Showing posts with label happy pride month 2020. Show all posts
Showing posts with label happy pride month 2020. Show all posts
Sunday, July 5, 2020
Sunday's Short Stack: Doc Brodie and the Big, Purple Cat Toy by Brigham Vaughn
Grant Murchison is a computer programmer with a great job, a small house he’s fixing up, and a mischievous tabby cat named Molly. Doctor Brodie Hall is a veterinarian with a sleeve full of tattoos and an enormous mastiff named Ruby.
When Molly gets sick after nibbling on Grant’s favorite purple toy, he rushes her to the vet clinic where the doctor works. Grant’s embarrassed to admit what Molly ate, but Brodie finds Grant’s reaction charming.
Brodie decides to pursue Molly’s owner, but getting close to Grant is a bigger challenge than he anticipated. Despite Grant’s attraction to the vet, his past leaves him unable to trust in a future together. Doc Brodie may be great with scared and hurting animals but will his technique work on Grant?
Curiosity killed the cat, well Molly's curiosity doesn't kill her but it certainly creates a little havoc in her human's life that changes everything for Grant and the vet who tends to her curiosity fallout. Another great short story/novella(I'm never quite sure where to draw the line between the two. Sometimes what I call short story is considered a novella and vice versa so I have taken to covering both bets - lol) by Brigham Vaughn. The drama level is pretty low but not non-existent for the pair but this tale is fun, loving, and romantic. If you haven't figured out just what Grant's purple toy is, well I am not going to spell it out but it's a nice change that I haven't often seen explored in this genre. An all around great read and generally, stories of this size usually get 1/2 a bookmark knocked off just because on principle I am a long novel girl, but over the past couple of years I have read some pretty amazing shorter tales that I no longer automatically knock it down. Doc Brodie and the Big, Purple Cat Toy definitely earns a whole 5 rating and left me smiling, which is always a good thing.
RATING:
The cat’s owner lifted his head, his brown eyes meeting Brodie’s and widening. A blush filled his cheeks, and he jerked back. Now Brodie could see the fine features of his face, the faint cleft in his chin, and the bookish handsomeness. Wow.
Brodie smiled reassuringly at him. “What’s my patient’s name?”
“Uh, Molly,” he stammered, licking his lips.
“Well, I’m Doctor Brodie Hall, and I promise I’ll take great care of Molly for you.”
“Thanks,” he said, a grateful note in his voice. “Um, I’m Grant Murchison.”
“Nice to meet you, Grant. So, this little girl ate something that disagreed with her, huh?” Brodie asked.
Grant nodded. “Yeah, I woke up to her throwing up. I rushed her right over.”
“Any idea what she ate?”
“Uhm.” He blushed again and lifted a plastic bag out of the paper one on the floor, showing the vet a mangled purple silicone sex toy.
Brodie’s eyes widened as he fought back a smirk. That was a first. He cleared his throat before he spoke. “Is that what I think it is?”
Grant nodded, closing his eyes, as if he was trying to shut out the embarrassing truth. “Uh, if you think it’s a dildo, then, yes, you’d be right. I used it, washed it, and left it on the edge of the bathtub. I had no idea she’d eat it.” His expression turned miserable.
“That’s … uh, well, I have to say this is a first for me,” Brodie admitted.
Brodie smiled reassuringly at him. “What’s my patient’s name?”
“Uh, Molly,” he stammered, licking his lips.
“Well, I’m Doctor Brodie Hall, and I promise I’ll take great care of Molly for you.”
“Thanks,” he said, a grateful note in his voice. “Um, I’m Grant Murchison.”
“Nice to meet you, Grant. So, this little girl ate something that disagreed with her, huh?” Brodie asked.
Grant nodded. “Yeah, I woke up to her throwing up. I rushed her right over.”
“Any idea what she ate?”
“Uhm.” He blushed again and lifted a plastic bag out of the paper one on the floor, showing the vet a mangled purple silicone sex toy.
Brodie’s eyes widened as he fought back a smirk. That was a first. He cleared his throat before he spoke. “Is that what I think it is?”
Grant nodded, closing his eyes, as if he was trying to shut out the embarrassing truth. “Uh, if you think it’s a dildo, then, yes, you’d be right. I used it, washed it, and left it on the edge of the bathtub. I had no idea she’d eat it.” His expression turned miserable.
“That’s … uh, well, I have to say this is a first for me,” Brodie admitted.
