Farewell from the Bookshelf!

Please note that GLBT Bookshelf -- the community wiki which was the parent to this fiction blog -- went offline on May 31, 2016, after seven years' service to members.

All Gay Romance will remain online till the end of 2016 in order to give contributors every opportunity to recover materials uploaded here.

Many thanks to all who contributed over the years, and good luck to everyone in your future works!


Don't Look Back by Josh Lanyon

Cover Artist: Marci Gass
ISBN: 978-1-59632-972-0
Genre: LGBT Suspense
Length: Novella
Price: $4.99

He was chuckling, a deep, sexy sound as he pushed Peter back on the satiny cushions. Was this for real? Was he going to go through with it? Peter blinked up as his tie was unfastened, tossed aside, his shirt unbuttoned, laid wide. The evening breeze -- scented of smog and jasmine -- felt cool against his overheated skin, like the lightest breath…

Peter Killian, curator at Constantine House in Los Angeles, wakes in the hospital to find himself accused of stealing a tenth century Chinese sculpture. Peter knows he’s not a thief -- but that’s all he knows. Why is hot and handsome Detective Mike Griffin so sure he’s guilty -- and so hell-bent on seeing Peter arrested?
And why is Peter having these weird dreams about an unseen lover who somehow reminds him uncomfortably of Michael Griffin?

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The moon was enormous -- ripe, red-gold, hanging low in the sky. From the flowering jacaranda, the mockingbird was scolding. Chjjjj…chjjjj…chewk.

Peter stumbled up the brick path. His foot caught and he went down, on his knees, breathing hard. His hands were white blurs on the warm stone. He tried to focus and he could see the ink splotches of blood -- his blood running down his face and dripping onto the bricks.

His stomach rose in protest. Swallowing down his nausea, he pushed back to his feet. The black velvet leaves of the elephant ears seemed to twitch, listening, as his footsteps scraped unsteadily up the path, past the sundial and palely glimmering statues, past the solar lanterns fuzzily glowing.

The shadows cast by the jacaranda stretched chill and dark in the warm summer evening, but the darkness edging his vision had nothing to do with the deepening night. There was blood in his eyes now; he wiped at it uncertainly.

Peter reached the top of the long, shallow garden steps. The back entrance of Constantine House loomed before him and he staggered forward, feeling for his keys. He leaned against the door, resting his head on the painted surface, fumbling in his pockets. He pushed a key into the lock; it turned, and the door swung open spilling him into the hallway.

Half blind with blood and pain, he wove his way down the hallway toward the main exhibit room and his office. His foot caught on the Oriental runner and he went sprawling. Somewhere in the distance an alarm bell was clanging. He opened his eyes. Dimly, as though looking through a telescope, he could see the cool, white marble face of Kwan Yin gazing down at him. She held a little vase pouring nothingness out over his pounding head. But it wasn't nothingness. It was nectar. Invisible nectar to feed the hungry ghosts.

Far, far at the other end of the telescope the serene face of Kwan Yin receded, grew tinier and tinier…until at last it pinched out like a match spark in the night...

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