👻🎃👻 Happy Halloween 👻🎃👻
For the past few years I've been doing a post featuring LGBTQ stories that were set at Halloween but not paranormal. Not all of these 5 stories are strictly Halloween set, some are only a small scene but as with Christmas reads, the tiniest mention makes a story a holiday read for me. So if all things spooky aren't up your alley or you just want something not quite so creepy for a change of pace but still love the holiday, have a look at these 5 tales. If you know of others in the LGBTQ genre that fit this description be sure and leave a comment here or on any of the social media posts that brought you here, I'm always on the lookout for more. Hope you have a fun & freaky Halloween.
👻🎃👻 Happy Halloween 👻🎃👻
Summary:
Holmes & Moriarity #4
Death reveals all secrets.
Mystery author Christopher Holmes, now comfortably married to sometimes rival, sometimes nemesis J.X. Moriarity, is starting a new career as a true crime writer when threatening anonymous notes start arriving.
Even worse, Christopher's ex also arrives--asking for help locating the man he left Christopher for!
It's life--and death--as usual at Chez Holmes. In other words... Murder.
Mystery author Christopher Holmes, now comfortably married to sometimes rival, sometimes nemesis J.X. Moriarity, is starting a new career as a true crime writer when threatening anonymous notes start arriving.
Even worse, Christopher's ex also arrives--asking for help locating the man he left Christopher for!
It's life--and death--as usual at Chez Holmes. In other words... Murder.
Christopher Holmes has settled into his new home and living the domestic life with his partner JX Moriarity, if he could only get his writing mojo settled everything would be in order. As thoughts turn toward happily ever after for the pair, Kit receives news he never expected, a body was discovered on the property of his former home and with it comes communication in the form of accusations of murder from the last person he wanted to hear from: his ex. Will this body be just another day in the life of Kit and JX or could it be one body too many?
There's just something about Christopher "Kit" Holmes that makes him special. Perhaps it's his wit, his take on life, his love for his creation Miss Butterwith & Mr. Pinkerton, or perhaps its just his dumb luck when it comes to murder and finding bodies. Who knows? But I don't really need to have an answer as to why I love Kit, I just do and I look forward to more. As you know I won't touch on the plot or the whos, whys, and whats of the body found in Kit's old yard but I will say that its brilliantly mapped out from the first phone call to the reveal. There may not be as many twists and turns that Kit usually stumbles upon with his bodies but the author kept me at the edge of my seat from beginning to end.
Murder mysteries are often riddled with dark moments to balance out the romance or relationship element and yes there are scenes that bring on nailbiting in this entry but Kit has a way about him that makes even the dark, light and comical. That's not to say he's not to be taken seriously or that the mystery is overshadowed by comedy. What I mean is In Other Words . . . Murder is a delicious blend of mystery, drama, romance, and comedy which in my experience are four elements that can be hard to make the right balance when it comes to murder.
If you haven't read the first three books in Josh Lanyon's Holmes & Moriarity series I suppose you can start with this one as each entry is a new case but the relationship between Kit and JX will make more sense and flow better when read in order. Trust me, you won't regret giving this series a read and if you are already a fan than this is one you can't miss because even though it may not be the best in the series it does have everything that makes Kit, well Kit.
RATING:
Summary:
Laurel Holidays Fall Romance
As the country of Östermon braces for a season of celebrations, an old spark threatens to reignite behind palace walls.
Prince Harold Valdemar has always been many things: charming, reckless, irresistible. The tabloids still remember his carefree years a little too fondly, even if Harold himself would rather forget them. These days, he’s trying—truly trying—to be the man the crown demands. Mostly. What he doesn’t expect is for the one person who once saw straight through him to return to his life.
Rani Adhikari is not the same man he was years ago. Serious, composed, and fiercely professional, he’s back at the palace on a temporary assignment with one goal: to do his job and avoid the prince who once broke his heart. Harold was never meant to be more than a beautiful mistake. But late nights, half-done conversations, and the unmistakable pull of unfinished business make it impossible to pretend their past never happened.
With a demanding royal schedule, a palace humming with gossip, and a monarchy that remembers Harold’s reputation all too well, both men must confront who they were—and who they’re willing to become—if they want a future that’s more than just another regret.
The Harvest Homecoming is a contemporary, second-chance, queer royal romance featuring a former playboy prince trying to grow up, a no-nonsense staff member with a long memory, new beginnings sharpened by time and distance, lingering chemistry that refuses to fade, quiet moments stolen from duty, and a hopeful, hard-earned happily ever after.
I'm going to start by mentioning when this was first released earlier this month, the author posted it is a spin-off of last year's Laurel Holidays Xmas entry, The Christmas Mittens, and it would help to read that first to get the whole feel of Östermon and some characters. I have not read that entry yet and though I am sure a few points would have flowed better, I was not lost but it has made me want to go back and read Mittens, hopefully for the upcoming holiday season.
Now, onto The Harvest Homecoming.
Prince Harold is the kind of lad who makes you want to scream and give him a good shaking, or at least he was but when his ex, Rani, comes back into his radar he makes the realization its past time to make a few changes, so you want to give the poor guy the benefit of the doubt. As for Rani, well I kind of wanted to shake him too for giving Harold the absence of hope but I get why so I can't shake him too hard.
Second chance romances are a favorite of mine, wanting or needing to correct past behaviors or just fate finally putting all the ducks in a row is something most of us can relate to, if not in the romance department in other areas of our life. It's those possibilities that make the trope more than just a trope but something that can happen outside the pages of fiction, which makes character connections easier to make. And VL Locey, in using this trope turns the very fairytale-like trope of royalty & commoner, incredibly believable.
As for Östermon, well it may be a completely fictional land, I can't help but feel a bit of a personal pull having Dutch blood which was only one of the reasons I love this story. Fall being my favorite season is another. But mostly, it's the amazing characters and their journey that sucked me in and kept me hooked.
As I started with, Harvest Homecoming may have been better if I read Christmas Mittens first but again, I was not lost. This is a lovely romance full of heart and though there may not be enough humor for a romantic comedy label, its pretty close. Just an all around fun fall romance to warm the heart.
Be My Ruin by Davidson King
Summary:Be Mine #2
Gideon has had complete control of the town and state he lives in for two years, and powerful people answer to him. His twins are thriving, his love for Penn is unshakable, and life is good…until the glass shatters and it all comes crashing down. He’s forced to fight back, which risks not only his empire but the lives of those he loves.
Penn’s life is nothing like he imagined it would be. He has the love of a gorgeous man, the adoration of his twins, and a family who, though meddling at times, would jump in front of a bullet for him. It doesn’t matter that Penn feels no pain or fear; they treat him like he’s fragile, and sometimes he’s okay with that. But when danger rolls into town, threatening those he loves and the life he’s built, he wonders if this feeling that’s leaving him so cold could be fear.
Gideon and Penn’s happily ever after is tested as everything around them crumbles, lives are destroyed, and empires fall. No strangers to fighting for what’s theirs, they find themselves facing an enemy like no other before. Their love has burned so bright, but when the last shot has been fired, it could mean their end.
Be My Ruin is book 2 in my Be Mine Series. It’s recommended you read book 1, Be My Monster first.
Original July Book of the Month Review 2026:
Equally brilliant as the first in the author's newest series, Be Mine, further cementing her crown as the Queen of Mayhem. I was completely blown away. On one hand you have an idea what to expect because you are already familiar with the characters and setting but on the other hand, the blend of dark, suspense, and heart reached even newer heights. Top notch all the way around.
I won't spoil anything, especially if you haven't read Be My Monster but I will briefly once again mention Penn's health and the importance behind it and just how accurately Davidson King writes it. Penn lives with the gene mutation, FAAH-OUT, now I have no personal dealings with that issue, I do however have extensive experience with peripheral neuropathy with both of my parents. So even though I don't know what complete lack of pain is I do understand having no feeling in your extremities which is equally dangerous. Not knowing you ran your finger through boiling water, snipped a chunk of skin when clipping your fingernails, cutting your leg, these are all things I've dealt with so I understand Penn's nightly perusal of his body to see if there are any new abrasions or injuries. As I did in my review for Monster, I want to thank Davidson King for showing proper respect for pain(or lack of there of) and the need to recognize it's source so you can heal properly.
On to Be My Ruin. What's not to love? If dark elements and violence are triggers, you may want to tread carefully or reach out to the author for clarity, but if not then I can't imagine not loving this tale. Penn and Gideon are living a life of happiness, I won't say "carefree" or even "quiet", those words really don't exist is their world but its been closer to status quo than chaotic in recent months.
That's about to change😉.
I tagged this as "single dad" but Penn is very much a father figure to Gideon's twins and very "uncley" to Matteo, he would risk everything for those kids because they have his heart. Gideon of course will do anything for his family and he makes no secret of just how far that "anything" goes. There are those out there who would call that a liability or weakness but in truth they just don't have any idea of the retribution they are about to unleash. And those moments are deliciously satisfying to this reader.
This is just a personal observation and total guess, but I can't help but think the author took some extra delight in the bad guy being a politician, knowing where the endgame would be😉😉. I don't know if the author's thought process went there but I do know mine sure did. Talking about the bad guy makes me think of the mayhem and suspense, since we know who that big bad is early on you might think there is little in the way of surprises in the who category, well you'd be wrong. I narrowed it down to 2 people and frankly, I'm glad the author took the path she did, both would have been entertaining but this path leads to emotional hiccups reaching far past the covers of Ruin. Vague I know but again, no spoilers.
As I started with, brilliant all the way around.
I beleive the author recently announced that Be Mine is set to be a four book series and the next entry will focus on another couple in Gideon and Penn's world but I won't say who so it doesn't spoil anything here. I will say, as much as I will miss Gid & Penn not being front and center, I am definitely looking forward to the next couple's journey.
Fly by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Summary:Railers Legacy #4
A legacy he never chose. A love he never expected.
Jari Lankinen never asked to inherit his father’s sins, but the name alone is enough to poison every room he walks into. The Railers haven’t forgotten the brutal hit Aarni Lankinen delivered to Tennant Rowe, and they sure as hell don’t want his son wearing their jersey. Jari is a gifted forward with the skill to change games, but his last name makes him a target before he even skates his first shift. Earning respect means pushing through hostility and suspicion, fighting every day to prove he isn’t his father. To the fans, he’s the son of a villain. To his teammates, he’s a reminder of the past. To himself, he’s a man trapped in a shadow he can’t escape.
A steady force in the high-pressure world of professional baseball, Cameron Blackburn has built his career on focus, discipline, and keeping his head when others lose theirs. He isn’t flashy, but he’s respected, trusted, and known for bringing balance to every team he’s played on. When their paths cross at a shared training facility, Cam is drawn to Jari’s restless energy—the fight in every move, the loneliness in his silence, the way he carries his past like armor. Where others feel only wariness at Jari’s name, Cam sees someone worth knowing, worth trusting, worth holding onto. And while opening his heart to Jari may test the limits of his own control, Cam has never been afraid to stand firm when the storm comes.
Fly is a legacy, redemption, and opposites-attract romance set against the backdrop of professional sport. Featuring a hockey forward fighting to escape his father’s shadow, a disciplined baseball player who refuses to be shaken, the clash of storm and calm, and a love that proves sometimes the biggest risks are the ones worth taking.
