Hello dear
friends! How was your week-end? Mine was very relaxing… until I realized it was
my turn to post on the blog. But no
worries, I found something for you. You know that I wouldn’t leave you hanging
with nothing. Not my style! Lol
Well, after
thinking really hard (yes, I can think when I put my mind to it!), I decided to
post the first chapter of each stories of the Road Trip Anthology. I hope you’ll
like it!
Cross
Country Foreplay
Hank
Edwards
Chapter One
"Brady?
You awake?"
The voice
drilled into Brady's dream, chasing away the image of the nude, hot, hung guy
Brady had been about to suck off. He rubbed his eyes, squinted against the
bright white sun, and looked around. Yep, it was all as he left it before
drifting off to sleep -- trapped in a van driving cross country with none other
than Preston Brissett, otherwise known as Bald Spot Brissett, or BSB to the
rest of the guys Brady worked with at Techmagine.
Brady
yawned and sat up higher in the passenger seat. His mouth tasted like sand,
which was hardly a surprise, seeing as how they were driving through the
desert. He rubbed his eyes some more and then made himself turn his head toward
the driver's side, trying to force the graphic images of his dream out of his
mind.
Preston
glanced over and grinned at him. The man's dark blond hair was kind of long for
such a prominent bald spot in back, and he was a little heavier than he should
be. A neatly trimmed goatee surrounded his mouth, and the sunlight through the
windshield sparkled in his blue eyes.
"Welcome
back to the land of the wakeful," Preston said. "Gas station up
ahead. Need a pee break?"
Brady
looked away and nodded. Preston was a cheerful driver, and Brady was still
trying to wake up from his nap. "Yeah. A break would be good."
The gas
station was the typical highway rest stop: an acre of concrete, rows of pumps
huddling from the sun beneath an aluminum overhang, and tackily dressed
tourists wandering bleary-eyed through the heat from the air conditioned
interiors of their cars to the air conditioned interior of the building.
Preston
eased the van up alongside a pump and flashed Brady a tentative smile.
"I'll pay for the gas. Think you might want to drive for a while?"
Brady
shrugged. "Sure. Where are we?"
"Just
crossed the state line into Arizona." Preston held up his cell phone, the
exact same model as Brady's. "I thought we'd take I-40 through Arizona and
New Mexico, if that's okay with you? You were asleep and I just made the
decision. Better to beg for forgiveness rather than ask for permission,
right?"
"Yeah,
sure," Brady said, "whatever." He opened the door and the dry
heat sucked the moisture from his mouth. It was like stepping into a blast
furnace. Brady let out a gasp and hurried to the doors of the station.
After using
the restroom, Brady opened a cooler door and grabbed a few Red Bulls for
himself. He started for the register, but caught a glimpse of Preston cleaning
the bugs off the windshield, a line of sweat staining the back of his shirt,
and he stopped. It was still tough for Brady to realize that just two days ago
he and Preston had been lured into the office of Cameron Rooke, founder and CEO
of Techmagine. Cameron had talked to them about the importance of flexibility
for start-up companies, especially tech companies, and how positive word of
mouth was the fastest path to true growth.
Brady had
nodded along, tried to look invested in the conversation, but his mind was
darting around like a hummingbird on crack. He was in the CEO's office, having
a conversation with Cameron Rooke himself! Brady managed to get his thoughts
under control and zoned in on Cameron's words again. He didn't know what
Cameron was leading up to, he just knew the CEO had selected him out of the
entire, hungry office staff for a special project, and he was going to jump at
it no matter how many late nights it took.
Then
Cameron had dropped the bomb about the client in Boston, as in Massachusetts –
as in across the fucking country – and their request for personal training on
the Techmagine system.
It was a
great opportunity, and he knew that Brady and Preston were the right team to
get it done and get it done right. Because they would need to set up an entire
classroom of equipment for training, they needed to drive a van loaded down
with computers. It was going to take three days to drive there, a week to
complete the training, and three more days to drive home.
All that
time spent with Preston right at his side. Brady didn't know if he should be
excited or annoyed at the opportunity. He had always thought Preston was sexy
in his own way, a fact he would never tell any of the other coders he worked
with, especially not Phillip Holt, who had coined the nickname BSB. It was a
mean name, and Phillip was a mean person through and through, but Brady didn't
want the guy to know his thoughts about Preston, good or bad. Truth was, Brady
had never really considered Preston as a sexual person. The guy wore baggy
khakis and button-down shirts to the office with a few ties that he changed up
every now and then.
Brady
turned back to the cooler and stood looking at the drink selection. Preston
liked a specific flavor of Vitamin Water, but what was it? Brady let his gaze
roam the bottles and colors, then finally remembered. He had been watching porn
on his computer while he waited for Preston to show up, and when he had gotten
in the van the name of the drink had made him think of the scene he'd just
watched and he blushed: Vitamin Water XXX.
He grabbed
three bottles of XXX out of the cooler, paid for the drinks, then crossed the
blazing heat of the concrete lot to the van where Preston was just grabbing the
gas receipt out of the pump.
"Grabbed
you some drinks," Brady said, and reached in the bag to pull one out.
"This the right flavor?"
Preston
looked at him and, if Brady wasn't seeing things, he actually blushed.
"Oh,
that was nice. Yeah... Yes, that's the flavor I like." Preston stood
looking at him for a moment, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the gas
station. "I'll just go in and use the restroom, then we can go. Gas is
paid for."
"Yeah,
okay, sounds good." Brady gestured. "I'll pull over here to free up
the pump."
"Good
idea," Preston said and nodded a few times before turning to hurry to the
station.
Brady
watched him go, smirked at the sunlight that gleamed off the sheen of sweat coating
his bald spot. BSB was a mean name, but it did fit. Had to give Phillip props
for creativity. Then Brady's gaze automatically dropped to check out BSB's ass,
surprised to find it a meaty, high, rounded swell beneath his jeans.
