🎅🎄5th Day of Christmas Author Spotlight🎄🎅: Tal Bauer

Tal Bauer

Tal Bauer is an author of gay romantic suspense/thriller novels.

The world needs more gay heroes, gay love stories, and powerful women kicking ass. I try to write those stories. With a background ranging from law enforcement to humanitarian aid, my stories are global in scope and with diverse characters in all roles. My goal is to help normalize gay characters as action heroes and to bring to life strong, dynamic, holistic women in all of my novels.

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EMAIL: tal@talbauerwrites.com

A Time to Rise
Summary:
History says the Knights Templar were destroyed in 1307.

History is wrong.

Vampires haunt the sewers beneath Rome, revenants desecrate graveyards, ghouls devour helpless passersby, and incubi stalk dark alleys and seedy nightclubs in Italy's capital. Deep in the Vatican, a brotherhood exists, sworn protectors of the earth, and they stand against the darkness. Operating in secret and silence, they protect our world from the sinister, the etheric, and the evils that exist beyond the Veil.

But it's a lonely life, and Alain Autenburg knows that more than most. His lover was ripped from him years ago, and he vowed never to get close to another soul again. Even when the loneliness presses down on him, and his empty heart cries out for something more.

Something more comes in Cristoph Hasse, a new soldier arriving in Rome to serve in the Pontifical Swiss Guard. Young, brash, and fitting in at right angles everywhere he goes, Cristoph struggles in the murky, deceptive labyrinth of the Vatican. Propelled forward by a past he can't understand, Cristoph collides with Alain as both men crash headfirst into the darkest secret of the Vatican... and of the world.

The Jock

Summary:

The Team #1

Wes Van de Hoek clawed his way off his family’s West Texas ranch under the Friday night lights, earning a football scholarship to the state’s best university. Three years in, he has it all: he’s the starting tight end, team captain, and, according to ESPN, maybe the best college football player in the nation. But he’s been keeping a secret from everyone.

Justin Swanscott has three certainties in his life: he’s gay, football is overrated, and he really, really doesn’t like cowboys. He should never have fallen into Wes’s open-range eyes or let his heart run wild when Wes gave him that shy little smile over summer. But he couldn’t stop himself.

Everyone’s asking questions about Wes this season: How is he playing so well? Will Texas be undefeated this year? Will he take the team all the way to the national championship? What’s next for him?

The truth? Wes isn’t dreaming about an NFL contract. His heart belongs to Justin, even though the world wants it to belong to football.

Wes has stadiums packed with screaming fans, ESPN is all over him, and the NFL wants him badly. He’s living under a microscope, and the pressure keeps building as the team keeps winning. Everyone wants something from him, but all Wes wants is to love Justin.

Something’s gotta give.

The Night Of

Summary:

You've heard this story before: a guy supposedly kills himself, but his best friend can't accept it. He calls in an investigator he knows to take a second look, certain there's more going on.

I'm the investigator. Secret Service Agent Sean Avery. The guy who called me? My ex, Vice President Jonathan Sharp. And the guy he doesn't believe put a bullet in his brain?

That was President Steven Baker.

The deeper I dig, the more things fall apart. I've got a dead president inside a locked room. A hidden note. A secret gun. A missing CIA officer.

And no one I can trust.

Now Jonathan's in the crosshairs, and if I don't figure out what really happened that night at Camp David, the love of my life might be the next president to die.

***This M/M romantic suspense features smoldering forbidden love and a May/December second chance romance that ignites your pages. 

Enemies of the State

Summary:

The Executive Office #1

The President falls for the one man he's not allowed to love... his own Secret Service agent.

Newly elected President Jack Spiers' presidency is rocked from the very beginning, and he's working furiously to keep the world from falling apart. 

For Special Agent Ethan Reichenbach, Jack is just another president. He runs the presidential detail, and he's side by side with Jack every day. He's expecting another stuffed suit and an arrogant DC politician, but Jack shocks him with his humor and humanity.

But there are rules against a Secret Service agent and one of their protectees developing a friendship--big rules. Ethan keeps his distance even as Jack draws him in. 

It's a lure he isn't strong enough to turn away from.

As the two men collide, rules are shattered and Jack ends up centered in the deadly crosshairs of a hardline domestic threat. Ethan must put everything on the line in order to save the man he loves, Jack's presidency, and the world.

Hell and Gone

Summary:

One hanged man.

Two vanished cowboys.

Three hundred missing cattle.

The Crazy Mountains are devouring everything they see.

Everett Dawson, Montana’s newest Stock Detective, has been sent from Helena down to the Crazy Mountains. Cattle are going missing in the Crazies and Everett is charged with finding these modern-day rustlers and bringing them in.

When he arrives, he finds a hanged cowboy and a heap of questions. Was it suicide or was it murder? Why are cowboys fleeing the Crazies? Far from a simple investigation, Everett's case plunges deep into the mountains' dark past.

Lawrence Jackson, the bad boy who runs the Lazy Twenty Two, was the last man to see the dead cowboy alive. There’s a whole forest fire of smoke swirling around Lawrence, and where there’s smoke, there’s flame... and maybe even murder.

But Everett is drawn to Lawrence, and if he takes the risk Lawrence offers, will Everett find what he craves, or will the Crazies claim their next victim?

A Time to Rise

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The Jock

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The Night Of

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Enemies of the State

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Hell and Gone

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🗽Monday's Mysterious Mayhem🗽: The Night Of by Tal Bauer

Summary:

You've heard this story before: a guy supposedly kills himself, but his best friend can't accept it. He calls in an investigator he knows to take a second look, certain there's more going on.

I'm the investigator. Secret Service Agent Sean Avery. The guy who called me? My ex, Vice President Jonathan Sharp. And the guy he doesn't believe put a bullet in his brain?

That was President Steven Baker.

The deeper I dig, the more things fall apart. I've got a dead president inside a locked room. A hidden note. A secret gun. A missing CIA officer.

And no one I can trust.

Now Jonathan's in the crosshairs, and if I don't figure out what really happened that night at Camp David, the love of my life might be the next president to die.

***This M/M romantic suspense features smoldering forbidden love and a May/December second chance romance that ignites your pages. 

One 

Camp David at midnight reminded me of a held breath. A sharp inhale, a tightened chest. Waiting. Expectant. Always on the edge of something. 

