Showing posts with label monday musical melody. Show all posts
Showing posts with label monday musical melody. Show all posts
Sunday, July 26, 2026
Monday, July 20, 2026
🎅🎆🎄Monday's Musical Melody - Xmas in July🎄🎆🎅: Once Upon a Christmas Song by Mary Calmes
Once Upon a Holiday Story
Chris Gardner has a good life in New Orleans. He owns a club in the French Quarter, has a wonderful crew of people who call it home, loyal, caring friends, and even gets his kid fix by helping to take care of his chef’s daughter. What he doesn’t have is that special someone to share his days and nights with. He thought he did, once upon a time, but that man left to find fame and fortune, became a rockstar, and never returned. And that’s fine. Life isn’t a fairy tale. Now if only he could find a band to play music in his club at night, that would be a Christmas miracle.
Dawson West had to leave to see if his dreams could become reality, but what he didn’t count on was that once he had the world at his feet, he’d miss the man who’d held him tight. Between the endless climb toward greatness and the pitfalls of addiction, Dawson lost himself for a while, but that doesn’t mean he stopped loving Chris. Not wanting his love to see him broken, he makes certain he’s clean and sober when he finally comes home. Going radio silent while becoming the man Chris deserves seemed like a good idea at the time, but now…
Now, Chris has a problem. Dawson is back, out of the blue, and if Chris lets him return to rocking his club, is that an invitation for his heart as well? How can Chris ever trust again, even if it is the season?
Once Upon A Christmas Song is a part of the multi-author series Once Upon A Holiday Story. Each book can be read as a standalone and in any order. What links these books together is The Hook’s Book Nook Traveling Library, a library on wheels owned by two old ladies in love.
Original Review January 2025:
Perhaps more than others I've read in the Once Upon a Holiday multi-author series, Mary Calmes' Christmas Song is less Xmassy and more happens at Xmas but in my mind that is all it takes to make a story perfect for the holidays.
Second chance romance can be hard to tell in novella form as some points can feel rushed but I think Calmes did an excellent job of balancing second chances and glimpses of Chris and Dawson's first go-around. In showing us those glimpses of the past we get to see what was "broken" which helps to understand the "healing" and that loving was never the issue which can help the reader understand the pace of reuniting that can occur in a novella.
I completely fell in love with both men as well as the supporting cast, you just want everyone to get their holiday Hallmarky HEA. I say "Hallmarky" but of the ones I've seen I think I would rate Chris and Dawnson's journey above nearly all of those Xmas movies. There is a lovely blend of humor, drama, friendship, reconnecting, stubbornness, and it is chock full of heart. Being a novella means it may be shorter on quantity than what second chance tales often have but it is full to overflowing with quality.
RATING:
ONE
It was raining, and while I loved the sound of it and the way it made everything smell, and mostly how everything looked immediately after, all glistening and bright, it did have the effect of keeping many tourists inside until it stopped. That was no good for me. I needed people walking up and down the 500 block of Frenchmen Street where my place was, and popping in for a drink. We served prize-winning cocktails at La Belle Vie, thanks to my mixologists, Xola Bass and Darcy Lee, who had individually and together won several awards both locally and nationally.
The issue was, as good as the drinks were, along with our food—a Caribbean-Creole mix thanks to my award-winning chef, Georgine Joseph—without the live music we were famous for, bridal parties walking the Quarter wouldn’t pop in and stay until closing. People looking to dance, not simply stand and listen to jazz, wouldn’t stop and show off their moves for their dates and buy drink after drink. Early in the evening, there was a space between the stage and the tables where people mingled. That was when we had the soloists, the artists, those selling CDs and looking for their big break. Later in the evening, between ten and closing—which was at two in the morning Friday and Saturday night, midnight on weekdays—was when the house band went on, and the place filled up with a raucous crowd, and people sitting at tables could have someone in their lap at any moment. We were always packed, and the bulk of our money was made on beer and shots while people sang along to the music.
But on Monday a week ago, after closing at midnight, Jimmy Jake and the Polecats quit.
“Stupid name,” I muttered under my breath.
“Boss?” asked Conner Lee, Darcy’s little brother and one of my barbacks, as he walked by me with a tray of dirty glassware. “Did you say something?”
“No,” Xola replied, lifting the pass-through so he could walk behind the bar. “Your boss is simply lamenting our abandonment by Jimmy Jake and the lame-ass pieces of shit he calls a band.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Well, considering no one else wanted them and Chris was the only one to give them a chance—and they were, no question, mediocre at best—I can understand the sentiment.”
“It was the best thing that could have happened,” said Simone Howard, my manager, as she took a seat beside me at the bar. “We need to talk to that booking agent.”
I shook my head. “We’ve always had a house band.”
“It’s not a sustainable solution anymore,” she told me for the five hundredth time.
“But if you have someone new every night, how can you ever develop a following?”
Simone turned to look at Merle Jennings, my head server, who was stacking our latest alcohol shipment on the shelves above the bar. “Say something.”
“The house band is dead,” he reiterated his point from two days ago. “Xola’s right, Simone’s right, Pete’s right, everyone’s right when we all told you we don’t need something constant, we need something constantly evolving.”
“Oooh, that was good,” Darcy chimed in as she peeled oranges for garnish.
Merle winked at her.
“Any performers we get, much like Jimmy and his couldn’t-keep-the-beat cats—God, they sucked,” Darcy said with an eye roll, “will eventually get another gig because they all aspire to greatness. Jimmy certainly couldn’t stay here forever, and being the house band at whatever club they went to in Nashville will get them seen by a lot more people. It’s all about exposure. You know that.” She eyed me hard. “We live in the age of social media, and if you have someone spectacular, or in Jimmy’s case, mediocre but constant in his cover of other people’s songs, someone will come sniffing around.”
