It’s that time again, when writers who love sexy men shove a few out onstage for everyone to ogle. When you get to the end of my contribution be sure and hop back to Facebook to see who else is posting this week, I’ve included links to two groups for your reading pleasure.
I don’t think I’ve ever posted anything from this story before, and it’s out on submission so maybe this will be good luck. It’s a short I wrote for a call but it didn’t make the cut there. The same thing happened to Comfort and Joy so I’m optimistic.
This is from the opening of A Sunday Kind of Love, nothing racy here just an aging jazz musician in desperate need of a spa day. I love Jake, and hope he’ll get his time on a more public stage. *fingers crossed*
Jake shuffled to the door, bleary-eyed and a little worse for the previous night’s wear. Halfway across his sparsely-furnished portion of a converted warehouse (which he liked to call a loft even though it wasn’t exactly so) he stopped to check whether he was fit to answer the door. Robe closed: right; hair finger-combed into some semblance of order: right. Barefoot, but even though the hair on his toes was (back again—bollocks!) white enough to tell his age he still had good-looking feet. He sighed and pulled the door open and came face-to with the reason for the previous night’s bender.
“What’re you doing standing in my doorway?”
The boy flipped his long dark hair out of his eyes and gave Jake a shaky smile. He looked everywhere but in Jake’s eyes until he managed to spit out the words, “Hey, Dad.”
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