There were a thousand eyeballs in the woods around me. All the hundreds of sailors and marines who manned Camp David—technically a navy shore facility—on duty, watching over the president. And, of course, us. The Secret Service. As a whole, we were a group of overwound, arrogant pricks, and anal-retentive assholes on top of that. Best people I knew, hands down, never mind the ulcers and the high blood pressure. 

I’d said it a thousand times before: life on the detail felt like you were forever on the starting line at the Olympics, waiting and waiting for a gunshot that never came, for the sprint and the race that you’d never—if you were lucky—run. 

Even there, in the stillness and the silence, I was on edge. A hint of moonlight stretched like watery milk across a hammered night. The sky was a dome overhead, a shield. We were thirty-two minutes by helicopter from DC and yet it felt like a lifetime away. The churn of the capital belonged to another place and time. Five layers of hardened security would give you that sense of isolation. Especially when every one of those hundreds of protective agents, military officers, and special operations soldiers had been trained to be silent. To disappear deeper than an echo. 

We were all hitting the Pepto Bismol bottles. Usually there was a little more pep in my step at Camp David, but not with eight heads of state on station. It was like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, except the dwarfs were seven other heads of state as President Baker hosted the year’s G8 summit. Honestly, it was better to have the summit here, someplace we could lock down tighter than a virgin’s nervous asshole, than have it in a hotel in some god-awful city, exposed to the public and a thousand different threats. 

Each of the dwarfs—each head of state—was allowed one aide, personal or political or both, we really didn’t care, and one protective agent to stay with them at Camp David. Of course, we acted like the protective agent shadowing their dwarf’s every footstep was a flint-eyed, cold-blooded intelligence agent. That would be the case if the shoe was on the other foot. Of course, we’d never accept a limit of only one protective agent for our president, but hey. Our Camp David. Our rules. 

The rest of the mass of humanity supporting the visiting delegations, all the aides and advisers and special assistants, were bunked down in Thurmont and shuttled up every morning on a fleet of buses. White House staff were bunking at Hickory Lodge and in Chestnut cabin, and us Secret Service agents were hot racking it in Witch Hazel and Rosebud. Wherever we could find room for a cot and a sleeping bag to share with our designated partner on the opposite shift, our newest, closest best buddy. So close you could still feel the toe sweat at the bottom of the sleeping bag when you crawled inside. Witch Hazel cabin smelled like feet and corn chips, and I’d rather sleep in my SUV than hot rack in there. Twenty-five agents and one bathroom? Eau de toothpaste and ass? Fuck off. I’d shit in the woods, thanks.

In this, a secluded retreat for the president to get away from it all, we were all tripping over each other’s shadows and breathing in each other’s burps. Things were crowded. 

I was the graveyard shift supervisor. My blood pressure didn’t need the workout of watching eight heads of state and a hundred aides try to navigate dinner on President Baker’s patio. Was that staffer reaching for the butter or for a knife? Was the prime minister only pretending to strangle the European Union president, or did I need to draw and take aim? Who was getting thrown into the pool first, and would it be a ha-ha-funny moment or a boiling-over-of-geopolitical-stresses moment? 

No fucking thank you. I’d stay up and howl at the moon. Listen to which cabin snored the loudest. This dark path through the woods was exactly the right amount of socialization for me, thank you. Not that I got what I wanted. I’d been on duty for twenty hours straight, working the back end, the behind the scenes of the behind the scenes. Now, I was finally on my own. 

Vibration in my pocket made me still. I fished my phone out. Number blocked. Right before I swiped to answer, the call ended. I waited in case a voicemail popped up. Nothing. I shoved the phone back in my pocket. 

Maybe it had been— 

I curled away from where the whispers in my mind were edging. No need to go digging around in that darkness, into the other reason I stayed on the night shift and had pulled myself off the president’s detail for the past three hundred and sixty… five days. 

Jesus, it had been a year. Exactly. 

My boots dragged to a stop on the dirt path, the gravel-and-ground-dust sound chewing through the black night. Images slammed through me: dark hair, ocean eyes, a slow, teasing smile. Almost no one could make him smile, but damn it, I had. I’d felt like the biggest man in the whole damn world the first time I’d teased a smile out of him. It was the first time my heart had stutter-stepped, too, the first time I’d realized I was fucked. But not as fucked as that night, when— 

Don’t. I had shut the door on that three hundred and sixty-five days ago, and it was staying shut. 

I could still remember how he felt, though, like his memory was a vapor that slipped through my touch. I flexed my hands, curled my fingers, chasing an echo of his silken hair. 

But that led to the other memories. Don’t go there. 

I stared at the sky again, watching a cloud shiver in front of the moon. Dark treetops scraped the night as if trying to shovel down the stars. The pinpricks above were brighter than in DC, but still muted. They weren’t anywhere close to the brilliance we had seen a year earlier on the other side of the world. On that beach, the stars had burned down on us like the whole sky was an ocean, like waves had lapped against the night and left a billion specks of glittering sand shining on him and me alone. He’d stared at the stars until I couldn’t breathe, transfixed by his profile carved from shimmer and shadow and the hint of a secret smile as his eyes slid sideways. I’d thought he was asking, Are we really doing this? Have we been moving toward this moment, this night together, every hidden glance and smile and stolen conversation building the path that led to right here—sand, starlight, and a tentative touch—right now? 

Yes, I had thought. Yes, yes, yes. 

I scrubbed my hands over my face and blew out a breath. Maybe it was time to request a transfer. I couldn’t outrun what had happened… or outrun him. And I’d never be on the president’s detail again. I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve the badge, not anymore.  

You didn’t need to be a psychologist to see what I was doing. But who was I trying to escape? Myself or him? Or was I trying to escape what I’d done?

If I let my thoughts lurch too long down that path, things turned dark, fast. The last time I’d tried to face what lay behind that shut door, I’d upended a bottle of bourbon down my throat and woken up facedown on the kitchen floor with my gun locked in my freezer. I’d zip-tied the fridge doors together. If I hadn’t, well. 

Enough. I started walking again, leaving those thoughts behind me like I could physically drop them on the ground and let them fester in the woods behind Aspen, the president’s cabin. I was on the trail that ringed the golf course—one hole with three different tee-offs—and the president’s backyard. Aspen was a dark blob outlined in shadows and the hazy glow of orange sodium lights. A dull shine burned from behind the shuttered windows of President Baker’s bedroom. He and the First Lady had turned in around ten, after a near-silent dinner and an uncharacteristically tense schmoozefest on the president’s back patio. 