It was the same with my two bartenders and the two others they’d trained. People were always in the bar wanting to poach them, but I had the edge with my employees. The space I’d created was safe. And not just because I did things by the book. They all knew I would take care of them. From a 401(K) to health insurance that included vision and dental, to being available day or night, I’d found that once someone signed on with me, they didn’t leave for anything at the same level or lower. They left to go to school, to open their own place, to spread their wings, to fly. Even then, sometimes they flew away to look, to see, and then came right back home.
Darcy was offered an amazing opportunity at a nightclub in Dubai and another in New York. She’d weighed the pros and cons, even taken trips to see where she would be working, and came back disillusioned—and in the case of the trip to Manhattan, with pneumonia.
“It didn’t feel right,”she’d explained, hugging me. “It wasn’t here.”
I enjoyed everyone being invested in our success, which was why I never hired anyone, except the bands, without everyone weighing in. The last time I’d been in the market for a new server, before Elsa Wayne, the guy sitting at the bar waiting for me to interview him had told Xola he could score her Molly if she wanted. Pete Rosen, one of my two assistant managers, had reported that her eyes had narrowed instantly and she’d pointed at the door. Anyone who thought selling drugs at our place was a good idea was in for a surprise. No one was about to put our Yelp, Tripadvisor, Zagat, or World of Mouth ratings in jeopardy. We liked being on the best of lists for our city. Of course, our music scene was a big part of that.
“Boss?”
I looked up to find Merle squinting at me.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I was just thinking about Jimmy and the guys.”
“They’ll get paid more at the new place,” Merle reminded me.
“I know. I don’t begrudge them leaving. It’s just the timing.”
“Yeah,” Darcy agreed. “If they could have waited just two weeks, that would have allowed you time to at least put feelers out. As it is now, right before Christmas, it’s gonna be hard to find someone to fill the spot.”
“So true,” I grumbled.
“What was the name of the band that was here last night?” Darcy asked, and when I looked at her, I was, as always, struck by her beauty. She was second-generation Chinese American, and instead of being anything like anyone else in her family—I’d seen pictures—she looked like a goth pixie. Both arms and her entire back were covered in gorgeous floral—poisonous flora—tattoos. Her ears, her nose, and her tongue were all pierced, and I had never seen her wear anything that wasn’t black. At the moment, she had a bustier over a peasant blouse, a black leather skirt, black tights, and knee-high motorcycle boots. When she wasn’t working, her boots were stilettos, but behind the bar, support for her feet was more important than fashion. And the boots laced up, so they were still cool-looking.
When her brother came out as gay and their parents couldn’t deal with that and stopped supporting him financially, Darcy moved the nineteen-year-old out to New Orleans, got him enrolled at LSU, and took over his support. Her one stipulation was he needed a job. She’d worked full-time and gone to school—her parents had the identical issue with her being bisexual—so he could do the same. I enjoyed having Conner at my bar because he was easygoing and smiled often, and it gave Darcy something else to do than worry about my love life.
“Boss?”
“Sorry, I was just thinking how pretty you are.”
Darcy gave me an indulgent smile. “You were zoning out is what you were doing,” she teased me. “But c’mon, what was the name of the band?”
I had to think. “Um, Cult of Meat?” I offered.
“No,” Xola said, reaching for the limes to start chopping them up for drinks. “I think it was Cult of Means.”
“Where are you guys getting cult?” Pete Rasmussen said, like we were all dumb, as he filled the ice bin, his arms like tree trunks, making the process quick and easy. “It was Cut of Meat.”
“It was Sweet Meat,” Elsa said, putting her tray on the counter. “I think they were going for the whole the-sweetest-meat-is-closest-to-the-bone saying, but that’s just weird.”
“Ewww.” Xola, who was vegan, gagged.
Getting out my phone, I looked at the name on my Excel spreadsheet. “It was Cut to the Meet,” I announced. “Like meeting someone.”
They were all looking at me like they’d smelled something bad.
“The fact that none of you knew their name tells me they sucked. Not memorable at all.”
“Oh, they were memorable,” Darcy assured me with a roll of her eyes.
“Just not in a good way,” Xola chimed in.
“Well…” Thad, my third bartender, grimaced. He was working the day shift for the rest of the week to learn more tips from Darcy and Xola. “I mean, it was wrong from the beginning, am I right?”
Lots of nodding from everyone.
Pete grunted. “A metal band on Frenchmen Street, boss? What were you thinking?”
All eyes on me.
“Something new?” I announced cheerfully.
Xola snorted, which was incongruous coming from a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a fairy tale. With her long black box braids with magenta highlights, and flawless deep-umber complexion with gold undertones, she was stop-you-in-your-tracks beautiful. When there were men at the bar who hadn’t seen her—they would be talking, not paying attention, and then she’d ask what they wanted in her husky voice—it was fun to watch them get caught in her amber stare. I enjoyed seeing men of all ages go mute. Small perks of the job.
Not that owning a venue like La Belle Vie wasn’t fun. I loved it. My dream had been to have a place in the Quarter, and I realized it at thirty-one. Now, at thirty-six, I thought there would be more to my life than work. I had always pictured someone with me. I had, in fact, pictured someone very specific before he blew town, seeking fame and fortune. And unlike our last band, he had quickly found both. But thinking about Dawson West was a mistake, and after all the time it took me to purge him from my system, I was not going back for anything. And more importantly, thinking about my lost love did nothing to fix my current problem. We really needed a band.
Later that night,as Shenandoah was onstage, I kept my head down and made sure not to make eye contact with anyone, catching up on my paperwork and cleaning projects.
“Really?”
I groaned and lifted my head, meeting the beautiful gray eyes of my manager, my second-in-charge, the woman I’d been smart enough to hire the moment she walked into my place five years ago, after I’d owned the club for two whole weeks. She’d glanced around, then caught my gaze.
“You need help,”she’d stated. “You’re trying to do too much.”
