The queer poet, Sappho, renowned for dubbing the term “lesbian” since she was from the island of Lesbos, is remembered for saying, “Someday, someone will remember us.”
A lot has transpired for queer folx in the two thousand years since Sappho dreamed our possible realities. And with 500 proposed bills against LGBTQ+ rights awaiting rulings across the United States, the world has never needed our wisdom more.
Did you know that LGBTQ+ authors only account for only 16% of published books?
As a queer woman, this isn’t simply a statistic, but my lived reality. And after I had my first seven books published with four different presses, it dawned on me that it didn’t have to be this way. I didn’t have to be the only one my publishers represented, or the one who made it to the final round with a publishing company only for them to respond, “We really believe in this book, but we don’t know how to market to queer audiences.”
I was sick and tired of seeing straight, white men thrive with mediocre books because their advances, royalties, and stories had an advantage from the very start, because when they looked around at the presses that represented their books, they saw a bunch of other straight, white cis dudes staring back at them. What about our queer dreams?
The world was missing out on the precise perspectives and stories we need most.
In writing and publishing Queering the American Dream, I was able to create and imagine a different world, a world where women, queer folx, and BIPOC have equitable access to publishing, to fulfilling our dreams.
Queering the American Dreambegins the day the Supreme Court ruled our marriage legal, my queer little family traversing the American landscape for two years in a camper named Freya, following in the footsteps of revolutionary women from history and myth. Amid our wanderings, I grappled with the loss of faith, addiction, death, and what it means to reimagine the so-called dream promised to so many. With unapologetic grief, humor, and radical imagination, I created a new dream, not just for myself, but for all marginalized people living in America.
One of my favorite writers, Gloria Anzaldúa, inspired this dream. This queer Chicana feminist claimed: “The world I create in my writing compensates for what the real world does not give me.”
The “real world” has given us, on the whole, an old-school, white, male, predatory publishing industry that, at best, doesn’t understand the nuances of queer and feminist writing, and at worst, preys upon us for capital gain. So, I created Tehom Center Publishing to compensate for what the real world has not given us. Tehom Center Publishing is a press publishing feminist and queer authors, with a commitment to elevate BIPOC writers.
Publishing Queering the American Dreamwith my own press was not only empowering, but it also galvanized me to coach other marginalized authors in the power of living the authorpreneur dream. Yes, Tehom Center publishes authors at absolutely no cost, but we also offer just and equitable coaching programs empowering authors in creating entire businesses aligned with their books, thereby sustaining a financially abundant life.
Traveling throughout the country with my queer little family taught me that the world not only needs queer authors to be published, but we deserve to live abundant lives. This is our iteration of the American dream.
*****
To join us in queering the American dream and stay connected with book and publishing events, visit www.tehomcenter.org/booktour
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Book Summary
Beginning the day the Supreme Court ruled her marriage legal, Angela Yarber’s queer little family traversed the American landscape for two years in a camper named Freya, following in the footsteps of revolutionary women from history and myth. Amid her wanderings, this queer clergywoman grapples with the loss of faith, addiction, death, parenting, and what it means to reimagine the so-called dream promised to so many. With unapologetic grief, humor, and radical imagination, she creates a new dream, not just for herself, but for all marginalized people living in America.
Rev. Dr. Angela Yarber is an award-winning author of eight books and a highly sought public speaker. She is the Founder of Tehom Center Publishing, an imprint publishing feminist and queer authors, with a commitment to elevate BIPOC writers. With a Ph.D. in Art and Religion and over a decade serving as a Professor of Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies, five of her books were listed in QSpirit’s Top LGBTQ Religion Books. Her work has been featured in Forbes, HuffPo, Ms. Magazine, Tiny House Nation, and more at https://angelayarber.org
Join us at WOW’s blog The Muffin as we celebrate the launch of Dr. Angela Yarber’s memoir Queering the American Dream. You can read an interview with the author and enter to win a copy of the book.
You can visit Jan’s blog for her review of Queering the American Dream. Plus read a guest post by Dr. Angela Yarber about disenfranchised grief, particularly as it pertains to losing someone to addiction.
J. Scott Coatsworth has a new queer sci-fantasy book coming out in September, The Tharassas Cycle book four, and we have the cover reveal: The Death Bringer.
AIK WILL NEVER BE THE SAME… AND NEITHER WILL HIS WORLD
War is coming. Aik has become the Progenitor, and the Seed Mother has released him to transform the world for her alien brood. Silya and Raven, Aik’s former friends, are the only ones who can save him and the world. But what if the cure is worse than the invasion?
As Silya rushes to prepare Gullton for the battle to come, she’s determined to save as many people as she can. But new crises emerge that demand her attention.
Raven has his own hands full, keeping the dragon-like verent in line, while helping Silya to save the world. But what if the only way to do so is to sacrifice Aik, the man that he loves?
It’s the end of the world … or could it be the start of something new?
Note: Advance paperback copies will be available at BayCon in Santa Clara in early July.
About the Series:
The Tharassas Cycle is a four book sci-fantasy series set on the recently colonized world of Tharassas. When humans first arrived on planet, they thought they were alone until the hencha mind made itself known. But now a new threat has arisen to challenge both humankind and their new allies on this alien world.
He floated, weightless and naked, surrounded by a reddish light and suspended in fluid. Something connected to his mouth and wrapped around his head, like a lover’s embrace.
He used to have a name. He searched his mind for some clue to his identity. I exist, so I must be someone. Or something.
That made sense, but got him no closer to an answer. He blinked. Who am I?
There was no immediate reply.
He lifted his hand. It was encased in metal. The gauntlet. That much he remembered, though it meant nothing to him. Except… it seemed different, somehow. Thinner.
He moved his arms in the liquid, and it sparkled around him where his shifting disturbed it. The metal extended down his wrist and along his forearm, like before, but now it went farther, around his elbow and up his bicep. He touched it with his free hand.
I can feel it. It was as if the metal had become a part of him, his nerves growing through it. He held out his metallic hand and flexed his fingers. What is it?
We call it uurcaa. It’s a sacred metal—it will protect you, and if your host dies, it will collect and save your soul.He could feel the emotions she held back from him. It is the last of its kind from our homeworld. Like us.
He blinked. Then what am I?
You are my son, Iihil. The progenitor, the one who has come before and the first of many more like you. The voice was deep and comforting.
Mother. Warmth infused him at her voice, and an eagerness to please her.
Still, something wasn’t right. He was more than that. He searched his mind, running up against that stubborn blankness. Somewhere beyond it were the answers he needed.
He’d been someone else. Before.
Who was I? Memories of a face—dark hair, intense eyes that nevertheless twinkled at him. Raven.
It came flooding back to him. His mother. His life in Gullton. Training to be a guard and meeting Raven for the first time. My name is Aik.
He reached for the mask that covered his face. It was suffocating. Something was stuck in his throat, and he coughed hard, trying to force it out, whipping around and causing the liquid around him to flash red in alarm.
Calm yourself. The voice was as thick and heavy as an ix hide, and just as soft and warm.
Aik pushed back. What are you doing to me? I don’t want this! Let me out! He thrashed about, trying to force his way through the suffocating liquid. The metal crept up his shoulder. If it covered all of him, he would be lost.
Calm yourself! It was more insistent this time.
Aik stiffened as an enforced lethargy settled over him. He lost control of his limbs, falling still in his floating prison. The voice pressed against his mind. You’re safe. Be calm, my little one.
He closed his eyes and thought of Raven, trying to stay fixed on that face. I can’t let myself forget again.
Then the world around him dissolved, and he was swept up in a torrent of memories that weren’t his own.
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.
Other Worlds Ink has a new near-future sci-fi anthology out: Earth 2100.
