Merger by Lydia Nyx

Blurb: Paul Malkovich and Damon Trussel have just sealed a major deal: the merger of their respective companies, textile manufacturers on either side of the Big Pond. After the obligatory high-society celebration, Damon expresses to Paul he’d like to cement their business union with a more personal one. They take a steamy limo ride around London, during which Paul teaches Damon something even better than business politics.

Excerpt: Paul was twenty-four and had just started working under his father when he met Damon. Damon, several years older, worked under the head of his own company, and was a prodigy out of the London School of Economics and highly respected among his peers. Paul developed an instant fascination for the charming, sophisticated, and quite business-savvy Brit. Paul’s father told him to keep an eye on Damon, because he knew he would be in charge one day. Paul kept two eyes on him. Sometimes, Damon reminded Paul of his own mother: hardworking, sophisticated, smart, but also highly personable. Paul imagined his father had been most attracted to his mother because she could be a social and professional dynamo but also put people at ease with her charming, laid-back personality. Paul often heard men fell for women most like their mothers. But again, maybe a woman wasn’t what he needed to look for.

Over the years, he and Damon found themselves often in correspondence and physically together on multiple occasions. Paul’s fascination and appreciation for the man slowly turned to attraction. When their friendship took on a coyly flirty air—and then eventually a blatantly seductive tone—Paul nonetheless proceeded with caution. He personally preferred men over women, even if this fact took a while for him to accept, but he also knew Damon had a wife. Damon married young, and Paul heard people joke he did so to get the obligation out of the way.

“Where’s Ellie?” Paul asked.

“At the party.” Damon looked down at their hands. “She said to have a good time. She knows me better than I know myself.” Truthfully, Damon loved his wife and Paul knew this full well.

“So she’s all right with us being together tonight? No jealous wife trying to murder me in my sleep?” Paul chuckled, though he worried, really. He didn’t know Ellie as well as he did Damon, had in fact made a point not to get too close to her.

“Of course not.” Damon looked up, flashing a charming, squinty-eyed grin. “This isn’t the first time we’ve done this.” He paused. “I don’t mean that to be callous. I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Paul said gently. “You’re lucky to have such an open-minded wife.”

“Yeah, well.” Damon continued to smile. “I’ll tell her all about it later, and she’ll tell me about that photographer following her around tonight.”

“Never let things get boring, hmm?”

“That’s how a marriage lasts as long as ours has.” Damon’s focus seemed to be on their hands, still joined, his idle rubbing. “She’s a wonderful woman, and she makes me happy. But I’ve been curious for a long time. As a man gets older, his tastes broaden. I’m not as uptight as when I was younger. She wants me to go explore. And report back with my findings, of course.” He looked back up at Paul.

“So that’s what all this flirting all these years has been about.”

“I can’t recall you ever rebuffing it.”

Damon had him there. “Why me, Damon?” Paul had to ask the question. “And why tonight? I know we’ve had a connection in the past, but—”

Damon cut him off. “Why not you, Paul? I think you’re brilliant. Self-confident.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Don’t tell your father, but I always thought you had a better head on your shoulders than he did.”

Paul smirked. “That isn’t a reason to want to sleep with someone.”

“It’s better than any other superficial reason.” The light glinted in Damon’s dark eyes. “Would you be happier if I said it’s because you have a tight arse and a good tailor?”

Paul laughed. “And you think this is the best night for it?”

“It’s a new beginning. New territories opening up for us. I think it’s the perfect night”

Paul mused they were being so very professional about the situation, hashing the details out as though they were making a fiscal plan—but then, they would hardly be inclined to behave any other way. He did have some concerns though, a list of cons to bring to the table. “If you think it might ruin our professional relationship,” Paul said haltingly, “I don’t want to risk that.”

“I don’t think this could ruin our relationship, only make it stronger. I want to. Now. Here.”

“In the car?”

“Yes.”

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From Trey #3 by Bryl R. Tyne

Excerpted from Trey #3 by Bryl R. Tyne


M/M/M Contemporary Action/Thriller

Trey wants his job.