She was not wrong. Trying to be all things when I was a back-of-house guy, not the type to be front and center, had been a mistake. In Simone Howard, I found someone who was amazing with the public, which I was not. We had the perfect division of labor. She told me to think of work like a ship. I took care of the crew, made sure we had all the supplies we needed for the voyage, and she navigated and talked to the people in all the ports. I liked the metaphor. At the moment, though, I did not enjoy how I was being looked at.
“What?” I asked defensively.
She tipped her head slightly toward the playing band.
Groaning, I put my head down.
“Dazzle me,” she goaded.
“I thought, yanno, from the name, that they were probably a country band.”
“Mmmmm-hmmm.”
“I mean, how could a country band be bad?”
“Tomorrow,” she said, one eye closed because the yodeling was just a bit off-key and had, I suspected, run straight up her spinal column to her brain, “you will invite the very nice booking agent who dropped off her card last week, to lunch.”
“I’m cooking my lobster gumbo,” Georgine informed me, taking a seat on the barstool beside me. “That way we’ll impress her.”
“We have to do something,” Xola agreed, sliding in next to Simone, gesturing at the emptiness that was our club at the moment. “Because people cannot dance and drink and sin while being reminded of God.”
She wasn’t wrong.
“Now listen,” Simone began. “I love church, and as you know, I sing in the choir every Sunday morning, but this? This ain’t it.”
No argument there.
Mary CalmesMary Calmes lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with her husband and two children and loves all the seasons except summer. She graduated from the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, with a bachelor's degree in English literature. Due to the fact that it is English lit and not English grammar, do not ask her to point out a clause for you, as it will so not happen. She loves writing, becoming immersed in the process, and falling into the work. She can even tell you what her characters smell like. She loves buying books and going to conventions to meet her fans.
AUDIOBOOKS / TANTOR / CHIRP
EMAIL: mmcalmes@hotmail.com
Sunday, June 28, 2026
Monday, June 22, 2026
🌈Monday's Musical Melody🌈: The Solstice Additions by VL Locey
Laurel Holidays Summer Romance
As the days grow longer, a tetchy pub owner’s family and heart burst into full bloom.
Brann Argraves has never been happier. Of course the irascible barkeep wouldn’t admit that to anyone other than his love, retired country singer Kenan Gardet. And then only under extreme tickle duress.
The two men have been merrily tumbling deeper into love as the seasons rapidly warmed the small town of Whiteham, New York. Now the couple is facing a summer filled with familial growth, a small but stressful menu expansion at the alehouse, and the realization that they’re about to become grandparents to four web-footed hooligans.
The Solstice Addition is a grumpy/sunshine, established couple, gay summer romance with a not as cranky as he pretends to be barkeep, a wandering country crooner who is putting down roots, a small town alehouse packed full of opinionated clientele, two ornery geese who are sitting on a nest full of trouble, an incoming arrival from the stork, and a summery sweet happy ending.
Content warning: This story has references to past substance abuse.
I want to start by saying Brann and Kenan's journey begins in the Laurel Holidays Xmas entry, The Christmas Keeper, which BTW I have not read. I mention this for two reasons:
1. If you want to see their beginning first, then you need to go back and read #6.2. Having not read their origins, I was not lost at all. Sometimes with established couples that you are not with from the beginning the reader is left with a hole filled with endless questions. That was not the case for me here. Sure, it made me curious to see how they got from point A to point G(for geese I'll talk about shortly) but never lost.
So that's out of the way. I couldn't help but love Brann and Kenan, their chemistry is true, fun and believable. As they are an established couple, there is none of the drama that comes with beginnings and pure fun rom com all the way through. I point that out because, humor is often an element in short story/novella entries starring established couples but typically there is a small helping of drama to balance it out. Not here. Solstice Additions is just a joyful delight. I won't say more because I don't want to spoil it for anyone but, Solstice is such a gem, puts a smile on your face from page one and never lets go. I look forward to learning how they got to be so perfect for each other.
So, there is one personal tidbit I want to include. The geese! We had geese when I was little and they were evil, I mean pure unadulterated evil! Their part of the farm was the east side and the west side was the people zone, they did not stay on their side. I clearly remember one morning when I was trying to go to the end of the driveway(nowhere near the geese domain BTW, we're talking couldn't get much farther away from their land and still be on the York property) to get on the bus. They came running over, squawking to high heaven, would not let me cross, two of them pecked at me leaving holes in the knees of my jeans(which drew enough blood I was subjected to a treatment of the dreaded pink stuff, Mercurochrome), Mom came out and waved the bus driver on, got me back in the house, cleaned me up, ironed on a couple of smiling strawberry patches on my jeans, and drove me to school. They weren't around much longer after that. I clearly recall the devilish smirk on my mother's face as she raised the axe. Don't get me wrong, Brann and Kenan's feathered family is protective of their nest but my experience is different and I can't lie, had the lads been parents to pigs or sheep(which we also raised when I was little) my smile would have been just a tad bigger. I usually thank the author for bringing a happy memory to mind and though the beginning of my recalled time was a horror show to my 5 year old self, the inclusion of the geese also brought to mind their end at the hands of my mother and that is a part of the story that I hadn't thought of in too long, so I really do say, Thank You, VL Locey.
Chapter One
“So this is Diaphony now that she’s got a tooth. Just the one tooth. My Kelli is sure that another is on the way. If you stick your finger in the baby’s mouth, you can feel it.”
I gazed down at a red-faced baby of about eight or forty months. I don’t know babies. I know beer and darts and dark-eyed singers with aged souls. Those I’m familiar with. Squalling infants. Nope. Not a clue.
“Why would you put your finger in a baby’s mouth?” I asked my great-aunt Priscilla while my sister, Nora, was busy opening yet another present from another woman I sort of knew as one of Nora’s friends from work.