President Baker had been acting strange ever since he’d disembarked from Marine One at Camp David. No, before that, even. I’d already arrived as part of the advance team, but I’d heard the other agents reporting it over the radio. And I’d seen it, too: the storm clouds on his normally cheery face and the thunder in his expression. President Baker was a man with a smile always at the ready, along with an open palm and an ear to listen to whoever needed his attention. He’d won the nation over with that openness, that warmth, that ability to sit down and connect with voters in small towns across the nation. I remembered the campaign. I remembered how he’d tear up his schedule so he could sit for three unscheduled hours in a Starbucks with a group of moms and dads. 

But tonight, he’d been distracted. Sullen. Gloomy. His words were short and his temper hot, and he skipped delivering the welcome speech at dinner. The seven dwarfs had looked on, confused, but they were professionals at rolling with it, and they talked among themselves as President Baker chewed his salad and scowled at the wall. Not even his closest friend among them, Andrew Rees, the prime minister of the United Kingdom, could pull him out of his funk. 

Not that Baker wasn’t under some extra fucking stress. It had been a long, long few months at the White House. The disappearance of Paul Hardacre, the CIA’s chief of station in Rome, was the CIA’s worst security breach in decades. Maybe ever. I didn’t know how he stacked up against Ames, but I did know his disappearance—and assumed defection—had strained the US intelligence community and President Baker almost to the breaking point. 

Five CIA officers had turned up dead over the past six weeks, mysteriously shot or stabbed or suffocated or found in their car with their throat slit, in Paris, Lagos, Dubai, Berlin, and Karachi. 

Hardacre had left a trail that led to Moscow, but the Russians were insisting they didn’t have anything to do with his disappearance. The Russian president had said that right to Baker’s face tonight, cigar in one hand, brandy in the other. 

Baker had been too aggravated, too frustrated, and too surly to spar with the young Russian president, and he’d just growled at the man, said they’d discuss it later, and then parked himself against the patio railing for the next hour, brooding as he stared at the pool. 

I’d watched it all from my post on the trails, counting the minutes that Baker had spent alone and watching his own reflection as the rest of the world rotated around him. A bubble built—impenetrable, it seemed, walling off anyone and everyone and locking him in a prison of his own rage. Not even the First Lady tried to talk to him. 

Baker’s bad mood had followed him into his cabin. I’d been on the close side of the perimeter, rounding the back of the pool, when the call came over the radio two hours ago: POTUS and FLOTUS were arguing, screaming at each other.

That was unusual. They had a fairy-tale love, twenty years of marriage, and knew each other down to the molecules that made up their bones. You could see the love they shared whenever they looked at each other. I’d felt it, even, when I had been on the president’s detail. Their marriage was warm and full of affection, and the private moments I’d seen away from the press and the public had made me smile, made me believe there might be some truth to love stories. Not much made my dried-up, shriveled heart feel romantic, but seeing them together had made me think, You know, maybe. 

Maybe that was why I’d been so fucking stupid I thought I could— 

I shook my head. No matter what my reasons were, they, like me, had been fucking stupid. And I wasn’t thinking about this, damn it. 

Every agent had been advised to give Baker and the First Lady some breathing room. Ease off. Even from where I’d been by the pool, I could hear the shouting. What would the other dwarfs think if they heard Baker and his wife bellowing at each other, especially after watching Baker throw his attitude left and right all evening? 

Those were not my problems. I wasn’t on the president’s detail anymore. I was in charge of this trail, this patch of dirt ambling through the woods, and these midnight hours. That was it. In fact, I was barred from anything beyond these duties. I’d forgotten that once, but I wouldn’t again. 

Never again. 

One foot in front of the other. I kept my mind blank through sheer force of will. 

Dirt crunched beneath my boot. An owl hooted. The cloud shifted away from the moon, opening up the wide, open expanse of the president’s backyard. I could see all the way across the golf green, all the way onto the pool deck and the back terrace. 

I froze midstep. My heel touched the ground. The rest of my foot did not.

Someone was on the president’s pool deck. 

Someone hugging themselves and staring at the water. Slender, tall. The fine details were obscured, and they were more a shape and an outline than anything else. They also weren’t moving, weren’t sneaking around or trying to hide in the shadows. They were just standing there, almost as still as I was, arms wrapped around their waist as if they were chilly, despite the warm summer night. It wasn’t a secretive pose. 

Another figure came from around the far side of Aspen from the direction of Witch Hazel. They came out of the shadows and strode up the path to the president’s pool deck without so much as a glance over their shoulder, not a worry in the world. Someone who was confident in their place at Camp David. High probability this was another agent, then. Dick move to not announce their movement on the radio, but then again, after midnight we kept chatter to a minimum. Especially with so many ears around us and seven nations’ worth of intelligence agents breathing down our necks. 

Figure number two—a man, I could tell by the silhouette as he passed through a band of moonlight—joined the first at the pool deck. His arms went around the first one, wrapping her—I saw her silhouette as she turned—up and pulling her into the circle of his hold. Her head rested on his chest, and they became one dark blob as he stroked her back. 

Lovers’ rendezvous, maybe? It didn’t look overly romantic from here. More comforting than sensual. But still. Was it a Secret Service agent and a presidential aide? If I picked up a handful of rocks and hurled them in any direction, I’d hit half a dozen aides. If an agent were carrying on with someone on the staff, they wouldn’t have time for much more than a midnight rendezvous by the pool, a quick kiss and maybe a dash to the bushes if they were brave and didn’t mind scopes watching their every move. Were these two that brave? Or foolish? A year earlier, I’d risked it, a world away. But I’d taken him way, way outside the ring, and we’d been alone, absolutely alone, when I’d— 

I set my foot down and walked on. Left my thoughts on the trail, like they were trash I could drop behind me. Like black oil and regret. 

My mind slithered back to what I’d left behind, though. I couldn’t move on. I remembered so clearly the sharp bark of his laugh, the softness of his hair, the warmth of his skin. Goddamn it. Another G8, another moon-soaked midnight, one year ago. I didn’t want to remember—fuck, not at all. But maybe I should. This was the punishment I deserved, after— 

A gunshot fractured the night. Its echo rolled on and on, over the green and into the woods. Into me and through me, as if the cavitation had opened a hole in the center of my chest. 

For a second, there was stillness. 

The radio in my ear screamed, “Shot fired! Shot fired! Shot fired in Aspen!” 

