Gene Altman is here to tell us about The Road Home and Other Stories, a short fiction collection.
Read on for details...
______________________
Short fiction collection
Date Published: March 4, 2026
Publisher:
Manhattan Book Group
The Road Home is a powerful and emotionally rich literary fiction short story
collection that explores the universal search for identity, belonging, and
meaning in life.
From a chance encounter that propels a young mother into
the glamorous world of high fashion… to an elderly widower
rediscovering hope through an unexpected bond… to a troubled young man
battling inner demons—these stories highlight the resilience of the
human spirit.
Set across diverse locations and cultures, these compelling
stories examine:
● Self-discovery, emotional healing
and personal transformation
● Connection, friendship and Love.
●
Written by retired psychiatrist Gene Altman, this collection offers readers
authentic, insightful, and psychologically rich storytelling.
At the
heart of the collection is the title story, The Road Home, a moving
exploration of what “home” truly means—not a physical place
with walls and a roof, but a deeply personal destination where one is fully
accepted and finds belonging, comfort and safety.
Perfect for fans of
literary fiction, psychological fiction, and character-driven stories, The
Road Home invites readers to reflect on their own lives and discover the
strength to overcome obstacles by discovering unexpected inner resources
within themselves.
About the Author
Gene Altman is an award-worthy literary
fiction author, retired psychiatrist, and former professional photographer
whose work explores the depth of human emotion, identity, and personal
transformation. A graduate of Harvard College and Stanford Medical School,
Altman brings a rare blend of psychological rigor and creative insight to his
writing.
Before dedicating four decades to clinical psychiatry in Hawaii,
Altman worked as a professional photographer in New York City. His candid
photography and prose collection, Cityscapes: Intimate Strangers, earned
praise for its evocative storytelling and emotional impact.
After
retiring from psychiatry, Altman turned his focus to writing literary short
fiction inspired by his lifelong passion for helping individuals better
understand themselves. His stories explore themes of self-discovery,
friendship and love—making his work resonate with readers seeking
thoughtful, character-driven narratives.
With a unique perspective shaped
by both psychology and art, Gene Altman crafts compelling stories that
illuminate the complexities of the human experience.
Celaine Charles is here to tell us about When June Haunts May, The Haunting of Pinedale High #10, a cozy YA paranormal ghost story.
There's also a great giveaway.
_________________
One visible spirit.
Two phantom thieves.
Three courageous
friends.
When June Haunts May
The Haunting of Pinedale High #10
by Celaine Charles
Genre: Cozy YA Paranormal Ghost Story
June Brookes has haunted the library at Pinedale High for
decades, without attention. Until one day, new sophomore, May Blakely, notices.
Could this be June’s chance to cross over to the hereafter? If only she knew
what needed to be finished from her old life.
Angsty May prefers solitude. Her deadbeat dad may have ditched her in this
small town, but she has no interest befriending this strange girl, or the cute
boy across the street.
June’s hereafter hustle goes haywire when two phantom soldiers plot to hijack
her passage to peace, at the expense of hurting fellow students. June saves
May’s life, igniting their joint efforts to protect the school. Can May help
June to her happily ever afterlife?
What was he getting at?
“We don’t have any classes together. But I don’t have any classes with you
either.”
“Okay, so how about the
fact that she was cold as ice when I touched her shoulder?”
The chills she’d sensed
from June had felt like relief in the blazing sun, but she had noticed them.
“What are you saying?”
Reid pulled her
underneath a yellowing oak in an empty yard. Ignoring her look of annoyance, he
glanced over his shoulders before whispering low and close to her ear. “Did you
know Pinedale High is haunted?”
First the woods and now
the whole school? May stepped back, hands up in feigned surrender. “Okay-okay,
I get it. Prank the new kid. You know, I’m sorry I even thought about checking
in on you. I don’t have time for this.” She about-faced and strode down the
sidewalk without him.
“Wait, what? I’m not
pranking you.” He caught up in only a few strides, his long legs veering her
off to the side. “Please, hear me out.”
May’s mind flipped
through any example of a high school boy wanting her to hear him out.
