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!


I Spy Something Wicked by Josh Lanyon

ISBN: 978-1-60737-455-8
Cover Artist: April Martinez
Price: $3.99
Previous Book: I Spy Something Bloody
Genre: LGBT Erotic Contemporary
Length: Fling

It's All Hallow's Eve and Mark Hardwicke's past has come back to haunt him. The Old Man needs Mark to go on one last mission to the wild, lonely hills of Afghanistan—a mission Mark knows he can't survive. Even if he does make it back, Stephen has made it very clear Mark is out of second chances. Should Mark place his lover and his own happiness before duty?

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I let Malik leave first. Waited with the faded clowns and broken toys for his footsteps to die away, listened for the faraway growl of his motorbike to be swallowed by the hungry autumn night.

Silence settled. Sank its claws in.

I couldn't go home yet. Couldn't face Stephen. Not till I'd figured out what to tell him. What was it Dickens said? An idea, like a ghost, must be spoken to a little before it will explain itself.

A shadowrun. A black op. That was what the Old Man was asking. Sending me in as an illegal, naked into hostile territory. Knowing I was blown, knowing there was a price on my head, he was asking me to go back. Yes, that would take a little explaining. To Stephen—and to myself.

When I decided it was clear, I headed back to where I'd parked. The Range Rover's headlamps blinked as I pressed the key fob. In that flash of light I saw a shadow detach itself from the trees and glide toward me. I laced the Rover's keys between my fingers like makeshift brass knuckles, and when he grabbed me, I went with the momentum, using it against him, flipping him over. He landed on his back in the dead leaves, his breath expelling in a hard oof.

I knelt on his scrawny chest using my left foot to grind his flailing right hand into the ground, my right pinning his left wrist. With my free hand I pressed the point of the longest blade in my key ring against his carotid artery.

“Surprise, surprise,” I said gently, and pressed a little harder just to make my…point.

He wheezed in panic, his eyes bulging. Clearly an amateur. I studied him in the colorless moonlight. Narrow nose; close-set brown eyes; a small mouth; lank, greasy dark hair. An unlovely specimen. I didn't know him.

He blubbered something lost in spit and snot.

“Didn't catch that,” I said. And then, “Don't move if you don't want an emergency tracheotomy.” He held still—if we didn't count the trembling—and I felt around, found his wallet, flipped it open, and checked his driver's ID.

Bradley Kaine.

It meant nothing to me. Age 31. No occupation, but I'd already guessed it: loser.
I made a mental note of his address.

“I'm trying to think of a good reason not to punch a hole in your throat, Bradley. Nothing occurs to me.”

More inarticulate protests.

“What were you doing here? Planning a spot of B and E? Nah. Nothing worth stealing in there. Waiting for some poor old wino to roll? No. Winos are in short supply here. Waiting to rob some kid and his bird? Hmm? That's it, I bet. A spot of robbery and rape?”

He frantically shook his head.

“Course you were. Nothing personal, right? It's what you do. What you are.” The temptation was to kill him, this miserable scrap of an excuse for a man, this predator who waited in the shadows for someone smaller, younger, weaker.

Someone like me—but without my peculiar brand of skills.

I said harshly, “You weren't out here stargazing, we both know that.”

He gibbered something, little flecks of spittle hitting my face.

He was revolting. The perfect companion for an already bad day. I clenched my keys so hard, my hand shook, denting his clammy flesh. It was all I could do to control the disquieting urge to give release to the rage and frustration churning inside me.

He began to cry. The pungent stink of ammonia reached my nostrils. In his terror he'd pissed himself.

“Shut it,” I bit out. “I'm going to let you live. I'm going to give you a second chance. If I ever see you here again, I will kill you. Got it?”

He nodded feverishly.

I took my keys out of his throat, eased my boot off his hand, stood, and stepped back. He continued to lie on the ground, sobbing.

Pitiable. But I felt no pity. Something terrible had had happened to me over the years, had killed something inside me. Were I Stephen, I would feel compassion for him. I would hope that this was a turning point in his life. But being me, I only thought that it was probably a mistake to let him go. Even if it was dark enough to obscure my features, not so many blokes with English accents hanging about. I felt no compassion. I was letting him live because I knew that was what Stephen would do.

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