Drew wants Trey.

Travon wants them both, but must avoid the law.

When boyfriend Drew and twice a month fuck buddy Travon decide to go in together on a local Las Cruces pawnshop heist, neither expects to find Trey working behind the counter. Funny, both Drew and Travon figured the accountant-degree-holding Trey to be a safe bet. Both are fiercely protective. None expected to meet.

With the loot bagged, the ironic love triangle exposed, and the cops on the way, what's there to do but drag Trey along for the ride?

Trey discovers sometimes choosing between the lesser of two evils is all but impossible.

Excerpt: 

It seemed no matter how diligently I performed my duties, how loyal or dependable I proved myself to be, I had no control over who my last three bosses hired or fired. Though I had a degree in accounting, when I landed this minimum-wage customer assistant's job, I took it because I needed work, needed to keep my mind busy, active. Besides, they paid shift differential—a whole fifteen cents. Even if this shop was on the lower eastside of town, I didn't mind my job. At least I had one—again.

Could've been worse, Drew reminded me, on the afternoons I slogged out his front door, dragging my dark cloud with me. I shook my head as I crouched to lockup the remaining Rolex cases. At least I had Drew . . . and yeah, I had the man right where I wanted him almost every day for the past six months, to be exact.

Bells jangled, announcing someone's entrance. I let my ring of keys snap back to my belt. Broom in hand, I met the late customer at the jewelry counter. "We're getting ready to—" Before me, on the other side of the counter, stood the one person I never expected to see on this side of town. "Drew?"

Why he wore sunglasses in the dead of night, I'd never understood, but he did it often. He lifted them off his nose and pushed them to his head as he stared. His mouth opening and closing like a starving goldfish, he tried to ask the one question I never wanted to hear—especially, not here, inside Jackie's Rings and Things. "What are you doing—?"

"I work here." Duh. I shook my head, not caring if I sounded like a PMSing bitch. "Don't rub it in, either."

I leaned the broom against the counter and strode to the end. Lifting the hinged door, I stepped under it and let it slam behind me. Well, I'd had Drew . . . as in, "It's been swell," and, "See ya later." Exactly the reason I'd avoided telling him about my new job. A man like Drew would never understand.

He wasn't one of those rich boys born with a silver spoon in his mouth. No. From what I knew of his lifestyle—his condo, his 2010 Dodge Charger, his ever-present bankroll—I was certain his mother had birthed him inside a bank vault. As soon as the—my boyfriend works in a pawnshop—sunk in, I'd be out of his life. There was no doubt in my mind.

Instead of the argument I'd expected though, Drew smiled—a half-hearted, odd kind of twist to his lips. He glanced behind him at the door, wiped the sweat from his forehead as he met my gaze again.

"Just say it," I said, a little creeped out by his unpredictable reaction.

He wrung his hands together, once again eyeing the exit over his shoulder. "I-I'm looking for a ring."

A ring? At eleven o'clock at night. "Okay. Just let me lockup first."

"No! I'll miss my ride . . . I know what I want." Drew stepped to the display case of sterling rings and pointed. "Right here, in tray number three."

Something told me I was a fool for getting my hopes up, but still, I complied, ever hopeful Drew had finally decided to commit. I returned behind the counter, unlocked the sliders, and pulled out the third tray of silver rings. "Which one did you have in mind?"

My daydream lasted all of two seconds, for as soon as I set tray number three atop the glass case, the door burst open.

Tall, dark, and ski-masked kicked it shut after he entered, and, aiming his pistol at me, shouted, "Hands in the air!"

I complied immediately, not a heroic bone in my body. He could have the entire fucking store for all I cared.

"Don't move," Drew whispered.

I glanced to Drew, who had yet to heed the asshole's order, then looked back to the rapidly advancing armed robber. Put your hands up. I mouthed the words, hoping Drew would see me.

Much to my surprise, he stepped between the robber and me, whipped around, reached over the display case, and caught me around the middle. In a flash, he dragged me across the counter and onto the floor, shocking me further by manhandling me onto my stomach and binding my wrists behind my back with what felt like strips of plastic. "What the fuck are you—?"

