Xavier Mayne

Author of M/M romance that's sweet, funny, and hot

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Excerpt: Q*Pid

August 18, 2018

“VEERA, THE floor is yours.” Edwin, the manager of her team, smiled encouragingly across the table.

The smile was mostly for show, she knew, because he’d made perfectly clear he had precious little confidence in her idea. However, despite his reservations—which he’d enumerated several times for her over coffee during the course of the previous week—his team had a quota of developer pitches to make during the quarter, and at this late date he had no other options.

She opened her laptop and connected the display cable. The wall at the end of the conference room came to life, showing the first slide of her presentation. The hot-pink glow from the monitor flooded the room, basking all in attendance in the reflected glory of her cupid-decorated title slide.

Veera glanced around the room and immediately regretted not asking one of the web designers for advice on her color palette. She cleared her throat nervously.

“Thank you, Edwin.” Her voice sounded small. She wasn’t confident it had even traveled to the end of the suddenly miles-long conference table.

Focus, Veera. Find your voice.

“Artificial intelligence has never been applied to relationship discovery,” she began, using the company’s preferred term for online dating. “Today I’d like to present a vision for how AI can be a significant differentiator for our service. I call it the ‘epistemology engine.’ Our current data-mining processes work very well, but like all post hoc analytics, they allow only future optimization based on past performance. What they cannot do is dynamically adapt the discovery model in real time. In short, they do a great job of helping the next customer, but they can do little to help the current one.”

Veera looked out across a conference room full of skeptical expressions. She swallowed hard and tried to remember to breathe.

“Today, I’d like to introduce you to the future of relationship discovery. Artificial intelligence that learns and adapts, accompanying our customers through their daily online lives, becoming a trusted friend as much as a matchmaker.” She paused to look around the room. This was the moment she’d practiced for a full sleepless week. “I’d like you to meet Archer.”

—–

“MRS. SCHWARTZMANN, you really should stop putting melon rinds down the garbage disposal. It can’t handle them.”

“I know, I know,” she replied, holding her hands up as if yielding the responsibility for her kitchen habits to a higher power. “You are so nice to come help an old woman.”

“I’m just doing my job.” Drew smiled, incapable of being angry at Mrs. Schwartzmann. “Besides, it’s always fun to try to guess what’s happened when you call.”

“Ach,” Mrs. Schwartzmann grunted, eyes heavenward. “Such an old building. No wonder things go wrong. They should take better care.”

“The building is five years old,” Drew said, as he always did. “It was brand-new when you moved into it. I helped you with your boxes, remember?”

“Ach,” Mrs. Schwartzmann said again. “The vapors from the paint nearly killed me that night. You would think they would let it air for a minute before putting an old woman here to sleep.”

“We live in a world fraught with risk,” Drew offered solemnly, marveling at her ability to come up with an endless supply of new complaints. For a woman who rarely left her apartment, she was relentlessly inventive when it came to enumerating the wrongs perpetrated against her by the shadowy “they.”

Mrs. Schwartzmann nodded gravely, clearly heartened to have the young man’s sympathy.

“There, I think that’s got it,” Drew said, pulling the last of the half-shredded melon rinds from the disposal. He turned the water on and flipped the switch. The unit hummed quietly.

“Thank you, thank you,” sang Mrs. Schwartzmann. She reached up and grabbed him by the cheeks, then kissed each one. She did this every time, and every time he felt like a precocious grandchild. “Now, I make us some tea, and you tell me about last night. Sit.”

The prospect of hashing over the catastrophe of last night’s date with Mrs. Schwartzmann—a woman more than three times his age—would have given most men pause, but Drew was quite accustomed to it by now. He found her commiseration, and often her advice, heartening.

“I assume you heard how it ended?” he asked as she put the kettle on.

She sat, the small square kitchen table between them. “Only that she broke all your furniture,” she said mildly as she smoothed the shiny plastic tablecloth with her gnarled hands.

“It was just the coffee table,” Drew replied, “but yes, she reduced it to kindling.”

“This woman does not sound like such a very nice woman,” Mrs. Schwartzmann opined solemnly.

“No, she didn’t turn out to be a very nice woman.”

She put her hand on his. “I am sure she seemed much nicer when you met her. A woman like that waits until she gets a man on her hook, and then poof! A she-monster.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Drew said shrugging. “I hadn’t met her before our date.”

Mrs. Schwartzmann tucked her lips in silent judgment, as if Drew had admitted to a gambling habit. She nodded. “Oh, I see. She was one of the women you meet on the computer. How can you tell, when you only know her by what she type-type-types. Is it so hard to type things that are not true? It is not so hard.”

Drew chuckled grimly. “If I had asked whether she was insane and she said no, then I would say she lied. But I didn’t ask. According to the dating site, we were supposed to be a good match.”

Mrs. Schwartzmann’s brows drew into a solid black line of dark implication. “The computer machine tells you to date an insane crazy woman… and you? You do it.” She shook her head slowly, but her expression softened into one of pity.

Drew was spared further aspersions on his dating strategy by the tea kettle beginning its low, trainlike whistle. Mrs. Schwartzmann pushed herself to a standing position and began fussing with tea.

“She didn’t seem crazy, at least at first,” he said rather lamely. “We were into a lot of the same things.”

“Things like breaking the furniture?” Mrs. Schwartzmann asked lightly without turning from the counter where she was arranging teacups on saucers.

“Very funny. We listened to the same kinds of music and had read a lot of the same books, and our political views were pretty much identical. We liked a lot of the same things—we should have been completely compatible.”

Mrs. Schwartzmann gently placed the cups and saucers on the table. “If the things you like make you completely compatible with a crazy woman, then maybe you are liking the wrong things.” She shrugged, which was her way of conveying certainty in her opinion. She turned back to pick up the teapot.

“You don’t understand how online dating works,” Drew said, taking it upon himself once more to acquaint Mrs. Schwartzmann with the modern world. “You tell the computer about yourself, and then it finds people that you are compatible with. It’s how everyone dates now.”

“If that’s how everyone dates, I should have stock in the coffee table company.” She set the enormous teapot between them and took her seat.

“The coffee table was an accident,” Drew said. “Mostly. I think.”