This had to be a trick. “No, you listen to me. I’ve been the new girl far too
many times than I care to count. And I get it. I’m easy prey…perhaps even a
challenge.” She thumped him in his too-close-to-her chest. “But I’m not
playing.”
“I think June’s a ghost.
I’m not kidding or pranking you. And I need you to listen.”
Flashes of her strange
interactions with her new friend…if she could even call her that…flickered
through May’s mind. They’d only known each other for a couple of days, but she
had sensed something off.
She turned away from him,
trying to put everything together. Bouts of June’s chilliness, yes. But
earlier, it had been strange how fast she’d flown down the spectator stands.
Before that, she struggled to push open the main school doors.
May had attributed June’s
glossy hollow eyes to the lighting, but maybe it was because of something else.
She closed her own eyes for clarity, kicking her foot into the grass. Maybe
allergies?
She tucked her hair
behind her ear, running the strands between her fingers as more details
registered. June’s peculiar way of speaking was odd, and her clothes that first
day, like a blast from the past. She was still wearing her penny loafers…with
pennies inside.
May dropped her backpack,
shook her head at Reid, who was waiting for her to process. But her brain
wasn’t cooperating. “Ghosts?” The word spat off her tongue like she’d swallowed
a flick of her cat’s tail.
“I know I sound insane.
I’m not. I promise.” He glimpsed her with creamy brown eyes. They were the
color of Great-Grandma’s sweet tea, and she was overheating inside and out,
ready for a tall glass.
“Is this why you’ve been
crying at the pond during lunch?”
“What?” His face
scrunched, cheeks burning past the eighty-degree temperature outside to a
brighter shade of full-blown embarrassment. “No. I mean—I’m not crying at the
pond. What are you talking about?”
“What are you
talking about?”
They stood at an impasse,
shock etching along both their eyebrows and drawn lips. Her mind raced for
something to say, and if she had to guess, he was in the same boat.
Don’t miss the
rest of the Haunting of Pinedale High books!
Celaine Charles lives in the enchanted Pacific Northwest,
teaching elementary school by day and writing by the stars at night. She’s an
award-winning, multi-genre author who balances her dual life creating poetry,
fantasy, and contemporary romance shorts, while blogging about her journey
on Steps in Between. In addition, she’s embarking on the world
of children’s picture books.
She’s published collections of poetry through Egret Lake
Books and Palmetto Publishing Group, and fiction through The Wild Rose Press
and Eliza Storm Books.
Celaine is a member of the Pacific Northwest Writers
Association, Storyteller Academy, Society of Children’s Book Writers and
Illustrators, and reads poetry regularly with the Museum of Northwest
Art, Writing’s on the Wall series.
Emily Carrington is here to tell us about Precog's Perception, Psychic Soulmates 1 - A Searchlight Paranormal Romance.
Read on for details...
__________________________
(Psychic Soulmates 1)
A SearchLight Paranormal Romance
LGBTQ+ Shifter Romance
Date Published: May 1, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
When the world doesn’t catch fire, Amaruq doubts his precognition.
Can Nootaikok’s love heal him?
A stillborn pup, precognition unfulfilled, and raging guilt plague a trans
werewolf. Amaruq’s suspicion that there’s something wrong with
him, and that the death of his and Nootaikok’s child is his fault,
colors all that he does. Traumatized, he denies himself pleasure.
Nootaikok will have none of that. He takes Amaruq on a “working
vacation” back to the scene of Nootaikok’s greatest mistake. As
both of them struggle with feelings of inadequacy and undeservingness, their
bodies and souls still demand release.
Will their fears pull them apart or can passion lead back to love and
forgiveness?
They’d started their mentor/mentee relationship with letters. Amaruq
didn’t know about Jeremy, but for him, the fear of being found out in
this digital age inspired him to write physical correspondence. Amaruq had a
feeling he should be sharing these concerns with his mate, but he
couldn’t bear for Nootaikok to know how guilty he felt. So, he wrote to
the Night Wanderer who had become his friend.