"Just keep quiet," he said, "and you won't get hurt."

Holy Christ. One side of my face pressed to the floor, I closed my eyes and started to pray. Who in the hell had I been fucking these past six months—been considering moving in with? This sure as fuck wasn't the man I knew . . . thought I knew. My heart pounded in my ears. Hard-soled shoes came to a stop beside me, and I clenched my eyes tighter.

"Shut him up or I'll—oh, shit."

Oh shit, was right. I recognized that voice. Jackie's Rings and Things would-be bandit was none other than Travon Sanders, my mother's twenty-nine-year-old neighbor—my friend and twice-a-month fuck buddy. Well, soon to be ex-friend, along with Drew. I'd made up my mind, with a knee between my shoulders.

"You know him?" Drew asked tall, dark, and dangerous.

I could feel Travon's stare burn into my upturned cheek. "No, man—You?" He backed away, not waiting for Drew to answer. "Just looks like a guy I used to know."

That's right, motherfucker . . . used to know, you sonofabitch.

Drew released the pressure on my back and then stood, yanking me to my knees. "Get up." He pulled me to my feet as Travon helped himself to my keys and the store's valuables.

"Prick."

Drew backhanded me across the face; a second later, he winked. "I said, keep your mouth shut."

Fuck you. I spat at his face, missing by a long shot. He stared at me as if I'd lost my fucking mind.

At that point, I'd already decided I had indeed lost it. Who in his right mind would attempt to build a life with a career criminal while fucking an armed robber on the side? The only one I knew crazy enough to do either stared back at me from the glass of the gun display case as Drew shuffled me behind the counter and shoved me into the first open office.

"Stay here 'til I figure out what to do with you." He shut the door behind him.

"Bastards." Before I stuck my dick in anyone ever again, I was hiring a P.I. to run a full background check. This was ridiculous. What were the fucking odds?

Bryl R. Tyne is a wrangler by nature and a writer by choice, published with Noble Romance Publishing, Ravenous Romance, Dreamspinner Press, STARbooks Press, Untreed Reads Publishing, Changeling Press, and Coming Soon to Amber Allure with TOUGH GUY. You can find out more about Bryl at: bryltyne.com

The Game in Spain by Lydia Nyx

Blurb: In Madrid, Spain, during Carnival, gorgeous Spanish gymnast, Alejandro Salvador, leads his trainer, Gabriel, and his ex-boyfriend Sebastian on a wild and sexy chase through the streets. Promising the one who gets to him first gets him as their prize, he thinks he runs the game he's playing. Little does he know, the two men, both in desperate lust with him, will realize competition isn't necessary when they can have twice the fun working together.

Excerpt:

"Why did you come?" Sebastian asked accusingly.

"He left me a letter." Gabriel placed his hand defensively over his jacket pocket. "He kept talking about the Carnival. He told me to come."

"He left me one too." Sebastian put a hand on his hip pocket. "I'll be in Plaza Mayor—"

"Catch me if you can," Gabriel finished. "Get here first and I'm yours. I wondered what he meant by that. Then I saw you at the airport. I should have guessed."

Sebastian snorted. "He's certainly got some brass, doesn't he?" He looked up and down the alley again.

"Yes, he certainly does." Gabriel adjusted his mask from slipping down on his sweaty skin.

"Maybe we should go this way," Sebastian said, pointing to the opposite end of the alley. "He might be down there."

"He's probably laughing at us," Gabriel said. "With that sexy little laugh of his."

As if on cue, the exact sound Gabriel described issued from above, and they both looked up.

Alejandro stood on the balcony above them, leaning on the railing, smiling sweetly. "Are you tired?" he asked, turning something over in his fingers.

A key.

"Or did you get lost?" The blue eye mask rested atop his head, his dark hair pushed up in wild clumps. His eyes sparkled, his face glowed.

Gabriel eyed the key in his hand, flashing in the light.