—–

“CONVERSATIONAL REFERENCES to sports.” Tap-tap-tap. “Zero. Mentions of history of mental illness in the family, also zero. Hmm.” Rapid-fire clicks and taps on the keyboard echoed through the strenuously clean kitchen. “Number of attempts to pay the dinner check, and height of heels in inches, and number of visible piercings, and done.”

Fox sat back and picked up his coffee mug for a long, meditative sip before scrolling down to see the final score at the bottom of his spreadsheet. The number in the last cell wasn’t what he was expecting.

“Hmm.”

A chat window titled Video Call from Chad popped open, covering the spreadsheet. He tapped the Accept button.

“Hey, buddy,” Chad said cheerfully. Behind him loomed a deeply cushioned leather headboard. “How’s Foxy this morning? What do the numbers say?”

Fox smiled into the camera atop his laptop screen. “The numbers aren’t what I was hoping for,” he said with a good-natured shrug. “I kind of liked this one, so I was a little surprised that she netted out at seventy-two.”

“Ouch,” Chad said, wincing sympathetically. “Sorry, man. Her pictures were awesome. I was pulling for you.”

“The numbers don’t lie, man,” Fox answered with a shrug.

“So she’ll be getting the email this morning?”

Fox nodded. “I just need to figure out which one.”

“I thought low seventies got ‘we both knew it wasn’t working.’”

“Yeah, normally. But I really thought we were doing better than the low seventies. Her dinner conversation was a lot better than my Sunday evening last week, and that one was in the upper seventies. I was kind of surprised that she netted out where she did.”

“Are you sure you entered everything correctly?”

“You’re asking me if I know how to do data entry? In the spreadsheet I’ve been using for five years?”

Chad laughed. “Maybe it’s time to revise the formulas.”

“No one said it was going to be easy, and I’m not going to lower my standards now.” Fox opened an email window and selected the “low seventies” template.

“What’s the queue look like for the weekend?” Chad asked.

“Got a brunch today, then a dinner, and a hike on Sunday.”

“Three more chances to find Ms. Right,” Chad said cheerfully. “She’s out there, and you’ll find her.”

“Thanks, man. And pull up your covers—I don’t need to see your nipples first thing in the morning.”

“I like his nipples,” called a woman’s voice from somewhere off-camera. “I think they’re sexy.”

“Agree to disagree, Mia,” Fox shouted into his laptop.

“Are you telling me you don’t think my nipples are sexy, Fox?” Chad winked and gave his heavily muscled pectorals a stripper-like shake at the camera.

“Good thing I haven’t had breakfast yet,” Fox said as he closed the lid of his laptop.

—–

FOX, IN the elevator on the way back to his office after lunch, read the message with a furrowed brow. He monitored his phone closely for Q*pid updates, knowing that women were more likely to interact if men responded to potential matches within seconds rather than hours or even minutes. In the race to get to Ms. Right, he was going to be first across the finish line.

He read the message again. Having been an active user of the service for a couple of years, he was a little flattered that he was being given an exclusive notification, and he certainly liked the idea of artificial intelligence being applied to his quest to find the woman of his dreams. He tapped and read the description of the service.

Give our new AI engine access to your social media profiles, and it will analyze everything you do online to match you to only those women who are most compatible with you—not because of what they say about themselves, but what advanced algorithms discover them to be. This is analysis on a deeper level than any relationship discovery service has ever accomplished before.

Fox pondered this for a moment. Like most people he knew, he carefully curated aspects of his online presence; his LinkedIn profile was the product of constant grooming, and the only photos that went on his Facebook were those that showed him in a particularly flattering light.

Anyone can crawl the web and see your public profile. But for this new service to deliver the best results, we will ask you for all of your social media login information. Only by analyzing everything you do online can our AI brain really get to know you, and deliver the kinds of relationship results that endless questionnaires and disappointing first dates could never come close to.

He frowned. He wasn’t at all sure that giving Q*pid this kind of access was a good idea. With those logins, a hacker could pretty seriously break his life.

We know you’re concerned with privacy. We’re absolutely obsessed with it. In five years of operation, Q*pid has never suffered a security breach or loss of customer data. And only the AI engine will have access to your social media and web usage information—no human will be able to access it, and our strong encryption protects your data end-to-end. We use VPN tunneling to ensure that even your internet service provider cannot intercept your data.

Fox reached his desk, at which he sat without taking his eyes off his phone. He considered the implications of allowing the kind of invasive data-gathering that this new AI thing would require. On the one hand, it would be foolish to allow anyone that kind of access. On the other, he liked the idea of being an early adopter of AI dating services. Plus, he could use some additional analytics behind his spreadsheet-centered approach to relationships. He hadn’t had a score above eighty-three in weeks.

We invite you to be among the first—and the very few—of our customers to use our AI service. Though final pricing has yet to be determined, we’re giving you a chance to try it for free. Of course, you may stop using the service at any point, and we’ll delete your data completely. You’re in control.

He took a deep breath and tapped the Accept button.

—–

Supercharge your love life with our new supercomputer.

Well, that wasn’t what Drew was expecting to see when he felt the heartbeat vibration of his phone. Normally these updates were notifications that his profile had been viewed by the next crazy woman in line. He figured he’d be staring at a profile pic and wondering what piece of furniture he’d next be dropping piece by piece into his garbage can. He read the message again, then tapped through to find out what it meant.

We get it, Drew. You’ve had twenty-three first dates in the last three months, and not one of them has resulted in the kind of relationship you’ve always dreamed of.

“Huh.” He hadn’t expected such blunt talk from his dating app. Though every word was true.

We want to help. Sign on for our new service—free of charge during this trial period—and we guarantee you’ll get matches that are better than you’ve ever imagined.

Maybe his furniture was going to be safe after all.

How do we do it? We use the power of a supercomputer to get to know you through your online activity—the real you—and we crunch the numbers to match you with women who are truly compatible. Your next first date may be your last, Drew. Sign up today.

Am I really that pathetic? He looked around his apartment, at its rather dismal offering of second- and third-hand furniture, the single bowl on the counter in which the dregs of his ramen were already hardening into concrete. Yes, yes I am.

Through the ceiling he heard Mrs. Schwartzmann shuffling through her empty apartment. The bleakest possible vision of his lonely future, literally hanging over his head.

