Celebrate Summer Solstice with a free copy of Just Hanging Out

To celebrate Summer Solstice on 21st June, Just Hanging Out will be free on Amazon from 21st June to 25th June.

The Book
“Come and honour the Oak King.” 

The countdown to the company solstice picnic is one of Shawn’s favourite times of the year. The scents of sage, mint, basil, sunflower, and lavender fill the air as the workshop mixes up the final batch of Litha, their solstice soap. It’s celebration time! This year, Shawn has an extra spring in his step, and it’s all for the new buyer, Tim. Shawn’s fine having a crush on the gorgeous new straight guy. Until he isn’t. 

As the clock ticks down to Picnic-Day, Shawn’s confidence and Tim’s sexuality become mired in doubt and second guesses. It’s a minefield of embarrassed glances and missed opportunities. Seems like they’ll never get together… 

To cap it all, Shawn’s drawn Tim in the secret solstice gifting. What to get for the quiet man who turns Shawn’s legs to jelly and has the best underwear hanging from the washing line in his garden? And will that tempting rainbow of colour be forever seared onto Shawn’s brain?

Word count: ~16700

Cover designed by Lillian Francis at Finally Love Press

Universal Amazon link: myBook.to/JustHangingOut_LF

Add it to your Goodreads bookshelf here. 

About the Author

Lillian Francis is a self-confessed geek who likes nothing more than settling down with a comic or a good book, except maybe writing. Given a notepad, pen, her Kindle, and an infinite supply of chocolate Hob Nobs and she can lose herself for weeks. Romance was never her reading matter of choice, so it came as a great surprise to all concerned, including herself, to discover a romance was exactly what she’d written, and not the rollicking spy adventure or cosy murder mystery she always assumed she’d write. 

http://lillianfrancis.blogspot.co.uk/

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Email: lillianfrancis@rocketmail.com

Excerpt
“Come on, everyone. Time to honour the Oak King.” Miriam stood in the centre of the office and jiggled a deep wooden bowl, exquisitely carved with the face of the Green Man. “Come and pick your giftee.”

Yes, I did say Oak King. Miriam’s a new-age hippie, whose 100% natural soap has taken her from cooking the stuff up in her kitchen and selling it from a stall at various markets, to a thriving shop and workshop with a staff of twenty plus. We’ve branched out into candles in the last few years, but it’s the soap, especially the seasonal range, that brings in the punters. Oh, and she’s a Pagan. Hence, the honouring the Oak King statement.

Don’t worry. There’s no sacrifice involved. We have a massive picnic on the Downs on Midsummer’s Eve, drink too much local ale, and the Oak King—normally Ali from Packaging, in a headdress made of antlers and a myriad of leaves, flowers, and herbs—hands out our jokey gifts. Then we settle in to watch the sunset and bid the Oak King farewell for another six months. In other words, it’s a chance to eat well, drink better, and have a laugh, all the while showing appreciation for an amazing boss and honouring her beliefs, even if we’re a mix of Christians, Muslims, Hindus, and atheists. Dunno why the atheists can’t have their own capital letter. Me, I’m probably an agnostic with Taoist leanings.

“You too, Shawn,” Miriam called over to me. “Stop hogging the copier and grab a name.”

I glanced at my watch and then flicked my gaze surreptitiously out the window. Still time. If I was quick, and Miriam didn’t choose that moment to chat, I could be back at my station without missing a moment of the action. Shaking a leg, and my impressively pert behind, I slipped in between two of the admin clerks and plucked a slip of paper from the pot. Without bothering to even glimpse at the name written on it, I stuffed the folded slip into the front pocket of my jeans and returned to the photocopier. One more glance at the time—8:52—and I pressed the button to start my items printing.

There were enough pages in this print run to keep me at the copier for a good few minutes. I saved up all but the most urgent for these five minutes just before nine. It was a routine I’d been keeping for the last few months. As the copier warmed up after a night of inaction, with the gentle whirr of reanimated machinery, I took a moment to enjoy the view from the window. The azure blue of the sky contrasted with the white blossom on the tree just on the edge of the company’s land at the rear entrance. Beyond, a neat row of cottages caught the eye and drew the gaze of anyone who had time to stop and watch.