Original Review April 2026:
RATING:
Yet another great story in the continuing Scott & Locey Hockey Universe. So much to love here and for those who have been riding this train from the very beginning, waybackwhen in Harrisburg Railers, you will recognize the last name of one of the MCs, Lankinen and you're probably not remembering it kindly. To paraphrase the old adage, you can't judge the son by the father's sins. This is perfect example of just that. Unfortunately, Jari punishes himself, after all he's had a lifetime of facing his father's sins and sharing the name that went along them. I won't say anything more specific for those who are new here but just know, Aarni Lankinen is not a good man but Jari is nothing like him.
There is actually two things about Fly that puts this higher up on my list than others, which says a lot because the difference between every book I've read in the authors' hockey world is so infinitesimal that if they were a row of cars lined up on the street I would be afraid to stick my hand between them. So the 2 things that stood out: baseball and MS.
Last year in the Railers Legacy second entry, Blitz, we got to see a dual sports relationship when one MC was nearing the end of his football career, well here we get to see a baseball player who is set in his own career and very much drawn to Jari. When it comes to sports, I'm much more a baseball fan than I am hockey and unfortunately I have not had a chance to read too many baseball stories in the LGBTQ genre so this was a very nice surprise.
As for why the MS is important to me? My grandfather lived with MS for 42 years before he was called home and was in a wheelchair by the time I came along so I grew up around MS, and find myself having a much tighter judgement scale where the condition is concerned. Here in Fly, it is Jari's mom who has MS and though we don't see a great deal of her on page and the MS is a minor part of the story scene/wordage-wise, it is a main focus on Jari's mind when it comes to why he puts up with his father's crap(for lack of a better word😉). Knowing the authors' work as I do, I knew they would give it the respect it deserves but I still held a much stronger magnifying glass to those parts while reading. The concern Jari has for his mother and getting the proper care is spot on in regards to how much it can wear on a person and his need to "leave it in the locker room". It's these details that can lift a wonderful story into great storytelling.
I've talked mostly about Jari here but I can't forget Cam, the baseball player. He has his own struggles that he still maneuvers around, especially his need to want to help people. Now on the surface that is not much of a struggle but what makes it an issue is his want to jump in and fix things without asking the other party(Jari in this case) if they want his fixes. What I loved about this part of his character is he sees what he's doing and faces it before he lets it get out of hand.
I'm going to end there before I start giving away too much. Fly is an emotionally charged and still fun incredible piece of storytelling that keeps you hooked from beginning to end. There is character growth on both sides of the couple coin but more than "growth" its accepting those parts of themselves that has caused pain that helped me connect with them. Can't wait to see where their hockey universe travels to next.
RATING:
In Darkness #3
Felix
Are we struggling with how boring a “normal” life is? Maybe a little bit…
Lane and I hunger for adventure (and, in my case, collecting more animals), so when we get a chance to jump into action, we do without a second thought—especially since we’re offered a lot of money.
The request is simple: find a way to retrieve a watch from police custody. But things are never as easy as they seem, and we’re suddenly caught in the middle of a family feud that could turn deadly.
With the (possibly reluctant) help of Lane’s friend and some random guy I outdanced at a club (even if he says I didn’t), we’re determined to see an end to this.
But no matter what, through kidnappings, car chases, and cooking mishaps, I know that as long as Lane is by my side, we will find a way to set things right.
Original Review February 2020:
I probably should have just written an overall series review because though I read book 1 back in November for my Caregiver Month 2019 post, I read books 2, 3, & 3.5 back-to-back-to-back now. However, I wrote them up individually so don't be surprised if some of what I've said previously shows up again.
On to Deception in Darkness.
Felix and Lane are brilliantly snarky and cuddly as always. They are perfect together and by "perfect" I mean completely imperfect with brutal honesty, zinger and one-liner filled banter that to the outsider may seem mean and spiteful but to those of us who get Felix and Lane we know it's all done from a place of compassion, friendship, and respect fueled 150% by love. I understand how that kind of relationship isn't for everyone and why some might see it as mean and spiteful but as I said previously my parents have a similar zinger-filled banter relationship(on a smaller scale without the danger addiction😉😉) and they'll be celebrating their 50th in October so when I see that kind of relationship in books I get it and find it completely heartwarming to know that others out there have experienced it too.
As for the danger I mentioned above, well I don't know who is more heavily addicted: Felix or Lane? They both have a penchant for trouble, Felix is probably more of a magnet for it, Lane may not go looking for it but he certainly doesn't shy away from it when it presents itself. Just one of the many reasons why they are perfectly matched.
I'm not going to say any more specifics to Deception's plot or the situations the guys find themselves in but I will add that not a single character is extra, page-filler, or unnecessary because each and everyone plays a part. New and old, each makes their mark and earns their spot in the In Darkness series.
Whether there is more to come in Felix and Lane's journey I don't know but I will definitely welcome any of their adventures for years to come. More or not, this will definitely be going on my re-read/listen list. The blending of humor, romance, heat, danger, and adventure makes this one I'll never tire of visiting.
On to Deception in Darkness.
Felix and Lane are brilliantly snarky and cuddly as always. They are perfect together and by "perfect" I mean completely imperfect with brutal honesty, zinger and one-liner filled banter that to the outsider may seem mean and spiteful but to those of us who get Felix and Lane we know it's all done from a place of compassion, friendship, and respect fueled 150% by love. I understand how that kind of relationship isn't for everyone and why some might see it as mean and spiteful but as I said previously my parents have a similar zinger-filled banter relationship(on a smaller scale without the danger addiction😉😉) and they'll be celebrating their 50th in October so when I see that kind of relationship in books I get it and find it completely heartwarming to know that others out there have experienced it too.
As for the danger I mentioned above, well I don't know who is more heavily addicted: Felix or Lane? They both have a penchant for trouble, Felix is probably more of a magnet for it, Lane may not go looking for it but he certainly doesn't shy away from it when it presents itself. Just one of the many reasons why they are perfectly matched.
I'm not going to say any more specifics to Deception's plot or the situations the guys find themselves in but I will add that not a single character is extra, page-filler, or unnecessary because each and everyone plays a part. New and old, each makes their mark and earns their spot in the In Darkness series.
Whether there is more to come in Felix and Lane's journey I don't know but I will definitely welcome any of their adventures for years to come. More or not, this will definitely be going on my re-read/listen list. The blending of humor, romance, heat, danger, and adventure makes this one I'll never tire of visiting.
Original Audiobook Review September 2020:
There just has to be more Felix and Lane to come but until then, I am going to love rereading/relistening to this amazing series. Just something about the pair that can warm your heart and infuriate you all at the same time. Truly makes this series great and it's fun to read something a little different. Joel Leslie does the best narration, he really brings these guys to life.
RATING:
In Other Words . . . Murder by Josh Lanyon
Chapter One
“Murder.”
“That’s one word,” J.X. objected.
“Hm?” I was studying the colorful travel brochures littering my lap and the raw-silk ivory comforter. Walk in the footsteps of the Colosseum’s ancient gladiators! Cruise canals in a golden gondola! Live La Dolce Vita! read the cover of the brochure I held. I could practically feel the venerable blue of the Roman sky beneath my fingertips.
There was a bewildering array of options. Everything from private guided tours with personally tailored itineraries to culturally themed coach tours. We could do an eight-day Adriatic cruise or a fourteen-day grand tour by rail.
The only option not available to me was staying home.
“Kill. Slang. Three words,” J.X. said. “First word starts with D.”
It was eleven o’clock on a Friday night in late October, and we were cozily tucked up in our master bedroom at 321 Cherry Lane. J.X. was doing the San Francisco Examiner crossword, and I was figuring out our spring vacation plans. It really doesn’t get much more domesticated than that.
“Oh. Do away with.”
He was silent as his pencil scratched on paper. He made a disgusted sound. “Elementary, my dear Holmes.”
I glanced at him. “Bad clues, my dear Moriarity. Do away with isn’t slang. It’s a phrasal verb.”
“Right?” He regarded me for a moment, then nodded at the scattered brochures. “What do you think? What looks good to you?”
“I don’t know. They’re all pretty expensive.”
“Money is no object.”
I snorted. “It might not be the object, but it should be a consideration.”
He got that dark-eyed, earnest look he always wore when applying the thumbscrews. “I want to do this for you, Kit. I don’t care about the money. I want us to have this. We’ve never gone away on vacation together.”
“Yeah, I know. Possibly averting an international incident.”
His mouth quirked, but he said coaxingly, “Think about it. You and me. Hot, naked sex in a gondola.”
I gave him a look of horror. “They have gondoliers, you know!”
He laughed. “Okay, then how about a gondola ride at sunset and candlelight dinner on the terrace of our private villa—and then hot, naked sex. Beneath the stars?”
I cleared my throat.
Spotting weakness in his prey, J.X. moved in for the kill. “I’m serious, though. Just you and me. Together. Doing whatever we want. No conference, no convention, no meetings with agents or editors, no deadlines. We could explore Rome’s catacombs—or just visit a few museums and galleries. We could see the Pantheon and the Colosseum. We could go to Florence and see the Ponte Vecchio. Or spend a couple of days swimming with dolphins off the Isle of Capri. Or we could do nothing but sleep and eat and fu—”
“I get the picture,” I said.
Despite the fact that I don’t like to travel—hate to travel—a lot of that did sound appealing. I said, “Private villa, huh?”
“Whatever you want, Kit.” He was suddenly serious, gaze solemn, the line of his mouth soft. Such a romantic guy. Especially for an ex-cop. Well, really, for anyone.
“It sounds…nice,” I admitted. It sounded better than nice. Maybe even kind of lovely.
His smile was very white in the lamplight. He tossed the newspaper and pencil aside and drew me into his arms. We fell back against the mattress. The brochures whispered and crackled beneath us as his mouth found mine. He kissed me deeply, sweetly, whispered, “Maybe we could make it a honeymoon…”
My eyes popped open.
Before I could reply—not that I had a reply ready—the bedroom door pushed wide, and a small voice said, “Uncle Julie?”
J.X. sat up. “Hey, honey.” He only sounded the tiniest bit flustered, plus got bonus points for not flinging me aside and springing completely off the bed as I had done to him the first few times this happened. “You’re supposed to knock, remember?”
“I forgot.” Gage said huskily, “I had a bad dream.”
Gage was J.X.’s five-year-old nephew. Actually, it was more complicated than that, but the point was the kid was spending the weekend with us, as he did a couple of times a month.
“A bad dream, huh?” J.X. opened his arms, and Gage climbed into bed between us, snuggling against him. “We don’t have bad dreams in this house.”
I threw him a look of disbelief. He meant well, but come on. Everybody has nightmares. Him included.
“What did you dream?” I asked.
Gage rolled me a sideways look. Over the past four months we’d forged a truce, but he still largely took me on sufferance. Which was okay because frankly, I’m an acquired taste: best consumed with cream, sugar, and, yeah, a generous heaping of sufferance.
“Monsters,” he said tersely.
“Hm.”
“Monsters?” J.X. repeated thoughtfully. “There are no monsters here. This is a monster-free zone.” He gave Gage a comforting squeeze. “You know what we do to monsters in this house?”
Gage shook his head, his gaze wary.
He was right to be wary because J.X. pretend-growled, “We tickle them,” and pounced.
Gage squealed, and the two of them rolled around on the travel brochures, Gage wriggling and kicking—managing to land a few well-aimed blows at me in passing—before finally sitting up and resettling themselves against the pillows bulwarking the headboard.