Dear Jeremy,
I hate what I have become. I’m a sneak who doesn’t know how to
apologize to my lover for losing our child. I get it that a stillbirth
isn’t exactly my fault. I did nothing to make it happen. The issue is
that I don’t want to try again. Try for another baby. It wasn’t
just losing our child, our pup, but the dysmorphia I endured being pregnant
when I’ve worked so hard to be my authentic male werewolf self. I do
not, no matter what, regret that Nootaikok and I were trying for a baby. I
don’t. I just don’t want to try again. In spite of my precognitive
vision. That future glimpse guarantees I’ll be pregnant again at some
point, as I saw Nootaikok and I surrounded by werewolf pups of many ages. I
just don’t want to be.
I also dread Nootaikok finding out.
Speaking of dread, I can easily believe Nootaikok is angry with me for making
him leave his position in DC. I’m afraid of the argument we’ll
eventually have. I just wanted to be near you, where I’ve always felt
safe. That’s the wrong kind of emotion to have for someone who
isn’t my mate. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not sexually
attracted to you in any way. It’s just that you rescued me from the hell
of living under my parents’ roof and inspired me to become part of the
Miscellaneous Magical Creatures Department. It’s just that, now that
you’ve moved to DC, I want to return. I know Nootaikok wouldn’t
get his job back, though, and I don’t want him to be humiliated by
having to walk those same halls every day as just a tracker and not the head
of the whole world’s Tracker Central.
He stopped his pen before he could disclose more about his fears. Surely this
letter, which was basically a rambling jumble of all his terror,
wouldn’t help anything.
He shredded the page and tossed it in the garbage can in the den. There would
be no leaving it around for someone else to discover.
Today, Friday, was his last day of parental leave. On Monday, he’d be
expected to resume his work at the MMCD. He needed to pull himself together.
With that in mind, Amaruq looked around the den and then down at himself. He
still looked slightly pregnant. He’d been slowly exercising away the
pounds he’d gained as he tried to make a hospitable home for their pup
to grow. Since he was a werewolf, he wouldn’t look ready to deliver much
longer. Maybe six weeks total, which would mean another week or two.
He headed for the doorway to the den, determined to go for a run and maybe, by
doing so, make himself feel more grounded in his body and less like a spirit
drifting over the earth, unattached to anything but pain.
* * *
They were arguing again. For crying out loud, Nootaikok thought, it’s
like he’s my spouse instead of my tracker partner.
He glared at Luis, the psychic vampire with whom he’d been paired less
than six months ago. Luis was, by all accounts, including his own, one of the
best damn negotiators/spies/hunters/executioners in the United States.
Luis’s prowess was matched only by the arrogance Nootaikok swore
radiated off him in waves now. Funny, but the infernal psychic vampire
hadn’t struck Nootaikok as full of himself when he’d accompanied
Tilthos Charles to the international meeting of magical creatures that had
happened over a year ago.
At first, when he and Luis initially began working together, Nootaikok had
borne Luis’s grief and discontent. Luis’s former tracker partner
had moved with his mate to the nation’s capital, and Luis had been
understandably upset. He and his former partner had worked together for a
decade or more, becoming one of the most formidable tracker teams in the
world.
However, Nootaikok had been dealing with Luis’s grumpiness for close to
half a year, and the frustration he felt was threatening to boil over.
He took in a breath, counting to five before releasing it soundlessly.
“Luis,” he said, “I’m not injured. I heal as quickly
as any werewolf, and I have earned the right to take the risks other trackers
do. Please don’t hamper my working or your own. Going out without
another tracker when I’m standing right here is foolish.” He
paused, saw Luis was about to object, and added, “I don’t want to
be the one to take your dead body back to Tilthos Charles.”
That last got through. Nootaikok could see it in the dropping of Luis’s
shoulders and the way he pressed his lips together. Tilthos Charles, Charlie
to those closest to him, was the alpha of their shared pack. He was also
Luis’s mate and husband. Less than a year ago, Tilthos Charles had been
the target of malicious intent from other werewolves and the former queen of
the grand fae. He’d suffered what would have been called in humans of
the 1900s a “nervous breakdown.” He’d been healed but, since
it was less than twelve months since he’d recovered, Luis was
understandably protective.
“Fine,” Luis muttered. “Are you ready to go?”
Nootaikok checked the gun in its holster at the small of his back.
“Yes.”
“Come on then.” Luis strode out of his office, leading the way
toward the back parking lot.
