*
We’d been dating for a month, seeing each other two or three times a week, when Josh took me to an expensive restaurant I had once mentioned in passing as one of my favorites. I thought we were going to celebrate his most recent assignment, a photo spread featuring lesbian motorcyclists with the working title “Dykes on Bikes,” but I soon learned otherwise.
After our drinks had been served but before the appetizers arrived, Josh said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I forwarded your stories to a friend of mine.” He named a well-known mystery writer. “He’s editing an anthology of new noir—crime fiction in the tradition of Black Mask but with modern settings. He wants to use one of your stories, if it’s still available. He was going to mail this directly to you, but I convinced him to let me present it.” He slid an envelope across the table.
When I opened the envelope, I found both a letter of acceptance and a contract for “Bathhouse Backstabber.” I almost leapt across the table to smother Josh in kisses, but I restrained myself.
Barely.
Josh lifted his wine glass and made a toast. “May this be the first step in a long and successful writing career.”
That night I invited him into my room at the house I was sitting that semester, and I spent several hours demonstrating just how grateful I was for what he had done.
*
Scott and Drew took me to lunch the next week after they learned of my first sale, and they congratulated me profusely. Scott trotted out yet another cliché, reminding me that success is only ten percent inspiration and ninety percent perspiration. Then he added, “And you’ve been sweating like a pig for years.”
After we all laughed at Scott’s comment, I explained how my inspiration for the story’s villain had been my ex-boyfriend, and how I had ensured that Alex—named Alexis in the story—had died a slow, painful death when my private eye protagonist caught him in the bathhouse.
“It couldn’t happen to a more deserving person,” Drew said. Then he told me Alex’s contract with the university would not be extended when the school year ended, standard policy when tenure-track professors failed to make tenure.
Before I could react, Scott asked me about Josh. “I hear you two are like peas in a pod.”
We spent the rest of lunch talking about Josh and how well our relationship was developing.
*
Almost a year passed before the anthology containing “Bathhouse Backstabber” was published, and by then Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine had accepted a story, an anthology editor was holding another of my stories for further consideration, I had just finished writing my first novel, and Josh had asked me to move in with him.
Even though I had less than a month remaining on a one-semester housesitting assignment and no new assignments lined up, I had yet to give Josh a definitive answer. I was contemplating my response late one evening when my cell phone rang, and I answered it to find Alex on the other end of the call.
“I miss you,” he said. I’d heard through the grapevine that he was teaching freshman composition at a community college across town, a serious step down from the upper-level British literature courses he had been teaching at the university, and he sounded as if he’d been drinking.
I couldn’t resist being catty. “Did your grad student finally dump you?”
“He wasn’t right for me,” Alex said. “He never understood me the way you do.”
“Well, you never understood me at all,” I told him.
“Why don’t you come over, and I’ll make it up to you.”
“I’m nobody’s drunken booty call,” I told him, wondering why I had been so distraught when Alex dumped me. But I was thankful he was providing me with the opportunity for much-needed closure. If I’d had more time to think, I might have come up with a great exit line, but I’d been spending too much time with Scott and resorted to a cliché. “You made your bed, Alex, now lie in it. Alone.”
After I ended the call, I phoned Josh and told him I’d move in with him.
*
Several months after publication of the anthology containing “Bathhouse Backstabber,” my story won a Robert L. Fish Memorial Award for best first mystery story by a previously unpublished author. Josh and I celebrated at the Mystery Writers of America awards banquet in New York, where Josh introduced me to the anthology editor who had accepted the story and where we met several of the writers who’d provided us with years of reading pleasure.
I thought my life couldn’t get any better than the moment I walked onstage to accept my award, but I was wrong. Late that night, Josh led me onto the balcony of our hotel suite where we had a spectacular view of the Statue of Liberty. He dropped to one knee, opened a ring box, and asked me to marry him.
Of course, I said yes.
Wilde
Erzabet Bishop
Justin felt eyes on him. That in itself was not unusual. The members of the troupe often came to watch each other practice both before and after performances. He glanced up, looking at the canopy overhead. The swings and tightrope were vacant, and the Big Top of the Myriad Carnival was still, save for him and his unknown guest.
His cat ran close to the surface tonight. The full moon was nearing, and he was restless. Even still, a fuckup like earlier tonight was intolerable. His brain burned with the startled look in Gabrielle’s eyes as the blade kissed the soft flesh of her ear.
What had he been thinking?
That was the essence, really. He hadn’t been.
He didn’t want to admit that, even to himself. As a knife thrower, safety was always his primary concern. But tonight he’d let himself be distracted by a dark-haired stranger. The man had stayed just out of view, but Justin caught a whiff of sandalwood and spice and his throw had wavered.
Justin hadn’t matched a face with the scent as of yet, but as he readied himself to throw, the stranger had revealed his presence as the new roustabout they’d picked up three towns over. Instead of protecting his sister, he’d come close to truly harming her.
