QSFer J. Scott Coatsworth has a new queer contemporary magical realism book out, River City book 2: Down the River.
Nine years have passed since a group of strangers first met at a magical little restaurant in East Sacramento called Ragazzi. They have all been touched by its subtle magic, and have become a family.
With the tragic death of one of them, the ripples spread through the entire group, exposing secrets and revealing truths that many of them would rather not face.
Dave and Marcos are battling their own demons. Matteo seeks an embezzler at Ragazzi, while Diego struggles to hold on to his son, Gio. Carmelina fears Daniele won’t take no for an answer. And both Ben and Sam are dealing with tragic losses that have turned their lives upside down. Into the mix come a few new characters—Ainsley, a Sac State student studying to be a doctor; a mysterious strange who is stalking someone in the group; and a few new love interests who may have agendas of their own.
It’s 2024, and the cast of River City is back. What secrets will be revealed before the last page turns?
ABOUT THE SERIES:
The River City series is a heady blend of secrets, friendships, a little bit of magic, and a bunch of Italian cooking that will warm your heart.
Warnings: Death of several characters.
Get It At Amazon | Publisher | B&N | Kobo | Apple | Smashwords | Vivlio | Universal Buy Link
Excerpt
Ainsley Kim stared out of the window at the cars as they passed on Folsom Boulevard in a steady row of sparkling red and white, their lights scattering and twinkling like fairy dust across the rain-splattered glass. It was mesmerizing—so much life out there… and in here, as she was rudely reminded by the diner clearing his throat behind her.
“So sorry!” She spun around, reaching for the Toast point-of-sale device that hung from a custom-made pocket in her clean white apron that said Ragazzi in neat black letters. She turned her attention back to her customers. “Are you ready to order?”
The one who’d cleared his throat was a sharply dressed man in his mid-fifties—lawyer if she’d had to guess—his neatly trimmed black hair turning silver on the sides. He glared at the menu as if it were opposing counsel, squinting through his wire-framed glasses and scowling. “Damned print is so small on these things.”
His dining partner, another man in a black suit and tie, but without a hair on his head, chuckled. “You’re just getting old, Andy. Order the tagliatelle. It’s what you always get.” Bald Head offered her a warm smile. “So sorry for my partner’s behavior. Rough day in court today.”
Ainsley hid a grin. She was good at reading people. “Not a problem. So… the tagliatelle?”
Andy nodded. “Sure. With arrabbiata sauce. And ask the chef to make it a little extra spicy.”
She tapped it into the POS, feeling more like a glorified data entry clerk than a waitress. “You got it. And you, sir?”
“Don’t let him fool you. Kel knows what he wants. He just likes to play with his prey.” Andy grimaced, then managed a weak smile. “Sorry for the foul mood. I hate losing.”
Rich, white, and a lawyer to boot? You have no idea what losing is. “Not a problem.” She flashed him her best you’re the customer so I’ll pretend I like you smile.
“I’ll have the gnocchi in a ragu sauce, and an appetizer of your delightful burrata.” Kel flipped the menu over. “Add a glass of Chateau Ciel. I, unlike my friend here, had a lovely day. Signed a new artist for the gallery, a talented Korean painter named Jun Seo Jang.” His eyes fixed on her. “Do you know him?”
Ainsley blinked, caught between the casual racism of assuming that all Koreans knew each other—maybe he didn’t mean it that way?—and the fact that she did actually know them. Or of them, anyhow. Jang was one of her idols.
Customer service won out. “Yes. They are very good. I studied them in art class.”
Kel grinned. “Then you must come see his… their pieces. Sorry, old dog, new tricks. I’ll be getting the first of them next week.” He pulled out his wallet and extracted a card. “Kelton O’Malley, Red Roof Gallery.”
She took it, staring at it. It seemed to sparkle under the restaurant’s mood lighting. She blinked and the sparkle went away. She stuffed it in her pocket.