As I appreciated the view, a door of one of the cottages opened and a tall, broad man stepped out onto the path that led down a well-kempt front garden to the road. Yeah, I know that kempt means well cared for, so the well is redundant. I work in communications and I’ve a Desmond in English Lit and Environmental Science. That’s lower second class honours for those of you not in the know. Not bad for a lad from Saath London. Of course, four years at Canterbury, another four living in this small Sussex town, coupled with some conscious effort, have more or less knocked that accent out of me.

Less about me, back to another thing that was kempt and well put together. The object of my voyeuristic tendencies stepped through his gate and out onto the pavement then turned in my direction. A happy sigh escaped me as the early morning sun caught his wavy hair just right; fiery copper reflected back to me in reds and gold. His eyes were green, and flecked with amber. Not that I could see his irises from this distance—I could barely make out the strong features that made up his ruggedly handsome face. And the freckles that gave him an oddly incongruous boyish look were filled in from memory at this point. I sighed again, far too dramatically for my own liking.

Rather than concentrate on the parts of him that required my imagination, I studied the visual feast in front of me. Now he’d cleared the obstruction of his neighbour’s privet, I had an uninterrupted view, where I could drink my fill without the risk of getting caught.

Chinos—the russet pair today—encased long legs, and heavily muscled thighs bunched beneath the material with every determined stride that brought him a step closer. Finally, the man disappeared below my sight line. The photocopier whirled to a stop, spitting out the last few pages of my weekly comms report and a stack of sample leaflets for Miriam’s perusal. I had about five minutes to school my features and get back to my desk, or get caught tongue-tied. Again.

A flash of colour caught my eye as I turned away from the view and I spun back to the window expecting to see the swoop of ring-necked parakeets. The birds were becoming a more common sight in local gardens these days. Maybe the green bastards thought I was homesick and followed me from London.

Instead of the expected flap of wings, my gaze found the source of the flashes of colour: a washing line strung in the back garden of one of the cottages. Clothes hung from the line, fluttering in the gentle breeze of a pleasant June morning. Not just any clothes, though.

Nope, a whole line full of bright, skimpy, tight underwear. Underwear that I’d seen advertised in Attitude that very morning as I read on my bus journey to work. And by seen, I meant studied. Intently. Double-page spread. Three all but naked guys getting handsy with each other and appearing to love every minute of it. Hell, I’d even stuffed in my headphones, thanked any deity who wanted to listen that I was sitting in the back, and watched the ‘making of’ video. Those models were having fun, no doubt about it.

Get A Grip. Flamboyant, colourful, crotch-cupping, butt-caressing underpants. With a marketing campaign that focused on the gay man. Ask a straight guy about GAG and 95% wouldn’t know what you were talking about.

Not only that, but the garden the washing line was located belonged to—

“Morning, Shawn. Printing again?”

Now I was close enough to see the green of his eyes. The deep rumble that came from his broad chest caressed the vowel sound in my name and threatened to turn my legs to jelly.

Stupid! Answer him. All I could do was echo the greeting, anything else was beyond me, the sight of those pants hanging in a neat rainbow of colour seared on to my brain. “Morning, Tim.”

Tim faltered as though expecting there would be more forthcoming, but I had nothing. Nothing workplace appropriate, anyway. Asking your colleague to model his undies for you was probably frowned upon, even for a liberal employer like InScents, and Tim was still comparatively new and seemed kinda shy for a big guy. I wouldn’t say we were friends yet but I hoped we were getting there. So I kept my mouth shut.

The moment stretched on but it could have lasted no more than a second or two, then Tim carried on past, heading for his desk. I thought I’d detected a dusky flush of rose under his freckles but I was easily distracted and couldn’t quell the urge to watch the tight pull of Tim’s chinos as he walked away from me.

Not an unfamiliar feeling any time Tim walked in front of me.
But now I couldn’t stop myself from imaging his muscular arse cheeks enclosed in a pair of GAGs.