“What the hell?” he said to the place where his coffee table used to be. “It’s not like it can get any worse.” He stared at the screen, his thumb over the button. Never the decisive type, he knew himself to be all the less so when facing decisions that really mattered. He chewed the inside of his lip.

He jumped when his phone buzzed to let him know he needed to leave now if he was going to get to his seminar on time.

Following a quick tap on the Accept button, he slipped the phone into his pocket, then grabbed his book bag and headed out of the apartment.

—–

A CHIME from Fox’s phone made his eyelids flutter but not open. In his half sleep, he recognized the Q*pid notification sound. That he heard it at all meant that a match of at least 85 percent had been found.

A second chime sounded. He opened his eyes and checked the time on the clock next to his bed. It was ten minutes to six. The second chime meant that the match Q*pid wanted him to know about was at least ninety percent.

The third chime was still dying away when he grabbed his phone. He’d never before heard a third chime, but he knew full well what it meant: there was a match with a success potential of more than 95 percent waiting for him. He brought to phone to him and tapped on the notification.

A 99.5 percent match is waiting for you! the message said.

“Fuck,” Fox said out loud. He’d never even seen a match higher than 95 percent, and never dreamed there could be such a thing as a match in excess of 99 percent.

He tapped the link so see who this woman, this perfect specimen, this impossible angel, could be. Whoever she was, she was the woman he’d been searching his whole life for.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, the picture was waiting for him.

“Fuck!”

His phone flew across the room, then skidded under his dresser before crashing into the wall behind.

“Fucking fuck!” Fox shouted, shaking his head to clear it of what he’d seen. He was breathing hard, and for the next few minutes was certain the walls of his bedroom were closing in on him.

He flopped back onto his pillow and stared hard at the ceiling.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

—–

“WHAT DOES the computer tell you to do?” Mrs. Schwartzmann asked, peering over Drew’s shoulder.

“It wants me to remind you that avocado pits shouldn’t go down the disposal.”

“But so slippery they are,” she replied. “I try to keep it from going down drain, but I could not hold on.”

Drew sighed. “Then you should reach down and pull it out, not turn the disposal on.”

“Put my hand in the place where the blades spin so fast?” Mrs. Schwartzmann recoiled from the very idea.

“The blades only spin if you turn them on.”

“That is what they say. Then your hand into drain you put, and before you know what is happening, the blades start with spinning.”

“Well, now the blades won’t spin at all, and unless I find something on YouTube that shows me where to stick this little wrench, they’ll never spin again. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

“But my sink is full of water.”

“That’s the price of safety, Mrs. Schwartzmann.”

Her shrug conveyed clearly her belief that there was no such thing as safety, not at any price. “While you look on the computer, I will make some eggs. With avocado.”

He managed a smile as he scrolled through yet another page full of videos. “What’s better at six in the morning on a Saturday than your soft-boiled eggs and avocado?” Another three hours of sleep, he thought to himself. That would be better.

A chime, followed by a second, followed by a third, emanated from his laptop.

“You find the answer?” she asked, without turning from where she stood chopping avocado.

“No, that’s my online dating app. It’s never dinged at me three times before. It must have found someone amazing.”

Mrs. Schwartzmann spun around. “Is there picture? Does she have strong arms like she break furniture, maybe for fun?”

“We’ll find out in a minute,” Drew said. “It’s loading now.”

She wiped her hands and shuffled—no, danced—over to the table. “Let us see this wonder woman.”

The picture popped up. Drew stared at it for a long moment.

“What?” she asked, her voice full of sudden concern. “What is the matter? You look like you have seen ghost.”

“It’s not a ghost,” Drew said slowly. “It’s a….”

“Dear boy, what is it?” She sat down opposite, slowly, as if bracing herself to hear tragic news. “What does the computer say?”

“The computer,” Drew replied, but his voice broke before he could finish. He swallowed hard. “Mrs. Schwartzmann, the computer says I’m gay.”

Filed Under: Excerpts

Excerpt: Farlough

April 21, 2017

Cameron confronts one of the ghosts of his past on Farlough.


The faded sign that stood guard over the Sea Witch hadn’t changed, Cam noted, since he had last seen it, when he was still too young to step inside. He grasped the handle of the oaken door, the cold, thick iron worn smooth by the thirst of generations. Though daylight was just fading, warm air, thick with the rich aroma of pipes being smoked and whisky being nursed, swept over him as he stepped inside.

Mads was at the bar, and he held aloft two pints of deep black porter. Then he turned and walked to the back of the tavern around the other side of the replace. Cam followed, ducking his head under a dark beam laid in a century when people were shorter. Tucked into the side of the chimney was a private nook; once it had held a month’s worth of firewood, but now it was host to two small benches that faced each other over a narrow table. Mads folded himself down until he could slide onto one of the benches, then set the pints on the table.

Cam took up the other bench and shucked off his coat—the heat of the fire emanated through the thick masonry against which he pressed his back warming the little booth. Mads picked up his pint and waited for Cam to do the same. They drank in silence, then set their glasses back down.

Mads stared at the table for a long while.

“I guess none of ‘the lads’ are here?” Cam finally asked. His patience with Mads’s stormy stare was running out.

Without warning Mads reached across the table and grabbed Cam by the neck of his sweater. He yanked roughly until Cam was lifted out of his seat and their foreheads nearly met. They were nose-to-nose, Cam unable even to draw breath.

“Does she know?” he snarled, seething with fury. “Did you tell her?” Cam blinked and tried to pull back, but Mads held him immobile. “Tell me!” Mads roared. The noise level in the pub dropped for a moment as conversations were suspended—obviously, in the hopes of hearing something juicy from the nook no one could see into.

“No, of course I didn’t tell her anything,” Cam whispered, compensating for Mads’s outburst by making his voice almost inaudible. “I didn’t even know she was your wife until you showed up last night.”

Mads released his grip, sending Cam crashing back down into his seat.

“Then why are you here?” Mads spat. Then, as if uninterested in the answer, he picked up his pint and drank fully half of it before bringing it back down with a thump.

“Aunt Hilda,” Cam said quietly.

“Died six months ago. You didn’t seem to notice.”

