Saturday's Series Spotlight: Love Notes by DJ Jamison

Secret Admirer #1

Summary:
You deserve all the kisses you want ...

Benji,
I just want you to know how amazing you are. You won't believe me, because I'm just your brother's best friend. But everything I feel is undeniable.

A few anonymous love tokens change everything, though. I finally have an outlet for all the things I can't say, and with each gift and note, you smile. For me. Not your brother's friend, but something new. Something more. Something that will change everything if we can both find the courage to believe.

All I have to do is confess who I really am:
Your Secret Admirer

Naughty & Nice #2

Summary:

Why can’t I forget your kiss…

Dear Quinn,

Why must I have these feelings for you? You're my ex-stepbrother, and nothing will change that truth, no matter how many letters I write.

I never expected to see you again--or to rescue you from the side of the road in a blizzard. I didn't think you would ever like me, much less kiss me in a steaming hot tub on a snowy night. It seems we make better lovers than brothers, which is all kinds of naughty and nice while we're snowed in together.

But can this new intimacy last when the skies clear and my family finally arrives for the holidays, or are we just two guys in a mountain cabin with a great view of everything we want but can't have?

Hopelessly yours,

Jonas

Naughty & Nice is set in the same universe as Secret Admirer but stands alone.

Boyfriend Freeze #3

Summary:

I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but you can’t be one of them ...

Dear Graham,

After crossing too many lines for my self-respect, I made a promise to myself: no hookups for sixty days.

But I didn't count on meeting you.

Who knew a smart, cardigan-wearing geek would be such temptation? You're all wrong for me, except you're also kind of exactly right.

So how do I keep my promise not to seduce the cute librarian and still get the perfect guy?

Maybe you know, because I don't...

Already yours,

Ollie

Boyfriend Freeze is set in the Love Notes series but can be read as a standalone.

Secret Admirer #1

ACE
“Is my brother a deal-breaker?” he asked.

I sucked in my bottom lip, feeling torn. I wanted him like crazy. I’d had plenty of time to feel attraction for guys, to get a bit curious and wonder... and my body was fully down to fuck, regardless of the fact I’d never been with a guy. But fucking Benji was a big deal. Jeremy expected me to protect his virtue, not throw him on the bed and ravish him.

“Ace?”

I let out an unsteady breath. “He should be. But fuck, Benji, I really like you.”

“You can never lie to me again.”

“I won’t.”

“And you’ll let me handle my brother,” he said.

I parted my lips to object, but he was full of fire — not anger this time, but something else, something more enticing — and I couldn’t find the words. He must have seen the answer in my eyes. He tilted forward, and I met him for a long overdue kiss.

He was sweet, both tentative and eager as his lips parted under mine. Despite leading our conversation, he let me take over as soon as our mouths connected. I savored the soft feel of his lips, the hitch in his breathing as my tongue met his, the small sound of surrender as the kiss deepened.

“Whoa,” he said, voice filled with wonder, when I pulled back for a breath. His green eyes were bright, his cheeks rosy with a blush. He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“Yeah?” I murmured, feeling a bit of my old ego restored at his reaction. “Just wait.”

I took his mouth again, and this time he met me with more confidence, pushing his tongue against mine, clutching at my shoulders.

The kiss grew wet and desperate.

I grabbed his head, holding him in place to better devour him, and he pushed his hands under my shirt, feeling up my stomach to my chest. When his fingers grazed my nipples, I shivered. When he raked his nails over my abs, I moaned and thrust my hips against his. I felt his hardness behind his zipper.

Fuck yes.

It sent a thrill through me. He wanted me, and I didn’t have to question it. He was hard, just like me. Male, just like me. It was strangely erotic, knowing he was aching in exactly the same way I was.

I pushed him onto the bed, loving the feel of him pinned under me. When we needed air, I moved my lips to the creamy skin of his neck. God, I loved his skin, so fucking pale and soft.

His fingers were tangled in my hair, holding me against him, as he thrust his hips up. I could feel his cock jabbing my stomach, and I didn’t care one fucking bit. I thought maybe I’d be weirded out, like maybe I’d need to adjust to having a guy under me instead of a girl, but it didn’t matter.

Benji felt right; he felt fucking great.

Naughty & Nice #2

“So, this is the hot tub,” I said, apropos of nothing.

“Yep,” he said, grinning. “Nothing gets by you.”

“I’m very observant that way,” I said, nodding seriously. I looked around as if taking in my surroundings, and when I got back to Jonas, I looked at him boldly, straight-on, my gaze skimming from his lips to his shoulders to his nipples, visible just above the water line.

He cleared his throat. “I’m starting to notice that.”

I wasn’t being subtle.

I’d angled for this to happen. To be in this hot tub with Jonas. I’d told him I wanted to soak away the cold in my bones, and that wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t entirely true either. I’d wanted to get closer to him. Wanted to feel another flash of the heat I was sure I’d seen in his eyes at dinner. Maybe it was an anomaly, and we’d have a soak and move on with our lives. Or maybe…

Maybe it’d combust, given the right circumstances.

To my frustration, Jonas’s phone chimed with a message. He looked away to pick it up. I watched as his lips quirked into a smile while he tapped out a response. He’d gotten a couple of these texts in the car too, tonight. It wasn’t like before, when he was avoiding messages. This was someone else.

“Who’s texting you?”

He glanced up, then irritatingly right back down to the phone. “No one important.”

I huffed. “They have a lot of your attention.” My stomach tightened. “Is it a hookup?”

Jonas didn’t answer immediately, and every second wound my insides a little bit tighter. If Jonas had someone in his life—or more than one, as his busy phone led me to believe—I wouldn’t be surprised. Why wouldn’t someone want him? He was effortlessly gorgeous; I’d seen him roll out of bed and ruffle his hair with his hand and look fabulous. That was it; his whole morning routine. And there I was in front of the mirror, trying to tame flyaway hairs and choosing my clothing with care. He was smart and self-reliant too. He didn’t bail on school or his future just because he was in a messy relationship. He dealt with life. Guys like him were never alone.

I edged closer, our legs brushing underwater. “Is it someone you’re serious about?”

“Nah, I don’t do serious.”

“Why not?”

His eyes met mine and held. “Tried it once. It didn’t suit me.”

I suspected he meant me, even though that didn’t make any sense. We’d never had a relationship. We’d had one brief kiss, and that was it. Surely he hadn’t been serious about his stepbrother with a bad attitude? I must be reading too much into that look…

“So, you’re texting with a non-serious hookup?”

He set the phone aside, lips quirking. “A potential hookup. Guy lives near here—”

I slapped my hand onto the surface of the water. “Oh, hell no!”

He laughed a little in disbelief. “What?”

Something came over me. All the tension that had stretched between us, all my restraint, snapped.

“No,” I repeated. “No hookups with other guys while you’re here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Other guys?”

I was busted. He saw right through me, to the jealousy I had no right to have. I sucked in my bottom lip, tasting the faint tang of chlorine from the water droplets that had misted my face.

“Go on, Quinn. If you’ve got something to say about my sex life, I’m all ears.”

My face flushed hot. Words of apology were on the tip of my tongue. It wasn’t my place; it was none of my business.

Unless I made it my business.

Pulse speeding up, I turned toward him. “I’ve got nothing to say.”

“No? Because it seemed—”

I pushed forward in a rush, letting my mouth do the talking. Our lips pressed, clung. Jonas’s breath caught as I licked his bottom lip. Then, as if I’d hit fast-forward on a video, he was all in. His hand clamped around the back of my neck, pulling me hard against him as he deepened the kiss. My blood leapt with the thrill of lust and adrenaline as his tongue slid along mine, tasting and teasing. Jonas was a skilled kisser, advancing and retreating, giving me just enough to want more, then changing tactics to wind me up all over again.

