “Why are you here, Frank?”
That was a long and heavy tale to tell. One that required a good stiff…ginger ale.
“Because I’m working a twelve-step program and making amends to those I have wronged is the ninth step,” I replied candidly. No point in trying to gild the lily. The whole world had seen my descent from the heavens. Might as well let my brother in on my plummet. Decker, Acosta, and the baby goat were staring at me, weighing my words. I blew out a breath. “I know my addictions and actions had a bad effect on you. I have a list in my bag of things that I want to apologize for, if you’ll let me?”
Decker shared a look with his husband. I waited, trembling inside, praying my brother would be the better man and let me talk with him. Just for an hour. Then I’d leave if that was what he wanted.
“Follow me to the cabin. It’s time for Prissy’s bottle,” Decker said then walked off, following a muddy path leading away from the barn.
I let out a huge breath. Acosta glowered at me as I shuffled along behind my brother. I kept my eyes on Decker’s stiff back as we made our way to their home while I rehearsed my speech in my head. The list of apologies in my duffel was as long as my arm.
The Iniquitous Investigator by Frank W Butterfield
Prologue
The San Francisco Examiner
Page 12, Column 4
Monday, June 28, 1954
Needed: A Cleanup
The police department and the district attorney's office are to be commended for their initial effort in attempting to clean up an unwholesome condition in San Francisco.
The condition is marked by the increase of homosexuals in the parks, public gathering places and certain taverns in the city.
It is a bad situation.
It is a situation that has resulted in extortion and blackmail. Even worse, these deviates multiply by recruiting teen-agers.
It is true that complex medical and psychiatric problems are involved.
Eventually these may be solved and the problem eliminated.
But until that happens there must be sustained action by the police and the district attorney to stop the influx of homosexuals. Too many taverns cater to them openly. Only police action can drive them out of the city.
It is to be hoped that the courts here will finally recognize this problem for what it is and before the situation so deteriorates that San Francisco finds itself as the complete haven for undesirables. The courts heretofore have failed to support the arresting and prosecuting authorities.
Without the support of the courts, the police and the district attorney cannot attack the problem effectively.
Now, we need action.
We have had enough eye shutting.
Speed by RJ Scott & VL Locey
ONE
Noah
My phone alarm went off at six a.m. sharp, but I’d been awake for at least an hour before the chiming started. I should’ve cancelled it when I woke up at quarter to five. My nerves had been slowly climbing for the past few weeks when I’d talked to reps from different teams as draft day approached. Now it was here, and after a quick fasting blood sugar test, I grabbed some juice from the fridge, threw open the curtains, and went out onto the balcony to stare spellbound at the Sphere at the Venetian hotel. Las Vegas lay spread out before me, glittering as only Sin City can glitter. Sipping a cold can of tomato juice as the warm desert wind blew over me—I tried to settle my anxiety, but yeah, that wasn’t happening.
Today was the day. I’d been working my ass off for years on the ice to make it to this point. Sometime over the next two days, I’d be drafted by a pro team. I hoped. I wasn’t a super religious person, not as my nana had been before she’d passed. Mama, as Pops had called her, had been super devout, so who knows, maybe all those prayers she had sent skyward as I’d fought tooth and nail through high school to prove a dude with diabetes could make it to the big leagues had paid off.
Whatever the case, I was here, and tonight I’d be seated in the amazing Sphere with my dads as my future was decided. Where would I go? I had three teams I’d like to play for if the hockey gods were being benevolent. I’d be happy to go to Boston or LA. Both the Rebels and Storm were good teams situated in great cities. I planned on spending four years in Bean Town playing for Boston College—Go Eagles!—while getting a theater arts degree. But my number-one choice after college would be the Railers. I mean, that was a no-brainer. My fathers had both played for the Railers, my biological father had been a super solid forward for Harrisburg, and my adoptive pop had been a Hockey Hall of Fame goalie. I’d grown up surrounded by legendary talents such as Tennant Rowe. As a fellow forward, sitting at a picnic table and talking hockey with Ten had been above and beyond. I’d learned so much from all the old guys, and now, after years of hard work, I would hopefully go home and show the GOATs just what I had.