Earth on the Cusp of the Twenty-Second Century
How the world has changed in the last seventy-six years. In 1948, scientists ran the first computer program, and “the Ultimate Car of the Future,” the futuristic, three wheeled Davis Divan, debuted. Since then, a succession of inventions—the personal computer, the internet, the World Wide Web, smart phones and social media—have transformed every aspect of our lives.
The next seventy-six years will change things too, in ways we can barely even begin to imagine. Culture, climate change, politics and technology will continue to reshape the world. Earth in 2100 will be as unrecognizable to us as today would be to someone from 1948.
Eighteen writers tackled this challenge, creating an amazing array of sci-fi possibilities. From emotional AI’s to photosynthetic children, from virtual worlds to a post-urban society, our writers serve up compelling slices of life from an Earth that’s just around the corner.
So dive in and take a wild ride into these amazing visions of our collective future.
Chaos filled several of the workshop tables. Material overflowed a table with a sewing machine. Some heavy duty, water proof beige fabrics had drifted to the floor.
A thick vegetable and meat soup simmered on the stove in the tiny central kitchen area. Next to the stove was a table set for two. Without any chairs.
Celina rode her power chair over to the counter top stove to stir the soup. The counter was a few inches higher than was comfortable. Today she needed to cook more than her usual single serving. Maybe her height measurements had been off. The counter could be an inch shorter, and not be in her lap.
It was challenging to figure out how to build it low enough to see into a pan, and stir the food, while tall and sturdy enough to not knock it over when Lizzy slid under it.
There was only about a foot of space to work with, if she didn’t want the pan higher than her face, and not able to stir without her elbow at maximum height. Which risked boiling food splashing on her face.
Figuring out how to make furniture the correct height, so she could slip her non-functioning legs under it had consumed her waking hours, and even sleeping hours, for the last year.
The stainless steel pan reflected her face. Down to the pointed lines above her eyebrows. Even the eyebrow she had singed an hour before.
She turned the power chair back to her wood and metal design workstation. Another stainless steel surface. Covered with scars from the many experiments needed to build lowered objects, with a glimpse of personal beauty in their functionality.
What would Henril and Trinkle think of her newest achievement? Her former hiking partners no longer walked the trails as much without her.
Certainly not on the narrow bluff overlooking the river. Henril had avoided out of concern for Trinkle’s safety. Or so he said.
Hopefully, they would soon all be hiking together.
The Authors
Tim Newton Anderson
nathan bowen
Elizabeth Broadbent
Gail Brown
J. Scott Coatsworth
Monica Joyce Evans
Isaiah Hunt
Blake Jessop
E.E. King & Richard Lau
Morgan Melhuish
Eve Morton
Christopher R. Muscato
Jennifer R. Povey
D.M. Rasch
Joseph Sidari
Mike Jack Stoumbos
Joseph Welch
KB Willson
Earth 2100 Excerpt: The Last Human Heart
I run the lipstick over my still-human lips, staring at myself in the creased metal gas station bathroom mirror. The protective balm is a titanium blue, a radiant silver flecked with colors of the rainbow that accents the metallic skin of my cheekbones. Wrinkles line the edge of my lips where skin meets metal. You’re fucking perfect. Like a goddamned Monet.
I snort. I used to care about such things once. Matching my clothes for a night at the clubs with Erik. Choosing our elaborate costumes with care—exposing a bit of muscled stomach or a flash of ass with our tight, waist-hugging jeans. Sometimes bringing another guy home with us for a threesome.
The memories are cracked and faded around the edges. The upload to my quantum brain did something to me, changed me into this Frankenstein of man and machine.
I would have made a hell of a scene on the club circuit.
Crash.
What the hell? Wary, I slip the little jar of the moisturizing lipstick, snagged from an old department store, back into my satchel and swing it over my shoulder. Inside my titanium rib cage, my human heart beats faster—too fast.
I grasp the sides of the old porcelain sink and breathe slowly, calming myself until my heart slows again. Then, silent as a cat, I pull the door open and peer outside through eyes I wasn’t born with.
It’s almost dark, the last bits of evening fleeing across the empty countryside.
Another noise, this time a long, drawn out squeal. My eyes whir and focus. There by the gas pumps.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Just a scavenger bot. Their kind rule the world now, traveling through the rubble and recovering materials on a schedule only they know, stockpiling them for humanity’s return. I laugh bitterly at the thought.
I slip out of the bathroom to watch the little thing. It’s a third the size of my own cyborg body, and it’s working away at one of the old gas pumps, using a laser torch to cut it into pieces.
“They’re not coming back.” It’s a whisper, and an admission. Something I don’t like to think about for too long. You’re being morbid. Erik would tell me that with a flash of his bleached white smile, before leaping at me and pinning me to the bed for a kiss.
I bite my lip with metallic teeth and sigh.
The scavenger stops and turns as if to look at me. I can feel it scanning me for parts. Then it whirs, a disappointed sigh, and turns back to its work.
I’m worthless. I laugh ruefully, a sound more like pistons firing than a human laugh. Even this little metallic vulture has no use for the likes of me.
I consult my map, painstakingly put together from bits and clues found on the neural web. Fifty years after the last human upload, it’s a miracle the network survives at all. It’s a broken, feeble thing, limited to small nodes here and there, but still… a testament to the Remainers like me who maintain it, the humans and machines who survived the climate and the last wars.
Like many of them, I wasn’t “suitable for upload.” One hazard of being an early adopter. I laugh harshly, pistons firing in my throat.
This insignificant speck of humanity’s great accomplishments where I stand was once called Turlock, a tiny town in California’s Central Valley. I wince. I know that name—a friend of mine once lived here. Did she upload, before the end?
The Sacramento trading station is less than a hundred miles away, if it still exists. The last time I’d been there was two decades ago. With luck, I’ll be there in another day or so, and if I’m really lucky, they’ll be able to replace my worn-out ticker with a new one.
My heart beats faster. I close my eyes and urge it to be calm, hoping they will have what I need. Otherwise this might be the end of the line. Still, I’m ready to go, if it comes to that. Erik, I miss you.
The hardest character to write in a romantic suspense? Or the villain conundrum!!
In an era where ‘morally gray’ is celebrated, writing a believable antagonist is tricky. To be contemptuous they need to be bad—like really, really bad, but of course, they can’t just be evil for the sake of evil. They need motivation and complexity.
And, as the author, I struggled—I struggled with the challenge to find the balance of moral ambiguity and flawed humanity. Luckily, my romantic suspense, DOWN THE LINE, is not a battle of good versus evil. So, all my characters can be a hot mess, no heroes required…
DOWN THE LINE is about how to find love and happily-ever-after.
I looked at my two protagonists and had a good laugh, because my characters go about it the wrong way.
Two men meet. Hook up. Spend a weekend together and, yes, it changes the trajectory of their lives, but not for the better.
Dean Hunt – has trust issues! So, all his interactions become tit-for-tat. Love is a transaction. And you better negotiate from a position of strength, or you have nothing to offer…
Noel Conway – judges himself through his father’s eyes and always finds himself lacking. He doesn’t deserve love just for being Noel. So, let’s just go out there and work undercover for the FBI to bring down a dangerous criminal. Well, that should impress any love interest, right?
Dean and Noel get a second chance. The dangerous criminal (yes, my villain!!) from Noel’s past threatens his younger brother and Dean might just be the only one who can help.
Noel is trying to protect the ones he loves, and Dean is chasing front-page news—the line between enemies and lovers gets blurred…
Hey, wait, you might say, what does all that have to do with writing a “good” villain?
Well, in DOWN THE LINE the villain holds up a mirror and forces my heroes to take a good, long look at themselves. Where do they draw the line between ‘morally gray’ and ‘unacceptably evil’?
So, for me, writing a “good” villain is mostly about the characters the villain is coming after.
AG Meiers has a new MM romantic suspense book out: Down the Line. And there’s a giveaway.
Revenge is a Dangerous Obsession.
