Excerpt from Clear Blue Sky

“No one will ever love you as much as I do.” The ominous words echoed in Sky Warren’s head as he tossed and turned. The shadowy figure stood directly in front of him, reaching for his arm, and once again he felt the painful snap of a broken shoulder. Sky groaned and sprang up in bed, sweat pouring down his face.

He glanced around the dark room, trying to get his bearings. It was just a dream. He was used to them. Sleep was tenuous most nights, with nightmares just a whisper away from his consciousness.

Sky’s bedroom door opened and his cousin Billy moved in front of him, a beer in one hand and a plastic bottle of water in the other. “Bad dream again?” He held out both drinks.

Sky accepted the water and chugged down half of it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm and looked at Billy. Curly blond hair gave his cousin the perpetual appearance of bed head, no matter what time of day. A soul patch below the lower lip was his only facial hair, and there was usually a cigarette hanging from the edge of his mouth. Tonight was no exception.

“I’m okay.”

“I know.” Billy twisted off the beer cap and, after removing his smoke, took a swig. “Ruby and I were kickin’ back for the night. Checking if there’s anything I can do for ya before we go.”

“No thanks.” Sky felt slightly guilty. It was bad enough he was crashing at his cousin’s apartment, dampening any shreds of privacy the man had. Now he’d interrupted what was happening between his cousin and Ruby, his perky girlfriend with curly red hair and the biggest tits he’d ever seen on a woman the ripe old age of twenty-one. Barely. He shook his head and offered a small smile. “Sorry, man. I’ll keep it down.”

Bottle and cigarette in one hand, Billy ruffled Sky’s short, spiked brown hair with the other. “Nah, it’s all good. Just remember… The prick is gone. Prolly doing time in Leavenworth by now. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Sky hugged his arms around his chest. “I know. Damn it! I’m fucking tired of these nightmares. Makes me look like such a pussy.”

“It doesn’t. You had a fucking broken shoulder, man. Even three months after the surgery and physical therapy, I know it still twinges. Prolly never be normal.”

“Thanks for that.” Sky smiled at his closest relative in the world. Billy had been like a brother growing up in Kansas. When his aunt had moved Billy to Colorado for her job, they’d both taken it hard. They’d kept in touch, and any time one of them needed the other, they’d come running.

Like Billy had, when Sky’s former partner Duke had ratcheted domestic violence up to a whole new level. He’d thought his cousin was going to kill the man, but there hadn’t been anything Sky could do about it from his hospital bed. What he had had a choice about—and what Billy could never understand—was Sky’s going home with Duke when he’d been released from the hospital. That fact was still a sore subject between them.

“If you’re sure you’re okay…” Billy motioned toward the other room.

Sky nodded. “Thanks for the water—and everything.”

“Any time, dude. Get some sleep.”

“You do the same.”

Billy grinned. “No promises.” He backed out then closed the door.

It wasn’t five minutes later that Sky heard his cousin’s headboard banging against the wall. He had to smile.

He polished off the last of the water then tossed the empty aside. Leaning back, he tried to face his demons because the therapist he’d seen a couple of times had told him that could make the bad dreams go away. It hadn’t worked yet, but Sky had hopes.

Excerpt from Mantrap

Rogue leaned back against lumpy vinyl and fought the desire to tap his fingers against his denim-clad thigh. Impatience would get him nowhere. As always, Trap’s minion would show up when he was good and ready, not before. The annoying little shit loved to yank Rogue’s chain—one day he would have to be taught that pushing the ‘Do not touch’ button could be bad for any chance he had of reaching his next birthday.

Rogue glanced around the dingy diner. Positioned in a rear booth, he could see the front door, the counter and most of the tables. To his left, the door to the kitchen swung back and forward on badly oiled hinges, its high-pitched squeal an assault on his ears. The air conditioning droned in the background, the white noise supplemented by the restrained chatter of half a dozen patrons. In front of him, on the sticky melamine tabletop, sat an untouched cup of coffee. The surface of the dark liquid glimmered with an oil slick of scum. The waitress had already passed him more than once, clutching a full pot, hopeful for refill trade. Rogue would rather wash his mouth out with bleach. It would probably taste better as well.

At the table nearest the front window, a guy that looked like everyone’s favorite stereotype of a rough biker forked bacon into his mouth and slurped coffee. Rogue cringed. His second in command was a walking garbage disposal. Hatchet belched and shifted his muscular frame slightly in his chair slightly. The subtle signal made no difference to Rogue’s outward appearance, but inside he went to high alert. Fifteen seconds later the diner door slid open. The man who walked to the counter couldn’t have looked more out of place if he’d been wearing a hula skirt in the Arctic. Selling his suit on eBay would have funded the entire diner staff’s salaries for a month, including tips.