As the sky on the eastern horizon began to pinken just a bit, I looked out over Las Vegas and found one of the songs I’d sung as the lead in Oklahoma in my senior year at school rolling around my head. I started belting out, “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!” into a gusty wind pushing my sandy curls into my face as I made a small circle. Not to brag or anything, but I had a pretty good voice. I was no Hugh Jackman, but I had landed several leading roles during my school days. One of my teachers even said she felt I could make a go of it on stage if I applied myself, which was cool. I had a backup plan for when I couldn’t play hockey anymore. Noah Lyamin-Gunnarson, the singing puck-pusher. I could see my name in lights on Broadway.
When I got to the line about cattle being statues, the sliding door to the room next door flew open with a crash. I instantly fell silent, hiding behind my can of tomato juice. An older guy, bald, with a big nose, leaned around the divider to glower at me in the predawn light.
“Is that you singing that stupid-ass song?” he asked, and I nodded. “Well, stop it. What kind of moron sings on a fucking balcony at the crack of fucking dawn? Why aren’t you in a bar somewhere trying to get into some showgirl’s panties?”
“Uhm, because I’m not really into showgirls. I mean, I date girls and guys, but I like the people I date to be—”
“Kid, I don’t give a shit if you date donkeys. Stop fucking singing, or I’ll call the front desk.” With that, he disappeared, slamming the door.
“No one appreciates the arts anymore,” I sighed as I finished the song but at a much lower volume. Chuckling to myself, I watched the sun rise fully. Then, I went inside to shower. I would need to eat soon, and my fathers would be up and ready at eight sharp. Earlier perhaps, as we were in Vegas, the city they’d been married in all those years ago. Plus, and this was huge, Vegas was Elvis central, and my Russian father was the biggest Elvis fan I had ever met. I could already imagine what we’d be doing today as we whiled away the time until the first-round picks were chosen this evening. I guess Elvis-themed hotels and tribute shows would take my mind off the most significant moment of my life so far.
Man, I really was a good fit for a drama major.
But it was kind of true. My hockey life was about to be dictated by a bunch of old men sitting in a hotel room reviewing every player in this year’s draft class.
No pressure at all.
If no one chose me, I could always hit the boards as Kenickie in an off-off-off-off-off-off Broadway run of Grease to put food on the table.
Man, I hoped a good team picked me. I’d look stupid with a DA hairstyle.
* * *
“How does one day drag on for so damn long?” I moaned into the mirror in my hotel room as I worked on looping a tie around my neck. My fingers were shaking. Not from anything to do with my diabetes but from straight-out nerves. Although the past twelve hours had been shit in terms of managing my condition. Stress always did this to me. The swings had been manageable for the most part. I’d felt pretty sluggish and muddled before lunch, but after a good meal and some time to chill at the Elvis Diner & Hound Dog Hot Dog Palace, I’d felt better.
Still, I’d better keep a close eye on my numbers. It would suck massively to be called for a round one pick—the odds of that were slim, as I wasn’t a Cole Harrington or anything—to then faceplant as I went up to shake hands and get my sweater. To be honest, I doubted I’d be chosen tonight. Not that I wasn’t good. I was pretty damn good, but I was no generational talent as Tennant Rowe had been, or Cole “Trick” Harrington III was this year. I’d be back tomorrow, Saturday, for rounds two through seven.
My tie was not cooperating, so I tied it into a bow and stalked out of the bathroom to find my jacket. As I passed, someone rapped on the door, so I detoured to check who was there. My siblings had not been able to make it, sadly, as Eva was home with some viral infection that had her spending the past few days puking and pooping. Pops said she’d probably eaten bad moose meat while camping with her fiancée in Ontario. My other sister, Margo, was over in Japan, working her little fingers away on an anime she and her boyfriend were producing for Animax. She and Botan were quite the team. While I wished they could be here, I totally understood why they couldn’t. Sick was sick, and deadlines were deadlines. They’d be watching on TV, they assured me, as did my aunt Galina, who was nursing an impacted wisdom tooth.
What hurt worse was that my mother hadn’t so much as called to wish me well.