* * * * *

Alex Beecroft - Guest Post

At my very first UK Meet, Alex Beecroft took the time to sit with a newbie author, one on one, and share with me some of her wisdom. That was nearly six years ago and we're both still ticking along, with slow years and busy years. And this year has already been a trying one for many people, including Alex. I'll hand you over to Alex to explain...

The life of an author is surprisingly light on writing at times. I haven’t written a word since before Christmas. Part of that was because I’ve been editing three books back to back – Pride of Cygnus Five, the third in my space opera trilogy, Contraband Hearts, the second of my m/m romances set in Porthkennack, and Murder of a Straw Man, my first attempt at a cozy mystery (published under a new pen name.) All of which are now finished and either already published or soon to be out.

The second reason I haven’t been writing, though, is that a scandal came upon my publisher, Riptide Publishing, and in response to the public outcry, they gave all their writers the chance to take back the rights to their books (except for the Porthkennack ones.)

It seemed to me that the right thing to do was to take my rights back and publish the books myself. So for the past few weeks I’ve been reformatting my manuscripts for Amazon’s KDP publishing page and Draft2Digital who handle distribution for all the other formats of ebook.

This has involved making new cover art for them all. And in some cases, where Riptide - for example - released Sons of Devils and Angels of Istanbul as two volumes, when they were written as one long book, sticking the two halves back together and releasing an omnibus version.

On the 31^st of March, I finally got that all finished and the ebooks re-released. Paperbacks still have to be set up, but that’s a long, complicated job, and I’ll do it slowly, starting from today.

Trowchester Blues

Michael May is losing it. Long ago, he joined the Metropolitan Police to escape his father’s tyranny and protect people like himself. Now his father is dead, and he’s been fired for punching a suspect. Afraid of his own rage, he returns to Trowchester—and to his childhood home, with all its old fears and memories. When he meets a charming, bohemian bookshop owner who seems to like him, he clings tight.

Fintan Hulme is an honest man now. Five years ago, he retired from his work as a high class London fence and opened a bookshop. Then an old client brings him a stolen book too precious to turn away, and suddenly he’s dealing with arson and kidnapping, to say nothing of all the lies he has to tell his friends. Falling in love with an ex-cop with anger management issues is the last thing he should be doing.

Finn thinks Michael is incredibly sexy. Michael knows Finn is the only thing that still makes him smile. But in a relationship where cops and robbers are natural enemies, that might not be enough to save them.

~

"Finn's belief that "if the heart is going to err... It's surely always best to err on the side of love" underlies an entertaining,emotionally satisfying mix of intrigue,mourning, adventure, comedy, and romance." - Publishers Weekly review of Trowchester Blues

You can get that here

Wish me luck with the new phase of my writing life as an indie-writer-and-publisher. I have the feeling that I’m going to need it!

Thanks so much to Lillian for having me on your blog! *HUGS*

Alex

Edited: 25/4/18 (Remove reference to free book, now no longer available for free.)

Rainbow Advent Calendar - Day 23

Day 23 and I think I'm one of the last to contribute. I hope you've had an enjoyable reading experience with some fun and interesting ficlets from our many authors. If this is the first time you've heard of the Rainbow Advent Calendar, then the masterlist is here. And you can join the Facebook group here (which is the easiest place to show some love and engage with the authors).

Many thanks to Alex Jane for arranging the event.

This ficlet features Rick and Mal from Resistance. And when I get a free minute I will be making this in a downloadable version.

Dark Nights and Inner Light

“Do I need to be concerned, Dholna?”

“What?” Rick’s long, confident strides faltered and he spun around, nearly taking Mal out with the axe slung casually over his shoulder. His boyfriend had hefted the weighty tool with barely a qualm, and certainly without a word. He’d just expected Mal to follow along behind with no clue as to where they were going.

And this was his point. Or was it? He was fast losing his train of thought, what with the way Rick’s biceps were straining against the flannel shirt he wore. And what was with that, no coat, not even a jumper. In mid-December.

Oh well, if he was going to die he could think of worse ways to go than watching the flex of those bulging muscles wielding an axe.

