Thursday, February 12, 2026

AND CALL ME by Will Okati #MM #Romance @ChangelingPress




Friends to Lovers Medical Romance


M/M Romance

Date Published: February 13, 2026


Need a prescription for love? Take two, and call me in the morning.


And Call Me in the Morning: Eli and Zane. Yes, they spend a lot of time together. That doesn’t mean they’re a real couple. When teased about it one too many times by their colleagues, Zane challenges Eli to set the record straight with a kiss to prove there’s absolutely no chemistry between them. Neither expected a spark to ignite between them. More than a spark. Truth be told, Eli’s not so sure they can set the record straight after all.

And Call Me in the Evening: Eli’s still not great at wearing his heart on his sleeve and Zane’s still got trust issues, but they manage just fine. It’s all good. Right? Yes and no. Eli’s ex-wife Marybeth has come back to town, bringing a heaping helping of hassle with her. There’s something to be said for setting the story straight, it’s true. Eli knows he and Zane have a good thing going even if keeping it that way is the hardest -- and best -- part.


Excerpt
Copyright ©2026 Will Okati

Falling in love with his closest friend had never been something Eli planned to do with his life. Wasn’t as if he could have stopped it, though.

Sometimes love just happened.

Even if it took him a while to figure that out.

* * *

“There you are.” Zane laid down the heavy, ivory-colored menu he’d been idly flipping through as Eli approached, making his way through the maze of tables at their regular bistro. “I almost thought you weren’t going to make it.”

Eli sat with a thump, running his hand through his dark brown hair, cut short but still quite capable of standing on end. He grimaced when he discovered he’d forgotten his stethoscope, still wound around his neck.

“Long night?” Zane asked, already waving their server over with the universal “coffee here” gesture.

Eli relaxed and let Zane take care of him. Some days, a man truly appreciated a friend who’d have his back when he needed a rock to shore up against. “Long, long night. Three-car pileup at an intersection. I didn’t want to leave before everyone was stable.”

“That’s my boy.” Zane shifted out of the way to let their server pour Eli’s cup. She was a pretty thing, well packed into her curves -- curves that she offered not so subtly for display.

Zane ignored them. He’d taken Eli’s face in his hands and begun to assess him for signs of exhaustion. The guy had good hands, firm and dry and dexterous. They felt nice and cool against Eli’s skin. He let Eli go with a light slap to the cheek. “Your eyes look like burned holes in a blanket. You should go home and get some rest.”

“Like I’d miss a chance at a fine, elegant brunch?” Eli rolled his eyes.

“Heaven forbid.” Zane gave good deadpan. “Jeez. This is the kind of place I fear running into my family.” How moneyed Zane’s family was, Eli didn’t know. Coming from an ivory tower was a sore spot for Zane, who much preferred the life he’d chosen in a grittier world.

Eli segued to spare Zane any discomfort. What were friends for, right? “You were on last night too. How’d you manage to get away in time for a shower and a sharp morning suit?”

“Questions, questions.” The corners of Zane’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Unlike some of us, I leave when my shift’s done.”

“Since when? You’re as much of a workaholic as I am, if not more. A hospitalist’s work is never done, especially at Immaculate Grace. What was I thinking when I chose that as a career, anyway?”

“That you’re a glutton for punishment?”

“True enough.” Eli drank deeply of his coffee, almost moaning in appreciation. The influx of better-than-decent caffeine stimulated his brain. “Before I forget, I got those concert tickets you begged me for. Two, even.” He patted his dark brown shirt pocket. Plain clothes for a plain man, built tough to last, Chicago born and bred for forty-three years.

Unlike Zane, who looked as fresh as a daisy in a casual white linen jacket, pale violet button-down, and pressed slacks. Pretty as a picture, coming across as maybe five years younger than his forty-one. Zane brightened and made a grab. “Good seats?”

“I’m told they’re the best. Ah-ah-ah.” Eli tapped his pocket again. “I also got advance tickets for a Cubs game when the season starts. Fair is fair. I try not to fall asleep during the chorale or chamber music or whatever you want to call it, and you endure beer, umpire heckling, and giant foam fingers.”

“Done and done. You drive a hard bargain.” Zane clinked coffee cups with Eli. He hadn’t looked away once, but Eli liked that about Zane. When he gave you his full attention, nothing else seemed to matter to him. All part of the Zane package, and it made him the best doctor Eli had known. “I --” He stopped, interrupted by the chiming of his pager. When he checked the number, he grimaced. “Damn. Sorry, I’ve got to take this. Keep that warm for me.”

“What did I tell you? Workaholic. Hey! Do not let them talk you into coming back to the hospital today.”

Zane waved backward at Eli as he walked off. Eli watched him go, amused.

A different server, young and male, approached with the coffeepot. Eli suspected the waitress had gotten fed up with flirting and traded off. Fine by him. This kid had a good eye for refills. He held his cup up. “Keep it coming, but we’re not ordering yet. Still waiting for two.”

And they’d better hurry, if they know what’s good for them.

Eli wasn’t a huge fan of this bistro. Without Zane there to provide a buffer, the place was too rich for his blood. Made him feel like any second someone with a pedigree was going to jump out from behind a column and ask him what a working-class stiff like him thought he was doing here.

“Of course, sir. I’m sorry if I’m being rude,” the waiter said, deftly pouring. “If I could ask -- you two make such a handsome couple. How long have you been together?”

Not this again. Eli didn’t even have to ask what the kid meant. Wasn’t the first time he and Zane had been mistaken for a couple, and he’d bet his hard-earned MD it wouldn’t be the last. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but we’re not.”

The waiter’s coffeepot slipped. “You’re not -- oh. Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“No problem.” Eli waved him off before the kid could apologize again. He’d almost gotten used to the assumption. Whatever people saw in Zane and him, he had no idea. Felt like being on the shooting range sometimes, as many assumptions made about them as they had to dodge. Once corrected, strangers were mostly good about apologizing and moving on.

Friends of theirs, on the other hand, were not so accommodating.

“We made it!” Diana and Holly -- also doctors, both familiar faces at Immaculate Heart -- swarmed the table in a cloud of perfume and joie de vivre. With them, more hesitantly, came a fresh-faced kid Eli vaguely recognized as an intern. The ladies dove into the fresh baguettes and cherry jam their new waiter discreetly slid onto the table before exiting at speed, stage left.

Eli stayed well back from the carnage. Friends they might be, but Holly and Diana -- well, it was best to stay on your toes around them. “Who’s the boy toy?”

Holly, a pale, Nordic-type blonde, swatted Eli’s arm. “Be nice. Taye’s been at work for almost twenty-four hours. He deserved a break, so we brought him along to give him a treat.”

Eli didn’t doubt she spoke the truth. The intern was gray with exhaustion and had bags under his eyes big enough to carry the US mail. For all that, he wasn’t bad-looking. If you noticed male attributes, that was. A well-shaped face and a kind mouth, reddish gold hair cut short and sleek. Eli could tell he was probably handsome given the way Diana eyed him with impressively dirty intent.