Summary:
Plagued by social anxiety, Paul Conway is content with the online relationship he's built with fellow nerd, Isaac Morrison. Isaac is determined to move their relationship off the screen and into real life but Paul’s fears stand in the way. The very thing that causes him anxiety in the first place might help him overcome it in the long run if he’s brave enough to face his fears.
I originally read this little story back in May 2014 and my review simply put said: "I loved it!" After seeing the names Isaac & Paul show up in Doc Brodie, I was pretty sure we heard their story earlier so I went and looked. Sure enough, there they were(at least I'm pretty sure they are same Isaac & Paul but if I'm wrong about the connection between the two stories and they are not companion pieces, it still doesn't take away from the enjoyment or the great characters). Well, I decided to give this little ditty a re-read. I say "little ditty" but don't mistake that as me saying this story is small, it may be short but it's lovely, fun, and romantic. I guess what I'm saying is I still loved it!
RATING:
Author Bio:
Brigham Vaughn is on the adventure of a lifetime as a full-time writer. She devours books at an alarming rate and hasn’t let her short arms and long torso stop her from doing yoga. She makes a killer key lime pie, hates green peppers, and loves wine tasting tours. A collector of vintage Nancy Drew books and green glassware, she enjoys poking around in antique shops and refinishing thrift store furniture. An avid photographer, she dreams of traveling the world and she can’t wait to discover everything else life has to offer her.Her books range from short stories to novellas. They explore gay, lesbian, and polyamorous romance in contemporary settings.
To stay up to date on her latest releases, sign up for the Coles & Vaughn Newsletter.
SMASHWORDS / PINTEREST / SCRIBd / B&N
EMAIL: brighamvaughn@gmail.com
Doc Brodie and the Big, Purple Cat Toy
Geeks, Nerds, & Cuddles
Saturday, July 4, 2020
Saturday's Series Spotlight: Serial Investigations by Rhiannon D’Averc
Series: Serial Investigations
Author: Rhiannon D’Averc
Genre: M/M Romance, Mystery, Suspense
Release Dates: Bloodless - April 29, 2019
Blood Evidence - August 15, 2019
Blood Alcohol - November 30, 2019
Blood Sucker - March 28, 2020
Blood Sport - June 30, 2020
Serial Investigations follows a private detective duo, Will and Ram, through tricky cases, mortal danger, and the horror of (maybe) unrequited love for your best friend – with plenty of demons to battle along the way.
The stories need to be read in order.
Warning: All books contain depictions of alcoholism, anorexia, and violent crime/murder.
Praise for Serial Investigations:
“The front cover didn't lie; Bloodless is exciting and thrilling.”
“Sets up a really great atmosphere right from the start and constantly leaves you wanting to find out what happens next.”
“A punchy storyline makes it difficult to put down and leaves you wanting more.”
“Just the right amount of action, plenty of intriguing deception and detective work.”
“Love the plot twists! Can’t wait for the next book to see what happens next to Will and Ram.”
Summary:
How do you solve a murder…
… When you’re the prime suspect?
A body cut up into pieces and left in Highgate Wood. It sounds like the most exciting case that private detectives Ram and Will have had to deal with since leaving their FBI training and returning to London.
As each new body is piled up amongst the trees, the stakes get higher – and Serial Investigations London embraces their first real challenge.
But Ram’s lifestyle – staying out all days of the week, drinking too much, and having sex with a different man every night – soon catches up with him when the police realise there’s just one link that connects the bodies.
And it’s him.
Will faces a battle around the clock to prevent his best friend from being put away for life – and while the two of them face their own demons, there’s a secret hanging over their heads that might just bring it all crashing down.
If you’re a fan of BBC’s Luther, Jo Nesbo’s Harry Hole, or sharply witty gay men, you’ll love Serial Investigations. Jump into the action from the very beginning with Bloodless, the first book in a series you won’t dare to put down.
Summary:
A missing person’s case…
… A murder investigation?
Private detectives Ram and Will got their name in the news by catching a high-profile serial killer, and now they’re getting more clients. When they’re hired to find a missing person, all they’re worried about is having to spend a night away from home. They go to check his last known sighting in Kent, staying in a quaint country inn.
Little do they expect that Serial Investigations London are about to get thrust into a new murder investigation – one that happens right under their noses.
A confession seems to solve the case, but is it genuine? With suspicions running high, the duo still have to find time to sniff out the whereabouts of their client – and avoid getting arrested themselves.
With Ram hitting the bottle harder than ever and Will fighting to stay in control, they might be about to lose more than just the case.
