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http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1393
Blurb:
Brad aka "Raising" Caine, a perpetual punk, vampire, and night warehouse manager for Bedtime Stories, Inc. revisits the past in a steamy confrontation with the man who broke his heart twenty years earlier.
Victor Stalheim, a man whose work has been the driving force in his life since college, has his own demons to reconcile. A misunderstanding drove them apart. Can fate bring them together? Or are they destined to a life without love?
Excerpt:
Bedtime Stories: Raising Caine
Reneé George
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2010 Reneé George
This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
Spring 1990
"Hell, yeah!" Vic high-fived his partner in crime, then threw the keys to his Ford Mustang on the desk. He had a nice buzz going, and he didn't want the night to end. It had been a great birthday. Over the last two semesters, he'd become increasingly mesmerized by Raisin' Caine, his dorm mate. Caine was two years ahead of him at college, and his whole lifestyle was one big "fuck you" to the world. Vic wished he could be more like Caine, and tonight he'd gotten a big taste of that life. Caine had even let Vic borrow some of his clothes.
He watched Caine flop onto his unmade twin bed. Caine spoke, quietly, his voice gravelly from too much smoking and screaming. "It was a good night, eh, bonehead?"
"Fantastic." Vic licked his lower lip. The crack from where he'd been hit while moshing was still sore and bleeding. He smiled. "I had a kick ass time."
Caine's legs were long and lean as he stretched them out. Following the line of his tight blue and red plaid pants, he wore black combat boots with skull-shaped eyelets. His sleeveless shirt clung to his sweat-dampened chest and abdomen. He placed an arm above his head, and his other hand rubbed his stomach. Caine's head turned, his spiky, green-tinted mohawk rotating like a switch, until his pale green eyes met Vic's gaze. It embarrassed Vic that he'd been caught staring. He fixed his eyes to the wall above the bed.
Caine's side of the room was predominantly black, blue, and red. Worn and dirty posters covered the wall in a frenetic collage of The Ramones, New York Dolls, Suicide Commandos, Mad Sin, and several other punk bands. Vic had been raised on country and rock-n-roll -- the punk scene had never touched his small hometown. He'd been bred to be a quarterback, date the head cheerleader, make straight A's, and always do what his parents wanted. Vic's life had been a cliché from conception. Never in a thousand lifetimes would anyone believe he and Caine could be friends. But it didn't change the fact that they were.
"You look good, kid." Caine reached over to his nightstand and pulled a pack of cigarettes from the drawer. He flicked his lighter once and sucked as the flame brightened the end. Smoke drifted off the cherry, and trickled from Caine's small but full-lipped mouth. "I like you in my pants."
"I... I..." It dawned on Vic that Caine was making fun of him. He gestured to the ripped black jeans that were a size too tight, and a couple of inches too long. "Better on me than you."
"Fuck off with that," Caine said, laughing behind the words. He mimicked like he was going to flick the cigarette at Vic, and raised his eyebrows, his mouth turning up in a Billy Idol snarl.
Vic waved his hand in a "whatever" gesture and turned his back to Caine. He had to -- his cock had turned rock stiff, and as tight as the pants were, it would be hard for Caine to miss it. "You're an idiot." He unbuttoned the fly, determined to get the pants off, and some loose pajamas on instead.
They were tight over the hips, and he squirmed to get the back side down his ass. That's when Caine tackled him from behind.
"Gotcha!"
The move startled Vic. He fell forward, smacking his head on the side of his own bed rail, landing next to the bed facedown on the floor.
"You asshole," he yelled, touching the sore spot as it rose on his forehead.
Caine helped him onto his back. "Shit, dude. Damn, sorry. I was just messing around."
"You could've really hurt me."
Caine brushed Vic's short hair back. "You're not bleeding, but damn, that's going to be a helluva goose egg." He pushed on the bump.
Vic grimaced. "Stop that."
"Sorry." He leaned in for a closer look. Then unexpectedly, he pulled Vic's shirt down over his shoulder. "I still can't believe you got the tattoo. Your folks are going to shit."
"What they don't know..." Vic smiled, then grimaced. "Shit, my head hurts."
"Man, seriously, I didn't mean to hurt you." Caine's warm breath whispered across Vic's eyes. It smelled like tequila and tobacco, but not unpleasantly so.
"I'm fine. Really."
"Dude." Caine shook his head, and thumbed the edges of the wound. "You should get an ice pack on that thing."
Caine's lips were inches from Vic's. Vic felt his hands tremble as he raised his neck to move them nearer. He was scared. Shit, yeah. He was frightened as hell. He pulled back a little. Caine was still fixated on the rising knot. He had no idea how Vic felt. They were just two guys, roommates and friends.
"Fuck it," he mumbled. Closing the rest of the space, he placed a small kiss on Caine's lips.
His friend froze, except for his eyes. They shifted down to meet Vic's.
Vic scrambled for an apology. One that could make up for the line he'd just crossed. "Sorry, man." Inadequate, he knew. He gulped the thick saliva gathering in his mouth. "Really sorry. I... I didn't mean it."
Instead of shouting at Vic, or worse, punching him, Caine muttered, "Too bad."
http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1393
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