Mummy Dearest: The XOXO Files, Book 1 (12 page)

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Come Unto These Yellow Sands:

Swift drove down the shady wide streets, past the little shops and art galleries and comfortable homes to the small brick police station surrounded by tidy green lawns and a forest of wet flagpoles.

Inside the station it was warm and surprisingly quiet. Hannah Maltz, the dispatcher, was working at her computer, clicking briskly away at the keyboard. She was a very pretty middle-aged woman—far too pretty to be an effective cop, in Max’s opinion. Max had a tendency to make those kinds of judgment calls. What Hannah thought about being regulated to desk duty was anyone’s guess, but she was a great dispatcher. She had a very nice voice in an emergency. Not that Swift had many emergencies these days.

“Why hello, Professor Swift,” Hannah greeted him. “Wet enough for you?”

Swift was unsure what official explanation of their friendship—if any—Max offered inquiring minds. Having grown up in the spotlight, Swift was basically blind to public curiosity. He took it for granted that people paid attention to what he did, and he’d stopped noticing his own celebrity a long time ago. After three much publicized stints in rehab you tended to develop a thick skin. But Max was the police chief of a small town, and it went without saying—or at least they had never got around to discussing it—that he required discretion.

He was not much good at jokey back-and-forth stuff, but Swift said gravely, “Are you checking out my gills again?”

Hannah laughed. “Chief Prescott’s on the phone, but you can go on through.”

The door to Max’s office stood open. Swift could see a sliver of Max tilted back in his chair, phone to his ear. He heard snatches of Max’s deep tones between the click-clacks of Hannah’s keyboard.

Max glanced up as Swift pushed open the door. His brows rose in surprised inquiry, and he nodded to the chair in front of his desk.

“You can bitch about First Amendment rights all you want, Harry, but I’m telling you if you print that, we’re going to have words.”

Swift sat in one of the chairs before Max’s orderly desk and looked idly about the small office with its battered file cabinets, wooden coat rack, bulletin boards and bookcase with leather-bound volumes that were older than Max.

Whatever Harry said on the other end of the line amused Max. He gave that deep, growly laugh that always sent a pleasurable shiver down Swift’s spine. He wished Max would hurry up and get off the line. He hoped the phone call never ended.

The first time Swift had been to this office was six years ago, not long after he’d moved to Stone Coast. He’d woken one morning to find someone had plowed into his parked car during the night. He reported the hit and run and spent a couple of minutes talking to the then newly elected Chief of Police. The only thing he really recalled of that first meeting was that he’d immediately liked Max’s air of quiet, easy competency. It hadn’t occurred to him that Max was gay. Sex, let alone romance, had been the last thing on his mind in those early brittle days of his recovery.

“I’m just an overworked, underpaid public servant of the people.” Max’s eyes met Swift’s and he winked.

That was another thing Swift remembered from that very first meeting. Max’s unexpected charm. You didn’t look for charm from a cop. Swift didn’t, anyway. But Max had it in spades. It didn’t hide the tough competency, just made it a little more palatable, like the spoonful of sugar that helped the medicine go down. As now. Harry—most likely Harry Wilson, editor of the
Stone Coast Signal
—was having the law laid down in the nicest possible way. And as pissed off as he undoubtedly was, he’d probably vote Max into office for a second term when Max came up for reelection in two years.

Hannah came in and left a sheaf of papers in the tray on Max’s desk. “I’m taking off,” she whispered to Max.

He raised a hand in absent acknowledgment. “Yeah, yeah,” he said good-humoredly into the mouthpiece. “Same to you, my friend.” He stood his pen on its nose, absently balancing it for a second, then catching it before it fell. “Sure, give me a call. Maybe sometime next week.”

Swift smoothed his suddenly damp hands on his jean-clad thighs. The moment of truth. He wasn’t ready for it.

After all, no one need know what he’d done. Even when Tad was caught, he might not say Swift had given him keys to the cabin. It might never come out at all.

But no. No. Swift no longer permitted himself to run from the difficult things.

Max hung up and smiled across his desk at Swift. His eyes were the warm color of good whisky. “Your timing is perfect. I’ve just got time to grab some supper before I have to meet the coroner.” He rose, six foot four of lean muscle, and reached for his leather jacket hanging from the coat rack.