The kiss went on forever. One kiss blended into the next. We sipped air as we repositioned our mouths, kissing one direction, then the other.

I was burning up in the steamy water, and yet I was shivering as cold winter air brushed over my neck and shoulders.

Jonas grabbed my hips, dragging me into his lap. I felt how hard he was, and ground down against him until he groaned satisfyingly against my mouth.

“Fuck, baby.”

“No.” I finally pulled back to look into his eyes. “I’m not baby, or honey, or any other thing you call your hookups. I’m Quinn.”

His voice was husky but soft as he responded. “Quinn.”

I shivered to hear my name in that sexy, velvet tone.

“You sure you want to do this with me?” he asked. “I know we’re not related by blood, but…”

Was I sure it was a good idea? No. But did I want it? Desperately.

“We’re not brothers.”

Boyfriend Freeze #3

OLLIE

“I wasn’t sure if you were serious about that New Year’s resolution.” She paused. “Which is fine if you weren’t. You know I wasn’t judging you, right? I just want you to be happy.”

“I know you do, and yes, I was serious. I’m working on it.”

“Yeah?” She smiled, linking arms with me as we neared the terminals where we could search for reference materials. “Good. Now, you just need to work on your listening skills.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” I said dryly. “Right below stop being such a slutty twink and above get a job.”

“Ollie—” Kyla started, about to admonish me for calling myself a slut or a twink, or maybe both, but the sound of someone clearing their throat stopped her. I glanced across the computer terminals, stomach sinking as the librarian gave me the evil eye once more.

“Sorry,” I hissed in an obnoxious stage whisper. “Kyla just doesn’t know when to keep her voice down.”

Kyla quietly stomped on my foot, and I grimaced at the pain. Totally deserved that. But it was worth the look of annoyance that flashed across Graham’s face and distracted me from the fact that he’d possibly heard me refer to myself as a slutty twink. No doubt Graham was already forming a relatively low opinion of me, considering I was pretty much the antithesis of library etiquette, but I’d rather not help him along to that conclusion.

Graham turned back to the student he’d been coaching through a reference search, and I exchanged a look with Kyla. “Ready to work?” I suggested.

“Now he wants to work,” she muttered, shaking her head. But Kyla was my best friend for a reason. She pulled out a chair beside her and waved me over. “Okay, so first, you want to start by pulling up this screen…”

I tried to listen this time. I really did.

But my gaze kept drifting to Graham as he patiently answered questions. Across the terminals, seated as he was, I couldn’t see that awful corduroy jacket or sweater vest. Just his messy brown hair that fell over his forehead just above hazel eyes and a set of features that weren’t entirely unfortunate. Graham was almost, maybe, kind of cute? In a helpless puppy sort of way.

Dear God, I must be desperate to be leering at a librarian.

Just then he looked up, meeting my gaze, and my heart lurched. “We have job openings,” he said.

“Huh?”

“The library has job openings,” he said slowly, as if I had a cognitive disorder. “I thought you might be looking for a position.”

I frowned, a little puzzled by the non sequitur. Then I realized with a flash of embarrassment why he was telling me.

“I’ll add it to the list, right below ‘stop being such a slutty twink’ and above ‘get a job,’” I’d said to Kyla. Graham had definitely heard my words.

“Great, you were eavesdropping,” I said self-consciously.

He flushed. “Not on purpose—”

“So, will I have to buy a sweater vest to work here, or is that going to be provided? I assume the grandpa loafers are optional.”

Oh, god, the snark was in full force. I wanted to stop, but it was a self-defense mechanism. Some creatures had porcupine quills. Some men had fists. I had brutal, snarky wit.

“Never mind. I don’t think you have what it takes to work here after all,” he said, standing up. He’d shed the jacket, leaving just a sweater vest over a pale-blue button-down shirt. He’d rolled up the shirt sleeves, exposing strong forearms. For a librarian, he filled out his shirt better than I would have expected.

I nodded. “Not the right fashion sense.”

“No,” he said. “Not the right common sense. We value brains here, not shallow good looks.”

I gasped, shocked at the harsh burn—not that you don’t deserve it—and he walked away before I could even get in the final word.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” I muttered, shoving my chair back.

“Ollie, just let it go,” Kyla urged, but I ignored her, rounding the island of computers and following hot on Graham’s heels as he returned to the circulation desk. He didn’t notice me until he’d already taken up his station on the other side. He jumped a little when he saw me, and I smiled viciously.

“Can I help you?” he asked warily.

“Yes,” I said as sweetly as possible. “You can give me a job application.”

Author Bio:

DJ Jamison writes romances about everyday life and extraordinary love featuring a variety of queer characters, from gay to bisexual to asexual. DJ grew up in the Midwest in a working-class family, and those influences can be found in her writing through characters coping with real-life problems: money troubles, workplace drama, family conflicts and, of course, falling in love. DJ spent more than a decade in the newspaper industry before chasing her first dream to write fiction. She spent a lifetime reading before that and continues to avidly devour her fellow authors’ books each night. She lives in Kansas with her husband, two sons, one snake, and a sadistic cat named Birdie.

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Secret Admirer #1

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Naughty & Nice #2

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Boyfriend Freeze #3

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📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: The Outsiders by SE Hinton

Summary:

50 years of an iconic classic! This international bestseller and inspiration for a beloved movie is a heroic story of friendship and belonging.

No one ever said life was easy. But Ponyboy is pretty sure that he's got things figured out. He knows that he can count on his brothers, Darry and Sodapop. And he knows that he can count on his friends—true friends who would do anything for him, like Johnny and Two-Bit. But not on much else besides trouble with the Socs, a vicious gang of rich kids whose idea of a good time is beating up on “greasers” like Ponyboy. At least he knows what to expect—until the night someone takes things too far.

The Outsiders is a dramatic and enduring work of fiction that laid the groundwork for the YA genre. S. E. Hinton's classic story of a boy who finds himself on the outskirts of regular society remains as powerful today as it was the day it was first published.

"The Outsiders transformed young-adult fiction from a genre mostly about prom queens, football players and high school crushes to one that portrayed a darker, truer world." —The New York Times

"Taut with tension, filled with drama." —The Chicago Tribune

"[A] classic coming-of-age book." —Philadelphia Daily News

A New York Herald Tribune Best Teenage Book

A Chicago Tribune Book World Spring Book Festival Honor Book

An ALA Best Book for Young Adults

Winner of the Massachusetts Children's Book Award

Chapter One
When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home. I was wishing I looked like Paul Newman —he looks tough and I don't—but I guess my own looks aren't so bad. I have light-brown, almost-red hair and greenish-gray eyes. I wish they were more gray, because I hate most guys that have green eyes, but I have to be content with what I have. My hair is longer than a lot of boys wear theirs, squared off in back and long at the front and sides, but I am a greaser and most of my neighborhood rarely bothers to get a haircut. Besides, I look better with long hair.

I had a long walk home and no company, but I usually lone it anyway, for no reason except that I like to watch movies undisturbed so I can get into them and live them with the actors. When I see a movie with someone it's kind of uncomfortable, like having someone read your book over your shoulder. I'm different that way. I mean, my second-oldest brother, Soda, who is sixteen-going-on-seventeen, never cracks a book at all, and my oldest brother, Darrel, who we call Darry, works too long and hard to be interested in a story or drawing a picture, so I'm not like them. And nobody in our gang digs movies and books the way I do. For a while there, I thought I was the only person in the world that did. So I loned it.