“Really?” Eli nudged Diana under the table.

Diana, forty-two and unashamed, attractive in a gamine sort of way, wrinkled her nose at Eli. A damned fine cardiologist and an innovator in her field, she had the sense of humor of a collegiate and saw no point in growing old gracefully. She nudged back, and ouch, she was wearing pointy-toed shoes. “Bah humbug.”

Taye watched them with big eyes. “Is there something going on here that I should know about?”

“Not a thing,” Diana said. Butter wouldn’t have melted between her cherry red lips. She stole Eli’s coffee and sipped demurely.

Holly petted Taye’s hair. “It’s all right, Taye. No one here’s going to bite.”

Taye cracked a grin. “Right. It’s just -- three doctors and me. All of you have been in medicine since I was in grade school. I’m a little nervous.”

“Shows what you know,” Eli said, jumping back into the conversation. “I just finished my residency last year.” He shrugged. “My midlife crisis came early. What can I say?”

“Seriously? But you seem so… I mean, you’re… The way you take charge, I’d thought you were an old pro.”

“Thank you. It’s never too late to teach an old dog new tricks. And before you ask, I’m forty-three.” Eli took his cup back from Diana, only to find it empty. “Wench.”

She smirked at Eli. “And don’t you forget it. So where’s your wife?”

“Right now, specifically?” Eli checked his watch, a gift from Zane when he’d been hired on as an attending. “Hell if I know. Either in Nepal with Paolo or in Paris with Neo. I lost track.” Either way, she was doing adventurous things with a man who isn’t married to his job. He couldn’t blame Marybeth. Cops made terrible husbands. When he’d decided to switch to medicine, that’d been the last straw, and he wished her well with… whoever was on the menu this week. “Enough about me.” They knew damn well he didn’t like to talk about personal business in public.

Holly and Diana exchanged glances, the secretly amused and utterly female method of communication Eli had never learned to interpret, God help him.

“Good for her. I was talking about your other wife,” Diana said around a bite of ruby jam and baguette.

“Beg pardon?”

“She means Zane,” Holly said.

That, in Eli’s opinion, was taking it too far, especially in front of a colleague Eli didn’t know. “Enough, the both of you.”

Holly ignored him serenely and put her chin in her hands. “Come to think of it, this might be the first time I’ve seen you without him in weeks.”

Eli could feel Taye watching them, fascinated. “My private life is not up for scrutiny, but for the last time, Zane and I are not together. How many times do I have to say this, and to how many people?”

“Wait, what?” Looked like Taye had forgotten his nerves. He turned to Diana instead of Eli. “Zane is Dr. Novia, right? They’re not…”

“No,” Eli said, annoyed. A flicker of motion in his peripheral vision filled him with relief. “Zane, for the love of God, would you get behind me on this?”

Diana and Holly dissolved into giggles. Zane shrugged, untroubled as ever, and took his seat. He tucked his pager away. “What are we being ridiculed for today?”

“Same old, same old,” Eli said. He passed Zane the bread and jam. “Apparently we want to jump each other’s bones.”

“An oldie, but a goodie.” Zane lifted his chin at Taye. “What are you looking at, junior?”

Taye coughed. “Nothing. Sorry.” He retreated behind a mouthful of fresh-from-the-oven baguette.

Eli had to admire Zane at work. They could have used a laser stare like Zane’s on the force back in the day. He’d have had perps pissing their pants with nothing more than a look.

Zane turned it on Diana. “Look at you, Mrs. Robinson.”

Diana possessed not the smallest trace of shame. “You wish you had my cojones.”

“True.”

Their byplay didn’t stop Holly. Nothing did, as far as Eli could tell. Hell, her husband egged her on; Eli held it in private opinion that the pair of them enjoyed more kink than a Slinky. She folded her hands beneath her chin and gave Zane her best you-can-trust-me psychotherapist face. “It just seems obvious to everyone but the pair of you.”

“It’s true,” Diana said. She started to pick through the packages of fake and real sugar, searching for Splenda. “You go to the symphony together. Ball games. Brunch, for God’s sake. And when was the last time you went out with a woman, the pair of us aside?”

Eli opened his mouth, closed it, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “So it’s been a while. I don’t have time for playing the field when I’m trying to get ahead with my career.”

“But you have time to spend with Zane,” Holly said sweetly.

Eli gave up. For the moment.

Diana didn’t. “Take, for example, the way you two are sitting. Shoulder to shoulder.”

“The table is crowded,” Eli protested. “Four-person table, five people jammed in. You’re plastered against Taye.”

Diana smiled like a cat who’d just gotten her first taste of the cream and said nothing.

Fine, that hadn’t helped. Frustrated, Eli looked to Zane for support. No luck; Zane was busy waving for more coffee all around.

Eli wasn’t an idiot. When he examined Zane through objective eyes, he could see the appeal. Zane looked closer to thirty than forty, excepting the smile lines and small sprinkling of silver in his hair, and it was a trim, fit thirty with a body he kept in tip-top shape with rigorous exercise.

Not that Eli had anything to be ashamed of on that count, either. Zane’s enthusiasm for biking and boxing had chivied Eli out of the threat of middle-aged spread and back into better shape than he’d been on the force. Handsome, fit, successful.

So yes, he noticed these things. Didn’t everybody? And so they spent most of their time together. Mankind wasn’t made to be alone. Big deal.

Zane’s beeper shrilled. He rolled his eyes to the heavens. “I’m going to take this in my car. If the waiter comes around, order for me, but no meat. As soon as we’re done here I’m going back to Immaculate Grace and carving myself a filet of intern. Not you,” he said as an aside to Taye. “You’re doing great. Keep up the good work. Eli, tell them I want the usual, okay?”

Eli didn’t let Diana or Holly ask. “Yes, I know his usual. Belgian waffle with cinnamon sugar and whipped cream, the real stuff, and a fruit salad. No strawberries.” He swatted Zane’s hip as Zane scooted behind him and away. “Don’t worry; I’ve got it covered.”

“No strawberries?” Taye asked.

“He’s allergic,” Eli said. Medicine fell outside the personal-business umbrella, and Zane considered nothing taboo anyway. Still grated Eli’s nerves a bit to answer. “I’ve never seen how allergic, but he carries an EpiPen. No sense taking chances.”

Hoping the subject would be dropped, knowing there was no way he’d get that lucky, Eli studied the menu until he could no longer ignore the women clicking their tongues at him. Approximately thirty seconds. “What?”

The women exchanged Highly Significant Looks. “Doth the gentleman protest too much?” Diana asked.

“He doth,” Holly agreed. “Let me ask you a question, Eli.”

“Since I’m well aware that I can’t stop you, please, proceed.” Eli crossed his arms and waited for it.

“How much time did you spend with your ex-wife before she took off for -- where was it again?” She shushed him before he could answer. “It’s Austria with Pieter, by the way. I actually know this, and you don’t. Now tell me: how much time do you spend with Zane?”

Eli scowled and said nothing.