Looked like BSB worked out, something Brady and
the other young guys at the office never imagined for the guy since they
couldn't tell it beneath his baggy khakis. Brady watched a moment longer, then
got in the van, and pulled off to the side to wait for his passenger.
Storm
Warning
Em Woods
Chapter One
The vase
was almost finished.
Sweat
rolled down his back, soaking into the waistband of his jeans, as the coals in
his kiln glowed red and the air rippled with heat. It was his pride and joy,
but his oven was one of the older models that earned Bailey Fletcher some
ribbing from his friends when he allowed them into his workshop. Its dark stone
was rough around the outside, molded in the shape of an igloo with a wide
chimneystack. The door sat on well-oiled hinges though he rarely closed it.
He glanced
at the clock to the right of his oven, and then sighed. Ten pm. Bailey stretched
his neck to one side, then the other, careful to keep his work level. Every
muscle in his back ached from holding the rod steady while he turned the glass
into the shape he wanted. Years of practice had steadied his hand, regardless
of the distraction.
Another
twist of his wrist and a short puff of air into his blowpipe had the base of
his project ballooning to just where he wanted it. The burnt orange he'd chosen
for the bottom of the vase blended perfectly with the swirls of sage and
sunflower. It was earthy, masculine. Real.
His arms
protested at the prolonged labor as he pulled the vase from the heat one last
time. A small bobble of his hand widened his eyes and caught his breath. He
would break down and cry if he dropped the thing now after hours of work and
sweat.
The design
of the vase had come to him during the night, while he'd tossed and turned,
looking for sleep.
At the end
of each day, his footsteps echoed alone on the stairs as he had climbed them,
the loft too quiet when he entered. It ate at him. He hated the loneliness.
More than that, he despised the need to make it tangible...touchable.
When he tried
to talk his restlessness over with his family, his mother said he spent too
much time alone. His dad said she needed to leave him be and let him live his
life - that things would change when the time was right.
In the dark
of night, he agreed with them both.
Bailey
scored the bottom edge of the vase where it met his working handle, and then he
placed it just over a table pad to pop it free. He couldn't hold it yet,
couldn't run his fingers over the swirling yellow teardrop. But it took his
breath away just seeing it there on his bench.
The colors
melded, forming darker versions of them where they touched. Shadows cast their
magic over the piece as the tear rippled along its surface. He allowed himself
to stare a moment, then he slid the pad to the center of the table to rest.
Bailey
assessed his workroom. Tools, glass rod and bins of frit were scattered everywhere.
Organized chaos his mother called it but he knew it was just plain sloppy. He
rubbed his eyes, sleep pulling at his tired mind as he wished he was already
climbing the stairs from the studio to his loft.
Shutting
down his kiln and sliding a simple mesh screen across the open front, Bailey
tried to clear his mind of his worries. He wasn't normally so maudlin and the
self-pity binge he was on lately freaked him out.
Shit, if he
was meant to have a boyfriend, one would show up when the time was right. In
the meantime, he had work to do. He flipped off the light on his way up to bed.
It was going to be an early start in the morning if he wanted to be set up to
catch the tailgaters at the stadium.
***
Rayne
Chandler glared at more storm clouds coming in from the west.
It figured.
The drive
from Detroit to Boston had been uneventful - a first for him - if he didn't
count the deluge of rain from the storm front he'd ridden on his drive to the
coast. He usually got lost on long drives despite having both a map and a GPS
system in his rental car.
It was one
of the things his colleagues teased him about most. Whenever he came back to
the office from vacation, they always gathered around to hear what disaster had
befallen him while he'd been gone.
He glanced
skyward again and sighed. Maybe the clouds would blow over. Or turn north.
Maybe. He wasn't going to bank on it though. It looked like the weathermen had it
right this time and the game was going to be played in the rain. He should have
brought the damn umbrella.
Rayne could
handle the cool air on his legs so his shorts weren't a problem, but his thin
cotton Lion's shirt wouldn't give him much protection from the rain and wind.
Any warmth he'd absorbed from the hotel evaporated into the cooler temperatures
preceding the storm front. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to hopefully
keep some part of his body warm.
Goosebumps
raised on his exposed forearms as another gust of wind swept across the parking
lot. All of the traveling for work was starting to get to him. He was only
thirty, but he felt like he'd walked headfirst into being an old man.
He closed
his eyes briefly. Who was he kidding?
His last
dig, a tomb in Egypt, had ended in a pile of rubble. Trapped for six hours,
he'd been saved by a statue of Anubis that had lodged just over his head,
giving him a shelter from the crushing rock. Rayne hadn't fancied himself
claustrophobic until then.
A ten-year-old
boy danced by him, tugging his father along in his wake and chattering on about
Tom Brady's last pass. Rayne smiled. People milled around everywhere. Some
lounged on tailgates; others grabbed food at the concession stalls, or browsed
the shops nearby. Rayne mulled over his choices.
Ahead was
the ten-story lighthouse spiking out of the entrance at the north end zone of
the Patriot's stadium. A small twist of homesickness pulled at his gut for his
Lions' Ford Field.
He couldn't
bring himself to go inside there just yet. He needed something else.
Before he'd
left, a coworker had mentioned there was an obscure artist's open-air market
somewhere in the area and he decided he wanted to hit there first. Digging up
old artifacts for a living had given him an appreciation for the modern
artists' work. He loved scouting local art galleries for unique pieces to add
to his place back home.
The surging
tide of people pushed and pulled at him, but he managed to weave his way
through the cars and busses to reach the back of the parking lot. Large
hand-drawn signs flapped in the breeze, pointing the way down a side street to
a weekender's artist fair. Rayne grinned at the stroke of luck.