J.X. winked at me. I shook my head resignedly.
“What you want to think about is all the fun we’re going to have tomorrow when you and me and Uncle Kit—”
“Christopher,” I interjected.
“—Uncle Christopher go to the Halloween Hootenanny.”
Gage and I eyed each other in complete understanding. He knew I did not want to attend this Halloween Horrorama any more than he wanted me there. He knew, as did I, we neither of us had any choice. It was in these moments that we could actually walk a mile or two in the other’s moccasins—though I admit fuzzy bunny slippers were a tight fit for my ethos.
J.X. continued to extol the ordeals—er, delights—of the day ahead, which was scheduled to conclude with the movie Smallfoot and dinner at Rosario’s Pizzeria.
“So, no more bad dreams, okay?” he concluded.
“Okay,” Gage said doubtfully. And then, “Can I sleep in here?”
J.X. wavered but stayed strong. “No, honey. You’re getting too big to bunk in here. There’s not enough room for all three of us. Uncle Christopher and I would fall right out onto the floor!”
And then the monster that lives under the bed would get us.
But see, I was getting fond of the little cheese mite because I didn’t say it. Gage, however, had no doubt who the villain of the piece was. His bleak and beady gaze fell on me.
“What about a night-light?” I suggested.
His face brightened.
“Nnn.” J.X. grimaced. “I don’t think we want to get into that habit, do we?”
He seemed to be asking Gage, who looked to me like a kid who very much hoped they could maybe get into that habit.
“As habits go,” I began. I remembered I was technically only an honorary uncle and should not be debating Gage’s real uncle’s child-rearing decisions in front of him. I shrugged, but couldn’t help adding, “It’s a big house, and it’s still strange to him. I had a night-light when I was his age.”
J.X. frowned. “Did you?”
“Sure.”
“Night-lights can disrupt sleep patterns. Maybe that’s why you have these bouts of insomnia.”
“You know what disrupts sleep patterns? Being scared there’s a monster watching you from the closet—or waiting under your bed for you to step onto the floor.”
Gage gulped. J.X. exclaimed, “Kit.”
I said hastily, “Not that monsters do that because monsters aren’t real, and anyway, this is a monster-free zone. Like J.X., er, your uncle Julie said. He’s the monster expert of the family.”
Gage was still goggling at me, and J.X. was giving me the full-frontal unibrow in silent censure. Oh please. Like I hadn’t voiced exactly what the kid was already thinking?
“Okay, I know what you need.” I threw the bedclothes back and swung my legs over the side of the mattress, thereby demonstrating there were no monsters under this bed. “How about a nice warm cup of cocoa?”
Gage considered his options and nodded grudging approval. J.X. smiled, pleased that I was taking an avuncular interest, and suggested, “Make it three?”
“Sure. You want brandy in yours?”
“I want brandy,” Gage offered.
“It won’t mix with the sleeping pills,” I said, and J.X. inhaled sharply. “Kidding,” I told him.
He shook his head, though fondly. “Are you doing that Nutella thing again?”
“I can if you like.”
“I like Nutella,” Gage volunteered.
“That’s a little rich before bed,” Uncle Ebenezer Balfour objected.
I said, “Okay, a round of cocoa, one virgin and two nuts.”
Gage giggled, J.X. looked undecided, and I departed posthaste.
I was thinking about the weirdness of my life, absently stirring the milk, Nutella, and four tablespoons of cream in a small saucepan, when the kitchen phone rang.
I tore my gaze from Gage’s latest artistic efforts pinned to the refrigerator door—a frantic-looking stick figure was racing away from two other stick figures wearing Jack-o’-lantern heads. The Jack-o’-lantern people were brandishing what appeared to be very pointy knives.
Yikes. No wonder he didn’t want to sleep alone.
Back when I lived on my own, I always used the answering machine to screen my calls. But J.X. was different. He liked to answer the phone and did so regularly. He looked forward to hearing from people. He enjoyed chatting. I don’t think he even truly disliked telemarketers. I, on the other hand, agreed with Ambrose Bierce when he said the telephone was “an invention of the devil which abrogates some of the advantages of making a disagreeable person keep his distance.”
It had taken a couple of months to teach him—J.X., not Ambrose—that I was rarely at home to random callers, even when I was at home, but eventually he got the message. Or at least permitted my callers to leave theirs.
But phone calls around the witching hour are never good news, and after the first startled-sounding ring, I picked up the handset.
“Hello?”
There was a hesitation—like someone had to pause to catch their breath. As slight as that sound was, I felt my heart drop through the cage of my rib bones and land with a thump on the black-and-white parquet floor. I too had to stop to catch my breath, as though picking up the phone had required monumental, heroic effort, and had I known who was on the other end, it would have. In fact, I wouldn’t have answered.
“Christopher?” That deep baritone had once been as familiar as… Well, choose your favorite domestic simile. That voice had once been as familiar as J.X.’s because that was the role in my life the owner of the voice had played.
“David.” My own voice was surprisingly flat, given the way emotions were zinging up and down my nervous system, emergency flares sparking into life—and promptly shorting out.
“I had a visit from the police a few hours ago.” His voice was shaking. “They told me they found a body in our backyard. Our old backyard. Your backyard. You killed him, didn’t you? You killed Dicky!”
“Murder.”
“That’s one word,” J.X. objected.
“Hm?” I was studying the colorful travel brochures littering my lap and the raw-silk ivory comforter. Walk in the footsteps of the Colosseum’s ancient gladiators! Cruise canals in a golden gondola! Live La Dolce Vita! read the cover of the brochure I held. I could practically feel the venerable blue of the Roman sky beneath my fingertips.
There was a bewildering array of options. Everything from private guided tours with personally tailored itineraries to culturally themed coach tours. We could do an eight-day Adriatic cruise or a fourteen-day grand tour by rail.
The only option not available to me was staying home.
“Kill. Slang. Three words,” J.X. said. “First word starts with D.”
It was eleven o’clock on a Friday night in late October, and we were cozily tucked up in our master bedroom at 321 Cherry Lane. J.X. was doing the San Francisco Examiner crossword, and I was figuring out our spring vacation plans. It really doesn’t get much more domesticated than that.
“Oh. Do away with.”
He was silent as his pencil scratched on paper. He made a disgusted sound. “Elementary, my dear Holmes.”
I glanced at him. “Bad clues, my dear Moriarity. Do away with isn’t slang. It’s a phrasal verb.”
“Right?” He regarded me for a moment, then nodded at the scattered brochures. “What do you think? What looks good to you?”
“I don’t know. They’re all pretty expensive.”
“Money is no object.”
I snorted. “It might not be the object, but it should be a consideration.”
He got that dark-eyed, earnest look he always wore when applying the thumbscrews. “I want to do this for you, Kit. I don’t care about the money. I want us to have this. We’ve never gone away on vacation together.”
“Yeah, I know. Possibly averting an international incident.”
His mouth quirked, but he said coaxingly, “Think about it. You and me. Hot, naked sex in a gondola.”
I gave him a look of horror. “They have gondoliers, you know!”
He laughed. “Okay, then how about a gondola ride at sunset and candlelight dinner on the terrace of our private villa—and then hot, naked sex. Beneath the stars?”
I cleared my throat.
Spotting weakness in his prey, J.X. moved in for the kill. “I’m serious, though. Just you and me. Together. Doing whatever we want. No conference, no convention, no meetings with agents or editors, no deadlines. We could explore Rome’s catacombs—or just visit a few museums and galleries. We could see the Pantheon and the Colosseum. We could go to Florence and see the Ponte Vecchio. Or spend a couple of days swimming with dolphins off the Isle of Capri. Or we could do nothing but sleep and eat and fu—”
“I get the picture,” I said.
Despite the fact that I don’t like to travel—hate to travel—a lot of that did sound appealing. I said, “Private villa, huh?”
“Whatever you want, Kit.” He was suddenly serious, gaze solemn, the line of his mouth soft. Such a romantic guy. Especially for an ex-cop. Well, really, for anyone.
“It sounds…nice,” I admitted. It sounded better than nice. Maybe even kind of lovely.
His smile was very white in the lamplight. He tossed the newspaper and pencil aside and drew me into his arms. We fell back against the mattress. The brochures whispered and crackled beneath us as his mouth found mine. He kissed me deeply, sweetly, whispered, “Maybe we could make it a honeymoon…”
My eyes popped open.
Before I could reply—not that I had a reply ready—the bedroom door pushed wide, and a small voice said, “Uncle Julie?”
J.X. sat up. “Hey, honey.” He only sounded the tiniest bit flustered, plus got bonus points for not flinging me aside and springing completely off the bed as I had done to him the first few times this happened. “You’re supposed to knock, remember?”
“I forgot.” Gage said huskily, “I had a bad dream.”
Gage was J.X.’s five-year-old nephew. Actually, it was more complicated than that, but the point was the kid was spending the weekend with us, as he did a couple of times a month.
“A bad dream, huh?” J.X. opened his arms, and Gage climbed into bed between us, snuggling against him. “We don’t have bad dreams in this house.”
I threw him a look of disbelief. He meant well, but come on. Everybody has nightmares. Him included.
“What did you dream?” I asked.
Gage rolled me a sideways look. Over the past four months we’d forged a truce, but he still largely took me on sufferance. Which was okay because frankly, I’m an acquired taste: best consumed with cream, sugar, and, yeah, a generous heaping of sufferance.
“Monsters,” he said tersely.
“Hm.”
“Monsters?” J.X. repeated thoughtfully. “There are no monsters here. This is a monster-free zone.” He gave Gage a comforting squeeze. “You know what we do to monsters in this house?”
Gage shook his head, his gaze wary.
He was right to be wary because J.X. pretend-growled, “We tickle them,” and pounced.
Gage squealed, and the two of them rolled around on the travel brochures, Gage wriggling and kicking—managing to land a few well-aimed blows at me in passing—before finally sitting up and resettling themselves against the pillows bulwarking the headboard.
J.X. winked at me. I shook my head resignedly.
“What you want to think about is all the fun we’re going to have tomorrow when you and me and Uncle Kit—”
“Christopher,” I interjected.
“—Uncle Christopher go to the Halloween Hootenanny.”
Gage and I eyed each other in complete understanding. He knew I did not want to attend this Halloween Horrorama any more than he wanted me there. He knew, as did I, we neither of us had any choice. It was in these moments that we could actually walk a mile or two in the other’s moccasins—though I admit fuzzy bunny slippers were a tight fit for my ethos.
J.X. continued to extol the ordeals—er, delights—of the day ahead, which was scheduled to conclude with the movie Smallfoot and dinner at Rosario’s Pizzeria.
“So, no more bad dreams, okay?” he concluded.
“Okay,” Gage said doubtfully. And then, “Can I sleep in here?”
J.X. wavered but stayed strong. “No, honey. You’re getting too big to bunk in here. There’s not enough room for all three of us. Uncle Christopher and I would fall right out onto the floor!”
And then the monster that lives under the bed would get us.
But see, I was getting fond of the little cheese mite because I didn’t say it. Gage, however, had no doubt who the villain of the piece was. His bleak and beady gaze fell on me.
“What about a night-light?” I suggested.
His face brightened.
“Nnn.” J.X. grimaced. “I don’t think we want to get into that habit, do we?”
He seemed to be asking Gage, who looked to me like a kid who very much hoped they could maybe get into that habit.