"Alej!" Sebastian said beseechingly. "You got us here. Are you going to keep playing with us?"

Alejandro looked thoughtful, a smile on his lips. He stood up. "Sixteen," he said.

"What?" Sebastian asked.

Alejandro flung the key into the air; it fell, twinkling in the light, and Alejandro disappeared before it hit the ground.

Gabriel and Sebastian scrambled wildly and collided as they both tried to catch the prize. The key bounced off Gabriel's fingertips and tinkled on the stones. They both dove forward. A mad scuffle ensued, the two of them pushing at each other, Sebastian's elbow digging painfully into Gabriel's ribs as he tried to force him down. Gabriel yelped and pounded his fist between Sebastian's shoulder blades. Sebastian shoved him and knocked him off balance, and scrambled away a second later with the key in hand.

"Fuck you!" Sebastian laughed triumphantly. He raced to the door of the building.

Gabriel shot after him in a surge of fury. Sebastian fled through the door and slammed it behind him. Gabriel yanked the handle but the door had locked. He ripped off his mask, the cold air chilling his hot face, and looked wildly up at the balcony.

"Goddamn it!" He flung the mask down.

It wasn't over, though. He wouldn't concede so easily.

After a furious minute of pacing and calculating, he reasoned the balcony hovered about eight feet off the ground. Alejandro Salvador held the position of Olympic-bound Spanish gymnast, beguiling the world with his coy charm and impeccable skill, but Gabriel had trained him, at least, in the skill department. The bars of the wrought iron railing were spaced far enough apart to grab. Gabriel looked around and spotted a metal trashcan with a lid. He sat atop the lid to test the can's strength, and the metal didn't give. He pushed the can over beneath the balcony.

Gabriel walked backward, pushing his sleeves up. The alley wasn’t very wide, but he could get enough speed if he took off quickly. His back pressed against the wall opposite the balcony, he took a deep breath. His muscles were plenty warmed up from chasing Alejandro.

The trashcan lid buckled when his feet hit it with so much force, which didn't give him quite the height he wanted, but his momentum propelled him. He caught the bars with both hands, glad they were smooth so he had a strong grip. He swung a leg up and wedged his heel between two of the bars, applied all his upper body strength, and used his foot to push. Once successfully up, he had only to vault over the railing. He hadn't lost a bit of grace since his own days on the bars.

"You're about to get a big surprise," he muttered as he crossed the balcony, muscles burning, heart thudding. He stopped and took a moment to compose himself, pushing his sleeves down and running a hand through his hair. Then, with shoulders squared, he yanked open the balcony door.

On the other side was a hotel room—airy and lavish, with high, rounded windows and a marble-tiled floor. A huge bed sat in the middle of the room, with a dark oak headboard and posts without a canopy. Lamps in the corners chased shadows up to a cavernous, molded ceiling. The room possessed a lovely, old-world charm, but a different Spanish charm interested Gabriel.

Alejandro stood near the bed . . . with Sebastian. Sebastian had removed his mask and it dangled from his hand; his colorful hair hung around his face. He looked horrified when he saw Gabriel. Alejandro just smiled, his dark eyes twinkling.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Sebastian asked.

"Talent." Gabriel stared him down. "You're just his promoter. I'm still a gymnast. I didn't need to take the stairs."

"Well, well." Alejandro folded his arms, his voice a soft lilt. "This is interesting. What shall I do now?"

Gabriel and Sebastian glared at each other, gazes locked fiercely, but after a long moment they both softened with a knowing, shared frustration. They'd come all the way to Madrid, chased Alejandro through the streets, fought over the key to his room, and sacrificed their pride to get to him first. Both were tired and worked up. Both had a right to the prize.

"You know," Sebastian said, "he has put us through a lot."

"Quite a lot," Gabriel replied.

"It wasn't very nice of him."

"No, it wasn't."

Alejandro looked between them, wariness in his eyes. Gabriel and Sebastian moved in.