Nootaikok kept pace with him. “Tell me about this one.”
“Didn’t you read the briefing?” Luis demanded.
Sighing, Nootaikok answered, “She’s most likely a werewolf or half
werewolf. It’s unlikely she’s from the United States as the humans
she’s left alive say she spoke to them in a thick Russian accent. That
doesn’t preclude her being from the US, though.”
“Or she’s been sent here.”
They settled into Luis’s car, which Nootaikok didn’t like, because
it meant Luis got to drive. Luis was his alpha’s mate, and Nootaikok
wasn’t a werewolf so dominance didn’t affect him as much. Still,
he liked being in charge of his own transportation. Years of being the senior
member of his own tracker team had spoiled him. Also, when he’d been the
leader of Tracker Central in Washington, DC, he hadn’t been at
anyone’s mercy.
“One of the sharpshooters managed to get a tag on her,” Luis said.
“Let me check the GPS and see if she’s still where they left
her.”
“She was in a village not too far from here,” Nootaikok said. He
wanted to ask why the sharpshooter hadn’t taken her out since
she’d been killing humans. Before he could formulate the question in a
way that would possibly cause less offense, Luis cursed.
“She’s headed toward the pack house.”
Nootaikok pulled out his phone as Luis peeled out of the parking lot.
Luis commanded, “Call the house. Tell whoever’s there to get
everyone inside.”
About the Author
Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender
women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she
created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its
problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host
of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the
contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily
has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate
quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her
website.
Mark Bearss is here to tell us about Cain's Chameleon, historical fiction, mystery-thriller.
There's also a great giveaway.
_________________________
Historical Fiction Mystery Thriller
Date Published: 01-26-2026
Publisher: Bearss Lair Books
If the newspaper reported your death and no one questioned it, would you
correct the mistake… or take the lifeline?
Dan Driscoll is consumed by gambling debt, cornered by bookies and loan
sharks, forced to bet on one last scheme. When things turn violent and two
people are shot, his best friend, Stan Neumann, swallows what he suspects. He
can’t risk divulging a closely-held family secret.
Then a body washes up on the Lake Michigan shoreline, and the lake gives Dan
what the bookies never would: a way out. Authorities call it an accident and
list him as the drowning victim. For Dan, it’s an escape route delivered
in black ink.
He becomes a ghost, an imposter, a chameleon. But lies don’t stay
buried.
As America is pulled into World War II, Stan enlists, choosing duty on his
terms before the draft can rewrite his life. In Pearl Harbor, one chance
encounter dredges up a name he thought was long buried.
War changes everything, but it doesn’t erase unfinished business. And
when the truth demands to be heard, how long can a stolen life stay buried
before the past comes to collect?
While author Mark Bearss was setting the stage for his retirement, concerned
co-workers would ask, “What are you going to do when you’re not
working?” He found this question rather curious. It should have been
posed, “What are you going to do first?” Mark knew that if travel
was involved, he had had enough of commercial flights after 28 years of
teaching for the medical device industry. Mark yearned for road trips –
to visit those places he only saw from 38,000 feet. Little did he know that
wish journeyed down an unexpected fork in the road. He would become an author.
While conducting genealogy research, Mark discovered archived de-classified
military documents that revealed the name of a U.S. Navy destroyer his father
served aboard during WWII. The reason this was a poignant discovery was
because, while growing up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, his father made no
mention of this. Apart from being a U.S. Naval Reserve flight instructor, he
knew his father served aboard the carrier USS ESSEX. But in what capacity?
That, too, was not revealed. More discoveries materialized the further he dug.
In fact, there was a lot more his father didn’t mention. This
wasn’t unusual. Many WWII veterans didn’t talk about what happened
back then.
Because of the pandemic, the National Archives in St. Louis was closed and
rendered Lt. Bearss’ military records unavailable. Thus began a project
that challenged Mark’s research endeavors for over two years and about
5,000 miles on the road. The biographical sketch was sorted from creative
Internet search strings, history books, navy publications, and networking with
journalists, librarians, archivists, bloggers, aviation enthusiasts, museum
and historical society curators, navy veterans, relatives, and more. One
online resource that was instrumental in tracking his father’s journey
was the weekly newspaper published in the county where his parents grew up:
The Oceana Herald. It included a Local News section where family members and
organizations could submit a short blurb about a relative’s visit, a
social gathering, or – where a son or husband was currently stationed.
