Exciting News! Going Home hits the Best Seller List!

Celebration time! 

Quick announcement, then I have to get back to work on the upcoming Pulp Friction series. I"m in edits for Cold Snap and am trying to get everything together for a cover reveal blog tour- giving away advance copies. Will post a schedule for that ASAP.

For now though, I am just received an email from All Romance that Going Home, my twincest menage from the Story Orgy Road Trip anthology, has hit the site wide best seller list at #44.

Based on the prompt:

Football player – twin's bedside after accident – seeing the guy he ran from being a nurse to twin

Neither his twin, Ethan Malone, nor Dr. Gil Tescu appreciate what it costs Evan to stay away and leave the two of them to their happy relationship. Neither knows that he'd gladly give up football, fame, and even the fortune that goes along with them to be able to come home, to spend his days and nights waking, sleeping, and loving with them.

WARNING: This title contains an m/m/m twincest menage.

EXCERPT

Chapter One

"Where the fuck are you?" the furious voice spat out.

Evan Malone stared at his cell phone in disgust. The rage he'd suppressed since his third quarter fuck–up surged to the surface. "You never fucking change, do you, Gil? Millions of people know exactly where I am, but you can't be bothered. I just lost a fucking playoff game in front of half the country. I'm in fucking Dallas. Where the fuck are you?" His eyes burned as acrid sweat dripped from his lashes. He toweled moisture from his brow and rubbed at his damp hair. It didn't do any good. The locker room stunk of sweat and defeat.

"I'm where you should be, jackass. Egocentric fucker. He needs you, and I'm a poor goddamn substitute. Come home."

The snarl raised hackles on the back of his neck. He bit his cheek to stem the flow of further obscenities. Coach would fine him if the press overheard. "I can't leave until tomorrow. Then I'm filming some credit card commercials in Aruba, taking a few days of break. I'll be home the third week of February, the same as always. Just make sure your ass isn't there when I arrive."

Silence. Then a deep sigh came over the line. "I never quite expect how low you'll sink. Even for you, this is unbelievable."

"I live to amaze you." The weak sarcasm was the best he could muster. His team had made the play-offs for the first time in the five years he'd played for them. Within five minutes of the first quarter, the slaughter had been inevitable. He'd watched from the sidelines as player after player had fumbled, faltered, and fucked up their chance at the Super Bowl. His heart pounded, the blood rushed in his ears, and he pleaded with an un-answering God…Let him put me in. He'd thought he could do better, even with the strange aches he'd been experiencing.

Then, he'd gotten his wish and fucked it up. Instead of saving the day as he'd imagined, he took their minimal chance of not being humiliated with a complete wipeout and blew it up. The only thing that could have made losing today worse was if his twin, Ethan, had accepted his offer to fly him out and seen him screw up in person.

As it was, "Did he watch the game?" He couldn't help asking. He knew the answer. Ethan wouldn't watch him play. He hated football.

"You know the answer to that. Fuck it, Evan. Have a nice time in Aruba." Gil's silence echoed in his ear and he slowly pushed the phone into his pocket. He hated when Gil called, the guilt and longing that warred in the aftermath of each conversation left him torn to shreds. At least this time he could pretend the ache in his gut was from the bitter words he’d swallowed when a reporter shoved a microphone in his face after the end of the game. Instead of telling the guy to fuck off, he'd spouted the usual stilted barely literate, team management approved lines. 'We played our best. We'll do better next year. It was an honor to play.'

Fuck it. He wanted to scream and deride the fate that just kept screwing over every good thing in his life.

Even now, in a locker room full of long faces and dispirited teammates, each absorbed in his own role in the defeat of the century, as the broadcasters were already calling it, his body responded to the voice of the man he loved. One of them anyway. His cock thickened under the towel at his illicit thoughts. He slammed his locker door shut with sudden violence.

Clutching the towel to his middle, gut churning with the agony of defeat, remorse for his misbegotten lust, jealousy for a relationship he could never have, and sheer loss, he stalked to the shower. Sharp pain lanced his heart and he shuddered. He was nearly running the last few steps to hide the trickle of tears in the spray of the shower. Fuck them both.

Neither Gil nor Ethan appreciated what it cost him to stay away. Neither knew that he'd gladly give up football and fame and even the fortune that went along with them to be able to stay, to spend his days and nights waking and sleeping with them. Their little love triangle was a goddamn disaster of such epic proportions it made his team's loss on the field today look like Christmas.

He lifted his face into the hot spray, and the salty tears mingled with the heat of the water, purifying him. He let the emotions roll, face reddening, heating, body flushing with the steam of the water. Ethan and Gil were better together without him around to fuck things up for them. He couldn't even explain why to them, so he made a big show of how much he enjoyed the game and the travel, the lifestyle of a player.