Dean Hunt needs the story of a lifetime—Since his uncompromising attitude got him fired, the investigative journalist is hell-bent to expose the powerful and corrupt Conway family. It’s a career move, and absolutely not a vendetta against the oldest son Noel, who ghosted Dean after a mind-blowing weekend together.
Noel Conway needs a new start—After years away, Noel has come home to rebuild the bridges he’s burned. Too bad his past caused a ripple effect he can’t outrun. Now, he’s asked to save his family from the one man he never expected to see again but can’t forget.
Dean is chasing front-page news, and Noel is trying to protect the ones he loves. But the line between enemies and lovers gets blurred when a dangerous criminal from Noel’s past resurfaces. Will the truth shatter their tentative trust? Or do they have a shot at happily ever after?
But none of that matters when suddenly Noel disappears…
Down the Line, the final book in the award-winning Jake’s Bar series, is a spicy, M/M romantic suspense featuring a rainbow-colored bar full of quirky characters, and all the romance you can handle. So, download today, and get ready to fall in love with Jake’s Bar.
Warnings: smoking cigarettes and weed in the hot tub, kidnapping (on page scenes restrained), verbally abusive father
About the Series:
The award-winning Jake’s Bar series is a set of steamy, M/M romantic suspense novels, featuring a rainbow- colored bar full of quirky characters, and all the romance you can handle.
As Dean reached the top of the staircase, a man stepped out of the shadows in front of his door. Dean straightened his shoulders. “Detective Conway.”
“Hunt.”
In a parallel universe, they might have been friends. They were fighting the same fight. Had the same enemies. In this world, they weren’t brothers in arms. In this world, Dean had been cast as the villain.
“How can I help you this fine morning?”
“Open the door. We gotta talk.”
“Look, it’s been a long night—”
“Just open the damn door.” Conway snarled, pushing into Dean’s personal space.
Dean stood his ground. “Are you here in an official capacity? Because then, the answer is no, I won’t let you in. You have no warrant, no permission to search my property. I don’t consent—”
“Just shut the fuck up. None of us wants this shitshow to be on the record,” Con growled.
Dean, curious, took a step back and raised his empty hand, palm up. “Okay.”
He fished for his key, pushed open the door, and quickly disarmed his alarm system. Conway didn’t wait to be invited in, just crossed the living room, dropped his shearling coat onto the sofa, then walked over to the large window overlooking the river.
The view was the only redeeming feature of Dean’s otherwise-generic apartment. The mess didn’t help. There were dirty dishes piled up in the sink, a pizza box on the breakfast counter separating the cramped kitchen from the living room, and an unmade bed in the other corner of the room.
“For a guy who anxiously waited at my doorstep, you’re awfully quiet.” Dean smirked. “Coffee?”
“No.” Conway turned his back, now studying the row of framed newspaper front pages Dean had hung on the apartment’s interior wall. His personal collection of historic headlines—headlines that changed the world.
The oldest was from July 6, 1776. The Pennsylvania Evening Post, printing the Declaration of Independence on its front page. Next to it, the Daily Telegram, declaring the end of the Second World War. The two most recent, the New York Times’ “OBAMA: Racial barrier falls in heavy turnout” and, of course, the front page the day after 9/11.
Dean had added a few more personal favorites, like Moneta J. Sleet’s photography of Coretta Scott King at MLK’s funeral. The first Black man to win the Pulitzer for journalism.
Conway took his time examining each framed newspaper. Dean already regretted allowing the intrusion into his space. He felt exposed—vulnerable—under silent scrutiny.
Irritated, he started banging around the kitchen. He was in no mood to explain that looking at those headlines every day fueled his ambitions and inspired his dreams. Dean believed with every fiber of his being in the power of a free and independent press.
He turned on the coffee machine and leaned against the counter. As if Conway felt Dean’s angry glare across the room, he finally turned and stared right back. For a moment, they engaged in a silent standoff.
Unease flittered through Dean. Camille had been right. Her brother was seething with anger. And Dean had no fucking idea what he’d done to piss him off. He sighed and shook his head, then took two mugs out of the cabinet and put them onto the island. “Miguel, have a damn coffee. You look like you need it.”
“Says the man who clearly slept in his party clothes and crept home at sunup.”
“Guilty as charged.” Dean shrugged.
Conway curled his lip. “I do not know what my sister sees in you.”
It wasn’t a question, so Dean didn’t bother with an answer. “You wanted to talk? So, talk.”
Instead of talking, though, Conway pulled out a stack of papers. Pushing aside the coffee cups to make room, he spread them out over the counter.
Dean froze. The first blurry photograph featured Dean in another man’s arms. In the next, the same man was pressing Dean against a white porch railing, his own hands tangled in the man’s messy curls. Conway fanned the stack, revealing nearly a dozen more.
Dean and Noel Conway, kissing.
Suddenly, he was there again, the ocean breeze tugging on his clothes. Noel’s warm skin, tasting like sunshine and a hint of salt, his eyes blown with desire. Goddamn, so fucking beautiful, with that shy smile, whispered promises—
Dean’s throat was desert dry. His ragged breath and the hissing of the coffee machine came together like a fucking symphony. “I—”
“Save it. My sister thinks you’re this hotshot journalist. Full of passion. Braving adversity. Motivated by a noble cause. Yeah, fuck that. You’re after my family because Noel pounded your ass, then dropped you like he does everybody else. Your pride—your precious ego—is hurt because you’re just another notch in my brother’s carved-up bedpost.”
Conway grabbed his jacket and walked to the door. He turned and added, “Watch it, Hunt. You got no job. No friends. No prospects. But if you think you’ve reached rock bottom, think again.”
Dean contained himself until he heard his door close with a soft click. Only then did he allow himself to swipe papers, cups, and the fucking photos off his counter. The cups shattered
on the tile floor.
Author Bio
Eighteen years ago, AG Meiers came to the US for adventure and stayed for love. Currently, she lives in New England with her husband and two awesome kids—balancing work, friends and family, and writing.
When she has some free time, her favorite thing to do is travel and visit new places. Her past trips have already brought her to a variety of countries on four continents. She never passes up an opportunity to experience different cultures, diverse people and amazing locations.
Even though she has been dreaming up stories all her life, she has only recently started to write them down and share them with the world. As a writer she loves to put her characters through a lot of challenges, conflict and heartbreak, before she allows them to find their happy-ever-after.
Greetings and thanks so much for joining me on the Earthquake Ethan blog tour! I thought I’d shake things up a bit and answer some “Between Two Ferns” type questions about the book and my motivations in writing it. Here we go:
How did you choose the topic for this book? Ethan was a character mentioned only by name in book one, Hurricane Reese, and I wanted to know what happened to him after the first show wrapped in London just before the action of Hurricane Reese starts. Manager Arthur Frye has been such a rock for everyone in the series as well as the book Everything’s Better With You and, well, I knew I needed to get to know him better. His backstory, which includes being the child of Hollywood legends gave the story meat and allowed me to indulge myself on all things Hollywood (there will be another blog post about my Rabbit Hole Research for this project!) I’ve always been a huge geek about stories behind the movies and the people who made them, just as I geek out about the stories behind the music. Having the opportunity to put all these things in one book? YES, PLEASE!
What were your goals and intentions in this book, and how well do you feel you achieved them? My goal with this book was to get the characters through the musical, which is called Boy. In book one, Reese comes home to take care of his grandfather, Thomas, who was a piano player for Frank Sinatra and one of the top jazz pianists on the West Coast. They’d planned to catalog his music and Reese was inspired to write a musical using his grandfather’s music. He plotted the story with Toby to be about when his grandparents’ met, but the story shifts when Reese finds himself in love. Book Two kicks off the pre-production of the show, and I knew I needed to show the musical performed on stage in book three. I needed their hard work and sacrifice to pay off with a memorable performance.
