Dreamspinner Press Year Nine Greatest Hits Read online

  Year Nine Greatest Hits

  Enjoy a selection of the greatest hits of gay romance published by Dreamspinner Press combined into one exclusive volume: by Anna Martin: Five Times My Best Friend Kissed Me, a story of a boy who he wanted to marry his best friend at age six, and the journey that finally gets them there; by Sean Michael: The New Boy, a romance between a shy photographer new to the scene and an experienced model and Dom; by Grace R. Duncan: Beautiful boy, about a Dom with a hurtful past and the sub who shows him love again; by Kim Fielding: Rattlesnake, where a drifter on a quest finds hope and a home; and by Michael Murphy: The President’s Husband, in which the first openly gay president and first husband of the United States must deal with the pressures of their demanding new and very public jobs.

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Year Nine Greatest Hits includes

  Five Times My Best Friend Kissed Me

  The New Boy

  Beautiful Boy

  Rattlesnake

  The President’s Husband

  Visit Dreamspinner Press

  Copyright

  Year Nine Greatest Hits includes:

  When you realize you want to marry your best friend at age six, life should follow a pretty predictable path, right? Maybe not.

  As a kid, Evan King thought Scott Sparrow was the most amazing person he’d ever met. At seventeen, his crush runs a little deeper, and nothing seems simple anymore. Scott is more interested in football and girls than playing superheroes, and Evan’s attention is focused on getting into art school. A late-night drunken kiss is something to be forgotten, not obsessed over for the next ten years.

  When life suddenly brings them back together, it doesn’t take much for the flame Evan carried for Scott nearly all his life to come roaring back, and Evan discovers that life sometimes has a strange way of coming full circle.

  An Iron Eagle Gym Novel

  Lance Packet just got a contract to shoot an erotic BDSM deck of cards; the only problem is finding models. So far everyone he’s interviewed thinks he’s looking for sex for hire. Then in walk three perfect examples of men: Tide and his friends, Tyrone and Bran.

  Tide Germaine is a model and a Dom. He and his best friend Tyrone opened The Iron Eagle Gym as a place for gay men in the lifestyle to work out, do scenes, and congregate with like-minded men. The modeling is just another job for Tide, but it soon turns into a grand seduction as Tide falls for the shy, self-conscious photographer. The problem is Lance doesn’t believe he’s in Tide’s league, and he’s not at all sure about the Dom and sub thing.

  It’s not going to be easy, but Tide’s going to have to convince Lance he belongs at Tide’s side as both lover and sub.

  Malcolm Tate hung up his flogger when his submissive sought out another Dom and landed in the hands of a serial killer. Convinced his lack of dominance sent his sub away, Mal has spent two years blaming himself for what happened. But when his best friend finally convinces him to go back to the local dungeon, Mal’s grateful. Especially when he wins beautiful, submissive, firmly closeted Kyle Bingham in a charity slave auction.

  College grad Kyle hasn’t earned enough to move out of the loft his conservative, homophobic parents bought, much less to buy any of the other things still in their name. When he’s won at auction by the hot, amazing Mal, he’s shocked that anyone would want him. No one else seemed to—not his parents, his former Doms, or any of his disastrous dates.

  But Mal does want him and Kyle lets his guard down, only to be outed to his parents. With his world crashing down, he must find a way to trust Mal—and their developing relationship—or risk losing everything.

  A drifter since his teens, Jimmy Dorsett has no home and no hope. What he does have is a duffel bag, a lot of stories, and a junker car. Then one cold desert night he picks up a hitchhiker and ends up with something more: a letter from a dying man to the son he hasn’t seen in years.

  On a quest to deliver the letter, Jimmy travels to Rattlesnake, a small town nestled in the foothills of the California Sierras. The centerpiece of the town is the Rattlesnake Inn, where the bartender is handsome former cowboy Shane Little. Sparks fly, and when Jimmy’s car gives up the ghost, Shane gets him a job as handyman at the inn.