The scent of cotton candy and half-stale buttered popcorn filtered past his nose and his stomach growled, reminding him of the time. Dinner would be over soon. He needed to get the lead out and go, but he wanted to practice while the heat of the performance still burned in his blood. One near miss, and he’d almost taken off Gabrielle’s ear. Was he that close to a shift that he could make such a mistake?
Not. Acceptable.
If he thought for one minute he was a danger to her, he’d hang up his blades for good. His sister deserved more. A low growl of self-loathing reverberated up his throat.
A voice broke through his revere. “Are you coming to eat?”
Speak of the devil herself, if the devil had curly red hair and the curves to match. Gabrielle was the light to his dark both in looks and temperament, as their parents had often pointed out. Lately she’d taken over for them in the soapbox department and wouldn’t let up about him working too hard.
“Yes. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Go on a date tonight. It won’t kill you, you know.”
“Mind your own business, Red.”
“Nope.” She’d grabbed his arm and swung herself up on her tiptoes for to kiss him on the cheek. “You’re my big brother, and I’m worried about you. You don’t have to hide what you are, Justin. The others will like you.”
He’d looked at her like she’d lost whatever marbles she’d had.
“I’m serious. People already see we’re different. Let it out. A coiled spring breaks sooner or later.”
Hell if she wasn’t right. He’d had everything under control until tonight. His edges were fraying, and he didn’t even know why. Being gruff with her was their natural balance, but he really did love her. She was the only family he had left, and he’d be damned if he’d let anything or anyone harm her, including himself.
He knew she was genuinely worried, and that made it hard to be mad at her. It wasn’t for lack of interest, but he didn’t have that ma
ny options. And he was busy.
You’re a liar. That new drifter is one hot looker, and you can’t stop staring whenever you see him in the chow line. “I’ll eat at least. Promise. Let me get this out of my system, okay?” He shifted his weight and met his sister’s gaze. If he went now, God knew he’d weaken and make a play for the man. His way was safer. You don’t go outside the box, you don’t get hurt. Besides, he had to fix his throw.
“Jesus, Justin. It wasn’t your fault. I moved.” Her blue eyes were crinkled with worry and full of feline energy judging by the yellow glow. “You want to go for a run later?”
Maybe she had moved, he thought, but he had the reflexes to account for that. “Sure. It’ll be our last chance before we pack up tomorrow.”
“Okay.” His sister opened her mouth but closed it again. She fidgeted with the knives on the table next to the fading canvas wall of the tent. “Good. I thought that’s what you’d say.”
Justin narrowed his eyes at the straw-filled target and let the blade fly. As he released the handle, a noise in the stands distracted him and the knife veered away from the target and hit the floor.
“Fuck.”
“Okay, okay. I’m out of here.” Gabrielle glanced into the stands, a knowing smile on her face. “Just remember. You won’t venture out…so you leave it up to me. Have fun.” She sashayed back the way she’d come, the spring in her step promising mischief ahead. What had she done?
“What are you talking about, Gabe?” Damn, that girl was always up to no good. The only answer he got was the tent flap closing and a giggle on the way out.
There. A footfall in the stands and the faintest scent of sandalwood. He was supposed to be alone when he practiced. Everyone knew that. Red he could forgive, but anyone else…
“Whoever the fuck you are, do that again, and the next knife I throw is going straight at your head.” Justin held the knife blade up as he searched the shadows. In the distance, he heard the lowing of the animals as they went about their evening rituals and the noise of the camp as the carnival performers settled into their downtime.
A solitary figure caught his attention, emerging from the shadows of the stands. Clad in jeans, a tight-fitting black T-shirt under an open button-front plaid shirt, and dusty cowboy boots, the roustabout edged into the light.
Holy Jesus on a cracker.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you.” The words were one thing, but the expression on the drifter’s face was anything but contrite.
“Like hell you didn’t.”
“I’m Riley. The girl that was just here said you had an opening for the knife-throwing act. For an assistant, I mean.”
“Did she now?” He picked up the blade from the straw and measured the weight in his hand. That explained the impish look on her face. Minx.
“She your sister?” Riley gestured with his head, a curl of his tousled black hair falling across his forehead.
The man was dangerous. To whom he hadn’t figured out yet. “Yes. And she’s off-limits. Got it?”
Riley gave a dark chuckle. “Thanks for the warning, but I don’t think she’s exactly my type.”
Justin turned his gaze on the drifter. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t date women.” Riley shrugged and leaned back against the post where the target rested.
“Ah. Okay, then.” His stomach fluttered, and he closed his eyes. He wasn’t that transparent, was he? No. If he’d talked to Gabe, then she’d no doubt filled his ear with all kinds of rubbish. He kept to himself most of the time, but his sister was a talkative little flirt if ever there was one.
“So, is there an opening?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I’m here. You’re here. How’s about I just stand still and you give me all you got?” His voice was smoky and curled around Justin like one too many fever dreams. His cat took notice, and the beast began to pace beneath his skin.
Want.
“What did you have in mind?” He turned around, adjusted the too-tight jeans, and swung around to face the young man, thinking he must have a death wish. Justin’s claws begged to come to the surface and run along the stranger’s skin. “You want to play target practice with the guy who almost took off his sister’s ear?”