This project culminated in 2022 with Mark’s first publication titled,
Undisclosed Stories Discovered: Honoring the World War II Military Journey of
Lt. Joseph Ward Bearss, USNR. When asked what was one of the highlights
surrounding this story, he described the road trips to seek out and discover
places where his father lived, trained and was stationed during the war. What
prompted him to write this as a biography took place during a meeting with the
curator of the World War II Home Front Museum on St. Simons Island, Georgia.
St. Simons Naval Air Station was the site for the U.S. Naval Radar Training
Station, where Lt. Bearss was trained in shipboard radar operations, enemy
interception, and Fighter Direction. While the museum had ample archived
materials about the facility, it had very little documented about the
servicemembers who trained there.
Only 250 copies were printed. Mark went back on the road in his Class-B
motorhome and personally donated those copies to family members, friends and
relatives, the librarians, archivists, researchers, museums, curators,
historical societies, newspapers, The American Heritage Center, VFW Posts,
airport FBOs, and other assorted WWII enthusiasts in 12 states who helped in
his endeavors. It was a two-fold reward. Not only did his father’s story
finally become told, Mark experienced the pleasure of meeting all these
wonderful people who were his resources, advisors, collaborators, and
consultants. Up until that point, they were only names in an email contact
list.
You’re probably asking, “How is all this relevant to Mark’s
new novel, Cain’s Chameleon?” It was the research from The Oceana
Herald that planted the seed for this story. While perusing its issues, Mark
stumbled on two articles that piqued his curiosity. The first reported an
attempted murder in a home close to his family’s summer cottage on Lake
Michigan. The second reported a drowning victim that washed up on the beach
right where Mark and his friends used to play. Just two more stories never
divulged while growing up. He wondered, Were these two events related? Then
Mark decided — he would make them related.
JJ Harrigan is here to tell us about Goodbye Demons, historical fiction - thriller.
There's also a great giveaway.
___________________
Historical Fiction
Date Published: 04-24-2026
Publisher: Salty Books Publishing
When injuries put an end to the figure skating career of Angela
Fernandez Parnell, she joins the Peace Corps.
She is assigned to Tunis where she falls in love with U.S. diplomat James
Whitcomb. At the conclusion of their tours of duty, they marry. Within weeks
of the wedding, he is taken captive in the Iranian Hostage Crisis of 1979-81.
James, held hostage in the U.S. Embassy in Teheran, endures the same demons
that afflicted the real life hostages during the actual crisis 45 years ago.
Angie, biting her nails at home, endures her own demons. How can she support
him? Should she join efforts to force the president into negotiating a
release? Or even a rescue?
When the ordeal finally ends fourteen months later, the couple faces a new set
of demons. Rebuilding their life together as they each recuperate from their
own PTSDs.
About the Author
Historical thriller author JJ Harrigan is a former US Service Officer
and political science professor. He scribbles his tales of intrigue on the
banks of the St. Croix River in Minnesota, where he lives with his wife,
Sandy.
Dulce Dennison is here to tell us about Claimed Without Mercy, a gay enemies-to-lovers romance.
Read on for details...
______________________
Gay Enemies to Lovers Romance
Date Published: April 24, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
Captive. Claimed. Protected by the devil himself.
I’m Tyson Hughes’ right hand. Collector. Enforcer. Executioner.
When a low-level idiot tries to clear his debt by offering up his own nephew,
I expect a clean transaction. A body to move. A message to send. Business.
I don’t expect Kellen. Bruised. Beautiful. Untouched by this world in
ways that make my jaw lock. He looks at me like I’m either the devil
come to claim him… or the only thing standing between him and worse.
Taking him wasn’t part of the plan. Delivering him to Tyson
would’ve been easier. Smarter. Safer. Instead, I claim him.