“She was my only living relative. Of course I noticed. But it wasn’t until two weeks ago that her will was read and I got her instructions to come here.”

“Couldn’t be bothered to come here just because she died? Leaving an entire island mourning her loss? A loss that should have been yours too, if you’d cared a bit about her.”

Cam, chastened despite his anger at being berated so viciously, looked at his hands. “You don’t know anything about me,” he said quietly.

Mads scoffed dismissively. “That’s a true word.” He finished his pint in a gulp.

Cam could take no more. He glared across the table. “You were the one who pushed me away.” His voice quavered with anger and pain and loss.

Mads’s eyes widened while his brow darkened. “You think that’s what happened, do you? Is that right?” His voice became a low growl. “Fuck you.”

Cam sat back and studied the man he once thought he knew better than anyone else in the world—and who he thought knew him too. Now it was clear the gulf between them was larger than a table, wider than a dozen years. “Look, if all you’re worried about is whether I’m going to tell her about us—about whatever happened between us—you can just go now. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Mads stared hard at him, wheels turning in his head behind the deep brown eyes.

“What more do you want from me?” Cam said, his voice rising as anger began to tighten his throat. “I’m not going to tell anyone you broke my heart, okay?”

Mads startled as if he’d been slapped but still said nothing.

“What do you fucking want?” Cam exploded, and again the pub fell quiet around them. But he was too far gone in his sorrow and rage to stop now. He leaned over the table, his voice a hushed torrent of outrage. “I’m not going to tell anyone that you broke my heart and it’s stayed broken. That I’ve never had a relationship that lasted as long as those summers here with you. You broke my heart, Mads, and you fucking broke me. You tell me why I’d want anyone knowing that. You knowing it is bad enough, but now you do. Happy?”

“I…,” Mads began but seemed to have no idea what would come next. He looked around as if for a sign of some kind, a bit of divine guidance as to what to do or say, but apparently none was forthcoming. He grabbed his coat and slid out of the booth. He’d taken two or three steps when he stopped, then turned back. Walking back to the table, he paused for a moment.

Cam looked up at him, tears welling in his eyes.

Mads pulled some bills out of his pocket and tossed them on the table. Then he turned and left.

Cam, alone, stared at his glass for a long time, and despite the repeated, polite offers of the tavern keeper to bring him a cold one, he emptied it slowly, uninterested in both the taste of the alcohol and its effect. He finished it only because something needed to be finished. Whatever it was he’d had with Mads would, apparently, never be. Or maybe it was finished before they’d begun it.

Filed Under: Excerpts

“A compelling and complex love story” — The Novel Approach reviews We Are Fallingwater

April 7, 2017

“We Are Fallingwater is an exceptional journey with wonderfully crafted characters,
and stands out as one of the best stories surrounding multiple partners I have read in a long time.”

Lindsey’s review of We Are Fallingwater is a delightful read, but it’s also a really well written exploration of some of the themes of the book. I especially appreciated her perspective on the tricky nature of love that crosses boundaries. If you’re hesitant to jump into your first MMF romance, consider her experience:

What made this story stand out? For one, it made me think about so many different gender roles and stereotypes out there that get overlooked. It took on some topics that I know I generally don’t think about, and I had to take a long, hard look at my own misconceptions. Arlo is such an intriguing character, with an open heart and an equally open mind, and through his views on gender roles and fluidity, I had a lot of “Wow, I never considered that!” moments. Books that push me beyond my comfort zone and force me to take a good look at myself are ones that I really enjoy.

Writing my first MMF novel was a bit terrifying, I have to say. I hoped I would be able to navigate the very challenging territory that three characters must tread in establishing a relationship that works for all of them. I’m always a little nervous too when writing major female characters–I know that most of my readers are women, and I try to create female characters they will relate to. I was gratified to find that Lindsey thinks that Cara “truly is a fabulous character.”

Read the full review here.

We Are Fallingwater is available exclusively on Kindle and Kindle Unlimited.

Filed Under: Reviews, Reviews: We Are Fallingwater

Excerpt: Destination, Wedding!

January 30, 2017

When a volcano attempts to derail the troopers’ wedding, their devoted friends Bryce and Nestor swing into action.


“They say the air, it is full of ass?” Nestor asked, his expression puzzled. Intrigued, but puzzled.

“Not ass, ash,” Bryce replied, stabbing at the news reports on his phone with increasing alarm. “An obstreperous volcano, of all things, is attempting to derail our dear troopers’ impending nuptials.”

Nestor stared blankly, then shrugged helplessly.

“This bitch of a mountain in Iceland,” Bryce said, turning his phone for Nestor to see, “has decided out of pure spite to blow up, and the ash in the air means we cannot y to the wedding tomorrow.” Bryce had invited himself and Nestor to come nearly two weeks early, just to see to details. Of this particular manifestation of his dedication to service, the troopers were, as of this moment, unaware.

Nestor again shrugged, holding his palms outstretched in a gesture of accepting what one cannot change.

Bryce gave a mighty—yet piercing—harrumph. “This is what holds your people back,” he snapped. “A dictator starves the entire island for decades, and….” He held his hands out just as Nestor had done and gave a surrendering shrug. “The entire world gives up on both communism and the Catholic church, but”—he shrugged again— “you manage somehow to hang on to them. And now in the face of the worst thing to happen to a wedding since heterosexuality?” He shrugged a third time, arms stretched to heaven. “It’s almost as though you would prefer to yield quietly to whatever the world throws at you, like Buddhists contemplating a river, or the French army hearing gunfire.”

“But, my love, it is a volcano. There is nothing we can do—”

“Nestor, I will not have that flaccid attitude in this house. In this—as in all adversity—I prefer to think there is never nothing we cannot keep from not doing.”

Nestor’s eyes crossed a bit.

“I will not stand idly by while some ‘natural disaster,’ as the alarmists on the news are calling it, keeps me from getting to that wedding. Our dear boys need us, darling. How else are they going to get down the aisle with the pleats of their kilts perfectly pressed? I will not have them mussed as they say their vows. Even if I have to reach under there and straighten things out myself.”

Nestor nodded gravely. “Is a skirt, with something… extra.”