“As habits go,” I began. I remembered I was technically only an honorary uncle and should not be debating Gage’s real uncle’s child-rearing decisions in front of him. I shrugged, but couldn’t help adding, “It’s a big house, and it’s still strange to him. I had a night-light when I was his age.”
J.X. frowned. “Did you?”
“Sure.”
“Night-lights can disrupt sleep patterns. Maybe that’s why you have these bouts of insomnia.”
“You know what disrupts sleep patterns? Being scared there’s a monster watching you from the closet—or waiting under your bed for you to step onto the floor.”
Gage gulped. J.X. exclaimed, “Kit.”
I said hastily, “Not that monsters do that because monsters aren’t real, and anyway, this is a monster-free zone. Like J.X., er, your uncle Julie said. He’s the monster expert of the family.”
Gage was still goggling at me, and J.X. was giving me the full-frontal unibrow in silent censure. Oh please. Like I hadn’t voiced exactly what the kid was already thinking?
“Okay, I know what you need.” I threw the bedclothes back and swung my legs over the side of the mattress, thereby demonstrating there were no monsters under this bed. “How about a nice warm cup of cocoa?”
Gage considered his options and nodded grudging approval. J.X. smiled, pleased that I was taking an avuncular interest, and suggested, “Make it three?”
“Sure. You want brandy in yours?”
“I want brandy,” Gage offered.
“It won’t mix with the sleeping pills,” I said, and J.X. inhaled sharply. “Kidding,” I told him.
He shook his head, though fondly. “Are you doing that Nutella thing again?”
“I can if you like.”
“I like Nutella,” Gage volunteered.
“That’s a little rich before bed,” Uncle Ebenezer Balfour objected.
I said, “Okay, a round of cocoa, one virgin and two nuts.”
Gage giggled, J.X. looked undecided, and I departed posthaste.
I was thinking about the weirdness of my life, absently stirring the milk, Nutella, and four tablespoons of cream in a small saucepan, when the kitchen phone rang.
I tore my gaze from Gage’s latest artistic efforts pinned to the refrigerator door—a frantic-looking stick figure was racing away from two other stick figures wearing Jack-o’-lantern heads. The Jack-o’-lantern people were brandishing what appeared to be very pointy knives.
Yikes. No wonder he didn’t want to sleep alone.
Back when I lived on my own, I always used the answering machine to screen my calls. But J.X. was different. He liked to answer the phone and did so regularly. He looked forward to hearing from people. He enjoyed chatting. I don’t think he even truly disliked telemarketers. I, on the other hand, agreed with Ambrose Bierce when he said the telephone was “an invention of the devil which abrogates some of the advantages of making a disagreeable person keep his distance.”
It had taken a couple of months to teach him—J.X., not Ambrose—that I was rarely at home to random callers, even when I was at home, but eventually he got the message. Or at least permitted my callers to leave theirs.
But phone calls around the witching hour are never good news, and after the first startled-sounding ring, I picked up the handset.
“Hello?”
There was a hesitation—like someone had to pause to catch their breath. As slight as that sound was, I felt my heart drop through the cage of my rib bones and land with a thump on the black-and-white parquet floor. I too had to stop to catch my breath, as though picking up the phone had required monumental, heroic effort, and had I known who was on the other end, it would have. In fact, I wouldn’t have answered.
“Christopher?” That deep baritone had once been as familiar as… Well, choose your favorite domestic simile. That voice had once been as familiar as J.X.’s because that was the role in my life the owner of the voice had played.
“David.” My own voice was surprisingly flat, given the way emotions were zinging up and down my nervous system, emergency flares sparking into life—and promptly shorting out.
“I had a visit from the police a few hours ago.” His voice was shaking. “They told me they found a body in our backyard. Our old backyard. Your backyard. You killed him, didn’t you? You killed Dicky!”
The Harvest Homecoming by VL Locey
Chapter One
“Are you sure, Harold?”
I pulled my attention from my face in my hairstylist’s mirror to look at Gus. His amber eyes locked with mine. He’d told me he wore colorful contacts to match his moods. Handsomest hairstylist in all of Oslo, I liked to say. Stunning man Gustav Bakken. Dark, robust, possessed of skilled fingers that could tease a hairdo and a man into a state of bliss. I’d learned after a few tumbles in his bed several years ago. Somehow I’d let him go as a lover—something that I seemed to be prone to do—but I’d clung to him tightly as a stylist and a dear friend. He plucked a dark curl from my head, then let it spring back.
“I’m sure.”
“What you’re looking for is drastic.”
“I know,” I replied, sitting upright in one of four exquisite salon chairs in the entire salon. Gus was extremely finicky about whose hair he styled. He only accepted the cream of European society into his tiny shop facing the grounds that housed the royal palace. Lovely place filled with lovely monarchs. Friends of my parents, mostly, but kind enough to her boys, as my mother liked to call her sons.
He rested his long fingers atop my curls, his brow furrowing. Chatter from the waiting area blended into a playlist of alternative rock bands from Norway as he studied me like an amoeba on a slide.
“Harold, what you’re asking for is drastic.”
“You said that already,” I reminded him, the collar of the soft gold cape—changed seasonally from pink to green, then gold, and then winter white because Gus was just that way—tied around my neck was beginning to itch. I felt the need to give it a yank but left my hands on my lap, hidden under the hairdressing cape where I could fidget with the royal ring on my right index finger. All four of the Valdemar princes wore one or had one in their possession. My younger brother Anders, now in the States with his beloved Mitchell and Mitchell’s daughter Gilda, had probably tucked his away because he’d given up the life of a royal to be obscure and in love. Bearing the seal of Östermon, it chafed occasionally. “I feel it’s time for a change.”
He sighed through his nose. “Does this have anything to do with your thirty-fifth birthday coming up soon?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Did I seek out a new Harold because the old one was getting…dare I say it…old? Or was this growing unease with my life due to something else like maturing? Gasp! My parents would love that. So naturally I pushed against it, but even with the rebellion against the restrictive ways of our country and the weight of a crown to keep me busy, there was a chasm in my life. I hated to consider what that crevasse might be, but it had increased in size since Anders had gone back to the States nine months ago, leaving me the lone queer in the castle. Even Rani had left, scurrying off to the UK to work with my sister-in-law, Lady Alva, as her personal assistant. Truly, it fucking sucked not being able to glimpse him from time to time. I’d let him slip through my fingers too, damn my foolish eyes.
“Do you want me to lie, or do you want the truth?” I asked and got a crinkle of his nose. “Fine, the truth. Of late, I feel as if the faster I drive, boat, run, or ride a horse, whatever it is that is pursuing me is not only keeping up but is damn close to overtaking me.”
“Are you speaking about reality or one of your abstract modern art dreams?” He ran his fingers through my hair as he spoke.
“That was one dream six years ago, Gustav.”
“Yes, but it was freaky. Who but you dreams of people he knows moving through the streets of Raivask as walking cube humans? It was very distressing when you told me about it the following morning.”
I will admit that was an unsettling dream. The good folk who lived in our nation’s capital did not in any way, shape, or form have two noses or mismatched eyes.
“That was only because we’d been to see that Picasso exhibit at Raivask Art Museum that night. Also, I may have indulged in a tiny little mushroom before going to bed.”
“Hmmm, yes, you and your indulgences.” He gave my scalp a good rub. “Are you positive, Harold? Straightening and lightening your hair will—”
“Be drastic. Yes, I know. Please, let’s do it. I think that it may do me good to be a new Harold for a while. If I hate it, I’ll just wear a wig until it grows out.”
“As you wish.” He gave my head a pat. “We’ll lighten first, then in a week or so you can come back to straighten. You’re staying in your apartment by the Akersalva so you can skip over when it’s time. No, do not bicker with me. You may be the prince, but I’m the ruler in this salon.”
Guess he told me.
My chair spun, and I was tipped back for a spray. Staring at the ceiling of Kron Tress, I let out a long breath as Gus began wetting my hair while gossiping about the newest scandal in the British royal family. I’d read about it online this morning. Not to be a shit, but it was nice to see someone else with regal blood being lambasted by the press for a change. Petty? Surely. But honest. I rather prided myself on my honesty of late. Papa hated it. Mama cringed over it. The rather conservative palace PR department winced every time I spoke out about being bisexual. No more hiding for the queer princes of Östermon. Those days were long gone. Some things deserved to stay in the past. Some people not so much…
Be My Ruin by Davidson King
CHAPTER ONE
Gideon
“Night, Daddy.” Olivia beamed at me from her bed, her curly reddish hair fanning out over the pillow and her tired brown eyes holding the lingering excitement from the day.
“Night, Livy. Happy birthday.” I couldn’t believe the twins were seven now. The last two years had flown by in a great way.
“Thanks for the bestest day ever!”
I chuckled. “Sweet dreams.”
I closed the door and passed Owen’s room. He’d fallen asleep an hour ago while watching television downstairs, so I knew he was out cold.
The house was quieter since Dean, Rita, and Matteo had moved out. Their home had finally been rebuilt after the devastating fire that had almost claimed the lives of my children and nephew a couple of years ago. I often thought of that time, how I’d come so close to never hearing their laughter or seeing their excitement. Milestones that had almost never happened. There was only one reason the three of them were still alive and thriving today, and he was currently standing in front of the long mirror in our bedroom, naked.
It was part of his nightly ritual. The gene mutation, FAAH-OUT, had left him with the inability to feel pain or fear. Because of that, he had to do thorough checks of himself, take his temperature often and, at the insistence of my sister-in-law, Rita, go to the doctor often for in-depth physicals that often led to full-body MRIs. Her defense was: If he had something wrong inside, how would he know? That was a scary thought, and no one tended to argue with her.
Penn never disagreed with Rita, often letting her have her way, and he knew all the medical fussing was because she loved him. As much as I hated the fact that he had to check himself daily, it was one of my favorite parts of the day.
Pennsylvania Garrand’s body was a work of art. He stood at six foot two to my six foot five. His skin was perfectly tanned due to the summer and he was muscular, toned, whatever you called it. He exercised some, but he loved to do projects outside—much to the dislike of my landscaper and gardener. He kept his hair buzzed, and I knew that was so it was easier to see his scalp for issues, but it suited him. Through the reflection, his piercing green eyes were assessing his skin and hadn’t noticed me enjoying the show.
He was about to turn around to check out his ass, and I took that as my cue.
“Let me help you with this part.”
He met my gaze in the mirror and smirked. “I can do it.”
I hummed. “I know you can, but where’s the fun in that?”
He held out his arms and legs wide, looking like Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. I closed the bedroom door and sauntered over to my gorgeous man.
“Now, try and stay still so I don’t miss a single spot. This is important work I’m doing.”
He snorted. “Mmhmm, okay, Mr. Hendrix. Whatever you say.”
I slapped his ass, but he didn’t flinch. “Sometimes it’s annoying that I can’t give you a spanking.”
He shrugged as best he could in his position. “I mean, you can, but I won’t feel the sting. However, your hands on me…that would do something, for sure.”
I pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, flattened my hands on his back, and slowly went to my knees behind him.
Penn’s ass was like a plump Georgia peach—more muscular, but I wanted to sink my teeth right in. I leaned closer and did just that.
“You’re supposed to be checking me for injury, not inflicting it.” I glanced up and saw him watching me over his shoulder.
“Excuse me, I’m a professional. Turn around and let me do my work.”
“So sorry to interrupt; continue.”
I placed one hand on each cheek and squeezed. “Damn,” I whispered.
