MORE LIES by J.M. Snyder

MORE LIES by J.M. Snyder

In Beautiful Liar, former childhood television star Johnny Thomas wants to get back into show business. He hires his old manager, Lou, who has heard rumors of Johnny's sexuality. Though he's advised to play it straight, Johnny falls for Brett, a photographer whose candid shots of the lovers almost sinks Johnny's career before it can get off the ground.

More Lies takes place several months after Johnny's landed a coveted role in the upcoming Roxy Greene summer blockbuster. Lou tells him Roxy wants the media to think she and Johnny are a hot item off the set to build buzz for the movie. Now that he's dating Brett, Johnny doesn't feel comfortable lying about his love life, but surprisingly his boyfriend thinks it's a great idea.

But when Johnny and Roxy meet for the first time, it's evident neither of them are keen on the charade.

If Roxy's attitude is any indication, she can't stand Johnny. What happens when she finds out he's lying about his sexuality to keep his role in her film?BUY THE eBOOK *** READ THE EXCERPT

EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.



Lunch is a disaster. Despite the cameras and the fans clamoring for attention mere yards away, Johnny feels invisible. Lou and Becky talk shop, leaving him to entertain Roxy, but she’s more interested in her iPhone than anything he might have to say. The few questions he asks go unanswered -- she’s either playing a game on the phone or texting someone, and it takes all her attention. Even though she sits beside him, she’s a million miles away. She even props her head on her hand, letting her hair fall like a veil to obscure her face from him.

He doesn’t know her and already he hates her.

He could really use that rum and Coke now, but when he tries to signal the waiter, Lou intervenes. “Just soda,” the manager says, staring Johnny down. “Who’s picking up the tab?”

Johnny glares at the salad sitting in front of him, a starter course he isn’t interested in eating.

As if feeling the tension at the table for the first time, Becky glances over at her daughter and clears her throat. Roxy ignores her, and Johnny feels a foot brush his under the table, then Roxy jolts as if kicked. She brushes the hair from her face long enough to frown at her mother. Because he’s watching, Johnny sees Becky mouth the words, “Put that away.”

Who’s idea was this lunch again? Because Johnny doesn’t think anyone at their table is enjoying it.

With a huff, Roxy pockets the iPhone and picks at her salad. She tucks her hair behind her ear and glances at him, still scowling. “Who are you again?”

Her mother hisses, “Roxy.”

“Johnny,” he says, glad to be spoken to at last. “Johnny Thomas. I’m in your movie.”

Roxy stabs at her salad with her fork and grunts. “Oh yeah, right.”

Uneasy silence settles over them again. Johnny watches her eat for a moment before deciding to give his own salad a try. Searching for something to say, anything that might get her talking, he asks, “Who were you texting?”

Her answer is short and clipped, hostile. “Mel.”

He almost chokes on his salad. “Boyfriend?” If so, why is he here again?

The look she gives him could curdle cheese. “Don’t you even watch my show?”

There it is -- the million dollar question. Brett had tried to prep Johnny for the luncheon by bringing him up to date on Roxy’s stardom, but Johnny only half listened at the time. He hadn’t honestly thought she’d ask him anything about her television series. Who was that egotistical?

He could lie. Shrug and say, “Sure,” and hope she doesn’t start asking random trivia questions for him to answer. Or he could be honest with her and face the consequences. Yeah, he thinks, swallowing the lettuce he’s chewed into pulp, because everything about this meeting is honest. Bullshit.

Still, the truth has to start somewhere. Reaching for his soda, he admits, “I’ve never actually seen it.”

Her eyes widen until the whites perfectly frame her irises. It’s a spooky look, dark eyes rimmed with white outlined with black kohl. It gives her a frightened appearance. “What?”

“Your show.” He gulps his drink -- too late to turn back now. “I’ve never watched it. To be honest, I didn’t even know who you were before I auditioned for the movie.”

He tenses his shoulders, waiting for the diva-esque backlash he’s sure will come.

To his surprise, she laughs.