Holly pounced. “You see? I’ll bet you can even tell me where Zane was night before last.”

There was no way he would win here, was there? “My place,” Eli admitted. “Takeout and Die Hard. What’s your point?”

“I think their point is that you’re all but married,” Taye said. Apparently he’d chosen sides. Good to know. For that, he would pay. “Look, I know a few things about what it’s like to love your own gender. It’s strange as hell at first.”

Diana’s face fell in a way that would have been heartbreaking if it hadn’t been ever so satisfying instead. “You’re --”

Taye blushed but kept his chin up. “Yes.”

“No disrespect to you personally intended, Taye, but can I just say ha?” Eli pointed at Holly and Diana in turn. “Your gaydar needs a tune-up.”

Diana didn’t take defeat graciously. She narrowed her eyes at Taye. “Prove it.”

“Hey.” Eli straightened. “Nobody around here has to prove anything. Diana, leave him alone.”

Taye’s color heightened. “I can fight my own battles, thanks.”

Eli held up his hands in mock surrender. “Suit yourself, tough guy.”

Maybe it was the lack of sleep followed by the powerful coffee, or maybe Taye was one of those fortunate fools who didn’t hesitate to jump in where mortals feared to tread. “Excuse me.” Taye touched the waiter’s arm as he approached, coming in on the third round of coffee refills. “Would it be all right with you if I kissed you?”

The waiter stared at him. Eli waited for the “No!”

Instead, their waiter did a quick check to make sure no managerial eyes were on him, slid his carafe onto the table, and pressed in close to Taye. “I thought you’d never ask, handsome.” He stood on tiptoe and --

Eli sighed. Holly made cooing noises that unfortunately didn’t cover up the noises of a highly enthusiastic kiss. A darker mood still shadowed Eli’s thoughts when the sound of the smacking prompted a stir in his groin.

He tapped his foot thoughtfully. All right, so maybe it’s been a longer dry spell than I’ll admit to this crowd. I’m a busy man. That doesn’t mean listening to two pretty boys make out turns me on. Or Zane. It just means I need to get laid, or at least spend a quality afternoon with my right hand.

“Is that what we’re leaving instead of a tip?” Zane made his reappearance without fanfare or notice from anyone except Eli. “If that’s the case, we should take Taye out with us more often.”

Eli chuckled. “I was just enjoying the sight of Diana proved wrong.”

Diana scowled at Taye. “He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he? No wonder you were willing to brunch instead of crash.”

“Can you blame me?” Taye kissed the waiter again, this time on the tip of his nose. “See you later, handsome.”

Was he? Eli couldn’t see the appeal, himself. Waiter-boy was shorter than Taye by at least half a foot, wiry, curly dark hair, a button nose… Okay, maybe he could see it a little. Discomfort at PDA aside, Eli was man enough to admit the pair of them were almost cute. He knew he’d be just as fidgety with a hetero couple. The last time Holly’s computer-something-or-another-engineer husband, Keith, had come along to brunch, he’d almost wanted to crawl under the table.

Not even Diana could stand up against that. She sighed and shifted fully from tigress on the hunt to full-fledged fan club member. “Worth it.”

A faint touch at his elbow drew Eli’s attention to Holly. “You see?” she asked, quiet as a mouse. A far-too-knowing mouse. “That’s the way you and Zane look at each other. You’re the only two who can’t see it.”

“Be that as it may. We’re not interested. Not homophobic, Taye, so no offense to you. You two ladies, stop going there. This is the last time I’m going to ask. We’re friends. That’s all. Leave it alone.”

Diana clicked her tongue against her teeth. Eli didn’t like the look on her face. Too suspicious by half. “Let me ask you this. How do you know there’s nothing more to it? Have you ever tried?”

Even Holly tried to shush her at that, but the damage was done. “I think we’re done here.” Eli dropped his napkin on the table and stood. “My private life is just that: private. I’ve had about enough of defending myself.”

“Like I said. Protesting too much,” Diana said. She wasn’t one to back down. Normally Eli liked that about her. Normally. Not so much now. “Look it up.”

 

About the Author

Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong love of storytelling. Will's definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for, though he -- not she anymore -- is a lot less quiet these days.

 

Author Contact Links

Will on Facebook

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Will on Goodreads

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

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Wednesday, February 11, 2026

FALCON by Harley Wylde #MCromance @ChangelingPress




(Savage Raptors MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: February 13, 2026



Who would have thought a woman asking for help would be the reason Kane finally earns his patch?

 

Jade: I didn’t go looking for trouble -- trouble found me. Again. When the danger turns real, there’s only one man I trust enough to ask for help. Kane. He’s stepped in before, when things got rough, but this time it’s different. This time, someone wants me gone. Walking into the Savage Raptors’ MC should terrify me, yet somehow it feels like the only place I might survive. And the man sworn to protect me? He might be the most dangerous of all.

Kane: I’ve helped Jade before. Fixed her problems. Kept her safe. But this time, the stakes are higher, and so is the risk to my club. Jade doesn’t belong in my world, and I sure as hell don’t belong in hers. Still, walking away isn’t an option. When danger closes in, I’ll stand between her and the fire. Once I claim someone as mine, I don’t let go. I’ll burn their world to the ground before I let anyone take her from me.

 

Warning: This story contains adult themes, violence, and trauma. Intended for mature readers only. HEA guaranteed. No cheating.




EXCERPT

 

Kane

Football played on my TV, but my brain refused to care who scored.

Sound stayed low enough to fill the room without turning my place into a damn cave. Noise helped when the compound settled down, when the night stretched long and quiet and a Prospect’s mind started chewing on everything he couldn’t control. My shoulders still ached from hauling boxes at the shop, then running errands for patched brothers until my legs felt like dead weight. Grunt work never stopped. Prospects didn’t earn the right to slow down.

Beer warmed in my hand while the screen flickered in front of me. I took a swallow anyway, because habit came easier than rest. Sleep should’ve grabbed me the second I hit my couch. Instead, I sat there, elbows on my knees, staring straight ahead while my thoughts drifted to the same place they always went.

Do more. Prove yourself. Don’t fuck up.

A Prospect lived inside a narrow lane. He worked hard, kept his mouth shut, learned fast, and didn’t bring trouble to the club’s door. He didn’t make choices that risked patched men. He didn’t drag unknown chaos onto club property and hope the President appreciated the surprise.

Those rules existed for a reason.

Savage Raptors didn’t hand out patches because a man wanted one. They handed them out because a man earned one, bled for one, proved he had the spine to carry it without breaking under the weight. A year of work might not be enough. Two might not be enough. A single wrong decision could erase everything.

No patch. No brotherhood. No family.

I’d wanted this anyway.

My gaze swept over the small house, stirring up a familiar mix of gratitude and impatience. Four walls inside the compound. One bedroom. Ugly carpet. Scuffed paint. An abandoned couch. A mismatched recliner. The coffee table had endured more spilled beer than any furniture deserved to survive. Whenever I flipped the switch, the kitchen light flickered as though the bulb longed for death but lacked the decency to follow through.