“Mal?” Rick sounded concerned. He dropped his gaze down to the ground, and then over at Mal’s suede trainers. “Did you want to change your shoes, or something?” Mal glanced at Rick’s sturdy boots and the sodden mulch that the ground became once the past the tree line into the forest. “Be quick if you do. I want to get this done before the light fades completely.”

They’d been home all day—a rare full day spent together because of Mal’s shifts—so if the light was that important, why had Rick waited until now to go out.

Mal looked at his trainers, they were slightly scuffed at the toes but nothing too bad, they still had plenty of life left in them, even if he didn’t. “Not like I’ll be needing them soon,” he muttered.

“Eh?” Rick frowned, but Mal could tell he was restless, eager to get on. You got to know these things when you’d been living together for six months. “What’s the matter, hun?”

“It’s almost twilight and you’re leading me into the forest with your trusty chopper. You won’t tell me where we’re going.” Mal shook the empty sack that he held in his left hand. A sturdy rope was looped over his shoulders. “This sack has got to be six-foot long. Do you plan to carry me home in it?” His voice rose in consternation, even though he tried to keep it level. “I love you. If it’s the disparaging remarks I made about your attempt at mince pies—”

“Attempt!” Rick sounded affronted all over again.

Don’t piss off the man with the massive chopper. Mal eyed the axe warily. “Sorry. If I’ve done something wrong, I’d much rather we talk about it than you chase me around the forest with an axe.”

Rick threw back his head and laughed. Did it have a slightly maniacal edge? No, Rick reminded Mal of the huntsman in that film they’d watched the other night. Or maybe a character from a fairy tale—not the Grimm versions, but like one from the Christmas play the kids had put on at the village hall last week.

“I told you not to go to that lecture on forensic science. It’s not like reading your murder mysteries. That shit is real.” Obviously satisfied Mal was simply being an idiot, Rick started walking deeper into the forest.

Mal had to agree, Rick went out of his way to save ducklings from a drain, and he openly admitted what a bad cook he was, although he was trying, even if Mal still cooked most of their meals. Rick wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Motive is not important. Nobody knows what could drive someone to kill.

But Mal did know Rick. He fell into step behind his—still chuckling—boyfriend. “I had to go. How often do you get to see a lecture on forensic science by an actual working Federal Forensic Investigator in Hillchester?”

And Geoff Samson had been a revelation; interesting, funny, and knowledgeable. That confidence had been a turn on, as had the Wolverine-style sideburns. Maybe he could convince Rick to try and grow some, but Rick’s fair hair made his beard hard enough to see until it grew in thickly, by which time Rick’d had enough and was ready to return to being clean shaven.

Geoff had taken the time to talk to the audience afterwards over tea and coffee, despite most of the audience being made up of authors wanting to discuss plot points and gory modes of death.

Rick had been working, so Mal had gone with Raleigh and Smudge. He’d thought the two of them would have apoplexy when Geoff had introduced them to his husband, the romance writer. Who knew the pair of them read that stuff? Although having listened to the author’s passionate speech on the subject of romance, Mal could possibly be tempted away from his police procedurals and cosy mysteries, at least for the occasional read.

“So where are we going?” Mal asked, sliding in next to Rick. On the side where he wasn’t carrying the axe, naturally.

“Now that you don’t think I’m going to hack you into little pieces over a disagreement about festive pastries? Has that been bothering you? I admit they were shit and I was honestly more pissed at myself for fucking them up than your comments. I just need to resign myself to the fact that I can’t cook and let you bear the brunt of that revelation.”

“You’re a good chopper,” Mal glanced at the axe, “whatever size your tool.”

“Yeah, we both know yours is bigger. But I make a mean breakfast, even without bacon.”

“You do.” Mal slipped his hand in Rick’s. “Why aren’t you cold? Is it much further?”

The pathway came to a junction, left or right the only options, and Mal didn’t know which way Rick would chose. On their walks and cycle rides they normally veered away on a different path at the last fork they’d passed. Mal hadn’t been down this path before. Several feet through the trees Mal could make out a mesh fence.