Soda tries to understand, at least, which is more than Darry does. But then, Soda is different from anybody; he understands everything, almost. Like he's never hollering at me all the time the way Darry is, or treating me as if I was six instead of fourteen. I love Soda more than I've ever loved anyone, even Mom and Dad. He's always happy-go-lucky and grinning, while Darry's hard and firm and rarely grins at all But then, Darry's gone through a lot in his twenty years, grown up too fast. Sodapop'll never grow up at all. I don't know which way's the best. I'll find out one of these days.

Anyway, I went on walking home, thinking about the movie, and then suddenly wishing I had some company. Greasers can't walk alone too much or they'll get jumped, or someone will come by and scream "Greaser!" at them, which doesn't make you feel too hot, if you know what I mean. We get jumped by the Socs. I'm not sure how you spell it, but it's the abbreviation for the Socials, the jet set, the West-side rich kids. It's like the term "greaser," which is used to class all us boys on the East Side.

We're poorer than the Socs and the middle class. I reckon we're wilder, too. Not like the Socs, who jump greasers and wreck houses and throw beer blasts for kicks, and get editorials in the paper for being a public disgrace one day and an asset to society the next. Greasers are almost like hoods; we steal things and drive old souped-up cars and hold up gas stations and have a gang fight once in a while, I don't mean I do things like that. Darry would kill me if I got into trouble with the police. Since Mom and Dad were killed in an auto wreck, the three of us get to stay together only as long as we behave. So Soda and I stay out of trouble as much as we can, and we're careful not to get caught when we can't. I only mean that most greasers do things like that, just like we wear our hair long and dress in blue jeans and T-shirts, or leave our shirttails out and wear leather jackets and tennis shoes or boots. I'm not saying that either Socs or greasers are better; that's just the way things are.

I could have waited to go to the movies until Darry or Sodapop got off work. They would have gone with me, or driven me there, or walked along, although Soda just can't sit still long enough to enjoy a movie and they bore Darry to death. Darry thinks his life is enough without inspecting other people's. Or I could have gotten one of the gang to come along, one of the four boys Darry and Soda and I have grown up with and consider family. We're almost as close as brothers; when you grow up in a tight-knit neighborhood like ours you get to know each other real well. If I had thought about it, I could have called Darry and he would have come by on his way home and picked me up, or Two-Bit Mathews—one of our gang—would have come to get me in his car if I had asked him, but sometimes I just don't use my head. It drives my brother Darry nuts when I do stuff like that, 'cause I'm supposed to be smart; I make good grades and have a high IQ and everything, but I don't use my head. Besides, I like walking.

I about decided I didn't like it so much, though, when I spotted that red Corvair trailing me. I was almost two blocks from home then, so I started walking a little faster. I had never been jumped, but I had seen Johnny after four Socs got hold of him, and it wasn't pretty. Johnny was scared of his own shadow after that. Johnny was sixteen then.

I knew it wasn't any use though—the fast walking, I mean—even before the Corvair pulled up beside me and five Socs got out. I got pretty scared—I'm kind of small for fourteen even though I have a good build, and those guys were bigger than me. I automatically hitched my thumbs in my jeans and slouched, wondering if I could get away if I made a break for it. I remembered Johnny—his face all cut up and bruised, and I remembered how he had cried when we found him, half-conscious, in the corner lot. Johnny had it awful rough at home—it took a lot to make him cry.

I was sweating something fierce, although I was cold. I could feel my palms getting clammy and the perspiration running down my back. I get like that when I'm real scared. I glanced around for a pop bottle or a stick or something—Steve Randle, Soda's best buddy, had once held off four guys with a busted pop bottle—but there was nothing. So I stood there like a bump on a log while they surrounded me. I don't use my head. They walked around slowly, silently, smiling.

"Hey, grease," one said in an over-friendly voice. "We're gonna do you a favor, greaser. We're gonna cut all that long greasy hair off."

He had on a madras shirt. I can still see it. Blue madras. One of them laughed, then cussed me out in a low voice. I couldn't think of anything to say. There just isn't a whole lot you can say while waiting to get mugged, so I kept my mouth shut.

"Need a haircut, greaser?" The medium-sized blond pulled a knife out of his back pocket and flipped the blade open.

I finally thought of something to say. "No." I was backing up, away from that knife. Of course I backed right into one of them. They had me down in a second. They had my arms and legs pinned down and one of them was sitting on my chest with his knees on my elbows, and if you don't think that hurts, you're crazy. I could smell English Leather shaving lotion and stale tobacco, and I wondered foolishly if I would suffocate before they did anything. I was scared so bad I was wishing I would. I fought to get loose, and almost did for a second; then they tightened up on me and the one on my chest slugged me a couple of times. So I lay still, swearing at them between gasps. A blade was held against my throat.

"How'd you like that haircut to begin just below the chin?"

It occurred to me then that they could kill me. I went wild. I started screaming for Soda, Darry, anyone. Someone put his hand over my mouth, and I bit it as hard as I could, tasting the blood running through my teeth. I heard a muttered curse and got slugged again, and they were stuffing a handkerchief in my mouth. One of them kept saying, "Shut him up, for Pete's sake, shut him up!"

Then there were shouts and the pounding of feet, and the Socs jumped up and left me lying there, gasping. I lay there and wondered what in the world was happening—people were jumping over me and running by me and I was too dazed to figure it out. Then someone had me under the armpits and was hauling me to my feet. It was Darry.

"Are you all right, Ponyboy?"

He was shaking me and I wished he'd stop. I was dizzy enough anyway. I could tell it was Darry though—partly because of the voice and partly because Darry's always rough with me without meaning to be.

"I'm okay. Quit shaking me, Darry, I'm okay."

He stopped instantly. "I'm sorry."

He wasn't really. Darry isn't ever sorry for anything he does. It seems funny to me that he should look just exactly like my father and act exactly the opposite from him. My father was only forty when he died and he looked twenty-five and a lot of people thought Darry and Dad were brothers instead of father and son. But they only looked alike—my father was never rough with anyone without meaning to be.

Darry is six-feet-two, and broad-shouldered and muscular. He has dark-brown hair that kicks out in front and a slight cowlick in the back—just like Dad's—but Darry's eyes are his own. He's got eyes that are like two pieces of pale blue-green ice. They've got a determined set to them, like the rest of him. He looks older than twenty—tough, cool, and smart. He would be real handsome if his eyes weren't so cold. He doesn't understand anything that is not plain hard fact. But he uses his head.

I sat down again, rubbing my cheek where I'd been slugged the most.

Darry jammed his fists in his pockets. "They didn't hurt you too bad, did they?

They did. I was smarting and aching and my chest was sore and I was so nervous my hands were shaking and I wanted to start bawling, but you just don't say that to Darry.

"I'm okay."

Sodapop came loping back. By then I had figured that all the noise I had heard was the gang coming to rescue me. He dropped down beside me, examining my head.

"You got cut up a little, huh, Ponyboy?"

I only looked at him blankly. "I did?"

He pulled out a handkerchief, wet the end of it with his tongue, and pressed it gently against the side of my head. "You're bleedin' like a stuck pig."

"I am?"

"Look!" He showed me the handkerchief, reddened as if by magic. "Did they pull a blade on you?"

I remembered the voice: "Need a haircut, greaser?" The blade must have slipped while he was trying to shut me up. "Yeah."