The fridge hummed loud enough to irritate me at night. Pipes clanked when the water ran cold. Nothing worked perfectly. Nothing looked pretty.

Roof over my head mattered more than pretty.

My phone rested facedown on the coffee table. No one would text me this late unless something went sideways, and brothers tended to call when they wanted a Prospect moving fast. I should’ve showered and crashed. Muscles begged for sleep. Mind refused to cooperate.

Patched brothers didn’t pretend. They lived their code, protected their own, and expected the same loyalty back.

I wanted to be one of them.

Setting my beer back onto the table, I leaned against the couch cushion and closed my eyes briefly. The announcer’s voice droned on while crowd noise rumbled through the speakers. My breathing slowed.

A prickle crawled along the back of my neck.

Eyes snapping open, I scanned the room. Nothing had changed. Shadows remained in their corners. The air felt still and undisturbed. Despite this, something tightened in my gut -- an instinct impossible to ignore.

That feeling never showed up for no reason.

I turned my head slightly and listened. Fridge hum. The faint tick of the cheap wall clock. A distant engine beyond the fence, somewhere out on the road. Football noise. Nothing else.

My hand slid toward the side table because training lived deeper than logic. Fingers brushed the Glock I kept there. I didn’t grab it yet. I waited, listening harder, making sure my mind didn’t invent problems out of boredom.

A sharp knock hit my front door.

Hard enough to rattle the frame.

I sat up fast, heart slamming once against my ribs. The knock came again, quick and frantic. Not the steady rap of a brother. Not some drunk brother stumbling around. Desperation lived in those blows.

I snatched the Glock and moved off the couch in one smooth motion. Feet carried me to the door without making noise. I stayed to the side of the frame, not directly in front of it, because I’d learned better than to stand where a bullet might come through.

No voice followed.

No footsteps.

Only breathing, shaky and uneven, right outside the door.

“Who is it?” My voice came low, controlled.

“Kane?”

A woman calling my name at this hour should’ve triggered every alarm bell. Setup. Trap. Maybe someone testing how a Prospect handles unexpected visitors. Despite my suspicion, genuine fear resonated in her voice. Panic carried a distinctive edge -- a tremble impossible to manufacture without having experienced real terror.

With my gun ready, I slid the deadbolt back while keeping the chain secured, then eased the door open enough to peer outside.

Cold air rushed in.

Empty porch.

My gaze cut left and right, scanning what I could see past the edge of the house. Nothing moved near my place. No shadow lingered. No figure waited.

Breathing came again, closer this time, but not from the porch.

From the hallway window.

I shut the door and pressed my eye to the narrow side window. Outside, the walkway stretched toward the guard shack and main internal road, with security lights casting yellow pools across the gravel. Farther down the path stood a figure, half in shadow, half in light.

A woman.

Arms wrapped around herself, shoulders hunched against cold and fear. Damp tangles of dark hair framed her face. Purple and ugly, a bruise bloomed along one cheekbone. From beneath her coat collar crept another mark. Her eyes darted everywhere, scanning the quiet compound as though expecting an attacker to emerge from the darkness.

Jade.

My chest clenched hard.

We’d crossed paths a few times in town. Months earlier, I’d found her stranded near one of the club’s businesses with a flat tire and lug nuts refusing to budge. Being close enough to help, I did. She’d responded with gratitude so intense it seemed I’d handed her a gold bar instead of basic assistance. The following week at the diner, cheeks flushed pink and voice timid, she’d pressed a coffee into my hand -- someone clearly unaccustomed to kindness from strangers.

Occasional sightings followed. Grocery store. Walking into work. Brief encounters. Polite. Never lingering.

Now she stood inside the compound.

Someone had let her past the gate.

That meant trouble.

Out of habit, I threw on my cut, grabbed my keys, and shoved my phone into my pocket. The Glock slid into the waistband at the small of my back. Surprises weren’t my thing, especially when they arrived wearing bruises.

Cold air slapped my face as the door swung open. Jade whipped her head toward me with such force I felt the panic radiating from her. For a brief moment, relief flickered across her expression -- quick and fragile, as though she couldn’t trust it to last.

“Kane.” My name came out of her mouth on a broken breath. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Stop.” I closed the distance fast, keeping my body between her and the open walkway. “Who let you in?”

Her hands shook as she tried to gesture back toward the guard shack. “I went to the gate. I told them I needed you. I begged. I said --” Her voice cracked. “I said I was scared.”

Anger surged through me, sharp and immediate, not at her. At whatever had put her in a place where begging strangers felt like the best option.

“Tinker?” I called out, voice carrying.

The guard shack door opened. Tinker stepped out, bundled in a jacket, face hard and alert. His gaze flicked to Jade, then back to me.

“Prez knows.” Tinker didn’t waste words. “Saw her on camera. Called me. Told me not to turn her away. Told me to notify you and keep eyes on the road.”

So Atilla had made the call before I even stepped outside.

That eased one knot in my chest, then tightened another. If Atilla knew, the situation already mattered. Presidents didn’t wake up for minor problems.

Tinker’s eyes narrowed slightly. “She’s got marks.”

“I see them.” My jaw clenched. “Did anyone follow her in?”

“Gate camera shows her car only,” Tinker said. “No tail. No slow roll behind her. No second set of headlights. Doesn’t mean nobody watched her leave town, but nobody came through our gate after.”

Jade struggled for each breath, and I could see the terror in her eyes.

“You planning to stand out here all night?” I turned my head slightly, dropping my voice to a gentle rumble. “Or would you rather come inside?”

For several heartbeats she remained frozen. No step toward me. No retreat either. When her gaze finally locked with mine -- wide, bloodshot, desperate -- something beneath my sternum wrenched painfully.

She didn’t trust safety anymore.

“Inside,” she whispered.

“Good.” I kept my hand low, not reaching for her. People who’d been grabbed didn’t like sudden touch, no matter who offered it. “Stay close. If anything feels off, you tell me.”

She nodded, small and shaky.

We moved down the walkway toward my place. Tinker stayed near the guard shack, watching our backs, gaze scanning the fence line and the road beyond. Security lights threw our shadows across the gravel. Jade flinched at every sound -- distant engine, wind rattling something metal, even the soft bark of a dog farther down the property.

Her fear didn’t come from imagination. Something had taught her to react.

My front porch light flicked on when we neared. I unlocked the door and stepped inside first, scanning the room out of habit. Nothing had changed since I’d sat on the couch. TV still glowed. Beer still sat on the table. My place looked normal.

Normal didn’t mean safe.

I turned toward Jade and stepped back, giving her space to enter.

She crossed the threshold with the caution of someone expecting the floor to collapse beneath her. Inside my living room, her shoulders remained tight while her gaze swept across corners and windows.

Behind us, I secured our safety -- door shut, deadbolt slid home, chain hooked. Each lock clicked into place with solid finality.

The tension in Jade’s frame eased a fraction. A flicker of relief appeared, only to be immediately overwhelmed by fear.