"What . . . ?" Alejandro looked from one to the other and gasped softly when Gabriel pulled the mask off his head. He tossed it to the floor. Sebastian ran his fingers through Alejandro's sparkling hair. The glitter showered down his back and fell like gentle rain to the tile.

"This is what you wanted," Gabriel whispered in Alejandro's ear. Alejandro smelled like the Carnival, like the cool evening air.

Sebastian caressed a finger beneath Alejandro's chin and turned his face to him. Gabriel grasped the opportunity to kiss the silken skin of the Spaniard's neck.

"You wanted both of us," Sebastian said. "You can't decide, can you Alej? That's why you played this game."

"And what a lovely game it was," Gabriel murmured against his neck. He nibbled at the tendon there. "But we're in charge now."

Alejandro seemed overwhelmed but not resistant. Sebastian slid an arm around Alejandro's slender waist and Gabriel gripped the bottom of his shirt. He tugged the fabric up over his smooth, flat belly and caressed him. Gabriel felt his abdominal muscles pull in, quivering.

"Don't," Alejandro said weakly. He turned his face to Gabriel as Sebastian nuzzled the other side of his neck.

Gabriel slid his hand up, gripped the collar of Alejandro's shirt, and tugged the fabric aside. He slid his teeth over his bare shoulder. Alejandro gasped.

"Don't?" Gabriel asked. "Are you sure that's the word you want?"

"I don't think it is," Sebastian said. He traced Alejandro's trembling, glistening lips with his fingertips. Alejandro opened his mouth, eyes slipping closed, his dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

Gabriel whispered, "I think the word you want is . . . ."

"Si," Alejandro gasped. He titled his chin up as their mouths explored his neck, his shoulders, his collarbone.

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From "Deliverance" by Aleksandr Voinov

This is from "Deliverance", published in the anthology "Forbidden Love" by Noble Romance Publishing.



Guy. Of all people. Him, here. The scion of an eminent family in the city of Metz, with lands and riches far beyond anything William had ever achieved, even at the height of his fame and fortune. Guy. His shame, his sin, his guilt. Bearded, sunburned, in his simple pilgrims’ clothes, it was hard to recognize the fashionable young nobleman he had been, what, only six years ago?

Guy turned on his heel and followed the other pilgrims, but his face betrayed anger. The man held the key to destroy him.

The thought sobered William as if a loaded crossbow was pointed at his heart. He had to force himself to turn away, but it was hard to breathe the hot air. Terror had set into his soul, and fear and longing, because he remembered Guy now. Remembered his own flight from what had begun during that saint’s festival in Metz, when the nobles jousted and celebrated. He’d run away, sought solace and redemption, until, finally, the Templars had welcomed him. They knew not his sin, but they told him that all his past misdeeds would be forgiven if he fought the heathens rather than his Christian brothers. That he would go to heaven if he fell in service of the Lord. This had been the most generous offer that he could have hoped for. Unable to escape his shame, he’d finally found peace in subservience to God.

In his quarters, he cleaned the dust away and shed the armor, but hardly managed to grasp one clear thought for the memory of Guy. When he lay on his bed that night after prayers in the chapel, his soul had not received solace from the holy words. He was unworthy of those blessings. He still remembered a strong neck bent underneath his, and Guy’s breath hitching as William drove into him, again and again, taking his fill of the young noble’s strong body in unspeakable, sinful ways.

The memory made him hard, made him ache for the other man. If he’d hoped to escape his sinful attraction, this now completed his shame.

According to the order’s rule, he shared the chamber with another knight, a German by the name of Conrad, and he was guiltily thankful that night for Conrad’s deep sleep. Nothing short of an earthquake woke the German. Certainly not the small sounds William made as he touched himself, eyes tightly shut, willing his hand to be Guy’s hand, Guy’s lips, even. An enthusiastic student of sin, Guy knew no shame. He demanded William give up control of his body, and his soul with it; compared to that, this was a pale shadow of a memory. Still, he had no choice.