Swift stayed seated. “Max, I have to talk to you.”

“Something we can’t talk over while we eat?”

“Indigestion guaranteed.”

Max took a closer look, scrutinizing Swift’s face. He slowly sat down again. “Okay. Shoot.”

His heart was hammering with something weirdly close to panic. Swift made himself go on, made himself speak calmly. “I neglected to tell you last night that I’d seen Tad Corelli earlier. In the afternoon. After my classes were finished. In fact, I loaned him the keys to my place on Orson Island.”

Max didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even blink. He was so still, Swift wondered if he’d heard.

He opened his mouth to ask, but Max finally said in a voice stripped of any emotion, “You didn’t think that was something you ought to mention?”

“Yes. But…I wanted to talk to him first. I wanted to convince him to give himself up.” Swift watched Max reach for the phone. “He’s not there now.”

“And you know that how?”

“I went out there this afternoon. There’s no sign that Tad ever arrived at the bungalow.”

“You… Jesus fucking Christ.” Max let the handset drop back in its cradle. He stared at Swift. “Are you
crazy
?”

Swift shook his head, though the question was probably rhetorical.

“You knowingly,
deliberately
let a murder suspect…” Max’s voice died out as though his thought process had short-circuited. He continued to gaze at Swift in almost stricken disbelief.

“I didn’t know he was a suspect when I offered him the use of the bungalow.”

“You sure as hell knew after I told you last night.”

“I’m sorry,” Swift said. “I acted on instinct. Maybe a bad one.”

“Maybe?
Maybe?
Do you have any clue of what you’ve done?”

Unwisely, Swift protested, “Even if Tad did this, it’s not like he’s Public Enemy No.1. He’s a confused, scared—”

“Don’t.” It was enough to shut Swift up. Max’s face was white, his eyes blazing with fury. He looked like a stranger. A stranger Swift would not want to get on the wrong side of.

“Max—”

“Not one fucking word more, Swift.”

But there was always room for one word more, right? Especially this word. Besides, Swift had always been so very bad at following rules.

“I’m sorry, Max,” he repeated.

Max stared at him as though Swift had been hand delivered by Martians. As though Swift were an alien creature that Max needed to exterminate—as soon as he figured out whether to use bullets or pesticide.

“Yeah?” Max made a funny sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Not as sorry as you’re going to be.”

The hair rose on the back of his neck. Swift searched the hard, implacable planes of Max’s features. Max wasn’t a guy for idle threats. “Are you…? Am I…?” He wasn’t even sure what question to ask. He knew that expression although Max had never worn it before—not for Swift. It was the expression that said,
You’re pathetic. You’re a junky low-life loser. You can’t be trusted. You aren’t one of us. You don’t belong here.

It was an expression he’d have done anything to keep from seeing on Max’s face.

Almost anything.

Swift steadied his voice and got out, “Am I…under arrest?” He tried to say it without emotion, but he had at long last reached a point in his life where he had something to lose. A number of things, in fact, that he didn’t want to lose. Wasn’t sure he could survive losing. Arrest meant losing them all.

Max didn’t seem to hear the question. He was on his feet again, moving into action, speaking under his breath as he grabbed the phone. Tight, fierce words. “Stupid, arrogant, irresponsible, crackbrained…” He jabbed a couple of buttons and then paused. Fastening that lightless gaze on Swift’s face, he said, “Get the fuck out of my office. Get out before I do something we’ll both regret.”

Swift was up and to the door when Max threw after him, “You realize this is probably going to cost you your job?”

Swift had no answer. Or maybe the answer was in his face. Max turned his back on him and snapped his orders into the phone.

When life hands you lemons…make cookies.

Life, Love and Lemon Cookies

© 2011 Ally Blue

A
Love’s Evolution
Story

Chris Tucker’s perfect life has just gone up in smoke. The fire that destroyed the best restaurant in Asheville took his head-chef dream job along with it—and the owner is walking away. Sure, Chris still has his beautiful home and blissful marriage to his soul mate, Matt Gallagher. But for the first time in his working life, he’s unemployed and spiraling into depression.

Matt’s trying hard to be supportive, but it’s tough when every time he tries to get Chris to open up, the man shuts down tighter than a live clam. Maybe it’s best to hide his hurt and back off. Yet as Chris’s fruitless search for work wears on, Matt begins to wonder if his lover will ever come around.