Tables
covered by three-sided canopies lined up on either side of the tiny street; each
decorated with handmade goods. Oil paintings, charcoal sketches, crystals,
handmade glass pieces, and woodcarvings - the selection seemed endless.
The vendors
were as varied as their items for sale. Some wore jeans and t-shirts, others
wore dress clothes. And the customers attracted to the market were just as
eclectic. Some were in Sunday best, browsing after church, and others were fans
coming to the game. Patriots jerseys were everywhere.
The noise
level held at a steady rumbling as customers bargained, laughed, and chatted
with the vendors. Most were respectful but Rayne's attention followed three men
moving from booth to booth at the other end of the alley. They laughed and
heckled the artists on their way past each booth.
Rayne
rolled his eyes and moved to the first artist on his right. A Lions fan in Pats
territory had enough troubles without trying to stick his nose in an already
crappy situation.
***
The drive
into town wasn't fun. It never was on a game day, but in the middle of a storm
was even worse. Everybody and their brother went to these games - not that he
would have passed up the chance to see his Pats play if someone offered - and
traffic into the stadium area sucked. When he finally pulled into the lot
reserved for the vendors that weekend, he breathed a sigh of relief.
It was
short work from there to unload his display table and boxes onto his folding
cart, and then make his way to his assigned spot in the long line of artist
booths.
Bailey kept
a close eye on the sky and the dark clouds moving closer. He had hoped to have
a good sale today and now the heavens were conspiring against him. Making quick
work of sorting out his table, attaching the display cases to the top, he began
unpacking the boxes of their prizes. Christmas ornaments and sun catchers hung
to the left, one or two he even clipped to the booth frame. Plates and bottles
belonged in the center of the table. Most people gravitated to the brightly
colored items, imagining them on their own tables and desks.
His
favorites, though, were the vases. He got the most joy from those, filling them
with delicate glass roses and lilies.
He pulled
out the last set of flowers just before a sharp breath of wind caught the edge
of the box, flipping it to the back of his tent. Closing his eyes briefly, he
thanked any god who was listening that it was empty. With slightly shaking
hands, he slipped the blue and red roses into its holder, double-checked the
others to ensure they wouldn't topple in the wind, and then tucked the
remaining boxes into the far corner of the tent with their wayward counterpart.
Reassessing
his handiwork, he smiled. They were secure. He would have no trouble staying as
long as there were shoppers. On cue, a couple stopped to chat for a minute
about how lovely his work looked, purchased a bowl for her china cabinet and
moved on to the next table.
From there,
the pace became steady. Bailey enjoyed the compliments and smiles as people
came and went - some buying, some not.
"Bailes!"
A pretty brunette across from him waved like she wasn't ten feet away.
He smiled
and lifted his hand to wave back at Janie as a customer moved to her table of
charcoal sketches. Bailey let his gaze roam over the man. He had a lanky frame,
muscled but smooth under the khaki shorts hugging his ass, and brown hair that
lay straight to his shoulders.
He moved
with ease though he had to be a good head taller than the rest of the crowd.
And he was
wearing blue and gray.
Bailey grinned. Well, everyone had a fault.
A Guy Like
Grant
Havan
Fellows
Chapter One
As soon as
Casey climbed off his bike, he noticed. How could he not? It looked as though
the man was a couple inches over six feet, carrying lots of meat on him. Not
too bulky, which Casey appreciated, but not a scrawny man either. Oh far from
it. This guy had some strength to him. His salt and pepper hair placed him in
his forties at least, older than Casey normally sought out, but damn this guy
deserved the time of day. He was gassing up a huge dually that had seen better
days. A plain white enclosed trailer was hitched to the battered truck.
A closer
look was called for. Casey finished topping off his bike's tank and glanced around.
His buddies were still in the convenience store, probably hitting on the clerk
if she was a D cup or larger. Good, a few minutes to spare. He replaced the
nozzle, shoved the receipt in his front jeans pocket and strolled over to the
dually on the far side of the pumps.
"My
what a huge truck you got there, mister."
The man
turned around and raised a questioning eyebrow to him.
He cringed
to himself and thanked god his buddies weren't there to hear that come-on line.
"I mean your actual truck." Not better. "The one you're gassing
up." Getting worse. "You know what, have a good day and I'm sorry for
bothering you." Casey turned to walk away.
"Should
I say the better to pick you up with?"
That deep
voice demanded that Casey stop mid-turn. He looked back at the stranger and
they both laughed. His might've been a bit more high strung, but it was good.
"A
cheesy retort like that should be followed by something in the way of...you can
pick me up with that beast but can you handle me?"
The
stranger chuckled again, lower this time. "My retorts match the lines they
follow."
He stopped
and appraised Casey up and down. Casey did his best not to puff out his chest
or god forbid pose for the man. "So tell me, who am I following in this
conversation?"
He offered
his hand and his best genuine smile. "My name's Casey Bunker."
The older
man's hand engulfed his, calloused and sprinkled with fine salt and pepper hair
that matched the thick waves brushing his forehead. It was a hand that got
Casey's interest popping, specifically in one area. He matched the strength the
man was giving him in the shake but didn't try to one-up him. He had a feeling there
were few areas in which he could one-up this guy.
Just like
all good things, the touch ended sooner than he wanted.
"And
who might be picking me up?"
"Well
now, my birth name is Grant Faustito. My friends seem to prefer calling me
Faus."
He waved
his hand in a dismissive gesture when Casey opened his mouth to question him.
"They use last names most of the time, and got tired of saying mine
completely. Lazy bucks, if you ask me."
"Ah.
Well, Grant, it's nice to meet you." He stood there and tried not to literally
twirl his thumbs. When the seconds of silence seemed too long, he tried to fill
them. "So those duallies use diesel fuel, right?" And flunked yet
again.
