Then early one morning Alexei goes jogging in Central Park in an effort to get back his strength to fight the Russian First. He finds a prostitute on a park bench covered in newspaper and not moving. Bearing in mind his recent ordeal Alexei decides to help the boy. He lifts up the newspaper and finds a needle hanging out of his arm. The boy is dying of an overdose and he’s Alexei’s Mate.
~Excerpt~
Central Park
Sunday Last Day in February, Five in the Morning Vasily and Grigory accompanied Alexei on his regular early morning jog through Central Park. He was trying to rebuild his strength to where it was before his imprisonment. Alexei was almost there. Now he didn’t get winded after running fifteen miles and was able to lift four times his weight, not great for a wolf, but getting there. However, the depression had not disappeared. His soul was still in the gulag. About halfway through his regular run along the jogging paths, the scent of oranges overwhelmed him. Oranges, in the park in February? He thought it was strange and took a detour.
He stopped and looked around, his wolfen nose picking out the muted scent. He followed it down the jogging trail to a lone park bench hidden behind a black cherry tree. On the bench under some newspapers lay a young man dressed like a prostitute, barely breathing. He wore a black net shirt and tight ripped jeans totally unsuitable for the cold of the late February morning. Alexei had to help. He couldn’t let a fellow creature suffer. His memories of cold and hunger were all too recent. He removed the newspaper and stared.
He looks no older than Gabriel’s mouse, but he is dirty and unkempt and looks... Wait, there is a needle hanging out of his arm. Alexei sat next to the boy. He reached out to remove the needle. As soon as skin touched skin his wolf cried, Help him, now, Mate, mine, sick, dying.
Alexei panicked. He called Vasily and Grigory, who were about one hundred yards behind him, over the Alpha Link. “My Mate, I have found my Mate. He’s dying. Call Armand. Get Dr. Artis. Someone... I need a doctor to treat an overdose, now!” Vasily and Grigory scrambled to do Alexei’s bidding.
Alexei picked the boy up and ran out of the park. He stopped once to give him mouth to mouth, cursing his inability to run faster. He held him close to his body, in an attempt to share his body heat. Fifteen agonizing minutes later, Alexei reached the park entrance near the zoo just as Artis pulled up in a Navigator. Alexei continued to check to see if the boy was still breathing while Dr. Artis jumped out of the SUV.
AC Katt was born in New York City's Greenwich Village. €She remembers sitting at the fountain in Washington Square Park listening to folk music while they passed the hat. At nine, her parents dragged her to New Jersey where she grew up, married and raised four children and became a voracious reader of romantic fiction. €At one time she owned over two thousand novels until she and her husband took themselves and the cat to New Mexico for their health and its great beauty.
Now, most of AC's books are electronic (although she still keeps six bookcases of hardcovers), so she never has to give away another book. She hangs out at ACKatt.com; or ackattsjournal.com. She is a very opinionated kitty and at ackatt.com where you may find snippets of her current releases, as well as some from works in progress. She also puts out a Newsletter once a month. You can sign up at ackatt@ackatt.com.
**** Disclosure of Material: I received this book for Review from RBTL Book Promotions and the Author. I was not compensated nor was I required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am posting this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising". *****
Blurb/Synopsis:
Foster dreams of getting away, but after his father's death, he has to take over the family dairy farm. It soon becomes clear his father hasn't been doing the best job of running it, so not only does Foster need to take over the day-to-day operations, he also needs to find new ways of bringing in revenue.
Javi has no time to dream. He and his family are migrant workers, and daily survival is a struggle, so they travel to anywhere they can get work. When they arrive in their old van, Foster arranges for Javi to help him on the farm.
To Javi’s surprise, Foster listens to his ideas and actually puts them into action. Over days that turn into weeks, they grow to like and then care for each other, but they come from two very different worlds, and they both have responsibilities to their families that neither can walk away from. Is it possible for them to discover a dream they can share? Perhaps they can plant their own and nurture it together to see it grow, if their different backgrounds don’t separate them forever.