  Both within the community of Rattlesnake and in Shane’s arms, Jimmy finds an unaccustomed peace. But it can’t be a lasting thing. The open road continues to call, and surely Shane—a strong, proud man with a painful past and a difficult present—deserves better than a lying vagabond who can’t stay put for long.

  When an assassin’s bullet strikes his predecessor, Grayson Alexander becomes the first openly gay President of the United States and his husband, David Hammond, becomes the first openly gay First Husband. With their world turned upside down, David relies on his career as a medical school professor and ER doctor to keep him grounded. But his decision to keep working ruffles feathers from day one.

  Gray throws himself into learning everything he needs to know to be President, especially a liberal president surrounded by a conservative cabinet and staff. Even though he puts in outrageous hours working and traveling seven days a week month after month, he’s happy. But David has trouble coping with Gray’s new job requirements. He can’t help but feel abandoned by his husband of ten years.

  When Gray asks for his help with a public-health crisis, David obliges, but he is furious about what happens once the emergency passes. When they learn that the President’s staff has manipulated them both, they wonder if their relationship can survive the White House.

  To Kirsty, who provides so much inspiration and knows too many of my secrets to be anything other than a lifelong friend.

  The Second Time

  Summer 2004

  THE FIRE crackled invitingly, even after all the hours it had been lit. Orange sparks spat up into the night, occasionally spilling out of the hexagon of driftwood onto the sand, and long sticks thrust out of the blaze—earlier in the night, they had held fat sausage links, then s’mores. Evan and his friends had opted to chance being caught with the contraband fire on the beach after deciding the reward outweighed the risk.

  Evan inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, tipping his head back to the heady, full night sky. This was summer. This. The feeling of being warm and full, fire heat on his face, vodka in his belly burning warmth there too. The sea air, no breeze, not in Virginia in August. Sand between his toes.

  Soft lips on his own.

  Evan startled, and the group around him laughed.

  “Thought you were sleeping,” Cassie Williams told him, pushing at his shoulder so Evan lost his balance and fell back on his elbows. He joined in the laughter, even though he didn’t share their amusement.

  Cassie was nice, of course. He’d known her since preschool, maybe earlier. Who knew around here. It wasn’t the first time she’d kissed him. Once, in second grade, it had been after he’d fallen and scraped his knee. For the past few weeks, Cassie had been hitting on him again, and every time he’d neatly deflected, trying to turn her attention to someone who’d maybe return it. Evan wasn’t going to.

  “Not sleeping,” Evan said. His voice came out a deep rumble. Since his voice had broken, it had been like that, deeper than the other guys’, something else that made him stand out. He’d hit his growth spurt twice now, once at fourteen and again the previous year, just after his seventeenth birthday. He’d be eighteen in a few weeks, right after the start of the new school year. Evan would be the first one in this group to have his eighteenth birthday.

  Two of his friends stumbled out from behind one of the high sand dunes, their hair in disarray, clothes more than a little disheveled. Ev
an joined in the hoots and catcalls, grateful for the distraction.

  “Evan!”

  That voice was familiar, and Evan dropped his head back, knowing he couldn’t ignore it.

  “Evan, you fuck!”

  Evan laughed and let his head roll to the side. Grinning, Scott stood in his board shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt, hands balled on his hips.

  “What?”

  “We’re playing football.”

  “Scott, it’s almost midnight. How the fuck do you plan on playing football?”

  Scott pointed straight up at the moon. Which, admittedly, was giving off a lot of light in the clear night sky. Scott’s skin glowed, pearlescent in the moonlight. It reflected off his Irish pale skin and lit up his blue eyes like he was magical.

  Evan pulled himself to his feet with a heaving sigh. He hadn’t been able to say no to Scott for a long time now.