Grant
finished with the nozzle and hung it back on its cradle. He turned his back to
Casey slightly when he recapped his gas tank. "And here I thought your
next question would be if I came here often."
"That
question wouldn't do me any good considering I'm just driving through. I'm heading
to Daytona Beach and Biketoberfest. Finally got my bike up and running and...um...yeah."
Casey gestured to where he left his bike and blushed again. He couldn't
remember the last time he had this much trouble talking to someone. Then again
he couldn't remember the last time he wanted to talk to someone so bad.
"Biketoberfest,
huh?" Grant chin nodded to Casey's motorcycle. "That's a Ninja,
right?
What was
wrong with it that you had to get it up and running?"
"Yeah,
2002 Ninja 250EX. Not a flashy type of bike to be going to Daytona with, but
it's mine and, well, yeah. The clutch cable went out on it. I took it to the
shop, just to be laughed at. Thank god the mechanic was an honest sort, he told
me that I could just buy a cable and DIY the job myself and save a pretty
penny."
Casey
rubbed the back of his neck with his sweaty palm, not sure how to continue the
conversation at this point.
"A
mechanic that doesn't try to bleed you dry? Lucky you."
Casey
looked at Grant's clear blue eyes and smiled again. "Getting luckier by
the moment."
"You
don't say?"
"Yo,
Casey, whatcha doing over there? You ready to roll? We've been shut out by the
clerk and her bouncy friend, already filled up on gasoline and caffeine. Time
to ride, bro!"
Maybe Casey
spoke to soon. He turned to see his buddies slapping each other and laughing as
they headed toward him and Grant. It was too late to head them off, too. He saw
the sparkle in Sean's eyes when he glimpsed Grant.
"Hey,
who's the pops you made friends with?" Sean laughed as they reached him.
"Dude,
Casey, you and me have gots to talk."
Casey
glared at Frankie, the last man on the planet he would willingly talk to. The
only reason Frankie was even with them this week was because Sean was dating
his younger sister, Lita. "Yeah, I highly doubt that, Frankie."
He turned
to Grant and prayed that his face conveyed his unhappiness for the interruption.
Best to put feet between them now though, before these two made complete asses
of themselves and him.
"It
was really good talking shop with you, hope to see you around." In front
of Frankie
and Sean
and against his better judgment he leaned over and squeezed Grant's arm a quick
goodbye. It might have been a stupid move that would definitely get him razzed
on, but it was well worth it to feel the muscle there. Did he imagine it flex a
little under his grip? If so, that was fine with him.
"Come
on, guys." He said quickly and hurried back to his Ninja.
"Don't
forget the roads are dangerous with Biketoberfest going on. Helmets are a smart
idea."
Grant's
concern for his safety, or safety in general, made him smile. But he didn't
dare turn around and answer.
"Hey,
old timer! This is fucking Florida, no helmet law! You worry about controlling
that thing you're driving and we'll worry about what's between our legs."
Frankie lowered his voice for just Sean and Casey as he added, "I hate it
when four-wheel drivers feel the need to protect us bikers."
"Technically
his truck has six wheels, Frankie."
"Fuck
you, Sean." Casey heard both of them mucking it up and growled under his
breath.
He picked up his pace and was straddling his
bike before he knew it. He looked over at Frankie, who was putting his
sunglasses on, flicked him off and revved his throttle. He didn't even wait to
see if the other two were ready. He peeled out of the gas station heading east.
Saving
Mickey
JR Boyd
Prologue
Wind lashed
his face and the driving rain stung his eyes, but Tristan kept moving. The
murky creek water was over his knees, and he knew that the ground beneath his
feet was shaky at best, but Marty Grenninger was only six years old and it
would be waist deep on the kid. His feet slipped over the smooth stones of the
creek bottom as he struggled to keep his balance while straining to catch a
glimpse of the boy's red jacket.
The ground
leached away under his feet and something heavy nudged Tristan sharply in the
back of his knee. Choking back a cry, he flung out both arms to grab onto
something. He was going down, and in these flood waters, that was not a good
thing. "Brian!" He cried out. His lover was there somewhere nearby
leading the search for the boy who had been swept overboard from his cousin's
fishing boat.
The wind
and rain seemed to capture his words and throw them into a void where no one
heard them. None of the other men recognized the danger he was in. All of them
were intently focused on that red jacket…
And Tristan
couldn't catch himself on anything, couldn't force his body upright as the rushing
water swept him downstream. He was dragged under, fighting to hold his breath
until the force of the water's movement pushed him upward again, ignoring the
knocks and scrapes as he was dashed against loosened rocks and floating
branches.
When he
surfaced again he was shocked to see how far downstream he'd traveled.
Gathering
as much strength as he could, he screamed again, "Help! Brian!"
"Tristan!"
His lover's voice calling his name in shock was the last thing he heard as the
water pulled him down again and his head struck something unseen on the bottom
of the creek bed.
Chapter One
K-thunk.
K-thunk.
The
unmistakable sound of cowboy boots striking the hardwood floor brought the rustling
of paper and casual chatter in Professor Wilkins' senior year botany class to
an end. A striking man approached the front of the room. Everyone turned to
watch him climb the steps to the teacher's podium.
Professor
Cecil Simmons. Mickey Dodd's gaze followed the professor. A shudder rippled
through his body and he smiled.
There was
something extraordinary about the professor that had attracted Mickey since his
freshman year at the University of Northern Texas, UNT. Professor Simmons had
addressed a group of incoming freshmen about choosing a major, and Mickey had
been hooked. Sure, there was a lot of eye candy on campus, but nobody caught
Mickey's eye like Professor Simmons.