Foster jumped, dropping the hose. He hadn’t expected anyone.
“Sorry,” Javi said as he stepped forward. He was soaked to the skin, and Foster guessed he’d walked over. “I need some work.” He shuffled his feet nervously. “Things have not gone well.”
Foster had guessed that. “Can you hose down the floor and milking stations?” Foster wondered how Javi kept from shivering, but he picked up the hose and started cleaning everything. Foster went to work on the milking machines, making sure they were spotless. “Mop the floor in the milk room too.” Foster figured he might as well get a leg up on his chores. He went to the loft and brought down some hay for the feeders along with the protein supplements. He added some silage, as well, to sweeten the mixture.
The rain had let up by the time he was done, and Foster pulled out his wallet and handed Javi some cash for the work he’d done. Javi shoved the bills into his pocket. Foster wanted to ask him what had happened and why they were so desperate, but the pride Foster saw in Javi’s eyes told him he could ask, but that answers wouldn’t be forthcoming.
“Do you need help tomorrow?” Javi asked.
Foster wasn’t going to be able to afford someone to help him all week, but he found himself nodding anyway. He knew his mother and grandmother would try to help them any way they could, so it was best to let Javi work and earn the money he needed to help his family. Foster knew that machismo, male pride, was huge in Latino culture. Getting Javi to take charity would be difficult. “If it’s nice, the garden will need to be tended and weeded.” After all the rain, what they’d planted would sprout overnight. “You can also help me shift the hay in the loft to help make room for the new cuttings.”
“I’ll get here early.”
“Do you want a ride back?” Foster asked. Javi shook his head. He left the barn, jogged out to the road, and then down toward the field. Foster watched him the entire time, enjoying the smooth way he moved. He had to force himself to turn away. He shouldn’t be having thoughts like this. He went back in the barn up to the loft and started the process of cleaning and shifting the hay. Moving the heavy bales was just the ticket to work away these thoughts about the gorgeous farm worker.
He retrieved the remaining wayward bales of hay from the edges and corners, placing them near the chute to the main floor, stacking them neatly and then going for more. Foster hated that he had these feelings. He’d heard since he was a toddler all about the evils of alcohol, smoking, and many more prohibitions from the front of the church. More than once he’d heard the prohibition about men lying with men and had sworn the minister had been looking right at him and could see into his soul. In the last year he’d been able to find a lot of chores that had to be done, so he hadn’t been going to church as often. In a roundabout way, he felt better not hearing that he was a godless sinner all the time.
“Foster,” his mother called up. “Your grandmother and I are going to town. Do you need anything?”
He checked his watch and realized he’d been working for hours. “Some snacks would be nice.” He climbed down. “When will you be back?”
“About an hour. We’ll make dinner then.” She left, and Foster went about the process of getting ready for milking, thinking that this was a much easier job with two people, but it was only him, so he might as well get to it. Besides, the work gave him something to think about other than the same set of eyes, light caramel-brown skin, and full lips that had stayed in his mind now for nearly a year. Part of him wished that Javi and his family hadn’t contacted his father about working. Then he wouldn’t be reminded of how he felt and could go on with his life. Not that he knew if Javi felt the same way.
He let in the first half the herd and started the milking process, noting the cows that were going to be getting ready to calve soon. He kept detailed records and made notes in his mind regarding when he’d need to separate them into the calving pens. The work never ended, and Foster got to it, finished the milking, cleaned up the barn, and went inside to have dinner. Afterward, he checked that everything was all set for the night before spending a quiet hour before going up to bed.
That night, as he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, tired and worn out, his mind would not let up. All he kept seeing was Javi, worn and hungry looking, at least to start. It didn’t take long before his mind put Javi, not smiling, his eyes filled with heat, standing near him, pulling off his shirt and then tugging at Foster’s. Javi pulled him close, their chests touching, breath heaving, lips finally exploring. The funny thing was that other than on the cheek, Foster had never kissed anyone, not the way that Javi kissed him in his fantasies, like he was reaching down deep to Foster’s heart and soul. As heated as he became, Foster shook his head and put a stop to his fantasy. This was not helping him. He needed to be strong.
