Once upon a time in a faraway land a very wealthy merchant lived on a good piece of land just west of the hamlet we now call Littleton. The merchant was blessed with luck and guile, strong bones and sharp eyes, a pretty wife of gentle spirit, and four healthy children whom he called Faith, Hope, Beauty, and Corbin. An LGBT twist on the classic love story.
Author Bio Alex Hall writes LGBT speculative fiction for Madison Place Press. Find out more about Alex, Beastly Manor, and Alex's forthcoming dystopian M/M romance, The Stranded, at www.sarahremy.com
Corbin felt the Beast's approach, heavy footsteps like a pulse deep in the stone heart of the manor. He whirled, Da's sword raised in defense. "You've come ill-equipped." The Beast stood just inside the threshold, against the manor door. He looked Corbin very thoroughly from head to toe and back up again. "Or improperly educated. The curse says I'm ended not by blade or stone or fire, but of a broken heart." Corbin didn't waver. He studied the Beast just as assiduously as the Beast studied him. He'd expected the monster from Da's memories - all fang and fur and wolfish claws - or even the flame-eyed devil he knew from David's canvas. The eyes were there - yellow as the sun and so very bright - but they belonged to a dapper young man dressed in breeches and a clean white shirt beneath a dusty velvet coat. He wore his long black hair in a neat braid. His fingers were long and elegant, nails short and clean. His polite smile showed only white, even teeth against dusky skin. Demons, Corbin knew from hours of David's tutelage, were tricky creatures. They delighted in surprise and confusion, and fed upon a man's terror. "I carry an enchanted ifrit glaive," Corbin replied evenly. "One of only four blades made sharp enough to pierce a devil's breast." The Beast's smile spread wider. He laughed. "You're the cheese monger's get. You've his temper and his naivety." The Beast left the door. He approached Corbin carefully, circling in and then away. "But you're two seasons too early and although you've your mother's delicate features, you're certainly no girl. I was promised the merchant's heir. What was her name?" He paused, head tilted, yellow eyes narrowed to burning slits. "I was promised Beauty." "You'll not have Beauty," Corbin proclaimed. "Da only let you think Beauty was the oldest. She's not. I am, I'm the heir. And I've come to have your head, devil!" "I thought it was my heart you were after," drawled the Beast. He stopped moving no more than three paces from Corbin's side. He didn't stink after all. He smelled of rain on grass and the forest at dawn. Corbin could feel the heat off his skin and the uncanny warmth of his regard. "The merchant was wiser than he appeared," the Beast conceded. "Wise indeed. You'll be little use to me as housekeeper, but you're handsome enough to look upon. It happens I'm in need of a companion." Concubine. It was Laurie's voice in Corbin's head. He bristled, offended. "I'm not yours to keep, devil! I've come here to kill you!" Still smiling, the Beast lowered his chin.
Corbin was outmatched from the first feint. The demon fought not in beastly form, with tooth and claw, but with a narrow sword conjured from thin air. The clash of blades became a dance: back and forth across the foyer, up a step and then down. Corbin knew his worth as a swordsman. The Beast matched him at every turn. Corbin lunged. The Beast turned his blade. Corbin pivoted and struck out. The Beast dodged. It was apparent the devil was king in his manor house. He waltzed Corbin around and around seemingly without effort. Minutes seemed to stretch into hours. Corbin grew weary. His arm grew heavy. For the first time since he'd entered the forest he remembered to be afraid. He'd imagined himself the hero of this tale for so long, but now he thought his bones would end up on the Beast's dinner plate. "Finish it!" Desperate, he swung with renewed energy. The Beast blocked him easily - once, and then once again. "Kill me and be done!"