Summary:
A horrific torture case with a ticking clock.
All he can see is the bottle.
Private detectives Ram and Will thought they’d wrapped everything up when they found Ray Riley’s body in Sevenoaks. But it turns out that things aren’t what they seemed – and Riley may be the latest victim of a torture-happy murderous duo.
For the second time, Serial Investigations London are called in to assist as civilian consultants with DI Alex Heath’s team at the Met – but they have their own personal problems getting in the way of clear thinking.
Will has something to get off his chest, and it’s related to that kiss they shared – the one they both tried to forget. But Ram can’t stop drinking to push away the confusion, and this time he’s going to land himself in more trouble than ever before.
Can they get over their issues for long enough to stop another murder – or even keep themselves alive?
Summary:
A dead body posted on social media.
A vampire stalking the streets of London?
Will and Ram’s private detective partnership seems to be unravelling. After they ended up sleeping together, the tension between them is at an all-time high – and the unsolved Simon Shystone case is haunting them and their police contacts.
DI Alex Heath normally wants their help, but when a murderer posts images of his victim on social media, the chase is on to trace his digital footprint. With his superiors breathing down his neck, he might not be able to bring Serial Investigations London in on one of the biggest cases of their career.
They should be focusing on the artist who seems to have disappeared without a trace from his home studio. Could his latest commission have something to do with it? And will they be able to handle finding another client turned up dead?
Things are spiralling out of control for Will and Ram – and this time, they might not have each other to rely on.
Summary:
A copycat killer who knows every detail.
A locked room with no escape.
Serial Investigations London is officially closed for business – with private detectives Will and Ram still not talking to one another after an explosive argument. Even when a copycat killer springs up, seemingly targeting only their own cases, they can’t see eye to eye.
Little wonder, given that they both have something more important on their minds. Someone knows about San Francisco – about the man who died on a rooftop at their feet. Who has discovered their deepest secret? And what will they do to keep it buried?
That’s when another mystery piles up on top of the rest: a traditional trope that every seasoned detective must face, the locked room. But this one has a deadly twist, and if they don’t come to terms with their differences and work together, one of them might not live to regret it.
Will and Ram face the most pressing and personal danger yet – but the question is, who’s behind it? And will they realise they’ve been set against one another before it’s too late?
If you’re a fan of BBC’s Luther, Jo Nesbo’s Harry Hole, or sharply witty gay men, you’ll love Serial Investigations. The story continues with Blood Sport, a nail-biting series of twists and turns that will have you questioning how they’ll ever survive.
Click 'Buy Now' to enter the minds of troubled yet brilliant detectives as they struggle inside an interconnected web of lies – and the spider is getting hungry…
Bloodless #1
Chapter One
Unlocking the door to your new home for the first time is supposed to be exciting. I guess it was the jet-lag, but I couldn’t even force myself to smile as we walked in. Not even for Ram’s sake.
We crashed in hungover and out of it, the sparkling wine and whisky of the plane no longer seeming like such a good idea. I chose a bedroom and dragged my suitcases inside. It felt good to no longer have all of my worldly possessions attached to my person. Without the weight of my backpack on my shoulders, I could feel just how much strain the muscles had been under.
I found Ram still standing at the wide windows of the living room. He was looking out of the clean, fresh glass into the grey and drizzling London of December. It felt like a jolt to look out and see not palm trees, but old Victorian factories and blocks of flats as far as the eye could see.
But then again, no one has ever mistaken Whitechapel for California. It was always going to be a bit of a culture shock, coming back home again.
I shook him by the shoulder, trying to ignore the pit in my own stomach. Maybe if I could get him to snap out of this weary daze we had both fallen into, he would be able to wake me up in return.
“Ram?” I asked, after a moment. He simply swayed under the movement of my hand, like a doll. I wasn’t even sure he was actually looking out at anything.
He turned and looked at me when he heard his name. It was like he was looking at someone he didn’t recognise from a long distance away. If I had felt uneasy before, that expression made my scalp itch with worry. Of the two of us, Ram is the calm and centred one. Even when he’s so drunk he can barely walk, he doesn’t lose it. Not like me. But I’ve never seen him like this before.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, after a moment, seeming to rouse. He shrugged off my hand and walked away, leaving me stood watching the place where he had been stood watching. I felt like a sentinel. Something had left us behind and we were plunging into a bowl of cold water, too confused to even try to hold onto the side. I wondered if it would even wash away what we had on our hands.