Andrew grew up in western Michigan with a father who loved to tell stories and a mother who loved to read them. Since then he has lived throughout the country and traveled throughout the world. He has a master’s degree from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and works in information systems for a large corporation.
Andrew’s hobbies include collecting antiques, gardening, and leaving his dirty dishes anywhere but in the sink (particularly when writing) He considers himself blessed with an accepting family, fantastic friends, and the world’s most supportive and loving partner. Andrew currently lives in beautiful, historic Carlisle, Pennsylvania.
“Kept” is a (crime mystery) desert neo-noir about George and Connor, two young gay men who get mixed up in a deadly Palm Springs real estate scam and fight to survive in a twisted world of desire, double-cross and deception.
Palm Springs: Jorge Gomez leaves his poor family behind and remakes himself as ambitious George Gomes.
Soon young gay George is picked up by Connor Hurst, who takes him to an empty mansion for a night of lust. Connor convinces George to work alongside him in a scam targeting gullible retirees with classic desert homes.
George appears to be on a strange path to the American Dream, until his help covering up a violent death propels him toward bigger risks—perhaps even murder, one that seems justified, one promising a sizable payday.
George doesn't know his role is to take the fall.
Yet he isn’t as stupid as everyone thinks. Left alone, literally hanging on a wire with a corpse, George must fight enemies real and imagined if he has any hope of finding his dream—or even staying alive long enough to enjoy it.
Pilar Greco’s folks never trusted Sy.
Parents sometimes came in dreams like messengers, gods of the old world, those Aztec gods—warriors, yes, but also the odd cannibal and baby killer. Which made her shudder.
Pilar Greco’s father could get away with wearing that kind of Mexican native monumental headdress—he had the features for it, even if he wasn’t wearing anything other than a simple sensible suburban shirt and shorts in her dream. She, in turn, took after her mother—small, finely featured, but with the very same jet-black hair, now accentuated a tiny bit with each salon visit.
In her dream, they sat around the pool in the backyard of their Scottsdale home. Mr. Galindez never understood why his Pilar had married an Italian, a Jew Italian, but that was the least of his worries. He was wary of Sy Greco even as he appreciated his better qualities. It was in the eyes; it was always in the eyes.
“You just have to look, look hard, mija. In the eyes.”
Such was the memory that surfaced when the nosy Desert Sun reporter Nancy Argento called the office. Pilar didn’t usually answer the phone; she was distracted after nibbling on a Godiva someone left at reception. Worrying it might discolor her teeth, and what could be more disgusting than little brown bits stuck in dental work?
She was distracted, so she answered the call, and it was this Nancy. Told an impossible tale of deceit by a crazy old bag woman; she must be a stupid writer to believe such a thing. From someone who lived under a bridge!
This reporter Nancy wanted to talk to Sy; he was even there, present in the office. But Pilar was the one who did the talking for them. Sy didn’t know when to shut up; he always gave out just a shred more information than he had to. Information that could and would come back and bite them both in the ass.
Pilar knew this Nancy was fishing, but there wasn’t going to be anything ever caught on that line. Greco & Greco invested in classic mid-century homes; what was strange about that? Everyone with a little bit of cash was doing the same thing—the new century’s version of a baby boomer gold mine.
So there was no excuse when she got a little flustered, and who could blame her, anyway? There seemed to be a conflict of interest, Nancy Argento said. What was a realty company doing in the home-remodeling business, anyway?
Whenever Pilar took a difficult call like this she focused on the photo framed on her desk, the one of her and Sy with their son, Angel Greco, sitting down in front, taken just a few weeks before he died. If she’d just held on to him like in the photo, her hand on his shoulder, squeezing his bony twelve-year-old flesh. His hair had been as dark as hers, but it had a little curl in it, courtesy of his dad’s DNA.
Don’t ever let go; don’t ever let that beautiful boy leave you.