All hell broke loose as I ran, tearing toward the cabin. The couple I’d spotted on the pool deck had vanished. Voices fought for dominance on the radio. “What’s POTUS’s status?” “Who fired?” “Lock everything down!” 

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” 

The last, I heard both over the radio and bellowed at the top of Garcia’s lungs as I barreled up the pool deck steps and vaulted over the patio railing. The doors to Aspen were open, and the three agents who had been stationed outside were already in. I had heard a door splintering open as I ran, and now flashlights were bouncing around inside, down the dark hallway to Baker’s bedroom. 

I was at the back door when I heard in my ear, “POTUS is down! POTUS is down! Get the medevac, now!”

I shouldered past a frozen agent in the doorway and burst into Baker’s bedroom. 

And stopped dead. My stomach wrenched itself inside out. Every muscle seized. I felt a part of myself continue forward, inertia and momentum ripping something loose. It banged around inside me as I stood there like a crash dummy, frozen and stupid. Something cold took root in my heart: failure. 

President Baker lay slumped on his side, one cheek resting in a pool of blood that ran down his neck and circled his throat before soaking his chest and his dress shirt and spreading to the floor. Jesus, there was so much fucking blood, like someone had turned on a faucet and it just kept coming and coming. The one eye I could see was open, his pupil fixed and dilated, a glaze already beginning to settle. It was like I was looking into a doll’s eye, not a man’s. Not President Baker’s. Not good, not fucking good. 

Garcia, Pitt, and White were the three agents on duty. I’d passed Pitt on my way in. Garcia was on his knees behind Baker, his hands fluttering over him like he didn’t know what the fuck to do. White had his gun drawn at the side of the bed, his body performing the sweep-and clear maneuvers even as his gaze was locked on Baker. All three were more junior than me, just a few years on the detail. Junior enough to have drawn the short straw for the graveyard shift. 

I was the senior agent on scene. Fuck, it was all on me. 

“Is he breathing?” I bellowed at Garcia, skidding to my knees beside Baker’s limp and motionless form. More agents were pouring in behind me and filling the room. 

Garcia’s mouth moved like a dead fish. I could see the whites of his eyes all the way around his irises. 

“Roll him over! Now!” Together, we tried to minimize how much we moved Baker’s neck and spine. Save the man but paralyze him? Not good. I’d take living over dead at this point, though. My fingers slid through the blood soaking Baker’s throat as I searched for a pulse. They skated off his skin once, twice, before I managed to find the carotid. Nothing. I laced my hands together and started pumping his chest. Ribs snapped beneath my palms, breaking off from his sternum. Keep the heart pumping. Go deep. 

It had been forty seconds since the gunshot. Maybe less. Too many bodies were filling the room, Secret Service agents running into each other and staring, all about as useful as a crocheted condom. “Four inside, stay!” I roared over my shoulder. “Everyone else, secure the perimeter!” 

Voices were still screaming over the radio. A full lockdown was slamming over Camp David: sentries were on the move, helicopters were inbound, the motorcade was roaring up from Thurmont. A dozen people wanted a status update. “Start a search!” I bellowed. “Comb the camp!” 

I didn’t need to say what we were looking for. There’d been a gunshot. Somewhere, there was a man who’d pulled the trigger. 

We had a thousand eyeballs watching this place. What the fuck had happened? 

I kept pumping. Kept counting. 

“Medevac inbound, landing on the pad in one minute.” The helicopter pad was two-thirds of a mile away, down a meandering concrete path through the woods. It was a pretty drive. It also would pass in front of a hundred pairs of eyeballs and take far longer than five seconds. 

We didn’t have five seconds. 

Garcia was pulling the remnants of Baker’s jaw down, trying to make an airway in the soup at the back of his mouth. I kept the compressions going as I swept my gaze over and around and down Baker’s limp form. His rumpled, bloodied dress shirt, the top two buttons undone. His suit pants, crotch stained with urine. Fuck. His left hand was draped over his hip, something dark smudged all up the side of his index finger. His right was underneath him, trapped when we’d rolled him. “Garcia,” I barked. “Get his hand.” Garcia reached for his right hand, pulled it free— 

A black revolver lay in President Baker’s palm, his thumb violently twisted through the trigger guard. Dislocated. As if it had been caught inside, his hand wrenched sideways after he fired— 

Garcia and I stared at each other. “Sean…” Garcia’s voice trembled. He was up to his wrists in Baker’s blood as he tried to find an airway and hold the president’s head straight. Our knees were soaked in Baker’s blood, the hot liquid seeping into my pants and crawling up my skin like spiders skittering along their webs. I kept pumping Baker’s heart. My shoulders burned. Don’t think. 

“Land the bird on the green,” I spat into the radio. 

“What POTUS’s status?” 

Like hell I was going to say it over the air. “Land the fucking bird on the green!” 

“Avery!” It was the director, breaking into the radio net from DC to yell at me personally. “What is POTUS’s status?” 

I ignored him. Instead, I turned to the four agents I’d ordered stay to behind, jerking my chin to Baker’s bed. “Strip the sheets. We lay him in one and use it as a stretcher to run him out. Put the second over him. We’re covering him up.” No way was I letting someone snap a cell phone photo of this. 

“Won’t that look—” Garcia asked. 

Yeah, it would. But we didn’t have an alternative. 

“Where’s FLOTUS?” I barked into the radio. “Someone get eyes on FLOTUS!” I needed to know if she was safe. And more than that, I needed her to stay the fuck away from here and from this, whatever this was. She couldn’t see this, my God.

“FLOTUS secure,” a female voice replied in my ear. “She was taking a walk to Hickory when it happened.” 

Hickory, the large lodge near the center of the camp. Over half a mile from where we were. She had to have left the cabin ten minutes ago, at least, to get there. Good. “Hold her there,” I said, motioning to Garcia as the others laid out the sheet beside us. I counted off, and then we moved, two agents grabbing Baker’s legs while the other two grabbed his shoulders and repositioned him on the fabric. Garcia and I moved with Baker, Garcia leaning over to attempt a rescue breath in the half second I stopped pumping. 

Garcia’s face came away blood-covered. I started pounding on Baker’s chest again. 

“She wants to know what’s going on. She wants to fly with POTUS to Bethesda.” 

“No fucking way.” 

“Agent Avery—” 

“Send her on a second chopper!” 