Mickey
always had a taste for the older, more distinguished men. Crazily, he'd poured
over every course directory and signed up for as many of Simmons' courses as
he'd been permitted each semester, including one completely off the wall course
in aquatic toxicology that had kept him on campus all summer last year. After
the many classroom hours where Mickey had spent his time squirming in his
chair, hiding his hard on and his fantasies, his desire for the handsome
Professor Simmons only grew stronger. Even now, in front of all his classmates,
his breath came a little faster as his flared nostrils picked up the faintest
scent of outdoors wafted from the professor. It wasn't cologne…it wasn't
anything man made, it was the scent of a man, who despite his time in the
classroom, enjoyed life outdoors. And it made Mickey want.
"You
all are probably wondering why Professor Wilkins was so kind to let me take up
a moment of his lecture time to speak with you." Professor Simmons' husky
voice grabbed Mickey right in the gut, stirring his cock.
A few heads
nodded and students muttered acknowledgements. Mickey couldn't let the moment
pass. His previous encounters with the professor he'd only ever managed a few
tonguetied questions about subject matter. Never had a personal word crossed
his lips. Now, he'd endured all he could handle. It was his last year in
college and he wasn't about to let Professor Simmons come and go without
getting himself noticed. He put his best smile on, and spoke loud enough to be
heard by the professor. "You're always welcome here, Professor
Simmons."
Memories
flicked through his mind like an old reel-to-reel movie, recalling the special projects
he had worked on in Professor Simmons' ecology class a couple of summers
before.
Does he
even remember me?
A few
chuckles from the other students were brought to a halt by the Professor's response.
"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Mickey."
Mickey
blushed. Simmons remembered him. Oh God. Simmons remembered him.
Professor
Simmons waved his hand in Mickey's direction, but spoke to the class in general.
"His grades are outstanding, top of the roster." He focused his dark
brown eyes on Mickey again. "And don't think your assistance over the past
few years has gone unnoticed. Come on up here and join me, Mickey."
A million
butterflies took flight in Mickey's stomach. He pried himself from the hard plastic
student's desk and ascended the carpeted steps to stand beside the other man.
He kept his gaze on Simmons, forcing himself not to react to the snickers and
wolf calls from his fellow students. Sometimes, like now, he wished that he'd
packed himself away in the proverbial closet.
Almost.
What is Professor Simmons up to?
Professor
Wilkins cleared his throat and silence descended on the room. Mickey's skin
prickled and a bead of sweat formed on his brow under the many stares of his
colleagues. It was a sickly sweet moment he'd remember for a long time to come.
The only thing preventing him from bolting off the stage was the sexy smile
gracing Professor Simmons's lips. He'd do anything to keep that smile directed
at him.
"I'm
setting out on a personal mission this summer and find myself in need of an assistant.
A botanist to be exact." Simmons slowly paced the platform from one end to
the other, eyeing Mickey as he paused in front of him.
Shit. The
potential for ridicule struck him and he dismissed it immediately. Simmons wasn't
like that. Sure, he was a stickler for exact science, but he wasn't a dick.
Mickey would have caught on to that. Could it be that he'd called Mickey up
here to offer him the position? "I'd like to apply." Mickey extended
a shaky hand toward the professor, knees threatening to buckle.
"Splendid.
No need to be nervous, then." Simmons's baritone vibrated in Mickey's
ears.
One large,
calloused hand engulfed Mickey's, while the other gave Mickey's shoulder a firm
squeeze. His eyes already held a familiar, distant look that told Mickey his
mind was already on the road to their destination. As always, the familiar
glance fired a response in Mickey—a desire to be the focus of that intensity…to
be noticed by this man…to make an impression so strong that they couldn't stand
two feet apart like this and the man's mind wander. Fuck. He had it bad.
"I'm
not nervous, Professor Simmons. I'm thrilled! It'd be an honor to accompany
you. But, I'll need details before I can fully commit. Itinerary, dates,
expenses…" Mickey's stomach soured at his own words, but it was true.
Mickey would kill for a chance to work side by side with his former professor,
but he couldn't just make a decision like that at the drop of a hat, could he?
Professor
Simmons's attention snapped back to Mickey, and he chuckled. "I've got all
the information we need to work out the details together. Don't you fret
none."
"I can
go if he can't." A busty brunette in the front row sounded off and Mickey
had to suppress the urge to tip her out of her chair. Screw it. Mickey was
going. Daisy fucking Duke was not shoving her tits under his professor's nose,
not while he had…all of three hundred dollars in his checking account to last
until his financial aid came through in the fall. Oh well, maybe he'd get
finished with the project in time to find a summer job. Maybe he could just
swallow his pride and ask his grandpa for the money the old guy kept trying to
give him.
Professor
Simmons raised his hand as others chimed in to take his spot. "There are comprehensive
brochures and a sign-up list on a table in the vestibule outside the doors in
the back of the room for anybody interested. Only one student will go. I
specifically chose Mickey here as my prime candidate because of his grades,
attendance, and overall proven dedication to his botany studies. Any of you who
feel you fit the bill, by all means, sign up. As Mickey here has so wisely
stated, there are a few things you might want to consider tossing into your
personal list of criteria."
Unmistakable warmth spread through Mickey's cheeks.
He never could accept a compliment or reward without fighting back a flood of
emotions. No wonder he gravitated toward botany as a career field. The plants
didn't trigger his emotional side like this. He had decided long ago to let his
spirit guide him. If only he could muster up a little more courage in the
personal department.
Going Home
Lee Brazil
Chapter One
"Where
the fuck are you?" The furious voice spat out.
Evan Malone
stared at his cell phone in disgust. The rage he'd suppressed since his third
quarter fuck–up surged to the surface. "You never fucking change, do you,
Gil? Millions of people know exactly where I am, but you can't be bothered. I
just lost a fucking playoff game in front of half the country. I'm in fucking
Dallas. Where the fuck are you?" His eyes burned as acrid sweat dripped
from his lashes. He toweled moisture from his brow and rubbed at his damp hair.
It didn't do any good. The locker room stunk of sweat and defeat.