    Soda is handsomer than anyone else I know. Not like Darry—Soda's movie-star kind of handsome, the kind that people stop on the street to watch go by. He's not as tall as Darry, and he's a little slimmer, but he has a finely drawn, sensitive face that somehow manages to be reckless and thoughtful at the same time. He's got dark-gold hair that he combs back—long and silky and straight—and in the summer the sun bleaches it to a shining wheat-gold. His eyes are dark brown—lively, dancing, recklessly laughing eyes that can be gentle and sympathetic one moment and blazing with anger the next. He has Dad's eyes, but Soda is one of a kind. He can get drunk in a drag race or dancing without ever getting near alcohol. In our neighborhood it's rare to find a kid who doesn't drink once in a while. But Soda never touches a drop—he doesn't need to. He gets drunk on just plain living. And he understands everybody.

He looked at me more closely. I looked away hurriedly, because, if you want to know the truth, I was starting to bawl. I knew I was as white as I felt and I was shaking like a leaf.

Soda just put his hand on my shoulder. "Easy, Ponyboy. They ain't gonna hurt you no more."

"I know," I said, but the ground began to blur and I felt hot tears running down my cheeks. I brushed them away impatiently. "I'm just a little spooked, that's all." I drew a quivering breath and quit crying. You just don't cry in front of Darry. Not unless you're hurt like Johnny had been that day we found him in the vacant lot. Compared to Johnny I wasn't hurt at all.

Soda rubbed my hair. "You're an okay kid, Pony."

I had to grin at him—Soda can make you grin no matter what. I guess it's because he's always grinning so much himself. "You're crazy, Soda, out of your mind."

Darry looked as if he'd like to knock our heads together. "You're both nuts."

Soda merely cocked one eyebrow, a trick he'd picked up from Two-Bit. "It seems to run in this family."

Darry stared at him for a second, then cracked a grin. Sodapop isn't afraid of him like everyone else and enjoys teasing him. I'd just as soon tease a full-grown grizzly; but for some reason, Darry seems to like being teased by Soda.

Our gang had chased the Socs to their car and heaved rocks at them. They came running toward us now—four lean, hard guys. They were all as tough as nails and looked it. I had grown up with them, and they accepted me, even though I was younger, because I was Darry and Soda's kid brother and I kept my mouth shut good

Steve Randle was seventeen, tall and lean, with thick greasy hair he kept combed in complicated swirls. He was cocky, smart, and Soda's best buddy since grade school. Steve's specialty was cars. He could lift a hubcap quicker and more quietly than anyone in the neighborhood, but he also knew cars upside-down and backward, and he could drive anything on wheels. He and Soda worked at the same gas station—Steve part time and Soda full time—and their station got more customers than any other in town. Whether that was because Steve was so good with cars or because Soda attracted girls like honey draws flies, I couldn't tell you. I liked Steve only because he was Soda's best friend. He didn't like me—he thought I was a tagalong and a kid; Soda always took me with them when they went places if they weren't taking girls, and that bugged Steve. It wasn't my fault; Soda always asked me, I didn't ask him. Soda doesn't think I'm a kid.

Two-Bit Mathews was the oldest of the gang and the wisecracker of the bunch. He was about six feet tall, stocky in build, and very proud of his long rusty-colored sideburns. He had gray eyes and a wide grin, and he couldn't stop making funny remarks to save his life. You couldn't shut up that guy; he always had to get his two-bits worth in. Hence his name. Even his teachers forgot his real name was Keith, and we hardly remembered he had one. Life was one big joke to Two-Bit. He was famous for shoplifting and his black-handled switchblade (which he couldn't have acquired without his first talent), and he was always smarting off to the cops. He really couldn't help it. Everything he said was so irresistibly funny that he just had to let the police in on it to brighten up their dull lives. (That's the way he explained it to me.) He liked fights, blondes, and for some unfathomable reason, school. He was still a junior at eighteen and a half and he never learned anything. He just went for kicks. I liked him real well because he kept us laughing at ourselves as well as at other things. He reminded me of Will Rogers—maybe it was the grin.

If I had to pick the real character of the gang, it would be Dallas Winston—Dally. I used to like to draw his picture when he was in a dangerous mood, for then I could get his personality down in a few lines. He had an elfish face, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, small, sharp animal teeth, and ears like a lynx. His hair was almost white it was so blond, and he didn't like haircuts, or hair oil either, so it fell over his forehead in wisps and kicked out in the back in tufts and curled behind his ears and along the nape of his neck. His eyes were blue, blazing ice, cold with a hatred of the whole world. Dally had spent three years on the wild side of New York and had been arrested at the age of ten. He was tougher than the rest of us—tougher, colder, meaner. The shade of difference that separates a greaser from a hood wasn't present in Dally. He was as wild as the boys in the downtown outfits, like Tim Shepard's gang.

In New York, Dally blew off steam in gang fights, but here, organized gangs are rarities—there are just small bunches of friends who stick together, and the warfare is between the social classes. A rumble, when it's called, is usually born of a grudge fight, and the opponents just happen to bring their friends along. Oh, there are a few named gangs around, like the River Kings and the Tiber Street Tigers, but here in the Southwest there's no gang rivalry. So Dally, even though he could get into a good fight sometimes, had no specific thing to hate. No rival gang. Only Socs. And you can't win against them no matter how hard you try, because they've got all the breaks and even whipping them isn't going to change that fact. Maybe that was why Dallas was so bitter.

He had quite a reputation. They have a file on him down at the police station. He had been arrested, he got drunk, he rode in rodeos, lied, cheated, stole, rolled drunks, jumped small kids—he did everything. I didn't like him, but he was smart and you had to respect him.

Johnny Cade was last and least. If you can picture a little dark puppy that has been kicked too many times and is lost in a crowd of strangers, you'll have Johnny. He was the youngest, next to me, smaller than the rest, with a slight build. He had big black eyes in a dark tanned face; his hair was jet-black and heavily greased and combed to the side, but it was so long that it fell in shaggy bangs across his forehead. He had a nervous, suspicious look in his eyes, and that beating he got from the Socs didn't help matters. He was the gang's pet, everyone's kid brother. His father was always beating him up, and his mother ignored him, except when she was hacked off at something, and then you could hear her yelling at him clear down at our house. I think he hated that worse than getting whipped. He would have run away a million times if we hadn't been there. If it hadn't been for the gang, Johnny would never have known what love and affection are.

I wiped my eyes hurriedly. "Didya catch 'em?"

"Nup. They got away this time, the dirty ..." Two-Bit went on cheerfully, calling the Socs every name he could think of or make up.

"The kid's okay?"

"I'm okay." I tried to think of something to say. I'm usually pretty quiet around people, even the gang. I changed the subject. "I didn't know you were out of the cooler yet, Dally."

"Good behavior Got off early." Dallas lit a cigarette and handed it to Johnny. Everyone sat down to have a smoke and relax. A smoke always lessens the tension I had quit trembling and my color was back. The cigarette was calming me down. Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow. "Nice-lookin' bruise you got there, kid."

I touched my cheek gingerly. "Really?"

Two-Bit nodded sagely. "Nice cut, too. Makes you look tough."

Tough and tuff are two different words. Tough is the same as rough; tuff means cool, sharp—like a tuff-looking Mustang or a tuff record. In our neighborhood both are compliments.

Steve flicked his ashes at me. "What were you doin', walkin' by your lonesome?" Leave it to good old Steve to bring up something like that.

"I was comin' home from the movies. I didn't think ..."

"You don't ever think," Darry broke in, "not at home or anywhere when it counts. You must think at school, with all those good grades you bring home, and you've always got your nose in a book, but do you ever use your head for common sense? No sirree, bub. And if you did have to go by yourself, you should have carried a blade."