Now he’s living under my roof, breathing my air, learning the rules of a
world I don’t sugarcoat. I’m not a hero. I don’t rescue
people. I own what’s mine. I protect it. And I destroy anyone stupid
enough to threaten it. But the deeper I pull Kellen into my life—into
the violence, the loyalty, the blood that binds us—the harder it is to
tell where captivity ends… and desire begins.
When the debt comes due, I’ll have to choose. Tyson’s empire. Or
the young man I claimed without mercy—and refuse to let go.
WARNING: Intended for readers 18+. Dark MM mafia romance. Possessive
antihero. Captor/captive tension, dubious consent. High heat. Guaranteed HEA.
No cheating.
I watched the men work, arms folded across my chest. The dim lights of the
warehouse cast long shadows as they moved product from one crate to another,
their movements precise and mechanical. Nobody spoke much -- they knew better.
When I oversaw an operation, I expected efficiency, not conversation. The
tattoos on my forearms seemed to pulse in the half-light, a reminder to
everyone present of who I was and what I was capable of. The man who made
problems disappear.
“Faster,” I said, my voice echoing against the concrete walls.
“We need this shit loaded before sunrise.”
The men picked up their pace, sweat beading on their foreheads. This shipment
was worth seven figures -- premium grade heroin straight from our overseas
connections. The kind of product that kept Tyson’s empire running and
our pockets lined.
I paced between the rows of crates, watching each man’s hands, each
movement. Trust wasn’t something I gave easily, especially not to the
low-level soldiers Tyson assigned to these jobs. Most were competent enough,
but all it took was one fuck-up, one greedy asshole, and we’d have cops
swarming the place or, worse, a war with another organization.
Something caught my eye. A slight hesitation from one of the newer guys --
skinny fuck with a neck tattoo that screamed prison ink. He glanced over his
shoulder when he thought I wasn’t looking, then slipped his hand into
his jacket pocket just a little too casually.
I moved behind a stack of crates, circling around until I was positioned where
he couldn’t see me. Three years of working as Tyson’s enforcer had
taught me to spot a rat before they even knew they were one.
“Something interesting in your pocket, Alvarez?” I asked,
appearing beside him like a shadow.
He jumped, nearly dropping the bag he was holding. “No, Mr. Grant. Just
checking the time.”
“Really? Pull it out, then.”
His eyes darted to the exit, calculating the distance. I knew that look.
I’d seen it dozens of times before on the faces of men who thought they
could outsmart me.
“Now,” I said, not raising my voice. I never had to.
“It’s nothing, I swear --”
I grabbed his wrist, twisting until he gasped in pain, then reached into his
pocket myself. My fingers closed around a small plastic bag containing about
twenty grams of our product. The weight of it told me everything I needed to
know.
“Everyone stop,” I commanded, and the warehouse fell silent.
“Gather round. Seems we need to have a little lesson in loyalty.”
The men formed a circle, their faces grim. They knew what was coming.
They’d seen it before, or at least heard the stories.
I held up the bag. “Alvarez here thinks he deserves a bonus. Isn’t
that right?”
“Please, Mr. Grant, I wasn’t --”
My fist connected with his jaw before he could finish the sentence. He
stumbled backward but didn’t fall. Good. I wanted him conscious for what
came next.
“Tyson Hughes pays you well,” I said, addressing everyone now.
“He provides for your families. Keeps the cops off your backs. And in
return, he asks for one thing.” I grabbed Alvarez by the throat.
“Loyalty.”
I slammed him against a crate, my hand still tight around his neck. His eyes
bulged, face turning red, then purple.
“You know what happens to thieves in this organization?” I asked,
loosening my grip just enough for him to breathe.
He nodded frantically, gasping for air.
“Tell them,” I demanded, nodding toward the other men.
“They… they die,” he choked out.
I smiled. “Usually. But tonight, I’m feeling generous.”
Relief flooded his face for a brief moment before I slammed my knee into his
groin. As he doubled over, I caught him with an uppercut that sent him
sprawling across the concrete floor.
The men watched in silence as I approached Alvarez, who was now curled into a
ball, blood trickling from his split lip. I knelt beside him, keeping my voice
low enough that only he could hear.
“I’m going to let you live, but not out of mercy.” I pulled
a switchblade from my pocket and flicked it open. “You’re going to
be a message.”