Aunt Priscilla snorted into her cup of tea as if I were an idiot. “You men,” she said, shaking her silver head. “You dip your finger into some whiskey and rub it on the sore gums.”
I lowered the picture of Diaphony to gawk at the elderly woman. “I’m not real up on baby care, but even a dope like me knows that you probably shouldn’t be getting your kid soused.”
“Pah, that’s what’s wrong with all these new parents. Back when I was raising Patty, that’s Kelli’s mother, we did what worked. My kids rode in the front seat with only my arm to stop them if we got rear-ended. They drank from hoses, rode bikes with no helmets, and rode down metal slides with short shorts and they turned out fine.”
I had no reply to that, so I searched the huge condo that Nora and her husband Antoine had just moved into last month. Antoine was not here, the coward. Neither was my father or any other person of the male persuasion other than Kenan, and I found him sipping punch by the sliding glass door with some woman with blue hair and a ring in her nose.
Kenan felt my gaze, for he glanced my way. I mouthed ‘Help me!’ as Priscilla went on about how much better it was back in the day. His smile was just a small twitch at the corner of his sexy mouth. Standing under the AC vent, his long dark curls blew about his face, a look that I always found incredibly sexy. He said something to nose ring girl then slowly made his way around a baby swing, a car seat, a bouncy thing that looked like it would propel my future niece or nephew—they’d not found out, and good on them for that precluded me coming up to Ottawa to watch them pop a balloon with pink or blue powder in it—into the bright blue Canadian sky. Tiny baby clothes piled up everywhere. Bottles, diapers, and some sort of contraption for breastfeeding that I wanted no part of. The condo was a yellow duckie explosion that even my mother found a bit much.
“Hey, you,” Kenan whispered as he drew near. “Can I steal him away from you for just a few minutes? There’s something on the patio I wanted to show Brann.”
“Oh yes, of course, dear. I love corned beef.”
“So do I,” he replied with a kind pat of her hand before taking mine to lead me out onto the patio. The temps out here were pleasant, around sixty, with a touch of humidity. Nora had the thermostat set at fifty-five degrees in the condo, so it was the same temperature as a meat freezer. No shit, Antoine could hang slabs of meat in the kitchen and go all Rocky Balboa on them as training for his time on the ice.
“Oh man, this is heaven. Thank you.” I pecked his whiskery cheek. A soft wind blew up the side of the newly built tower overlooking the Alexandra Bridge. “She had me pinned down and was talking about sticking her finger into some poor kid’s mouth. No wonder the old folks all died of dysentery if that was what was considered good hygiene.”
He chuckled and turned to look over the Ottawa River, flowing peacefully along. “I’ve had your fingers in my mouth more than a few times and haven’t fallen dead yet.”
“You’ve had more than my fingers in your mouth,” I reminded him and turned to enjoy the view with him. “You know, it sucks being the only people with XY chromosomes here. Why did Dad and Antoine get to bail to play golf?”
“You know why. You’re the chosen birthing brother.”
“Between you and me, I’m not sure I want to be the chosen birthing brother. What am I supposed to do while she’s in labor? Where should I look? Why does she need me there as well as her husband? I mean, he’s seen her baby parts before, obviously, so what the hell am I there for?”
“You’re there because she loves you deeply and wants to share this moment with you.”
“I can share perfectly fine out in the waiting room, where I can puff on a cigar.”
“They don’t allow that in hospitals anymore.” He bumped my hip with his.
“Seems my mother would be the better candidate.”
“Really?”
“No, not really.” I sighed as the slider opened behind us. A gust of arctic air carrying the delightful aroma of Estee Lauder Muse enveloped us.
“Hey, what are you two doing out here?” Nora wiggled in between us, her big belly keeping her at least a good foot from the patio railing.
“He’s hiding from your great-aunt and her baby advice,” Kenan ratted me out and draped an arm around Nora. She rested her head on his shoulder. They had grown incredibly close. She liked to say he was a godsend who had brought light and love back into her brother’s life. Since I couldn’t really argue that I merely accepted they were thick as thieves now. It was kind of nice.
“Oh yeah, I’ve gotten all kinds of advice from people. Total strangers will walk up to me and ask to touch my belly.” We all went ‘Ewwww’ at the same time. “I know, it’s very creepy. And everyone has words of wisdom to pass along. Like this woman in Costco who pushed her cart into mine to inform me that if I put a pickled egg on the highest shelf of my pantry, it would prevent ear infections.” Kenan and I both stared down blankly at the perky little brunette wedged between us. “Right? I had so many questions. Is the pickled egg just sitting on the shelf? Is it in a jar alone or with other pickled eggs? How does placing this egg on a shelf combat bacteria or viruses?”
“I always suspected there was more to pickled eggs than just being disgusting bar snacks.”
“Why don’t we have any pickled eggs at the alehouse?” Kenan asked as Nora slipped one arm around both of us. Whenever she could, she enjoyed telling me she liked having two brothers. I would remind her that Kenan was my boyfriend and not her brother-in-law to which she would just bat her long lashes and giggle as if she knew something that only women knew.
“They’re evil,” I replied flatly.
Nora snorted in a most unladylike manner. “My back is killing me,” she moaned. “This baby is sleeping on my spine. And now I want pickled eggs.”
“I refuse to allow you to ingest pickled eggs. It will taint my niece or nephew. Do you want a purple kid? No, you do not. So nope to pickled eggs.”
“But Brann…”
“No. Do not try to work your sisterly wiles on me. I am a brick wall. Emotions mean nothing to me. I am a rock.”
***
An hour later, I returned from the local deli with a jar of pickled eggs. Kenan found it all quite hysterical, but I knew that someday I’d get my culinary revenge.
Karma could be a real bitch.
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.
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com
The Solstice Additions
Laurel Holidays Series
Sunday, June 14, 2026
Monday, June 8, 2026
🌈🏒Monday's Musical Melody🏒🌈: Cold as Ice by Beth Bolden
Portland Evergreens #2
Malcolm’s all about checking off items in his Life Plan.