I was alone, without the option of distracting myself by looking at him. The only thing I could do was to keep moving. I heard the sound of the shower turn on, and I guided my weary feet into my new room. It felt like midnight, but the sun wasn’t even at its midday apex. I went from task to task, like an automaton, letting the cogs turn by themselves to keep my mind empty. Suitcase unzipped; clothes pulled out; find hangers; one by one, up on the rail. Knick-knacks. Decorations. Picture frame.
The flat came furnished, but now I realised that on our hasty flight out of San Francisco we forgot to take a few things into account. The beds had mattresses, but no pillows or sheets. The drawers in the kitchen held no cutlery, crockery, or mugs for tea. Even if they did, there was no kettle, no bags of tea, no instant coffee machine.
I ran out of things to do but I had to find something. I stalked from room to room, tablet in hand, stabbing the pages of an online shopping site. Kettle — black, chrome, retro. Tea bags — Earl Grey, Caramel Rooibos, Herbal Blend. Bed set — plain blue, reverse check, king size. Next.
Ram’s room. Suitcases still locked, black leather bag slung onto bare mattress, leather jacket discarded next to it.
He wouldn’t mind. It’s not like we have any secrets from each other.
Or many, at least.
Open the suitcase (correctly guess the code on the lock). Take out clothes, one by one, to string them up on hangers and leave them waiting for him. Personal items. Books stacked by the bed. Jewellery case. Boots on the floor by the door. Leather jacket hung up last, finally, the only thing left untouched.
I wondered how long it must have been now.
A long time, surely, but all I could hear still was the water hitting the shower tray. Over and over, the same hiss in the same tone.
A long time for Ram to be in there, on his own, with those thoughts swirling around in his head.
With razors and scissors and other sharp things.
“Ram?” I shouted, pounding on the locked bathroom door.
Nothing but the sibilant hiss of the water.
I threw my shoulder into the door, felt it bounce back against me, sending a shockwave through from the impact. Again. The door rattled, the lock unable to give. Again. Again. As many times as it took, again, ignoring the flower of pain blooming out across my shoulder and back. Once more, and I was stumbling forward into the room, momentarily disorientated as the momentum carried me onwards.
The glass of the shower door was all steam, except for a patch near the bottom where the spray of the water was heavy enough to keep it clear. I saw his legs, sprawled across the floor, and I could barely breathe for the fear that I had realised too late.
I wrenched open the door and saw him, and for a moment I understood nothing. He was whole — yes. No blood. But he was lying naked under the water, letting it hit his face and open eyes without blinking, not even reacting to my appearance.
“Ram?” I said again, but his eyes didn’t even flicker in response.
I reached in and grabbed his shoulder, ignoring the water. It quickly drenched my shirt through to the skin, spreading up over my chest and into my eyes as I shook him.
Slowly, like he was caught in a time lapse, his face swivelled around. His eyes looked at me, but they were empty. I don’t think he even saw me.
“Everything’s going to be alright,” I said, reaching up and turning the shower off. I didn’t know if it was the truth, but he was alive. For the time being, that was enough.
He stirred a little when the water stopped hitting him, but only for a moment. His shoulders slumped back down and he rested, resigned, still looking fixedly at nothing.
I grabbed a towel from my bathroom, thankfully one of the few things I did remember to bring with me. I ran back to find him still sitting in the same place. It was like there was no one left inside to notice that he must be cold and uncomfortable. I pulled him out of the shower and into my waiting arms. He came willingly, falling against me like a doll. I towelled him dry as best I could and held him tight, like we were kids again, trying to take some small comfort from one another. His head slotted under my chin, and it felt right but so wrong, because Ram is supposed to be the strong one.
“Everything’s going to be fine, Ram, I promise,” I said, closing my eyes and praying that I was telling the truth.
Chapter One
Unlocking the door to your new home for the first time is supposed to be exciting. I guess it was the jet-lag, but I couldn’t even force myself to smile as we walked in. Not even for Ram’s sake.
We crashed in hungover and out of it, the sparkling wine and whisky of the plane no longer seeming like such a good idea. I chose a bedroom and dragged my suitcases inside. It felt good to no longer have all of my worldly possessions attached to my person. Without the weight of my backpack on my shoulders, I could feel just how much strain the muscles had been under.
I found Ram still standing at the wide windows of the living room. He was looking out of the clean, fresh glass into the grey and drizzling London of December. It felt like a jolt to look out and see not palm trees, but old Victorian factories and blocks of flats as far as the eye could see.
But then again, no one has ever mistaken Whitechapel for California. It was always going to be a bit of a culture shock, coming back home again.