He winces and sort of smiles as he turns toward her, not really sure what she expects. Her face is lit with an open, easy expression he can almost like. Leaning closer, she lowers her voice and admits, “It’s okay. I’ve never really watched it, either.”

With a grin, Johnny thinks, Now we’re getting somewhere. “So who’s Mel? Love interest?”

“Best friend,” Roxy corrects. “Female, I might add. So no.”

Her gaze shifts past him to her mother before dropping to what remains of her salad, and something in that worried glance makes Johnny think he’s not the only one playing a part in someone else’s script.

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FREEZER BURN by Kate Early

FREEZER BURN by Kate Early

When David and Randy literally crash into each other things heat up in the grocery store freezer

Randy is facing the gauntlet of grocery store aisles and too many options when he crashes into another shopping cart. David can't hide his reaction, recognizing Randy has him short of breath.

Things heat up when the men escape into the store freezer for a little privacy.

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Freezer Burn


Free Range.

Fertilized.

Organic.

Vegetarian.

Free Range Organic.

How many fucking different kinds of eggs were there? Randy started to reach into the cooler filled with the neatly organized cartons for the third time then stopped. He was pretty sure all the different options were stocked on the shelves just to confuse him and every other clueless guy that wanted something yellow to go with his bacon. The chickens were having their subtle revenge. A picture of the foul birds rubbing their feathers together and plotting formed in Randy's mind.

With a groan of defeat, he picked one carton at random and added it to his cart. Visiting the grocery store was not a high point in his week. He’d worked up the motivation to go only after sitting on the toilet next to an empty cardboard roll. He was not a masochist, so only emergency items were written on the paper towel shopping list. Looking down at his messy scribble, he searched out the next item. Bacon, check. Eggs, check. He took a step forward, shopping list in hand. Time to move on to—Bang!

"Umph."

The sound of metal crashing together echoed in Randy's ears as his cart collided with another one coming down the aisle. The force of the collision pushed the handlebar out of his hand and buried the edge in his gut as the cart swung around. He grunted painfully as the air blew out of his lungs, leaving him hunched

over and gasping.

The painful stabbing via shopping cart distracted him. Add that one to the list of lethal weapons. He tuned out the other driver's apologies until he heard his name.

"Oh my God, I am so—Randy?"

Of course, he would recognize that voice. Embarrassment felt like a snake squeezing his chest tight.

Was it too much to ask that he crash into someone he didn't know?

Shit, this could have been a scene from a bad comedy. He could see the script now, being green lighted as ‘Randy, the Bumbling Idiot’. Handsome man turns the corner at the grocery store and runs into another shopper. Queue laugh track.

Randy fought to stop wheezing and respond, but it took a moment to recover his breath. The other man froze like a deer in the headlights, staring at Randy and making the situation even more awkward. He hated looking like a klutz and drawing attention to himself in public.

‚Hello, David.‛ By the time he managed the two words, heat burned his cheeks and he was taken over by stage fright. It was Macbeth in high school all over again. He didn't know his lines.

**END EXCERPT**
 
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COLD HANDS, WARM HEART by Vincent Diamond

COLD HANDS, WARM HEART by Vincent Diamond

When Byron Reese infiltrated a big cat refuge in north Florida, he knew undercover work wasn't all fun and games. But now the case is over, the arrests have been made, and yet ...

And yet he's still here at the refuge, working with Kendall, sleeping with Kendall, and maybe, just maybe, falling for Kendall.

This story appears in the author's print collection, Rough Cut.

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.



Byron stripped off his gloves and stepped over to the laundry area, stacked with dirty blankets and towels, rank with the odor of various cats’ scent markings. Christmas week had been traditionally cold and they’d put out linens for the animals. Now, in a reversal common to Florida winter weather, the temperature was back to tropical and blankets weren’t needed. Byron grabbed a clean towel from the refuge dryer.