“This way.” Rick tugged on Mal’s hand, stepped off the path and into the trees.

They followed the wire fencing for a couple of minutes, ankle deep in fallen mouldy leaves. Mal cursed himself for not taking the chance to change his shoes when Rick had given him the option.

“In here.” Rick let Mal’s hand drop and ducked down.

“Where?” But Rick was already scrabbling through a large hole in the wire fencing. “What are we doing? Is this breaking and entering? Am I going to be arrested?”

“Not if you stay on that side of the fence you won’t.” Rick chuckled. He bent to drag his axe through the hole and straightened. “You can stay here if you’re worried.”

“Worried?!” Mal’s voice shot up an octave. “Should I be worried? What are you planning to do?”

“I’m losing the light. I’ll argue the toss with you later but right now I need to get to the grove. Or Nigel will be turning up in the dark.”

Nigel, their farmer neighbour, was somehow involved in all this skulduggery. Mal had met him several times over the last few months and he would have sworn he was as straight as they come; rigid, stoic, his only concern the animals under his care and the quality of the produce with his farm’s name on it. Had he stumbled into some sort of cult?

“Come on, make your mind up. Happen you’ll get lost on this side without a guide. Christmas will be over the way you’re dallying.”

They couldn’t argue about anything later if Mal didn’t know the extent of what was going on. He scrambled through the gap and stood next to Rick. “Come on then. If we’re breaking the law, let’s do it together.”

Rick led the way through the trees. There was no path to speak of, although a way had been cleared by foot traffic of some sort, but it was a treacherous thing with fallen branches and rabbit holes. Mal would have been lost in an instant on his own, or broken an ankle.

He was concentrating so hard on keeping his footing that he didn’t notice the change in the tree canopy until darkness made moving forward even more difficult. He glanced around, the bark on the trees rougher than before and the sudden leaf covering confirmed they were heading into a batch of evergreens.

“We’re here.” Rick stepped through a line of trees and disappeared.

Mal followed. Rick stood in the centre of a clearing. The moon flooded the area even though the sun hadn’t quite set, casting a strange light. Mal turned slowly, taking in his surroundings. The axe made sense now. He was staring at a dense stand of Christmas trees.

“Pick one.” Rick gestured to the trees.

“We’re stealing a Christmas tree?”

“Stealing is quite a harsh term. No one lives here anymore. The trees need thinning out or the whole lot of them will die out.”

“So you help yourself to one.”

“Originally someone would come from the estate to share the trees around the village but it seemed to have been forgotten over time. My dad used to do it with Nigel’s dad, they’d bring us to help carry the trees back to the gate and we’d load them on the tractor and distribute them around the village. I don’t have time for that, and loads of people have fake trees now, so I only clear four trees.”

“One for you and Nigel. Where do the other two go?”

“You’ve seen them both. One’s in the coffee shop. And the other is on the village green.”

“The village tree? We went to the lighting up ceremony of a stolen tree. Does everyone know?” Surely the village Christmas committee weren’t aware of this.

“Where do you think it came from?”

“The Christmas tree farm that appeared just off the bypass on the last week of November.”

Rick laughed. “Those trees are crap. These trees were planted for the village. You’ll have to ask Raleigh the details of the story. But they were planted at some time in the Victorian era, and every year the largest tree was felled by the gardener of the big house and taken by cart down to the village green where the Lord at the time would present it to the villagers. He’d bring roasted meats, and toffee apples for the kids, and mulled cider and he’d help the villagers decorate the tree. That became the basis for the lighting up ceremony.”

“I wondered about the toffee apples,” Mal said. “So the trees belong to the village. And you’re a villager.”

“And you are too, aren’t you?”

“I hope so.” Mal meant that. He really loved living in Slopy Bottom. “Do you still pick the largest tree?” Mal frowned. “When did you come and get that tree?”

Rick wandered to a stump just at the edge of the clearing. The wood looked freshly chopped. “I do. The biggest I can easily get to anyway. You were at work. Smudge, Adam, Trevor, and a couple of the other lads from the cricket team came to help me.”