Shaking that familiar hurt off, I opened the door to see my two fathers in the hall. Erik, my biological father, was spiffy as all hell in a dark blue suit that made his blue eyes pop. My adoptive pop, Stan, was dressed conservatively in an olive green suit that went well with his gray eyes. This look was subtle considering he’d been in an Elvis jumpsuit all day.
“Why is your tie in bopeep around your neck?” Pops asked, striding in to my room to stand before me. Pops was a big man so I had to tip my head up to stare at him. “Is this new trend for young peoples to make tie like birthday present?”
“Nah, I was just too jittery to get it tied right,” I confessed. Dad inched in, worry on his face. “It’s cool. My numbers are solid. I’m just really feeling all the nerves. What if I don’t get a team I like?”
“You’ll go to a team you love, I’m sure,” Dad said, then nudged Pops and his big fingers aside to undo my tie. “Even if you don’t, lots of players go to teams they don’t think they’ll enjoy, but they then find that the team, city, and fans make things better. Now lift your chin.”
I could do this myself, obviously but there was something comforting about having your daddy fuss over you. And man, could these two fuss. They were both fussers extraordinaire.
“Da, your dad is right. It will all be good as gumdrops,” Pops assured me as he loped to the sliding doors to stare at the Sphere. “Is most amazing thing that big orb. I wish Mama were here to see it. She would like it.”
“Yeah, Grandma would have been super proud,” I said, and Dad gave me a soft nod and smile as he whipped my tie into shape, then patted it. “Mom hasn’t called yet.”
Dad frowned. “She will. You know your mother. She tends to get caught up in herself but, eventually, remembers there are other people to think about.”
“Yeah, I know.” And I did know that. It's funny how, no matter how old you are, a slight from your parents hurts worse than any other kind. “So, hey, this is a happy night. Let’s head over and face my future!”
“That is spunky pep talk! You will make good captain one day, little rabbit.” Pops draped a thick arm over my shoulder, tugged on the lapel of my navy suit, and pecked my head.
Captain talk was a giant leap. Right now, I’d be happy to be chosen at all.
It was a short distance to the venue, so we walked, the desert air making me sweat. Pops and Dad chattered the whole while. I was usually talkative, but this was too big of a moment, and my nerves were shot.
The coolness of the air-conditioned interior made me feel less twitchy. The armpits of my shirt were already damp, as was my collar. I should’ve cut my hair, but I liked it on the long side. My curls, courtesy of Dad, would look pretty epic hanging out of the ballcap the Railers GM would put on my head. If all went as I hoped. Let’s face it, flow was important.
The room where the draft was held was massive, with chairs on higher risers for the players and their families. On the floor, hundreds of NHL reps milled about tables set beneath a giant domed ceiling with the logos of each pro team.
I felt my guts tighten as our faces replaced the logos—hundreds of hopefuls on that massive screen. I found mine. I looked as goofy as I felt.
“This is big day,” Pops said by my ear. I nodded dully. I was caught between being excited and terrified. “If you need sugar snack, just shout. We both have pockets filled.”
“Thanks, Pops,” I whispered. Someone called my name. I found a familiar face, then another, and then another. “I see a few friends,” I told my fathers as we made our way to our seats.
“Go and talk to them. We’ll save your seat,” Dad said with a smile.
Lots of bro hugs. A small group of us from eastern division teams were shooting the shit, talking about where we hoped to play, girls, guys, and parents, when the prime cut of this year’s draft sauntered up. Cole Harrington III—Trick, to the rest of us mere mortals—strolled in with a woman on his arm who shut the whole room up. Dyna Bubble Mint. Yeah, that Dyna—the rapper whose debut track went gold two months ago. Apparently, first-round hopefuls get first pick of the rising stars, too. Still, I’m shocked she’s on Trick’s arm. Considering Trick’s dad was a fire-and-brimstone TV evangelist with a holy crusade against anything queer or trans, it’s honestly wild that Trick’s even allowed within ten feet of Dyna.
“Hey, Trick,” I said as he neared.
With Dyna on his arm, he strutted right past, as if he didn’t know me or the other guys. We all watched them stroll on by.
“Okay, dude, that was rude,” I grumbled at Trick’s back.