Riley shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. “You won’t hit me.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Because you won’t.” The reply was soft, but Justin heard it anyway. How much had he heard? Not everyone at the Myriad Carnival knew he and Gabe were shifters, but now that the stranger had eavesdropped, Justin guessed there was a better than average chance he knew. The question now was, what was the stranger going to do about it?
“Fuck.” He didn’t need his sister complicating his life. Justin stalked over to the table and picked up two of his throwing knives and tucked them into his belt. “You really are brave. Or stupid. I’m not sure which.”
“Just throw it already.” Riley settled against the target, his lips twisted up in a grin. The T-shirt hugged his six-pack abs and tapered in to cover the waist of his jeans. The open shirt only framed what Justin knew would be heaven to rake his claws over.
Soft skin. Hard muscle.
Hard.
Justin swallowed and closed his eyes to get the image burning behind his gaze out of his overactive imagination. After this, he was going to get out more. Obviously, he was about to lose his shit, and that he could not do. You didn’t shit where you ate. It was a hard and fast rule, but he was seriously starting to question it.
His cat purred deep in his belly, and the hand holding the knife shook with an effort to control the slow burn trailing through his veins. Temptation like this he didn’t need. Didn’t want.
The man was daring him. Justin’s cat chortled under his breath, and he couldn’t resist smiling. So what if a little fang showed? The guy had asked for it. He rotated his shoulders and shook his arms out, pumping them back for good measure. If he wanted to tango, then the dance was on. You play with the monsters, sometimes you get burned. “Just remember. I warned you. My game’s off tonight.”
Riley watched him with hooded eyes and said nothing.
So be it. He would practice on the drifter. God help him if he moved. “Hold still.” Justin narrowed his eyes, drew back his arm, and let the blade fly. It connected with the target half an inch from the drifter. “And whatever you do, don’t run.”
“Oh, I won’t.” The words hung in the space between them, and the drifter smiled again. He removed the open button-front plaid shirt and whipped the black tee over his head in one fluid motion.
Justin let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“Nice throw.”
“Mmm. Thanks.” He ambled forward, leaning in close and tugging the knife from the target. The heady scent of musk and sandalwood came close to overwhelming his senses, and he had to fight the urge to bury his face in the other man’s hair. Instead, he turned away, a flush creeping up the back of his neck. “One more.”
“You got it, boss.”
Justin didn’t speak, only raised his arm and threw the blade, giving it all the force he could muster. The knife sang through the air, but as it neared its destination, a flurry of black wings exploded from the space formerly occupied by the drifter.
Justin fell back a step, his pulse pounding in his veins. The cat roared to attention, and he laughed. A feather drifted down settling on the straw floor. “What the…?”
Birds flew overhead, some settling on the tightrope while others rocked back and forth on the trapeze swings. The murder of crows cawed and cackled at him, following his every movement.
“You cheeky bugger,” Justin whispered, his face breaking into an all-consuming grin. “Are you going to come back down here, or do I have to come up and get you?”
His only answer was a cry from above and the fluttering of wings. Justin crouched low and let the change come over him. If his new playmate wanted a game,
cat and bird sounded right up his alley. He left the knives where they lay and crept up into the darkness where a pair of hooded eyes waited, willing and wild.
Love in Portofino
Thom Collins
Jack Conway crossed the deck of The Crystal Sea, the gleaming white state-of-the-art super-yacht that had been his home at sea for the past week. With just a small backpack and carry case, he looked more like a student exploring the continent than a recording star with the kind of wealth most men of thirty could only dream of.
Roman Di Pritzi stood at the gangplank in white shorts and a navy sweater. With his deep suntan and silver hair, he looked every inch the billionaire fashion designer and proud owner of The Crystal Sea. “Why are you being so crazy?” Roman said. His expensive white teeth were a startling contrast to his baked leather skin. “We have everything on board you could want. Everything. And you insist on spending time in this peasant village.”
Jack laughed with good humour and patted the older man on the shoulder. Roman was Italian through and through, complete with an outrageous flair for exaggeration. “Three nights. That’s all, my friend. It’s what we agreed. You’ll pick me up on your way back.”
“I have a good mind to leave you here for good. It’s no better than you deserve.”
Jack hugged his friend good-bye and left the boat, shaking hands with the captain and first officer as they stood formally on the dock. The last week at sea had been a heavenly voyage, following the coast of the Mediterranean along the French and Italian Riviera. On board Roman’s luxury yacht, he had wanted for nothing. Roman’s hospitality was famous the whole world over, but Jack was more than ready to set his feet on dry land.
And he wanted to spend that time in Portofino. The small fishing village on the Italian coast was the main reason he accepted Roman’s invitation. Jack hadn’t enjoyed a proper vacation in three years. Following the launch of his last album and a huge international tour in support of it, his life had been nothing but work. He became friends with Roman, who had designed the costumes for the tour. Jack was looking forward to a well-earned rest and Roman wanted to show off his latest expensive toy. When Jack heard the proposed cruise itinerary, he couldn’t say no.
Men in Love: M/M Romance Page 6