What was the hardest part of writing this book? In addition to the characters from the first two books showing up, Arthur’s tie to characters from my Teacher trilogy meant that I could bring them back so we could see where they were four years after the action in Teacher: The Final Act. That meant a larger cast of characters, and I also wanted this book to stand alone if folks hadn’t read any of the others. Did I accomplish this? My beta readers seemed to think so. I hope you do too!
Who did your cover, and what was the design process like? I was lucky enough to work with KaNaXa when the first two books were under contract with my former publisher. When I re-released them indie, I contacted her and asked her to help me reimagine the covers with an illustrated look. We had so much fun coming up with the covers for Reese and Toby, finding scenes from the book that would really be awww-inducing to readers. Then when Romancelandia stepped in to raise money for Haiti, I bid on KaNaXa’s offer to do a cover. She was happy to work with me again to finish out the series and I fell hard for her design. We did have some rather funny moments, including when Mr. Ro decided the cover was showing something else about to happen than a nice cuddle. Once he pointed it out we couldn’t unsee it, so KaNaXa was able to adjust Ethan so he didn’t look like he was, uh, going deep sea diving. Or something…ahem. These three books are beautifully covered and I can’t wait to have the paperback of Ethan in my hot little hand!
What secondary character would you like to explore more? Tell me about him or her. Earthquake Ethan was supposed to be the finale of this series…but when I met Audra, I had other ideas. So I’m calling it a finale…For Now. Stay Tuned…
Who has been your favorite character to write and why? Part of the reason this book has so many characters is that I can’t stop thinking of Jesse and Danny Black. They have been my favorite MF couple to write. I published these books in 2015, my 3rd, 4th, and 5th books and I am still in love with them. When Reese and Toby’s show needed a choreographer, hey, Jesse Martin-Black would be perfect, and since Danny had ties to Hollywood through his friendship with a legendary producer, it just made sense that the two of them would be instrumental in the show’s success. Danny is also bisexual and so the show really hits close to him and Jesse as well.
What’s your core motivation in this book? To see a group of people trying to make a statement with their art, to show that #LoveisLove, and to hopefully give readers some hearty giggles and swoons. Oh, and there’s a project that Ethan gets attached to in the book that I WISH would actually happen. Maybe I’ll write the screenplay!
Sound good? Here are links to all the books in the series plus the Teacher Trilogy as you’ll find many of the characters from those books in Ethan.
Join this band of natural disasters as they put on the show of their lives! Thank you for joining me on the Earthquake Ethan blog tour! Stay Tuned for More…
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R.L. Merrill has a new contemporary MM romance out, Forces of Nature book 3: Earthquake Ethan.
The Earth shook the morning actor Ethan Bradley arrived in Los Angeles looking for a second chance. He hoped his former producers Reese Matheson and Toby Griffiths meant it when they said to look them up if he were ever in LA because he had no other options. The pictures the paparazzi took at the wrap party for their London show made sure of that. What he wasn’t counting on was the reception he got from their manager, Arthur Frye. He was absolutely the kind of together guy Ethan wished would notice him, and for more than his pretty face and talent. Too bad Arthur only sees Ethan as a complication.
Arthur Frye has his hands full with his best clients—and best friends. The last thing he needs is another diva to care for, especially one who has a reputation for causing trouble. He has a strict rule against getting involved with the talent, no matter how pretty they are. Only Ethan Bradley shines for real, and when Arthur realizes his nice-guy innocence is genuine, he’s ready to do anything to help Ethan get his career back on track and get him out of LA. He’s too much of a temptation, and Arthur can’t afford to lose focus…not even for a chance at happiness for himself. Especially not when his star clients are about to risk their professional and personal happiness with their newest creation; a musical about two boys falling in love in the 1960s featuring music written by Reese’s grandfather, whose health is in decline.
Ethan Bradley shakes things up wherever he goes, and Arthur Frye is afraid he’ll be left in the wreckage if he gets too close. Can these two opposites find love on solid ground?
Warnings: implied sexual abuse off page
About the Series
Forces of Nature follows a group of talented men who are natural disasters, and the men who love them.
The morning after Ethan Bradley landed at LAX the earth shook. Literally. Being from Iowa, he’d always been afraid of earthquakes. He remembered watching footage when he was a little boy of the one that hit Northridge and it stayed with him. He’d even turned down a part in the film San Andreas because he was terrified of the real thing.
Plus—at the time—he’d wanted to be considered a serious actor, and accepting a role in a Hollywood disaster blockbuster didn’t fit in with his professional goals. Instead, he’d ended up going to London to film a clever romantic comedy. Then came the stage and more accolades at the age of twenty-six than he’d imagined possible.
When his hotel room rattled his first morning in LA and sent him diving under the desk in the early hours, he’d wished he’d stayed.
But London had nothing to offer him after the paparazzi ruined his life, and he couldn’t go home. So there he was, back in the states, and ready to grovel before his former producer—and crush—for a role, any role, that would allow him to get back to doing what he loved…acting, singing, performing.
Love was a strong word. It was what he knew, what he was good at, where his God-given talents lay.
He’d come to LA with a plan. Sort of. Go see Reese Matheson. Pray he opened the door and took pity on him. And that he didn’t hold a grudge.
He plugged the Malibu address he’d gotten from his London manager’s office into the Lyft app and went outside to wait for his ride. And prayed.
If Reese wouldn’t see him, he had a plan B.
He’d go to see Reese’s business partner Toby Griffiths. Which was probably a terrible idea, but the best he had.
Because there was no plan C.
He had exactly fifty dollars cash on him and a credit card dangerously close to being maxed out. Rock bottom was flying up to meet him fast.
The Lyft driver dropped him off at the end of a long driveway leading to a quaint little house that backed up to the Malibu shoreline. He knew nine o’clock on a Sunday morning was early, but the earthquake had shaken him so much, he couldn’t wait to get out of his room at the Holiday Inn. He’d been to LA before to promote his films, but he’d never felt comfortable among the glitz and glamour of Hollywood and Beverly Hills.
Malibu had the scenery people thought of when they imagined Southern California. Palm trees, mountains that broke off into the sea, miles of sand with beautiful people jogging along the water’s edge. It was picturesque, and sometimes cliché. For Ethan, it represented his last hope.
He climbed the steps, cleared his throat, reached for that enthusiastic confidence that used to come so easy for him once upon a time—
The door opened before he even had a chance to knock.
The short Filipino man standing there in a pair of scrubs had one eyebrow raised and a hand on his hip.
“Can I help you?”
His tone didn’t come across as helpful, despite his words.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m looking for Reese Matheson? My name is—“
“I know who you are.” The man’s raised eyebrow turned into a frown. “Just a minute,” he said before closing the door with a little less force than a slam.
Breathe. It’s fine. Reese is a good guy. He won’t be angry that I showed up. He’s a generous, kind person—
Author Bio
R.L. Merrill brings you stories of Hope, Love, and Rock ‘n’ Roll featuring quirky and relatable characters. Whether she’s writing about contemporary issues that affect us all or diving deep into the paranormal and supernatural to give readers a shiver, she loves creating compelling stories that will stay with readers long after.
Winner of the Kathryn Hayes “When Sparks Fly” Best Contemporary award for Hurricane Reese, Foreword INDIES finalist for Summer of Hush and RONE finalist for Typhoon Toby, Ro spends every spare moment improving her writing craft and striving to find that perfect balance between real-life and happily ever after.
She writes diverse and inclusive romance, contributes paranormal hilarity to Robyn Peterman’s Magic and Mayhem Universe, and works on various other writing and mentoring projects that tickle her fancy or benefit a worthy cause. You can find her connecting with readers on social media, educating America’s youth, raising two brilliant teenagers, trying desperately to get that back piece finished in the tattoo chair, or headbanging at a rock show near her home in the San Francisco Bay Area! Stay Tuned for more Rock ‘n’ Romance.