“Trevor? But he’s police.”

“They belong to the village,” Rick said softly but insistent. “Now would you pick our tree.”

Rick wandered off into the trees. Mal watched for a moment, the way his boyfriend laid a careful hand on the bark of nearest tree, paused, nodded and then moved on. He let himself be lulled by the tempo of Rick’s movements, until he lost sight of Rick completely.

The dull rhythmic thud that followed reminded Mal that Rick had given him a job to do. An important job. This tree would stand in their lounge, would hold the carefully wrapped decorations that Rick had carried down from the loft. Their first Christmas together. The first of many. What made a good tree? Mal reached out and placed a hand on the nearest trunk. The bark scuffed his palm, but apart from that he could feel nothing. What had Rick been doing?

He moved on to the next tree. It looked promising, the branches a wide sweep of dense needles, but still with enough spread to get his hand to the trunk. Perfect for showing off the decorations. The bark beneath his palm trembled as though the tree was alive.

 I’m a tree whisperer.

The trunk shook, something skittered over Mal’s hand, and a dark shape pounced out of the branches and scampered off across the clearing. Mal squealed, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Everything okay?” Rick hurried through the trees. “You screamed.”

“I didn’t scream. I yelped.”

“Squealed.” Rick grinned, his worry apparently dissipating as he realised Mal was unharmed.

“A manly squeal.” Mal protested.

“Oh, definitely. Not rodent like at all, my city mouse.” Sweat beaded on Rick’s brow and caught like diamonds in the golden hairs that were scattered throughout his beard.

“You haven’t called me that in a while.”

“You’ve not reacted that badly to anything countrified for months.” Rick brushed the wayward fringe back from Mal’s face. He smelt of sweat and the forest, a woodsy, musky scent that Mal would gladly bottle and take with him everywhere. “What spooked you?”

“I found our tree.” Mal gestured to the conifer in question. Rick glanced over and nodded approvingly. “But I was feeling the trunk like you do and something ran over my hand, then leapt out at me. Frightened me half to death.”

“Squirrel.” Rick tugged Mal into a hug, slipped his hand, which had been lingering in Mal’s hair, into the thick waves and massaged his scalp. “Nothing to be scared of.”

“Not scared.”

“Your heart’s going wild.”

“That’d be my hot lumberjack boyfriend, pressing his sweaty body against me.”

Rick hummed in agreement and hugged him tighter.

“We have loads of ninja squirrels in London. Wasn’t a squirrel,” Mal said after letting the caress carry on a few moments longer. “Too small. Wrong colour.”

Rick’s hand stilled from stroking Mal’s hair, then he eased back. His eyes shone with excitement. “Fluffy tail? Rusty colour? Tufty ears?”

“Maaaybeee,” Mal stretched out the word, not wanting to commit to what Rick obviously wanted to hear. “It’s getting dark and that critter was fast.”

“But it could’ve been a red squirrel?”

“I guess.”

Rick let go of him, stepped away, and peered at the tree in question—their perfect tree. “This one? Shame, it’s a nice tree, would look great in the parlour, but we can’t take it. Not if it’s a red squirrel nesting area, or even a run through. I’ll come back tomorrow. Set up some cameras.”

“Cameras?” Mal asked because he knew it’d be expected of him, but he couldn’t shake his disappointment. They couldn’t have their tree, the one he’d picked out himself.

“I’ll need proof if I want to get the preservation society out here. Hey,” Rick stepped back into Mal, wrapped both arms around his waist, “we’ll pick out another tree. And while it might not be as perfect as the one you chose, we’ll have picked it out together.”

“Together. And that sounds like a perfect symbol for our first Christmas of many. A new tradition.” Mal agreed, settling their hips together. He rocked into Rick, relished the hitch in Rick’s breathing the move elicited. After all, they were already breaking and entering, why not add something raunchier to the list of charges. He reeled Rick in for a filthy kiss, worked a hand up under his flannel shirt, and long-sleeve Tee, resting his palm on the downy dip at the small of Rick’s back, and savouring the heat he found there.