He’s made it to the first line on his hockey team, the Portland Evergreens. He’s made the Dean’s List the last four semesters. He’s right in line to graduate on time, and head to the pros. All steps on the ultimate goal of becoming the best front office guy in the NHL.
Elliott is the only fly in his ointment.
The younger, wilder forward parties every night, sleeping with everything with a pulse, and barely attending classes or practices.
It’s annoying, but Mal’s dealing with it, until their new coach insists Mal tutor Elliott to help him pass a class.
And until Elliott discovers Mal’s biggest secret: he’s been too busy checking off points on his life plan to get laid.
They’re fire and ice. Bad boy and virgin. They shouldn’t work at all. But the more time they spend together, on and off the ice, the more irresistible their chemistry becomes.
The more desperate Mal becomes for some of Elliott’s one-on-one tutoring—this time in bed.
But Elliott wants more than just sex. He wants to melt Mal’s icy cold shoulder and convince him there’s more to life—and love—than a plan.
Chapter 1
One year ago
August
It was him.
Elliott Jones stopped in his tracks, the party noise resonating around him, the music thumping and lights strobing, but the sight was undeniable.
Him. Malcolm McCoy. Living and existing in all his dark-haired, fucking-gorgeous-faced glory, leaning against the wall, an inscrutable expression on his face and an intense look in those unearthly blue eyes.
Elliott felt his heart stutter and stop, and his cock twitch in his jeans.
It had been this way the first—and the last—time he’d seen Malcolm too. He’d been visiting colleges, trying to decide where he was going to commit to playing hockey for, and Portland U had already been high on the list, but then he’d spotted Malcolm in the locker room after a game, pulling his helmet off, sweat-damp dark hair falling across his forehead, paired with a jawline that could—and had—changed lives.
One life in particular.
Elliott’s own.
His sister Macey had teased him that he’d made one of the most important decisions of his life because his dick had been hard, and he’d flushed bright red because he hadn’t been sure she was wrong.
Of course, it helped that the Evergreens had a great coach that Elliott would love to play for and a storied history of not just team greatness but of sending players to the NHL.
He wanted a piece—a big one—of that success for himself.
And he wanted Malcolm McCoy.
When he’d arrived on campus, he’d planned to tackle both goals at the same time.
When Ramsey, one of the upperclassmen on his team and a crack defenseman, had invited him to this party, he hadn’t assumed he’d see Malcolm here.
But here he was.
Scowling, now.
Well, Elliott could do something about that.
He’d never failed to put a smile on someone’s face. In high school he was the easy, charming life of every party, and even if he wasn’t particularly interested in women, they loved him anyway. And guys? Well, even at the age of eighteen he’d been responsible for at least a few bisexual awakenings.
Elliott didn’t feel an ounce of shame about it. He enjoyed men and he enjoyed sex, and as long as it was consensual, there wasn’t any reason to regret it.
But Malcolm was a whole different story.
Elliott craved him. Just one look at him and he’d known they were meant to hook up.
Elliott sidled up to him, plastered one of his best smiles—the one that had almost never failed to seal the deal—onto his face and said, “Hey.”
In his opinion, it was always better to settle for something simple. Simple couldn’t backfire in your face the way overcomplicated could.
Malcolm looked over at him, startled. Like he couldn’t believe Elliott was talking to him.
Like he’d just died and gone to heaven.
Elliott puffed out his chest a little. This was going even better than he’d imagined.
“Hey,” Malcolm said gruffly.
He had the kind of voice—rough and low—that Elliott could already imagine hearing as Malcolm murmured into his ear as he thrust deep inside him.
Elliott shivered and refocused, more determined than ever to make this happen.
“I’m Elliott, I’m—”
“You’re the new freshman. Right winger.”
“Yeah. That’s me.” Elliott nodded. Knowing that Malcolm played left wing. If he earned the spot, he might even end up on the same line as Malcolm. Working closely together. Very closely together if Elliott had anything to say about it.
Mal didn’t say anything. In fact, he looked away, like he hoped Elliott might go back to wherever he came from.
Usually Elliott didn’t have this much trouble getting someone—anyone, really—to talk to him. But it was like pulling teeth to get Malcolm to even engage.
Frustrating. But Elliott wasn’t ready to give up. That easily, or at all, frankly.
“This party seems pretty great,” Elliott said. His first college party. With his first college hookup.
“You like this sort of thing?”
If Elliott wasn’t so focused on Malcolm he’d have given the party a once-over glance, but instead he kept his gaze on Malcolm.
“Yeah. But more like . . .I was wondering if this party would be like every college party they show on TVs and in movies, and you know what?”
Elliott paused. Waiting for him to answer.
“What?” Malcolm finally replied, the acknowledgment dragged out of him way more reluctantly than Elliott would’ve liked, especially when he was doing half-decent work here.
“It actually kind of is? You know, the sort of trashy hedonism of it all? I only had to wander in the kitchen for someone to hand me a bottle of tequila. And then there’s all that out there . . .” Elliott gestured towards the makeshift dancefloor, where a dozen or so students were gyrating together to some old-school 90’s R&B. “And don’t forget the beer pong in the garage. I’m sure if I wandered out the back door, I’d see a couple inching their way towards hooking up.”
Malcolm gave him a blank stare. “Why would you see that?”
“It’s like every episode of bad teen TV ever. Like The OC or One Tree Hill or even The Vampire Diaries. I guess we can’t really count Gossip Girl, because they weren’t in college, yet, but they did get there, I guess? But they wouldn’t know what to do with a trashy college party, honestly.”
Malcolm was still staring at him, a tiny crease appearing between his eyebrows.
“What’s Gossip Girl?” he asked.
Not what Elliott had expected, but that was okay. He wasn’t telling Elliott to fuck off and for a second, he’d been afraid that might have been the next thing out of Malcolm’s mouth.