I received a free copy of this book in exchange for a fair and honest review. All opinions are my own.
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A therapist reeling from the loss of a patient must work to help a fractured family facing new changes and growing LGBTQ+ driven hate crimes in their local area, and the therapist must choose to save them or her own marriage in author Dawn Reno Langley’s “Analyzing the Prescotts: A Novel”.
The Synopsis
Cotton Barnes, a Raleigh, NC, therapist, leveled by a client’s recent suicide, is struggling to resume her practice when she begins working with the Prescotts, a family fractured when the father comes out as transgender and begins transitioning. They relate their stories in their chosen voices, each family member’s narrative in a different format. Journals, social media, and other nontraditional narratives challenge Dr. Barnes’ therapeutic skills. While each member of the Prescotts dodge land mines behind the closed doors of her therapy office, the Raleigh, North Carolina area is rocked by a series of LGBTQ+ hate crimes. As Cotton finds herself stalking the family, worried that she might not be able to “save them,” her husband slips away, and Cotton is forced to make a decision that will determine whether she saves her own marriage or the Prescotts.
The Review
This was such an engaging and thought-provoking story. The tragedy and heartbreak that becomes the running theme in the protagonist’s life was both insightful yet heart-wrenching to behold. The story speaks to our connections in our families and with others.
Yet the strong themes this narrative took on made this story shine brightly. The lines that often blur when we become integrated into other people’s lives can turn care and concern into obsession, and the hardship that comes from trying to live our most authentic lives in a world that hates and shuns those people all played a significant role in this story. The careful and moving attention to detail the author paid to these characters made the story feel more connective for readers.
The Verdict
Memorable, heartfelt, and engaging author Dawn Reno Langley’s “Analyzing the Prescotts” is a must-read LGBTQ+ driven narrative that readers won’t put down. The twists and turns in the story, the emotional weight of the characters and their journey, and the mesmerizing tale that comes to life on the page will stay with readers long after the story ends. If you haven’t yet, be sure to grab your copy today!
Rating: 10/10
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About the Author
Dawn Reno Langley writes extensively for newspapers and magazines, has published more than 30 books (nonfiction, children’s books, and novels such as The Mourning Parade (Amberjack, 2017)), dozens of award-winning short stories, essays, and poems in journals such as Missouri Review, Hunger Mountain and Superstition Review, as well as hundreds of articles, theater reviews, and blogs. A Fulbright scholar and TedX speaker with an MFA in Fiction from Vermont College and a PhD in Interdisciplinary Studies (concentrations in gender studies and creativity) from The Union Institute and University, she lives on the North Carolina coast. She offers writing retreats for other women and teaches for Southern New Hampshire University’s MFA program. Her latest book, You Are Divine: A Search for the Goddess in All of Us (Llewellyn) was released nationally and internationally in January 2022.ADD AUTHOR BIO
Join us at WOW as we celebrate the launch of Dawn Reno Langley’s novel Analyzing the Prescotts. Read an interview with the author and enter for a chance to win a copy of the book.
Visit Joy’s blog for a guest post by Dawn Reno Langley on the challenges of writing using multiple points of view. You can also read an excerpt of Langley’s novel Analyzing the Prescotts.
Lilian Zenzi has a new queer sci-fi romance out (nonbinary/pan/queer/gender-fluid): Spark & Tether.
Working odd jobs across the Outer Ring gets a little lonely sometimes—not everyone loves having a synchronist with supraliminal perception around. But all Sacheri wants, he tells himself, is to wander the stars.
Then he takes a salvage run to an abandoned moon where he meets the wry, reserved, strictly-by-the-rules archivist Jin. Mesmerized by their confidence and charm, Sacheri can’t resist showing off his abilities–and instead of the damaged ai he was tracking, he stumbles onto a signal left by a synchronist who went missing decades earlier.
Sacheri knows from previous experience that pursuing the truth—never mind justice—could destroy everything he loves. He would defy his employers, the institution responsible for the myconeural networks that make him a synchronist, and the leadership of several worlds.
And it would complicate his new, passionate, and impossibly sweet relationship with Jin. They might be the best thing that’s ever happened to him, but they work for the very entities that ended Sacheri’s last investigation.
He knows better than to risk it.
But he’s never been able to turn away from someone in need, and there’s a voice in the void calling for aid…
Sacheri woke with a shiver in his nerves tracing his limbs like a lit fuse.
His synplants drew his awareness out into the station, into the whisper of leaves and the low hum of the machines, endlessly seeking. He had no solace to offer them, so he tried to sleep through it. Maybe inebriant would douse the burn; he’d have to find one, which meant leaving bed… but then, a walk might also help. The drink could keep him company on the return.
There was a certain maudlin poetry to wandering with the ghosts of memory, anyway.
#
He regretted his choices before he could finish the first bottle.
The empty corridors echoed, even the ones with lush vine-planted walls, fully surrounded by sound-absorbent tiling. The unsteady sound of his steps reminded him of less lonely times; the chatter of more populated halls made him sad. His synplants cleansed the inebriant from his system faster than he could drink, so he diminished them, set a timer on his standard implant, and ducked into a maintenance corridor, heading for the lifts that would return him to his temp residence.
He’d forgotten how many ghosts were in his head.
He drank more.
He passed through too many familiar places, muttering curses to himself about the council for bringing him to Orinus Station in the first place. He should have departed with Paradis, gone away to her fancy little moon, where he could wallow in heartbreak on a lakeside beach while she teased him about his lack of ambition. She’d have been careful not to remind him of anything—anyone—else.
Three more nights until he left for Elysia, into the far reaches of the Outer Rings, away from the myriad reminders, the constant calling of what should have been, all of his aching regrets.
He avoided the halls that would have taken him past Paradis’s private suites and the memories lying in wait for him there, and then he wandered past the next set of lifts, because it was what he and Jin had always done: long walks and quiet talks, so close their shoulders touched, their bell-clear, mesmerizing voice low and loving. He tried not to think about how much he missed them, and, failing that, tried not to think at all.
He trudged along, hugging the shadows at the edges of the walkways, arms heavy at his sides, until it was late enough that he could reasonably hope to get a lift to himself, and he had some hope of sleeping. The only humans he’d passed in maintenance took no notice of him, which was the whole point of using the back ways. But they might make small talk if they found him alone in a lift car, or, stars forbid, they might ask if he was okay.
And then what was he supposed to do? Cry on them? Tell them to mind their own business? Explain how he helped bring something like justice to a few long-forgotten synchronists and how much it took from him? Or should he ask if they’d seen a certain lithe, black-haired investigator for the Council of the Outer Rings anywhere nearby? His eyes burned from both the inebriant and the exhaustion and the constant threat of tears. He wanted to sleep until the transport to Elysia was ready.
The bottle was empty, but he wasn’t ready to let it go; he thought he might sleep better with it nearby, just for company, even if the synplants wiped all traces of the inebriant from his system. He leaned against the rounded corner of the lift alcove, one heel against the wall to hold him steady, arms crossed over his chest, bottle dangling loosely from the fingers of his right hand.
His luck almost held.
Author Bio
Lilian Zenzi writes science fiction and fantasy, sometimes with romance and usually in queer normative worlds. Genre agnostic as a writer and a reader, she likes to keep space for comfort, hope, and joy along with the kissing, conflict, and big ideas. She resents having to write a bio and would rather be in the garden or making art.
Sacheri looked back at the dancers and found Jin had been watching him from the bar on the other side of the floor; once Adda was out of sight, they returned to the table with a fresh drink in hand. Sacheri liked their eyes on him, and didn’t want to interrupt it, and thought it had maybe become a game to see which of them would speak first. And so they ended up staring at each other from across the table for a good long moment before Sacheri broke it with a fresh grin.
He’d never been that good at games. “I don’t think I’m your first synchronist, am I?”