“Jesus Christ! Do you two need to shag every time you’re alone? Where’s my tree?”

* * * * *

“It’s gorgeous.” Mal slipped his arms around Rick’s waist and, resting his chin on Rick’s shoulder, contemplated their tree. The branches weren’t as equally spaced as on the first tree he’d found and the top listed slightly to the left, but covered in Rick’s family collection of ancient and modern glass decorations, and with the light from the multi-coloured fairy lights twinkling off the myriad of reflective surfaces, all the tree’s tiny imperfections disappeared.

“Worth breaking the law for?”

“You are.”

Rick laughed and craned his head back, pressing a kiss to Mal’s neck when he found skin. “How far did you intend to take things? If Nigel hadn’t turned up for his tree?”

“All the way, Dholna.” He turned to capture Rick’s lips, keeping things chaste for the moment. “That’s not the first time Nigel’s caught us out. I’m beginning to think he likes watching.”

“He’s—” Rick cut himself off. “No. I was about to say he’s not gay, but I’ve made that assumption incorrectly once or twice already. He must be lonely, though. He dated Martha Tilsbury back when I was fifteen, but I don’t recall anyone since. Maybe we could ask him over on Boxing Day, once he’s finished with the cows.”

“Sounds like a plan, one more won’t make a difference since Smudge and Raleigh are coming. But for now,” Mal nuzzled Rick’s neck, “can we finish what I started before Nigel interrupted?”

“Hmm. Oh, no!” Rick pulled away and hurried over to the sideboard. He opened a drawer and shifted a few papers.

Then he returned to Mal with sheepish expression, and held out a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper. “I hope this is okay. Not disrespectful or anything. But your religion is important to you and I wanted it to be a part of our Christmas.”

Curious after that little speech, Mal carefully peeled back the wrapping, the metallic green surface catching the light. Nestled in the tissue paper was a disc, carefully cut to show a relief of the crescent moon and a star.

“Inner and outer light,” Mal muttered, the words hard to force out past the lump in his throat.

“Is it alright?” Rick asked. “I got the symbolism right, didn’t I? Love and strength?”

Mal nodded. The threat of tears stopped him from speaking.

“That’s what you are to me.” Rick stepped up, slipped one arm around Mal’s waist. With his free hand, he reached up and swiped at Mal’s cheek. Dampness smeared across his face. “Your love gives me the strength to be myself. Now, let’s hang this on the tree, then you can take me out into the garden and finish what you started in the forest.”

Allah be praised, he loved this man.

End

Big Gay Fiction Giveaway

There are some great books on this list, including Waiting for a Spark. You've got until 29th of May to take advantage of lots of free books so don't miss out.

Click the link to see what's on offer.

Missing England – a Theory Unproven extra

Missing England – a Theory Unproven extra 


Eric carefully slit the brown tape on the parcel that Tyaan had delivered earlier. He pulled back the flaps slowly, savouring the reveal of whatever items his gran had sent him over from England this month. While he never asked for anything outright, she had the knack of gleaning from his letters what he was missing the most and sending that over in her monthly parcel. Of course, she was the thing he missed the most but it was unlikely that she would ever jump out of the box herself—figuratively rather than literally, at 5 foot nothing his gran was small but not that small—since she was petrified of flying. 

His fingers closed around a familiar shaped jar and he tugged it from the box. Marmite. Amazing. He’d been craving the savoury, salty spread for weeks now. He couldn’t say why. That and Star Bars. Maybe with a couple of months in the bushveld under his belt he was missing home, just a little bit. Fish and Chips. Ant and Dec on the telly. Slipping his boots on without having to check for venomous creatures first. Porn at the click of a mouse. Mrs Harris’ scones. His gran’s neighbour made the best scones. 

The rain. Eric couldn’t believe he was saying this but he missed the sudden downpour that could blight even the sunniest summer’s day back in London. The days when rain fell in sheets, dripping off your hair and down your collar. When hay and muck was heavy with the added weight of the water, and dampness mingled with the smell of elephant and rhino, monkeys and zebra, goats and pot bellied pigs as he made his way around the zoo. 