“My point exactly! Now you know our boys will be testing the tensile strength of that plaid fabric even before they say their vows and all of that talk of commitment gives them a marriage boner. We must be vigilant. And we must get there, darling, we simply must.”

“What do you plan, my love?”

“I’m glad you asked. It’s simply too brilliant. In fact, I have no idea why no one else seems to have thought of it. The ash cloud is currently over the Atlantic Ocean. That means planes flying east cannot get through. So, what we’re going to do is fly west.” He stood back to give this idea—and Nestor’s impending accolades—the room they deserved.

Nestor stared for a moment. “But is not England east of here?”

“Yes, but by going west, we avoid the whole mess!”

“We fly around… the whole world?” Nestor whispered, eyes wide.

“Now you’ve got it,” Bryce cried, clapping his hands and bouncing excitedly. Nestor’s uncomprehending eyes followed him: up and down, up and down. “Genius, right?” Bryce prompted. Nestor’s delay in celebrating his brilliant solution was getting tiresome.

“Yes, henius. That is the word I was wanting,” Nestor cooed.

“There we are. Thank you. Now, I have many arrangements to see to. Reservations to change, tickets to buy—”

“But, my love, how will we pay for?”

“Leave that to me, honey, leave that to me.” Bryce paused for a moment’s thought. “Actually, not entirely to me. Open up your suitcase and toss out anything that says ‘I played a footman on Downton Abbey’ and replace it with some ‘I forgot to pack underwear’ and a little ‘I wouldn’t mind a spanking.’”

Nestor nodded. These were directions he understood. He hurried off to the bedroom to modify his wardrobe for the week.

“Never fear, my beloved troopers,” Bryce swore to the ceiling. “I am coming to you.”

Filed Under: Excerpts

Why I self-published “We Are Fallingwater”

November 26, 2016

This week I launched We Are Fallingwater, my first self-published book. Why self-publish?

I’ve released six books with Dreamspinner Press since 2012, and have two more coming in 2017. The team at Dreamspinner has been great to work with—especially Andi, my terrific Senior Editor. They took a chance with a completely novice author and published Frat House Troopers, and they’ve seen it through audiobook and now graphic novel formats. I have no complaints, and would recommend them to anyone looking for a top-flight publisher of MM romance.

But there are some compelling reasons why I’ve decided to self-publish, and I wanted to share them in case any other authors are out there considering the same.

I’ve decided I’m genre-fluid.

In writing We Are Fallingwater, I’m moving from writing about what I know (straight-to-gay and gay-for-you) to what I’m not sure I can do (bisexual MMF romance that’s male-focused but not dismissive of the female experience). See, that’s a mouthful just to say.

Dreamspinner, though, is clear that they are a MM romance house, with no MMF allowed. Which is fine—they have every right to stick with what has worked so well for them. But I wanted to try something new, so it was time to pursue a new avenue.

I’m a control freak.

Self-publishing seemed like a worthwhile challenge. My day job is in content development on a design-focused team, so I’m familiar with design and production. I use Scrivener for writing, and it can output to Kindle format with a couple of clicks (well, a few more than a couple the first time, but it doesn’t take long to work out the kinks). GIMP is free, and drawing on my experience with Photoshop, I’ve learned what I need to do for cover design. Apple’s Pages was all I needed for creating the We Are Fallingwater media kit.And Amazon has amazing tools for self-publishing—the Kindle ecosystem can do just about anything a self-published author needs to do (and few things I never imagined doing!).

It’s immensely satisfying to see that Amazon detail page and know I’ve managed the entire process.

Self-publishing doesn’t mean I do it all myself.

I spent nearly a decade as a tenured professor of English. So my prose is generally pretty solid, from a technical perspective. And yet if you were to read my first-draft manuscript, you’d wonder how I managed to fake my way through a PhD program.

That’s why every writer needs an excellent editor.

I was lucky enough to have an excellent editor come to me. Ben Renki, who edited We Are Fallingwater, sent me an email several years ago simply letting me know that he enjoyed my writing. We corresponded a bit, and he stepped up to be my first reader for everything I would eventually submit to Dreamspinner. He is one of those rare readers who can sort all of the details while making perceptive and subtle observations about the highest level of the narrative. I have come to trust his judgment implicitly.

When I first considered self-publishing, I immediately asked him if he would be interested in becoming my for-real editor. He jumped right in with me, and I’m extremely proud of the work we’ve been able to accomplish together.

A key factor in self-publishing, then, is to be aware of what you can do, and what you need some help doing.

Would I do it again? I already am

It’s been a lot of fun to self-publish, and though the jury is out on whether anyone will actually buy We Are Fallingwater, I’m glad I did it. I’m already working on the next novel I’m going to self-publish, and it should be ready to go in a couple of weeks. Like Fallingwater, it’s a book that didn’t really fit in Dreamspinner’s wheelhouse—just between us, it was a little too dirty for them. But I’m not one to hide my smut under a bushel, so you’ll have a chance to read it soon.

Thanks, dear reader, for coming on this adventure with me. There’s more fun ahead.

Filed Under: Commentary, Talk, We Are Fallingwater

Excerpt: We Are Fallingwater

November 26, 2016

Trent brings Oscar to their first playdate ever, at Arlo’s house. The dads immediately become closer than they’d ever anticipated.


The knock at the door, as always, caused a commotion in the house. Hope, in her beloved bouncy chair, banged out a rhythmic echo of the knock on the toy tray before her, and Steady shot to the window to peek through the sheer curtains at the potential intruder. (His repeated urging for the family to invest in a portcullis had thus far fallen on deaf ears.)

“Calm down, everyone,” Arlo said soothingly as he walked to the door. “It’s just Oscar and his dad. We talked about this, remember?”

“Checks out,” Steady said, his tone serious, as he stepped away from the window and shut the curtains. He retreated to his corner of the living room, from which his unit-block cityscape was once again sprawling into master-planned exurbs.

As he unlocked the door, Arlo shook his head in wonder at the gears that turned inside his son’s mind. He pulled it open to find Oscar, strapped to his father’s chest with keys still firmly in hand. His dad looked slightly less tired but still a bit ragged. His smile, though, was warm and genuine.

“You made it,” Arlo cried, as if they had overcome some great obstacle in summiting the three steps onto Arlo’s front porch.