I just stared at the hole in the toe of my tennis shoe. Me and Darry just didn't dig each other. I never could please him. He would have hollered at me for carrying a blade if I had carried one. If I brought home B's, he wanted A's, and if I got A's, he wanted to make sure they stayed A's. If I was playing football, I should be in studying, and if I was reading, I should be out playing football. He never hollered at Sodapop—not even when Soda dropped out of school or got tickets for speeding. He just hollered at me.

Soda was glaring at him. "Leave my kid brother alone, you hear? It ain't his fault he likes to go to the movies, and it ain't his fault the Socs like to jump us, and if he had been carrying a blade it would have been a good excuse to cut him to ribbons."

Soda always takes up for me.

Darry said impatiently, "When I want my kid brother to tell me what to do with my other kid brother, I'll ask you—kid brother." But he laid off me. He always does when Sodapop tells him to. Most of the time.

"Next time get one of us to go with you, Ponyboy," Two-Bit said. "Any of us will."

"Speakin' of movies"—Dally yawned, flipping away his cigarette butt—"I'm walkin' over to the Nightly Double tomorrow night. Anybody want to come and hunt some action?"

Steve shook his head. "Me and Soda are pickin' up Evie and Sandy for the game."

He didn't need to look at me the way he did right then. I wasn't going to ask if I could come. I'd never tell Soda, because he really likes Steve a lot, but sometimes I can't stand Steve Randle. I mean it. Sometimes I hate him.

Darry sighed, just like I knew he would. Darry never had time to do anything anymore. "I'm working tomorrow night."

Dally looked at the rest of us. "How about y'all? Two-Bit? Johnnycake, you and Pony wanta come?"

"Me and Johnny'll come," I said. I knew Johnny wouldn't open his mouth unless he was forced to. "Okay, Darry?"

"Yeah, since it ain't a school night." Darry was real good about letting me go places on the weekends. On school nights I could hardly leave the house.

"I was plannin' on getting boozed up tomorrow night," Two-Bit said. "If I don't, I'll walk over and find y'all."

Steve was looking at Dally's hand. His ring, which he had rolled a drunk senior to get, was back on his finger. "You break up with Sylvia again?"

"Yeah, and this time it's for good. That little broad was two-timin' me again while I was in jail."

I thought of Sylvia and Evie and Sandy and Two-Bit's many blondes. They were the only kind of girls that would look at us, I thought. Tough, loud girls who wore too much eye makeup and giggled and swore too much. I liked Soda's girl Sandy just fine, though. Her hair was natural blond and her laugh was soft, like her china-blue eyes. She didn't have a real good home or anything and was our kind—greaser—but she was a real nice girl. Still, lots of times I wondered what other girls were like. The girls who were bright-eyed, and had their dresses a decent length and acted as if they'd like to spit on us if given a chance. Some were afraid of us, and remembering Dallas Winston, I didn't blame them. But most looked at us like we were dirt—gave us the same kind of look that the Socs did when they came by in their Mustangs and Corvairs and yelled "Grease!" at us. I wondered about them. The girls, I mean ... Did they cry when their boys were arrested, like Evie did when Steve got hauled in, or did they run out on them the way Sylvia did Dallas? But maybe their boys didn't get arrested or beaten up or busted up in rodeos.

I was still thinking about it while I was doing my homework that night. I had to read Great Expectations for English, and that kid Pip, he reminded me of us—the way he felt marked lousy because he wasn't a gentleman or anything, and the way that girl kept looking down on him. That happened to me once. One time in biology I had to dissect a worm, and the razor wouldn't cut, so I used my switchblade. The minute I flicked it out—I forgot what I was doing or I would never have done it—this girl right beside me kind of gasped, and said, "They are right. You are a hood." That didn't make me feel so hot. There were a lot of Socs in that class—I get put into A classes because I'm supposed to be smart—and most of them thought it was pretty funny. I didn't, though. She was a cute girl. She looked real good in yellow.

We deserve a lot of our trouble, I thought. Dallas deserves everything he gets, and should get worse, if you want the truth. And Two-Bit—he doesn't really want or need half the things he swipes from stores. He just thinks it's fun to swipe everything that isn't nailed down. I can understand why Sodapop and Steve get into drag races and fights so much, though—both of them have too much energy, too much feeling, with no way to blow it off.

"Rub harder, Soda," I heard Darry mumbling. "You're gonna put me to sleep."

I looked through the door. Sodapop was giving Darry a back-rub. Darry is always pulling muscles; he roofs houses and he's always trying to carry two bundles of roofing up the ladder. I knew Soda would put him to sleep, because Soda can put about anyone out when he sets his head to it. He thought Darry worked too hard anyway. I did, too.

Darry didn't deserve to work like an old man when he was only twenty. He had been a real popular guy in school; he was captain of the football team and he had been voted Boy of the Year. But we just didn't have the money for him to go to college, even with the athletic scholarship he won. And now he didn't have time between jobs to even think about college. So he never went anywhere and never did anything anymore, except work out at gyms and go skiing with some old friends of his sometimes.

I rubbed my cheek where it had turned purple. I had looked in the mirror, and it did make me look tough. But Darry had made me put a Band-Aid on the cut.

I remembered how awful Johnny had looked when he got beaten up. I had just as much right to use the streets as the Socs did, and Johnny had never hurt them. Why did the Socs hate us so much? We left them alone. I nearly went to sleep over my homework trying to figure it out.

Sodapop, who had jumped into bed by this time, yelled sleepily for me to turn off the light and get to bed. When I finished the chapter I was on, I did.

Lying beside Soda, staring at the wall, I kept remembering the faces of the Socs as they surrounded me, that blue madras shirt the blond was wearing, and I could still hear a thick voice: "Need a haircut, greaser?" I shivered.

"You cold, Ponyboy?"

"A little," I lied. Soda threw one arm across my neck. He mumbled something drowsily. "Listen, kiddo, when Darry hollers at you ... he don't mean nothin'. He's just got more worries than somebody his age ought to. Don't take him serious ... you dig, Pony? Don't let him bug you. He's really proud of you 'cause you're so brainy. It's just because you're the baby—I mean, he loves you a lot. Savvy?"

"Sure," I said, trying for Soda's sake to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"Soda?"

"Yeah?"

"How come you dropped out?" I never have gotten over that. I could hardly stand it when he left school.

"'Cause I'm dumb. The only things I was passing anyway were auto mechanics and gym."

"You're not dumb."

"Yeah, I am. Shut up and I'll tell you something. Don't tell Darry, though."

"Okay."

"I think I'm gonna marry Sandy. After she gets out of school and I get a better job and everything. I might wait till you get out of school, though. So I can still help Darry with the bills and stuff."

"Tuff enough. Wait till I get out, though, so you can keep Darry off my back."

"Don't be like that, kid. I told you he don't mean half of what he says ..."

"You in love with Sandy? What's it like?"

"Hhhmmm." He sighed happily. "It's real nice."

In a moment his breathing was light and regular. I turned my head to look at him and in the moonlight he looked like some Greek god come to earth. I wondered how he could stand being so handsome. Then I sighed. I didn't quite get what he meant about Darry. Darry thought I was just another mouth to feed and somebody to holler at. Darry love me? I thought of those hard, pale eyes. Soda was wrong for once, I thought. Darry doesn't love anyone or anything, except maybe Soda. I didn't hardly think of him as being human. I don't care, I lied to myself, I don't care about him either. Soda's enough, and I'd have him until I got out of school. I don't care about Darry. But I was still lying and I knew it. I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me.

Lower-class high-schoolers take on a gang from the right side of the tracks.

