Story Orgy Creature Feature: Mum's the Word Part 2 #storyorgy #serial #malexmale

Good morning friends and readers! Today I have a special post for you- the second episode of my new Story Orgy story! There'll be 2 more "catch up" posts this week, then I'll be on track next Monday. Yesterday we got to see a lot of Izzy- now let's take a look at him from his roommate's perspective.

Mum's the Word

Chapter Two

Aug 10: He yearned for it.

“Hey, Izzy?” Wiping damp palms down the sides of his beige Dockers, Owen paused in the middle of Warburton Hall, the history wing of Mid-State U. The building smelled like history… and floor wax. Built in the twenties, back when it was a “normal school” whose sole purpose was turning out black teachers, it had been the one of six original campus buildings. Now that segregation was a thing of the past, and all black or all white colleges with it, the campus had grown to over twenty buildings spread over a nearly mile square campus. The newer buildings housed colleges of business, political science, medicine, and computer science. Fusty old fashioned subjects like history, archeology and literature were relegated to the old buildings with their plaster walls and marble floors and narrow, high ceilinged corridors. Owen kind of liked them better than the huge generic classrooms where his freshman classes… like civics and biology, had been housed.

“Ahem.”

He realized that Izzy had stopped walking and was staring at him, one thick black brow raised in demand. He was looking particularly geeky in a navy blue suit with one of those fancy designer brands. Not like Owen, who considered his own button down oxford and dockers to be “extra-effort” clothes.

Swallowing and wiping his hands again, Owen quashed the unaccustomed trepidation that had made him stall right outside their new boss’s office. “What do you call a mummy who wins the lottery?” He threw out the corny joke and the black brow dropped.

Izzy gave a patient sigh, shrugged his thin shoulders, flipped a lock of black hair over his shoulder… he really should have gotten it cut before the meeting, but Owen was kind of glad he hadn’t because he liked Izzy with long hair. It softened … no, more like outlined his features, framing his eyes and cheekbones, making his pale skin dramatic and more than pretty. Like Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park… intelligent and sexy only without the big nose and curly hair… and maybe not so much like Jeff Goldblum at all. Except that smart turned Owen on, and--

“I don’t know, Owen.”

“A lucky stiff.”

“Ha ha.” Izzy snorted with laughter, the laugh that had turned them from suspicious new roommates into friends for life back in their freshman year.

Owen felt a pang of regret over that. They could have been so much more. In hindsight he saw that clearly, but Owen Nichols at seventeen had a chip on his shoulder the size of the Great Pyramid at Giza, and Izzy at nineteen had screamed over-privileged youth with his four hundred dollar jeans and three hundred dollar shoes. At times, Owen yearned for the opportunity to start things over between them, but too much time had passed for that.

The pig-snort laughter had broken that ice, but it had taken years for Owen to see past the rest. And moments like these, when Izzy looked dashing and scholarly in a fine suit and Owen felt like a cheap knock-off, they made him realize that chip wasn’t any smaller than it had been, he had just learned to bear its weight better with Izzy at his side. “I don’t feel adequately dressed.” He confessed in a mumble.

“I told you so.” Izzy’s eyes narrowed as they looked Owen over critically from head to toe. “You should have let me buy you that suit last spring.”

“And wear a winter suit in the fall?” It had been a clearance sale at Brooks Brothers. Izzy had gloated over the forty percent off offer, and his mother had obligingly ordered three suits for her son, pleased that he was “living up to the standard expected in the Waters household”.

“It was forty percent and we’ll need suits for interviews when we get our doctorates. No one is going to hire a professor in dockers.” The words stung, but Izzy’s hands were gentle as he brushed Owen’s hair back from his brow. “Okay. This is what we’re gonna do.”

Izzy stripped off his jacket, revealing a crisp white dress shirt. He held out the jacket to Owen who shook his head.

“I can’t wear that.” Izzy was narrow of shoulder and hip, a long lean line of a man whereas Owen was broad shouldered and thick, muscled, not fat. He’d earned his way into college playing sports and it showed.

Blue eyes rolled in mockery as Izzy loosened his tie, making himself look more casual. “I know that. You’d bust out the seams. Just drape it over your shoulder like you took it off because it’s too hot. No one will get a good enough look at it to tell that it’s not yours.”

“Oh… Yeah. Okay. I can do that.” Owen hooked the jacket with one finger and tossed it over his shoulder. He still felt like an idiot who was dressed for an interview at a sporting goods store instead of a professional position on a college campus, but Izzy was on his side and he wasn’t going in there alone, so …

“Let’s do this.” He rapped sharply on the door, stiffening his spine when an accented voice called out in response.