  One by one, the others abandoned the fire pit and wandered over to where Scott and Andy had drawn wobbly lines in the sand to designate a playing area. Someone had brought a foam football or found one in the trunk of the car, and Scott was tossing it back and forth with Andy as they galloped the length of the makeshift field.

  “Evan,” Scott said as Evan stretched out the kinks in his neck. “My team?”

  It was a question but not one, not really. Like there was any question that Evan King would play on the same team as Scott Sparrow.

  Evan nodded and kicked off his flip-flops, pushed his fingers through his hair, and cracked his knuckles. It looked like there was about ten of them playing, including a few of the girls. They split down the middle, their friends quickly choosing their allegiance to either Scott or Andy.

  Scott hustled Evan together with the rest of their teammates: Katie, who played hockey and was strong and hella fast, Drew, and Tony. They would do well, Evan decided.

  “Jamie is their weak spot,” Scott said as he casually threw his arm around Evan’s shoulder and pulled him into the huddle. “We already agreed no tackles, so don’t push it. Karen will fight dirty, so don’t engage her unless you have to.”

  “Got it, Captain,” Katie said with a salute. Scott laughed and pushed her shoulder.

  Everyone knew Scott and Katie hooked up. It wasn’t a big deal. They weren’t dating, and Katie made no claims on Scott—his time or his affection. Though there was affection there, in spades, both claimed they had no interest in a relationship.

  Evan tried very hard not to be jealous.

  The game got silly quickly, and Evan led the laughter. Scott was more gymnast than football player, vaulting over people one-armed, tackling Evan to the sand even though they were on the same team and neither of them had a ball.

  “You’re such a douchebag,” Evan huffed as he hauled himself up, brushing sand from his ass. Scott just reached a hand out to be pulled up, and Evan indulged him.

  They huddled together with the rest of the group, Scott moving their teammates around so Evan shifted to quarterback. It was a less familiar position for him, but Evan knew this play, knew the magic Scott was going to pull out of his bag of tricks. He was a competitive little shit and, even for a midnight beach game, wouldn’t want to lose.

  “Ready?” Scott asked, and they broke with whoops and cheers, then settled easily into positions.

  Karen, on the other team, called the start of play, and Evan jogged back a few feet with the ball, faked to the left, then passed the ball to Katie, who’d run behind him.

  It was slick, too quick and too dark for the other team to notice what they’d done. Evan jogged alongside her as Katie took off along the outermost left edge of the field, then passed to Scott as she made contact with him. He vaulted over Marcus, playfully shoved Josh, then dove into a touchdown that was totally unnecessary.

  Scott danced like an idiot in celebration, and Evan threw his head back and laughed to the moon.

  THE LIGHT in his basement wasn’t the best for painting. Because of the way his mom’s house was built on a hill, the basement opened out onto the backyard, so there was some natural light down there. Years ago he’d convinced his mom to let him convert it from her personal minigym—which she’d never used—to Evan’s studio.

  He’d been serious about art for about four years. For a long time, he’d sucked. But wasn’t that always the way of it? First you sucked, then you practiced, then you got good.

  Evan cocked his head to the side, appraising his current piece.

  Thundering footsteps interrupted his contemplation.

  “When your mom said you were painting the walls, this isn’t what I imagined,” Scott said, pausing on the bottom step and grinning at Evan.

  “Couldn’t find a canvas big enough,” Evan said. He didn’t mind the interruption, not when it was Scott.

  “Is it a… what is it?”

  Evan laughed. “It’s a painting.”

  “Mural?”

  He made a noncommittal noise. “It’s a painting on a wall. And it isn’t finished.”

  “Well, duh,” Scott said sarcastically. He bounced down from the bottom step and walked over to stand just behind Evan, so close Evan could feel Scott’s heat at his back, his breath on his neck.

  Evan stood very, very still.

  “Why don’t you ever show people stuff like this?” Scott asked softly. His whole demeanor had changed. He was quiet now, soft. Gentle.

  “Because I don’t want to,” Evan said mildly.