"I'm
where you should be, jack ass. Egocentric fucker. He needs you, and I'm a poor goddamn
substitute. Come home."
The snarl
raised hackles on the back of his neck. He bit his cheek to stem the flow of
obscenities. Coach would fine him if the press overheard him. "I can't
leave until tomorrow. Then I'm filming some credit card commercials in Aruba,
taking a few days of break. I'll be home the third week of February, the same
as always. Just make sure your ass isn't there when I arrive."
Silence.
Then a deep sigh came over the line. "I never quite expect how low you'll
sink. Even for you, this is unbelievable."
"I
live to amaze you." The weak sarcasm was the best he could muster. His
team had made the play-offs for the first time in the five years he'd played
for them. Within five minutes of the first quarter, the slaughter had been
inevitable. He'd watched from the sidelines as player after player had fumbled,
faltered, and fucked up their chance at the Super Bowl. His heart pounded, the
blood rushed in his ears, and he pleaded with an un-answering God, Let him put
me in. He'd thought he could do better, even with the strange aches he'd been
experiencing.
Then, he'd
gotten his wish and fucked it up. Instead of saving the day as he'd imagined,
he took their minimal chance of not being humiliated with a complete wipe out
and blew it up.
The only
thing that could have made losing today worse was if his twin, Ethan had
accepted his offer to fly him out and seen him screw up in person.
As it was,
"Did he watch the game?" He couldn't help asking. He knew the answer.
Ethan wouldn't watch him play. He hated football.
"You
know the answer to that. Fuck it, Evan. Have a nice time in Aruba." Gil's
silence echoed in his ear and he slowly pushed the phone in his pocket. He
hated when Gil called, the guilt and longing that warred in the aftermath of
each conversation left him torn to shreds. At least this time he could pretend
the ache in his gut was from the bitter words he swallowed when a reporter
shoved a microphone in his face after the end of the game. Instead of telling
the guy to fuck off, he'd spouted the usual stilted barely literate, team
management approved lines. 'We played our best. We'll do better next year. It
was an honor to play.' Fuck it. He wanted to scream and deride the fate that
just kept screwing over every good thing in his life.
Even now,
in a locker room full of long faces and dispirited teammates, each absorbed in
his own role in the defeat of the century as the broadcasters were already
calling it, his body responded to the voice of the man he loved. One of them
anyway. He slammed his locker door shut with sudden violence. His cock
thickened under the towel at his illicit thoughts.
Clutching
the towel to his middle, guts churning with the agony of defeat, remorse for
his misbegotten lust, jealousy for a relationship he could never have, and
sheer loss, he stalked to the shower. Sharp pain lanced his heart and he
shuddered. He was nearly running the last few steps to hide the trickle of
tears in the spray of the shower. Fuck them both.
Neither Gil
nor Ethan appreciated what it cost him to stay away. Neither knew that he'd
gladly give up football and fame and even the fortune that went along with them
to be able to stay, to spend his days and nights waking and sleeping with them.
Their little love triangle was a Goddamn disaster of such epic proportions it
made his team's loss on the field today look like Christmas.
He lifted
his face into the hot spray, and the salty tears mingled with the heat of the
water, purifying him. He let the emotions roll, face reddening, heating, body
flushing with the steam of the water. Ethan and Gil were better together
without him around to fuck things up for them. He couldn't even explain why to
them, so he made a big show of how much he enjoyed the game, and the travel,
the life style of a player.
He loathed
it to the very core of his being. But he needed it like a junkie needed his
next fix.
The game
filled the gap left in his heart when he'd realized at graduation five years
earlier that what Evan felt for Gil was real. He'd seen that love reflected
back for Ethan in Gil's eyes as well. They were good together. They would be
good together, if Ethan weren't so attached to Evan.
In all
their lives, it was the first time that Ethan had been physically attracted to
someone else. Someone attainable that is. The movie star posters and sports
heroes, which he'd papered the walls of their childhood bedroom, hadn't really
counted. He might have a crush on an actor, but he didn't stand a chance of
hooking up with one. The one real person Ethan had wanted was Evan. He'd loved
that. Ethan was the center of his world, and they'd done everything together.
At first, they'd been messing around. Sharing a room had its risks and
benefits. Innocent playing at twelve and thirteen had led to mutual jacking off
that escalated to far more by the time they'd graduated high school. Moving
into an apartment together miles from home to attend college changed things
even further.
Still,
though Ethan could be open about his preferences, Evan couldn't. He was on the
team. He wanted a career in sports. A gay accountant was fine. A gay
quarterback was not. So, their relationship continued, in secret, in the
privacy of their own home.
Then Ethan
brought Gil home. And Evan realized he only thought he knew what hell was. Gil
was everything Evan wasn't. Academic, intelligent, handsome, openly gay, and
more important, not Ethan's brother. And as the year passed, he got a front row
seat to Ethan falling in love with Gil, and Gil falling in love with Ethan.
So he'd
done it. He'd taken the first offer that would take him out of state, and he'd
left Ethan to Gil, left Gil to Ethan. As he'd expected, without him standing
between them, Gil and Ethan had moved forward.
He moved to
Sungrove to play football, and Gil moved into his room to get his doctorate in
Archeology. With Ethan studying for his MBA, the two had been roommates for two
years, and then shocked the family by getting engaged.
Evan
survived by limiting his contact. It was the only thing he could do for the men
he loved. Of course, they didn't fucking get that.
He pounded
his fist on the gritty tile. Fuckers. Pulling himself back together, he shut off
the taps and slung his towel around his hips again. In the locker room he
noticed that his weren't the only red-rimmed eyes.
"There's
always next year." He muttered to Austin James, who leaned dejectedly on
the locker next to his.