“Sit.” My hand gestured toward the couch. “Water? Coffee? Something stronger?”

Her attention caught on my waistband, and I wondered if I’d turned just enough for her to spot my Glock. After swallowing hard, she averted her eyes -- unwilling to appear intimidated by a weapon in a biker’s home.

“Water,” she managed. “Please.”

I moved into the kitchen and filled a glass. Pipes clanked. Tap ran cold. I set the glass on the coffee table in front of her and crouched down across from her, far enough not to crowd, close enough to see her face.

The purple bruise on her cheekbone stood out in stark relief under my living room light. Along her neck, a faint scratch trailed downward before vanishing beneath her coat collar. Near the elbow, her torn sleeve revealed a spreading dark stain.

“Tell me what happened,” I said.

Jade fixed her gaze on the water glass as though it contained all the answers she needed. Beneath her crossed arms, her fingers dug into her own ribs, clutching herself in a desperate self-embrace. Each breath came shallow and uneven, her chest rising and falling in an irregular rhythm.

Words finally spilled out, rough and uneven. “He came to my apartment. I thought the locks would hold. I changed them. I installed a chain. I did everything I could think of.”

“Who?” I kept it simple. Panic made stories tangle.

Her gaze lifted for a fraction, met mine, then dropped again. “The man who says I owe him. The one who’s been watching me.”

My stomach knotted itself. For weeks, rumors circulated through the club about some asshole pressuring vulnerable people around town. He squeezed anyone who seemed an easy mark -- predatory loans, brutal collections, interest compounding faster than mold after rain.

Until now, I’d had no idea Jade numbered among his victims. “Name.”

She swallowed. “Roth.”

A slow burn crawled up my spine. The name rang familiar to every member of our club. Though not cartel-level, his connections made him a genuine threat. In his world, money and intimidation purchased anything he desired.

“How long has he been after you?”

Her answer came thin. “A while. Months. Maybe longer if you count when my brother… when he first owed them money. I didn’t understand they’d come after me until it was already too late.”

Anger rolled slowly through my chest, heavy and dark. “Your brother owed Roth money.”

Her head shook. “Someone. He mentioned a name once, but I didn’t listen. Should have.” She dragged in a breath and looked away. “Then he got arrested. I thought the worst part had passed. I thought whatever mess he’d made stayed his problem. Those were his choices. Not mine.”

“Men like Roth don’t care about differences,” I said.

Jade nodded, eyes glassy. “A month after my brother went to prison, they appeared at my door. Called me part of the collateral. Somehow they’d learned where I worked, lived, when I came and went. Even my friends’ names.” Her voice trembled. “When I explained about having no money, their response was simple -- other payment methods existed.”

My jaw clenched until it ached. “Did they touch you?”

The color vanished from her face. She froze, then gave a single shake of her head.

“They attempted to,” she whispered. “Made their point clear enough. A neighbor walking down the hall interrupted before… “ She swallowed hard. “Afterward, I never answered knocks. Changed my routes home. Slept fully dressed because their return seemed inevitable.”

Unwanted scenes played across my mind while my fists curled, hungry for contact.

“Why seek me out at our gate?” The question emerged harsher than intended.

A tear escaped, rolling down her cheek before she quickly wiped it away.

“Remember fixing my tire? Months back, near the east side grocery? The lug nuts wouldn’t budge until you stopped to help. You inspected the spare, then followed behind to ensure my car wouldn’t break down again.”

Memory hit hard. Tight jeans. Messy ponytail. Stubborn chin. The way she apologized for taking up my time before I’d even touched the tire iron. When she bought me coffee later, I’d wanted to ask for her number. I hadn’t.

Prospects rarely dated if they wanted a patch. Our time belonged to the club. An easy lay was one thing, but I’d wanted more from her.

“You were kind. You didn’t make me feel stupid. You didn’t ask for anything.” She sniffed hard, furious at herself for crying. “When I saw you the next week at the diner, you remembered my name. You remembered.”

Her voice broke at the last word.

“Whenever I saw you after that, I felt… safe. Not once did you look at me as though I were a problem.” Her shoulders curled inward. “People talked about the club. Some claimed you were dangerous. Others said nobody messed with anyone under your protection. In my mind, if anyone could keep Roth away, it would be you.”

Across her expression spread a shame suggesting she expected mockery for trusting rumors and a Prospect who hadn’t been patched in yet.

I sat there and felt responsibility settle in my bones.

“Tonight he kicked my door open.” Her words came faster now, panic rising again. “Locks slowed him down, but not enough. He came in angry. He said I was ignoring his calls. He said I was running out of chances.” One hand twisted her sleeve tight. “He threw my coffee table. He pulled my hair. He told me I didn’t understand what he could do.”

My hands clenched. “How did you get away?”

“The phone in his pocket buzzed and distracted him.” Her chest heaved with shallow breaths. “He spat curses, then announced he’d return later. The way he strode out -- as though he owned every inch of the building -- made me think he’d get back into my apartment no matter what I did.” A hard swallow caught in her throat. “After his footsteps faded, I bolted. My hands grabbed only keys and emergency cash from beneath the floorboard. No clothes. Nothing else mattered. For miles I drove while headlights in my rearview mirror transformed into his pursuing car.”

Her gaze lifted and locked on mine. “I didn’t think it through. My head kept screaming one thing. Find Kane.”

Rules existed for a reason. Prospects didn’t bring outsiders onto club property. Prospects didn’t add unknown danger to the compound and hope the President appreciated the surprise.

I knew all of that.

Jade trembled on my couch, purple bruise stark against her pale skin. Sending her away would be condemning her to a grave.

“Did you call the cops?” I asked.

A harsh laugh escaped her, ugly and bitter. “Weeks ago I tried. Filed a report. Nothing happened.” She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “The next day one of his men sat in my diner, smiling across the counter as though we shared some private joke.” Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “When I returned to follow up, suddenly nobody had time. My problem belonged to nobody but me.”

I blew out a slow breath, forcing my anger down into something useful. Rage didn’t help Jade, didn’t protect her. It could get me killed and get the club dragged into a mess at the wrong angle.

Atilla needed to hear her full story. Through Tinker, he knew about her arrival at the gate, but the President remained unaware of crucial details.

Rising from my seat, I pulled out my phone to check the time.

Late.

Too damn late for another call without pissing him off. Mostly because a ringing phone would wake the kids. Still, he knew she was here. Surely he expected me to reach out?

Yeah, silence would enrage him more when everything eventually surfaced.

When I faced Jade again, her gaze followed my movements with resignation, as though she already saw herself being escorted back into the darkness beyond our compound.

“I’m calling my President,” I said. “He needs your story from you, but he needs to know the basics right now.”

Fear flickered bright. “He’s going to send me away.”

“He might want to.” I couldn’t lie to her. “I won’t let you walk back into the dark alone tonight.”

Tears gathered again, but she blinked them back hard. Her chin lifted a fraction, stubbornness showing through fear. She looked like she hated needing anyone.

So did I.

I called Atilla.

Two rings. He answered, voice rough, awake. “Talk.”