“You act like you don’t do this every night.” Penn’s voice was alight with amusement.
“Shush, working.”
Penn’s body shook with laughter, and I smiled. I loved this man with everything I was and three years ago, that had not been something I’d ever believed would happen. After Ella died, I’d been sure my heart had shriveled up and gone. Then Penn had stormed into my life like a savior in the night and stolen it. My kids—hell, my whole family adored him, and Penn loved them in return.
I spread his cheeks open and gently blew against his hole, loving how it reacted.
“Gideon.” Penn’s voice deepened, and the quiver I was so familiar with told me he needed more.
So that was what I’d give him. I pressed my tongue against his delicious hole and ate Penn out as if he were my last meal. I savored his taste, smell, and feel. No part of this man wasn’t perfect to me.
Penn was now tilting forward, pushing his ass into my face, riding it, begging for more.
“Shit, Gid, you gotta fuck me, please.”
I sat back and licked my lips. “Get on the bed,” I growled.
Penn moved and fell onto the bed, facing me, his legs spread, a bottle of lube in his hand.
“When did you get that?” I asked as I removed my clothes as quickly as possible.
“Like I didn’t know you were going to come in here.” He brought his finger to his hole and tapped it. “Now I want you to come in here.”
“Fuck, Penn.” I grabbed the lube. I opened it and slathered my dick while I watched as Penn fingered himself, readying for the pounding he knew I’d give him.
Unable to wait any longer, I smacked his hand away, earning a laugh from the man, and pressed the head of my cock against his hole.
“I love you,” I said, and the moment he opened his mouth, likely to return the sentiment, I slammed into him, turning his “I love you” into a deliciously erotic moan.
One knee on the bed, hands on his ankles keeping him nice and wide, I drove into him relentlessly. His skin glistened with sweat and, desperate to taste it, I licked his ankle.
“Fuuuuck, Gideon, I’m gonna come.”
He was rock hard. I let go of one of his legs and fisted his cock. “Yeah, you gonna come for me, baby?”
“God, yessssssssss.”
“Give it to me; I want to see it. Then I’m gonna drink it up.”
He arched up and sprayed across his chest, hitting his chin. I pounded into him a few more times before my orgasm spilled inside him and I collapsed on top of him.
“Holy fuck, how does it get better each time?” Penn mumbled.
“Fuck if I know, but not complaining.”
He chuckled and when I lifted my head, his green eyes met mine.
“You forgot something.” Penn quirked a brow.
“What?”
He lifted a come-covered finger to my lips. “You said you were gonna drink it up.”
I grinned and stuck out my tongue. “Feed it to me, baby.” And he did, not missing one drop.
Fly by RJ Scott & VL Locey
ONE
Jari
The first thing I did when I got into the cab was check the time in Finland. It was afternoon there, which meant Mom would be awake. I didn’t call her. I never did before games, meetings, or travel days. If I heard her voice and something was wrong at her end, I wouldn’t be able to leave the room, let alone skate. Instead, I opened the care app the private facility used—the one with the neutral colors and smiling stock photos—and scanned the overnight notes for Abigail Martinson.
Stable. No falls. Fatigue marked moderate. She had a visitor last night, but, per privacy policy, no names were included in the report. It wouldn’t be family—she had none in Finland, and it certainly wouldn’t be Aarni Lankinen, her husband in name, and the man she hated.
The man I hated.
I let out a breath and closed my eyes. Maybe she had a new friend? I’d ask her when I next called, but I was glad for it. Finland was supposed to feel like home for her—lakes and pines and silence. Instead, on mornings like this, it felt like distance measured in euros and contracts and whether I was still worth the price of keeping her comfortable.
I told myself—as I did every day—that as long as I kept playing, my asshole father would ensure she was looked after. That was the only way I could think.
The cab pulled into the Railers’ practice facility just after seven on a bright September morning.
I stayed seated longer than necessary, watching my breath fog the window, counting the seconds between inhales. The building loomed low and wide—glass, steel, banners snapping in the cold. RAILERS across the front in block letters. Not intimidating. Not welcoming either. Just… there. Waiting.
My flight from Detroit had been last-minute, rushed, chaotic, me leaving training camp at the drop of a hat, but it spat me out at Harrisburg airport in the dead of an early morning, and I tried to tell myself I was ready. I wasn’t.
“You okay back there?” the driver asked.
Not even close. Of all the teams that could’ve wanted me—and why would they—it had to be the Railers. I apologized, paid, and thanked him, then clambered out with my gear bag dragging at my shoulder, sticks awkward and unbalanced until I cleared the curb. I waited until the cab pulled away, until there was nothing left to hide behind.
And for a split second—one sharp, terrifying heartbeat—I wondered what would happen if I just… stopped. Stopped trying. Stopped skating. Stopped existing inside this machine that never let me breathe. If I started with the Railers, then walked into the next game and coasted. I could crash headfirst into the boards. One bad hit. One mistimed stride. One skate slipping out from under me on purpose. A skate to the chest, a fall at the wrong angle—it would all look like an accident. Hockey was dangerous. Careers end every year.
A clean exit, an insurance payout.
Stopping wasn’t an option.
Stopping meant unpaid invoices and polite emails that grew less polite. It meant Finland turning colder, quieter, less forgiving. It meant my mother apologizing for things that weren’t her fault and pretending she didn’t need help because help came with conditions.
And worse—it didn’t scare me the way it should have.
Because I hated this. I hated that this was the fourth new team in four years because I didn’t fit anywhere. I hated my name. I hated waking up every day, wondering if I was playing for myself or just trying to outrun the monster who’d raised me.
The Railers bench surging to its feet. The crowd—eighteen thousand voices howling for blood. Sticks, gloves, bodies colliding in a chaotic knot at center ice. Tennant Rowe jumping in without hesitation, trying to haul one of the Raptors off a teammate. Then hands went up. Someone pawed at his helmet in the crush. Accidental, they’d say later. Frame by frame, slowed down on a thousand replays. But in the moment, all I saw was his helmet ripped free, skittering across the ice.
And my father moving.
He launched himself into the mess as if he’d been waiting for an invitation and even then, as a kid, I knew what that look meant. My father reached him, slapped a hand onto Tennant’s shoulder, and yanked him backward over his extended leg. Rowe went down hard; his head struck the ice with a sound I still hear in my sleep. He crumpled into the churning skates, bodies still shoving, fists still flying. When the pile shifted, he was still there.
Unmoving.
His head rested in a spreading pool of blood, dark against the white ice, skates dancing around him as if he were already invisible.
My father stood over him.
Not checking. Not calling for help. Just looming there, bent slightly at the waist, grinning as Tennant gasped for air. As if this was the point. As if hurting someone that badly meant he’d won at something.
The crowd had been roaring. I remembered that part too. Noise swallowing the sound of Tennant’s breath, the way officials were slow to intervene, the way my father skated off without looking back.
I swallowed hard.
Every real Railers fan hated Aarni Lankinen.
But none of them hated him as much as I did.
A man waited inside the door; a tablet tucked under one arm.
“Jari Lankinen?”
I nodded.
“Layton Foxx,” he said, smiling. “Director of Player Relations, Community Outreach, and—depending on the week—everything else that falls through the cracks.” He stuck out his hand. Firm. Grounded. “Welcome to Harrisburg.”
Something in his tone—warm without being fake—threw me. I shook his hand before I could think too hard about it.
“You’re just in time for orientation,” Layton continued, walking with me through the doors. Coach Morin’s expecting you.”
Coach Morin's office was smaller than I expected—not intimidating, not flashy. Just a desk, two chairs, and a wall covered in Railers history. Banners, photos, and newspaper clippings. Legacy everywhere I looked. Coach wasn’t the tidiest guy. His desk was a mess of gum wrappers, empty coffee mugs, and playbooks stacked in uneven piles. Photos lined the back of the desk, half-hidden under notes. Layton lingered by the door as Coach Morin stood to greet me.
“Jari Lankinen,” Coach said, offering his hand. “Glad you’re here.”
“I'm glad to be here,” I lied. What I really wanted to say was that I couldn’t believe they'd traded me here, that they were stupid, that the optics were shit, and worse, that it exposed me to a million more horrors than I'd seen at my three other teams.
I sat when he pointed at a chair, my hands pressed flat against my thighs to stop them from shaking. Coach Morin lowered himself into his chair, folding his arms, studying me in silence long enough that I wondered if this was the real test—whether I could handle stillness.
Finally, he spoke.
“So, Jari,” he said, “you’ve had quite a journey since draft.”
My stomach clenched.
“Minnesota. Seattle. Detroit.” He ticked them off with three fingers. “Three teams in four years. That’s a lot of packing.”
I swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
He leaned back. “I spoke to each of your coaches.” My breath caught. He held my gaze. “And you know what they said?” I didn’t. I was scared to. Coach lifted a shoulder. “Some bad things, lack of focus sometimes, lack of self-belief.” He paused and I nodded—I'd heard that before. “But also, good things.”
Wait. What? I blinked. “Good things?”
“Good skill. Good instincts. Good work ethic.” He paused. “That you’re a kid who never settled and had a real shot because something kept pulling the rug out from under him. Damaged.”
My throat constricted. Something? Or someone. Hope filtered into me. He didn’t say my father's name. He didn’t have to.
Then he asked it—the question no one had ever asked me directly. “Are you too damaged, Jari?”
The words hit like a slap, but not cruelly. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “No, Coach,” I said.
Coach Morin nodded once, as if that were the correct answer. “Good. Because what I’ve watched you do is far from damaged, and for the record, I don’t give a damn what your father was.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, voice steady. “That’s in the past. And this”—he motioned to the Railers logo behind him—“is different.”
Something in me drew taut, then loosened. “Thank you, Coach.”
“I'm not saying it will be easy—we have players here with family connections and not everyone wanted you here…” He didn't have to mention anyone's name. “But we run things differently,” he continued. “You’re not going to be thrown into the deep end with sharks and then be told to sink or swim. You’re going to have support. Real support.”
“Okay,” I murmured, not trusting my voice.
“You’ll be talking to our team psychologist,” he said matter-of-factly. “That’s not optional. It’s part of being here. You’re not alone in any of it.”
I didn’t know if that scared me or relieved me. “Okay, Coach.”
Coach’s tone softened—just a little.
“Jari, listen to me. You’re talented. But talent isn’t why I pushed for this trade.” He tapped the desk lightly. “I traded for you because every coach you’ve had said the same thing: ‘He’s a good kid. He needs a place where leadership groups don’t expect him to fail.’”
A knot formed in my chest. Something old. Something I didn’t usually let myself feel.
Coach Morin let the silence stretch, then finished: “You’re a part of the Railers now. You get a clean slate, okay?”
I nodded. “Yes, Coach,” I’d never said anything at all, never done anything wrong, I’d just been a ghost on every team. But if it made people feel better to think badly about me, then I didn’t fucking care anymore.
Coach grinned up at Layton and rolled his eyes. “Your turn.”
Layton set a packet of information on the desk and slid it toward me, and I opened it to scan the index.
The usual welcoming information, emergency numbers, banking forms, but lower down, Community and League-Mandated Outreach. Mental Health Resources and Mandated Counseling. My jaw went rigid.