Rogue stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. He controlled his breathing as the man at the counter took his own sweet time ordering. Rogue couldn’t hear the conversation between customer and server, but the stupid grin on the waitress’s face told him that his contact was sweet-talking the woman with a couple of pints of verbal syrup. Finally, the man strolled the length of the diner and slid into the booth opposite Rogue. He looked at the table with distaste and pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his inside pocket before wiping away a few stray crumbs. The scent of his expensive cologne wafted across the table and tickled Rogue’s nose.

“Smith.” Could the man use a false name that was any less original?

“Rogue. How have you been?” Smith’s voice was mellow and cultured.

“You’re not my boyfriend, Smith. Cut the crap and get to the point.”

Smith tutted. “You could at least be civil. We’ve been meeting for three years. I’d like to think we are friends.”

Rogue growled, low in his throat. “Friends don’t blackmail each other.”

“Mr Trap wouldn’t be so crass. Blackmail is such a sordid word. I prefer to think of it as gentle persuasion,” Smith said as he tweaked a crisp cuff, allowing Rogue to catch a glimpse of a silver cufflink in the shape of a dagger. “Mr Hatchet is enjoying his breakfast, I see. You were told to come alone.” The warmth in Smith’s voice disappeared, replaced with an icy chill.

“It’s not my problem if one of my acquaintances happens to like the food in this dump,” Rogue snarled.

Smith raised a sandy eyebrow.

“Fine. Fuck knows why, but he has a thing for you. He wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to ogle your tight little ass.” Rogue chuckled as Smith’s face reddened. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you eyeing him right back, either.”

Rogue thought Smith might need a brown paper bag to hyperventilate into but, at that moment, the waitress sidled up to the table and placed a cup and saucer in front of Smith along with a plate holding an enormous slice of peach pie.

“There you go, honey. I even managed to find matching crockery for you.”

“Well thank you kindly, sweetness. You’re a darling.” Smith gave the woman a little pat on the backside and sent her on her way.

Excerpt from Biking Bad

“Zero, that sweet piece of ass I gave a Prince Albert to a few weeks back is here asking about you.”

Luc ‘Zero’ Villarojas grunted then took a strong pull of his longneck beer. He never drank any of the brews that were on tap at Road Rage. He liked the feel of the bottle in his hand, liked the way his large fingers could wrap around the smooth glass. The fact that it also came in handy as an occasional weapon at the Mojave Sidewinder’s biker bar only added to its appeal.

After taking another healthy swallow, he regarded his Sidewinder brother, Tank. He was Zero’s piercer and body mods guy at Zero to Sixty, the tattoo parlor he owned and operated in Indio, right off the interstate past Palm Springs. Tank’s real name was Sherman, but since he was built like a formidable military vehicle, the nickname had glued itself to him the way leathers would to skin when the heat reached intolerable levels.

“Why should I give a fuck?”

Tank snickered. “That was one pretty cock. He let me get it nice and hard for the piercing.” Tank licked his lips. “Ever since I finished it, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about sticking my tongue through that ring in his tip and giving it a little tug.”

Zero shrugged then finished off his beer in three long gulps. He wiped the back of one of his big hands across his mouth as he banged down the empty bottle on the bar.

“Then why don’t you?”

Zero gestured with his index finger, and Fuzzy, the big bear of a bartender that ran the joint and tended the bar for the club, ambled on over. His mammoth salt-and-pepper beard was divided in half, the two ends braided. They reached down to the middle of his cut and there were rumors that he hadn’t trimmed it in over thirty years.

“One more, Fuzzy. Tank? You drinkin’ or tonguing dick?”

His friend let out a loud snort. “If things go my way, both.”

After collecting his second beer then leaning back against the long, scarred wood counter, Zero faced the main section of their hangout. He saw the piece of ass Tank had mentioned. The almost-too-pretty man stared unwaveringly at him. He had a nice lean body, toned, well-inked—pierced nipples, and of course, what Zero knew to be his most recent piece of body jewelry that was undoubtedly pressing against the zipper of his tight denim. He was the kind of guy Zero liked to stick his dick into—smaller than him, a hungry little bottom. But he was also smug and overly aware of how he had all the men’s cocks dripping when he walked in the room. Plus, Zero had already fucked him. Once was usually enough for him with anyone.

“Well?”

Zero slowly turned to Tank. “Well what?”

“You gonna tear that ass up or what?”

“He’s all yours.”

Tank smirked. “Let me guess. You drilled him already.”

“Through the floor.” Zero took another swig of his beer.

Tank shrugged. “I’m not proud. I’ll offer to break in his guiche for him.”

Zero turned to Tank, pulling his eyebrows together. “I don’t remember Pretty Boy’s taint being pierced.”

“It isn’t. Yet.” Tank winked at him.

Grunting, Zero broke his gaze from Tank’s prey, his attention captured by a disturbance near the entrance to the club’s hang. He absent-mindedly wondered if a couple of chicks were trying to weasel their way in. Or maybe it was some tourists who didn’t realize that Road Rage belonged to the Sidewinders, and that the club was not only exclusively for men, but for gay men.