Jin’s answer was a quiet chuckle, clear and rich and magnetic as the rest of them, but they held his gaze without a trace of self-consciousness. Their eyes were flecked with amber and citrine, a starburst in the warm brown.
Uh-oh, Sacheri thought. Everything about them was charming, even if he would never understand their obvious dedication to rule-following. Again, like a kid with his first crush. He wasn’t sure if he should be preening or posturing or pleading for another wink, another whisper, any vague hint of interest.
“I don’t flirt on runs,” Jin said finally, in a tone like a caress— so soft and intimate that it raised the hairs on Sacheri’s arms and neck. They looked away from him. “It stays entirely professional until the job is complete and in the archives.”
There it was. Sacheri nodded, more pained than he wished to admit.
Jin glanced out at the dance floor before turning back to him. “I just wanted to be clear about that. And that you shouldn’t be discouraged.”
The disappointed pang in his chest flipped immediately to fizzing. He could not read them, he realized; he got it wrong, every time, even unguarded as they were, and that was somehow as magnetic as all the rest. He held Jin’s eyes and gave them a sly smile. “I appreciate that,” he said.
Umair reappeared at the end of the table between them. “Your friends from earlier are requesting another dance,” he said to Sacheri.
“Umair will drag you out there if you try to refuse,” Jin said, lifting their liquor to take a slow sip.
“And what are you going to do?” Sacheri asked, with a grin that held just enough dare to be serious.
Jin’s answering smile was slow and deliberate. “I’ll watch.”
Sacheri laughed as Umair beckoned for him to come out to the floor.
“See you in the morning, then,” they said.
A dozen suggestive responses rose in Sacheri’s throat, but he swallowed them all. “See you in the morning.”
He sent one more ping to Paradis: Found a good team. Made some friends. One more run before I take a rest.
Walter Robinson has a new queer sci-fi book out (gay, lesbian), SVF book one: The Northern Route.
In the distant star cluster Messier 4, the vast and stagnant civilization of the Apeilous sits on the verge of its next great expansion. Several massive corporations have merged to start the Endeavor, the most far-reaching economic and humanitarian effort in history.
Vesta Amore leads a small team of private security specializing in the protection of whistleblowers and corporate defectors. She has no interest in the Endeavor until she is swept off her feet by the suave leader of the Fortuna Corp, an equal partner in the Endeavor. Balancing her altruism with the realities of power, Vesta joins the Fortuna as they work to establish a supply route along the contested northern border.
Cal Sunn is a career detective looking forward to retirement. When the Maressellya Corp backs out of joining the Endeavor, they hear rumors of a defector in their ranks and put Cal on the case. What starts as a simple assignment becomes a fight for survival as he works to untangle a shadowy conspiracy that threatens the Apeilous. With the Fortuna’s backing, he and his crew rush to uncover the plot.
Warnings: Combat violence, “off-screen” sexual assault, large scale loss of life
About the Series:
In the distant star cluster M4, the vast civilization of the Apeilous barrels through a geopolitically tumultuous era. The independent northern state of Tressel is upset by territory grabs orchestrated by the largest corporations of the Apeilous through a humanitarian operation known as the Endeavor.
Vesta Fortuna, once a lowly private security contractor, rose to power to lead the largest and most controversial state of the Apeilous: The State of Vesta Fortuna. The SVF series explores the rise and fall of Vesta as a state-maker, a wife, a mother, and ultimately an authoritarian leader. Shorter companion novels detail the origins of the people who rise to support or oppose Vesta:
Aelia, a refugee turned warrior turned politician who will stop at nothing to bring down SVF.
Kiton, a bright young detective keen to support SVF by rooting out corruption in its ranks.
Valentia, Vesta’s daughter and heir to the Fortuna family.
Augustus, Vesta’s son and the unlikely heart and soul of SVF.
Main character Vesta and her best friend Jak spend Act 3 forging ties between the Fortuna Corporation and the leadership of the independent planet Atayuma. Keen to make connections outside of the autocratic government, Vesta and Jak engage in a bit of old-fashioned diplomacy with group of mid-level army and navy personnel at the most popular bar in town. By this point in the story, Vesta and Jak have already made friends of several revolution-sympathizers in the armed forces.
Fun fact, the song in this excerpt was adapted with permission from the artist, Jason Webley!
Excerpt from Chapter 29, God Save the King:
Rau’s Taphouse
Capital City, Atayuma (ISY-AT)
Three musicians sat in the corner of the room belting out drinking songs on a tuba, a drum set, and an accordion. The accordionist sang loudly, yet his voice barely rose over the short beats of the instruments and the din of the bar.
Vesta and Jak sat at a table for six, joined by three captains from the Royal Navy. The sixth member of their gathering was Captain Ernesto of the army division Aline had selected for the coming monsoon. While Vesta had spent the fore of the evening chatting and getting to know them, her efforts were stymied by a raucous sing-along song about storms and angels. Then the music struck a somber tone.
The singer had his bandmates restart the intro, seemingly to get the crowd’s full attention. He sang the first verse softly.
“To the old, cracked screen,
Of my mother’s voice,
I still cry when I hear her sing.
The clock struck twelve,
The voice I love so well,
Was eaten up by the machine,
It was eaten up by the machine!”
Vesta wondered what exactly he meant by the machine. Maybe he’s talking about the mines. Every voice in the bar joined in the second verse.
“When the glass is full,
Drink up! Drink up!
This maybe the last time
We see this cup.
If angels wanted us sober,
They’d knock the glass over,
So while it is full, we drink up!”
Just as Vesta started to tap her toes to the beat, the drum and tuba quieted, and the individual taps on the accordion’s keyboard became clear. The singer glanced at her with a kind smile and sang softly, twisting the next verse into something unknown to the crowd.
“A toast to our guests,
A girl from the stars,
I hear the king courts her,
But all of this cheer,
And maybe the beer,
Has brought her back here,
So let’s help her drink the place dry,
Yes, let’s drink the damn place dry!”
The crowd cheered, and many raised their glasses toward Vesta before downing them. Jak slapped her on the shoulder with a little too much force, and the singer repeated the verse. A few people joined in. Then the rest shouted along for the last three lines. The standard verses followed, and the discordant singing continued. Vesta could only sit and sway to the beat. Jak had other ideas, rising to his feet to join a line of people dancing forward and backward with their arms on the shoulders of those next to them. Ernesto joined too, shouting with the dance line that now snaked clear across the length of the bar.
The music crescendoed upward, and the singing grew louder for the last verse.
“…knock the glass over.”
“So while it is full drink up!” the crowd screamed. People clapped, some tossed coins and banknotes at the band members, and others spilled their drinks as they tried to toast with their neighbors at the bar. The joyous frenetic atmosphere remained past the end of the music, but there was a clear shift in tone and a color shift for Vesta’s deeper vision. A calm contentment filled the minds of the patrons closing out their tabs and shuffling out the front door. Many said goodbye to their friends for the night, clasping each other’s hands in front of their chests with a tense shake. Eager to return to the palace, Vesta cut off Jak’s animated conversation with one of the navy captains, handed the bartender enough money to cover the table, and started toward the door.
A crowd of eager-eyed Atayumans stood outside Rau’s. They all bubbled with joy as Vesta stepped onto the street. She took Jak’s hand, smiled, and moved through them, trying not to flinch as every person attempted to touch her shoulders. Countless glowing Atayuman eyes met hers before they reached the edge of the gathering.
A raindrop landed on her hand. She reached up and felt that the top of her headscarf was damp. She pulled her hood up and activated her wrist computer, nearly blinding herself with its white light. Navigating to the archaic weather app that the Atayumans operated, she looked at the radar map of the incoming weather formation. It was predicted to be light and move past the city shortly after sunrise.