We heard the rotors overhead, felt the roar of the helo as it came into the clearing above the backyard like a fighter at Mach 5. The pilot wasn’t fucking around. This was a combat landing. In less than a second, he had the bird on the ground, the skids making a hollow, heavy sound on the lawn. 

“Go, go, go!” I shouted. Each agent grabbed a corner of Baker’s sheet. Garcia and I threw the spare over Baker and grabbed the middle, our hands soaking the fabric crimson. We ran him out of the cabin like we were carrying a stretcher, meeting the medevac team on the lawn and transferring our package to the gurney in the belly of the helo. Everyone fell back as I pulled the cargo door shut and gave a thumbs-up to the pilot. He didn’t waste time looking at me. He was already climbing.

I stumbled back, bumping into Garcia and falling on my ass. Sirens roared in every direction, and somewhere, someone was screaming. A woman. The radio was still bellowing, a hundred people wanting answers. The search of Camp David was taking place. I heard shouts, orders to clear cabins. Saw flashlights in the woods. Choppers were overhead, searchlights painting the woods, the trails, the night sky. 

I stared up at Garcia. His mouth was open, slack and loose as he stared at his blood-soaked hands, his blood-soaked clothes. We both looked like we’d taken a bath in Baker’s blood. 

Garcia fell to his knees beside me. Another agent hit the lawn, his forehead in the grass as he screamed into the dirt. 

“Avery!” the director shouted over the radio. “Avery, respond! What the fuck happened up there?” 

I pulled my earpiece out and buried my face in my wet, red palms.

Author Bio:

Tal Bauer is an author of gay romantic suspense/thriller novels.

The world needs more gay heroes, gay love stories, and powerful women kicking ass. I try to write those stories. With a background ranging from law enforcement to humanitarian aid, my stories are global in scope and with diverse characters in all roles. My goal is to help normalize gay characters as action heroes and to bring to life strong, dynamic, holistic women in all of my novels.

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🎡Sunday's Sport Stats🎡: The Quarterback by Tal Bauer

Summary:

The Team #2

Falling for his friend's straight dad might be the worst mistake Colton Hall has ever made.

Colton's best friend is gay. He's not: he's never been attracted to men. So why the hell is he fantasizing about his friend's dad? Besides, Nick Swanscott is straight. A devoted father and the best man Colton's ever known. He deserves more than to be the object of Colton's crush.

The NFL is waiting for Colton, but he decides to stick it out for his senior year in college before joining the league, a decision that proves disastrous when an injury tears him from the game. In the blink of an eye, Colton goes from being a top draft pick to potentially never playing football again.

But Nick is there through his recovery. He takes care of Colton every day and shows him a future that might hold something more than being a superstar quarterback. Maybe Colton's life isn't over.

And Colton's crush explodes: full-on, head over heels, hopelessly falling in love.

He's so screwed. He's got to get these feelings under control. All those dreams of kissing Nick can never become reality. And there's no way Nick could ever love him back.

Right?

A slow burn, friends to lovers, bi awakening, age gap MM romance.

Chapter One

Tuxedos and tablecloths. Flickering candlelight. A big band in the corner, pouring out tunes. 

Justin looked amazing in his tuxedo. Wes, too, but Justin was his son, and it was the first time Nick had had the chance to see him dressed to the nines. The two of them were on the dance floor, Justin’s right hand over Wes’s heart, the fingers of his left twined with Wes’s as they swayed to the Glenn Miller cover. They were beaming and gazing into each other’s eyes. This is what their wedding will look like. 

Wes was shy about what he’d done on the field after the national championship game. He’d turned scarlet when Nick had asked him if that, him on the ground and offering Justin a football, was his marriage proposal. He’d fumbled his way through explaining that he’d wanted to commit to Justin in front of the whole world, and whether Justin called him his fiancé or his boyfriend, he was Justin’s for as long as Justin would have him. Then he’d fidgeted on the couch as Nick stared at him, the Texas wind coming up and over Nick’s balcony. 

“Dad, stop interrogating the love of my life,” Justin had said that night, and he’d winked at Wes, smirked at Nick, and not clarified a damn thing. 

It would happen, though. All Nick needed to do was spend three seconds watching Justin and Wes, and he could see the love between them. He’d never seen his son as happy as he was with Wes. Never in his whole life had Justin radiated such joy. Not even Christmas mornings as a child, or the birthday when Nick had surprised Justin with his first bicycle. 

It made his heart ache, seeing Justin so in love. 

Had he been that in love with his ex-wife all those years ago when they’d first fallen for each other? He thought he had been. He’d been in love enough to decide to propose. Marry, and forge a life together. A life that brought Justin into the world. 

There was nothing he cherished more than being Justin’s father. 

Hopefully he wouldn’t screw it up this time. 

He and Justin had had a close relationship… until Justin was about ten years old. Nick had been a good dad, he’d thought. Bicycle riding and Little League. Playing catch in the backyard, Lego in the loft. Trick-or-treating together every Halloween. And then Justin grew older, and… Nick hadn’t worked as hard as he should have to keep them close. Justin turned inward, hiding his secret until he’d exploded. Keeping his sexuality concealed had carved him off from his parents, put an impenetrable wall between them, one that stood for too many years.

If he’d realized, if he’d suspected, he would have said something years ago. Would have tried to let Justin know, even if he had to take him by the shoulders and force his chin to raise, that there was nothing, not a single thing in the whole world that would end his love for his son. 

But he hadn’t realized, and Justin had withdrawn, and they’d lived separate lives in the same house, living around each other instead of together. Justin going off to college had seemed like the slow end to a long goodbye that began in middle school. 

And then things changed. 

Nick watched Wes twirl Justin in his arms, then tip him backward for a dip as the song came to an end. Wes beamed. Justin laughed, and as he rose, Wes’s arms wrapped around Justin’s waist and Justin’s hand cradled Wes’s cheek. They kissed, still smiling, as the crowd clapped. For the band, and maybe for Justin and Wes, too. 

They were, after all, the guests of honor. 

It was an evening celebrating Wes and his team’s national championship victory, along with the personal victories of all the other out college athletes who had played that season and any past season. LGBT+ organizations, ESPN, and even the NCAA had joined together to honor Wes and his fellow LGBT+ athletes—present and past—and memorialize those who had passed away in a first-of-its-kind reception. Out former professional athletes mingled with college athletes across the major sports: football, baseball, basketball, and hockey. Rainbow lights dazzled off rainbow bunting, strung in arcs across the high ballroom ceiling. Rainbow-dyed roses clustered in low vases on the dinner tables. 