Kendall bent low over the sink, running his soapy hands over his shoulders and upper back. The water sluiced off his caramel-colored skin, some into the sink, some onto the tile floor. Byron enjoyed the show: Kendall’s thick chest and sculpted arms, the way his waist narrowed into his khakis, the absurdly cute outie belly button. He rinsed off and Byron scrubbed the towel over Kendall’s face and shoulders, then leaned in for a quick kiss.

I like taking care of him, I really do.

Kendall gazed up at Byron, brown eyes soft, the look that said, “Come here and fuck me, big boy,” the look that made Byron’s knees tremble even after four months together.

They’d met when the Wildlife and Game Commission had sent Byron in to investigate the refuge. WGC suspected Kendall, the owner, and Ricardo Lopez, a silent partner, were big game dealers, selling endangered and protected species to the canned “hunt” farms where anyone with the cash could shoot a lion, a tiger or a leopard. They were half-right: Ricardo had been dealing out the leopards, lions, tigers, and other big cats. Kendall merely ran the refuge without being involved or even aware of the criminal operations. When Ricardo threatened them both with a shotgun, Byron shot him -- the first time he’d ever used his gun on the job. Ricardo’s death had shaken him -- badly -- and Kendall’s injury during the op bothered him as much. Byron stayed on after, taking a desk duty job up in Tallahassee, commuting the two-hour trip on Friday and Sunday nights, so he could spend weekends in Kendall’s arms -- and bed.

Now, Kendall leaned back against the sink, arms and chest out, posing.

“You want winter? I’ll give you winter.” Byron scooped up some cold water from the rinse water sink and flicked it Kendall’s way.

“Anything. As long as it’s cold!”

“Babe, if I could change the weather for you, I would,” Byron whispered. He had to push the words past a knot in his throat, unexpected. It jarred him. His heart sped up. “Winter? Step right this way.”

He grabbed Kendall’s hand and dragged him to the walk-in freezer. Two bare bulbs sent a dim light in the small space. Boxes of meat stamped “not for human consumption” were stacked on utility shelving; the flesh showing through the carry holes was dyed blue. A pallet in one corner held five gallon buckets of chicken parts. A row of bloodsicles gleamed with red-brown ice crystals. The door thunked shut behind them, and air filled with frosty condensation as their breath spiraled up to the lights.

Kendall grinned and shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You ever made love in the snow?”

“I’m a Florida boy. It’s you Yankees who hobnob in the cold.”

“Hobnob, that’s an interesting term for it.” Byron let his gaze drop to Kendall’s shorts. The outline of Kendall’s thick cock pressed against the khaki fabric. “Lose those.”


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OTHER LANDS by Steve Nugent

OTHER LANDS by Steve Nugent

Jack Mitchell is troubled by dark memories of his past, unable to accept his own sexuality. Skeptical of help offered through religion and psychology, he rejects the love of his partner, Peter, and scorns any attempts to alter his situation.

Then he returns to the country where he grew up, the source of his haunting troubles, where an unexpected encounter points him toward a resolution.

This story appears in the author's print collection, ATTRACTIONS.

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.



Jack moved Peter’s arm away from his knee, stood up and walked to the window.

“Fuck it, Peter, I’m not here to be helped by you. You make me feel as if I’m one of your maladjusted students who are doing badly at school. I don’t want to be dependent on you, or anyone for that matter. I know I should have been more open with you, but I want to do it in my own time. I thought that going there would help. And now I know I’m just as closed up and pissed off as ever.”

“I can see that, and I’m getting the brunt of it.”

“Sometimes you just seem like fucking perfect, Peter.”

“And not perfect enough for you, obviously.”

“What do you want of me? You took me as I am now. You knew how screwed up I was when we met. I never hid anything from you. Now it’s like you’ve got some missionary zeal to convert me -- to what? To who? To someone you want me to be?”

“You’ve got it all wrong. I just want you to be a happy guy, regardless of who you are.”

“Very noble, Peter. Selfless and saintly.”

“Now you’re trying your own brand of sarcasm to get to me. At times I don’t think you want this relationship, and you just want to find a way out of it. You think that if you get me pissed off enough with you, maybe I’ll surrender you up. You also knew what I wanted when we met. I wanted to get close to you. I needed a guy who would give me that. I’m not succeeding.”