“Enter.”

Only it sounded more like eenter, or something. Dragging in a last, calming breath, heart beating, Owen glanced over at Izzy, who was mouthing the word silently, an intrigued expression knit his brows together. Izzy always had liked accents. Half his boyfriends in the time Owen had known him had accents. Nigel, the British boy from freshman year who wrote truly awful poetry; Ricky the Australian swimmer who screamed during intimate moments, Li-Yeun the Vietnamese physics student a quiet cypher of a boy who’d never once met Owen’s eyes during the time he’d been sleeping with Izzy, a red -headed Irishman whose name Owen never could remember who was only around on weekends,  and most recently the video game obsessed Mitch, whose deep south drawl had intrigued Owen too.

Great. Now he’d get to work for the man and watch Izzy flirt with him too?

If you enjoyed my post, click on over to the rest of the Orgiasts and read more! 

Hank Edwards

Havan Fellows 

EM WOODS

Chances Are #FREE at Amazon May 2-4 #pulpfriction #gethooked

Hey everyone!

Just a heads up that the first book in my Pulp Friction 2013 serial- Chances Are- is free from today through the 4th! Pick up a copy today and get hooked!

AMAZON

BLURB: 

His Grandma always said he'd come to no good. Chances Are, she's right. 

Meet Aaron "Chance" Dumont:

"I'm Chance, this is my place. You want me; this is where you can find me."

The problem with that, of course, was that it wasn't my name. My name was actually Aaron Dumont.

I picked up the name Chance as a kid when my grandma kept telling me "Chances are you'll come to no good, just like your pa." She had said it so often, it just kind of stuck. I've been Chance ever since. When she passed away and left me the remains of her estate, I sold everything but a few special items then invested it all in a nest egg for a rainy day.

I figured that's what she'd intended it for anyway. She'd said as soon as I joined the police force back in the eighties. "Chances are you'll come to no good there. It's a dangerous job and you're an accident waiting to happen."

She was right too.

When Ghost and Demon Meet #pulpfriction #mmromance #gethooked

Pulp Friction heads to New Orleans... 

And finds it an Altered State

Drawing Dead 

Jack of Spades #1 

Available at

Amazon     All Romance 

Smashwords 

Direct from Author via Payhip 

EXCERPT

The doorknob rattled. Bart affected an expression of disdain and pretended an interest in the blousy female that he didn’t feel.

The door opened, and he kept his attention on the television. Let Sabine know that he wasn’t the center of Bart’s existence.

“Well now, that gumbo does smell good.”

Bart shot up a few more inches into the air and turned his head at dizzying speed. It wasn’t Sabine, coming home repentant and ready to make amends for his earlier behavior. The man who entered bore only a vague resemblance to his lover, being dark-haired and slender. Laurant.

Bart sat upright and floated downward, until he sat on the sofa. Laurant intrigued him. The man was devilishly handsome, a real charmer, who could probably have any man or woman he wanted, and yet he seemed always to be so…alone. So lonely. He had an aura of otherness, a poetic sort of soul. Reminded Bart of a drunken slob of a man he’d met in Boston once…Edgar Poe.

Laurant wasn’t human of course, but in retrospect, perhaps Edgar hadn’t been as human as he’d pretended either. Regardless, the incubus fascinated Bart. They were a lot alike, and if only the man would pick something up… Laurant visited Sabine frequently and was familiar with the layout of the apartment. Innate curiosity sent him roaming…but soul-deep sensuality made him touch. He probably wasn’t even aware that he did it…as he passed the sofa on the way to the kitchen he stroked one lean long-fingered hand along the supple leather. In the kitchen he brushed a hand over the lush cotton dish towels, caressed a silver spoon with a delicate touch. Everything, every sensation seemed to please him.

Bart watched avidly, following him into the kitchen where he checked the gumbo, sniffing appreciatively. “What’s going on?” Bart asked, well aware that his words would go unheeded, willing Laurant to pick up a gold coin, or the spectacles on the coffee table, one of the volumes of literature from the bookshelf…even that. “Why are you here? Where’s Sabine?”

Laurant’s head tilted to the side, his gaze scanned the apartment. “I know you’re here. I can feel you watching me. Show yourself.”