“We come bearing gifts,” Trent said as he stepped through the doorway.

“Ooh, is it in Oscar’s diaper?” Arlo replied with a laugh.

“Hilarious,” Trent deadpanned. “Here.” He brought his arms from behind his back; one hand clutched a bottle of champagne, and the other a pink box wrapped with string. “Are we allowed to stay now?”

“You’re the hilarious one. I was kidding, you know.”

“And I pay tribute to your wit by taking it very very seriously. The cake is from this bakery near my house I’ve been by a million times but never stopped at. Then last week I was talking with a client and found out it’s apparently the hot thing among the cupcake-and-macaron set. Who knew?”

“Wow, a cake with a backstory.” Arlo held up the tidy pink box and regarded it solemnly. “And does the champagne have some intrigue in its past?”

Trent shrugged. “I had a case of it. Never really drink it myself.”

“And yet you happened to have a case of it?”

“That’s a story for another day.”

Arlo smiled, though he sensed there was something in that story Trent would prefer not to mention—or even think about. “Let’s head back to the family room. The place is baby-proofed to within an inch of its life, so the little mister and the little miss can roll about until they’re dizzy and we can just kick back and watch.” He held up the cake box and bottle. “And get tipsy and fat.” He set the food on the kitchen counter, then scooped up Hope from her bouncy chair and led the way down the little hall to the cozy playroom in the back of the house.

“Like there’s an ounce of fat on you,” Trent said, looking at Arlo’s waistline as he stepped over the baby gate into the room.

“I have managed to get back to my pre-pregnancy weight, thank you for noticing.” Arlo patted the flat and firm belly of which he was unironically proud. “I’ll just have to work out for an extra hour on Monday.”

“I remember working out,” Trent said with a sigh. “It’s all I can do to get some crunches in when he’s in his post-breakfast food coma.”

“Well, it looks like you are getting plenty of them in,” Arlo said, returning the glance at Trent’s trim waist.

“Now let’s ruin all our hard work by eating cake and drinking in the afternoon.”

“Or….” Arlo glanced slyly at Trent. “We could have ourselves a little crunch-off while the kids play. Then when we hit the pastry and bubbly we’ll have earned at least the first bite.”

Trent cocked an eyebrow. “Crunch-off?”

“First one to flop has to eat his piece of cake with a baby spoon.”

“Oh, it is on,” Trent said, unbuckling Oscar and setting him on the floor next to Hope. The kids picked up their parallel play immediately, aware of each other but content to simply glance sideways at each other rather than fully engage.

The dads, however, were fully engaged. They settled side by side—head to foot, so as not to bump elbows—and began to count out sit ups. They contented themselves with smiling placidly at each other, as if the first hundred crunches were no big deal, but as sweat began to glisten on their foreheads they started to exchange G-rated trash talk each time they rose from the carpet to meet.

“I could do this all day,” Trent said, his voice carefully devoid of effort.

“You’re going to have to,” Arlo replied breezily.

They pumped through the next hundred, making the occasional jovial taunt at each other as they counted.

The third hundred was a little rougher.

“Fudge,” Trent grunted, clearly alluding to an alliteration he couldn’t make in the presence of babes.

“Filberts,” Arlo replied, his breath too short for more than a single word.

“Funicular,” Trent huffed.

This continued for several dozen more reps, until their store of f-words was as depleted as their reserves of energy.

Finally Trent looked Arlo right in the eyes. “Draw?” he said.

“Best idea… in the… world,” Arlo managed, then flopped back just as Trent did the same.

They lay there, side by side, panting, for several minutes. It wasn’t until Hope and Oscar both crawled over to, and then over the top of, both of them that they roused from their respective swoons.

Arlo tried to sit up, but was obstructed by the flames that raged where his abs used to be. “Ohhhh,” he moaned.

“You can say that again,” Trent muttered. “We may need to call 911 to get a crane in here. I don’t think I’m getting up any other way.”

They slowly, achingly, agonizingly struggled to a sitting position, then were able to leverage themselves on the sofa to get to their feet.

“I’ll go get the cake—and two baby spoons,” Arlo said with a winsome grin.

“I’d eat it with both hands tied behind my back right now—you are Olympic with your crunches, man. I’m dying.”

“I was only trying to keep up with you,” Arlo said. He poked Trent in the belly. “This is your fault.”

“Ow, no poking,” Trent cried, but he laughed all the same.

“Hang tight, I’ll be right back,” Arlo said, stepping over the baby gate.

“Tight’s the only option right now,” Trent replied, rubbing his belly.

Arlo opened the pink box to find a beautiful cake about the size of two donuts stacked one on top of the other. It was decorated with a doll maker’s precision, with tiny icing roses and a smooth gradient of color on the side from a hint of pink near the top down to deep magenta at the bottom. “Wow,” he said to himself. He pulled two champagne flutes down from a high shelf and popped the cork from the bottle. He put the cake on a plate which he then set on a tray. He pulled two baby spoons out of the drawer and set them next to the plate, then put the flutes on the tray as well. He carried the tray down the hall, carefully stepping over several toy cars and a ball that had rolled into the hallway at some point.

“Time for sugar and booze,” Arlo called as he stepped over the gate without spilling a drop of champagne from the full flutes. Waiting tables through college continued to pay dividends. He set the tray down on the large leather ottoman in front of the sofa—in the middle, so it was out of the grasp of the kids, who were both trying to pull themselves up the slick leather side. Arlo reached over and wound up the mobile hung from the fabric-covered arches atop the colorful mat spread out on the floor. Both Hope and Oscar were drawn to it like moths to a flame.

“To daddy time,” Arlo said, holding one of the flutes aloft.

Trent took the other one, and they touched their glasses together.

“This is nice stuff,” Arlo said. “Especially just to have lying around for no particular reason.”

Trent regarded the bubbles rising through the pale golden liquid. “I bought it for a special occasion, then ended up with no one to drink it with. Can’t think of anything more pathetic than drinking a bottle of champagne alone.”

“That’s why I stick to scotch when I’m drinking alone. Much classier.” Arlo laughed and took another drink of champagne. “Now, this is the most amazing cake I’ve ever seen. I don’t think I could defile it by sticking a fork into it.”