“She’s inside my house now. The gate opened on your order. Roth broke into her apartment earlier. Grabbed her hair, threw furniture around. His phone rang, pulling him away. Before leaving, he promised to return. She fled straight to our compound, terrified and alone.”

Silence sat heavy on the line for a beat.

“What else?” Atilla asked.

“Brother went to prison. Debt started there. They called her collateral. She tried cops. No help.” I kept it tight. “She came because she trusted me.”

“Bring her to church,” he said. “Now.”

 

About the Author

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

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Saturday, February 7, 2026

SERIAL OVERKILL by Kelley Barks-Baker #LGBTQ #Mystery



Mystery, LGBTQ Mystery

Date Published: February 27, 2024



A small community has a killer with a gruesome vendetta in this darkly humorous LGBTQ+ mystery, featuring a group of tight-knit investigators whose lives are as complex as the murderer they’re chasing.

When a serial killer terrorizes their town, Doc, Switch, Saphine, and Lauren are hot on the trail—despite pushback from local law enforcement. But while they work to solve the crimes before more lives are lost, the detectives have to handle personal problems and repair trust with found family in order to even have a chance at solving the murders.

Soon, however, the group learns how the past affects relationships and their ability to serve justice. Will they find motive behind the violent crimes? Or are some mysteries never meant to be solved?

Serial Overkill is a suspense-filled, character-driven whodunit drama that will have readers chasing answers until the bitter end.

 


About the Author


Kelley Barks-Baker has a bachelor's degree in criminal justice administration. She enjoys reading and vacationing on the beach.

Barks-Baker currently resides with Cape Girardeau, Missouri with her family.

 

Contact Link

BookBuzz


Purchase Link

Amazon


RABT Book Tours & PR

Thursday, February 5, 2026

VENGEFUL FIRE by Mikala Ash



Dark Fantasy / Paranormal Romance

Date Published: February 6, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press



Heat rages out of control as the pub burns. The only thing hotter is the woman watching the flames.

Diana Kendall just had an argument with the owner of Cornwall’s pub. Now Cornwall’s is burning to the ground. Diana’s an enigma, an artist, beautiful and intelligent, but strangely aloof. How can Mike resist? But when he wakes up the next morning, Diana’s gone.

It’s not until Mike sees a naked woman disappear into an art gallery with a wolf at her side that the real trouble starts. The woman looks incredibly like Diana. But what is the mysterious apparition trying to tell him?

Mike needs to find out what’s really going. Does Diana’s fiery past tell the story, or will he get burnt by Vengeful Fire?

 


Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Mikala Ash

As he watched the flames, Mike wondered if Prometheus had known what he was doing when he stole fire from the gods and turned it over to mankind. Humans had been nothing but trouble ever since.

The alcohol fueled flames consuming Cornwall’s Pub were hypnotic -- mesmerizing and beautiful. They writhed in an almost sensual way. No, Mike corrected himself. The flames were sensual -- the rhythmic way the tongues of fire bent and unbent were undoubtedly sexual, as if they were alive, pyrrhic creatures in the throes of orgasm, riding the stiff wooden beams that fueled their passion. There was even a sense of playful capriciousness about the sound of splintering beams, which created a staccato beat cheekily mimicking the act -- the fucking act, the act of fucking.

Mike thought there was even something sexual about the words that described fire. Tongues of flame that licked, seething cauldrons of searing molten heat, glowing embers pulsing white hot, bursting explosions of showering sparks, inflamed… His mental thesaurus eventually failed him and he settled in to enjoy the show.

Several roof beams collapsed with a whoosh. Sparks showered the street and plumes of acrid smoke belched out of the roiling flames.

Mike looked forward to the climax of the act, when the last sinews of structure that held the roof aloft would melt, bend and break as the building collapsed completely into the smoldering debris of orgasm.

Moments later there was another explosion, no doubt the last of the bottles of bourbon, gin and scotch that had lined the mirrored bar. The firecracker bangs brought a cheer from the fickle crowd, who twenty minutes earlier had been drinking and singing within the Cornwall’s convivial walls. The crowd, Mike thought, were like jilted lovers who laughed self-consciously at the misfortunes of an unfaithful ex-partner.

Adrenaline still pumped madly through Mike’s veins as if he’d just come inside the cock-melting pussy of some stranger. He had reason. He’d been the one who’d shouted the alarm causing these rats to desert the sinking ship. Not one, he noted, had stayed to fight the hungry flames. No one had been loyal and true, though they’d drunk there, as he had, for the last several years. Ten minutes after the final climax of this act of consuming passion they’d likely be drinking at someone else’s bar. He felt unaccountably guilty, like the concerned friend who had to break the news of an infidelity. Knowing that what he did would have ramifications beyond a simple busted relationship. A step once taken…

Across from him, in the semicircle of voyeurs, stood a dark-haired girl, tall and lithe. He remembered her from earlier in the night. She was a stranger to the bar, a newbie, attractive enough to stop conversation… at least on the men’s parts and, he recalled, some of the girls too.

The pulsating conflagration illuminated her pensive face. She had striking features; high cheekbones, full lips, large dark eyes and long straight ebony hair that reached her waist. She seemed strangely familiar but he couldn’t place her. She wasn’t someone overtly famous, someone who was always in your face like a movie star. More likely she was a lingerie model or perhaps he’d seen her in a TV commercial.

His interest in her had been heightened, of course, by the ruckus she’d caused. An argument with the manager of the place, that stuck up prick Cornwall himself.

There followed a brief, angry exchange with the bouncer who’d been instructed to escort her furious body off the premises. Mike had left his seat to go to her assistance but she’d been too quickly ejected and by the time he’d reached the street she’d gone.

She’d returned an hour or so later, just before he raised the alarm about the fire. He noticed she’d come in the side door that led from the alley. Her serious and cunning expression reminded him of a jilted lover who can’t resist sneaking into the ex’s bedroom. The scene of so many orgasms; where so much cum had been ejaculated, spilled, and swallowed. Just once more to lie on the sodden sheets of love.

Mike made a decision and moved between the drunken observers and stood beside her. Amazingly, despite the choking, plastic laden smoke that swirled around them, she smelled of… oranges.

“Hi there,” he said.

“Do I know you?”

She hadn’t looked at him. Her eyes were fixed on the firefighters, those modern knights with watery lances who battled the angry chimera; the mindless fire-breathing beast.

“No. I saw you earlier when you had a row with that prick Cornwall.”

“So?”

“I really don’t think you should be standing here. The fire chief will tell the police that the fire was deliberately lit. The police will then interview the staff and they’ll describe you and they’ll see you here watching the place burn down. Not a good look.”

She turned to face him then, dark eyes sizing him up. The rippling flames were reflected in them and he found himself lost in those glowing embers, looking for his silhouette.

“What do you have in mind?”

Infidelity, a sweet, sweet friend. “The smoke has made me thirsty. I know a bar across town that’s not so… hot.”