“Obviously not. I wonder why you keep on trying.”

“I keep hoping that as long as you keep trying to deal with your demons, we’ll make it. I can’t fight them; I don’t even know what they are. I just hope that you won’t give up.”

“So now you don’t believe I finish what I start?”

“That’s not fair. No, I don’t believe that. I’m just hoping you can see it through once and for all. I keep hoping we may reach a point where our relationship can really work. But I’m beginning to wonder if that’s ever going to happen.”

“So all this is just hard on you.”

“I’m not saying that. I don’t think of it in that way.”

Outside, a pigeon was building a nest on a neighbour’s balcony. Jack envied its solitude, its single-mindedness. Will it be left there in peace?

Jack leaned his forehead against the glass. “I don’t know where all this leads, or even what I want.”

“You will know when you get there. Your heart will tell you.”

“Straight from the pages of Boy’s Own Psychology,” he said, turning to look at Peter. “What’s in the next issue?”

“I can’t win here, can I, Jack?"

“Probably not.”

“Why do I love you?” Peter asked.

“I don’t know. I always wonder.”

Peter laughed.

Jack turned from the window. “I love you, too.”

So easily said, so automatic, thought Jack, and so untrue, for he knew he had never been in love with Peter.

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ENCORE by J.M. Snyder

ENCORE by J.M. Snyder

BRAND NEW FICTION FROM J.M. SNYDER!

In Beautiful Disaster, pop superstar Corey Evans realizes how hollow he feels until he discovers he's in love with his best friend and band mate, Ian Coltraine. Together they form the successful pop duo 2ICE, and this story picks up where the first left off.

A couple not only onstage but in the bedroom now, Ian and Corey have managed to hide their newfound relationship from the fans, the press, and -- most importantly -- their management. But when manager Dean Summers stumbles upon the two of them together, he's determined to put an end to what he sees as a destructive course which can only end up tearing the band apart.

Is the budding love Ian and Corey share strong enough to stand up to the pressures they face?

If you haven't read Beautiful Disaster, this story may not make much sense. So pick up the first story before diving into this short, satisfying sequel!

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.

The kiss was electric, spiking between them, burning away the moment, the world and everything in it, everything that wasn’t Ian on Corey, in him. Yes, Corey thought, the single word eclipsing all other processes in his brain. Yes, God yes, this, please.

When Ian broke away, Corey fell back to the pillow and stared up at his lover, breathless. For a long moment, neither said anything. Truth be told, Corey thought they could never move or speak again, and he’d die happy. Ian was his, here with him now, and nothing else mattered.

Then a familiar glint lit up Ian’s eyes, a hunger Corey knew all too well. The heated blush of arousal spread through him like a fever -- the anticipation of things to come. Of them coming, together. Coyly Corey asked, “What?”

“You know what.” Ian half-rolled onto Corey, pressing his groin against Corey’s hip. “The condoms are in my bag on the sink. Unless you aren’t interested ...”

“When am I not interested?” Pushing himself up with both arms, Corey claimed another quick kiss, then slid off the edge of the bed.

He didn’t get far -- Ian caught one hand and held onto it, pulling him back.

“Give me one more,” he said, puckering his lips.

Corey obliged. What began as a quick peck deepened, and Corey had to lean heavily on the bed with his knees to keep from falling back to the mattress. Releasing him, Ian ran a hand up Corey’s forearm, over his bicep, up to his shoulder then down the thin muscles of his chest. One of Corey’s legs rose of its own volition, already climbing back into his recently vacated spot beside Ian. Fuck the condoms. He needed this.

Before he could climb back into bed, a hard knock rapped on the room door.

Corey’s eyes flew open. He found Ian staring back at him, a look of fear frozen on his face. When the knock came again, Ian groaned and closed his eyes in frustration. “Fuck,” he whispered, his hands falling from Corey’s body. “It’s too damn early for this.”