“God damn, I love diplomacy,” Jak said, words soft despite their volume. “If only the [Vesta’s ethnicity] weren’t so uptight, we could’ve been doing this on [Vesta’s home planet]!”
“Jak, please,” she said sharply. With a bit of tugging and pushing, she guided him up the sweeping main road toward the palace gates. Some distance from the royal guards, Vesta tensed her jaw and held her breath to redden her face.
“Are you doing that thing?” Jak asked, taking a series of tiny steps to steady himself.
“Yes,” she huffed, shooting him a sideways look.
“Why don’t you just think about those photos you had me take—”
“Jak!” she said loudly, playfully pushing him, then grabbing his shirt to keep him from falling over.
“You know, the ones for Piata—”
“Yes, I know!” she said, feeling her cheeks burn. Embarrassed, she channeled her shy charisma and played a nervous flirty drunk. The four guards at the gate seemed none-the-wiser and cleared the way for them.
Author Bio
Walter Robinson is a speculative fiction author based in Western PA.
A classically trained engineer with experience in product development and advanced materials manufacturing, he has a passion for telling the human stories that are fundamental to the built world. When he isn’t writing or drawing, Walter spends his time designing and fabricating.
Our characters currently live at the Fortuna Enclave, a classically styled mansion located on the beach of a lake on the contested planet Corben Six. The Enclave is a sort of temporary corporate embassy, used by the Fortuna Corporation and its leader, Piata, to forge business dealings in the region. After a month of entertaining foreign dignitaries to further Piata’s goals, main character Vesta is burnt out. Her best friend Jak has taken it upon himself to organize a beach party.
Excerpt from Chapter 20 “The Sightless”:
The Corbenite sun burned in the sky above the city, just an hour and a half from the horizon. Long shadows made dark the sandstone wall and the side of the gazebo that Vesta approached. She expected only a small gathering, but the pavilion was full of lounging guards, attendants, and activity, the loudest of which was the head chef and Jak standing over the open grill.
“…you will want a pinch of the—”
Jak held up his hand to call for silence. “I’ve got this.”
“But sir, this will bring out the zest of the—”
“Is it so hard to let a man grill in peace?” Jak asked.
“With you, sir, excruciating.”
…
One by one, the pleasant human sounds died until only the crash of the cycling waves remained. Vesta opened her eyes and saw that the guards in the water were slowly returning to shore. She turned around to find that those on the lawn had stopped moving. Some stood at attention, and others clasped their hands.
Piata stepped from the shade of the house into the sunlight, looking like an explosion of embers as her curly golden hair danced freely in the wind. She strode forward, dark legs breaking through the high slits of a billowing white dress that seemed to float in the air behind her despite the irregular strength of the lake air. Piata’s cloudy eyes snapped straight to Vesta and looked nowhere else as she walked down the lawn like the rest of the world did not exist.
…
“Speaking of dinner,” Jak said loudly, “first ones are for the ladies of the house.” He walked up to the couch with two plates in hand: a pair of kebabs and a few pieces of flatbread on each. The smell of the dark grilled fish and vegetables was better than that of anything Jak had ever cooked. Vesta took in the aromas before the wind scattered them, then she accepted the plate from Jak. Piata pulled herself upright and turned to sit straight. She received her plate and set it on her thighs, holding each side as if she did not know what to do.
The Fortuna chef managed to shoulder his way around Jak. “I am so sorry, ma’am, this is a Corbenite variety of freshwater—”
Piata held up her hand and dismissed the chef with a nod. “I will be fine, thank you.”
…
Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the end of the dock, Vesta and Piata talked first about the lake. Piata kept her eyes closed; the light glinting off the water was too bright for her damaged irises, so Vesta described all the details for her. Then she quickly changed the topic. Just as she had practiced in her mind, Vesta made a case for her contingency planning, as she called it. Piata just sat and listened, gently breathing out every time the warm water enveloped her feet and ankles.
Piata said, “I am glad you and Cal get along now.”
“Umm, not quite. But I know enough about him to respect his findings. I think that maybe, just maybe, he is starting to believe in the cause.”
“That cause?”
“The Endeavor. And he’s frank about the instability that this whole deal with Paris poses,” Vesta said.
“He is ever so helpful. I take your point, dear. We will plan for the worst.” Piata shifted and leaned back. She cracked her eyes and looked at Vesta with a sly smile. The front-most strip of her dress blew up to reveal a narrow white swimsuit. In a sultry tone of voice, she asked, “Do you remember back on the Miren Star, when you found me in the pool?”
“I do.”
“I enjoyed watching you climb out in those tight little shorts.”
Vesta felt her cheeks warm. She turned to look back down the dock to ensure none of the guards or attendants were close enough to hear them. Everyone was still either on the porch or in the pavilion. “Well,” Vesta said slowly, leaning close to speak quietly into Piata’s ear, “why don’t we swim back? You can watch me walk up the beach in something much smaller.”
Piata shook her head. “I did not realize Jak invited all the house staff. This”—she tugged on the white fabric of her swimsuit, nearly flashing Vesta— “is see-through when wet.”
Vesta bit her lip and her cheeks grew hot even as she turned her head away from the setting sun. She lifted herself to her feet. With a deep breath, she pulled off her dress, handed it to Piata, and dove into the lake, piercing the face of an approaching swell with her hands pointed over her head. The force of the water against the lake bottom brought her up to the surface fast, and she emerged with enough speed that she fell over. Embracing the motion, she swam to the side to clear the dock, then started toward shore with lazy sidestrokes that took advantage of every wave. Piata walked back on the dock, keeping pace and beaming down at Vesta. Just as the waves started to break, Vesta found the sandy ground and stood up, bobbing closer to shore before getting a solid footing.
Water poured out of her tangled hair and ran down her arms and hips as she walked through the shallower and shallower water. A single sweep of her hand cleared the pale hairs from her face, and she scanned the grounds ahead of her.
“Hot angels! Whew!” Jak whistled.
Vesta felt a thousand stares and tried to wear a casual smile, but she knew her face was cherry red. She narrowed her eyes in Jak’s direction.
“Looking good, Vesta,” Phoebe called, raising her glass.
Someone swore quietly, and everyone turned back to their conversations, or at least they were polite enough to try to. Piata had no trouble staring daggers into the gathering under the pavilion. Vesta hooked her arm and walked her up the lawn and into the open ground level of the private wing.
“Did you like the show?” Vesta asked, mounting the stairs and feeling the swimsuit ride up a little. She ignored it as she twisted to look down at Piata, who grinned up at her.
“Even half-blind, I still enjoy your beauty.”
“And when you go fully blind?”
“Then I will just have to enjoy you by feel,” she whispered, planting her hands on Vesta’s butt and pushing her up the stairs.
Dominic stared dreamily out the window at the vibrant ivy climbing the brownstone across the street and at nothing at all. His desk was littered with paper, half-empty cans of Wild Cherry Pepsi, and his iPhone, attached to his ears via a long white cord.
It was another Monday morning in the office.
The sexy male Italian voice on the instructional podcast repeated itself. “Vado a letto. I am going to bed.”
In the window’s reflection, he could just make out his boss, Dante, in the office behind him. Dante was behind his desk, his handsome Italian features drawn tight in concentration. “I’d like to vado a letto with him,” Dominic whispered.
“What?” Kristen was at the desk next to his. She looked vaguely annoyed at the interruption, frowning at him.
He pulled out the earbuds. “Nothing,” he said, smiling privately. “Just a little Italian study time.”
She grinned. “Still doing that, huh?” She glanced over her shoulder. “He’s out of your league, you know.”
“Shut up. At least he plays for my team.”
“If he’s even single.” She stuck her tongue out at him and went back to work.
Break time was over. He stared at his screen, where the layout for page seventeen waited.
It was easy money, writing copy for a home decorating magazine. In Habit paid the rent, so he could spend his nights writing the great gay American novel. He’d finished one already and had sent it off to a dozen publishers in the hopes of getting his big break.