I shook him by the shoulder, trying to ignore the pit in my own stomach. Maybe if I could get him to snap out of this weary daze we had both fallen into, he would be able to wake me up in return.
“Ram?” I asked, after a moment. He simply swayed under the movement of my hand, like a doll. I wasn’t even sure he was actually looking out at anything.
He turned and looked at me when he heard his name. It was like he was looking at someone he didn’t recognise from a long distance away. If I had felt uneasy before, that expression made my scalp itch with worry. Of the two of us, Ram is the calm and centred one. Even when he’s so drunk he can barely walk, he doesn’t lose it. Not like me. But I’ve never seen him like this before.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said, after a moment, seeming to rouse. He shrugged off my hand and walked away, leaving me stood watching the place where he had been stood watching. I felt like a sentinel. Something had left us behind and we were plunging into a bowl of cold water, too confused to even try to hold onto the side. I wondered if it would even wash away what we had on our hands.
I was alone, without the option of distracting myself by looking at him. The only thing I could do was to keep moving. I heard the sound of the shower turn on, and I guided my weary feet into my new room. It felt like midnight, but the sun wasn’t even at its midday apex. I went from task to task, like an automaton, letting the cogs turn by themselves to keep my mind empty. Suitcase unzipped; clothes pulled out; find hangers; one by one, up on the rail. Knick-knacks. Decorations. Picture frame.
The flat came furnished, but now I realised that on our hasty flight out of San Francisco we forgot to take a few things into account. The beds had mattresses, but no pillows or sheets. The drawers in the kitchen held no cutlery, crockery, or mugs for tea. Even if they did, there was no kettle, no bags of tea, no instant coffee machine.
I ran out of things to do but I had to find something. I stalked from room to room, tablet in hand, stabbing the pages of an online shopping site. Kettle — black, chrome, retro. Tea bags — Earl Grey, Caramel Rooibos, Herbal Blend. Bed set — plain blue, reverse check, king size. Next.
Ram’s room. Suitcases still locked, black leather bag slung onto bare mattress, leather jacket discarded next to it.
He wouldn’t mind. It’s not like we have any secrets from each other.
Or many, at least.
Open the suitcase (correctly guess the code on the lock). Take out clothes, one by one, to string them up on hangers and leave them waiting for him. Personal items. Books stacked by the bed. Jewellery case. Boots on the floor by the door. Leather jacket hung up last, finally, the only thing left untouched.
I wondered how long it must have been now.
A long time, surely, but all I could hear still was the water hitting the shower tray. Over and over, the same hiss in the same tone.
A long time for Ram to be in there, on his own, with those thoughts swirling around in his head.
With razors and scissors and other sharp things.
“Ram?” I shouted, pounding on the locked bathroom door.
Nothing but the sibilant hiss of the water.
I threw my shoulder into the door, felt it bounce back against me, sending a shockwave through from the impact. Again. The door rattled, the lock unable to give. Again. Again. As many times as it took, again, ignoring the flower of pain blooming out across my shoulder and back. Once more, and I was stumbling forward into the room, momentarily disorientated as the momentum carried me onwards.
The glass of the shower door was all steam, except for a patch near the bottom where the spray of the water was heavy enough to keep it clear. I saw his legs, sprawled across the floor, and I could barely breathe for the fear that I had realised too late.
I wrenched open the door and saw him, and for a moment I understood nothing. He was whole — yes. No blood. But he was lying naked under the water, letting it hit his face and open eyes without blinking, not even reacting to my appearance.
“Ram?” I said again, but his eyes didn’t even flicker in response.
I reached in and grabbed his shoulder, ignoring the water. It quickly drenched my shirt through to the skin, spreading up over my chest and into my eyes as I shook him.
Slowly, like he was caught in a time lapse, his face swivelled around. His eyes looked at me, but they were empty. I don’t think he even saw me.
“Everything’s going to be alright,” I said, reaching up and turning the shower off. I didn’t know if it was the truth, but he was alive. For the time being, that was enough.
He stirred a little when the water stopped hitting him, but only for a moment. His shoulders slumped back down and he rested, resigned, still looking fixedly at nothing.
I grabbed a towel from my bathroom, thankfully one of the few things I did remember to bring with me. I ran back to find him still sitting in the same place. It was like there was no one left inside to notice that he must be cold and uncomfortable. I pulled him out of the shower and into my waiting arms. He came willingly, falling against me like a doll. I towelled him dry as best I could and held him tight, like we were kids again, trying to take some small comfort from one another. His head slotted under my chin, and it felt right but so wrong, because Ram is supposed to be the strong one.