Hah. “If it were that easy, don’t you think you’d have seen me in the last few years you’ve been playing games here? And by the way, you can’t play cards for shit. You fold too easy. And you talk too much during a game. You’d have been shot…” He trailed off and those deep set eyes seemed to track him. He almost believed Laurant could hear him. “I should know, after all. It’s a bloody good thing you don’t make your living playing cards. Oh come on. Pick something of mine up, damn it!” The last burst out as Laurant fondled a silver filigree box that had belonged to Sabine’s grandfather.

Bart didn’t like the box. It seemed to disapprove of him, which Sabine said was ridiculous, but as Bart reminded him, the whole concept of a them was sublimely ridiculous in a farcical way.

“Yes! That’s it. Pick. It. Up.” He growled as Laurant replaced the box and moved on to a rosewood trinket box. As soon as the man’s hand closed on the bit of wood, Bart focused everything he could pull together into being. “It’s about time!” he groused, hoping the man wasn’t one of those non-believers who’d be blocked by his own certainty that ghosts didn’t exist, weren’t real, or were the product of indigestion.

“Bart, I presume?”

Bart suppressed a shiver at the sensual voice. It seemed the timbre of the man’s voice echoed, stirred the very atoms of Bart’s being. The effect of the man…being the recipient of that intense stare, was so much more powerful when Bart was physically present. “Don’t do that,” he protested, struggling to keep himself together.

“Did I do something?” Laurant seemed surprised. He held out a pale hand. “I’m Laurant. It’s a pleasure to finally meet the…man…Sabine has spoken of so often.”

“Does he?” He realized the other man still held his hand out, though his smile was fading rapidly. “I can’t shake your hand.”

“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It’s…Sabine would have to explain the science behind it. I didn’t pay enough attention, and I dare say the field of physics has changed enough since 1829 that, even if I had, it wouldn’t make any difference to my understanding of my own existence.” He stopped talking and just stared as Laurant’s eyes dulled and his smile froze. “Indeed. So where is he?”

“I have no idea.” Laurant sniffed. “I don’t smell any sulfur or brimstone. Nothing but gumbo really.” He reached out a hand then snatched it back.

“Please don’t, thank you. It hurts when you put your hand through me, and”—Bart frowned—“I’m not a demon.”

“I see. Speaking of which…how is it that I can see you now and never have before?” Laurant let the box go as though just realizing he’d been touching it, and Bart sighed.

“Great Caesar's ghost. Now I suppose I’ll have to wait an hour for the fool to lay his hands on something else of mine.”

“You ought not to speak about people that way. Not to their faces, in any event.”

“You can still see me?” Bart peered closely at Laurant, who stepped back a little, holding up a hand.

“I can see something…shimmery about the air, like heat on the highway in the summer, but I can hear you quite clearly.”

Welcome to the World of Pulp Friction 2015: Altered States #mmromance #serial Releases Feb. 15th

Pulp Friction 2015: Altered States

Jack of Spades #1

Drawing Dead

By

Lee Brazil

The world hasn't been the same since the preternaturals came out of the closet. Much to many people’s chagrin, strange beings of all kinds are making life tricky for the "normals."

Physics professor Dr. Sabine Brusilov has been obsessed with ghost hunting since he was eight years old.. He's gathered a wealth of knowledge, but can't produce a shred of scientific proof.

One hundred and seventy-five years of death haven't done riverboat gambler Barton Montoire a damn bit of good. He's still rash, impulsive, and prone to fits of temper and bouts of melancholy.

You'd think that when fate brought the two of them together, Bart's lonely spirit would be calmed, and Sabine would have the proof his heart desires.

In a world where mythical beings are real, love is still the most elusive… and treacherous myth of them all.

EXCERPT

“Mrs. Carew, I apologize. Tell me about the paranormal problem again?” Sabine brushed back over his shoulder the dark hair that his mischievous boyfriend had loosened. Normally he kept it in a ponytail, a queue, as Bart quaintly called it, because it tickled his face when loose. He always ended up pushing it back and getting smudges on his glasses in the process.

He frowned at Bart’s glimmer…the sort of ripple in the air that reminded him of the way heat looked rising off a highway in the dead of summer. Sneaky bastard.

“It’s my new upstairs neighbors, Dr. Brusilov. Before they even moved in they installed dark blinds on their windows and I never see anyone coming out during the day. Not even at the mailboxes. But all night long… The thumping and the bumping and the shrieking. I’m sure they’re vampires up there murdering innocents.”

Sabine tapped his pencil on the desk and watched Bart coalesce into something resembling a solid shape in front of his office door. “Being a vampire is not illegal, and you’d have to have proof of murder, Mrs. Carew.” He explained as patiently as he could.