Corey frowned. “Who do you think it is?”

Ian touched Corey’s stomach. “You think I know?” When Corey grinned, Ian poked his forefinger into Corey’s belly. “Go find out. Tell whoever it is we’re busy and don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“We need one of those signs.” Corey stretched as he stood, and Ian’s finger trailed down his stomach, over his slight pubic mound, to tweak his half-erect cock. With a laugh, Corey danced out of reach. “Maybe it’s room service. I could use breakfast in bed.”

Ian rolled onto his back, the bed sheets sliding down to expose bare skin. “I didn’t call.”

A third knock kept Corey from answering. As he crossed the room, he snagged his boxer briefs from where they lay discarded on the floor and tugged them on, tucking his swollen dick roughly into the front of the underwear. If it wasn’t room service, it better damn well be something serious. His spot in the bed was getting cold, and he wanted Ian’s arms around him again. Quietly he approached the door and peeked through the peephole.

Their manager Dean stood on the other side. He blinked in the bright lights and looked down the hallway, scratching the back of his neck as he waited.

“Who is it?” Ian asked, snuggling deeper into the blankets.

Corey’s breath fogged up the peephole. “Dean. Shit.”

Before Ian could respond, Corey unlocked the door and opened it a crack, hiding behind the sturdy wood. “Yeah?” he asked, frowning.

Dean blinked at him and took a step back. “Whoa, wrong room, man. Sorry about that.” He looked down the hallway again and frowned. “Wait a minute -- aren’t you on the other end of the hall?”

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DREAMING SPARTA by Richard Fazio

DREAMING SPARTA by Richard Fazio 

In ancient Greece, Demetrios trains to become a Spartan soldier but grows depressed over the loss of his mentor, Andreas. His desire for them to retain their monogamous relationship is overcome by Lysandra's devious attempts to have Andreas fulfill his duty as her betrothed.

In present day New York, Andrew's life is in shambles when his father threatens to evict him for being gay. When, Andrew stumbles into Demetrios' world through a dream portal, their encounters provide each with the incentive to confront their demons ... together.

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EXCERPT:
Note: may contain sexually explicit scenes of a homoerotic nature.



When he rose from his nest, Andrew found himself in an alien but bucolic landscape. He took no more than a step or two when the uneven rustling of dry grass betrayed someone else’s presence. He turned in time to see a guy of his own age and height scurry behind a chiseled stone stele like a frightened rabbit. Andrew froze so as not to upset him further. He could make out the top of a head of curly black hair. Within seconds, the rest of the face appeared. His proximity enabled Andrew to perceive hazel-colored eyes.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” Andrew blurted out. Upon the realization his words may be incomprehensible, he beckoned with his hands. Since Greek was the only other language with which he had any familiarity, he said, “Addio.” He chanced another step or two but didn’t dare to get any closer. Instead, he held out his right arm with his hand palm up. In his mind, it was a sign of universal acceptance.

The ‘rabbit’ emerged from his cover with an awestruck look on his face. Andrew knew the only chance to win his confidence was to be gracious. So he pulled back his extended hand, put it over his heart, and bowed slightly in a classic gesture of subordination.

As Andrew raised his eyes and emerged from his bow, the stranger edged closer like a curious child. Sunlight danced over this boy’s darkly toned body. His devastating beauty rendered Andrew speechless. Moreover, a physical similarity to his friend Demetri was uncanny. The stranger’s juvenile reaction described a youthfulness he did not actually possess. Subtly roughened facial features, a thick neck and a hirsute body directly contradicted that behavior. A tunic of white fabric like finely woven burlap wrapped around his taut torso; a delicate rope cinched it at the waist. That a well-developed body was concealed beneath it was obvious. Laced leather sandals revealed enough of his legs to indicate a predilection for climbing. Under his breath Andrew whispered, “I am definitely not in Kansas anymore.”

His brief reverie melted as soon as the stranger spoke.

“You don’t appear to be a Macedonian soldier. Have you been sent by the gods?”