“Everything’s going to be fine, Ram, I promise,” I said, closing my eyes and praying that I was telling the truth.
Rhiannon D'Averc is a crime writer based in the UK. She works as a ghostwriter and author under her own name as well as under pseudonyms. As a professional writer for over a decade, she also keeps herself busy as Chief Editor of London Runway, an indie fashion magazine. Her short stories have been published in Litro, Devolution-Z, Storgy, Literati, and more.
Bloodless #1
Blood Evidence #2
Blood Alcohol #3
AMAZON US / AMAZON UK / GOODREADS TBR
Blood Sucker #4
Friday, July 3, 2020
📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: The Naked Civil Servant by Quentin Crisp
A comical and poignant memoir of a gay man living life as he pleased in the 1930s
In 1931, gay liberation was not a movement—it was simply unthinkable. But in that year, Quentin Crisp made the courageous decision to "come out" as a homosexual. This exhibitionist with the henna-dyed hair was harassed, ridiculed and beaten. Nevertheless, he claimed his right to be himself—whatever the consequences. The Naked Civil Servant is both a comic masterpiece and a unique testament to the resilience of the human spirit.
Release Date: December 17, 1975
Release Time: 77 minutes
Cast:
John Hurt as Quentin Crisp
Liz Gebhardt as Art Student
Patricia Hodge as Ballet Teacher
Stanley Lebor as Mr. Pole
Katherine Schofield as Mrs. Pole
Colin Higgins as Thumbnails
John Rhys-Davies as Barndoor
Stephen Johnstone as Young Quentin
Antonia Pemberton as Mrs. Longhurst
Lloyd Lamble as Mr. Crisp
Joan Ryan as Mrs. Crisp
Frank Forsyth as Family Doctor
Shane Briant as Norma
Ron Pember as Black Cat Proprietor
Roger Lloyd Pack as Liz
Quentin Crisp, born Denis Charles Pratt, was an English writer, artist's model, actor and raconteur known for his memorable and insightful witticisms. He became a gay icon in the 1970s after publication of his memoir, The Naked Civil Servant, brought to the attention of the general public his defiant exhibitionism and longstanding refusal to remain in the closet.
IMDB / INDIE BOUND / B&N
Film
Tuesday, June 30, 2020
June Book of the Month: Straight Up by K Evan Coles & Brigham Vaughn
Malcolm Elliott has been keeping secrets. Helping his mom through a financial crisis has nearly emptied his bank account and his kitchen cupboards, despite his thriving career with Corporate Equality Campaign. Malcolm is also bothered by his inability to tell the most important people in his life that he identifies as gray ace.
Stuart Morgan has a secret of his own. Though years have passed since the tattooed chef fled the Mormon church in Utah for New York, he’s never truly come to terms with the kink that ruined that rigid but outwardly perfect life. Experience has also taught Stuart that keeping his love of lacy things under wraps is safer than telling the truth.
After Malcom’s boss, Carter, hires Stuart’s restaurant to cater a gala fundraising event, the strait-laced Malcolm is thrown together with badass biker Stuart. Despite their differences and a couple of false starts, the men discover they work well together and a friendship quickly forms.
As Malcolm’s feelings for Stuart deepen, his sexuality awakens, but he remains tight-lipped about his problems. And though Stuart grows more and more attached to Malcolm, he remains fearful of confessing his kink.
When both of their secrets are finally exposed, they find themselves at a crossroads in which they must choose between playing it safe or finally coming clean to the person they love.
Seriously though, Straight Up is . . . well . . . straight up brilliant!
I feel like I say this a lot but the main characters, Malcolm and Stuart, are just meant to be. Could they be happy with others? Perhaps. Could they reach their potential? Maybe. Could they find the freedom to be themselves and let their true selves "come out to play"? Not even close. I kind of hate to say that Malcolm and Stuart "complete" each other because I don't like to imply anyone "needs" someone to be who they are but I have always believed, be it friend, lover, family member, there is that one person who helps you be 150% comfortable so you can let your whole self shine. Well, that is exactly who Malcolm and Stuart are to each other and for me it's that part of each of them that truly makes Straight Up unforgettable.