“Kept” is a (crime mystery) desert neo-noir about George and Connor, two young gay men who get mixed up in a deadly Palm Springs real estate scam and fight to survive in a twisted world of desire, double-cross and deception. Palm Springs: Jorge Gomez leaves his poor family behind and remakes himself as ambitious George Gomes. Soon young gay George is picked up by Connor Hurst, who takes him to an empty mansion for a night of lust. Connor convinces George to work alongside him in a scam targeting gullible retirees with classic desert homes. George appears to be on a strange path to the American Dream, until his help covering up a violent death propels him toward bigger risks—perhaps even murder, one that seems justified, one promising a sizable payday. George doesn't know his role is to take the fall. Yet he isn’t as stupid as everyone thinks. Left alone, literally hanging on a wire with a corpse, George must fight enemies real and imagined if he has any hope of finding his dream—or even staying alive long enough to enjoy it.
Pilar Greco’s folks never trusted Sy.
Parents sometimes came in dreams like messengers, gods of the old world, those Aztec gods—warriors, yes, but also the odd cannibal and baby killer. Which made her shudder.
Pilar Greco’s father could get away with wearing that kind of Mexican native monumental headdress—he had the features for it, even if he wasn’t wearing anything other than a simple sensible suburban shirt and shorts in her dream. She, in turn, took after her mother—small, finely featured, but with the very same jet-black hair, now accentuated a tiny bit with each salon visit.
In her dream, they sat around the pool in the backyard of their Scottsdale home. Mr. Galindez never understood why his Pilar had married an Italian, a Jew Italian, but that was the least of his worries. He was wary of Sy Greco even as he appreciated his better qualities. It was in the eyes; it was always in the eyes.
“You just have to look, look hard, mija. In the eyes.”
Such was the memory that surfaced when the nosy Desert Sunreporter Nancy Argento called the office. Pilar didn’t usually answer the phone; she was distracted after nibbling on a Godiva someone left at reception. Worrying it might discolor her teeth, and what could be more disgusting than little brown bits stuck in dental work?
She was distracted, so she answered the call, and it was this Nancy. Told an impossible tale of deceit by a crazy old bag woman; she must be a stupid writer to believe such a thing. From someone who lived under a bridge!
This reporter Nancy wanted to talk to Sy; he was even there, present in the office. But Pilar was the one who did the talking for them. Sy didn’t know when to shut up; he always gave out just a shred more information than he had to. Information that could and would come back and bite them both in the ass.
Pilar knew this Nancy was fishing, but there wasn’t going to be anything ever caught on that line. Greco & Greco invested in classic mid-century homes; what was strange about that? Everyone with a little bit of cash was doing the same thing—the new century’s version of a baby boomer gold mine.
So there was no excuse when she got a little flustered, and who could blame her, anyway? There seemed to be a conflict of interest, Nancy Argento said. What was a realty company doing in the home-remodeling business, anyway?
Whenever Pilar took a difficult call like this she focused on the photo framed on her desk, the one of her and Sy with their son, Angel Greco, sitting down in front, taken just a few weeks before he died. If she’d just held on to him like in the photo, her hand on his shoulder, squeezing his bony twelve-year-old flesh. His hair had been as dark as hers, but it had a little curl in it, courtesy of his dad’s DNA.
Don’t ever let go; don’t ever let that beautiful boy leave you.
Across the office, Sy stared, his mouth open, as if to ask, Why are you still on this call with this person, this person who wants to destroy us? She wanted to scream at him, slap him:She knows, you idiot; she’s on to us!
But instead, she hung up; mid-sentence, she hung up on Nancy Argento, Desert Sun reporter.Pilar felt detached from herself as her shaking hand dropped the receiver back into its cradle; it was as if she were watching one of those old-style dramas unfold in slow motion on TV.
Just as quickly her stomach sank to her ankles. Realizing what a stupid mistake that was. How she was not cool, not calm, not collected. So glad her father, Mr. Galindez, was not there to see her being the bad businesswoman, the one whose company would be destroyed because of that lapse in judgment.
She would go to the ladies’ room, put herself together and call Nancy back. They were both professionals, after all. They’d come to an understanding.
