Today’s excerpt comes from Misty Malone’s Dead Men Get No Tail, which is available from Phaze.
Clay Parkinson doesn’t understand why he’s suddenly having erotic dreams and tempting thoughts about Jack Bowman, especially since Clay is straight. Or so he tries to convince himself.
Worried about not leaving a legacy, Jack Bowman plans a fake funeral so he can enjoy the accolades while still alive. Clay can’t figure out why he hates the idea so much, until he realizes he’s accidentally fallen in love his with best friend. Desire warring against common sense, Clay will do anything it takes—including a date with the class dominatrix, his first visit to an adult toy shop, and a book about the Ins and Outs of sex—to figure out what he wants, who he wants, and, eventually, how to get him.
Clay turned the lock and slumped against the wall. He slid down until he was on the floor and surrounded by half-empty bottles of carpet cleaner and vomit dust. He pulled his knees to his chest, trying to calm the unwelcome thud in his chest.
Jack had come up with some really stupid ideas before, but this had to be the worst. A funeral. A fucking funeral! It didn’t matter if it was fake. It was still Jack, lying in a coffin, pretending he was dead.
A shudder ripped through Clay.
Death was a very real thing to him. And here were his best friends, mocking it and planning a party?
As it always did, the anger drained out of him, leaving weary resignation behind. Of course he would follow Jack and Dominic and Miles into this mess. He always did, no matter how moronic the idea. They were his friends. They made him feel normal.
Of course, he couldn’t say the dreams he’d had this past year were exactly normal, either. Especially not the one where he’d found himself on his back in a grassy field with Jack on top of him, kissing him, sucking his neck, making him shiver, making him forget all the reasons why he shouldn’t enjoy the feel of his best friend’s hand slipping lower, down over his stomach, squeezing his cock.
Clay shoved his hand into his jeans, barely pausing to undo the zipper, desperate to feel the heat of skin on skin. He stroked himself once, twice, then groaned. There was a reason he shouldn’t do this, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was.
He whimpered as a wave of pleasure washed over him. A hard, urgent squeeze and he was swept up and over, a climax so intense he wondered for a moment if he were going to survive it.
The orgasm tore through his body, a pulse of release that spiked again just when he thought it had finally ended. His body shook, strung tight. He hated how good this felt, how much he craved it, even though his mind screamed that it was wrong.
Wrong to have Jack’s name on his lips as he came.
Clay’s chest was so tight he thought he’d suffocate. The burn in his lungs reminded him he needed to breathe. He leaned back against the back wall and turned his head, thankful for the cool cement against his hot face. For several moments he concentrated on just breathing in and out, nothing more than that.
Other than his raspy breaths, everything was silent. He couldn’t even hear the others downstairs. Maybe they’d left? Maybe they’d finally given up on this stupid idea and gone back to do some actual work for finals?
Yeah, right. And maybe if frogs had wings they wouldn’t bump their asses when they jumped.
Clay buried his flushed face against his knees. He’d just gotten off, thinking about his best friend. His male best friend. “Fuck, what’s wrong with me?
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
Clay nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jack!” he shouted to the closed door. “Damnit, don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“Didn’t mean to give you a coronary, Clayface.” Silence. “So, um, you wanna open the door, or do I have to talk to the splinters all night?”
Clay sighed and shimmied out of his hoodie, then tied it backwards around his waist to hide the uncomfortable evidence of what he’d just done. He wiped his hand on the back wall, then unlatched and opened the door.
Clay smiled. They always spoke over each other. He liked the idea that they knew each other’s thoughts so well. He held up his hand. “No, I’m sorry. I overreacted. I should just go and let you guys finish up.”
Jack had a shit-eating grin on his face. “Not before you kiss me good-bye.”
Clay wanted to wipe that smirk off his face…or suck it off, or…oh God, what was he thinking?
Oh right, he wasn’t.
Jack stared at him, unblinking. It made Clay squirm.
“You don’t want to say anything, do you?”
“On Saturday. That’s why you’re not into this. You don’t want to say anything at the funeral because you agree with Laura. You don’t think I’ll leave any kind of legacy behind.”
Clay couldn’t stand that kicked puppy look on his friend’s face. Knowing he shouldn’t, he pulled Jack close and hugged him, as if a simple touch could convey everything he felt.
“No, Jack,” Clay murmured. “Never that. It’s just…there’s so much to say to say about you, I’d never be able to stop.”
Against him, Jack took a deep breath. God, the way his chest moved—
Clay closed his eyes. I am not getting turned on by the way he breathes.
Jack half-eased out of Clay’s arms. “Then what is it? Why don’t you want to do this with me?”
Clay closed his eyes. “It’s your funeral, Jack.”
He snickered. “That’s a really bad pun.”
Clay sighed. Was Jack twenty, or two? “Funeral. As in your death.” He wrapped his arms around himself, mostly to hide his trembling hands. “I…I’m not okay with that. I don’t want to think about you dying. About any of you dying.”
And me, left behind, alone.
That miserable look in Jack’s eyes faded away. “Is that what’s bothering you? Everyone knows it’s a fake funeral. It’s our last prank before leaving college for good. Don’t you know me well enough to see I want to go out big?”
Clay ducked his head and glanced up nervously, a slow flush warming his cheeks. “Well, yes I do know you. And I thought you had me figured out, too.”
Jack grinned. “I figure we need a drink. What do you say we finish up here, then hit the bars? Just the two of us.”
It was easy to forget his terror, when Jack smiled at him like that. Jack grabbed Clay’s shoulders. The heat from his hands coursed over Clay’s skin like hot water, melting something he hadn’t even known was frozen.
“This thing is about celebrating life.” His face split into big, lopsided grin. “And that’s enough drama. Come on. We’ve got a coffin to build and mass quantities of alcohol to consume.”
Clay shook his head. Some things would never change.
Like the way he felt empty inside every time Jack wasn’t touching him.
www.MistyMalone.com : A new voice in town, Misty hails from the Big Apple itself. A Taurus with a penchant for angsty romances gone wrong and good ol' fashioned epic fantasy, Misty writes male/male romantic erotica. Her short stories can be found at Ravenous Romance, and her longer works at www.Phaze.com, including Dead Men Get No Tail, and her forthcoming historical fiction, The Consort.