There is enough drama in the mens' journey that I could never label it a rom-com by any means but I can honestly say for me it is the least dramatic of the whole Tidal/Speakeasy universe. Is it lighthearted? I wouldn't go that far but I didn't feel the need to have a box of kleenex handy either. I love the whole not-often-seen meshing with familiar elements of this entry, it makes the story both relaxable and not-put-it-down-able(yeah I know, not real words or phrases but sometimes a story just gives you certain feels that you just have no options but to make up your own terminology😉😉).
Is this the last we'll see of the Tidal/Speakeasy crowd? Maybe, but the characters involved are just too boisterous to not have more to tell so maybe if we're lucky and super-duper-uber nice they'll let K Evan Coles and Brigham Vaughn in on their holiday plans down the road😉😉. However, if this truly is the end of their sharing then they will always live on in our hearts and our kindles. I for one can't wait to see what Coles and Vaughn, both individually and collaboratively, have in mind next.
One final note: if you are wondering about reading order, I highly recommend doing so in series order. The Tidal duology is definitely a need to read in order but Speakeasy is different pairs so in a way they are standalones but as previous characters are popping in and out, personally, I find it flows better read in released order and can't imagine doing otherwise. BUT, you won't be lost if you start with Straight Up.
“Crap, crap crap.” Malcolm took the subway stairs two at a time, muttering under his breath.
He’d arranged the Thursday meeting with Chef Morgan at Lock & Key, expecting forty-five minutes would be plenty of time to commute up from Midtown. However, a mechanical problem had plagued his train and he’d spent the crawling ride exchanging messages with his mom, trying to get her to apply for job openings he’d found in the neighborhoods around Staten Island. Now Malcolm was nearly fifteen minutes late and almost sprinting along Broadway in his loafers and business casual duds, messenger bag bumping his hip.
Malcolm hated being late, particularly when it came to his job. He’d texted the chef with a heads-up he was running behind, but still felt wretched and unprofessional. He also knew this would make a poor impression on a man who had high expectations of the people around him. Stuart had been friendly—even charming—when he’d introduced himself to Malcolm, tattoos peeking out from beneath the chef’s white jacket. His demeanor had changed the moment the talk had turned to food, however, shifting into a thorough confidence that was reflected in the quality and plating of the food he’d put in front of Malcolm. Everything had been luscious—both esthetically and in taste—and Malcolm had known from the first bite that the chef and his staff at King’s would do impeccable work for the CEC fundraiser.
The steel in Stuart’s expression as he’d spoken about food and his work had reassured Malcolm. He understood how to interact with a man who was all business. He’d been less sure of how to handle the moments when Stuart had smiled at him, however, and the way that warmth had made his brown eyes dance. The chef’s touch had tingled against Malcolm’s skin when they’d bid each other goodbye, too and…well. Malcolm really didn’t know what to make of that.
He caught sight of a huge motorcycle parked by the curb as he neared Lock & Key and slowed to a walk. It was a beautiful machine, gleaming black and chrome in the late afternoon light, and Malcolm could imagine the kind of man who rode it, clad in a leather jacket with tattoos on full display.
I’ll bet Stuart Morgan wears a leather jacket.
Malcolm nearly tripped into Lock & Key’s door. Where the hell had that come from?
Seconds later his errant thought literally came to life and Malcolm blinked at the sight of the chef seated at Lock & Key’s bar, a tall glass of water in hand and motorcycle helmet by his elbow. Stuart wore a black leather jacket, just as Malcolm had imagined, and a scowl so mighty he looked almost like a stranger. Malcolm’s stomach flipped.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said in a rush. Moving quickly, Malcolm waved hello to the bartender, then pulled the strap of his bag over his head and stepped up beside Stuart. “I meant to be here to meet you, Chef, but the train—”
Stuart cut in, his voice gruff and grumpy as Malcolm had expected. “I get it. Public transportation sucks.”
“It’s unpredictable,” Malcolm replied. “Anyway, Under’s head bartender is waiting for us downstairs.”
“Downstairs?” Stuart waved at the room around them with one hand. “Downstairs from here?”
“Um, yeah. This is Lock & Key. Under’s located in the basement.”
“I thought you said the event would be happening on the roof?”
“It will be. Under and Lock & Key will be part of it, too though. Sort of.” Heat flashed over Malcolm’s cheeks when Stuart rolled his eyes. “Sorry, let’s …” He blew out a breath and squared his shoulders. “Let’s start again.”
Stuart’s expression softened by a degree. “Okay. I’m listening.”