He surely heard me but continued to his seat, an entourage following in his wake—not one of them looking like they were his parents. I shot the rest of the guys in my little chat circle a glance. They all shrugged. We all knew Trick was an asshole at times, probably inherited from his dad, and we’d all heard his homophobic shit—again, probably genetic. Sure, he had stupid skills. But no matter how good he was—and the shithead was good—he would be going to the worst team in the league. So sure, be smug, but not that smug. Most hockey players were humble to the nth—it was drummed into us from peewee up. Even great talents like Crosby, McDavid, and Madsen-Rowe were always respectful. They didn’t walk around with their noses in the air. They were salt of the earth, as the play-by-play guys liked to say.
“Hope he has fun playing to the fifteen Atlanta Phantoms fans who are showing up to watch them lose,” Craig Smythe, a hella nice guy and winger from Harvard, sneered. Being little brats, we all nodded. If anyone could use a good comeuppance, it was Trick.
“Truth,” I added.
“You think he knows that Dyna is…” Craig waved at his crotch and then blushed when I raised an eyebrow. He knew Margo, my sister, had transitioned. “I don’t mean… I just meant… fuck… his homophobic ass is going to be shocked when he finds a…” again with the crotch waving. I stared at him, humored him, and he slunk in his seat. “Fuck, I didn’t mean that, I meant… Jesus… I’m shutting up now.”
“Probably for the best,” I deadpanned, and then shoved Craig. Hard. He ducked his head, still bright red, and muttered another sorry. He was a nice guy—more than that, really—and I knew he didn’t mean any harm, but he needed to understand that it wasn’t okay to reduce people to parts or labels like that.
When the lights dimmed, we all wished each other good luck and returned to our seats. I was wedged between Pops and Dad. My right leg began jumping. I could feel my tension creeping up, although I was sure I’d not be chosen tonight. The extra day of waiting was going to be torture, but we all sat through it. We clapped at each announcement, even Trick, who was grabbed up by the Atlanta team as predicted. The night was long but enjoyable.
“You will go second round for sure, I am predicting,” Pops said as we made our way to our hotel around midnight. I’d been feeling lethargic, so we’d headed out after the final pick of the first round had been called up.
I bobbed my head in agreement. Second would be cool. Third fine. Fourth totally acceptable. Hell, lots of great players had been drafted low. A famous New York goalie had been a seventh-round pick, and he had made a name for himself that had gotten him into the HHOF.
I hit the sheets early, curling up to rest and talk to Rachel Biggs, my ex-girlfriend from school. She and I had dated throughout our junior and senior years, but as graduation had gotten closer, and my departure to Boston grew nearer, we agreed to part but stay friends.
She was also a theater major packing up to move to Manhattan. We talked about that for a long time, and her cat Mojo, and her little sister who was still crushing on me, she said. When I yawned in her pretty face, she gave her long, dark hair a flip, played all affronted, and told me to get some sleep. She wished me luck, blew me a kiss, and ended the call.
Sleep was elusive that night, but it finally came after I recited the script from MacBeth in my head. I conked out at the line about my dull brain, which was on track.
The next morning, I was up early, took a swim instead of singing to greet the day, and met my fathers for breakfast at the hotel restaurant. I had an omelet, bacon, and some sautéed mushrooms. Coffee with a shot of milk that I had to count for my daily carb intake, but fuck it, I liked milk now and again. Even the most dedicated low-carb follower gave into temptation. Not like it was a milkshake. Those were my Achilles heel. Nothing lured me to the dark side like a chocolate shake.
After the meal, we changed into suits and returned to the vast, domed room for rounds two through seven. It promised to be a damn long day for guys who weren’t chosen until the last round or not at all, which happened. I hoped that wasn’t my fate.
Thankfully, it wasn’t. At ten forty-five in the morning, June 28th, three weeks after the Stanley Cup final, I was picking at the hem of my shirt sleeve when the Railers reps filed onto the stage. My attention moved from my sleeve to the man holding a Railers jersey on stage. We were into the third round now, and as soon as my face and stats flared brightly on the screen behind the Railers people, Pops shouted in glee. I blinked twice to ensure I was seeing what I was seeing and not having a low-sugar fantasy.
Nope, it was me. Sixty-fourth overall. Not too shabby.
