New Release – A. L. Lester

Interview: Ashton K. Rose talks about the Southern Magicks trilogy!

Today we welcome Ashton K. Rose to the blog to talk about their new release, the first in the Southern Magicks trilogy and tell us a bit about themselves. Welcome, Ashton! (Ashton is giving away a $20 Amazon gift card with this tour. You can join the Rafflecopter draw here!)

1. Why are you doing this interview? (A new book? A new website? A re-release? Just for fun?)

At the end of August, I released my debut novel, The Southern Magicks, which is the first book in an LGBTQIA+ Urban/Paranormal Fantasy and Mystery series I’m writing.

2. What started you writing?

I dabbled with creating stories my entire life, but I didn’t start writing fiction regularly until I was thirteen because I became a serious poet at eight. (Editorial comment: EXCELLENT!)

3. Where do you write? (Office, bed, garden, mountain, coffee shop, in a pool, at the dining table?)

It’s not that interesting. I have a small corner in my room with a desk and my computer.

4. What do you like to read?

Mainly any type of speculative fiction or mysteries about amateur/private detectives. My favorite genres are Urban Fantasy, Paranormal Romance, and Gaslamp Fantasy. I was drawn to reading indie and self-published novels because there hasn’t been a lot of traditionally published queer speculative fiction for adults until recently. I really enjoy reading books by Gail Carriger, K.J. Charles, Jordan L. Hawk, Derek Landy, Drew Hayes, K.D. Edwards, Benedict Jacka, Ben Aaronovitch, Agatha Christie, Allie Therin, Joanna Chambers, Alexis Hall, and David R. Slayton.

5. What are the three books you’d take to a desert island? Why would you choose them?

Soulless (Parasol Protectorate, #1) by Gail Carriger is the book that made me realize adult fiction could be fun, and it’s one of my favorite books.

The Utterly Uninteresting and Unadventurous Tales of Fred, the Vampire Accountant. I’ve read this book several times since I discovered the series in 2017, and it’s always an enjoyable book to come back to.

I have a complete hardcover edition of Sherlock Holmes stories, so I’d bring that as well.

6. Writing is an intrinsically solo occupation. Do you belong to any groups or associations, either online or in the ‘real’ world? How does that work for you?

A few years ago, I used to be part of a fantastic in-person writers’ group in my small town. A group of older ladies who taught me more about writing than I learned from the handful of classes I took during university. The group ran on a weekday afternoon and didn’t really attract a large amount of new people, so numbers slowly dwindled because of life events. I took over running the group for a couple of months to keep it alive, but I had to start a new job. Since then, I’ve only really been in online writers’ groups. I’ve found a great space within the queer indie writing community on Twitter with other writers who are working on their first few books. Because of the platform changes on Twitter, I’ve ventured out into other groups, joining a popular Facebook group managed by the hosts of a writing podcast I listen to.

I enjoy writers’ groups because I love interacting and learning with/from other writers, but I’m not sure about large groups like the nearest one in my city because I’m worried it will lack the conversation and personal interaction that originally attracted me to attending a writers’ group.

7. What do you like to do when you’re not writing?

I’ve always enjoyed reading and playing RPG and simulation games like the Sims series, Dragon Age, and Fallout. This year I started learning watercolor painting and drawing so I had a hobby that got me away from my computer. I pretty much only read ebooks, and I felt a lot of eyestrain and fatigue spending most of my free time looking at a screen.

8. Tell me a little bit about your most recent release. What gave you the idea for it? How long did it take to write? What did you enjoy about writing it? What did you hate?

The Southern Magicks is an LGBTQIA+ Urban/Paranormal Mystery series for adults set in Australia starting in 2018. Apart from the supernatural aspects, it’s set in a world pretty much identical to ours, only the pandemic doesn’t happen. I found it depressing and difficult to write that event into the series, so I stopped trying and found I could write this story again.

My main character Dexter is a trans man whose grandmother secretly taught him how to see and control ghosts. After he is saved from an attack by a demon/monster, Dexter is forced to work for the coven of mages who control local magic users through their wealth and positions of power. Dexter’s abilities are part of a branch of magic known as Death Magic, which is very useful for an exorcist in an old town.

