GPS - Never Get Lost Again

I am pleased to announce that my M/M short for All Romance eBook's 28 Days of Heart, GPS, is now available for pre-order! Proceeds from sales of this title are donated to the American Heart Association, along with the 27 other titles under this banner. GPS was a fun little story to write - it's been a while since I sat down to write a magical romantic comedy. I don't know if this would classify as contemporary fantasy, because there are elements in the story that may make a reader scratch her/his head and wonder. Either way, I hope you enjoy!

While we're waiting on that, I have a sneak preview of my upcoming Enter Sandman, the first in my unofficially named Metallarotica (heh) trilogy for Phaze Books.

Struck by insomnia, Len Crocker is desparate to try anything to get to sleep, even obtain the services of a mysterious living god, and probable huckster, known simply as The Sandman. When the object of Len's desires, Andrew Gibbons, springs for the nighttime session, Len is amazed by The Sandman's effectiveness...and pleasantly surprised with what he finds in his bed the next morning.

Enter Sandman is a contemporary short with urban fantasy elements, and is also coming in February with GPS. Enjoy the preview!

“Hello?” called a deep, very male voice, and Len’s heart stopped. “Anybody here?”

“Come on back, Crane,” Gibb called from behind Len, startling him further. Len watched a shadow fall across the bedroom doorway and in stepped the personification of any gay boy’s dream. Tall and broad-shouldered, Crane wore a curly mess of short blond hair over two arched, inquisitive brows. A strong jaw twitched, as though the man deeply assessed his new surroundings and planned his next move. He wore white, loose-fitting pants and a skin-tight, light blue tank that nicely set off defined muscles and lean arms, one of which flexed as he lifted a black leather bag.

“Can I put this here?” Crane pointed one end of the doctor-style satchel to a small table that held spare change and a boring science fiction novel Len had tried as a sleep aid.

Len shrugged, then nodded, all the while swearing to himself that he had locked the door earlier. He stood to lean forward a bit, which would have given him a straight line of vision toward the front of the house, but Crane blocked his view.

“I’m Crane. Nice to meet you,” he said, extending a large hand that engulfed Len’s in a warm, constricting handshake. “Gibb tells me you’re having trouble sleeping.”

“Th-that’s right, yes.” If the man wasn’t a doctor, he seemed to do a good job with the masquerade. Len wondered if he should at least ask the man for some credentials, then worried Gibb might take the question as uncertainty toward his referral of the guy.

“Well, let’s see what we can do about that.” Down went the bag, and a loud zip filled the silence between chatter. “Do you have any specific allergies, Len?” Crane asked as he extracted a number of brown apothecary bottles from the open flaps.

“Not that I’m aware of.” Len turned to Gibb, as though seeking confirmation, and he noticed his friend appeared a bit anxious. He watched Gibb watch Crane, curious to know to what extent their relationship ran. Crane had helped cure Gibb’s insomnia—that much he knew—but the way Gibb licked his lips and shifted his stance told Len quite a bit more must have happened.

Or, perhaps Gibb wanted more from Crane. Len’s heart sank at the thought. Story of my life.

“Good enough,” Crane murmured. “How about nightmares, night sweats?”

Len shook his head. “You gotta be asleep for that kind of thing.”

“True. Well, I think, since we’re probably looking for a good weekend of rest, we’ll try my extra strength formula.” Crane showed Len a bottle bearing a handmade label. “Rosewood with oil of valerian to knock you out, and…do you have any snoring issues?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Yeah, as if. Surely one of my myriad of bed partners would have complained by now.

Could he be any more pathetic?

Crane palmed a smaller vial topped with a dropper cap. “Okay. If you find that you do, and your snoring wakes you, I’ll leave this thyme oil. Rub a bit on your feet, and that should take care of it.”

“Sure.” What the hell? “Uh, so I guess you’re basically a masseuse?”

Crane flashed him a dark glare, and Len wanted to take back the question. A more foolish man might have asked a Bostonian if he favored the Yankees this season. To Len’s relief, however, Crane offered up a response in a pleasant voice.

“I prefer to call my line of work sleep aromatherapy,” he explained. “I am a licensed massage therapist, yes, and I’m trained in sports medicine and cranial sacral osteopathy. However, I find what I do here more rewarding. I’ve been in your shoes, too, and I can truly sympathize.”

Len nodded and relaxed a bit, yet suspicion continued to nag at him. Long soliloquies in the movies usually resulted in somebody receiving a frying pan to the head. He’d lost track of Gibb while watching Crane make himself at home. The man only needed a few seconds to dip into Len’s adjoining bathroom for a razor and a spare shoestring to use as a garrote.

He turned around and noticed Gibb emerged from there instead holding two folded bath towels. “These should be big enough, I think,” he said, setting them on the foot of the bed.

“For what?” Len asked.

“For you, Len,” Crane said, and pulled out a small MP3 player with a detachable speaker. “I need one towel for the bed so we don’t stain your sheets with the oil.”

Len nodded. That sounded reasonable. “And the other?”

Crane’s smile touched his ears. “Please undress, and you’ll find out.”