“Heh. Watch and learn,” Trent said, picking up one of the thick plastic baby spoons. He stabbed into the cake, scooping out a large chunk and balancing it carefully on the spoon. “Open the hangar, here comes the airplane!” He swooped the spoon up and around, spiraling in toward Arlo’s mouth.

Arlo’s mouth, of course, was fully occupied by laughing at the very idea of a grown man being fed cake with a baby spoon. By another grown man.

“Come on now, eat your cake,” Trent prodded, trying to enunciate through the laughter he couldn’t seem to control.

Finally Arlo opened his mouth just to keep Trent from waving the cake around in front of him. He popped the mouthful right in.

“Good boy! That’s how you grow big and strong. And fat. And next time I’ll slaughter you at the crunch-off.”

“Oh, no way,” Arlo said. He picked up his baby spoon and with surgical precision he excised a chunk of cake easily twice the size of the one Trent had just fed him. “Open the roundhouse—the train’s coming in.”

Trent took in a breath to laugh but found his mouth full of cake.

“That’s a big boy,” Arlo cried, tearing up from laughter.

As with the crunches, neither man was willing to relent. They fed each other the entire cake, even taking a couple of breaks to wash it down with champagne. The last swigs in their flutes they actually tipped into each other’s mouths.

Full of cake, they flopped back onto the sofa.

“Well, was interesting,” Arlo said finally.

“And delicious,” Trent added.

“And delicious,” Arlo agreed.

“Wasn’t your wife going to be here?” Trent asked suddenly.

“She had to stay an extra couple of days,” Arlo said. “It happens.” He gave a little sigh. “It happens a lot.”

Trent nodded. “What does she do?”

“She started an organic baby food company as a senior project in college. It was supposed to be a simulation, but we got pregnant like right after graduation and she decided to make a go of it. Steady’s first year she spent in the kitchen getting her recipes right, and then she went to work building the business and I went to work taking care of Steady. Her company got purchased by a private equity firm last year, which I thought meant we would see more of her, but they not only wanted her to stay and run it, they have all these plans for expansion. This week she’s in London, looking to see how they can source the necessary ingredients for their European expansion.”

“Wow, that’s really impressive.”

Arlo nodded. “Cara’s brilliant, she really is. And while she’s made sacks of cash for her investors—even for her professor, the one whose class she did the project for, who bought in early on—her dream is to use the proceeds of what she sells in developed countries to start sustainable farming and production in places like Africa. It’s like she’s on a mission to end world hunger, starting with babies. And because she’s Cara, she might just accomplish it.”

“She sounds amazing,” Trent said. “I assume that’s her?” He pointed to a framed portrait of the family.

“It is. We finally were able to make—and keep—an appointment with a photographer last fall so we could get a picture taken for a holiday card.”

Trent leaned forward to look at the photo. “She’s… beautiful,” he said. “I mean, you all are, but she’s….”

“I know. I get that a lot.”

“As long as you know how lucky you are.”

Arlo looked at him with a mostly pretend scowl. “Are you implying she’s out of my league?”

“Not at all,” Trent replied. “I just have had such lousy luck that I hope you realize how great you have it.”

“I do,” Arlo said. “I really do.”

In their champagne-fueled daze, they lolled on the couch digesting cake for the next hour or two and talking about all the things 10-month-olds can get up to. They both seemed to lose track of time, and the kids were endlessly entertained by having someone their own age to play near—and, eventually, with. Steady wandered in and out, checking in every once in a while just to confirm he was indeed being allowed to fully colonize the front room of the house with his block city. Normally he was limited to an hour or so, and was required to check the spread of the suburbs before they reached the legs of the coffee table.

It wasn’t until the lengthening shadows of coming dusk began to be seen through the windows that Arlo realized how much time must have passed.

“Hey, how about we get these guys some dinner?” he said.

“Oh, wow, look at the time,” Trent said. “We should really get going. We don’t need to be in your way the whole day.”

“You’re not in the way,” Arlo scolded him jovially. “Unless you have somewhere else to be?”

“You know the life of nonstop excitement we lead. No plans. But we wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Arlo said, getting to his feet. “Now, is there anything the two of you don’t eat?”

“Honestly, Oscar hardly seems to bother with food. He’ll eat pretty much whatever I put in front of him, but he’s not one of those kids you see on YouTube who hoots and dances when their favorite food is put on their tray.”

“Then you’ll be endlessly entertained when Hope hoots and dances,” Arlo replied with a laugh. “Girl loves her some kidney beans and carrots. And what about you?”

“I’m like Oscar—I eat anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Okay, how about this. Let’s get the kids some finger foods, and maybe Hope can teach Oscar some Youtube-ready dance moves. Steady’s got some mac-and-cheese left over from last night, and he can eat that every day until forever. Then, once everyone’s fat and happy, we can order in some Thai. Have you tried that new place down on Fifth?”

“No, I haven’t. I’ve never actually taken Oscar out for dinner, and I’m usually too tired at the end of the day to stay awake waiting for stuff to be delivered. That’s why I make a week’s worth of food on Sunday. Saves time, and keeps me from eating crap all week long.”

“Well, you are in for a treat. I’ll grab the menu for the Thai place, and you can drool over it while I get dinner for the kids. Then we’ll have grownup dinner.”

Trent smiled. “I haven’t had dinner with anyone who’s not Oscar or a client in… God, it must be more than a year.”

“I am honored to break your streak, sir,” Arlo said with a gracious bow. “Now, let’s roll this entourage into the kitchen and get to work.”

Arlo had low hopes for the whole dinner experience, honestly. He and Cara had been together for so long that in the kitchen—as in the bedroom—each seemed to intuit where the other was and what they were up to. Sharing his kitchen with someone he knew so little about was sure to be a collision-filled mess.

But much to his surprise, Trent and he formed a capable and dexterous team, much as if they had picked up a game of two-on-two basketball. In short order they had prepped plates of kidney beans, steamed baby carrots, and some pureed fruit, which they set in front of the delighted Hope and the stalwart Oscar. Steady plowed through his mac-and-cheese, with some carrots on the side, with the same determination he brought to his urban planning work.

“So, what looks good?” Arlo asked, nodding to the Thai menu Trent held in one hand, while with the other he shoveled kidney beans toward Oscar’s grasping fist.