* * *
Pilar resisted driving by the Las Palmas intersection where Angel’s skateboard had met the Range Rover. Sometimes she’d park there on her way home from Greco & Greco, if she had something to think about or if she was merely avoiding Sy. Despite the violence of what had happened, it was a quiet residential street. Maybe the boy’s essence still hovered there, his spirit. He might give her comfort, might give her an answer, even.
To pressing questions.
Like, for instance, if she should divorce Angel’s father. It was true: He preferred Connor Hurst to her, but the other truth was that she, in her own way, preferred Connor to Sy. So there they were.
She smiled, a rarity these days. She watched herself through the rear view, as much to look out for other neighborhood kids being reckless—she would scare them with the tale of the death meted out here—as to check makeup. Lipstick needed a slight touch-up. The formulas still weren’t resistant to this Palm Springs brand of insane and constant inferno.
Pilar knew her feelings were all wounded pride, and misplaced pride at that. They had a good thing going, she and Sy Greco, so intertwined at this point that even the mere thought of dividing it all up exhausted her.
No, really, the alternative she and Connor had planned for him was vastly superior to any boring no-fault California divorce.
She should get home, check on the orchids. It was their day to be tended to. She glanced at the dashboard: 114 degrees! She’d brought every pot of them inside at this time of year, but supposed one or two were forgotten in that spot in back of the pool.
Jim Arnold is the author of the award-winning novels Benediction (2009) and The Forest Dark (2013), as well as the new novel Kept, which launches March, 2016. Additionally, Jim is the author of the feature screenplays Me and Mamie O’Rourke (finalist and Honorable Mention winner, One in Ten Screenplay Contest, 2007), Lovelines (second round finalist, Austin Film Festival 2005), The Lourdes Kelly Story, and Kept (finalist and Honorable Mention Winner, One in Ten Screenplay Contest, 2008). For television, he has written the original hour-drama series and pilot Troll Palace (finalist, pilot category, Exposurama Contest, 2009). Jim also directed the critically-acclaimed documentary short Our Brothers, Our Sons, about generational differences around HIV/AIDS in gay men, (nominated for Best Documentary at the 2002 Turin International Gay & Lesbian Film Festival). Jim has worked extensively as a free-lance journalist and has published in Frontiers, Variety, Prime Health & Fitness, Age Appropriate and other periodicals, online and in fiction anthologies. He began his career in musical theatre and holds a BA in journalism and film from Marquette University, and has studied film production/writing in the MFA program for Cinema/TV at the University of Southern California, the Writers Program at UCLA, and at Film Arts Foundation in San Francisco. He blogs at www.jimarnoldcommunications.com. Jim Arnold Communications (www.jimarnoldcommunications.com) provides business to business (B2B) writing services. Jim is a veteran entertainment PR executive, having held communications management positions at Paramount Pictures, Dolby Laboratories and the American Lung Association in California. Other Useful Information: Jim’s a 4th Generation California Native whose ancestors came for the Gold Rush and stayed despite not finding any! He’s also a cancer survivor who has run a marathon and can literally do cartwheels. An unusual talent is that he can rollerblade backwards so don’t be shy about asking for a demo. A former teenage church organist, Jim now tries not to irritate his neighbors when playing standards from the American songbook on the piano.
Pro-snowboarder, Reef Reid, has it all, except the one thing he desperately wants: the girl, the white picket fence and the happily ever after. At the peak of his career, he turns his back on the upcoming season and flies to a tropical island paradise to defrost.
At least that’s where he was supposed to go.
A ticketing mishap has him ending up in Queenstown, New Zealand, famous for its idyllic ski resorts.
Stratford ‘Ford’ Wallace understands attraction to the opposite sex. He’s a true playboy at heart after all; a genuine love ‘em and leave ‘em type. But all that is flipped on its head when the enigmatic Reef Reid literally drops out of the sky.