The outreach was my favorite bit—I'd volunteered off-the-record at kids’ skating schools, early mornings, and late nights when no cameras were around. I’d helped sharpen skates and tie laces, stayed after to clean up cones, slipped equipment vouchers into parents’ hands, and pretended it was nothing. If I kept it a secret, then my father couldn’t do anything about it. Hell, he’d keel over and die if he found out about the work I’d done behind the scenes with LGBTQ teens. In the public eye, I’d worked with a homeless charity in Detroit, unloading trucks and serving food. In secret, I’d done way more, keeping my head down and my name off sign-in sheets. I’d donated anonymously if I could, shown up when I wasn’t asked to, done the small, unglamorous things that didn’t earn photos or praise. Things my father never knew about, and the league never tracked.
It was the mental health resources that made me wince. Every single team demanded I get counseling—after all, with a father like Aarni-freaking-Lankinen, of course I must be a psycho as well? Fuck that noise. I must be guilty of on-ice violence, or abusing a partner, or hell, any of the shit Aarni had done.
“You have an issue with something there, son?” Coach asked.
Yes. I don’t want anyone to peel away the layers that keep me sane. “No, Coach.”
“Good. Layton?”
Layton glanced at Coach, then back at me. “I’ll keep it short, Jari,” he said. “You’ve been around the league long enough to know how this usually goes. New team, fresh start, same unspoken baggage particular to each new skater who joins us. There’s no easy way to say this, but you have things that come with you, and your name, and we want to nip those in the bud.” He rested his hands on the edge of the desk. Not casual. Focused. “Whatever animosity you’ve run into before—teammates, fans, management—it won’t be allowed to follow you here. We don’t pretend the league exists in a vacuum, but we also don’t let history poison the room.”
My shoulders tensed. He hadn’t said my father’s name. He didn’t mention the anti-queer rhetoric my father spewed. He didn’t have to talk about the articles appearing from him as my sperm donor moved further to the right. He didn’t have to.
“The Railers are a family,” Layton continued. “Not in the empty slogan way. In the sense that what one of us carries, all of us feel. You’ll get support and accountability here. No one gets frozen out. No one gets sacrificed to keep things comfortable. Kindness is paramount, and acceptance is key.”
Was he warning me? I guess he would, given he likely thought I carried my father’s hate with me. I froze again, just the same as with every other team. I couldn’t say what I wanted, I couldn’t be the real me, so everyone else filled in the gaps.
“Understood.”
“If there’s noise from you, the team, the fans,” Layton added, quieter now, “we deal with it together. Inside this building, you’re a Railer first, and you’ll respect the team, and in turn, we’ll respect you. That’s non-negotiable.”
I kept my face neutral. Inside, skepticism curled tight. Every team talked a good game. None of them meant it.
Coach nodded along with every word. “Okay, Jari, I’m not walking you into the locker room, that's all on you, okay?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“And the team is all there, and they're expecting you.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“And Jari?” he added as I turned to leave.
“Yes, Coach?”
“You don’t have to spend your life trying and failing to prove you’re not your father.”
Fuck that. I’m not trying to fail, I can’t stop what people think!
I bristled, but Coach held up a hand. “Just prove you’re you.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak, but I nodded as Layton moved aside to let me out. I stepped into the hallway and closed the door softly behind me, waiting there for a moment, pushing down the anger curling in my belly. Foxx and Coach might talk a good talk, but every word was edged with warnings. They could surely imagine the mess I’d bring to the team, and fuck, I wanted it to be different.
Okay, let’s do this.
I headed for the locker room and stopped short of the door.
It wasn’t fear that held me in place, exactly. More like… momentum dying. Like everything Coach Morin had said was still echoing inside me, rattling around with all the parts of myself I usually shoved down. My hand hovered over the handle.
Three teams behind me. One father I couldn’t outrun. A fourth, and maybe final, chance staring me in the face. I wasn't convinced I'd be kept up here in the NHL team, probably a few practice sessions, and they'd send me to their AHL affiliate, but I had to fucking do this. I'd never been utilized in a single game versus the Railers, constantly pushed back, healthy scratched, or whatever the coach at the time thought was best, but I knew the team.
I could hear the muffled sounds through the door—voices, laughter, someone chirping to someone else about something stupid. Normal locker-room noise. Easy for most players. Familiar.
For me?
I exhaled slowly, pressing my palm to the cool wood. I didn’t know how to do this. But standing here doing nothing wasn’t going to get me closer. I told myself to move. I can’t move. My throat was tight. My chest too. What if the players looked at me and saw him? The name on my cubby was already a stain on the room, and what if I walked in and they hated me before I even said a word? My fingers curled around the door handle, grip hesitant.
“Move,” I whispered to myself. Nothing. Okay. “Management traded for you,” I tried again. “They want you here.” A beat. Two. I inhaled hard, forced the breath all the way down, and let the tension bleed out through my boots. Then I pushed the door open.
The noise hit me—the sharp, bright sounds of players in motion. Tape tearing, skates clacking against rubber flooring, someone snorting at a joke that clearly wasn’t funny. The room smelled of detergent, sweat, and dirty ice.
Heads turned. Not all of them. But enough. A few guys sized me up, eyes flicking to the nameplate on my Detroit gear bag slung over my shoulder, then back to my face. No one flinched. No one recoiled. But no one smiled immediately either. Neutral. Evaluating—same as every new room, but somehow this felt heavier. I took them in the way I always did—quick, stripped of anything unnecessary. Not bodies. Not faces. Threat assessment only. Who might test me? Who might ignore me? Who might already have a story written about me in their head. I didn’t register any curiosity or softness. That part of me stayed buried on purpose. Wanting things made you visible. Visibility got you hurt.
Jack O’Leary, team captain, was the first to approach me as I stood by the door. Rumor had it this might be his final year, but god, I idolized him. He was everything a captain was supposed to be—steady, confident, proud of his team without ever making it about himself. The kind of player kids grew up pretending to be on backyard rinks. I’d watched him at the Olympics, had fallen for his style and confidence, and watched avariciously when he and his partner announced they were together. He wasn’t the only queer man on the team, Noah was with that racing driver, Trick was with a football player, and hell, Noah might be a Legacy, but Trick had come to the Railers with his own baggage and a father who was even more of an asshole than my own.
“Lankinen?” Cap said, offering his hand. His voice was calm, even, nothing sharp in it. Not what I expected from the man whose leadership everyone in the league talked about.
“Jari, Cap,” I managed the correction—the thought of being known as Lankinen, or Lanky, or whatever they came up with here, terrified and disgusted me.
He huffed a gentle laugh. “Jari, welcome.”
To his left and right stood the alternates—Adam Carter and Gage Frost.
Carter stepped forward, grin easy, eyes sharp. “Adam Carter, Cap’s left wing,” he said, shaking my hand firmly. “Most people call me Carts.”
Gage Frost—Frosty—was quieter, arms folded, expression unreadable in that way elite defenders seemed to be born with. Then he stuck out his hand.
“Frosty, defense,” he said. His grip was solid, grounding. “Winger, right?”
“Left,” I confirmed.
“Hmm, okay then. Well, welcome to Harrisburg, Jari.” His welcome wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. Just… steady. As if he were reserving judgment, yet willing to give me the space to earn it. Or, fuck, was I just reading too much into this?
Jack clapped a hand briefly on my shoulder. “Glad you’re here, kid. Get settled. We start in ten, get out there as soon as you can.” He indicated an empty stall. “That one’s yours.”
I walked toward it, aware of every footstep, my fingers brushing the worn leather strap of the watch on my wrist—my mom’s last birthday gift to me. I flicked the catch without thinking, the way I always did when I needed to steady myself. My name was already up on the cubby—LANKINEN—dusky blue on white, my jersey with its 74, hanging there. Seeing the name and number made fear and shame ripple through my chest. I wished it said Martinson—my mother’s name—I wished I didn't have my father's number, but playing hockey and keeping both name and number was part of the deal I'd made with the devil.
Live with it.
“Hey,” someone said, and I turned sharply—I knew better than to give my back to a room, but somehow seeing my Railers blue jersey had stopped me thinking properly. Noah Lyamin-Gunnarson was right there, half in his gear. ”You made it.”
“Yeah.” My voice barely worked. “Coach wanted to talk first.”
Noah held out a hand, and I shook it. I slid my dark glasses off and hooked them on my collar—I'd kept them on after Coach’s office longer than made sense, using them to hide whatever was still raw on my face. Without them, I felt exposed, as if anyone here could see more than I wanted them to.
“Noah, or Gunny if you want,” he said, and waited.
“Jari,” I said.
We let go, and Noah looked me over as if he was trying to figure out what exactly he was supposed to do with me. No hate there—just a hint of uncertainty, maybe trying to match the real me to whatever story he’d read.
I’d heard a lot about Noah’s dads from mine—mostly spat out with hate. Stan Lyamin, Hall of Fame goalie. Erik Gunnarson, Swedish winger. Best friends of Tennant Rowe. According to my sperm donor, they were what was wrong with hockey: queer, soft, and weak. Noah had every reason to hate me before I ever stepped into this room.
But he shocked the hell out of me. “So… exactly how fast are you? Please be faster than Trick because he’s an asshole about being the fastest on the team.”
From across the room, Cole Harrington's voice—AKA Trick—came sharp but bored: “I heard that.”
“You were meant to,” Noah replied.
“I'm not as fast as Trick Harrington,” I said, then I glanced Trick's way. Could I land a joke without coming over as arrogant or entitled? “But maybe I’m sneakier in corners.”
Trick laughed, came over, shook my hand, and a few others followed, but mostly players sat in their cubbies and watched. The fact that even a few team members outside Cap and his two As had said hello was a win.
I set my bag down at my stall, my fingers automatically finding the leather bracelets on my wrist—twisting them, shifting them, working the familiar knots. It was a grounding habit, something I’d done since Juniors. The watch from my mom, the bands I’d collected over the years… they were the only things that ever settled my nerves when the room felt too big, and I felt too small. Removing them had its own routine, something steady when everything else felt off. I worked through it slowly while the room settled back into its usual noise—chatter, gear shifting, someone dropping a helmet. I let the routine of getting dressed for the ice take over, the familiar motions pulling my head back into a place where I could function. I could do this in my sleep, but I was last out because I was late to the room to start with.
And when I finally headed onto the ice, stick in hand, with the Railers logo everywhere, one quiet thought cut through the noise—maybe this time, I’ll be allowed to be someone new.
Deception in Darkness by Alice Winters
Chapter One
I’m holding the gun so tightly that I’m convinced there’ll be a permanent impression forever etched into my hand. It’s fully loaded. Ready. But am I ready?
I know I need to move. There’s only so long that I can remain crouched behind this half wall. Lane is nowhere near me. Am I going to wait for him to save me? I don’t need to be saved. I need to grow some big, thick balls and get out there.
Okay…
Slowly, I sidle with my back against the wall, moving until I can see around it. There’s junk lying everywhere—pallets and tires, trees and rocks. Too much to hide behind. So, where are they?
Where could they be hiding from me? Maybe, if I can make it to that tree, I can see something, someone. Maybe I’ll be able to see Lane. I check both sides before rushing over to the tree. My foot catches on a root sticking above the dirt, and I dive forward, slamming face-first into the tree.
“Fuck!” I hiss before remembering that the key to survival is being silent. Not sharing a first kiss with a tree and screaming the F word out of pain.
I press my body tightly against the tree and listen, in case someone’s heard me. Stillness surrounds me as I slide around the edge of the tree, which allows me to peek out. Just beyond the wall, I can see Lane. He’s lying facedown on the ground.