“You’ve never seen Gossip Girl?” Oh, Elliott was already planning some watch parties in his head. A few nice long evenings, Netflix playing, and anything but chilling happening on the couch.
“No.”
“It’s a . . .uh . . .kind of trashy teen drama about a bunch of rich kids in NYC who go to this private school—”
“That sounds terrible.”
“Well, yeah, terrible, but also great,” Elliott said. “And this party is right out of that playbook, honestly, which is kind of cool when you think about it?”
“It is?”
“Well, yeah. It means they got something right? And if they got all this right, that means I’m going to end up making a very bad choice—maybe even more than one—with an inappropriate hookup, but they end up being so good, so fucking memorable, I won’t be able to forget them.” It was a lot to pile on, but fuck it, Elliott did it anyway, fluttering his eyelashes in Malcolm’s direction.
Hoping he got the memo: that his possibly bad, but very memorable choice was going to be Malcolm.
“I don’t understand,” Malcolm said bluntly. “Is there something in your eye? Do you have a medical condition?”
“No,” Elliott said. He sighed. Maybe his subtle approach was not working. Hadn’t he just thought it earlier? Better to keep things simple. Straightforward. “Here’s the thing. I’m hot. You’re hot. We’re at a party. We should go out there—”
“What?” Malcolm looked floored now. “What?”
“I said it—”
But Malcolm didn’t even let him get the sentence out again. His eyebrows drew together—two dark slashes against his olive-toned skin, as he continued with, “I don’t make the line assignments. That’s Coach Nichols.”
“Well, yeah.” Elliott dredged up that smile again, hoping that he might see a repeat of that look on Malcolm’s face. The one that said, I just fucking won the lottery. “That’s not why I came over here.”
“Are you sure?”
Why did Malcolm look so confused? Didn’t men—and women—cross rooms to talk to him all the fucking time? Surely Elliott was not the only person on earth who looked at this guy and wanted him in their bed?
Elliott had expected to have to wade through a whole bunch of interested people. But no, Malcolm had been standing here, on his own. Alone.
“Like I said. You’re super, crazy hot. Like . . .melting my clothes right off my body hot. And I’m not so bad myself so . . .”
Malcolm didn’t say anything. Just stared.
Elliott realized, belatedly, that he’d seemed fine with his whole situation before Elliott had chosen to cross the room to talk to him. Comfortable, even. Eyes steady, not darting around, looking at who was looking at him.
He’d liked being alone.
Well.
Elliott could still change that.
“Like I said, I’m not so bad myself, and I’m feeling a little lonely. New school and all . . .”
He took a risk and sidled closer, angling his body towards Malcolm, heart rate accelerating at his nearness. He was maybe an inch or two taller, but his shoulders were broader and he was thick with muscle. Elliott’s stomach clenched.
He’d won and bedded tons of hot guys. Hot wasn’t necessarily the thing Elliott wanted.
It was Malcolm’s brand of hot. The guy had buried himself inside Elliott until he felt like he was going to go crazy if he couldn’t have him.
How many times during the last eight months had he touched his cock and Malcolm’s face had sprung, uninvited, into his head?
Every single goddamn time.
“I’m sure you’re gonna be just fine,” Malcolm said dismissively.
“I’m . . .” Well, he was not fine. Not really at all. “I’m not fine, actually.” Elliott laughed self-deprecatingly. “I don’t usually have this problem.”
“What problem?” Malcolm asked. Demanded.
“How about this, let’s go grab a drink,” Elliott said. “Start over. You need more of a warmup, I get that now. I’m alright with that. I like flirting and it’s not so hard when you look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . .” Elliott rolled his eyes. “You know what you look like.”
Those brows drew together. “No.”
Jesus. Okay. Elliott sighed. “Let’s go get that drink.” He’d already had two shots of tequila and a lukewarm red Solo cup of beer, but he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to be dealing with this.
“I don’t drink.”
Elliott supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. The guy didn’t know he was hot, and didn’t drink and was apparently perfectly content standing on the outskirts of the party, not actually participating in it.
“Uh, okay, so I’m sure they have something . . .” But Elliott stopped in his tracks, because he realized something else.
Malcolm looked surprised again.
Not like he’d died and gone to heaven.
More like he’d journeyed to hell.
Or even worse, like he didn’t want to be having this conversation at all.
Like he couldn’t wait for Elliott to move on.
“I’m actually impressed by the whole sober guy attitude,” Elliott said, dredging up another one of his killer grins. Laying on the charm nice and thick. “We can just stand here and I can flirt with you and you can stare at me. That works too.”
“Does it?” Malcolm seemed surprised by this.
“Is it so crazy I’d want to meet you? Hang out with you?”
“We met,” Malcolm said dismissively. “And for the rest, I’m sure we’ll see each other at practice next week.”
Nobody had ever called Elliott a freaking quitter. He retrenched. “Actually, we met last year.”
Met was probably an oversimplification but Elliott wasn’t going to admit that to Malcolm, or even to himself. Technically, Coach Nichols had introduced Elliott to the whole group and Malcolm had given him a single solitary nod.
Some of the other guys—Brody and Ivan and Ramsey—had come over to greet him, chat him up a bit, probably with the hope of convincing him to ultimately attend Portland U.
But what none of them knew was that Malcolm’s solitary nod had done more to recruit Elliott than any of their friendly overtures.
“Okay,” Malcolm said. Still dismissively.
Elliott couldn’t help his frustrated outburst. “Why are you at a party if you don’t actually want to talk to anyone?”
Why are you at a party if you don’t want to drink or dance or flirt?
Because his hands were empty and he was against the wall, like he’d chosen it, and he definitely didn’t seem to want to flirt with Elliott—or Elliott to flirt with him—even as a way to pass the time.