"Not
for me." Austin sighed. "I'm done. The doc says my knee has maybe
another season before I have to have surgery, but I don't want that. Living
surgery to surgery and dreading the next injury. I'm going home to Winterburn
and take that job in the family bank my dad's been holding for me."
"Giving
up?"
"Making
an informed decision. I'm tired of hiding who I am from the world. One day, I'm
going to fuck up and find it splashed all over the newspapers. Byron and I
talked, and we're ready to settle down and do the picket fence thing."
Wincing,
Evan forced his own ball of pain back inside. "Good for you. I'll miss you
guys.
You're
ditching me. I'll be alone here in a bastion of rampant heterosexuality."
He forced a smile, wanting to be encouraging.
"He
didn't come, did he?" Austin's sympathy lit the fuse of disappointment and
anger again.
"No."
He said shortly. "He hates football. I knew he wouldn't."
"You're
his brother. It's the play-offs. He should have come just to support you. If I
ever meet this guy I'm kicking his ass. What a sorry ass fucking excuse for a
brother." Austin wrapped a comforting arm around Evan's shoulder in a
brief hug. "Wanna come out with us to commiserate? We're getting drunk and
driving home tomorrow."
"Ethan
thinks he has reason. I can understand it, I guess."
"He's
a selfish prick. Football took my brother.
I will never watch it again." He mimicked a falsetto voice.
Ethan
shoved him, laughing a little. "Cut it out. It's not exactly like that.
Okay, I'll go.
You gonna
turn around so I can put my pants on or you want a show?"
Chuckling,
Austin turned away. His restless gaze traveled from player to player, in various
poses of frustration, disappointment and sorrow. "You ever think about
giving it all up?"
Evan pulled
faded jeans on, fastening the button fly deftly. "No. I have nothing to
live for except the game. You've got Byron. It's different for you."
He pulled
the Oxford he'd worn to the game off the hook and shrugged into it. Shoving his
feet into leather sandals, he fastened a few buttons. "Hustle. Let's get
out of here and hit the bar." Finger-combing his damp hair, he shoved the
rest of his stuff into a small duffle and slung it over his shoulder.
An
agreeable Austin followed him in thoughtful silence through the labyrinth of
corridors leading to a secure exit. The door opened into the parking lot, and
he blinked in the bright afternoon sunlight.
A hard grasp closed on his arm and he spun in
shock. Goddamn reporters!
A Reminder
Of His Shame
Jade Baiser
Prologue
He was running, blinded by his tears. The other
students watched him pass, some sympathetic, others clearly mocking. He vaguely
heard someone calling his name, but he was too angry and hurt to pay attention.
Only one thing mattered: going home to try to forget it ever happened.
His parents watched him in stunned silence as
he stormed into the little house they were renting and slammed the door of his
room behind him. He threw himself on his bed and cried for what seemed hours.
When the tears finally dried up, he rose and paced around his room, going over
the scene in his head. How could he have been so stupid? He was always rushing
head down, never taking the time to think about the risks.
He stopped in front of the full-length mirror
that stood in a corner of his room and lifted his shirt’s sleeve. Yep, it was
still there, seeming to mock him. What on earth went through him to do
something that insane? There was no coming back now, was there? He was stuck
with it for his whole life, a reminder of his foolishness and his shame.
Chapter One
Four years
later.
“Josh!
Josh, wait! Dammit!”
Josh
stopped in his track and turned around as much as he could on his skis,
wondering who would call him. He was new to Colorado and he hadn’t had time to
make any friends yet, but that was fine with him. He wasn’t a big fan of
friendship. He was a loner, and had been for almost four years now.
The sun was
high and the luminosity on the snow prevented him from seeing anything but a
blurry form skiing to meet him. The slope was one of the hardest in the resort
and whoever it was, he—yes, it was a man, that was all Josh was sure about—was
pretty talented; not to mention the fact that he was a real hothead and taking
unnecessary risks considering the instability of the snow. It was the first
sunny day in a long time but it had snowed all week long.
Josh
sighed. As a ski instructor, it was his duty to chastise the guy. That was one
of the aspects of the job that he really didn’t enjoy.
As the
skier approached, Josh was able to distinguish his features more clearly. The
first thing he was able to make out was the other man’s hair golden curls that
shone under the sun’s rays. It reminded him of someone, someone very special
who had hurt him badly in the past.
Someone he
was never able to totally erase from his mind, much to his despair. But it
couldn’t be him. He wouldn’t want anything to do with Josh; he made that very
clear the last time they’d seen each other. But the closer the skier came, the
more he resembled the man he dreaded to see.
No, it
can’t be! It all came back to him with a precision that left him breathless.
***
“Josh, you should wait a little more. I’m not
sure about it,” Penelope said. “You have no proof that’s the truth.”
Josh looked at his best friend. He knew she was
trying to protect him, but he was pretty sure of himself. He’d heard them
talking in the shower after the last football game. He hadn’t been hiding, but
they hadn’t seen him so he’d stayed where he was, listening to a conversation
that was about to change his life. They’d said it; Aidan was gay; or at least
he was bi. Josh had almost fainted when he’d heard it. He’d been in love with
Aidan since they’d begun high school, almost four years ago. But he’d never
approached the other boy because he was the captain of the football team and
had dated every girl he could put his hands on.
Aidan was Josh’s dream and every parent’s idea
of the perfect son-in-law. Tall, well built, with curly golden hair, shining
blue eyes, and an unfailing self confidence. The opposite of Josh, who was
African American, somewhat sickly, very shy, and openly gay. The revelation of
Aidan’s sexual inclination had been a shock to Josh, but also the sign he’d
been waiting for so long. In a crazy moment, he’d even gone to a tattoo parlor
after he’d pleaded with his parents for almost three hours and had a small
stylized “A” tattooed inside his left wrist. It was totally insane and the kind
of thing he’d never thought he was capable of doing. And to be honest, he
regretted it now, but it was done and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Josh,” Penelope pressed him, “think of what
you’re about to do. Aidan never showed any inclination for men. He could be
pissed if you just go and tell him you love him. Look at him… and look at you.