As the tension between them reaches breaking point, Chris faces the fact that it could be the end of an era for him and Matt. Unless one sweet idea can turn his mounting troubles into a fresh-cut path back to the arms of the one man who makes him whole.

Warning: This book contains gay sex, lots of angst, occasional smartassedness, and an abundance of cookies. Ally Blue and Samhain Publishing will not be held responsible for any resulting food-porn habit.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Life, Love and Lemon Cookies:

Chris was taking the second batch of cookies out of the oven when Matt shuffled back into the kitchen, looking wary as a rabbit in a kennel. “Hey.”

“Matt.” Setting the baking stone full of cookies on the stove, Chris pulled off his oven mitts, hurried to Matt and wrapped both arms around him. He rested his forehead on Matt’s, savoring the feel of Matt’s body pressed against his and the warmth of Matt’s palms on his hips. “I’m so sorry, love. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s all right. I shouldn’t have pushed you to talk when you just wanted some space.” Matt’s lips quirked into a wry smile. “I know cooking is your security blanket. I guess it just bothers me when I know damn well you’re not okay and you pretend you are.”

Chris frowned. “Do I do that?”

“Not a lot, no. But sometimes. When you don’t understand how you feel. You’re kind of a control freak that way.” Matt pulled back enough to gaze into Chris’s eyes. His expression was unusually serious. “I know this thing about The Falls hit you hard. I just want to help.” He raked his fingers through Chris’s hair and traced the shell of Chris’s ear with his thumb. “Just talk to me.”

Chris shook his head. “Honestly, I’m not sure how to feel right now. I don’t have a job anymore. After fifteen years at The Falls, I’m out of work.”

Matt stroked his fingertips down Chris’s neck. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve worked since I was fourteen.” Chris laid a hand on Matt’s cheek. “I don’t know
how
to be unemployed. What on earth do I do, Matt?”

The big blue eyes softened in sympathy. Slipping one arm around Chris’s neck and settling the other hand on his rear, Matt tilted his head upward and covered Chris’s mouth with his own.

Chris couldn’t say the response was unexpected, and he certainly couldn’t pretend he didn’t want it. Nevertheless, fear and worry nagged at the back of his brain in spite of the baking-induced calm.

“Come on, babe,” Matt whispered against his lips. He shoved his hand down the back of the soft drawstring pants Chris had been slouching around the house in for the past few days and squeezed his ass. “Let it go. Just for a little while.” Matt trailed kisses down Chris’s throat and dug his tongue into the place that always made Chris shiver. “Let me make you forget about everything except getting your cock up my ass.”

A firm thigh nudged between Chris’s legs. Matt’s hips rolled, and Chris felt the swelling hardness behind the zipper of Matt’s jeans. He pulled Matt closer, baring his neck for more sharp little nips and delicate kisses. “You’re so crude.”

Matt chuckled with Chris’s skin caught between his teeth, let go and licked at the place he’d bitten. “Your mouth says
crude
, but your prick says
hot
.” He rubbed his thigh against Chris’s cock, which had gone predictably stiff at the combination of Matt’s touch and his words. And yes, they
were
crude, not that Chris minded. Obviously.

Chris moaned when Matt undid his drawstring and closed those clever artist’s fingers around his erection. “I… I should…” He swung a hand toward the cookies sitting on the stove. Heat wafted from the open oven. “Cookies. I should take the cookies off the sheet.”

“Fuck the cookies.”

A shove of Matt’s hand sent Chris’s pants slithering to his ankles, and he gave up. He went for Matt’s fly and flipped open the button. “Even
I
don’t love my lemon cookies
that
much.”

Matt fell forward, snickering into the curve of Chris’s neck. “Oh my God, the mental picture. I’m scarred for life.”

“You have no one to blame but yourself.” Chris undid Matt’s zipper, pushed his jeans and underwear out of the way and tugged on the stainless-steel ring piercing the head of his cock. “Get undressed, my darling.”

Matt shimmied out of his jeans, kicked them aside and tore his long-sleeved T-shirt over his head. He let it drop inside out onto the kitchen floor. Grinning, he slipped his hands beneath Chris’s sweatshirt to caress his bare skin. “Now you. Take this off.”