Malcolm’s mouth pressed firmly together. That kind of pissy look might turn Elliott off with anyone else. But his body—his cock—wasn’t cooperating and hadn’t gotten the memo.
“I didn’t want to come. I have some reading for econ to do, but . . .” Malcolm looked up and there was Ramsey Andresen, their teammate, wandering over. “But Ramsey convinced me.” He made a face. “Wouldn’t take no for a goddamn answer. So here I am.”
Malcolm didn’t need to finish his thought for Elliott to know what it was. So here I am, being bothered by you.
Elliott didn’t know what to say.
Never once in all his fantastical, X-rated imaginings had he thought that once he and Malcolm met that he’d fail to entice him.
That he’d fail to even convince the guy to have a basic conversation with him.
That he’d rather go back to his probably spartan apartment and read about economics.
Elliott was more than a little horrified, stuck in silence as Ramsey approached.
“Mal. Being the life of the party as usual?” Ramsey’s mouth quirked up as he greeted the other guy. He was also attractive, in that blond gregarious way, but Elliott wasn’t particularly attracted to him. His eldest sister Nina would have told him it was because it would be like fucking himself.
She was probably right.
Malcolm rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why you bothered to make me come, Andresen. This is a waste of fucking time. Why would I want to drink watered-down booze that’ll give me a bitch of a headache in the morning? As for the apparently ‘great company’ you promised, I’m not impressed.”
“It’s to be fucking social,” Ramsey said, grinning. He turned to Elliott. “Good to see you, kid.”
Elliott’s spine straightened. He was not a kid, and he was definitely not a kid when it came to Malcolm. “Thanks for the invite. This seems like a cool party. Seemed like a cool party.” He shot a glare he barely even meant in Malcolm’s direction.
Ramsey laughed, pounded Malcolm on the shoulder. “This one just wouldn’t know fun if it came up and bit him in the ass.”
Elliott was close enough to Malcolm that he could practically feel him stiffen.
And not in the fun place, either.
Disappointing. Catastrophically fucking disappointing.
“Apparently,” Elliott said, trying to match Ramsey’s casual tone. Like he didn’t give two shits at how un-fun Malcolm Reynolds had turned out to be.
He’d hoped they’d have some common ground other than hockey and liking guys.
But, he reminded himself, you don’t need to have anything in common or even to have fun to fall into bed together.
That was true. He wasn’t looking for a relationship or love or that whole happily-ever-after thing, though he supposed he might someday. But for right now, he was having too much fun.
Or at least he was trying to have too much fun.
“Malcolm, you really need to get out more. Talk to people,” Ramsey said.
“Sure, I guess so, but this guy?” Malcolm glanced over at Elliott. “You should have seen him peacocking right over. Reminded me of someone. Oh yeah, that’s right. You.”
Ramsey just laughed again, like Elliott’s ego puncturing like a sad balloon was the funniest shit he’d ever heard.
Well, at least someone was laughing.
“Hey, kid, it’s alright,” Ramsey said, patting him on the shoulder and giving him a commiserating smile. “That’s just how our Malcolm is. I should’ve warned you before you came all the way over here to strike out.”
“Strike out?” Malcolm looked confused again.
“It means we get you’re not interested in us fun-loving plebeians,” Ramsey teased. “We get you’re focused and we’re just a distraction. Right, kid?”
Elliott ground his teeth together. “Right.”
“Well, good news is that I know a lot of guys who’d love to meet you,” Ramsey cajoled. “You wanna meet some of them?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I would.” He straightened his back and shot Malcolm one last hot glare before walking off with Ramsey.
So he couldn’t have the brain-melting, sex-on-a-stick guy? That didn’t mean he couldn’t have plenty of fun.
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After Ramsey lured the young idiot kid with promises of debauchery and drink, of people who actually wanted to party, Malcolm didn’t see much reason to stick around.
He’d put in his time, attending even when he hadn’t wanted to, all because Ramsey had batted those big baby blue eyes and convinced him it was ‘good for the team’ or some other such bullshit.
And it had been bullshit.
Sure, a handful of their teammates had been there, but the only one he’d talked to had been the kid.
Elliott, his uncooperative brain supplied as he walked home on the dark streets towards Clark, the dorm he was living in this year.
A lot of juniors moved off campus, but Mal had decided to stay. He didn’t mind the slightly stricter rules because he didn’t drink and he didn’t party and he had no interest in finding a roommate to help offset the costs of living in an apartment.
Mal took the stairs instead of the elevator, running up the three flights to his floor, to compensate for the burger and fries he’d shared with Ramsey and Ivan at Jimmy’s diner before the party.
Really, he reminded himself, it was so much better this way. This way he had his own single room, with no need to make small talk unless he felt the need.
And he rarely felt the need.
Of course, that was when he turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks.
Jane. Sitting next to her door, knees tucked up under her, leaving an expanse of bare thigh visible that he knew she wouldn’t be showing him if she didn’t have that sheen of booze in her eyes.
He didn’t know Jane well, but she’d made an impression in the half dozen times they’d talked—or when she’d talked at him.
She’d chattered much like Elliott had, but while he’d found that overconfident, cocky idiot not worth a breath or any of his brain molecules, he’d kind of liked the way that Jane chattered at him, never minding if he barely answered her.
Mal approached her carefully, telegraphing his intentions way in advance, settling down on the floor next to her.
He had at least a foot on her, and two years to boot. Nevermind a whole wealth of bitter experience.
She hadn’t said that to him, of course, but he’d seen the innocence glowing in her light brown eyes, the excitement in them as she’d told him about the party she was going to tonight and the guy who’d invited her.
Mal wished he’d been paying more attention.
“Hey,” he said gently, touching her briefly on the arm then withdrawing his hand. “You okay?”
She glanced up at him. “Malcolm,” she murmured, slurring a little, “I think I’m drunk.”
Shit.
“Yeah, honey, I think so,” he said, and she sighed.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said.