I’m not saying that to hurt you, but if he decides to hit you, you’re dead
meat.”
“Don’t worry, Pen,” said Josh with an indulgent
smile. “You weren’t there. I was. I heard them. I know what I heard. Nothing
will happen to me. Besides, tomorrow is the last day of school. We’ll all be in
college next year. This could be my last chance to talk to him. I don’t want to
just do nothing and wonder ‘what if’ all my life. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I
made up my mind, and there’s nothing you can say to change it.” He leaned over
and kissed her tenderly on the cheek.
***
The skier
stopped close to Josh, sending him a lot of snow in his face. Josh was so deep
in his memories that he forgot where he was and tried to step back. He
remembered at the last moment that he was wearing his skis but still fell
miserably on his butt. In a matter of seconds, he once again became the clumsy
and unsure boy he was after the ‘Aidan incident’, instead of the savvy ski
instructor he’d grown into. Blinded by the snow that sprayed in his eyes, he
couldn’t see the other man, but the laughter he heard made him shudder. He knew
that laughter. He’d heard it in his nightmares for a long time. He rubbed his
eyes to remove the snow and looked up at the shape that was leaning over him,
only to close them immediately when he recognized the man who still haunted
most of his nights.
“It’s you.
It’s really you,” said the voice he’d come to love and hate at the same time.
“I wasn’t sure at first, because… well, look at you. You changed. Where did you
get these muscles? Look how big you are now! Hey, Josh, do you hear me? Are you
alright?”
Josh opened
his eyes again and just stared at him, unable to say a word. Why? Why is this
happening to me? He asked himself in despair. He’d moved here after college,
wanting a new life, a new start. He’d found the job of his dreams: ski
instructor. His life seemed rather beautiful if you forgot his loneliness, but
he was used to it now and he kind of liked it. If he didn’t get close to
anybody, he wouldn’t get hurt. That was his motto since he’d left high school.
And now, seeing Aidan, here of all places… He thought he had finally forgotten
about him. But it was a lie, wasn’t it? Jesus, the boy had always been
gorgeous, but now the man was stunning. And if the expression on his face was
any indication, Aidan was beginning to really freak out.
“Josh? Can
you hear me? Did you hurt yourself? Come on, man, answer me!” Aidan said in an
almost pleading voice.
Josh came
out of his stupor and repressed a wry chuckle. Of course! He’d never had any
luck in his life, why would he have some now?
“I’m fine,”
he grumbled. “Don’t just stand there, help me get up. It seems that I’ve lost
my strength,” he added sarcastically.
***
Aidan was
aware of Josh’s anger. He knew he deserved it, but he had hoped that somehow
Josh would have forgotten everything that happened four years ago. He wasn’t
proud of himself.
He never
could really forgive himself for what he’d done to the other man.
He leaned
over and took Josh’s hand. The grip was firm and strong, nothing like the boy
he remembered from high school. In fact, nothing at all was like he remembered
from high school.
Josh was
now taller than him, with broader shoulders and a mouth that didn’t seem to
smile as often as it once had. Aidan felt his chest tighten at the knowledge
that he might have had something to do with the sadness and the distrust he
could see in Josh's eyes.
Aidan
pulled Josh’s hand and they found themselves face to face, almost nose to mouth
as Josh was a few inches taller and a little too close for Aidan’s comfort. He
had a lot to say to Josh, but he realized now that it wasn’t going to be easy.
He’d been looking for Josh for some time now.
Josh was
one of his biggest regrets, and he wanted to make amends. He’d realized that if
he didn’t find the man and apologize for his past actions, he wouldn’t be able
to look at himself in the mirror without remembering Josh’s face on that
particular day. He needed to apologize for his actions like someone in AA.
While in that program, a person had to go to see all the people they’d hurt in
the past and tell them they were sorry. Josh was his salvation. He had waited
until college was over and then went to Josh’s home. He’d found Josh’s mother
there and she’d told him where he could find Josh. So here he was, a little
uncomfortable about what he had to do.
***
Why in hell
does he look at me like that? Josh was puzzled by Aidan’s attitude. He looked
uncomfortable, which was incomprehensible. If anyone should feel uncomfortable,
it should be Josh. He was the one who’d made a fool out of himself four years
ago, after all. Hell, he was the one who made a fool out of himself four
minutes ago too…
Josh looked
at Aidan without saying a word, waiting for the other ma to give him a clue
about his presence here. After what seemed an eternity, Aidan sighed and looked
away.
“Is there a
place where we could talk?” Aidan murmured. “I really need to talk to you.”
Josh didn’t
want to talk to Aidan at all, but he realized it was childish to say no.
“Can’t we talk
here?” he said with hope in his voice.
“I’d rather
go some place where we could be alone. And comfortable.”
Comfortable?
What did Aidan mean by it? Josh knew that anywhere with Aidan would be
uncomfortable for him. There was no way he could relax in the other man’s
presence. He blinked and looked around him. What was wrong with here and now?
It wasn’t like there were a lot of people on the slope.
“Please?”
Aidan begged.
Josh sighed
heavily and nodded.
“Okay. I
know a cabin not far from here. There’s a porch where we can sit and talk, if
that’s what
you want.”
Aidan
seemed relieved, which made Josh more uncomfortable than before.
“Follow me,
then,” he said as he darted down the slope.
Hank Edwards knows how to put you in the mood...and not just the holiday mood *winks* 
And Lee Brazil is a must have year round...but when the weather turns cooler and the mistletoe is in abundance I especially can't help reaching for him to keep me warm and toasty...*sighs*
And then there is lil ol' moi...*curtsies*