I’ve been writing stories set in the Southern Magicks Universe since late 2017 when Dexter walked into my head almost fully formed. Between 2018 and early 2021, I slowly uploaded a condensed version of the first three books as a web novel.

When I had the money to publish, I separated the main three storylines to extend each of them to novel length. My new release, The Southern Magicks (Book One of The Southern Magicks Series), is the first of these. I’m currently editing books two and three, which I hope to release during 2023 if my budget allows. I’ve planned for the series to be around twelve books, and I’ve written drafts for almost half of the series.

The Southern Magicks #1

How do you prove your innocence when you don’t even remember whether you did it or not?

After a demon attack reveals Dexter’s secret – that his Gran taught him magic – the twenty-three-year-old librarian is forced to work for the local magical law enforcement agency in order to prove his loyalty, and hopefully save his grandmother from execution.

However, when someone tries to frame him for crimes he doesn’t remember committing, Dexter realizes he’ll have to start an investigation of his own. Joined by his beloved husband Eli, their best friend June, and his journalist cousin Kat, he desperately tries to prove his innocence…which is kind of difficult when gaps in his memory make him doubt everything he thinks he knows about himself.

The race against time begins. Can Dexter and his team uncover the criminals weaving the web of guilt around him before it’s too late, or is he going to lose everything and everyone he cares about?

Buy Southern Magicks #1 : Add to Goodreads

Warnings: Assault, violent imagery, panic attack on page, police brutality

Scroll down for an excerpt!

Author Bio:

Ashton K. Rose (They/Them) is a Queer author who writes Australian paranormal, urban fantasy and mystery fiction filled with LGBTQIA+ characters.

Ashton currently lives in sunny Queensland able to enjoy the best of the Australian bush and beach. Ashton spent their first fourteen years being raised on a remote farm shaped around the remains of an old mining town. Surrounded by the skeletons of past lives and their matching ghost stories, Ashton developed a love for fantasy, horror, and dark fairy tales from a young age.

Carrying a love of ghost stories into adulthood Ashton started writing novels about magic, vampires and ghosts. Ashton decided to set The Southern Magicks in a world heavily inspired by the backdrop of the Australia bush/beach and the speculative fiction Ashton has consumed over a lifetime.

Author Website : Facebook : Twitter : Instagram : Goodreads : Amazon

Excerpt

Chapter 1, Scene 1:

I knew Nora Rowe had died in her home without anyone telling me.
I unlocked the door and my stomach dropped as I took in the sight of the small dim living room of her kit home, filled with books and old newspapers. The acrid smell of cigarettes and wood fire smoke filled my nose as I weaved my way through the stacks. Mismatched flatpack bookshelves that warped under the strain of thousands of books lined the walls. Her living room held no other furniture apart from an old TV and a worn leather armchair—the carpet covered by stained, threadbare rugs.
I flicked the first light switch I saw twice.
Why had I expected the power to work?
I walked over to the windows and pushed the dust-caked lace curtains aside.
My eyes watered as the sun poured into the room.
In the kitchen, the doors of the cupboards hung open. The only things left behind were a few cheap plastic items scattered across the scratched lino.
I stepped on a plastic cup on the floor. I wobbled on my feet for a few sick seconds before I grabbed the counter to steady myself. The sharp aluminium edge bit into the skin of my hand.
This place was a death trap!
She had over twenty library books I had to separate from the donations. My legs shook as I walked to the shelves closest to the door.
I ignored the erratic beating of my heart and the part of my brain telling me to run and pulled out my keys to flick the small key chain light on. I placed it between my teeth and examined the spines for library tags.
When the light hit the grimy glass of a small photo frame on the shelf, I saw something move behind me. I kept my eyes fixed on the glass and used my thumb to clear a spot of dust.
If it hadn’t moved, I could have ignored the human-shaped shadow reflected in the glass.
As a kid, I’d been hassled about seeing things and having an overactive imagination. When I was seven, Gran told me the truth. I shared her secret ability to see ghosts.
I turned to look at the woman who sat in the armchair.
This Nora was a couple of years older than the one who celebrated her birthday in the photo. Her gaze focused on the TV, which would have been new the year Queen Elizabeth was coronated.
I kept my gaze locked on her, blinking one eye at a time.
I slowed my breath and took a careful step backwards to the door. The back of my calf hit something that drove several points of pain into my skin.
The stack of books I knocked over sliced through my composure just as easily as it did the silence in the room, the hard covers and spines slapping against each other as they hit the floor.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” Nora stood and turned to face me.
I knew I’d given the game away when I jumped out of my skin and almost dropped my keys.
I made a noise like a dying rat.
She knew I could hear her.
The first thing Gran had taught me was not to let a ghost realise you could sense them. It was dangerous—a trigger for the ire of a vengeful spirit.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Your son gave us the key.”
“Worthless piece of shit. Letting strangers into my house. He stole my grandma’s dinner set for drug money before my body was cold. I saw him put it in his car before he called someone to deal with the mess.”
“I’ll just be going now.”
“Actually, I’ll be going.”
I felt a sharp pain in my chest.
I tried to breathe, but my lungs refused to move.
I couldn’t breathe!
The edge of my vision went black as I gasped for air. I fell flat on my front. I was so focused on trying to breathe, I almost missed the presence pushing at the back of my mind. It started small, a hint of a suggestion. The temptation to give in grew. This was her body. I was nothing but a figment of her imagination. Dexter wasn’t real. Nothing more than a thought exercise to see what it’d be like to be a man her grandson’s age. With each second, it pressed harder, and the urge to give in grew.
Forget.
It would be easy to give in and never have another worry again. All the pain and pressure of life could vanish if I relaxed and let her take control.
No!
I shivered as I tried to move my arms to push myself onto my hands and knees. I focused on the door. It was only a short crawl. I had to do it. For a second, my vision went entirely black.
No!
I gathered all the strength I had and screamed. The remaining air expelled from my lungs. I took a sharp breath. I moved my stiff arms and pushed myself onto my hands and knees.
I was Dexter; I was real, and this was my body. Nothing would take that away from me.
I closed my eyes and pushed back the ghost. I wrapped a mental net around the invasive presence in my mind and forced it back through the hole where it had entered. A hole it had dug in a part of my mind I didn’t even know existed.
One arm forwards, one leg forwards, and breathe.
Move. Breathe. Move. Breathe.
I made it to the threshold and pulled the door open. I slid headfirst down the concrete stairs to lie on my back.
The pressure in my mind slowly vanished as I fell.
I opened my eyes.
Pale blue sky, almost cloudless.
My eyes watered from the bright light.
The perfect day was oblivious to my plight. The mid-autumn day was hardly different from late summer. I could’ve laid there for hours, but the hot concrete felt like it was melting the skin off my back where my shirt had ridden up. I rolled onto the dead grass beside the cracked front path.
Sweat ran into my eyes as I sat up. I squeezed my eyes shut to clear my vision.
I could still feel the cold air wafting from the open door. I had to shut it. Mrs Gregory was looking for any excuse to fire me. I stood and walked to the threshold.
All I had to do was grab the handle, pull it closed, remove my hand from the handle and step back.
One quick movement.
I could do it.
As I stared, my eyes adjusted to the dim. She stood just inside, her hard eyes focused on me.
She smiled.
I stepped forwards and grabbed the door handle. Her hand shot out towards my arm.
Her pale, icy fingers clamped around my left wrist. I tightened the grip of my right hand around the door handle. I tucked my chin to my chest and threw myself backwards down the stairs, using the weight of my body to swing the door closed. My shirt ripped as I fell backwards; the sleeve stayed in her hand as my arm slipped free.
The air expelled from my lungs as I hit the ground.
I lay on my back and my lungs refused to work. Fixed to the spot in terror, I gasped for air as my body refused to perform. A function that was usually thoughtless had become my only thought, the pinpoint the world had narrowed to.
There was a dizzy relief as I breathed again, and after a few minutes I slowly stood.
Blood ran down my exposed arm, the only part of my body that had hit the thin concrete path.
Ghosts could touch me! Physically hurt me!
I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing, forcing back the panic attack that bubbled in the back of my mind. I knew about the possession, but the touch? Why hadn’t Gran told me? I needed to call Gran, but I knew she couldn’t help me. She hadn’t talked to me about magic since her accident when I was seventeen.
I suspected the accident was magic-related, but she’d kept silent about it.
She’d looked at me sceptically any time I’d mentioned magic afterwards, as though I spoke of childish whimsy and needed to grow up.
So I had.
I’d left Dunn and become a librarian, a nice stable job for a responsible young man who liked books.
A normal young man who had resigned himself to a life of pretending he couldn’t see the dead.
I’d somehow ended up with nowhere else to turn and ended up back in this town.
Now Gran was in America with Aunt Myrtle, so it was hard to get help.
I drove back to the library to pretend I’d been out for my lunch break.

