| The
inspiration for To The Rescue
came from a winter holiday in Scotland,
when the mountains were blotted out by
horizontal snow in the teeth of a gale,
and from reading reports of mountain
rescues nearby - although none of those
were quite as naughty as this story! |
click
here for details
|
To the Rescue
/ Crossed Wires
in Torrid Teaser #11
Whiskey Creek Press Torrid
|
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Two
rip-roaring homoerotic stories in one volume!
In To
The Rescue, Jim's a member of the mountain
rescue squad that gets called out when two men go
missing in a blizzard on Bryn Fell. What he sees
in the hut at the top of the mountain gives him
some decidedly erotic ideas of his own when he
finally gets back home to his lover Simon.
Crossed
Wires is the tale of Reuben. a detective who
has to go undercover on a telephone sex chatline
when someone starts murdering young men. What's
the connection to Jamie, the stunning guy who
works there, and to Jamie's boyfriend, and to
Reuben's partner Eddie? And will Reuben ever get
out again with his honour - and his life -
intact?
Don't be
put off by the cover - these stories are both
m/m, and both smoking hot!
"Touching
love scenes popped out page after page to
entertain and delight readers who love male/male
interracial multicultural love stories."
Fallen Angel Reviews
To
The Rescue
The blizzard intensified, and soon
he could see nothing\par beyond the square foot
his torch beam illuminated in front of his feet.
Trees, hedges, paths, the occasional lighted
window in the valley below—all had
disappeared in a whirling curtain of white. Even
the shoulder of Bryn Fell had vanished into the
shroud, and they might have been trekking in
Alaska for all he could see. They were making
progress, though, if the GPS readings they
stopped every few hundred yards to make were
right. Sure enough, after another twenty minutes
of slog, the ground began to level out and they
stumbled over the lip of Saddle Col.
Even
here, they had to watch their step. A small tarn
occupied most of the bottom of the Col and ice
lurked beneath the snow; the dogs could roam at
will but the men kept well to the side, close to
the rocky wall. They stumbled amongst a jumble of
fallen boulders until Jim, peering ahead through
the whirling feathers of snow, tapped John on the
arm and pointed to what he thought he could see.
“Over
there, at the head of the tarn. Isn’t that a
light?” As he spoke, the wind shifted, the
snow parted like the Red Sea at Moses’
behest, and he could quite clearly see a small
yellow square shining against the dark bulk of
the fell.
“Thank
Christ,” John said, pausing and wiping at
the snow frosting his face. “Looks like they
had the sense to make for the hut. At least
they’ll have water and tinned food and
blankets to keep ’em going. Better go and
see if they need help, but there’s no need
for us all to march over there. Jim, you come
with me. The rest of you can get off home.”
There
was a chorus of mumbled thanks and most of the
team turned tail, taking all but one of the dogs
with them. Jim ploughed on, planting his feet in
John’s boot prints as they headed towards
the light. The square began to appear more often
through the snow, growing in size as they
approached, from matchbox to life size. Finally
they were standing right outside, and John bent
to take a look. “Don’t want to
rouse\par them if they’re safely
asleep,” he said, wiping a sleeve across the
pane to clear a film of frost. He peered through
the subsequent\par hole, turned his head to the
left, then to the right, then leaped backwards
with a gasp as though the window had been wired
to the mains.
“Bloody
hell,” he said, his face flushing an
improbable shade of red. “You’d better
deal with this, Jim. More your sort of
thing.”
Puzzled,
Jim squinted through the window in his turn. At
first, he could see nothing out of place in the
hut’s Spartan interior. The light they could
see came from a hurricane lamp, swinging from a
nail just inside the door, and the embers of a
fire that glowed on the hearth. A plank table
still bore the remnants of somebody’s meal
and two wooden chairs were pushed to one side.
The far wall was lined with wooden bed platforms,
and two of them showed signs of use, which was
just what Jim had expected to see. So what was
getting John’s knickers in such a twist? His
breath had steamed over the window again and he
wiped it away with an impatient hand, then stared
again.
He was
beginning to think the cold had warped
John’s brain until a movement caught his
eye....
Crossed
Wires
Sherman was peering at Reuben with
distaste. “Hang about, Nige. I thought you
said this one was special? He doesn’t look
very special to me. We’re never going to be
able to flog movies of him. He’s far too
bloody old if you ask me.”
“Yes,
well, fortunately, nobody is asking you,”
Nigel said. “I find him most attractive and
the others usually share my tastes.”
“Only
because your tastes usually run to sixteen year
old virgins.”
“That’s
enough! Bring them down to the playroom. The
others will be here soon.”
Reuben’s
arm was grasped in a vice-like grip, and he was
propelled at speed towards the kitchen, then
shoved through another door and down a flight of
stairs. The air was damp down here and smelt of
dust; the bare brick walls glistened where the
salts were leaching out, and the lino was stained
and torn. He only hoped he could turn it to his
advantage.Old brickwork might have crumbled, old
wood might be rotting away—and cellars like
this often had useful tools lying about, like
hammers and lengths of old pipe, that he could
use if the need arose.
One
look at the room they were brought to changed his
mind. The door was steel with a lock the size of
a brick, and the walls were a thick smooth screed
of cement. No windows, no ventilation shafts, not
a chink or a crack in sight, and nothing remotely
weapon-shaped he could grab. Which wasn’t to
say the room was empty. Quite apart from two
large sofas, three different movie cameras and a
bank of professional theatre lights, there were
racks and bars, manacles and chains, chairs with
spikes set into the seats and the biggest
collection of whips and knives he’d ever
seen. This was seriously sadistic stuff.
Twenty
minutes later, he and Jim lay naked side by side
on a tabletop, every sinew stretched taut, with
wrists and ankles tied to rings set into the
wood. Nigel and his henchman had found his knife
and taken it away, and they’d found the
transmitter and jumped on it; so even if the
cavalry were alerted in time, they wouldn’t
know where he was. “Be grateful your life
isn’t at stake for once,” Eddie had
said the other week. The irony was so funny, it
hurt.
© 2006
Fiona Glass
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