If Wishes Were Horses
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by B. A. Tortuga
Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Romance
Description: Malcolm and Dalton had a thing years ago, before Dalton got famous and Malcolm got screwed out of the limelight. Now Dalton's career might be over due to a damaged voice, and Malcolm is the successful, if reclusive songwriter who has it all. When Dalton shows up at Mal's door, Malcolm thinks about tossing Dalton out on his ass. But neither of them can resist the attraction that still burns between them, and the old friends are trying to decide if they can be lovers once more. Will they get their Christmas wish?
eBook Publisher: Torquere Press/Single Shot, 2009 www.torquerepress.com
eBookwise Release Date: April 2010
24 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [51 KB]
Reading time: 30-42 min.
"Okay, boys, let's run it again, in G." Malcolm leaned back in his chair, grinned over at Foster on bass, laughing as the big old redneck flipped him off.
"In G? Who's singing? Terry?"
Malcolm nodded and grinned over at the pierced and tattooed slip of a girl with the mandolin. The girl was old enough to come jam, then she was old enough to sing lead. "Yup. Come on, little girl. Belt it."
Terri breathed in deep and let it fly, and man, she had a pretty voice. Smoky, kinda. It was a good, solid song, a nice hook, a bridge that was exciting enough for any musician. It should sell like a motherfucker.
He heard the doorbell, but that was what he had a housekeeper for. Elaine would get it.
Foster was jamming the bass line and Malcolm bent his head to work the lead guitar, trying hard to keep up with Chris. That little fucker could pick.
The last strains of music faded a few minutes later, and all of them whooped and grinned. Yeah. Yeah, that worked. He looked up to see his housekeeper, Elaine, hovering in the doorway.
"Hey, lady. What's up?"
"You have a visitor, Mr. Mal. He's in the foyer. His name is Dalton Amos." Her eyes went wide, her hands fluttering at the famous name.
One of his eyebrows went up, and he heard Terri squeak. Foster looked at him and he looked back. What that motherfucker wanted was beyond him. The sorry bastard had single-handedly ruined Malcolm's singing career and had damn near destroyed his entire fucking life.
"You want me to go, Mal?" Foster was a good man, solid.
"Nope. I'll get it. I think I'm done for the day, though." He nodded to the back door. "I'll see you next week."
"Sure, man." They all stared at him, but he knew they'd do what he asked.
"Don't stress it, y'all. Ain't the first time a man came looking for me to write him a song." Even though he wasn't writing dick for that bastard, so far as the world knew.
"See you next week, Hoss." Terri slipped past him, patting his arm. Shit, she was too young to have a clue what was going on, so he must look like a thundercloud.
He nodded, waved to Foster, then headed toward the door.
Mal set his lips and flung the door open, coming face-to-face with the single biggest mistake of his life.