“This is so wild, isn’t it?”

The voice came from behind Nick. It was deep, but with a young man’s cadence. He turned and saw Colton Hall, the Texas quarterback and Wes’s best friend. Now, too, Justin’s good friend, after a shaky start. 

“I never imagined this is how our season would end.” Colton passed Nick a fresh beer and held his out for a toast. 

“Didn’t think you’d be national champions?” 

“I mean, I thought that.” Colton grinned, rolling his head sideways to Nick. One hand jiggled in the pocket of his tuxedo pants. “C’mon, we’re the best.” 

Nick laughed. 

“This is amazing,” Colton said, his voice softer. “I don’t think this could have happened four years ago. It should have, but…” He frowned, and his gaze found Wes and Justin, dancing still. “He deserves this. All of it.” 

“Justin?” Nick asked, sipping his beer. 

“Uh, I mean, of course, him, too.” Nick smiled as Colton stuttered, flushing. “I mean, he deserves to be recognized, of course, for who he is and supporting—” 

“I’m teasing you.” He clapped Colton on the shoulder. Colton grinned, relief crossing his face in a tidal wave. “They both do. Wes is an amazing player, and he’s been an exceptional leader on your team. And he’s a role model for other young gay athletes.” 

“Yeah. Justin is, too, though. He’s a great guy. Just the best.” 

Colton was still trying to fix his little slip. “I happen to think so.” Nick took another sip of beer, then turned back to the ballroom. “Where’s your date? Who’s here with you?”

“No one.” Colton shrugged. “I’m not dating anyone. And my mom couldn’t make it up. She’s a lawyer, and she’s got some big case to prepare for. What about you? Where’s your date?” 

Nick felt his smile fall short of his eyes. “No date for me, either.” 

Colton raised his beer bottle for another toast. “Bachelor life. Right on.” 

He clinked, and then they fell silent, watching Wes and Justin on the dance floor. 

So deeply in love. Would he find that again someday? He wasn’t ready to look yet, not so soon after separating from Cynthia. The hurt was still too fresh, like a deep bruise or an ache he couldn’t stretch out. The long, slow death of his marriage was worse than a quick gut punch. If Cynthia had gone out and had an affair, he could have ended things cleanly, used his anger to package up his past and then move on. But the gasping way they’d hung on even as they grew further and further apart, until Cynthia was a stranger to him, made it feel like he’d been torn in half from top to bottom. 

It was the betrayal that hit him hardest: the betrayal of who he’d thought Cynthia was as a person. He’d thought there was no way she could ever choose anything or anyone over her son. That she could never look at Justin and think he wasn’t wonderful, the best parts of the two of them combined. He was a handful, to be sure, but a good person, the kind of man Nick had lain awake at night and prayed his son would turn out to be. 

There was nothing in his entire life that matched the stab to his heart when Cynthia told him she thought their son was broken and needed to be fixed. 

There wasn’t any coming back from that moment. He loved Justin exactly as he was. Cynthia didn’t. And he wasn’t willing to share his life with someone who didn’t accept Justin. Cynthia wasn’t willing to change her beliefs, so there was nowhere for them to go but apart.

He wasn’t ready to let anyone else in yet. Wasn’t ready to open himself up. The only thing that mattered to him now was the happiness he saw in Justin’s eyes every day. 

“You know,” Colton said, rocking back on his heels, “I tore up the gym in fifth-grade PE class when they made us learn swing dancing.” 

The music shifted to a faster beat, and couples began flying around the dance floor. Wes spun Justin in and out of his arms, pulled him close, laid him out in a back-bending dip. 

“Did you? My ex and I used to dance when we were dating. Swing, blues, ballroom. We were pretty good, way back in the day.” Then Justin was born, and there wasn’t time for dance nights or even dates anymore. But, huh. Was it any wonder Justin was a dancer now? 

“I won the Sugar Land Elementary All-Fifth-Grade Swing Championship,” Colton bragged. “You can’t top that.” 

Nick set his beer down behind him and held out his hand. “Put your money where your mouth is, and show me those skills.” 

Colton blinked. 

Colton, like Wes, had one of the most recognizable faces in college football. His picture was plastered on ESPN weekly. Almost daily. Everything he’d said, everything he’d done since Wes had been outed had been turned over, examined, dissected. After the national championship game, Wes and Colton had sat down for one joint interview with ESPN. More than what they said, how they’d interacted, the obvious connection between them, had solidified their public identities as inseparable brothers. And while support for Wes had been significant, and seemed to grow larger with each passing month, there were still those who despised Wes for who he was, who accused him of trying to change the culture of football. Who hated Colton, too, for his unwavering, unflinching public support of Wes and his place on the team. 

There had also been whispers and hateful rumors passed along internet forums and message boards: that Colton was Wes’s bitch, that he was as gay as Wes was, that the whole team was a bunch of pansies. That Colton was on his knees for Wes and he’d do anything Wes told him to do as long as they kept winning. 

None of it was true, but that didn’t matter. Hate didn’t need truth to spread like wildfire. 

But Nick still should know better. Stakes were higher for Colton than for him. And there was a difference between supporting your best friend on the field and on ESPN and by standing beside him at banquets, and taking the hand of another man and dancing with him in public. Nick was established, successful, and as secure in his identity as a recently divorced middle-aged man rebuilding his relationship with his formerly estranged son could be. He didn’t have newspapers and columnists following him, dissecting his grades and the beers he drank and the words he said, trying to pick out his personality through bits and pieces of his life. 

What was a simple, lighthearted, and friendly joke to Nick could be gasoline on the flames that consumed Colton’s reputation. Weeks of online fury. Eyebrows raised on ESPN. Maybe NFL teams looking past him in the draft. “Sorry,” he said, pulling his hand back. He shook his head, smiling an apology. “I was playing around, and I didn’t think that through. Maybe I’ve had one too many beers.” 

Colton downed the rest of his beer, holding Nick’s gaze. He dropped the bottle on the table, cleared his throat, and held out his hand. “Let’s do it,” he said. “Fuck ’em.” 

“Colton, I don’t want—”

Colton waggled his hand in front of Nick. “Fuck the haters. It’s just for fun. And I’ve got my fifth-grade reputation to uphold.” 

Nick laughed again and took Colton’s hand, letting the younger man lead him to the dance floor. If it had been any other event, maybe people would have turned and stared, watching Colton walk hand in hand with another man. But they were among hundreds of same-sex couples, and no one batted an eye. Later, surely, the ripples would hit the internet. 