Sometimes he wondered if he spent his most creative hours and energy on the magazine at the expense of his true passion. Maybe cranking out copy dulled his writing muscles.
Five years out of college, and he’d been published in two prestigious writing journals (which paid next-to-nothing) and had his first novel rejected by ten of twelve publishers. “We’re sorry, it’s just not what we’re looking for” was the universal refrain. Add in his short story and poetry rejections, and he was closing in on seventy. If that old rule of thumb was right, he was only thirty rejections away from getting published. Really published, with a paycheck.
If only it were that simple.
He finished page seventeen’s layout, and the next three, and then took a bathroom break. He needed to be away from his desk for five layout-free minutes.
The bathroom was gloriously empty. Remodeled last year for the DIY issue, it was lined with earth-tone tiles, sparkling steel urinals, and one of those sinks with the wide ceramic bowl that sat above the granite countertop.
It was Dominic’s sanctuary. As he relieved himself, he stretched his arms out overhead and rested his head against the wall, letting his mind go blank.
The door swung open, and he pulled his arms down in a rush, embarrassed.
“Ciao,” his boss said, standing at the urinal next to Dominic.
“Ciao,” he replied. “Come stai?” He tried not to let his nervousness show. Dante always affected him that way. With his curly dark hair, olive skin, and smoldering Italian good looks, he was exactly Dom’s type. But the man’s effect on his nerves was especially bad here, when his pants were literally down. Dante’s cologne was almost overpowering.
“You are becoming good,” Dante said, clapping him on the back.
“What? Oh, the Italian.” Dominic smiled in spite of himself. “Grazie,” he said, blushing. “My friend Enrico is helping me learn a few new phrases.”
Dante had transferred to In Habit three months earlier from the company’s fashion division, and Dominic had been enthralled by him immediately. He’d restarted the Italian lessons shortly after.
“We are… how do you say it? Working up a new feature on modern Italian designers for October,” Dante said casually. He was not pee-shy, clearly. “I thought you might want to take a part…”
His English was good, but not perfect. That was one of the things Dominic found most attractive about him. Dante buttoned up his fly and went to wash up.
“Take part?” Dominic shook his head. “I’m not that good with the language yet.” Truth was, Dante was a hell of a lot better with English than Dominic would ever be with Italian.
Next to each other in the mirror, they were about the same height, but where Dominic was thin and blond, Dante was… substantial. Not heavy. Just solid, a real man—that old tall, dark, and handsome thing.
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J. Scott Coatsworth has a new MM romance/LGBTQ short story collection out: Love & Limitations.
Love & Limitations is Scott’s fourth short story collection and his first one featuring his contemporary MM and LGBTQ+ stories:
I Only Want to Be With You: Derrek likes Ryan. Ryan likes Alex. Alex treats Ryan like trash. So why can’t he see who really loves him?
The Boy in the Band: It’s hard for a trans kid in high school, just like it was for a gay kid two decades before. Can Ryan and Justin find common ground in time?
Translation: Dominic has a thing for Italian guys, especially his boss, Dante. His roommate Enrico has a thing for him. No matter how this ends, someone is going to get hurt.
Slow Thaw: As the Antarctic warms, so does the chilly relationship between scientist Javier Fernandez and new arrival—and trans man—Col Steele as they contend with a disaster on the ice.
Ten: After the death of his husband, Chris faces a gay mid-life crisis—at thirty-five—as he jumps back into the dating scene for ten dates in ten days.
This is the first time these stories have been collected in one place, and the first publication of “The Boy in the Band.”
Warnings:Bullying, suicidal ideation and attempt, past physical abuse, deadnaming
Those lazy, quiet mornings, sitting in the big bay window seat across from Ari with our legs entwined.
That happy time was long gone.
Instead, I was waiting out on the sidewalk, leaning up against the railing of the MARRS Building boardwalk. The wind blew chill, going right through my windbreaker, and the sky was slate gray. It never snowed in Sacramento, but it sure seemed to be trying.
I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets, wishing I had a pair of mittens. As an Arizona boy, I wasn’t used to the cold, even Sacramento cold.
I stood at the corner of 20th and K in the heart of gay Sacramento, waiting for a guy named Bryan. Spelled with a “Y”, of course. We gays are nothing if not predictable.
Christmas music played from speakers in the eaves of the building behind me.
My husband Ari had passed away on New Year’s Eve the previous year. He’d been hit by a street-racing Mercedes when we were crossing J Street, and it had been twelve agonizing days in the hospital before he took his last breath.
Three seconds. That’s how far behind him I was, checking something on Facebook. I didn’t even remember what it was.
Three goddamned seconds.
After a year of being alone, of beating myself up for those three seconds, I’d finally decided that it was time to start dating again. Ari was gone, and nothing would bring him back. He would want me to go on.
Still, my heart wasn’t in it.
My mother was sick with worry. Every day I got a call or a text or an email asking if I was okay.
Ari would want me to have someone again.
I was thirty-five, and all alone.
I’d challenged myself to go on ten dates in ten days—maybe I’d find someone new. If not, at least I’d have a reason to be alone.
And so, Bryan.
He was twenty-five, hung, and had no head, at least if his Grindr profile was to be believed.
What was it about gay guys and their abs?
Then again, I’d swiped right when I saw that gorgeous chest, so I guess I’m part of the problem.
Grindr photos never lie, right?
Bryan arrived on time — a point in his favor — and he was young and beautiful. Blond, blue eyed, and yes, all of twenty-five. I laughed under my breath. I had underwear older than he was.
I’m no slouch at 5’11”, but he was taller than me.
Ari had been just my height, with black hair and dark brown eyes. Medium, dark, and handsome.
Bryan and I hugged and headed down to Pizzeria Urbano. We grabbed a couple slices and took them outside to the patio. Lavender Heights was quiet today—the cold weather, most likely—and the people-watching was practically non-existent.
“You look just like your photo,” Bryan said between bites, flashing me a big white perfectly aligned smile. No one had natural teeth that straight, or that white. “What are you, like forty?”
Little shit. “Um, thirty-five,” I replied. “And you have a head.”
“What? Oh yeah, the Grindr thing.” He grinned again, and I had to shield my eyes. “I don’t want my parents finding me on there.”
That surprised me. “You’re in the closet? I thought your generation was past all of that.”
“Nah, I just don’t want them in my business. It’s bad enough I have to follow all the ‘house rules.’ But hey, I like dating older guys.”
Ouch again. And he lived at home.
But damn, he was cute.
I tried to get us back on track. “So what do you do?”
“I’m a personal trainer.” He eyed his pizza. “I hardly ever eat this shit.”
Of course you are. “Yeah? Where?”
“At Lord’s Gym in South Sac.” He poked me in my less than perfectly flat stomach. “Hey, I can get you back in shape—you eat pizza and carbs like this all the time, right? Come in some time and I’ll hook you up.” He finished his slice, licking his fingers.
“Suuuuure.” I mentally added a new Grindr rule—from now on, any swipe-rights had to have a head.
Bryan was totally wrong for me. Too young, too athletic, not too bright, and he had all the manners of an untrained puppy.
“Wanna go back to my place?” he said, panting.
Oh my God, that tongue.
Ari wouldn’t mind.
What the fuck are you waiting for? Ari whispered in my ear. He’s hot.
I laughed. Of course it wasn’t him. But it’s exactly what he would have said, given the current situation, and if Ari wanted me to … “Sure.”
Bryan took my hand and led me back to his place, just a couple blocks away.
The next day, I started an Evernote to keep track and rate my dates. I don’t usually sleep and tell, but I gave Bryan a four and a half for date-ability, and a ten in bed.
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, and Other Worlds Ink with Mark, sites that celebrate fiction reflecting queer reality, and is the committee chair for the Indie Authors Committee at the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA).
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