Nobody used business cards anymore. So old school. “Thank you. I’ll try to come by. It’s a bit busy, with school and work and all…” And taking care of her mother.
“Ah, what’s your major?”
“Molecular biology.” It came out automatically. Her father had wanted her to “make something of herself,” not just be another poor immigrant like himself, working at minimum wage jobs. She’d been at it so long, doing what her parents wanted her to do, that it almost seemed like she wanted it, too.
“Impressive.” He winked. “Still, it’s good to hear that you have an appreciation for the arts as well.”
She blushed. That comment hit a little too close to home. “I’ll find some time to stop by.”
“Wonderful. Jun Seo will be there next Thursday night, if you want to meet… them.”
Ainsley touched the edge of the table to steady herself. “They’ll be here… in town?” She was already calculating how she could rearrange things to be at the gallery.
“They personally supervise the set-up at all their new galleries.” He grinned. “See, that whole pronoun thing’s not so hard.”
She suppressed a snort. Boomers were always making such a big deal about it. “Let me get those orders in for you.” She gave them a small bow—ingrained behavior from two decades growing up in the Kim household—and slipped away.
“Need anything here?” she asked her next table, a young gay couple from the looks of it, who were busy staring rapturously into each other’s eyes like a couple lovestruck teenagers.
“Just some water,” the blond said, never breaking his gaze, his hand wrapped tightly around the other man’s. A single plate of pasta sat between them.
“You got it.”
A two-for-one, or twofer, they called it—when two clients shared a dish, usually to save costs.
Matteo had needed to raise prices again last month to account for inflation. Luckily Ragazzi was doing well enough that they’d expanded into a new addition, taking over the old bar next door for Diego’s cooking classes.
She twirled through the restaurant like a ballerina, checking on tables, her footsteps lighter than they’d been in months. Jun Seo Jang was coming to town. She had so many questions for them.
How did you find your inspiration? When did you know you wanted to be an artist? How did you let your parents down gently?
Ainsley Kim had a secret.
She wanted to be an artist more than anything else in the whole wide world. She wanted to create things, pieces of art that would make people frown and smile and nod knowingly as they stood in front of them, stroking their chins. Like her father did as a hobby.
She wanted to meet Jang, but she also wanted to become them.
The thought of life as a medical researcher left her cold, but her parents had invested so much in that dream, both money and hope. How could she bear to disappoint them?
Maybe it was better if she didn’t go to the gallery on Thursday. Better for everyone involved.
Right?
Author Bio
Scott lives with his husband Mark in a yellow bungalow in Sacramento. He was indoctrinated into fantasy and sci fi by his mother at the tender age of nine. He devoured her library, but as he grew up, he wondered where all the people like him were.
He decided that if there weren’t queer characters in his favorite genres, he would remake them to his own ends.
A Rainbow Award winning author, he runs Queer Sci Fi, QueeRomance Ink, Liminal Fiction and Other Worlds Ink with Mark, sites that celebrate fiction reflecting queer reality, and was the committee chair for the Indie Authors Committee at the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA) for almost three years.
Author Website: https://www.jscottcoatsworth.com
Author Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jscottcoatsworth
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Author Mastodon: https://mastodon.otherworldsink.com/@jscottcoatsworth
Author Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jscottcoatsworth/
Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8392709.J_Scott_Coatsworth
Author Liminal Fiction: https://www.limfic.com/mbm-book-author/j-scott-coatsworth/
Author QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/mbm-book-author/j-scott-coatsworth/
Author Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/J.-Scott-Coatsworth/e/B011AFO4OQ
Now Enjoy this Exclusive Excerpt
Chapter Three
Cardboard Box
“You’re doing it wrong.”
Marcos Ramirez grinned. “You wanna come do it?”
“I offered.” Dave’s voice carried from the kitchen. A tantalizing aroma of chicken curry casserole emanated from the oven with it, making Marcos’s stomach growl.