“Let’s go show Wes and Justin what real dancing is,” Colton said. 

They made their way over to Justin and Wes. Justin’s head whipped from left to right as he tried to keep his gaze on them while Wes spun him in a tight circle. He tap-tap-tapped Wes’s chest, jerking his chin at Nick and Colton as Colton held out his arms, assuming the lead dancer position. 

“I might step on your feet,” Nick said. “I’ve never danced the lady’s part before.” 

“Well, you know what they say.” Colton set his hand at the small of Nick’s back and pulled him close. They were almost eye to eye, but not quite. Colton was slightly taller and a lot broader than Nick. His tuxedo fit him like a second skin, flowing over the taut, thick lines of his muscled shoulders and arms. His narrow hips slotted against Nick’s, their thighs brushing as Colton took the first step. His body gently guided Nick, leading him to step back with his left foot as Colton moved forward with his right. “Nobody puts Baby in the corner.” Colton winked and they spun around Wes and Justin, mimicking their twirls and dips and flares, laughing so hard they sometimes missed a step. 

“Switch!” Colton called out to Wes, and he and Wes spun Nick and Justin outward, then let go, letting each man spin into the other partner’s arms. Nick ended up in Wes’s hold, one hand on Wes’s hip and the other in Wes’s hand. Wes kept his body a respectable distance from Nick’s. 

“Having fun?” Nick asked, breathless.

Wes’s beaming smile said it all. His gaze drifted over Nick’s shoulder to where Colton was twirling Justin around and around and around, and Justin was laughing so hard he was almost hiccuping. “It feels like a dream,” Wes said. 

“Good answer. Loving my son should be a dream come true.” 

Wes barked out a laugh so loud it broke over the ballroom like a thunderclap. Justin pulled out of his endless twirls in Colton’s arms and called out to switch again. Wes spun Nick outward, and he passed Justin in a blur of smiles, ending up back in Colton’s embrace. Colton pulled him close as the trumpets blared, and then Colton dipped Nick on the final beat of the song. 

From his upside-down position, he saw Justin and Wes kissing, Justin’s arms winding around Wes’s neck, hands threading through Wes’s sweat-tinged hair. He felt Colton’s deep breaths, Colton’s chest moving against his own. Felt Colton’s thigh bracing his as the moment, the world, seemed to still. 

Then everything was a rush, and he was back upright. Colton and everyone else were clapping for the band. The lights were twinkling, and the world was a roar in Nick’s ears, a head rush from the dance and the heat of so many bodies making his heart race and his skin flush. Colton was on his left, Justin and Wes were on his right, all of them smiling, the air humming with their joy, so powerful he could feel it all over him, could breathe it in and hold it inside himself. 

This is all I want for Justin. All I ever wanted for my son. Pure, perfect happiness. 

His own nights of happiness were in the past, but as long as Justin was smiling like that, as long as Wes was there to keep loving him, Nick’s life would be set. If his son was as happy as this for the rest of his days, that was all that mattered.

Hours later, the four walked shoulder to shoulder as they headed for Nick’s condo. Wes and Justin had their arms around each other, and Nick and Wes had pulled their bow ties loose, letting the ends dangle. Colton’s was askew, while Justin somehow still looked as manicured and put together as he had at the start of the evening. Easy conversation carried them through the lobby and into the elevator. Wes wrapped his arms around Justin from behind as Colton slouched against the back wall, his hands in his pockets. 

They went straight to Nick’s balcony, the wide stretch of concrete and glass that overlooked downtown and the college campus. Two of the three bedrooms and his living room opened to the balcony, which ran the width of the whole unit. He’d set up a grill at one end and a patio couch and wicker chairs around a low table at the other. Wes and Justin took up half the couch, even though they were practically sitting in each other’s laps, and Colton took the other half, throwing himself down in an ungainly sprawl that made the furniture creak and groan. 

While the boys shed their jackets and pulled off the remnants of their ties and cummerbunds, Nick plucked a bottle of champagne from the fridge and snagged four flutes from the bar. Laughter floated back to him through the open sliding glass door. Wes’s quiet chuckle, deep and soft at the same time. Justin’s higher, sharper, musical laugh. Colton’s boisterous, almost boyish giggles. 

“Lemme help,” Colton said, bolting to his feet and reaching for the glasses when Nick came back out. His hands were huge, calloused and weathered from years of playing football, tanned and scarred from hundreds of scrapes over hundreds of games. The four glasses disappeared in his grip, and he passed two to Wes like he was handing him pens or pencils. Nick popped the champagne and poured for each of them. 

He wasn’t much for toasts, but champagne and tuxedos and one a.m. on a starlit balcony begged for some kind of recognition, so he held up his glass and looked at his son and Wes. “To you guys.” He nodded to Colton, too. “To your guys’ future.” 

They all drank, and Justin and Wes shared a brief kiss. Justin seemed to burrow deeper into Wes’s arms, as if he could somehow be closer to him than he already was. Nick chuckled under his breath as he took another sip of champagne and turned his gaze out over the city. 

“Speaking of the future…” Wes started. 

Nick whipped his head around. Was this it? Was this the moment? He held his breath— 

“What have you decided?” Wes finished. He was looking at Colton, not Justin, as he spoke, his head tilted, his huge fingers pinching the rim of his flute. “You staying or going?” 

Colton heaved a sigh. He set his glass down and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Man… I don’t know.” 

“I think you do,” Wes said softly. 

Colton shot Wes a glare from behind his spread fingers. His palms were still over his mouth, and his hands tugged on his skin, giving him a horror-movie expression as he exhaled. 

“This about the draft?” Nick asked. 

Justin and Wes both nodded as Colton groaned. 

Most of the starting line was eligible for the NFL draft that spring, and the deadline for declaring whether they were in or out was fast approaching. Wes had been talked about as a prospective draftee all school year, but now that they’d won the national championship, his eligible teammates were being courted, too. Agents called every hour of the day, showed up at the house they shared, tried to bend the NCAA rules to woo the players into representation and declaration. 

Wes had said, immediately after the championship game, that he was sticking it out at school until he graduated. He’d play another year at Texas and then consider the NFL. But it wasn’t a guarantee, he’d said, that he was going to join the league at all. 