What happened next filled the warehouse with screams that the thick walls
swallowed whole. The men watched, faces impassive but eyes wide with fear as I
made my point in blood. When I was done, Alvarez lay sobbing on the floor,
clutching what remained of his left hand.
“Get him patched up,” I told two of the men. “Then drop him
at the emergency room across town. Make sure he understands that if he says a
word about where he was or who did this, the next visit won’t be so
pleasant.”
They nodded and dragged Alvarez away, leaving a smear of crimson across the
floor. I turned to the remaining men, wiping my blade clean on a handkerchief.
“Finish loading the shipment. I want everything out of here in thirty
minutes.”
They scattered like cockroaches under a light, moving twice as fast as before.
The metallic smell of blood hung in the air, mixing with the dust and chemical
odors of the warehouse. I checked my watch. Almost 3 AM.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from Tyson:
Need you at the house. 9 AM sharp. Important matter to discuss.
I stared at the message, feeling a familiar mix of pride and anxiety. A direct
summons from Tyson usually meant one of two things: I’d fucked up, or he
had a special job that only I could handle. Given that I’d been running
operations smoothly for months, I was betting on the latter.
I supervised the rest of the loading in silence, watching as the men carefully
avoided the bloodstain on the floor. By 4:15 AM, the warehouse was empty
except for me and the lingering evidence of what happened to those who
betrayed Tyson Hughes.
I locked up and climbed into my black Audi, the leather seat cool against my
back. The night had turned cold, but I barely noticed. My mind was already on
the meeting with Tyson, wondering what assignment awaited me. Whatever it was,
I’d handle it. I always did. That’s why, despite everything, I was
still alive when so many others weren’t.
I pulled out of the warehouse district, leaving behind the night’s
violence and heading toward my apartment for a few hours of sleep before
meeting with the only man I’d ever truly respected. The only man
who’d ever given me a chance when everyone else saw nothing but gutter
trash. The man who’d made me what I was.
For Tyson Hughes, I’d do anything. And he knew it.
I pulled up to Tyson’s estate at 8:55 AM, early as always. The gates
opened automatically -- security knew my car. As I drove up the long, winding
driveway, I caught glimpses of the sprawling mansion through the trees. Tyson
had built all this from nothing, clawing his way up from the streets to become
the most powerful man in the city’s underworld. And he’d picked
me. Even after all these years, that fact still hit me in the chest sometimes,
a mixture of pride and the constant fear of disappointing him.
I parked next to Tyson’s collection of luxury cars and straightened my
tie in the rearview mirror. Despite only three hours of sleep, I looked
presentable. The dark circles under my eyes were practically permanent
fixtures anyway.
The front door opened before I could knock. Nick, Tyson’s longtime
second-in-command, greeted me with a curt nod.
“He’s in his study,” he said, stepping aside.
I walked through the marble-floored foyer, past priceless artwork and antiques
that Tyson collected not because he gave a shit about art, but because they
signified his rise from poverty. Everything in this house was a trophy, a
reminder of victories and conquered enemies.
The study door stood ajar. I knocked anyway.
“Come in, Ian,” Tyson called.
He sat behind a massive oak desk, silver hair immaculately styled, wearing
what I knew was a hand-tailored suit that probably cost more than most people
made in a month. At fifty-three, Tyson Hughes carried himself with the ease of
a man who knew his own power and had no need to flaunt it. When he killed, he
did it with a phone call, not his hands. Those days were behind him.
“Right on time,” he said, looking up from his computer and
removing his reading glasses. “How’d the shipment go last
night?”
“Clean and quick. One minor issue that’s been handled.”
I nodded. “Missing some fingers, but alive. I figured he’d be more
useful as a warning than a corpse.”
A smile touched the corners of Tyson’s mouth. “Smart. That’s
why I trust you with these things.” He gestured to the chair across from
him. “Sit. Drink?”
“It’s not even ten.”
“Since when has that ever stopped either of us?”
I smiled despite myself and took the seat. Tyson poured two glasses of scotch
from a crystal decanter, sliding one across the desk to me.
“You look like shit,” he said casually. “Not
sleeping?”
“Sleep’s overrated.”