No one would ever believe he missed the rain. 

They would have rain later in the year, Tyaan had reassured him, when Eric had mentioned the dust and his concerns about the watering hole drying up. 

Summer—and didn’t Eric struggle to get his head around the fact that Tyaan was talking October through to March rather than a couple of weeks in late July, early August—would bring even hotter temperatures than Eric had experienced so far, coupled with an increase in humidity. And thunderstorms. By December the bushveld would be more green than brown and flowers would spring up under foot like a carpet. And apparently, if he thought the bushveld was noisy now it was nothing compared to the sounds of nature at its most vibrant, with newborn impala and wildebeest and the influx of migrating birds. Rain almost every afternoon, torrential storms with fantastic lightning displays—fantastic, if you weren’t out trying to fix a fence in it or fly a plane—and flash floods as rivers burst their banks. 

Maybe he should look into stockpiling sand bags and check the maps of the preserve for dried up river banks. Maybe Tyaan could help him; after all a local’s knowledge wouldn’t hurt. Maybe by January he would be cursing the rain once again. 

Eric placed the Marmite on the table in front of him and reached back into the box. A couple of packets of Golden Wonder Cheese and Onion crisps, the DVD of Mama Mia, and a piece of paper. His gran always wrote a letter but that was in an envelope waiting to be opened at Eric’s leisure. Perhaps she'd thought of something after she’d sealed the envelope. Eric glanced at the note and grinned as he read the first line. 

Mrs Harris’ scone recipe. 

Now, if he only knew someone who could bake. 

Universal Amazon link myBook.to/TheoryUnproven_LF

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Resonance is Live

Resonance is now available for download at ARe. 

I uploaded to Amazon yesterday but I'm still waiting for that link to go live. When it does it will have a price tag of 99c/99p. If you can let Amazon know it is free elsewhere it can be reduced there too.

Fiction Friday

The last FF post was 21st April. Looks like I've let this slip again. I gave my excuses yesterday, so let's not harp on. I'll get right down to the nitty gritty.

Foxe Tail (Skyler Foxe Mysteries #1) by Haley Walsh

Gay teacher Skyler Foxe thought teaching English Lit was murder. Wait till he falls into the real thing.

Skyler Foxe is a brand new English teacher in his hometown of Redlands, CA. He loves literature, loves his students, loves his friends, especially his best friend Detective Sidney Feldman. But he doesn't love keeping his orientation a secret, afraid of the backlash in this conservative county. But will murder thrust him into unwanted limelight? Who killed his principal's son outside a gay dance club? And what's the connection to James Polk High? Is the macho football coach or his mysterious and gorgeous new assistant coach involved? Can Skyler trust anyone at the high school when there seems to be conspiracies around every corner?

First off this is not a romance, it's a mystery story with a gay lead. It's like a gay Hardy Boys or QAF meets the Famous Five. The romance, such as it is, barely gets started in the last 5% of the book, which btw ends on a TBC. Never fear, nobody is in mortal peril and the main mystery is solved, however a second mystery that has weaved its way into the first has yet to be solved, a minor character is in hospital and there is still something suspicious going on with the love interest.


The Tea Demon by Cornelia Grey -  Clever and well written short story, a touch of steampunk, a pinch of fantasy, and a sprinkling of the Arabian Knights.

All free and worth half hour or so of your time. What more could you ask for?

Sucker-Punch by Sarah Black
Cupid's Beau by Jade Archer
Be a Bad Boy by Lee Brazil
Masochism 101 by Kim Dare
Bear Naked by J.L. Merrow
Just One Kiss by Lisa Worrall
Punch-Drunk Love by Nico Jaye
Man of the Match by Lane Swift
Somebody Nice! by Raine O'Tierney
Metronomy by Suki Fleet
Knickers in a Twist by Ofelia Gränd
Mr. Jaguar by K.A. Merikan

I'm still slogging my way through the Don't Read in the Closet stories, as you can probably tell. The ones above all got 4/5 stars from me. I've no idea how many are left to read but I'm almost certain I won't have them finished before the new ones start being issued.

Free Read

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