Buy Southern Magicks #1 : Add to Goodreads

Second Wind is out now! Read an excerpt.

Are you looking for a low angst gay romance with a trans MC set in a little Welsh town? With a truly terrible community orchestra? I’ve got you covered.

Second Wind

What do a shy French-horn-playing accountant and a single-dad trans trumpet player have in common other than both being members of the community orchestra at Theatr Fach in the little town of Llanbaruc?

Gethin’s been more or less hiding from life since his marriage broke up a couple of years ago. He’s joined the orchestra because his sister told him he needed a hobby rather than sitting at home brooding about his divorce.

Martin is careful who he dates because of his gender and his teenage daughter. He came to Llanbaruc as a stage manager for the Theatr Fach twelve years ago. He’s got a good set of friends here. Shannon’s a good kid. They’re a team.

Martin and Gethin hit it off. Will their mutual baggage prove too much to sustain a relationship?

A gentle m/transm romance in the Theatr Fach universe.

Buy Links: Amazon US : Amazon UK : JMS Books : Everywhere Else

Excerpt

“Martin!” Julie, the lead violin, waved him over. “This is Gethin,” she said, her hand on the arm of a tall, thin man nervously clutching a French horn and peering out from behind a thick pair of glasses. He resembled a nervous heron. “He’s new,” she added unnecessarily. “Can you take him under your wing a bit?”
Martin shot her a look. She was a very competent, friendly woman with no tact at all.
“Of course,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, Gethin,” he held out a hand and Gethin took it. “I’m Martin. Trumpet.”
“Gethin Jones,” the thin man said, shaking his hand a little too hard. His palm was warm and firm and he was clearly apprehensive. “Erm. French horn.” He waved his instrument vaguely at Martin. “As you can see.”
Martin smiled. “Come on,” he said. “Brass is over here. Let me introduce you around.” They started picking their way through the chairs. The brass section was made up of Martin and Alan on trumpet, Tim and Lucy on trombone, and Portia, a ten year old who played a tuba almost as large as she was. They were setting up music and gossiping about their week when Martin and Gethin reached them.
“Hullo hullo,” Martin said. This is Gethin Jones.” He waved vaguely at Gethin beside him. “Gethin, this is Tim, Lucy, Alan and Portia.” Everyone made noises of greeting. The room was beginning to echo with the sound of instruments being tuned and scales being played. It was a familiar cacophony.
“Are you Marion’s Gethin?” Lucy asked suddenly, leaning toward them to be heard over the cat-like screech of a young violinist and a burp from Portia’s tuba.
Beside him, Gethin tensed. “Not any more,” Gethin said brusquely, nodding. “But yes. I used to be.”
Lucy nodded, blushing. “Sorry,” she said. “My sister is Penny Wright. They went to school together. Penny told me what happened.”
Gethin nodded again. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, again. He didn’t add anything else. He seemed almost paralytically shy. But then, Martin would be reticent if he knew everyone was talking about his private business.
“I’ll go and get you some music,” Martin said, forestalling any more awkwardness. “Here, stick your horn down on the seat and grab yourself a music stand from the stack in there”. He gestured at the open door of the cupboard behind them.
The spare sheet music was on the table at the front. He made his way across the room, wending around chairs and people offering greetings until he could pick up a sheaf.
Julie met him there. “Is he all right?” she hissed at Martin, glancing past him over his shoulder at Gethin, an anxious expression on her face.
“Yes? Why shouldn’t he be?” Martin asked, frowning at her, puzzled.
“He’s Posey Morgan’s brother,” Julie hissed some more. “You know. Posey the health visitor?”
Martin shook his head. “Not my area,” he said apologetically. “Never met her.” He couldn’t remember who Shannon’s health visitor had been. An older woman though, no-one who could have been the sister of someone Gethin’s age.
Julie scowled at him, apparently blaming him for his lack of knowledge. “Well, she said he needed to get out of the house,” she continued, still hissing. “His wife left him two years ago and he’s become a recluse, she told me. I suggested he come along here to help take him out of himself.”
Martin bit his lip. As a gentle first step back in to a social life, he had his doubts about the suitability of the orchestra. One of it’s other activities was going to the pub after practice on a Friday and drinking steadily ‘til closing time. And there was a country-dancing-for-exercise sub-set of members he tried to avoid ... they’d invited him along to one of the sessions and he’d been crippled for days afterwards.
“So?” he said. “He seems perfectly normal.”
“The wife took off with his best friend,” Julie told him, shooting another guilty look over his shoulder at the brass section, who were settling the newcomer in their midst like a chicken in a nest of ferrets. Martin stopped himself turning properly to look at them, watching out of the corner of his vision.
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Martin promised. “Does he actually play?”
“He brought it in to the shop to have it serviced,” she said. “He seemed to know what he was doing. And Posey said he played at school. But I don’t think he’s done much of anything for a while.” She pulled a face. “He’s an accountant.”