He’d arranged the Thursday meeting with Chef Morgan at Lock & Key, expecting forty-five minutes would be plenty of time to commute up from Midtown. However, a mechanical problem had plagued his train and he’d spent the crawling ride exchanging messages with his mom, trying to get her to apply for job openings he’d found in the neighborhoods around Staten Island. Now Malcolm was nearly fifteen minutes late and almost sprinting along Broadway in his loafers and business casual duds, messenger bag bumping his hip.
Malcolm hated being late, particularly when it came to his job. He’d texted the chef with a heads-up he was running behind, but still felt wretched and unprofessional. He also knew this would make a poor impression on a man who had high expectations of the people around him. Stuart had been friendly—even charming—when he’d introduced himself to Malcolm, tattoos peeking out from beneath the chef’s white jacket. His demeanor had changed the moment the talk had turned to food, however, shifting into a thorough confidence that was reflected in the quality and plating of the food he’d put in front of Malcolm. Everything had been luscious—both esthetically and in taste—and Malcolm had known from the first bite that the chef and his staff at King’s would do impeccable work for the CEC fundraiser.
The steel in Stuart’s expression as he’d spoken about food and his work had reassured Malcolm. He understood how to interact with a man who was all business. He’d been less sure of how to handle the moments when Stuart had smiled at him, however, and the way that warmth had made his brown eyes dance. The chef’s touch had tingled against Malcolm’s skin when they’d bid each other goodbye, too and…well. Malcolm really didn’t know what to make of that.
He caught sight of a huge motorcycle parked by the curb as he neared Lock & Key and slowed to a walk. It was a beautiful machine, gleaming black and chrome in the late afternoon light, and Malcolm could imagine the kind of man who rode it, clad in a leather jacket with tattoos on full display.
I’ll bet Stuart Morgan wears a leather jacket.
Malcolm nearly tripped into Lock & Key’s door. Where the hell had that come from?
Seconds later his errant thought literally came to life and Malcolm blinked at the sight of the chef seated at Lock & Key’s bar, a tall glass of water in hand and motorcycle helmet by his elbow. Stuart wore a black leather jacket, just as Malcolm had imagined, and a scowl so mighty he looked almost like a stranger. Malcolm’s stomach flipped.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said in a rush. Moving quickly, Malcolm waved hello to the bartender, then pulled the strap of his bag over his head and stepped up beside Stuart. “I meant to be here to meet you, Chef, but the train—”
Stuart cut in, his voice gruff and grumpy as Malcolm had expected. “I get it. Public transportation sucks.”
“It’s unpredictable,” Malcolm replied. “Anyway, Under’s head bartender is waiting for us downstairs.”
“Downstairs?” Stuart waved at the room around them with one hand. “Downstairs from here?”
“Um, yeah. This is Lock & Key. Under’s located in the basement.”
“I thought you said the event would be happening on the roof?”
“It will be. Under and Lock & Key will be part of it, too though. Sort of.” Heat flashed over Malcolm’s cheeks when Stuart rolled his eyes. “Sorry, let’s …” He blew out a breath and squared his shoulders. “Let’s start again.”
Stuart’s expression softened by a degree. “Okay. I’m listening.”
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K. Evan Coles is a mother and tech pirate by day and a writer by night. She is a dreamer who, with a little hard work and a lot of good coffee, coaxes words out of her head and onto paper.
K. lives in the northeast United States, where she complains bitterly about the winters, but truly loves the region and its diverse, tenacious and deceptively compassionate people. You’ll usually find K. nerding out over books, movies and television with friends and family. She’s especially proud to be raising her son as part of a new generation of unabashed geeks.
K.’s books explore LGBTQ+ romance in contemporary settings.
Brigham Vaughn
Brigham Vaughn is on the adventure of a lifetime as a full-time writer. She devours books at an alarming rate and hasn’t let her short arms and long torso stop her from doing yoga. She makes a killer key lime pie, hates green peppers, and loves wine tasting tours. A collector of vintage Nancy Drew books and green glassware, she enjoys poking around in antique shops and refinishing thrift store furniture. An avid photographer, she dreams of traveling the world and she can’t wait to discover everything else life has to offer her.Her books range from short stories to novellas. They explore gay, lesbian, and polyamorous romance in contemporary settings.
To stay up to date on her latest releases, sign up for the Coles & Vaughn Newsletter.
K Evan Coles
GOOGLE PLAY / BOOKBUB / B&N
EMAIL: coles.k.evan@gmail.com
Brigham Vaughn
SMASHWORDS / PINTEREST / SCRIBd / B&N
EMAIL: brighamvaughn@gmail.com
Straight Up #4
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