William pressed his teeth together and forced himself to breathe levelly as his own calloused hand forced his desire. His body responded too readily to both memory and touch. Closer. Like that rushed, near painful encounter in the narrow, dark alley of Metz. Or the stolen, illicit pleasure in a bath house, where Guy had laughed at the prostitute servants and sent them away with a mocking, “Nothing I can’t handle.” Guy’s wet, glistening body, bruised where he’d been hit, the most beautiful thing in the world to William when they kissed, wrestled, and fucked vigorously enough to nearly topple the tub and cover the floor in soapy water.

Grunting, Conrad turned on his bed. William froze, heart beating painfully in his throat. Don’t wake. He peered at Conrad, who faced him now, face slack in sleep, lips open. Oh...the risk. All Conrad had to do was open his eyes and he’d know exactly what William was doing. But William was too close to stop.

As silent as he could manage, William spit in his hand and slid it back under the light cover. His palm closed around the tip, squeezing the most sensitive part until his mind clouded and all he could think was Guy. A few more powerful movements with his tight fist brought him to completion with a choked, miserable sound. The madness, the passion that had possessed him with Guy sunk its hooks back into his skin. He lay there, despairing, as the sweat on his skin cooled in the night that was as unforgivingly cold as the day was hot.

He hoped that Guy would be gone the next morning, but the Master dashed those hopes when he told the assembled knights that Guy de Metz, who had been on pilgrimage to Jerusalem with his entourage, would join their fight against the heathens.

William was the only Templar who felt those words like a blow. Many knights on pilgrimage joined a fighting order for a short time. The Church encouraged it; the defenders of the Holy Land were always desperately short of men. The fighting orders were already stretched thin to protect what they held and they couldn’t dream of expanding that protection. But why now, why here, and why not the Hospitallers? Or, William thought with the blackest of emotions, the leprosy-riddled Lazarites?

After the assembly, Guy came toward him. William turned away. Guy touched his shoulder, which made William face him again and grip the bastard by the front of his shirt.

“You dare touch me,” he hissed into Guy’s face. Anger filled him, as if the ignominy of the night had been Guy’s doing. He raised his free hand and balled it into a fist.

The peace he’d found in the order seemed precarious all of the sudden and he hungered to retain it. Until now, it had been his only peace in this constant war with the Saracens.

Guy’s hands closed around William’s fist, but his stare never wavered. Those light blue eyes showed no fear, only anger, but behind the hostility he saw an unspoken question.

“William!” the Templar Master shouted. “Unhand him at once!”

William bared his teeth in a feral sneer, still staring at Guy. Disobeying a direct order was unthinkable, and William knew well the punishment for fighting against fellow Christians. He had seen men stripped of their white cappa or flogged to the blood for infractions.

“Don’t you touch me,” he repeated, and let the other man go.

(...)


(c) Aleksandr Voinov

From Tengo una Pistola by Bryl R. Tyne

M/M/Transgender Western Romance

My eyes recognized morning before my head did. I squinted into the rays escaping the muslin tacked over the small window. Blinking numerous times, however, failed to clear my vision or my mind. I rubbed my eyes . . . stretched . . . . Yep, it was morning.

Not that I dreaded mornings, no. Most mornings I hopped out a bed, eager for whatever the day may bring. But not today. Again, I stretched, my body reassuring me it had plenty a rest. And I had. But much like the residue adhering the hair and skin on my stomach to the sheet, my troubles glued me to the bed. She was still here, in my place.

Nothing were more aggravating than waking up without Mitch by my side. Guess he’d outgrown me. At twenty-six, he were well past prime settling-down age. Though, at the thought of him settling for the likes a Carmen as wife and mother, I laughed. My humor at the impending situation ended as easily as it had begun, as my worries shifted to Mitch leaving to make his own life with the wench.

Disrupting my thoughts, aromas of fresh eggs and fresher coffee wafted into the room; least he had breakfast going. I breathed the scents in deep as I climbed from the bed and threw on my clothes.

Maybe the she-devil were still laid up, fast asleep. If Mitch gave her a riding like only Mitch could give, wouldn’t surprise me if she slept well past noon. I shook the unsavory images from my mind as I tugged on my boots then crossed the den.