When a whiteout trapped them together on a mountaintop neither expected the explosive attraction that would spark between them. They’re unable to resist each other, but will they give into temptation? Or will the avalanche that tears through the mountain end them?
Get ready for an avalanche of emotions to hit you, HARD!! ~ Booklover
Excerpt
Reef pulled his goggles down over his helmet and picked up his snowboard, trudging further up the slope as they both tried to get through to base on their helmet-mounted radios again. “Nada. Still.” They’d been trying for two hours, hiking steadily up the slope away from the cabin. Dread curled in Reef’s gut. It didn’t feel right. Surely they should have been able to get through by now. The sky had cleared in the couple of hours they’d been outside, the clouds starting to break apart and the glorious blue sky peeping through. These were the best conditions to snowboard in. A massive dump of fresh powder, relatively warm weather compared to the last couple of days’ freezing temperatures, and no people to get in his way. The problem was, they’d be stuck out here until either the chopper or mountain rescue could get to them. If they didn’t get through soon, they’d have to turn, and head back to the cabin to wait out the night, and with the firewood getting low, they were going to be cold.
“I’m gonna head up a little higher. I’m getting something on the radio, but it’s not clear enough.”
“Alright man, I need to take off my boot and fix up my sock.”
They bumped fists and Reef watched Ford maneuver his skis, and trudge up the slope toward an outcropping of rocks. Time slowed to a crawl as the crack, crack, crack of the slope giving way underneath Ford’s feet smashed through the silence of the mountain around them. Reef shouted, and ran the fifty, or so, feet toward him; his movements slowed in the thigh deep powder. It was like he was anchored in quicksand. Reef reached out willing his arm to stretch to an impossible length, as he desperately tried to grab a finger hold of his friend’s ski pole. Ford had pivoted, skiing back toward Reef like a mad man.
He was too far away.
Ford pushed forward with powerful movements; but his attempt to pick up speed and get out of the way of the slipping slope was futile. Reef read the fear on Ford’s mostly covered face as the vital seconds ticked by.
“Ford, hurry up. Please,” Reef begged, shouting over the roaring of the snow careening down the mountain. The noise, as loud as a jet engine, drowned out his pleas as Ford moved closer to him. They were barely an arm’s length apart, as Reef’s worst nightmare unfolded before his eyes. Ford stumbled, the snow shifting beneath his feet quicker now, as the tsunami of white picked him up and tossed him like a ragdoll, hurtling him down the steep gradient. Reef reacted on instinct, running after the man that had, in four days, come to mean more to him than any friend he’d ever had. His eyes locked on the churning mass of snow, Reef frantically looking for any sign of Ford.
Calling his name over and over again, Reef searched, scanning every inch of the still snow before him. He had no idea how long he’d been looking. Minutes could have turned into hours, but Reef couldn’t give up hope. He wouldn’t. Was Ford alive? He didn’t pray to a god, but right then he would have done anything, including hand his soul over to the Devil himself, if it meant he could save Ford. “Please,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from shouting.
The emotion hit me hard though, and I loved that ~ Blissfully Bookerized
Author Bio
By day Ann Grech lives in the corporate world and can be found sitting behind a desk typing away at reports and papers or lecturing to a room full of students. With her quirky glasses and shiny leather briefcase, she has the librarian look nailed. All laced up tight in her pencil skirts and killer heels, her students can only fantasise about what she gets up to in her spare time. If only they could see those tattoos! Oh, and those notepads of story ideas tucked away in odd places that would be sure to have them fanning themselves!
By night she’s a wife and mum and a purveyor of saucy stories that are filled with lust, raunchy scenes and ultimately love. Ann’s an avid reader of anything sexy and firmly believes in the motto ‘leave mummy alone, she’s reading or writing.’ Because of that, she is pretty hopeless when it comes to getting dinner on the table on time or cleaning the house.