I want to yell out to him, rush to him. Someone couldn’t have gotten him, could they? “Lane?” I hiss.
He’s not moving. Why isn’t he moving? Did someone really get him? Who could have shot him?
“Lane?”
No, no, no.
I hear someone and turn to see who it is. I watch them step around the corner of the wall, oblivious to my position. When he turns, I realize that it’s Lane’s brother-in-law, Robbie. Could Robbie really have been the one who did this? There’s no way Robbie could have shot Lane.
Right?
Robbie’s eyes settle on mine as I jerk my gun up. He lifts his, but I’m quicker. Line the sights, just like Lane told me. Front sight, rear sight, lined up perfectly.
I pull the trigger.
It hits him in the chest and he stumbles back with wide eyes. “Felix? How could you?” he asks as he grabs for his chest.
The look on his face makes me hesitate. It almost looks like betrayal. “What? But you shot Lane!”
“He’s on our team, Felix,” Lane grumbles into the ground.
I look over at Lane before eyeing Robbie. “Wait… what? When did he switch teams?”
Robbie stares at the paint coloring his vest red. “I was coming to tell you that we won, and you shot me. Your own teammate.”
Like I’m supposed to know he jumped ship. “This is entirely not my fault. When did you switch teams?”
“Clearly, back when you weren’t paying attention,” he says.
“Can someone explain to me how Felix is the only one left alive?” Lane asks as he rolls onto his back.
I grin, proud of myself while hoping that everyone forgets my minor mistake of shooting my teammate. “Because I’m amazing, obviously.”
“How many bullets did you shoot?” Lane asks skeptically as he sits up, blue paint splattered across his stomach. Whoever got a hold of him did not want him to ever get up again.
I hesitate. “One.”
“And who’d you shoot?”
“My teammate,” I say reluctantly. “But look here, fucker, I changed the rules. Last one standing is me. Every man for himself. Robbie, how did you get shot? I mean, besides me.”
“Tom,” he says.
It makes sense that Lane’s father took him out. I assume he’s the best with a gun in that group since he does work as a homicide detective. “Ah, Tom is silent and majestic. He’s like a fox. A silver fox.”
Robbie and Lane grimace. I think it makes Lane really uncomfortable when I speak about his father that way, which makes me do it more often.
“But then who shot him?” I ask.
“We kind of… shot each other at the same time. Couldn’t decide who went down first, so we both went down. Which left only you alive,” Robbie explains.
That’s when I hear Jenny, Lane’s sister, tromping across the field like an elephant. “Did you find them?” Jenny asks as I notice her mother and father are in tow.
Robbie points at his vest like the red paint is proof of my insubordination. “Yeah, right after Felix shot me.”
His wife grins as she pulls her safety goggles down to hang around her neck. “And somehow we still lost.”
Lane’s mother, Janet, begins brushing Lane off in an attempt to free him of the leaves and dirt. “This whole thing is a bit silly, isn’t it?” Janet asks like she’s begging for us to agree with her.
Jenny shakes her head quite adamantly. “No.”
“Not in the slightest,” Robbie says.
Lane turns his attention to his mother, who is now picking teeny-tiny pieces of leaves off his shirt, before turning toward the rest of us. “Only thing silly is that Felix won. How could that even happen?”
Robbie raises his gun. “Oh! I bet it’s because he’s so petite, he was able to hide easier.”
I shoot him right in the gut. I was aiming for his balls but my gunslinging skills still need work. “I shot him for being mean, Lane,” I explain since he isn’t able to see me in action.
Lane is grinning proudly. “Don’t piss the dwarf off,” Lane says, so I shift my gun to him, but there’s a high chance of hitting Janet, and I can’t imagine upsetting her.
“My question is, who was cruel enough to shoot the guy who can’t see?” I ask curiously.
Jenny raises both hands in the air, clearly proud of herself. “Woo-hoo! That would be me!” She seems to have enjoyed shooting Lane. She even does a little jig.
Lane points at his vest. “Do you know how many times she shot me? Six. Six times.”
“Remember that one time it was my birthday party, and all my friends came over, and you told them that I have five-inch-long butt hairs?”
Lane grins, clearly fond of the memory. “You were like ten.”
“Remind me not to piss Jenny off,” I whisper to Tom, who grunts. Our conversational skills have become next level recently. Soon, I think he may start confessing his undying love for me. “Jenny, are your butt hairs still that long?”
Jenny stares at me with so much love and adoration hidden behind such a cruel glare.
“Longer,” Robbie says. “After we married, everything on that woman went to hell. Show them your legs.”
“Fine, I will.” She pulls up her pants to reveal a perfectly smooth-shaven leg.
“Pull them up another inch. She only shaves her ankles in case her pants get pulled up.”
Jenny glares at Robbie, who is still grinning. “I do not have to show them anything.” She aims her gun at Robbie. “Turn around and bend over.”
I tap Lane’s shoulder. “Oh man, that’s what I was telling you to do last night, Lane. Remember?”
A grin forms on his lips. “I remember.”
“Don’t want to hear it. Lalala!” Jenny says.
Janet is disappointed in us. It’s clear by the look on her face. I have disappointed my new mother, and for that, I am mortified.
“It wasn’t anything sexual,” I assure her. “I wanted him to pick the soap up… while in the shower. You know what? I love you, Janet.”
She smiles at me. “I love you too, sweetheart.”
I could commit a murder in front of this woman, and I believe she’d still love me. “Tom?”
“What?” he says as he looks at me.
“We’ll work on that,” I decide.
He grunts, which I believe translates to, “I love you more than Lane and Jenny.”
“Lane, you know what this means?” I ask as I walk over to him.
“What?”
“We won free food!”
A smile consumes his face. We probably look like two hyenas hovering around our next meal.
“Hold on, you guys made that up,” Jenny says accusingly. “We didn’t agree to it.”
“Oh, I’m so excited to eat edible food,” Lane says, thrill apparent in his voice.
I grin, not even letting Lane’s diss pull me down. “I’m so excited I don’t need to worry about burning the house down.”
Janet, always the loving and giving mother, smiles at us. “Alright, I’ll feed you guys.”
Lane reaches out to me, so I take his hand in mine. “Good job winning. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I grin as I step into him. “Thanks, I used the strategy you taught me.”
“Hide?”
I chuckle. “I hid so damn hard. Tom was so close one time he nearly tripped over me and didn’t even see me.”
“That’s my babe.”
The others head toward the exit gate as Lane and I hang in the back.
“I want you to do one last thing for me,” he says.
“Anything for you.”
“Shoot my sister in the ass.”
“Did she shoot you in the ass? Is that why you have paint down here?” I ask as I jab between his ass cheeks with my finger.
He jumps before grabbing me in a bear hug so he can pin my arms down. “Why? Why do you like to violate me when I’m unaware?”
“I like being a violator.”
He kisses the side of my head before releasing me. “Let’s get family-sized meals so we can have a lot of leftovers.”
He’s so smart. I knew I picked him for his brains. “We’ll get two buckets each.” Oh, and his muscles. Honestly, everyone must be jealous of me as I walk around with the ultimate human.
“Three if we have to.”
“We could eat edible food for weeks.”
“I can hear you two back there,” Janet says.
“We were just talking about who our favorite mother is, and we both decided it would be you,” I assure her. “It wasn’t much of a competition, but you still won. There’s no prize other than our love.”
She shakes her head as she glances back at us. I notice that she doesn’t have any paint on her. Did she just lie down and pretend she was shot?
She smiles so sweetly at me that I feel like I’ll taint her just by looking at her. “I’ll be your mother, Felix.”
“Did you hear that, Lane? Now we don’t have to role-play being brothers anymore. We’re REAL brothers.”
“I’m going to puke,” Jenny says.
For some reason, I’m the only one laughing at my joke. Even Lane looks like he’d enjoy forgetting my very existence. The rest are ignoring me, like my words are meaningless.
“Are you guys still on for the haunted prison?” I ask Jenny and Robbie. I’d invited Lane’s parents too, but they seemed to like the idea of passing out candy instead. Who would really want to hand out candy to strange children when they could keep it all for themselves? I used to go trick-or-treating until I was fifteen, since everyone still thought I was a kid. It was the only time my height has been beneficial.
“Of course we are,” Jenny says, clearly more excited than Robbie is.
“Are you excited, Robbie?” I ask.
“Yay.” He says it like I asked if I could kick him in the nuts.
Since we borrowed the paintball gear from Robbie’s paintball group, we stop by his car and unload all our junk on him. While he’s organizing it, Lane and I head to our car where our dog Copper is sleeping in the back seat with the windows cracked so he can enjoy the beautiful fall weather. He hears us and starts wagging his tail as I unlock the door. As Lane and I get into the car, Copper climbs into the front seat as he greets me by stuffing his face next to mine and greets Lane by whapping him in the face with his tail. He’s a black German shepherd that I stole from a man who clearly didn’t appreciate how sweet and loving he is. The man wouldn’t even let him on the couch, and now Copper has his very own couch. I also let him lick his butthole on Lane’s pillow if that’s what he wants to do. That’s how much I love him.
“Did you think we left you forever?” I ask as I kiss his muzzle before pushing him into the back seat. “You’ve disappointed me.”
“Me or the dog?” Lane asks curiously.
“You. You were supposed to shoot all of them.”
“Jenny cheated. I shot her first. She came running at me like a rhino. She claimed that it wasn’t a lethal shot, then shot me six times since I had lowered my gun.”
I shrug. “Sounds like her.”
“She was savage. I put my hands up and started going down after one shot, but she kept going. Why didn’t you come save me? I yelled for you. I was all, ‘Felix, my love, save me!’ Nothing.”
“If I remember right, you and Robbie told me that I was holding you back and you guys ran off without me!”
He turns his head in my direction. He can’t see me, but he doesn’t need to. Since he didn’t meet me before he lost his sight, he doesn’t know what I look like, but he knows me better than anyone else does. He also knows what I think about him ditching me.
He rubs the scruff on his face like he’s thinking. “I would never say you’re holding me back.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say, then?”
“That we would sacrifice our lives for you.”
I snort and start driving since he definitely hadn’t said anything like that.
I’m holding the gun so tightly that I’m convinced there’ll be a permanent impression forever etched into my hand. It’s fully loaded. Ready. But am I ready?
I know I need to move. There’s only so long that I can remain crouched behind this half wall. Lane is nowhere near me. Am I going to wait for him to save me? I don’t need to be saved. I need to grow some big, thick balls and get out there.
Okay…
Slowly, I sidle with my back against the wall, moving until I can see around it. There’s junk lying everywhere—pallets and tires, trees and rocks. Too much to hide behind. So, where are they?
Where could they be hiding from me? Maybe, if I can make it to that tree, I can see something, someone. Maybe I’ll be able to see Lane. I check both sides before rushing over to the tree. My foot catches on a root sticking above the dirt, and I dive forward, slamming face-first into the tree.
“Fuck!” I hiss before remembering that the key to survival is being silent. Not sharing a first kiss with a tree and screaming the F word out of pain.
I press my body tightly against the tree and listen, in case someone’s heard me. Stillness surrounds me as I slide around the edge of the tree, which allows me to peek out. Just beyond the wall, I can see Lane. He’s lying facedown on the ground.
I want to yell out to him, rush to him. Someone couldn’t have gotten him, could they? “Lane?” I hiss.
He’s not moving. Why isn’t he moving? Did someone really get him? Who could have shot him?
