"Fair warning, man. This may take a while. Plus dinner." He and Keisha usually celebrated after the dress with a massive pile of sushi.
"Cool. I'm in no kinda hurry."
Jerome smiled. Maybe I'm good for you too.
"What are your feelings about Christmas?"
"Uh, good?" Jerome shrugged. Was that an invitation? Before he could ask, the overture started up and the curtain rose on a confectionary castle eighty feet high.
"Jeez." Wince blinked happily at the sudden brightness.
For some reason sitting for any dress, seeing a show come together, always made him so proud of his little girl, all that work and sweat and discipline that made her blaze onstage. Harsh joy spiraled up out of him like cinders lifted by a bonfire. He said a prayer for Olivia, another for their strong daughter, and a small one for himself. Once burned.
Wince turned and whispered in his ear, "What happens now?"
Jerome winked. "Whatever it is, it's worth waiting for."
Chuckle. Cellos and trumpets below and rustling from the dark wings.
Wince squeezed his fingers. "I missed you, Jug."
"Man." Jerome squeezed back and turned to look at his dark profile. "What took us so long?"
Wince kissed him again and whispered into his skin. "We were shy."
Damon Suede has lived all over: Houston, New York, London, Prague. Along the way, he's earned his crust as a model, a messenger, a promoter, a programmer, a sculptor, a singer, a stripper, a bookkeeper, a bartender, a techie, a teacher, a director ... but writing has ever been his bread and butter.
Damon is a proud member of the Romance Writers of America and serves on its Board of Directors. He also served as the 2013 president for the Rainbow Romance Writers, RWA's LGBT romance chapter.
Though new to gay romance, Damon has been writing for print, stage, and screen for two decades, which is both more and less glamorous than you might imagine. He's won some awards, but his blessings are more numerous: his amazing friends, his demented family, his beautiful husband, his loyal fans, and his silly, stern, seductive Muse who keeps whispering in his ear, year after year.
Three days before New Year's Eve
SHE'D NEVER BEEN ONE to hide in a crowd, but today, she must.
A glimmer of recognition lit the eyes of some of the people waiting in the long customer service lines, their wilted, frustrated expressions softening to surprise. Or maybe disbelief.
Ducking into a crowded restaurant on Atlanta's C concourse, Ansley aimed for the only open seat at the bar. And even more luck! There was a power socket tucked against the wall. With her phone dead and a mountain of calls to make, she couldn't have asked for a more divine result.
"Pardon me." She angled her guitar case around the man sitting on the stool next to hers, tripping over his luggage and computer bag. "You might want to get those out of the way."
He glanced at her, his blue eyes bright and clear. "Not mine." The man gestured toward the packed in travelers, reaching for outlets, hailing one of the harried servers. "Take your pick."
"People should know better than to leave their stuff around--" Truly, it wasn't that big of a deal. She was tired and hungry. Drained, just like her cellphone battery. But, then again, weren't they all?
"Sorry, they're mine." A dark suit reached for his bags, his brown eyes landing on Ansley. "Hey, aren't you--"
She waved him off with a
mock laugh. "Ansley Moore? I get that all the time. Nope, but don't I wish. I just look a lot like her."
The man frowned. "Really? You sure you're not--"
"Would I be sitting here if I was?" She arched her eyebrow, pulling her best face. "Please."
"Guess not." The suit grabbed his bags and backed away.
Good. Ansley fished her phone and power cord from her shoulder bag and plugged in. A harried server appeared, gave her the once over, but was too distracted to let her gaze linger. Her nametag read "Marie."