Most of the team followed in his footsteps, saying they were sticking around to finish their degrees, too. They didn’t want to break up, not when they were as cohesive and united as they’d become. If everyone stayed for another season, they could potentially go all the way and have a perfect record. Win the national championship—again. 

Only Colton hadn’t declared yet. 

“If I stay, that’s another year to develop my skills. Another year to improve.” Colton sent Wes a wavering smile. “Another year with you. But it’s another year of risk, too. If I’m injured, maybe no one wants me next year in the NFL. I’m a first-round potential right now. What if, next year, I’m nothing?” 

“What if you’re first round, first pick next year because you’re the best quarterback two years in a row?” Wes countered. “What if next year is even better?” 

Colton flopped backward, his hands sliding through his dark hair as he squeezed his skull. “But, like, do I even want to be a first-round QB pick? I mean… you’ve seen what happens to the guys who go first round to loser teams. Some of those teams are so desperate that they want a first-round draft pick to play like a five-year pro. But if the coaching staff isn’t there and the systems aren’t in place, the team collapses. Guys our age being told to carry an entire NFL team and bring them from Loserville to the Super Bowl?” Colton shook his head.

“You’re not like that. You know more than the spread offense or the run and shoot, which is all most college guys know these days. Most of those quarterbacks can’t hack it because the transition to the NFL is too steep. But it won’t be for you.” 

“So maybe if I join the draft this year, I’ll be picked to be someone’s understudy. I wouldn’t mind learning for five years under one of the greats.” Colton picked at the fabric stretched over his thigh. 

“What about your degree?” Nick asked. “What about graduating?” 

Silence. Colton shrugged. “I didn’t really think much about graduating when I first got here. Ergonomics is easier than general studies, you know? But what do I do with an ergonomics degree?” 

“It’s less about what you majored in than showing that you made a commitment and followed through with it,” Nick said. “That you had the discipline to complete your education. I hire people all the time with degrees that have nothing to do with my industry.” 

“If I stay, I’d need to graduate at the end of next year,” Colton said carefully. “Which means I need to find an internship. Part of my program is supposed to be a practical business internship. Maybe because real-world experience is the only way to make that degree worth anything.” He tried to laugh. “But I don’t know where to even begin with that. How would I work an internship around my athletics schedule?” 

“Find an internship that’s understanding,” Nick said. 

Colton snorted. “The line at the student center for internship applications is, like, seven miles deep. I looked last week. There’s a waiting list. If I sign up and something comes up, I can’t afford to be picky about it. But I also can’t sacrifice my football schedule.” 

“Can you bring your own internship to the school? What if you worked something out directly with a company?”

“Yeah, you can. I don’t know anyone who could do that, though. And I’m not allowed to ask Coach or the athletic department to hook me up, or to intern with them. I already tried that.” 

“You know me. My company always has interns over the summer. I can easily set you up as my intern in the Austin office. I can show you what sales is like.” 

Colton’s eyes bulged. “Seriously?” 

“Why not? You’d be great at sales. All sales is is personality.” 

“And you have no shortage of that.” Justin smirked. 

Colton was quiet. He chewed on his lower lip, staring at his hands. “But what if it’s now or never?” 

Wes set down his champagne flute and looked Colton in the eyes. “It’s not. It’s never now or never. Things always change.” 

“Yeah, I could be worse off looking at the draft next year.” Colton blew out a huge sigh. 

“Or a bunch of things could happen,” Wes said. “Things you can’t even imagine right now. Hell, you could be outed by a national news network on the morning of the biggest game of the year.” Wes didn’t blink. He wasn’t talking about Colton anymore. Colton wasn’t gay. “I thought I lost everything that day.” 

Colton’s jaw clenched. Justin’s fingers laced through Wes’s. Nick saw a look pass between them, something with weight. He’d spent all that day frantically trying to reach Justin after seeing his son’s picture on the internet, arm in arm with Wes Van de Hoek. He’d heard what Justin and Wes had gone through, and he’d watched the game and Texas’s collapse on live TV. He’d screamed down to Austin in his Porsche when Justin had called him sobbing, saying Wes was beaten and bloody and barely breathing. But he hadn’t lived those horrible twelve hours himself.

Colton stared out over the city, his gaze lost in the tangled warren of campus as distant car horns honked and the hum of the highway rose up to meet them. Nick watched his shoulders shake ever so slightly. It wasn’t a simple decision. This could be a defining choice for Colton’s entire football career. Go to the NFL early and take the chance on being drafted to a rebuilding team. If that went badly, he could buckle and break and be out of the league before he truly had a chance to become the quarterback he could be. 

Or play another year in college, graduate, and then draft with the rest of his class. Maybe he’d still be drafted to a rebuilding team, where an entire franchise would lean on him. But he’d be another year wiser, another year older, another year more experienced. 

Sometimes a year changed a man in ways that couldn’t be measured in hours and days and weeks. Sometimes a year became the cornerstone of a life. 

Risk, reward. Stay, go. Things known now versus the uncertain future. There was his degree, too, and graduation—but Nick didn’t think Colton had placed that much stock in a college degree. Unlike Wes, football was his life. Nick knew that, even before he’d met Colton. He’d known, watching Colton mature into the Texas quarterback role through the seasons, and that knowledge had been front and center in his mind when he threw Colton against the wall in the jock house. It was there again, for a whole different reason, when he watched Colton come apart in Wes’s hospital room and then watched him devote himself to taking care of his friend. 

“I don’t want to leave yet,” Colton breathed. His head tilted, and he squinted at Nick. “You can really hook me up with an internship?” 

“Absolutely. Say the word, and I’ll have my assistant start setting it up tomorrow.”

Colton smiled. He closed his eyes. Breathed deep. “Okay. Let’s do it. I want another year.” He reached for Wes, taking his hand in a warrior’s grip. Wes beamed, and Colton did, too. “One more national championship?” 

“Absolutely.” Wes smiled. 

“Thanks, Dad,” Justin said, gratitude pouring from him. 

“Of course. I’ll help you guys in any way I can, always.” He raised his champagne flute again. “To one more year.”

Author Bio:

Tal Bauer is an author of gay romantic suspense/thriller novels.

The world needs more gay heroes, gay love stories, and powerful women kicking ass. I try to write those stories. With a background ranging from law enforcement to humanitarian aid, my stories are global in scope and with diverse characters in all roles. My goal is to help normalize gay characters as action heroes and to bring to life strong, dynamic, holistic women in all of my novels.

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The Quarterback #2

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