Her full lips curled into a smile. One last look at the inferno and a shrug as if it didn’t matter anymore. The deed was done. “Lead the way.”

Mike took her arm in his and pulled her gently through the swelling crowd, now ten deep. The Cornwall had been popular and would, no doubt because of its prime location, be rebuilt and open for business within six months. Bigger and better, like a whore returning to her favorite corner after a boob job.

The Glass Half Full was a pretentious little dive frequented by philosophy students. Mike liked it. Some of the regulars even knew his name. She gave it an appraising glance through the frosted windows before nodding and following him in.

“What do you do?” she asked once settled on a high stool at a round pedestal table.

Mike couldn’t help but notice how her full breasts rested on the tabletop. “Webpage designer. And you?”

“Student. Art.”

“I guessed it.”

“And how did you do that?” she said tiredly.

He lowered his eyes to her hands. “Paint on your fingertips.”

She laughed and the pure tones resonated playfully in his ears. “I could be a house painter.”

“Interior design?” he countered.

“Renaissance art.”

“Ah, ceilings. Just as good. Forgive me, but I may not know art but I…”

“… yeah, yeah, don’t say it.”

He took a sip of his beer but couldn’t take his eyes off her. He felt strangely comfortable being with her. No nerves at all, which was unusual, given the circumstances. He was, after all, sitting with a stunningly beautiful woman who he desperately wanted to fuck.

Usually, whenever he was alone with a new girl, he had butterflies the size of eagles flying out of formation in his stomach. “I was in the art gallery just the other day,” he said suddenly to fill the silence. “And I realized the thing about reality is that it’s, in fact, an illusion.”

He shuddered inside. What an incredibly stupid passé thing to say. She’d think him a pretentious prat, which was precisely what he was at that very moment.

She lent toward him, unaccountably interested. “How so?”

“Well, meaningless rays of light enter our eyes and excite some neurons. Neuro-chemicals jump across synapses. These excite more neurons. A pulse of electrical current travels to the next synapse and so on until eventually our brain sorts them into some sort of matrix we can consciously interpret.”

Her nod of interest urged him on. “But it’s an illusion, something our brains make up. It’s all a fiction. There are gaps, things we don’t see, because of lighting or perspective. Our brain fills in those gaps with assumptions and pre-conceived ideas. We see what we expect to see. Due to our common brain structure and culture we fill the gaps the same way and the result is we all share the same illusion.”

She licked her bottom lip and for a moment he lost his train of thought.

“Like a mass hallucination?” she prompted.

He nodded, grateful for her lifeline. “Something like that. I know it’s been said before. It’s hardly an original thought, but it struck me there in the gallery and for the first time I knew what it meant. There was this painting…”

“How unusual to find one of those in there.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously in the Glass’s dim lighting.

He smiled back. He knew she wasn’t being sarcastic, only getting into the spirit of the absurd that seemed to have fallen about him this evening. He actually liked her. “That’s what I thought,” he said, joining in the fun. “This particular painting was just a mass and swirl of fine lines in blue ink. The title of the painting was “Stand Back,” so I did. And the lines resolved themselves into a face. It was the artist resting her head on her forearm while she drew her own face while looking at a mirror. It was quite brilliant, but it showed me that reality is perception, excuse the cliché. That an alien being seeing that painting, having not seen anything else from Earth, would just see some fine lines in blue ink.”

“And apart from the face, what else did you see that an alien would not have?”

“Emotions are hard to judge.”

“Try.”

He put on an aristocratic English accent. “It’s like looking at paintings from the eighteenth century, don’t you know.”

He saw her lips tighten as she suppressed her laughter. “I don’t.”

“I can see what they have painted -- that shared human knowledge again. But not what’s going on within the minds of the people depicted even though they’re only a few hundred years in the past… because their world view is completely different from ours… they’re an enigma.”

“The girl in blue ink,” she said slowly. “Is she an enigma?”

 

About the Author

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.


Author Links

Author on Facebook

Author on Twitter

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15



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Tuesday, February 3, 2026

IMPULSE CONTROL by Emily Carrington #RomanticSuspense #LGBTQ




Marisburg Chronicles (#8)


Romantic Suspense / LGBTQ

Date Published: February 6, 2026

Publisher: Changeling Press



Spontaneity can be both exciting and terrifying for everyone involved.

When Riku ran from the trouble caused by his lover’s family, he wasn’t quite sure what he was running to. He left his beloved behind, abandoning his heart’s desire in the name of escape. Now, in a job he loves but missing that critical piece of his soul, he mourns, longing for the companionship as much as the sexual tension.

Theo has given chase, all the way across the country. He wants closure if nothing else, but that would be a terrible second choice. What he longs for is to have Riku back in his life and in his bed.

Now, with all the time and former distance between them, can Riku and Theo move past the merely physical cravings of “I missed you” to a confession of their true feelings?

 


Excerpt

Copyright ©2026 Emily Carrington

HotSpot Universal Media had taken off in the late nineties and seemed to grow exponentially every year. Theo’s parents’ company wasn’t exactly the only universal design organization that worked with people of all different abilities, but it had been one of the first to open its doors and actually make a profit.

Every time Theo had to recite that bit of historical dogma, he felt both proud and like he was rubbing his competitors’ noses in shit. He was so glad to have a job when many people with visual impairment and hearing loss couldn’t find work, but he was also profoundly aware that HUM traded as much in bad press for others as it did in good reviews.

He leaned back in the seat of the Audi and closed his eyes, effectively shutting out the world. He wore headphones that the driver could talk through to get his attention if need be, but mostly the noise cancelling was to soothe his over-stressed brain. He’d just spent four days at a conference touting the importance of the universal design company, using the catch phrase his parents’ marketing team had come up with three or four years ago: Charity begins at HUM.

He was suddenly distracted by a wet nose on his ankle. He tended to wear low-riding socks when he wasn’t in public and today was no exception. His service dog was either just shifting or she was asking for pets. He reached down without opening his eyes and found her head. He rubbed her stand-up ears affectionately. She shifted a little closer and lifted her head, giving him access to the spot under her chin. She liked to be scratched there.

Grinning, breathing out a good chunk of stress, and feeling grateful for Capitaine’s monitoring of his mood, Theo murmured, “Good girl.”

“Did you say something, sir?” Carlton asked through his headphones.

“Nope.” He felt his grin stretch. “Capitaine just needed some attention.”

“Very good, sir.”

He couldn’t break Carlton of the habit of calling him “sir.” Probably that was because the man was former military. Theo supposed it was better than not getting any respect, but the stiff interactions he had with the family’s staff made him extraordinarily self-conscious. He much preferred the occasionally awkward discussions he had with the businesspeople he worked with. Often, their responses were confused, as they were unsure how to talk to someone who was mostly deaf and losing more vision weekly, or so it seemed.

His phone rang, buzzing against his leg and sounding in his ears. He pressed a button and said, “Hello, this is Theodore Billings.” He didn’t recognize the number, but that wasn’t unusual. He got lots of random calls from folks trying to get him to fund their project or business.