Release Date: March 25, 1983

Release Time: 91 minutes(Original Release)

114 minutes(The Complete Novel 2005 Re-Release)

Director: Francis Ford Coppola

Cast:
C Thomas Howell as Ponyboy Curtis
Ralph Macchio as Johnny Cade
Matt Dillon as Dallas Winston
Rob Lowe as Sodapop Curtis
Patrick Swayze as Darrel Curtis
Emilio Estevez as Keith "Two-Bit" Matthews

Tom Cruise as Steve Randle
Glenn Withrow as Tim Shepard

Diane Lane as Cherry Valance
Leif Garrett as Robert 'Bob' Sheldon
Darren Dalton as Randy Adderson
Michelle Meyrink as Marcia

Tom Waits as Buck Merrill
Gailard Sartain as Jerry Wood
SE Hinton as nurse in Dallas's hospital room.
William Smith as Store Clerk

Nicolas Cage as background Socs(Uncredited)

Flea as background Socs(Uncredited)

Melanie Griffith as background Socs(Uncredited)

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Author Bio:

S.E. Hinton, was and still is, one of the most popular and best known writers of young adult fiction. Her books have been taught in some schools, and banned from others. Her novels changed the way people look at young adult literature.

Susan Eloise Hinton was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She has always enjoyed reading but wasn't satisfied with the literature that was being written for young adults, which influenced her to write novels like The Outsiders. That book, her first novel, was published in 1967 by Viking.

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Monday Morning's Menu: Corked by Brigham Vaughn

Summary:

A young, hotshot sommelier.

A redheaded wine distributor with a temper.

Lucas Spencer is determined to liven up the stodgy wine list at the restaurant where he’s recently been hired. His brash approach alienates Sean Powell, the restaurant's longtime distributor. There’s no avoiding each other though and the more they butt heads, the hotter the tension between them gets.

Blending their professional frustration and personal attraction without risking their careers isn’t easy though, and an eleven-year age difference makes Sean doubt that the feelings are mutual. A wine tasting trip to Traverse City, Michigan ignites jealousy and insecurities and finally forces them to decide if their relationship will age like a fine wine or if it’s corked.

Originally released in 2018. Re-released in 2020 with a new cover and minor editorial tweaks only. The story content remains unchanged.

Corked

Original Review May 2018:

With the horrendous day Sean Powell was having he was at least looking forward to ending it with a little chat with his friend and sommelier at Bistro Argent as they talked over the wine order, what he wasn't expecting was to discover his friend had retired and in his place was the young new sommelier Lucas Spencer.  Lucas is hoping to update the wine list at the restaraunt but his first meeting with the distributer doesn't go as he planned.  When Sean and Lucas can't deny their attraction any more will their love of wine be enough to build something lasting?

First and foremost, I have to admit to you all that I really hate wine.  Perhaps "hate" is a bit strong but I'd rather have a Tom Collins with my meal than a glass of wine.  Now, you don't have to enjoy wine to enjoy Corked but I think it speaks to the talent of the author when one of the characters(and yes I feel the wine is such a factor to the story that its a character all on its own) is not liked and the reader is still enthralled.

Speaking of characters, the chemistry between Sean and Lucas is immediate but the boys don't make it easy.  As for Sean, well some probably take an instant dislike to him but as someone who has had the horrendous kind of day that he had I can understand his gruff attitude.  Lucas is adorable, there's just no better way to describe him, he is simply and completely adorable.  Their passion may light up the page but its their inner thoughts that give Corked its heart.  Not everyone likes alternating POVs but personally, I love them.  Being able to see inside each character's soul just makes the story more realistic and emotional for me, it helps me connect to them.

I read Sean and Lucas' journey in its original novella form Wine Tasting Series and I loved it, the tweaking and additions Brigham Vaughn has made as she released it in one story, Corked, has only made it even better.  Some times when an author or director adds material to their original work it really only clutters the story but not this time.  If you loved their journey in the original series you will be head over heels with this version and if you never experienced Wine Tasting Series than you are in for a real treat.

Originally published as the "Wine Tasting Series":

Original Trilogy Reviews May 2014:

Spit and Swallow #1

An awesome read from an awesome author! Definitely check it out!

Aftertaste #2

Once again, she does it! How she keeps doing, I don't know but I'm so grateful she does.

Finish #3

Such a beautiful conclusion to this amazing novella trilogy.

RATING:

One

Lucas Spencer set an invoice on top of the pile of papers on his new desk, then watched in horror as the entire stack toppled to the floor with a loud rustle. It had been leaning precariously for the better part of an hour, and Lucas had meant to straighten it. Now he had to gather them all up again and hope none had landed on top of the other teetering piles dotting the floor of the cramped office. 

With a heavy sigh, Lucas sat back in his chair, tilting his head from side to side. His neck was stiff, he felt like his eyes were crossed, he had a headache forming, and there was nothing very productive to show for it. 

The sommelier at Bistro Argent being forced to abruptly retire was possibly the best—and worst—thing that had ever happened to Lucas. The best because he had been hired to take his place and working at a restaurant of the caliber of Bistro Argent was a rare opportunity for a sommelier so young. And the worst because the man Lucas had replaced was a packrat. And not an organized one.

In his defense, Roger Horner—the former sommelier—had been plagued with health issues for years. Lucas was trying to cut the guy some slack, but he’d spent three days trying to sort through the man’s office and make some sense of things, and he felt like he hadn’t gotten anywhere. 

Lucas stood with a groan and stretched. Something in his back popped, and for a second, he wasn’t sure if it had relieved the pressure or broken something completely. “Less sitting, more moving around,” he muttered under his breath. As an active person, spending this much time behind a desk was miserable. 

Lucas gathered up the fallen papers, deciding he’d take a break and get a feel for the bar. He’d done his research before he accepted the job and Bistro Argent had a reputation for having a solid—if not particularly exciting—wine list and a very boring cocktail selection. He had plans for the wine list. The bar was a still a big question mark in his mind. 

It was a Monday, the one day of the week when the restaurant was closed, and he was there trying to get up to speed before his first official day of work. A sommelier friend of the owner’s had been filling in for the past few weeks while they searched for Roger’s replacement. He’d done his best to bring Lucas up to speed, but Lucas still felt wildly unprepared. 

The building was deserted, and Lucas enjoyed the peace and quiet as he walked through the dining space. Snowy white linens covered the tables, and silverware gleamed under the dim lights. Brown leather banquettes and booths broke up the room and helped create a cozy atmosphere. Exposed brick walls, sparkling light fixtures, and a wood-wrapped bar gave it a hip, yet upscale vibe. The setting was perfect, the food was impeccable, and it was his job to find a wine and cocktail menu that would enhance both. 

Unfortunately, as Lucas slipped behind the bar to peruse the cocktail menu and the selection, his fears were confirmed. The current selection was pitiful. There was nothing wrong with classic martinis, manhattans, and cosmopolitans. In fact, they were crucial to the menu, but they needed some signature cocktails to liven things up. In an economy like the one they were currently dealing with, a restaurant had to do something to set itself apart from the competition. A staid, boring cocktail menu wasn’t going to attract younger patrons. The chef and owner, Richard Brayden, had done a wonderful job with the food—it was a fresh take on Parisian bistro fare, and he seemed open to the ideas Lucas had for wine pairings and cocktails, but it was always tricky starting out. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be stepping on any of the bartenders’ toes by shaking things up a bit. 

Lucas leaned on the bar and scribbled a few notes for himself, lost in thoughts of herb-infused cocktails and artisanal mixers. The sound of someone clearing their throat made him jump. 

