Birthday Guest Erica Pike is visiting!

Thanks for having me over, Amber, and early congratulations on your birthday!

When picking a character from one of my Boston Boys books, the logical choice is party boy Eric Wesley. After Absolutely Eric, he’s in a relationship with publisher Alexander Centauri and they live together in Alex’s cute single story house in South Boston. Let’s set Eric’s birthday on a Friday – because, you know, he likes to party.

Alex is a great cook and would start the morning with breakfast in bed after which they’d make leisurely love. Then Alex would drag Eric out of bed and drop him off at the college before giving him a long kiss and heading off to work. Because Eric is Eric there’s no surprising him with a party, so his friends don’t even bother anymore. He knows they’re taking him out to Clash, a popular gay club in South End, to celebrate and he’ll squee about it in between classes. This will slightly annoy his buddy Adam, but Jesse (Adam’s boyfriend) will remind Adam not to be such a sourpuss on Eric’s birthday.

Before Clash, the whole gang would show up at Alex and Eric’s house for a little pre-party. Eric’s choice of music would be Lady Gaga, Pink, Britney Spears and some Muse and Linkin’ Park. They’d play their own, sexified version of Spin the Bottle, and then they’d give Eric his gifts. Adam and Jesse would give him a practical dictionary (which Eric will love), Terry would give him a sex toy from his shop (to which Eric wouldn’t even blush, but Alex would), Cal-Al would give him the latest superhero movie (which would induce an overall eye-roll), Rick and Benji would give him some naughty board game to play at parties, and Jazz and Dean would give him a gift card with a generous amount from a local designer shop (because, you know, they’re rock stars and can afford it). Alex, slightly exasperated after Jazz and Dean’s massive gift, would save his for last and give Eric matching rings (not an engagement ring, because he’s already gotten Eric to move in with him and wouldn’t want to push his luck so soon by proposing, just a little something to let other guys know that Eric is taken). Eric, who is so in love with Alex, would tear up and start to make out with him in front of the others until Benji would clear his throat and say it’s time to head over to Clash.

The Boston Boys series is about this group of friends. The first, A Life Without You, is about Adam and Jesse, the second about Eric and Alex, and the third about Jazz and Dean. The others haven’t been written yet, but they will be. Here’s an excerpt from my latest, Black Hurricane, which features Jazz and Dean:

Eric suddenly grabs my thigh and digs his nails into my ripped jeans. “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!” he squeals as another band member walks in. He’s wearing a pair of tight leather pants, a crisp white shirt only buttoned in the middle. About my height at five-ten, small hips, thin torso and long legs. His skin is white, but not so white that it’s a stark contrast against the black hair that brushes his shoulders and bangs artfully styled around his narrow face. The confidence oozing from him as he walks is sexy as hell. I wouldn’t mind a half an hour alone with that guy…until I get a really good look at his face and realize it’s him.

Dean fucking McQueen.

The star himself sits his royal ass in the middle, leans forward and speaks into the mike. “Sorry I’m late. Couldn’t find a parking spot.”

The people in the room laugh while all I can manage is a nasty sneer at the lame joke. Then they start asking questions I can’t hear. Nor can I hear the answers. The only thing I hear is that deep voice every time he speaks into the microphone. It’s not that I enjoy listening to him or his music. No way. Every time I hear that voice I want to pick up my guitar and smash it against the wall —not because Dean McQueen inspires me to go nuts with his deep, husky voice and rebellious lyrics. No, it’s because I hate the dude. And I don’t mean just hate; I loathe him. I wish he’d drop dead right this second, preferably choking on his vomit, Jimmy Hendrix style, in front of the press.

“Jazz, take pictures!” Eric pokes me hard in the side with his bony elbow.

I wince and raise the camera, clicking a shot.

“Go to the front, like they’re doing.” He points at the photographers running to the front and clicking madly on their cameras.

Heaving a sigh, I drag my ass off the chair to walk forward. I rake my hand through my hair before I glance back at the monstrosity on the platform. Never in a million years would I have thought I’d be in this position. Suddenly oil paint and new guitar strings don’t seem all that important. I just wanna get out, but Eric needs these pictures for the magazine and I’d rather die than let one of my friends down.

My heart thuds when I see Dean looking right back at me as I approach. His brow furrows as if he’s trying to place me. Typical. Of course he wouldn’t remember me. Why would he? My heart hammers a fast beat as my body breaks out in sweat. The inside of my throat thickens, stopping half of the oxygen from reaching my lungs. And still, I’m having the hardest time looking away.

Am I nervous under his green-eyed gaze? Or is it just the hate? It’s been years since I last saw him.

Not wanting to give the wrong impression of an adoring fan, I narrow my eyes and spew out all the venom I feel for this man into one, hateful glare, just before I raise the camera and snap my shots.

 

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