“No, actually, I’m not from around here,” Andrew replied. But where in the hell was he? And how is it they could understand each other when they were obviously from different cultures? Quite possibly even diverse time periods!

“From where then?” queried the stranger.

“From Astoria. It’s a place in New York. So is this ...”

“Then, what are you doing at the Temple of Artemis Orthia?” he persisted.

At a loss to reply, Andrew thought for a moment. As he did, he took the opportunity to dwell on the stranger’s inquisitive eyes. It was near impossible to look away from them.

“I ... I came to ... inspect buildings. That’s it. I’m here to study the structural integrity of the temple’s foundation. You see I’m a student of ... of architecture.” Not very sure of the credibility of his explanation, Andrew felt it was still worth the attempt.

“You speak in an odd way but I believe you. If you were a god, I don’t think you would waste time with a mere mortal.”

“Oh, yes I would,” Andrew replied with a bit too much enthusiasm. He knew by the stranger’s speech and references this was another era of history. It was like a dream but one steeped in a sensuous and realistic environment. He decided circumstance necessitated a polite distraction at this point. “Maybe you would like to show a newcomer around the area,” Andrew ventured.

“Do you mean the place where I live and train to be a warrior? If so, I’d rather stay up here while it is daylight. There are some beautiful spots here in the hills I could show to you.” Subsequently, he followed a narrow path the long grasses tried to hide. Crawling along at first, he picked up his pace when he saw Andrew shadow him step for step.

His interest piqued, the explorer within Andrew emerged. “How come you’re here on your own? Don’t you have any friends you could be with?”

“Only Andreas, my inspirer. But he is otherwise involved this day and I have no one else. And you?”

“Oh, I always travel alone but I have many friends back home. Besides, I like to make new friends as often as possible,” said Andrew in an attempt to perk up his new buddy.

They sauntered along for only a short time before yet another panoramic view forced them to yield to its beauty. This one dropped even steeper than that of the inland valley to include the rugged Tainaro cape of the Maniot peninsula, the southernmost point of Greece.

“That is the port of Gytheion,” his guide offered with a nod towards the distant shoreline.

Indeed, Andrew discerned tiny fishing boats and inhaled a hint of sea air. The combination of an agreeable climate, a peaceful locale and exotic herbal scents intoxicated Andrew. He thought there should be some cultural or temporal shock but he felt just too good. “May we sit somewhere for a moment?” Andrew inquired.

“That is in my mind also. I love to meditate on the vastness of the ocean. Were it not a sacrilege to say so, I would tell you it makes me feel like a god myself.”

“You are ... uh.” Andrew faltered as he sat down and almost lost his balance. “I know exactly what you mean.” He wasn’t aware of anything wrong in the physical sense but felt bewitched. Then again, he reasoned to himself, maybe the altitude was to blame.

His new friend remained quiet. Then, to Andrew’s surprise, the silent stranger sat down next to him. He wondered if this were his normal behavior: stoic, but with unspoken warmth.

“By what name are you called? I am Demetrios of Pitana, soldier of Sparta.”

Speechless he had not thought to ask first what he knew to be a rule of common courtesy in any culture, Andrew was doubly shocked by a name similar to his closest friend. The very same one, in fact, to whom this Demetrios of Pitana bore such a great resemblance! Was there a connection? And ancient Greece of all places! He did not even fantasize about stuff like this. Before his mind could wander further he answered: “My name is Andrew.”

“Today I feel blessed by the gods in making your acquaintance,” Demetrios said with sincerity.

History books be damned, Andrew thought. If this were truly ancient Greece then it was one hell of a misrepresented culture. However warrior-like, it was obvious these people were not at all uncivilized. He could tell by Demetrios’ entire demeanor, by his longing glance, by his ... Andrew did not know what distracted him so but he began to think things he had never thought of before. Not with another man anyway. The response inside his pants told him so. Could it be he harbored this same inclination towards Demetri and had not acknowledged it? Or, at least, never wanted to?

In lieu of an involved response, Andrew simply said, “I suppose I am also blessed.”

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