“I warned you.” He had. He’d paid that much attention, at least.
“I know. You were kind of right.” Her voice went wry, and the humor there relieved him more than he wanted to admit. She wasn’t bleeding. Violated. Or in some ways worse and some ways better, bitter like him. Over it, like him.
“Party not so great?”
“Alex kept trying to get me to drink more.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I didn’t really want to. I just wanted to flirt with him a little, you know?”
“I do know,” Mal said gravely.
She laughed. “Do you though?”
He almost told her that someone had flirted with him tonight—or had tried anyway. That young stupid peacock who seemed like a chip right off the Ramsey block. But Ramsey’s antics hadn’t been as much of an issue because he gave a shit about what they did on the ice. Never hit on him, either.
Ramsey had instinctually seemed to understand that Mal didn’t want him to, so he didn’t. For which Mal was very thankful.
“No, not really. You caught me.” He laughed, a gravelly sound, which told him—and probably Jane—that he didn’t laugh enough.
“There you go,” she said, sounding very satisfied with her analysis of the situation.
“We should get you up, into your room. Drinking some water.”
Jane giggled. “I know. I knew I should unlock the door but . . .” She pulled her keys out of her pocket and jangled them, trills of laughter still escaping from her pink-painted mouth. “I couldn’t find the right key.”
Malcolm plucked the ring from her fingers and shifted through the keys, easily finding the right one, because he’d seen her mark it a week ago with red glitter pen.
“You’re so smart,” Jane said, sighing with resignation.
“Thanks,” he said dryly. “But I think it’s more sober than smart.”
Suddenly, she turned to him. Petite nose upturned. She looked like he imagined a little sister might look, if his mother had ever stuck around to make another “mistake” with his father. And if any of them had ever had blond hair.
“What’s your key?” she demanded to know.
“What do you mean?” For a split second, he was terrified that she was hitting on him too. And that had been bad enough with Elliott, who at least possessed parts he was interested in. Jane did not.
“I mean,” she said, patting him insistently on the chest. “You’re so . . .so . . .so . . .”
“So?”
“So alone. So lonely.”
“Those aren’t the same thing,” he said, to avoid the question.
If there even was a question there.
“Where’s the key that unlocks you? Makes you happy?” she demanded with all the delicacy of the drunk.
“I am happy. Dean’s list. And Coach all but promised me first line, this year,” Malcolm insisted. Not sure why he was going to the trouble with this girl. He should just change the subject.
The way he’d kept trying to do with Elliott.
Elliott had also blundered in with the finesse of an elephant, all outraged, oversized bruised ego when Mal hadn’t been interested.
Well, that isn’t necessarily true, is it?
But for a moment, Mal had looked at him and felt something. That same something that probably led to people making very stupid mistakes and then regretting them in the morning.
Before he shut it down, anyway.
He knew better than to go down that road, again. Especially with a guy like that.
“There’s more to life than school and hockey,” Jane protested.
“Come on,” Mal said, lifting her to her feet easily. “Let’s get you into your room and some water in you. You’ll be glad in the morning.”
“But—”
“No buts,” Mal said firmly. He tugged her by the arm, gentle but insistent, pulling her into her single, next door to his, after he’d unlocked the door with the red glitter key.
He deposited her on the edge of her twin bed, decked out in delicate purple florals. In the future, he’d need to keep a better eye out for her. The Alexes of the world would take advantage, so easily, of all this kind, innocent sweetness, and there were enough crumbs of his own left in him that explained his concern.
He didn’t want her to be another him by the end of her freshman year.
“I looked for you, at the party,” she said, as he leaned over and rummaged through her mini-fridge, finally unearthing a bottle of orange Gatorade.
He passed it over to her, but instead of opening it, she toyed with the lid.
Mal realized she was waiting for an actual answer.
“I was at the Gamma Sigma party,” he said. “Must’ve been a different party.”
“Must’ve been. I don’t remember which house it was.” She looked painfully young like this, feet not even reaching the floor as they dangled over the edge of the bed. “Alex wanted to take shots at his place, first.”
“Goddamn Alex,” Mal growled. “You should’ve told him no. You don’t need shots.”
“I was nervous,” she admitted with a sardonic smile. “I wanted him to like me. Don’t you ever want anyone to like you?”
Just once.
“No. I don’t need people’s affection, I’m just fine on my own. Self-sufficiency is important,” Mal said, painfully aware he sounded just like his father.
It had never hit him as hard as it did right now.
He forced himself to soften his tone. “But I get it. You like him.”
“I liked him.”
“What happened?”
“He was pushy. Weird. And then he disappeared. When I found him, he had his hand up another girl’s skirt.”
Mal’s fists creaked as he clenched them. “I’m gonna kick his ass.”
“No need,” Jane said. “I kicked him real hard in the balls.”
Mal laughed again, the sound escaping out of him rustily.
“I know just where to aim,” she said. “My dad taught me.”
“Good dad.”
“The best,” Jane agreed. She looked over at him. “And you’re not so bad, yourself.”
“Drink your Gatorade,” he said gruffly. “It’s late. And I need to read my econ chapters still.”
“Alright, but don’t be a stranger, okay?” she asked hopefully, gazing at him like she’d seen something in him that he’d missed.
“I won’t,” Malcolm said, promising himself that he’d be present the next time an Alex came around to take her to a frat party. Maybe her dad couldn’t be here, but he could.
“Good.” Jane took a long drink of Gatorade. “Next time you’re coming with me. Or! Better yet, you can take me to one of your frat parties. I bet there’s so many cute athletes there.”
“No chance,” Mal said.
But he already had a feeling she’d be the second reason, besides Ramsey’s passive-aggressive entreaties, that he returned to the Gamma Sigma house.
Beth Bolden
A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just as weird in Raleigh.
Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.
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Cold as Ice #2
Portland Evergreens Series
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