“I cannot decide,” Trent said simply, shaking his head. “You get what’s good, and I’m sure I’ll love it. Just no octopus, okay? Oscar has a book about octopi, and I made the mistake of looking them up on Wikipedia. Turns out they’re, like, the smartest things in the ocean.”

“Gotcha. No octopus,” Arlo said. “How hot are you?”

“I haven’t had any complaints.” Trent pouted male-model style and ran his hand through his hair.

Arlo chuckled. “I meant how spicy do you want the food to be? They go from, let’s see… smiling baby up through… dragon. Looks like a really angry dragon.”

“I’m definitely an angry dragon. There’s no such thing as too hot, far as I’m concerned.”

“We shall see about that, sir,” Arlo said. He picked up his phone and called to place the order, then set his phone down. “It’ll be here in a half hour.”

“That’s pretty quick,” Trent said.

“You’re forgetting it’s only five-thirty in the afternoon. Normal people—meaning those without kids under the age of one—aren’t even thinking about ordering dinner yet.”

“Poor people. Don’t know what they’re missing.”

“What they’re not missing is sleep, adult conversation, and not serving as a napkin for a tiny human with terrible table manners,” Arlo said, pointing to the sleeve of his shirt which bore markings of everything Hope had eaten that day.

“Be honest now,” Trent said. “You wouldn’t trade what you have for something as trivial as sleep, would you?”

Arlo glanced at Hope, then back over his shoulder where Steady was once again back at the construction site. He shook his head. “Not for sleep, not for anything in the world,” he said solemnly.

“I thought not,” Trent replied. “And good for you.”

“How about you? Ever think about what you’re missing by being a single dad?”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about what life could be like,” Trent said. He lowered his voice as if Oscar could understand his every word. “This wasn’t what I had planned, to be perfectly honest.”

Arlo nodded—this was not exactly a surprising revelation, given Trent’s manner thus far. “How about we finish these guys up, and then we can settle them back in the playroom? Hope’s got about three minutes before she craters for at least an hour.”

“Oscar’s the same. I’m surprised he’s still awake, actually.”

“Excellent. There’s plenty of room in Hope’s napping spot for two. Then we can have some adult conversation over dinner while Steady takes his bath.”

Trent looked astonished. “That’s the most amazing plan I’ve ever heard. You are a miracle worker.”

Arlo smiled. “It’s not exactly rocket science.” He hefted Hope to his shoulder and started down the hall.

“Maybe not, but you make it seem so easy.” Trent followed along, bearing Oscar.

“I think you’ve been making it harder than it needs to be.”

Trent considered this for a moment. “I guess I have. It’s felt like Oscar and me against the world for so long… I don’t even stop to think how much easier it might be to have someone to talk about it with.”

They laid their charges down and, true to form, both were asleep within seconds of hitting the crib mattress. The dads exchanged thumbs-ups and tiptoed back out of the room.

“Bath time, buddy,” Arlo called to Steady. The boy set his blocks down and cast a worried glance across the room he had completely metropolized. “You can leave it tonight. Special treat. And don’t tell Mom.”

Steady, smiling widely, stepped carefully around his buildings and threw his arms around his dad. Then he raced up the stairs and was gone.

“He can run his own bath and everything?” Trent asked.

“We got him a floating thermometer, and he gets the water to precisely thirty-eight degrees before he gets in. Don’t be shocked, but he’s a little anal retentive.”

“Thirty-eight degrees? Is he taking a bath or a polar-bear plunge up there?”

Arlo laughed. “He insists on metric measures. It’s because Cara bought him his first unit blocks from Sweden. We set him on the wrong path, clearly.”

“I think he’s an amazing young man,” Trent said. “You’re doing a great job.”

“Thanks. But the longer I spend with kids the more I realize they come to us already being the people they are. Good parents help their kids make the best of what they’ve already got.”

Trent shook his head slowly. “Everything you say makes me feel like I’m maybe not such a screw-up as a parent. Where have you been all my life?”

Arlo, who had no idea how to respond to something like that, was relieved of the need to by a knock at the door. “That’ll be the food.”

“Let me get it, okay?” Trent reached for his wallet.

“You brought cake and champagne—I can get dinner.” Arlo opened to door and received a box with a several containers neatly stacked within it. He handed the delivery boy cash enough for the food and a generous tip for heeding the sign begging for the doorbell to be used only as a last resort should knocking not produce results. He stepped back into the house and closed the door with his foot.

“Wow,” Trent said. “Did you order one of everything?”

“One of everything that had octopus in it,” Arlo joked, setting the box on the dining table. “Sit. I’ll grab plates and stuff.”

Arlo hurried into the kitchen and returned a moment later with plates and forks and cloth napkins. “We have beer, and wine—though I’m afraid we don’t keep any champagne on ice. I did get a couple of Thai iced teas, though, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Trent inhaled deeply, hovering over the boxes of food. “I’m beginning to think I’m into exactly the same things you are.”

“You might want to wait on that judgment until you’ve found out what I’m into.”

“If we end up in hell because of what you’re into, I’m good with that. As long as it smells like this.”

“Wait, are we still talking about food?” Arlo asked, wondering if he’d been distracted from the repartee by opening boxes and stabbing a serving utensil into each.

“Sure, food,” Trent said with light insinuation in his voice.

“Good. Glad we got that settled. Now, you have to try this,” Arlo said, holding up a forkful of steaming hot pad thai. “They do noodles like no one else.”

Trent smiled, showing he understood Arlo was going for a repeat performance of this afternoon’s cake incident, but he didn’t seem to care. He opened wide, and Arlo’s fork went in.

“Oh my God, that’s incredible,” Trent said.

“Wait for it…”

Trent coughed a little, though he tried to hide it. “And incredibly spicy,” he wheezed.

Arlo handed him one of the iced teas, and he took a deep draft.

“Wow. Angry dragon indeed.”

“Still into what I’m into?” Arlo asked with a wink.

“Hell yeah. Now, which of these is the hottest?”

Arlo pointed at the container marked 40-B. “That one,” he said.

Trent grabbed it up, and stabbed his fork into it. “Open up, baby.”

Arlo did what he was told.

Filed Under: Excerpts, We Are Fallingwater

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