That Voodoo

My short story "That Voodoo" is now available (in a slightly different form than some of you have seen it before) as part of Aspen Mountain Press's gay international hustler anthology, Foreign Boys. I am THRILLED to have my story in this antho alongside tales by Laura Baumbach and William Maltese.
Click here to purchase the book.
Be warned, "That Voodoo" is NOT my usual angsty HEA. This story is dark with a capital "D". But it's still one hell of a read :D

Here's an excerpt to whet your appetite:

It was the smell that got me.

Rich, spicy, musky. Like sandalwood and cloves, with a big dose of raw sex. Never smelled anything like that. One whiff, and I was hard as a fucking diamond. So, yeah. The leather and skin and prettiness caught my eye, but it was the way the kid smelled that sealed the deal.

I thought he was a girl at first. Little wisp of a thing in a black leather mini-skirt and a pink t-shirt that wouldn’t have been out of place on a high school girl. Shoulder length black hair with maroon streaks in it, cinnamon skin, great big eyes that matched the water of St. Ann’s Bay only a hundred yards or so from the corner he was working. And damn if that red-painted mouth wasn’t just made for sucking cock. Prettiest goddamn thing I’d ever seen.

I was about to pass him by. Not into little girls, thank you very much, no matter how pretty they are. And I knew a place just up the narrow little street where the boys were young and relatively clean. But he grabbed me as I walked past. Those chipped black fingernails dug right into my arm, and I didn’t have any choice but to stop.

“Hey, mister, you looking for a date?” His voice was husky, too deep for that delicate little body. That’s when I realized she was a he, and my interest level shot right up.

“Maybe.” I gave him my best cool-customer smile. “What’s it gonna cost me?”

“Hundred and fifty American for an hour. Thousand for the night. I go to your place, you give me cab fare in the morning. Not included.”

He had only the faintest trace of Jamaican accent. It confused me. After twelve years living in St. Ann, I’d learned to tell the difference between natives and transplants, but damned if I could place this boy.

I laughed. “Way too steep, kiddo. Good luck with that, though. ‘Night.”

I started to turn away. His hand tightened, pulled, and before I knew it he had that sweet little body pressed tight against me. Didn’t faze me any. I’d been around the block a time or ten, and my dick hadn’t been my boss for ages.

“Better let go, kid,” I said. “I don’t wanna hurt you, but I will if you make me.”

He smiled, slow and lazy. Those pale blue eyes looked almost white against his dusky skin. The combination had me thinking, Jamaican hooker meets rich white tourist who’s happy to pay extra for a bare fuck, but not for the bastard kid he leaves behind.

The lack of accent argued against that theory, but you never know. Made me thank God, Allah and Mistress Erzulie herself for making me gay. I’ve always been a selfish prick, but I don’t see how a man looks at himself in the mirror knowing he’s got a kid out there someplace starving. Or worse, whoring on a seedy street corner.

“I’m worth the money, mister,” he said. “I can make you feel like you never felt before.”

He pressed his crotch into my thigh. I could feel how hard he was, which was something different. Most of the boys working the streets of St. Ann didn’t ever get it up.

“That’s what they all say.” I played it cool. “Why should I think you’re different?”

He stood on tiptoe in his high-heeled black leather boots, and rubbed his cheek against mine. That’s when I caught that smell, and it went straight to my dick.