He turned, expecting to see Richard, the executive chef, or maybe Marilee, the head hostess and front of the house manager. 

A tall, red-haired man stood at the end of the bar. Lucas managed to keep his jaw from hitting the floor, but it took a moment for him to do anything but stare. He had a weakness for redheads, and this guy hit all the right buttons. The height, the pale, freckled skin, and the blue-gray eyes, in addition to the shock of red hair, all added up to make a very, very attractive picture.

When Lucas realized he’d been staring long enough to make it uncomfortable, he cleared his throat and walked to the end of the bar. “Hey there. Can I, uh, help you with something?” 

Although, if Lucas wasn’t mistaken, the man was checking him out as well. He hoped the simple pair of jeans and the T-shirt he was wearing weren’t too casual. He certainly hadn’t expected to run into anyone here today, much less someone he’d like to impress. 

The redheaded guy smiled and held out a hand to him. “I don’t recognize you. You must be new.” 

“I am,” Lucas admitted, reaching out to shake. “I haven’t even officially started. I’m just here trying to get a feel for things.” 

His gaze flicked over Lucas with interest. “Nice to meet you. I’m Sean Powell with Metro Wine and Liquor Distributors. Do you know if Roger is around?” 

“Uhh,” Lucas said, “he retired.” 

Sean blinked at him for a moment. “He what?” 

“Retired. A couple weeks ago. A friend of Richard’s has been filling in, in the meantime, but I just got hired as his replacement.” 

Sean let out a disbelieving sounding snort. “You? You have to be kidding me.” 

“Excuse me?” Lucas said, bristling.

“You don’t look like you’d know the difference between a pinot gris and a pinot noir,” Sean scoffed. “Come on. You’re a bartender, maybe. But I have a hard time believing you’re qualified to apprentice for this job, much less take Roger’s place.” 

Lucas folded his arms across his chest and stared at Sean. “I am more than qualified. My name is Lucas Spencer, and I’ve been hired as sommelier for Bistro Argent.” His voice was as cold as the air in the industrial freezer in the kitchen. 

“Fucking great,” Sean muttered under his breath as he dug through the leather satchel he had over his shoulder. “They hired a pretty boy who won’t know shit about wine. That’s the last thing I need to deal with today.” 

Sean Powell’s day had been shitty from the moment he woke up to realize he’d hit snooze on his alarm and fallen back to sleep for an extra forty minutes. He’d cut himself shaving in the shower, dropped raspberry jam on his favorite shirt, and, as he went flying out the door, realized his phone charger wasn’t working. Things had gone further downhill with a fairly substantial client choosing not to renew their contract, a pricey case of wine that had needed to be returned because it had gone bad, and a flat tire on his SUV. He’d called roadside assistance to get it changed, but it had pushed back his schedule even further, and he’d wound up stuck in the usual snarl of Chicago area commuters returning to the suburbs, which he was usually able to avoid.

He was done. 

Thankfully, the last client on his list was Bistro Argent. He always enjoyed dealing with Roger, the sommelier there, and at least, his day should end on a good note. The men had known each other for years, and they often talked over a nice bottle of wine while they did business. 

Roger liked to come in on what was technically his day off and putter in his unholy mess of an office, and Sean tried to time his visits accordingly. It had been nearly a month since he’d had a chance to drop by, but he had a couple new wines he thought Roger might want to sample and put on the menu. He hoped anyway. If there was one bad thing about his friend—other than his disorganization—it was that he wasn’t as adventurous with the wine selection as Sean thought he could be. Still, he’d keep trying. 

The back door that led into the kitchen was unlocked as usual, and Sean immediately headed for Roger’s office. To his surprise, it was empty, and it looked like he’d been in the middle of sorting through his papers. That was a shock; in the eight years they’d known each other, Sean hadn’t once seen him make the smallest attempt. Rogert always knew where everything was, so Sean didn’t really care how much of a slob he was. Still, it would be nice to be able to take a seat without having to move stacks of paper around. 

Wondering where the hell Roger was, and what sudden compunction had compelled him to clean his office, Sean headed for the front of the bistro. To his surprise, instead of the rather rotund, middle-aged man with thinning gray hair he was used to seeing, he was confronted with the most spectacular ass he’d ever seen. Definitely not Roger’s. Sean stared for a moment, taking in the round firmness in a pair of snug dark jeans. Whoever the man was, he was leaning on the bar, and Sean had the sudden urge to walk up behind him and see if his ass was as pinchable as it looked. He cleared his throat at the sudden rush of arousal that flooded through him and watched as the man stood. He was tall—really tall—several inches over Sean’s six foot height, and built. Not huge and bulky, but he had impressively broad shoulders, muscled arms, and even in the plain black T-shirt he wore, Sean could tell his stomach was flat and toned. And that was just his body. His face was equally gorgeous. He was one of those guys who somehow pulled off the pretty but masculine look. His square jaw was covered in a hint of dark blond stubble, he had high cheekbones, stylishly-cut blond hair, and the most stunning blue-green eyes Sean had ever seen. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, and Sean tried not to whimper. 

Holy shit, he even sounds good. 

Sean introduced himself, assuming he was the new bartender they’d just hired. He didn’t normally flirt on the job, but damn. For this guy, he could make an exception. Richard would give him shit, but he really didn’t care. 

Unfortunately, the flirtatious banter he was expecting took a sharp turn when he realized that Roger had retired without telling him and that the hot guy wasn’t a bartender like he assumed but Roger’s replacement. Sean was none too happy to find that out. 

“Fucking great,” Sean muttered, digging through his bag to find his phone. He needed to get ahold of Roger and see what the hell was going on. “They hired a pretty-boy who won’t know shit about wine.

That’s the last thing I need to deal with today.” 

He finally found his phone and pulled it out, only to remember that the battery was dead. “Son of a bitch,” he swore. He looked up to see the other man still glowering at him. Lucas or whatever his name was. 

“Pretty boy?” Lucas asked scathingly. “Are you kidding me? And who the fuck are you to judge my abilities as a sommelier? I’ve been working in restaurants since I was seventeen, took sommelier courses, and passed with flying colors. I apprenticed under a Master Sommelier and have worked on my own for the last three years. I have every intention of becoming a certified Master Sommelier myself in the near future.” 

Though he didn’t say it aloud, there was a clear fuck you in his voice. Sean felt slightly abashed. Becoming a certified Master Sommelier was similar to getting a master’s degree in wine. Fewer than two hundred people worldwide held the title, and if this guy—who looked to be in his late twenties at the most—was aiming for the title; he was ambitious. Still, Sean had no intention of trusting the guy at his word that he knew wine. 

“I’ve known plenty of people with more training and experience than that with absolutely no taste,” Sean snapped. 

“Yeah, well, my predecessor clearly had taste but little imagination,” Lucas replied. “I’m going to be making some changes around here.”

Sean snarled at him, offended by the way Lucas spoke about his friend. And his arrogance. “Do you really think you can just waltz in here and shake things up for the hell of it?” 

“I’m not doing it just for the hell of it,” Lucas replied, bracing one arm on the counter and leaning in toward Sean. “The wine and cocktail menu is stodgy.” 

“This is the problem with you young people,” Sean sputtered. He groaned to himself the moment the words left his mouth. He sounded ancient saying that, but he was tired of restaurants hiring too-young staff who were more focused on trendiness than quality. 

“I’m thirty-one years old!” Lucas shouted. 

Okay, so he wasn’t quite as young as Sean had initially thought, but he was still eleven years younger than Sean. Just as well Lucas was an arrogant prick because no matter how attractive he was, there was way too much of an age gap there. Getting in bed with Lucas would really make him feel old. 