He loathed it to the very core of his being. But he needed it like a junkie needed his next fix.

The game filled the gap left in his heart when he'd realized at graduation five years earlier that what Ethan felt for Gil was real. He'd seen that love reflected back for Ethan in Gil's eyes as well. They were good together. They would be good together, if Ethan weren't so attached to Evan.

In all their lives, it was the first time that Ethan had been physically attracted to someone else. Someone attainable that was. The movie star posters and sports heroes, with which he'd papered the walls of their childhood bedroom, hadn't really counted. He might have had a crush on an actor, but he didn't stand a chance of hooking up with one. The one real person Ethan had wanted was Evan. He'd loved that. Ethan was the center of his world, and they'd done everything together. At first, they'd been messing around. Sharing a room had its risks and benefits. Innocent playing at twelve and thirteen had led to mutual jacking off that escalated to far more by the time they'd graduated high school. Moving into an apartment together miles from home to attend college changed things even further.

Still, though Ethan could be open about his preferences, Evan couldn't. He was on the team. He wanted a career in sports. A gay accountant was fine. A gay quarterback was not. So, their relationship continued, in secret, in the privacy of their own home.

Then Ethan brought Gil home. And Evan realized he only thought he knew what hell was. Gil was everything Evan wasn't. Academic, intelligent, handsome, openly gay, and more important, not Ethan's brother. And as the year passed, he got a front row seat to Ethan falling in love with Gil, and Gil falling in love with Ethan.

So he'd done it. He'd taken the first offer that would take him out of state, and he'd left Ethan to Gil, left Gil to Ethan. As he'd expected, without him standing between them, Gil and Ethan had moved forward.

He moved to Sungrove to play football, and Gil moved into his room to get his doctorate in Archeology. With Ethan studying for his MBA, the two had been roommates for two years, and then shocked their families by getting engaged.

Limiting contact helped Evan survive. It was the only thing he could do for the men he loved. Of course, they didn't fucking get that.

He pounded his fist on the gritty tile. Fuckers. Pulling himself back together, he shut off the taps and slung his towel around his hips again. In the locker room, he noticed that his weren't the only red-rimmed eyes.

"There's always next year," he muttered to Austin James, who leaned dejectedly on the locker next to his.

"Not for me." Austin sighed. "I'm done. The doc says my knee has maybe another season before I have to have surgery, but I don't want that. Living surgery to surgery and dreading the next injury. I'm going home to Winterburn and take that job in the family bank my dad's been holding for me."

"Giving up?"

"Making an informed decision. I'm tired of hiding who I am from the world. One day, I'm going to fuck up and find it splashed all over the newspapers. Byron and I talked, and we're ready to settle down and do the picket fence thing."

Wincing, Evan forced his own ball of pain back inside. "Good for you. I'll miss you guys. You're ditching me. I'll be alone here in a bastion of rampant heterosexuality." He forced a smile, wanting to be encouraging.

"He didn't come, did he?" Austin's sympathy lit the fuse of disappointment and anger again.

"No," he said shortly. "He hates football. I knew he wouldn't."

"You're his brother. It's the play-offs. He should have come just to support you. If I ever meet this guy, I'm kicking his ass. What a sorry ass fucking excuse for a brother." Austin wrapped a comforting arm around Evan's shoulder in a brief hug. "Wanna come out with us to commiserate? We're getting drunk and driving home tomorrow."

"Ethan thinks he has reason. I can understand it, I guess."

"He's a selfish prick. 'Football took my brother. I will never watch it again,'" he mimicked a falsetto voice.

Ethan shoved him, laughing a little. "Cut it out. It's not exactly like that. Okay, I'll go. You gonna turn around so I can put my pants on or you want a show?"

Chuckling, Austin turned away. His restless gaze traveled from player to player, in various poses of frustration, disappointment, and sorrow. "You ever think about giving it all up?"

Evan pulled on faded jeans, deftly buttoning his fly. "No. I have nothing to live for except the game. You've got Byron. It's different for you."

He pulled the Oxford he'd worn to the stadium off the hook and shrugged into it. Shoving his feet into leather sandals, he fastened a few buttons. "Hustle. Let's get out of here and hit the bar." Finger-combing his damp hair, he shoved the rest of his stuff into a small duffle and slung it over his shoulder.

An agreeable Austin followed him in thoughtful silence through the labyrinth of corridors leading to a secure exit. The door opened into the parking lot, and he blinked in the bright afternoon sunlight.

A hard grasp closed on his arm and he spun in shock. Goddamn reporters!