  “Yeah, but, Ev….”

  “Scott.”

  “This is incredible.”

  “It’s not finished.”

  “Okay,” Scott said, apparently not ready or willing to push. “Okay. Did you forget?”

  “Probably.”

  “We were supposed to go meet people at the mall.”

  “Oh. Which people?”

  Scott pushed his shoulder and laughed. “Girls. And some guys. We were going to grab a milk shake and then maybe a movie.”

  “How incredibly wholesome.”

  “Then Andy got some weed to smoke out the back of the parking lot after, when it’s not so hot.”

  “Oh, thank God,” Evan said dramatically. “I was starting to worry about you.”

  Scott pushed his shoulder again and plucked at the denim shirt Evan was wearing. It was covered in paint.

  “Come on. Go change. We’re running late already.”

  Evan didn’t want to put the paints down, not when he’d finally found a rhythm with this piece that felt good, organic and inspiring at the same time. It fizzed through him and made his fingers twitch for another brush, thick and heavy in his hand or delicate and fine. Blue or gold.

  “Evan.”

  “Okay,” he said, turning away from the painting. It would be good to take a break from it, to see it again in a different light. Literally. “Can you pack this away for me?”

  Scott knew how to preserve the paints so they wouldn’t crust over. He knew the Kings didn’t have a lot of money to spend on things like paint.

  “Sure. I’ll meet you back upstairs.”

  Evan nodded and took the back staircase, the one that went from the basement to the second floor, where his bedroom was. It was the same room that had been his own his whole life, his single-child status meaning it had never been shared.

  In recent years, some of his older posters had been taken down, and over Thanksgiving weekend the previous year, Evan and his mom had repainted the whole room a neutral cream color. They’d upgraded his bed too, which had been desperately needed. Evan was tall, and the old single bed was way too small. These days he had a queen-size, covered in navy-plaid sheets, with drawers underneath to hide the things he didn’t want his mother to find.

  Instead of the posters, Evan had hung some of his favorite pieces on the walls. He wasn’t particularly fond of his own work, or displaying it, but these had particular significance. The hazy charcoal portrait of his six-year-old self and his mother—the photo taken long before he’d met Scott. A pencil sketch of their hou
se in a tiny frame. The big, bold canvas of red and gold that was Scott. Not the shape of Scott, not a picture of him, but the only attempt Evan had made to try to capture his best friend’s essence. Bold and bright and imperfectly perfect.

  Evan skimmed his fingers over the acrylic as he walked past it to the closet, then quickly changed.

  TEN MINUTES later, they were in Scott’s Honda, a gift from his parents for his birthday. Scott was a summer baby, so almost a whole year younger than Evan.

  That was only the start of their differences.

  Scott’s family was still in one piece. His parents were still married, after twenty-five years, and he had an older brother who was in college and a younger sister who was not a brat anymore. Scott’s mom worked at the hospital, doing something with blood that always turned Evan’s stomach when she talked about it, and his dad worked in insurance. Scott’s mom had helped Evan’s mom get a job at the hospital too, and she’d worked there as a receptionist for almost ten years now. Evan knew it was the sort of kindness that would be repaid for a long time.

  In the crudest terms, Scott’s family was rich, and Evan’s mom wasn’t. The only thing that she’d been left with when his dad abandoned them was the house, and thank God, or they’d likely be living in a tiny apartment somewhere. It wasn’t much, and it was a money pit, and Evan had been working weekends and summers since he was fourteen to help out around the house.

  And Scott had never made it awkward.

  Scott was good at everything—at school, football, and he was a pretty decent singer. He was attractive in both conventional and unconventional ways. His dark brown hair was too long on top; it flopped into his eyes, meaning he had to push it out of the way all the time. Evan sometimes thought that was on purpose. His eyes were bright, bright blue. There was a dent in his chin, and when he smiled, deep dimples appeared in his cheeks.