What a shame though, he thought wistfully. Even pissed off—maybe especially because he was pissed off—Lucas looked incredible. Sean could imagine all that snarling energy directed at him and he felt a little weak in the knees at the thought. The full lips bruising his with a hard kiss, the strong hands gripping his body tightly, the tight muscles bunching as he drove into Sean … Christ, if he wasn’t careful, he was going to have one hell of an erection to try to hide. 

Sean stuttered out an angry retort, promised to return on Thursday, and fled, confused, embarrassed, and aroused.

Sean Powell, or whoever the fuck he is, is an insufferable ass, Lucas fumed to himself as he stomped back to his new office. After insulting him, then staring at him like he was hoping Lucas would spontaneously combust, he had muttered something about coming back on Thursday morning and then disappeared. 

Lucas slammed his office door shut and watched in horror as another precarious pile of papers slid from the desk onto the floor. Resisting the urge to bang his head against the desk—because with his luck, it would upset more of the stacks—he muttered angrily to himself and knelt to pick up the papers. Again. Deciding he’d stay as late as it took to get things somewhat under control, he took a seat at the desk again and got to work again. 

Hours later, he was startled by a knock on his door. For the restaurant being closed today, there sure was a lot of traffic. 

“Lucas? You in there?” A familiar voice called out. 

“Yeah, come in,” he said, not even looking up from the paperwork in front of him. “Hey, Richard.” 

Lucas had been surprised by how casual Richard Brayden was. He’d worked with a number of chefs over the years and most had massive egos. In many restaurants, there was a clear delineation between the chef and the rest of the staff. Also, distance between the kitchen staff and the people working the front of the house. Ideally, a good sommelier bridged that gap and got everyone to mix, but a tyrannical and egotistical chef could make that difficult. The prestige of working at Bistro Argent was nothing to sneer at, but the urgency to get the position filled and the difficulty of sorting through Roger’s mess had nearly convinced Lucas to turn down the job offer. It was Richard’s firm but friendly demeanor that had been the deciding factor for him. He knew he was going to like working for the man. 

“I didn’t expect you to be here so late. I stopped to grab some paperwork in my office and was surprised to see you still here,” Richard said. 

Lucas looked up at Richard and forced a smile onto his face despite his sour mood. Richard had a concerned, almost fatherly air about him, and he was, in fact, old enough to have given birth to Lucas. “I’m still trying to get everything in order.” 

Richard sighed and lifted a stack of papers from the chair, glancing at Lucas to confirm that it was all right, before he set them on the floor. “I’m sorry you have to deal with such a mess. Roger wanted to get his papers organized before he left, but his doctors were adamant that he take things easy. His health is precarious right now, and he has some heart procedures scheduled for this week. You’re a saint for taking this on, to be honest.” 

“It’s … daunting,” Lucas admitted. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Richard offered, the concern in his tone palpable. “I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed. We’re all very grateful you’re here and working so hard to get up to speed.”

“I’m happy to be here,” Lucas said. “And once this is all straightened out, I think I’m going to love the job.” 

Richard beamed at him. “Excellent.” 

“You know,” Lucas added thoughtfully, “there may be something you can help with, actually. I have a couple questions for you.” 

“I’m pleased to help in any way I can. Go right ahead.” 

Richard answered the questions Lucas had, which did untangle a few issues he’d been struggling with. Knowing he could shred the older papers helped. At least, he didn’t have to try to find a place to store everything, which made his life easier. 

“We’ll get you some extra file cabinets, too,” Richard added. “In fact, I think I have some in my basement at home. Would you like me to bring them over?” 

“That would be fantastic,” Lucas said with a relieved smile. “I think this will be manageable now. Thank you so much.” 

“Happy to help,” Richard replied. “Now, I’m afraid I have to head out. I have a wife who’s probably going to be wondering what’s taking me so long to get back.” 

Lucas chuckled and stood. “I think I’ll head out as well.” 

“Wife or girlfriend waiting for you, too?” Richard asked as Lucas gathered his things.

He hesitated for a moment, hoping what he was about to say wouldn’t cause any problems with his boss. But he’d been out of the closet for years, and he wasn’t about to go back in. “Well, in my case, it would be a boyfriend or husband. But no, I’m single at the moment.” 

Richard nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. “Enjoy your freedom then. I love my wife to pieces, but sometimes, I miss my bachelor days.” 

Lucas felt the tension in him recede at the lack of reaction on his boss’s part. “I’ll be honest; I’m more of a relationship kind of guy, but it isn’t always that easy to meet people.” 

He and Richard chatted about relationships on their way out of the building. “You know, our wine distributor is gay,” Richard said. “He’s maybe ten or so years older than you, but he’s a great guy and single as far as I’m aware.” 

Lucas stopped in his tracks. “Sean? The redheaded guy?” 

Richard gave him a puzzled look. “Yeah. You met him? I mean, maybe he’s not your type, but I just thought I’d throw it out there.” 

“No, that’s fine.” Lucas waved off the fact that his boss was trying to set him up with a guy, which was a little surprising but not the biggest issue at the moment. “We met earlier today when he dropped by. But I’m afraid we didn’t have a great introduction. In fact, he was kind of an asshole,” he admitted.

“Sean?” Richard’s bushy gray eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. “You have to be kidding me. He’s a pretty mild-mannered guy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be a jerk.” 

“Yeah, well, I hate to speak ill of someone you obviously like,” Lucas said, starting to feel uncomfortable. “But he was pretty pissed at the fact that I took over for Roger.” 

“Oh, shit.” Richard blanched. “Fuck! I was supposed to call Sean about what was going on. Roger asked me to, but it must have slipped my mind. They’re pretty friendly, and Roger asked if I’d let him know.” 

“Hmm. Maybe that’s why he was so abrasive,” Lucas mused. “He didn’t think much of my plans for the wine and cocktail menus, either.” 

“Let me call Sean, and, hopefully, I can smooth things over. He is quite protective of his wines, so I think you just started out on the wrong foot. I’ll see what I can do to make things right.” 

“Thanks,” Lucas said gratefully. “I don’t want to piss anyone off or step on any toes. I just want to have a part in giving the diners here the best possible experience I can.” 

“And that’s what Sean wants, too,” Richard assured him. “I think you probably just ruffled his feathers. We’ll get it straightened out, and I’m sure you two will get along famously after that.” With a hearty clap on the shoulder, Richard headed toward his car. “It’ll be fine, Lucas. Leave it to me.” 

Lucas wanted to believe him and give Sean the benefit of the doubt, but he couldn’t help wondering if Sean was really as nice a guy as Richard thought he was.

Lucas chuckled to himself as he climbed into his car though. Richard had actually been right though; Sean was definitely his type. Well, other than being a complete jackass. The arguments were kind of hot though. He had a feeling that the more heated his arguments got with Sean the more he was going to end up fantasizing about him and he smiled to himself. 

Jerking off during his morning shower thinking about disagreement turning into passionate wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Author Bio:

Brigham Vaughn is on the adventure of a lifetime as a full-time writer. She devours books at an alarming rate and hasn’t let her short arms and long torso stop her from doing yoga.  She makes a killer key lime pie, hates green peppers, and loves wine tasting tours. A collector of vintage Nancy Drew books and green glassware, she enjoys poking around in antique shops and refinishing thrift store furniture. An avid photographer, she dreams of traveling the world and she can’t wait to discover everything else life has to offer her.

Her books range from short stories to novellas. They explore gay, lesbian, and polyamorous romance in contemporary settings.

To stay up to date on her latest releases, sign up for the Coles & Vaughn Newsletter.

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