“Lane?”
No, no, no.
I hear someone and turn to see who it is. I watch them step around the corner of the wall, oblivious to my position. When he turns, I realize that it’s Lane’s brother-in-law, Robbie. Could Robbie really have been the one who did this? There’s no way Robbie could have shot Lane.
Right?
Robbie’s eyes settle on mine as I jerk my gun up. He lifts his, but I’m quicker. Line the sights, just like Lane told me. Front sight, rear sight, lined up perfectly.
I pull the trigger.
It hits him in the chest and he stumbles back with wide eyes. “Felix? How could you?” he asks as he grabs for his chest.
The look on his face makes me hesitate. It almost looks like betrayal. “What? But you shot Lane!”
“He’s on our team, Felix,” Lane grumbles into the ground.
I look over at Lane before eyeing Robbie. “Wait… what? When did he switch teams?”
Robbie stares at the paint coloring his vest red. “I was coming to tell you that we won, and you shot me. Your own teammate.”
Like I’m supposed to know he jumped ship. “This is entirely not my fault. When did you switch teams?”
“Clearly, back when you weren’t paying attention,” he says.
“Can someone explain to me how Felix is the only one left alive?” Lane asks as he rolls onto his back.
I grin, proud of myself while hoping that everyone forgets my minor mistake of shooting my teammate. “Because I’m amazing, obviously.”
“How many bullets did you shoot?” Lane asks skeptically as he sits up, blue paint splattered across his stomach. Whoever got a hold of him did not want him to ever get up again.
I hesitate. “One.”
“And who’d you shoot?”
“My teammate,” I say reluctantly. “But look here, fucker, I changed the rules. Last one standing is me. Every man for himself. Robbie, how did you get shot? I mean, besides me.”
“Tom,” he says.
It makes sense that Lane’s father took him out. I assume he’s the best with a gun in that group since he does work as a homicide detective. “Ah, Tom is silent and majestic. He’s like a fox. A silver fox.”
Robbie and Lane grimace. I think it makes Lane really uncomfortable when I speak about his father that way, which makes me do it more often.
“But then who shot him?” I ask.
“We kind of… shot each other at the same time. Couldn’t decide who went down first, so we both went down. Which left only you alive,” Robbie explains.
That’s when I hear Jenny, Lane’s sister, tromping across the field like an elephant. “Did you find them?” Jenny asks as I notice her mother and father are in tow.
Robbie points at his vest like the red paint is proof of my insubordination. “Yeah, right after Felix shot me.”
His wife grins as she pulls her safety goggles down to hang around her neck. “And somehow we still lost.”
Lane’s mother, Janet, begins brushing Lane off in an attempt to free him of the leaves and dirt. “This whole thing is a bit silly, isn’t it?” Janet asks like she’s begging for us to agree with her.
Jenny shakes her head quite adamantly. “No.”
“Not in the slightest,” Robbie says.
Lane turns his attention to his mother, who is now picking teeny-tiny pieces of leaves off his shirt, before turning toward the rest of us. “Only thing silly is that Felix won. How could that even happen?”
Robbie raises his gun. “Oh! I bet it’s because he’s so petite, he was able to hide easier.”
I shoot him right in the gut. I was aiming for his balls but my gunslinging skills still need work. “I shot him for being mean, Lane,” I explain since he isn’t able to see me in action.
Lane is grinning proudly. “Don’t piss the dwarf off,” Lane says, so I shift my gun to him, but there’s a high chance of hitting Janet, and I can’t imagine upsetting her.
“My question is, who was cruel enough to shoot the guy who can’t see?” I ask curiously.
Jenny raises both hands in the air, clearly proud of herself. “Woo-hoo! That would be me!” She seems to have enjoyed shooting Lane. She even does a little jig.
Lane points at his vest. “Do you know how many times she shot me? Six. Six times.”
“Remember that one time it was my birthday party, and all my friends came over, and you told them that I have five-inch-long butt hairs?”
Lane grins, clearly fond of the memory. “You were like ten.”
“Remind me not to piss Jenny off,” I whisper to Tom, who grunts. Our conversational skills have become next level recently. Soon, I think he may start confessing his undying love for me. “Jenny, are your butt hairs still that long?”
Jenny stares at me with so much love and adoration hidden behind such a cruel glare.
“Longer,” Robbie says. “After we married, everything on that woman went to hell. Show them your legs.”
“Fine, I will.” She pulls up her pants to reveal a perfectly smooth-shaven leg.
“Pull them up another inch. She only shaves her ankles in case her pants get pulled up.”
Jenny glares at Robbie, who is still grinning. “I do not have to show them anything.” She aims her gun at Robbie. “Turn around and bend over.”
I tap Lane’s shoulder. “Oh man, that’s what I was telling you to do last night, Lane. Remember?”
A grin forms on his lips. “I remember.”
“Don’t want to hear it. Lalala!” Jenny says.
Janet is disappointed in us. It’s clear by the look on her face. I have disappointed my new mother, and for that, I am mortified.
“It wasn’t anything sexual,” I assure her. “I wanted him to pick the soap up… while in the shower. You know what? I love you, Janet.”
She smiles at me. “I love you too, sweetheart.”
I could commit a murder in front of this woman, and I believe she’d still love me. “Tom?”
“What?” he says as he looks at me.
“We’ll work on that,” I decide.
He grunts, which I believe translates to, “I love you more than Lane and Jenny.”
“Lane, you know what this means?” I ask as I walk over to him.
“What?”
“We won free food!”
A smile consumes his face. We probably look like two hyenas hovering around our next meal.
“Hold on, you guys made that up,” Jenny says accusingly. “We didn’t agree to it.”
“Oh, I’m so excited to eat edible food,” Lane says, thrill apparent in his voice.
I grin, not even letting Lane’s diss pull me down. “I’m so excited I don’t need to worry about burning the house down.”
Janet, always the loving and giving mother, smiles at us. “Alright, I’ll feed you guys.”
Lane reaches out to me, so I take his hand in mine. “Good job winning. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I grin as I step into him. “Thanks, I used the strategy you taught me.”
“Hide?”
I chuckle. “I hid so damn hard. Tom was so close one time he nearly tripped over me and didn’t even see me.”
“That’s my babe.”
The others head toward the exit gate as Lane and I hang in the back.
“I want you to do one last thing for me,” he says.
“Anything for you.”
“Shoot my sister in the ass.”
“Did she shoot you in the ass? Is that why you have paint down here?” I ask as I jab between his ass cheeks with my finger.
He jumps before grabbing me in a bear hug so he can pin my arms down. “Why? Why do you like to violate me when I’m unaware?”
“I like being a violator.”
He kisses the side of my head before releasing me. “Let’s get family-sized meals so we can have a lot of leftovers.”
He’s so smart. I knew I picked him for his brains. “We’ll get two buckets each.” Oh, and his muscles. Honestly, everyone must be jealous of me as I walk around with the ultimate human.
“Three if we have to.”
“We could eat edible food for weeks.”
“I can hear you two back there,” Janet says.
“We were just talking about who our favorite mother is, and we both decided it would be you,” I assure her. “It wasn’t much of a competition, but you still won. There’s no prize other than our love.”
She shakes her head as she glances back at us. I notice that she doesn’t have any paint on her. Did she just lie down and pretend she was shot?
She smiles so sweetly at me that I feel like I’ll taint her just by looking at her. “I’ll be your mother, Felix.”
“Did you hear that, Lane? Now we don’t have to role-play being brothers anymore. We’re REAL brothers.”
“I’m going to puke,” Jenny says.
For some reason, I’m the only one laughing at my joke. Even Lane looks like he’d enjoy forgetting my very existence. The rest are ignoring me, like my words are meaningless.
“Are you guys still on for the haunted prison?” I ask Jenny and Robbie. I’d invited Lane’s parents too, but they seemed to like the idea of passing out candy instead. Who would really want to hand out candy to strange children when they could keep it all for themselves? I used to go trick-or-treating until I was fifteen, since everyone still thought I was a kid. It was the only time my height has been beneficial.
“Of course we are,” Jenny says, clearly more excited than Robbie is.
“Are you excited, Robbie?” I ask.
“Yay.” He says it like I asked if I could kick him in the nuts.
Since we borrowed the paintball gear from Robbie’s paintball group, we stop by his car and unload all our junk on him. While he’s organizing it, Lane and I head to our car where our dog Copper is sleeping in the back seat with the windows cracked so he can enjoy the beautiful fall weather. He hears us and starts wagging his tail as I unlock the door. As Lane and I get into the car, Copper climbs into the front seat as he greets me by stuffing his face next to mine and greets Lane by whapping him in the face with his tail. He’s a black German shepherd that I stole from a man who clearly didn’t appreciate how sweet and loving he is. The man wouldn’t even let him on the couch, and now Copper has his very own couch. I also let him lick his butthole on Lane’s pillow if that’s what he wants to do. That’s how much I love him.
“Did you think we left you forever?” I ask as I kiss his muzzle before pushing him into the back seat. “You’ve disappointed me.”
“Me or the dog?” Lane asks curiously.
“You. You were supposed to shoot all of them.”
“Jenny cheated. I shot her first. She came running at me like a rhino. She claimed that it wasn’t a lethal shot, then shot me six times since I had lowered my gun.”
I shrug. “Sounds like her.”
“She was savage. I put my hands up and started going down after one shot, but she kept going. Why didn’t you come save me? I yelled for you. I was all, ‘Felix, my love, save me!’ Nothing.”
“If I remember right, you and Robbie told me that I was holding you back and you guys ran off without me!”
He turns his head in my direction. He can’t see me, but he doesn’t need to. Since he didn’t meet me before he lost his sight, he doesn’t know what I look like, but he knows me better than anyone else does. He also knows what I think about him ditching me.
He rubs the scruff on his face like he’s thinking. “I would never say you’re holding me back.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say, then?”
“That we would sacrifice our lives for you.”
I snort and start driving since he definitely hadn’t said anything like that.
Josh LanyonBestselling author of over sixty titles of classic Male/Male fiction featuring twisty mystery, kickass adventure and unapologetic man-on-man romance, JOSH LANYON has been called "the Agatha Christie of gay mystery."
Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
Josh is married and they live in Southern California.Her work has been translated into eleven languages. The FBI thriller Fair Game was the first male/male title to be published by Harlequin Mondadori, the largest romance publisher in Italy. Stranger on the Shore (Harper Collins Italia) was the first M/M title to be published in print. In 2016 Fatal Shadows placed #5 in Japan's annual Boy Love novel list (the first and only title by a foreign author to place on the list).
The Adrien English Series was awarded All Time Favorite Male Male Couple in the 2nd Annual contest held by the Goodreads M/M Group (which has over 22,000 members). Josh is an Eppie Award winner, a four-time Lambda Literary Award finalist for Gay Mystery, and the first ever recipient of the Goodreads Favorite M/M Author Lifetime Achievement award.
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.
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.
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.
Alice WintersAlice Winters started writing stories as soon as she was old enough to turn her ideas into written words. She loves writing a variety of things from romance and comedy to action. She also enjoys reading, horseback riding, and spending time with her pets.
Josh Lanyon
VL Locey
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com
Davidson King
In Other Words . . . Murder by Josh Lanyon
The Harvest Homecoming by VL Locey
Be My Ruin by Davidson King
Fly by RJ Scott & VL Locey
Deception in Darkness by Alice Winters