Wouldn’t do me a lick a good to start out the day on the ornery side a things. Besides, exactly when Mitch planned on leaving weighed heavy on how I approached the topic. Last thing I wanted were to piss him off, have him high-tail it out a here as fast as his horse would carry him. One day at a time, I reminded myself on a long inhale as I rounded into the kitchen.

First thing I noticed, Mitch weren’t at the stove. No, the polecat sat kicked back in his seat at the table. Grin plastered ear to ear, he hummed, fixated toward the stove, toward that shifty female looking to be cooking him breakfast.

She sure weren’t cooking for me, I made up my mind as I took a seat next to Mitch. I wouldn’t let her.

Two-timin’ bastard, humming . . . . I shook my head at his well-rested ass. Were only one reason he hummed. If Carmen had eyes in the back a her head, she’d a winced from the evil-intent cast her way.

“Sleep good, Denton?”

Mitch straightened in his chair. Coffee in hand, he turned to me. “Pretty good, I reckon. You?”

Funny what having a lady around can do to the size of a man’s balls. Though he put on an unusually tough front, I noticed the unsteadiness of his hands as he sipped his coffee. Score one for the old man.

“Buenas días, Senor Samms.” Carmen smiled at me, setting a piled-high plate before Mitch.

I could a done without seeing that kiss she so delicately placed on his cheek. She scurried back to the stove as, jaw set, I snubbed her greeting. Breakfast smelled damned good though. I eyed Mitch’s plate. “That an omelet?”

He washed his bite down with a swig of coffee. “And fried potatoes.”

“Potatoes? This time a year?”

“Pretty resourceful, ain’t she,” he said, matter-a-factly and with a wink.

My stomach rumbled as I looked toward those green and salmon colored skirts, ruffles swishing this way and that before the stove. All right, I’d concede, this one time, on account a the fact I needed a good meal to start the day. I picked up my fork, anticipating breakfast. Even afforded Carmen a slight grin as she set a plate on the table in front of me.

I weren’t going soft or anything; just showing my appreciation. Long as she stayed away from me and mine . . . . I shoveled in a heaping bite as Mitch busied himself eating. Guess I might have to accept he weren’t mine any longer.

Before realizing I hadn’t a cup, I grabbed for my coffee.

“Lo siento. Aquí.” Warm breath and soft lips brushed my left ear as Carmen handed me a steaming cup from over my shoulder.

I welcomed the drink but shied away. Damned perfume could knock a man silly. She settled in the seat opposite one grinning Mitch. Setting my cup on the table, I failed to see what was so damned funny between them and returned to my food as they commenced to chattering back and forth.

Last I knew, Mitch didn’t talk Spanish. He weren’t too bad though, I reckoned, but my attempts to ignore the banter tired. Being left out in my own place ate at me. They continued, until I shoved my plate ahead. Between them, it skidded to a stop. Senseless noise halted; two sets of eyes looked my way. Having garnered their attention, I addressed Mitch. “Since when did you start speakin’ her language?”

Carmen’s immediate giggle told me that may a been the wrong question to ask. Mitch held in another chuckle as he looked to Carmen. “Been practicing a while, I reckon.” With his head, he motioned my way. “Tell the man, Carmen.”

For a second, her eyes widened. She looked at Mitch as she spoke. “El es muy bien.”

I could see a pink tint coloring her cheeks as she used her fingertips to hide a glowing smile. Compared to yesterday evening, she appeared almost modest. Maybe she weren’t too bad, for a female. Or so I reckoned before she began batting those lashes again, and I felt what could be none other than womanly toes, in all their agility, making their way purposefully along the inside a one of my knees.

With a start, I got to my feet, stepping away from my overturned chair, which bounced once from the floor before settling into a slow rocking motion. Weren’t no way in hell I’d follow Mitch down that path.

I grabbed my hat and stormed outside. Plenty a work to be gotten to. Time didn’t wait. Not for me.

Excerpted from Tengo una Pistola by Bryl R. Tyne