Six years earlier he’d investigated a haunting at Mrs. Carew’s church…and had received bi-weekly phone calls about hauntings ever since.

“Well, couldn’t you come out and investigate it?”

“That’s not the sort of paranormal I investigate, Mrs. Carew. Here at Dead Men’s Tales we only investigate hauntings.” He glanced at his watch. Thursdays were generally light, but tonight happened to be poker night, and as luck would have it, it was his turn to play host to the gathering.

“You mean ghosts, like at the church, right?”

“Exactly, just ghosts.” His brows shot up and his lips twitched as Bart began an elaborate strip tease accompanied by high knee kicks and spins. The cancan had been popular with students when Bart was at university, nearly two hundred years earlier. It was Bart’s idea of risqué…and Sabine bit back his laugh.

“Those are real, too?”

“Yes,” he sighed, setting the pen down and rubbing his temple. “Ghosts, vampires, werewolves…you name it, I imagine it's real.” The world had changed so much, people like Mrs. Carew who’d once been considered crackpots were thrown even more off balance. Learning that the world as you knew it was never really…well, the world as you knew it, had been devastating for some and inspirational for others.

The vampires had come out first…then the wolves.

Just Sabine’s luck that the supernatural beings he’d spent the last fifteen years trying to prove existed—scientifically and irrefutably—were still shy and in hiding. Except Bart. He glanced up at the semi-transparent and now fully nude ghost that had haunted him for the better part of the last decade. And Bart was just stubborn enough to refuse to share any relevant information with him.

“You know what, Mrs. Carew?” he straightened in his chair. “I’ll come by on my way home. Maybe if I just knock on the door and ask them to be a little quieter at night, it might help.”

“I’ll make cookies.” The elderly lady sounded delighted, and Sabine was glad he’d made the offer as he hung up the phone.

“You”—he narrowed a level glare at his boyfriend—“are incorrigible.”

Bart stopped his high knee kicks, put his hands on his hips, and stood, bits dangling, an indignant expression on his face though his dark eyes twinkled with mirth. “That is exactly what old Father Peter used to say.”

“The old sod was right! How could you distract me while Mrs. Carew was on the phone?”

Bart jiggled and thrust his hips, and his prick bobbed and twirled. “She’s a waste of time. The old bat’s crazy as a loon.”

“She’s lonely.” Sabine rose and went around to the front of his desk. Bart immediately flashed, then reappeared centimeters from Sabine, close enough that Sabine could feel him…a warm current of air that grew hotter as the passion that drew them together intensified. In his pocket, the gold watch grew warmer as well. “You remember what that’s like, don’t you?”

Bart bounced back, instantly reclothed in the dark jacket and trousers, the brocade vest and frilled shirt that he’d died in. “Why do you have to keep bringing that up?”

“Because you’re remarkably intolerant of human needs for someone who…”

“Was alone at the bottom of the Mississippi for, what did you say? A hundred and seventy-five years? That’s right. It’s 2015 now, isn’t it? I hardly think the few paltry years your Mrs. Carew has been alone count for a pittance in a pisspot compared to that. I need your company. She can find her own.”

Sabine dug his hand into his jeans pocket and closed it into a fist around the gold pocket watch he’d found in Barton Montoire’s steamer trunk when he’d excavated it from the depths of the river more than a decade earlier. “I was going to take you with me, but given this attitude…” He pulled the watch from his pocket and set it on the desk.

“Don’t you…” Bart flashed again…appearing across the room, by the windows. A splinter of light disrupted his eyes… Sabine caught his breath.

Most of the time Bart was good-humored, fun, and a pleasure to have around. He was an educated man and an excellent companion. Other times…the handsome face could appear menacing, and this was one of those times.

“Don’t leave me here,” Bart repeated. This time he took the time to walk across the room to Sabine, and his body had solidified to the point where his boot heels actually made noise as they struck the tiled floor.

Sabine shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t trust you, not in this mood.”

He’d learned the hard way that Bart’s morality was highly questionable, whether that was because he was a gambler or a ghost was in dispute. Certainly, he’d been considered a criminal in his own day, and his death proved that integrity and honor were malleable concepts for him.

“I’m not going to do anything to your old lady.” Bart flickered, and he was so beyond control that in some reappearances, the gunshot wound that had torn apart his chest before he’d been thrown overboard from the Delta Queen was clearly visible, gory and dripping with blood.

Available at

Amazon

All Romance

Smashwords 

Direct from Author via Payhip