“Not when I need you sharp.” He leaned back in his chair, studying
me with those penetrating gray eyes that saw everything. “You’ve
been pushing yourself too hard lately.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Your job is to follow orders and stay alive. Can’t do either if
you’re running on fumes.”
I took a sip of the scotch, letting the burn distract me from the fact that
Tyson was the only person on earth who could talk to me like this without
ending up in pieces.
“I’m fine,” I said. “What’s this important
matter you wanted to discuss?”
Tyson’s expression shifted, his eyes hardening. “Sean
Collins.”
The name hung in the air between us.
“What about him?” I asked.
“He owes us three hundred grand. Has for almost six months now.”
Tyson took a long swallow of his drink. “I’ve been patient. Sent
Nick to have a chat with him twice. Sent messages through mutual associates.
Nothing.”
“You want me to collect.”
“I want you to make an example of him.” Tyson’s voice
dropped, became colder. “Collins thinks because he’s got
connections with the Irish that he’s untouchable. He’s been
spreading word that I’ve gone soft in my old age.”
My jaw clenched. “That’s a mistake.”
“A fatal one.” Tyson stood up and walked to the window, looking
out over his manicured gardens. “Sean Collins is a particular kind of
vermin. Beats the girls who work for him, sometimes kills them if they try to
leave. Has a taste for the young ones too.”
“Want me to take care of him permanently?” I asked, already
knowing the answer.
Tyson turned, his expression softer now, almost paternal. “Not yet.
First, get my money. Make him understand who he’s dealing with.”
He returned to his desk and pulled out a file, sliding it across to me.
“Here’s everything you need to know. Addresses, hangouts, known
associates. His nephew lives with him -- kid named Kellen Lin. Collins had
custody since the boy’s mother died. He’s an adult now but
hasn’t moved out.”
I flipped through the file. Photos, financial records, property deeds. Tyson
was nothing if not thorough.
“The nephew -- he involved in Collins’ business?” I asked.
“Not as far as we know. Works at a coffee shop. Keeps to himself.”
Tyson refilled his glass. “Use your judgment there.”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Collateral damage was part of the
job.
“When?” I asked, closing the file.
“Yesterday would’ve been good. Today’s acceptable. By the
end of the week, non-negotiable.”
I nodded, downing the rest of my scotch in one swallow. “Consider it
done.”
“I always do when I give you an assignment.” Tyson smiled, the
kind of smile that had always made me feel like I belonged somewhere.
“That’s why I chose you, Ian. From the first day I pulled you out
of that shithole your father called a home, I knew you were different. You
understand loyalty.”
“You gave me a life,” I said simply. It wasn’t flattery. It
was fact. Before Tyson, I was nothing. A fifteen-year-old kid with a junkie
father and violence in my blood. Tyson had channeled that violence, given it
purpose and direction.
“And you’ve repaid that a thousand times over.” He walked
around the desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “Collins is just the
beginning. I’m getting older, Ian. Starting to think about the future of
this organization.”
My heart skipped a beat. We’d never discussed succession before, though
everyone in the hierarchy wondered who would take over when Tyson eventually
stepped aside. I’d always assumed it would be Nick, but at the same
time, Nick was also getting up there in years. Both men were close in age and
had worked side-by-side for as long as anyone could remember. But if I thought
about it, I was probably the next closest to Tyson, the most trusted after
Nick.
I left the study with the file tucked under my arm and a sense of purpose
burning in my chest. Tyson had called me “his boy.” It
wasn’t the first time, but it never failed to hit something deep inside
me -- that hungry, abandoned part that had never known a real father’s
approval.
For Tyson, I’d collect this debt and a thousand more. I’d tear
Sean Collins apart if necessary. Because when Tyson Hughes looked at me like
that -- with pride and expectation -- I felt like I was worth something. And
that feeling was more addictive than any drug I’d ever tried.
About the Author
Dulce Dennison is a pen name for gay and LGBTQA+ themed love stories from best
selling MC romance author Harley Wylde, AKA award-winning science
fiction/paranormal romance author Jessica Coulter Smith. From cowboys to
shapeshifters, Dulce/Harley/Jess believes in love in all shapes and sizes, and
that everyone deserves a happily-ever-after.
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15