Buy Links: Amazon US : Amazon UK : JMS Books : Everywhere Else

New Release: The Naked Gardening Day Box Set!

The Naked Gardening Day Box Set is out on 5th November!

Remember the five gay romance stories we released back in May to celebrate World Naked Gardening Day? Well we have gathered them together in a box set. We had a bit of to-and-fro-ing about what to use for the cover, but eventually we all agreed this was a superb image–radishes and forearms! What more could you want!

They are all MM romance novellas featuring being naked in a garden somehow, somewhere, to mark World Naked Gardening Day on 7th May 2022.

You can read a bit more about each story here or buy it here!.

Back when they came out, we did some visiting of each other’s blogs to chat about our stories. You can find everyone’s guest posts here on the blog with a little bit about each story and an excerpt.

I love these stories and it was a such a fun project to do. We are currently discussing what to do next year!

#SampleSunday: Sleeping Dogs

I finally got Sleeping Dogs out in time for Halloween! Here’s an excerpt so you can see whether you fancy a slightly spooky low-heat short sapphic short story. It’s $1.99 on Amazon and also in KU.

Sleeping Dogs

Alice doesn’t think she’s ready to start dating again. Or even to make new friends in the village where she’s come to live with her sister’s family. Will a rainy autumn day and an encounter with a mysterious black dog, a beautiful woman, and a fox cub change her mind?

A 10 500-word Halloween short story in the Celtic Myths Collection. With dogs, bats, a camper van with a woodburning stove, and a fox cub.

Available at Amazon and in KU

Excerpt from Sleeping Dogs

As she picked her way down the steep, stony path toward the stream, she was pulled out of her thoughts by a dog barking in the distance. And, perhaps… someone shouting? She stopped and cocked her head as she listened. Where was it coming from? Difficult to say but she thought it was in front of her, down in the valley. It could be echoing around though, bouncing off the hills. She pulled a face and hurried down the path. As she moved forward, both the barking and the shouting got louder and as she rounded the corner that finally took her to the stream, the culprits came in to view.
It was a woman, and the barking was coming from a black Labrador. The woman wasn’t shouting any longer, but she was holding the dog’s collar apparently to prevent it from lunging into the water. On the other bank stood a fox, with three fat cubs ranged behind her, snarling back. Between them in the water was a fox cub, struggling against a rock in the middle of the stream, trying to scramble out of the current. It was having problems and was getting weaker as she watched.
“Can you help?” the woman gasped, struggling with the dog. “I think it’s hurt. I can’t let the dog go because she’ll go for the vixen.”
Alice was already stripping. She didn’t bother to say anything. She ripped off her coat and boots and plunged in up to her hips, gasping at the cold. She could just… just… reach it. She overbalanced and nearly lost her footing as she grasped the struggling cub, but she recovered her balance and backed out as carefully as she could. The fox was limp in her hands.
She passed it up to the woman before scrambling out. “I think it’s dead,” she said. The woman had to let go of the dog before she could take the cub and instead of running off after the vixen, it lay down and crossed its paws. Oh! Her memory tumbled into place like a key in a lock. The dog was the one from yesterday.
And the woman was Morwenna.