“Besides, how can you tell?” He glared at the old VCR, bought off an online auction site the week before. Damned thing doesn’t even have HDMI.
“There’s a coax to HDMI converter in the wires box, in the laundry room cabinet.”
“It’s like you read my mind.” He shook his head in wonder. Nine years in, and Dave could still surprise him. “Dinner smells heavenly.”
Dave snorted. “Yeah, if you don’t mind the curry stench lingering for a day or two.”
Marcos pecked him on the cheek on the way by. “Hope this is all worth it. The VCR, not the curry.”
It had started with one of Dave’s infamous “clear out the house” projects, something he’d been doing increasingly with his free time, as their business had begun to tank the year before. No one seemed to need web designers or graphic artists anymore in the age of algorithms and artificial intelligence. Intelligence my ass.
Dave had come across a box of old VHS tapes with the labels mostly missing. Before they paid to have them converted to DVDs, he wanted to see what was on them. Which of course meant getting a VCR, which cost money, something that was in increasingly short supply as their business plummeted. But it would make Dave happy, so Marcos had acquiesced and found a cheap one on eBay.
He pulled the old Amazon box down from its perch above the washer and rummaged through it. Sure enough, there was the adapter.
Something glittered, catching his eye. A worn envelope sat at the back of the box, held in place by an assorted clump of cords—lightning, USB, USB2, USB-c. Why are there so many kinds of USB cords?
Curious, he plucked it out.
Inside, he found a variety of papers… tickets from the Sacramento Zoo, from that time they fed the giraffes. A playbill for Tribes, the first play they’d ever seen together at Cap Stage, and a coffee-stained napkin from the Everyday Grind just down the street. Mementoes from their early days. He saved them, all these years.
And at the back…
Marcos’s breath caught.
It was a photo of Dave and his ex-partner, John, who’d passed away some fourteen years before. The same photo that had sent Dave into shock one fateful night, not long after they met.
“Find it?” Dave’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“Yup. Got it!” He hurriedly stuffed the keepsakes back into the envelope and put it where he’d found it. He eased the box back up into its cabinet and closed the door almost reverently.
He’d always known Dave loved him. But seeing how he’d saved all those little pieces of their courtship? It was the first time he understood that his husband loved him as much as he’d loved John.
The slow decline of their business had taken its toll on both of them. They fought more often, and had less of a buffer—Dave’s word—for the idiocy and ignorance of the world. But in a strange way, it had also brought them closer. Two warriors fighting a common enemy.
He slipped back into the kitchen and put his arms around Dave from behind, pulling his warm body close. “I love you, you know.”
Dave paused chopping cucumbers for the salad. “What’s that for?”
Marcos shrugged. “Just realized I don’t tell you often enough.” He kissed the back of Dave’s neck, then headed for his nemesis again, across the living room. “Give me two minutes and I’ll have this hooked up.” Hopefully the old beast still worked.
“Perfect. Then we can test it out after dinner.”
#
Dave grinned as Marcos sat back and patted his ample tummy. He’d grown more comfortable with himself over the years, seemingly no longer afraid that Dave would leave him if he didn’t keep himself always trim and in shape.
Not that he wasn’t still a handsome man. The extra weight suited him, and Dave loved to grab a hold of it when they made love, kneading it like putty. Or bread dough. “Good?”
“Fantastic.” Marcos grinned. “Where’d you get that recipe again?”
“Friend of my mother’s. Mom passed it along. You sure you don’t mind them coming for Thanksgiving?”
“Not even a little. Especially if your mom will make us a batch of her famous calabacitas.” The tomato, cheese, and zucchini dish was one of his favorites.
“I think she could be convinced.” His parents were getting older. Dad had a pacemaker, and Mom couldn’t play the piano anymore with her arthritis. He was looking forward to seeing them both. “Let’s clean up, and then we’ll see what’s on those tapes?”