“Sir, it’s Omar Jeffries. I’m sorry I’m calling from a strange number, but my cell is dead and I forgot my charger in the hotel.”

The private investigator sounded excited, or at least not as discouraged as he had during the last three conversations over the last two months. Theo sat up a little straighter and, after giving Capitaine one more pat, turned all his attention to finding out what Omar knew. “Good news?” he asked, trying to make his voice casual. He failed as a frisson of excitement bubbled up.

“I’m in Pennsyltucky and --”

Theo frowned and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Do you mean Pennsylvania?” He didn’t like unfriendly names for things. He tended to think there was too much division in the country at large.

Omar took a breath. “Yes, sir. Sorry. I’m in a rural part of the state and even if this little town is a hotbed of culture, it’s surrounded by farmland and…”

Theo heard him take another breath. Whatever he had to tell, he was letting his passion overcome his caution.

Did that mean he’d found something concrete?

“It’s a little town west of Philadelphia. Maybe an hour outside the city.”

“What’s the proof you’ve found this time?”

“Not just proof, boss. He’s actually living in a house with a gay couple. I’ve seen him, and he and the one man went out and bought him some new clothes, I think.”

Jealousy threatened to swallow Theo’s common sense then. He blurted, “Did they… Is Riku their third?”

“I don’t think so. I snuck a peek in the window when he forgot to shut the curtains. He sleeps downstairs on an inflatable mattress, although I don’t know why he doesn’t sleep on the couch that’s available.” He paused and then added, “Maybe he’s too tall to be comfortable. It’s more like a loveseat than a sofa.”

Theo’s heartbeat had picked up. He closed one hand into a loose fist and put it against his chest as hope coursed through him. “What’s he doing there?”

“I think he’s looking for work. He’s bought, or had bought for him, actually, a new suit.”

“Philadelphia… All right. I’ll get plane tickets and fly out there. What’s the name of the town?”

“It’s more like a tiny village than a town. It’s called Marisburg.”

* * *

Riku Watanabe, feeling like a caged bird, stared in horror at the orange cat fur that coated his suit jacket and trousers. “Fuck,” he whispered. He reminded himself the interview wasn’t today, that there was time to wash the clothing again, only… wasn’t at least part of the suit supposed to be dry cleaned? He couldn’t remember. He plunged his fingers into his hair and groaned. It wasn’t that he didn’t like cats, although he preferred dogs. He just didn’t need anything else to go wrong before his interview at the school for the deaf tomorrow.

Someone touched his shoulder and he jumped. He could be snuck up on easily with his limited hearing, but that didn’t mean he liked being startled. He opened his mouth to snap at Peter, remembering just in time that Peter might be able to read his lips. He was here on sufferance, or that was what it felt like, and he didn’t want to offend one of his hosts.

Since coming to Marisburg, Pennsylvania, shortly before the Christmas holiday, he’d nearly gotten himself thrown out due to rudeness on more than one occasion. He didn’t want that to happen, not with his future on the line.

Peter raised an eyebrow in inquiry and Riku shook his head, flapping his hands helplessly. Then he pointed at the suit, which he’d laid, neatly, in a cardboard box to keep it from getting dirty. Or at least that had been the vain hope.

Peter took a look and his mouth opened, releasing a sound that was loud but undeniably amused. He shut his mouth an instant later, looking embarrassed.

Riku shook his head and signed, “You’re laughing at me?”

“Do you know anything about cats?” Peter signed back. Then, without waiting for Riku to respond, he continued. “Cats love boxes. ‘If I fits, I sits,’ applies to cats. They especially love being surrounded by walls, or a semblance of walls, on all sides. That’s why cat scales in a veterinarian’s office are often squares with pretty tall sides.” He peered at the suit. “Tracks has really made himself at home. Let me get the lint rollers. At least he didn’t put any holes in the fabric.”

Peter was gone about two minutes, long enough for Riku to reconsider his frustration level. When Peter reappeared, Riku asked, his hands trembling just a little with nerves, “Would Abe give me a ride to the school, do you think?” He didn’t want to mention the rideshares and how they might not get him to his destination on time tomorrow. He wasn’t sure if asking Abe was a bigger imposition than he already assumed. If he hadn’t had to give up his car in Colorado, or stop using his credit card in Ohio, maybe he wouldn’t feel so trapped. He’d been without a job for over a year, and seven months ago he’d packed up what little he thought he could manage to use that actually belonged to him, and he’d fled East.

Swallowing hard, he watched Peter anxiously.

Peter set down both lint brushes and frowned at him. “Of course Abe will take you. The two of us may not agree with some of your spontaneous actions but we want to see you happily employed.” He paused and then added, “I mean, you know a lot about teaching English.”

Riku flushed. He’d been ranting, really, about the differences between ASL and spoken English and how learning both was a challenge for anyone, but especially for the deaf community. The languages shared much in common, but the ways they were different outnumbered the similarities.

Peter pointed at himself. “I thought ASL was the superior language, but you made me realize it’s equal to the spoken word.” He shook his head, looking rueful. “I wonder if that’s one of the reasons my wife broke up with me. She could tell I was prejudiced.”

Peter had been married before his union with Abe? Riku asked silently, then out loud, “You’re bisexual?”

Peter nodded. Then he changed the subject. “Don’t worry about Abe missing work or anything. It’s his practice, and if he needs to take off, ever, he plans for it.”

Riku sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just anxious. I want this to go well.”

Peter’s eyes widened. It seemed a strange reaction to Riku’s words.

Glancing over his shoulder, Riku spotted the Siamese cat, who was a new addition to the Peter-and-Abe household, rubbing his cheek against the box. Riku hurried over to rescue his suit before it had cream-colored hairs on it too.

Peter handed him one of the de-furring brushes. He set his down for a moment and then signed, “Breathe. You’re going to do a great job tomorrow. As for your suit, we’ll hang it in the hall closet and keep the door shut.”

Grateful, Riku nodded and the two of them set about cleaning off the inordinate amount of cat fur.

As he worked, though, Riku’s thoughts turned, as they often had since he’d left San Francisco, to the life he’d abandoned. He’d had few acquaintances that weren’t hangers-on, wanting a handout from Theo, but he’d had his lover. That had, largely, been enough. Not because he was a hermit by choice but because most of his interactions with others had been online. There had been enough drama in the deaf community to keep people entertained for years, and in the deafblind circles where Theo sometimes ran, all anyone seemed to be able to do was talk about each other. Theo had once explained that tendency with “many don’t have access to the technology that would make reading the news or keeping up with other current events possible, so, being human, they talk about what they know -- other humans.”

Riku was taking care of the trousers, removing stripes of furry orange from the dark blue fabric while he chewed over why he missed his old life so much. It wasn’t just that he’d had a consistent roof over his head. It wasn’t the creature comforts, although there had been plenty of those. It was the quiet evenings, snuggled up with Theo while his lover read over applications. It was the passionate sex and the post-coital cuddles and kisses.

Was he simply dwelling on the good things he’d left behind? Well, yes...

 


About the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.

 

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