Across the office, Sy stared, his mouth open, as if to ask, Why are you still on this call with this person, this person who wants to destroy us? She wanted to scream at him, slap him: She knows, you idiot; she’s on to us!
But instead, she hung up; mid-sentence, she hung up on Nancy Argento, Desert Sun reporter. Pilar felt detached from herself as her shaking hand dropped the receiver back into its cradle; it was as if she were watching one of those old-style dramas unfold in slow motion on TV.
Just as quickly her stomach sank to her ankles. Realizing what a stupid mistake that was. How she was not cool, not calm, not collected. So glad her father, Mr. Galindez, was not there to see her being the bad businesswoman, the one whose company would be destroyed because of that lapse in judgment.
She would go to the ladies’ room, put herself together and call Nancy back. They were both professionals, after all. They’d come to an understanding.
* * *
Pilar resisted driving by the Las Palmas intersection where Angel’s skateboard had met the Range Rover. Sometimes she’d park there on her way home from Greco & Greco, if she had something to think about or if she was merely avoiding Sy. Despite the violence of what had happened, it was a quiet residential street. Maybe the boy’s essence still hovered there, his spirit. He might give her comfort, might give her an answer, even.
To pressing questions.
Like, for instance, if she should divorce Angel’s father. It was true: He preferred Connor Hurst to her, but the other truth was that she, in her own way, preferred Connor to Sy. So there they were.
She smiled, a rarity these days. She watched herself through the rear view, as much to look out for other neighborhood kids being reckless—she would scare them with the tale of the death meted out here—as to check makeup. Lipstick needed a slight touch-up. The formulas still weren’t resistant to this Palm Springs brand of insane and constant inferno.
Pilar knew her feelings were all wounded pride, and misplaced pride at that. They had a good thing going, she and Sy Greco, so intertwined at this point that even the mere thought of dividing it all up exhausted her.
No, really, the alternative she and Connor had planned for him was vastly superior to any boring no-fault California divorce.
She should get home, check on the orchids. It was their day to be tended to. She glanced at the dashboard: 114 degrees! She’d brought every pot of them inside at this time of year, but supposed one or two were forgotten in that spot in back of the pool.
Jim Arnold is the author of the award-winning novels Benediction (2009) and The Forest Dark (2013), as well as the new novel Kept, which launches March, 2016.
Additionally, Jim is the author of the feature screenplays Me and Mamie O’Rourke (finalist and Honorable Mention winner, One in Ten Screenplay Contest, 2007), Lovelines (second round finalist, Austin Film Festival 2005), The Lourdes Kelly Story, and Kept (finalist and Honorable Mention Winner, One in Ten Screenplay Contest, 2008).
For television, he has written the original hour-drama series and pilot Troll Palace (finalist, pilot category, Exposurama Contest, 2009).
Jim also directed the critically-acclaimed documentary short Our Brothers, Our Sons, about generational differences around HIV/AIDS in gay men, (nominated for Best Documentary at the 2002 Turin International Gay & Lesbian Film Festival).
Jim has worked extensively as a free-lance journalist and has published in Frontiers, Variety, Prime Health & Fitness, Age Appropriate and other periodicals, online and in fiction anthologies. He began his career in musical theatre and holds a BA in journalism and film from Marquette University, and has studied film production/writing in the MFA program for Cinema/TV at the University of Southern California, the Writers Program at UCLA, and at Film Arts Foundation in San Francisco.
He blogs at www.jimarnoldcommunications.com.
Jim Arnold Communications (www.jimarnoldcommunications.com) provides business to business (B2B) writing services. Jim is a veteran entertainment PR executive, having held communications management positions at Paramount Pictures, Dolby Laboratories and the American Lung Association in California.
Other Useful Information:
Jim’s a 4th Generation California Native whose ancestors came for the Gold Rush and stayed despite not finding any! He’s also a cancer survivor who has run a marathon and can literally do cartwheels. An unusual talent is that he can rollerblade backwards so don’t be shy about asking for a demo. A former teenage church organist, Jim now tries not to irritate his neighbors when playing standards from the American songbook on the piano.