Fifteen minutes later the moment of truth arrived. “Which one?” Hopefully none of them had anything too embarrassing.
Marcos picked up a black VHS tape at random. “This one?”
“Sure. Pop it in.” It was strange to see one of those again, after years of DVDs and now streaming for almost everything.
The tape started, and music blared through the speaker’s TV.
“Oh my god. I can’t believe you recorded Three’s Company.” Marcos stared at him, eyes dancing with merriment.
“It was the closest thing to something gay I could find at the time.” He’d mooned over John Ritter as a kid.
“Uh huh. Keep?” Marcos sounded doubtful.
“Nah. Toss. Next?” He didn’t need an old seventies actor now. He had Marcos.
His husband cued up another. Grunts and moans filled their little apartment. “Closest thing to gay, huh?” Marcos grinned.
Dave grabbed the remote and put it on mute, his face on fire. “In mainstream television, yes.” He’d forgotten about that one.
“Wait… how many arms does that guy have?” Marcos cocked his head. “Oh, I see. It’s a three-way. Kinky.”
Dave snorted. “Like you didn’t do anything like that when you were younger… or worse.” Marcos had shared some of his tales of sexual conquest, and submission.
“Touché. Keep?”
Dave nodded sagely. “For old time’s sake.”
Marcos wrinkled his nose. “Of course.” He set it in a second pile, and tried the next one. “I think this one is one of mine.”
Static filled the screen, and when it cleared, a ten-year-old boy in a purple princess costume, complete with conical hat and matching lilac nails, stared solemnly at the camera. “I swear to protect the kingdom of Narnia, to rid the world of the One Ring, and to make all the boys kiss.”
Dave blinked. Here was a side of Marcos he’d never seen before. “Wow. Just… wow.”
It was Marcos’s turn to blush. “We can, um, dump that one…”
“Are you kidding? This is priceless. I want to take screenshots and share it will all of our friends.”
Marcos stuck his tongue out at him.
Dave watched it a moment more, mesmerized, then leaned forward and popped out the tape, setting it as far away from Marcos as he could without leaving the couch. “Wait, did they have VHS cameras back then?”
“My mom shot that on reel-to-reel tape. She had it converted to VHS later.” He sighed. “When my Dad saw that, he almost threw me out of the house.”
And he had done so later, when Marcos was older. Dave was glad they’d patched things up before his father had passed away. He gave Marcos a kiss on the cheek. “Next.”
The tape popped into the player with that familiar mechanical loading sound, and as soon as it started to play, Dave knew what it was.
So did Marcos. “Maybe I should go to the next one…”
“No. Let it play.” It was John’s thirtieth birthday. Dave had surprised him with breakfast in bed, filming the whole thing, which had been… awkward. Those old cameras were bulky, and holding a plate full of breakfast, syrup, and the camera had put his ballerina abilities to the test.
“Wake up, sleepy head.”
John lay on his back, eyes closed, his hands behind his head, his beautiful chest half-hidden under the sheets. Those blue eyes fluttered open. “What’s this?”
“It’s your birthday. I made you eggs and pancakes.” The camera jiggled as he set down the tray.
“Oooh, those smell amazing, D.” He reached up and his hand pulled down the camera for a kiss for the chef.
“Sweet for my sweet—”
Dave hit the pause button, and closed his eyes.
“You okay?” Marcos sounded worried.
With good reason. Reminders of John had sent him spiraling before.
He took a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m… okay.” John was his past. Sometimes painful, sometimes uplifting. More of the latter lately. He squeezed Marcos’ hand. Whatever they were going through, however difficult it became, they would get through it. I’d live in a cardboard box with you, if it came to that, and still be happy. “He would have liked you, I think.”
“Keep it?” Marcos raised an eyebrow.
Dave nodded. “Keep it. It was a good time in my life. But so is this, with you. Even better, actually.”
And as soon as he said it, he knew it was true.
/