Available at Amazon and in KU

Ellie Thomas: London in the Rain

This week Ellie Thomas is dropping in to talk about her new release, London in the Rain. Welcome, Ellie!

Thank you so much, Ally, for having me as your guest today! I’m Ellie Thomas, and I write Gay Historical Romance. In this blog, I’m chatting about London in the Rain, my story for the April Rain or Shine submissions call for JMS Books.

When I decided to pick the Rain option, I immediately thought of London (for some strange reason!) and, after exploring the city during the Elizabethan era in my Valentine’s story, The Spice of Life, it was fun to move five centuries forwards to the 1930s.

As I wanted my story to be atmospheric, I turned to the Lord Peter Wimsey books by one of my favourite Mystery Golden Age authors, Dorothy L. Sayers, to see the scale of early 20th century London through her eyes and get an ear for the language of the times. I have to say it felt like an indulgence to leaf through my well-thumbed copies of Murder Most Advertised and Strong Poison to get a mental map of 1930s London.

In homage to the author, my main character, Raymond, lives in Bloomsbury (like Sayers herself and her mystery writer heroine Harriet Vane) and he also works in Southampton Row, where Pym’s advertising agency is based in Murder Most Advertised. Also, David, Raymond’s love interest is an Oxford graduate, like Lord Peter Wimsey, and if asked, he’d confirm he’s also a Balliol College man.

As Raymond, although sexually active, lives an outwardly closeted life, I had already decided that David would be much more open in his attitude and was at least an observer of the vivid Berlin scene in the late 1920s and early 1930s, where anything went in terms of artistic and sexual expression. What I was fascinated to discover, was that by the mid-1930s, London had a vibrant LGBT (or to use the contemporary term, “queer”) scene of its own, despite draconian laws.

Unsurprisingly, as it has been for many years, Soho was also the centre of this earlier hub. Although Charlie’s, the bar in my story, is a figment of my imagination, other clubs that I mention like the Shim Sham and Billie’s were real if relatively short-lived due to police intervention.

I discovered a fascinating virtual walking tour that rediscovers and celebrates this forgotten and colourful world and is well worth a look.

I also used references from the National Archives for my chapter set in Billie’s club, including descriptions of the spacious club room featuring a grand piano. Also, regular performers and some of the clientele mentioned in this excellent article.

Billie’s Club: Queer club culture in 1930s London

Much of the writer’s observations are taken from the criminal and prosecution files, which is a desperately sad indictment of that period, but also contain fascinating details of the décor, acts, and the atmosphere of fun and escapism.

These sources inspired to me recreate that ambience in the concluding scene of my story, set in Billie’s Club. Here, at last, Raymond relaxes his inhibitions enough to dance in public with David, surrounded by an inclusive and vibrant crowd.

London in the Rain

A life of set routine is the norm for Raymond Smith. Now in his mid-thirties, a fleeting wartime romance far behind him, he is an exemplary clerk at a London insurance firm where he’s perceived as dry and conventional.

But Raymond has a secret. Every month or so, he visits Charlie’s, one of the more understated bars in Soho’s flowering gay scene in the 1930s. There, he seeks relief with strangers to get him through the next few weeks.

On one of these visits, he encounters suave David Carstairs, a well-travelled linguist with the Foreign Office. Rather than a brief encounter, David offers him friendship and even affection. Despite Raymond’s misgivings, the two men, with their contrasting backgrounds and experiences, start to form a bond in the spring of 1936 as Europe inexorably begins to march towards war. Will Raymond fearfully reject this chance of happiness? Or can he unbend enough to allow David into his heart and life?

Buy London in the Rain

Read on!