I rose as the crowd applauded, hugged my teary-eyed fathers, and made my way to the stage. A showgirl in a sparkly silver outfit took my jacket. I jogged up the stairs, shook hands with people, and then, pulled that famed dusky blue and gray sweater over my head. Someone–the GM, I think–plunked a hat down on my head. Pictures were taken. I was led off the stage to schmooze with Railers’ upper management.
“Welcome to the team, Noah,” Tristen Routers, the Railers’ new owner, said as we waited for my parents to join us backstage. “You’re planning on going to college, right?”
What did he want me to say? Did he want me to go straight to the team? I wasn’t ready. I wanted an education, something to fall back on. Was I messing this up from the start? I caught sight of my dads coming into the room and straightened my back at the pride in their expressions.
“College, sir,” I answered.
He laughed, then pressed a hand to my shoulder. “Good call.”
I wanted to get my degree, make the team in the big show in four years, or go to the Colts, our AHL feeder team. I wanted a career as a hockey player, so it was back to the ice as soon as I got home to train my ass off, then hope I stood out to Coach Morin—if he was still there—in four years.
What's Left of Me by Davidson King
PROLOGUE
BNN News Outlet: “The body of a woman appearing to be in her early twenties was found today in Reisling Field at around seven this morning. Sources are saying she was dressed as what they can only assume was a doll. Dead flowers surrounded her body, and moving her has been difficult. More information on this story as it comes to light.”
One month later
BNN News Outlet: “A startling discovery came this morning when the body of a young man was found beside Franklin Fountain. Much like Kimberly Henning, who was found last month in Reisling Field, he was dressed to look like a doll—or puppet. Dead flowers surrounded his body. As we found out after Kimberly’s autopsy a few weeks ago, the bones in her body were broken and it’s assumed the same here and that whoever killed her is likely behind this death as well. More to come.”
One month later
BNN News Outlet: “It was a frightening morning as yet another body was found, killed the same way as Kimberly Henning and Richard Bells: dressed as a doll or puppet, posed on the ground, with dead flowers surrounding his body. A woman jogging in Billings Park came upon the man a little after six a.m. The mayor and police commissioner are holding a press conference this afternoon at Town Hall. This is the third victim of what the media is referring to as The Broken-Doll Killer, while others are calling them the Marionette Maker. What we’ve uncovered is that before their discoveries, Kimberly Henning and Richard Bells had been missing for six months to the day, and every bone in their bodies had been broken postmortem. What did these victims suffer through in their months of captivity? And will the authorities catch this serial killer before they strike again?”
Two Months Later
BNN News Outlet: “This morning, at about seven thirty, the body of Rochelle Hammer was detected, displayed just as Kimberly Henning, Richard Bells, and Henry Miller were. After no bodies were uncovered last month, we all held on to hope that the brutal murders had ended. Sadly, that’s not the case. Rochelle Hammer’s body was found by a staff member outside the main entrance of Mayfield Children’s Museum. She was dressed as a puppet and was surrounded by dead flowers. What we know so far about The Broken-Doll Killer is that they take their victims, hold them for six months to the day, and then display them publicly in a haunting manner, bones broken, yet made to look perfect. Authorities have no leads, and the only connection anyone seems to have found regarding these victims is that they were all in their early twenties, in very good shape, and they were what many are referring to as beautiful people. Who is killing these young, beautiful, vibrant people? The mayor will speak tonight at Town Hall at six p.m.”
Three weeks Later
BNN News Outlet: “A remarkable rescue happened this afternoon. Two hikers came across a shack in the mountains, where they’d hurried in to escape a sudden rainstorm. Inside, they stumbled upon a man who’d been reported missing a little over three months ago. That is all the information being released at this time; for his safety, the man’s name won’t be announced. And what are they protecting him from? Sources say this young man was kidnapped by The Broken-Doll Killer. This is the biggest break in the case, and authorities hope this young man can help them finally put an end to these heinous murders.”
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.
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.
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 ScottWriting 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
VL Locey
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com
The Iniquitous Investigator by Frank W Butterfield
Speed by RJ Scott & VL Locey
What's Left of Me by Davidson King