Raymond was almost breathless when he entered Charlie’s, the doorman lifting the curtain for him without hesitation. He paused in the inner doorway, taking in the quiet scene. As it was so early, very few tables were occupied, and the pounding in his head increased as he fruitlessly looked around the room. At last, his gaze locked on a familiar figure, sitting in the same position as Raymond had occupied the previous Thursday.
Charlie, the owner, elegant in black satin with her brassy hair piled high, was leaning over the bar talking to him in a familiar way that indicated long association. As he approached, the man gave a welcoming smile and Raymond’s headache vanished.
“Scotch and soda?” The man queried before giving his order to Charlie. As he chatted with the proprietress, Raymond looked at him surreptitiously. He’s not out on the town tonight, he thought, as the stylish dress clothes had been replaced by a tailored Savile Row suit. He must have come straight from work in much the same way as Raymond, and he wondered if his gentleman was something in the city or even a cog in the wheel of government.
Placing down their drinks with a vermilion-lipped beam, Charlie moved down the bar to serve the next customer. The man smiled at Raymond, picked up his glass, and said, “Cheers!”
Braced for the first taste of harsh spirit, Raymond’s eyebrows rose when the contents proved to be far superior to what was normally served. He must be more than a vague acquaintance of Charlie’s, thought Raymond, as this is the good stuff. He took a long swallow, appreciating the fine flavours.
“Bad day?” The man asked sympathetically.
“Oh, you know,” Raymond shrugged. “The usual ups and downs of office life.” Although his companion smiled understandingly, Raymond would have been astonished if the man had any familiarity with his humdrum routine.
The gentleman took a sip of whisky, and after hesitating, he began, “Well, whatever happened today, despite any inconvenience to you, I’m glad it brought you here. I was hoping I might see you again,” he finished with a shy smile.
Raymond said nothing, hiding his confusion with the rest of his drink. He must be joking. Why would someone like him give me a second glance?
Embarrassed, he changed the subject, pretending to peer into the corners of the room, saying, “Your young friends not with you tonight?”
The man laughed, “Thankfully, no. One round of the delights of Soho was sufficient for my young cousin and his chums. From the amount and variety of booze they put back, I wouldn’t be surprised if they are still suffering from sore heads. Talking of which, would you like another?”
He gestured to Charlie, who took away their glasses to refill them from her private supply, returning their replenished drinks with a conspiratorial grin. Raymond took a sip of his fresh drink, letting the fine whisky roll around his mouth.
“By the way,” the man said, “I don’t know your name. How remiss of me. I’m David Carstairs.”
Taken aback by such openness, Raymond paused before he shook the proffered hand, his own captured briefly by a warm, firm grip.
“Raymond Smith,” he muttered in response. Meeting David’s amused, slightly disbelieving glance, he laughed and said, “No, it’s not a false name.”
“There are plenty of genuine Smiths in the world, I suppose,” David said lightly. “And not merely assumed for reasons of disguise.”
Raymond felt keenly aware of their surroundings and all the secrets this place of assignation held, including his own.
As though on the same wavelength, David said casually, “This bar is a pleasant place to unwind and not too far from King Charles Street where I work.”
So he’s in the Foreign Office, then, Raymond thought. I should have guessed. He’s got the looks and poise and, no doubt, the education too.
He cleared his throat, “I’m not far away either. My office is in Southampton Row.”
It seemed oddly personal to trade such information here, where Raymond had exchanged greater intimacies with men, never knowing a single fact about their lives.
David glanced at his watch. “I assume you haven’t had the chance to eat as yet? Perhaps after we’ve finished these, we might get a spot of supper somewhere?”
After gulping down his first drink, Raymond had been slowly sipping his second glass of whisky to remain as long as he could in David’s presence, convinced the other man would excuse himself at the first opportunity.
Raymond blinked, taking in the import of the invitation. “I’d like that very much,” he replied. David’s shoulders relaxed as though they had held some invisible tension.

Buy London in the Rain

About Ellie

Ellie Thomas lives by the sea. She comes from a teaching background and goes for long seaside walks where she daydreams about history. She is a voracious reader especially about anything historical. She mainly writes historical gay romance.

Ellie also writes historical erotic romance as L. E. Thomas.

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