Our Guest Today is Amber Green!

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Here’s a scene from Golden Boys, http://www.amazon.com/Golden-Boys-Amber-Green-ebook/dp/B00993KG6C/. I will be giving away a free copy of this book to a random commenter, so feel free to post an entertainingly random comment. Amber

Jell and I crouched between a brick wall and an inadequate windbreak of coontie palms and West Indian hawthorn, freezing our balls off. The streetlight overhead wasn’t working. Neither were my efforts to talk sense.

“Jell, we have to flag down a cop.”
“You go on, if you want to. I’m talking to no cops tonight!”
He’d been saying the same thing for the last half hour or so, just as I had, while we both kept getting colder. We were three blocks from the detox center, which was as far as we’d run before seeing the first police car. His teeth chattered. When the wind shifted, clattering the palm fronds, he doubled over to hug his knees.
Terrific. I moved behind him, spooning up against his chilled back and folding my arms about his pucker-skinned chest.
He leaned back against me, wriggling his butt right into my crotch and letting my thighs bracket his. I didn’t know whether to take that as a tease or just someone fitting himself to a warm surface.
Didn’t matter right that minute, did it? I took his weight by leaning my own back against the cold brick wall.
The brick stole whatever heat he gave me, plus some, but Jell’s shivering became less violent. I was spooning Jell Richardson—a wet dream come true—but my dick was too thoroughly chilled to embarrass me. His neck and shoulder smelled faintly of Old Spice, the same shower gel I used, while his hair smelled faintly of cigar. “We must go somewhere, Jell. It’s hours until daylight. We’ll only get colder if we stay here.”
Thunder rumbled. Another gust of wind lashed us with twigs and leaves.
He sighed, shivering again. “Okay, genius-boy. Where?”
“Three choices.”
“Cops, FBI, and your folks, right? None of the above.”
“Four choices, then. I have some cousins right near here, maybe two or three miles away.”
“Miles? I’m barefoot!”
He wore a size 12, or he’d be wearing my shoes now. “You going to be any warmer barefoot here than barefoot walking?”
Actually, the pinestraw mulch we squatted on now would draw out far less body heat than would the road or the sidewalk, but the action of walking would warm us.
Socks. My socks would fit him, and luckily I had to wear the thickest socks made. Had to special order them, since Florida is not known for needing Polar-expedition quality socks. They’d go a long way to protect his feet from the road, and their wool content would help keep him warm even when the rain hit. “Hey, I can wear the shoes and you can wear my socks.”
He hesitated, then relaxed in my arms. “Yeah. Yeah—if you don’t mind.”
“We’ll both have some protection. I’ll still be better off than you.”
He reached down and felt my shoe, tugged at the lace. “How did you end up with size eight feet, anyway? Girls wear size eight.”
Size eight, and so narrow my shoes never fit properly without double-thick socks, a fact you should be very grateful for right now. “Comes with being queer, I guess.”
He went still, not even breathing.
I hadn’t thought out the words beforehand, and wished desperately I could take them back. This was how I was going to find out Uncle Ron was wrong, that Jell had demanded a blow job not because he was gay but simply because he was a guy. This was when Jell would jump out of my arms and beat the shit out of me for touching his bare skin. And I’d never see him or touch him or smell him again, never hear his voice except through a speaker.
The moment stretched out. Then he laughed softly. “Is that how you tell? So, you’re what—four sizes queerer than me? I should have measured your feet years ago? That’s what you’re saying?”
I locked my fists together and squeezed his chest.
He cupped my hands in his and leaned back harder, then let up. “Off with the shoes, Eth. My feet want those socks. We can snuggle someplace else.”

So now was it a given we would snuggle? I needed to say something witty or profound. But all I wanted to say was his name, feel it in my mouth to see if it tasted or sounded different. I let him pull out of my arms and turn to face me, and I watched like a little kid as he worked at untying my shoe for me

37 thoughts on “Our Guest Today is Amber Green!

  1. Love the “feet” topic. It is strange that there are a lot of feet truths and myths.
    It sounds like a story I would enjoy.

  2. This is definitely going in my (large) to be read pile. You all need to check out Amber’s other books to she wrote one of my favorites called Bareback, I go back and read it every few months.

  3. Thank you, DracoLady, that does my heart good. Bareback is going to be re-released very soon (as in I should have done that last week) with a new Elaina Lee cover to replace the grotty one I put together to replace the copyrighted one Frauke designed when that was a Loose Id book.

    Thank you for commenting, Gigi, Marie, Cathy, Jill, Kathy, Maggie, Jen, Bronwyn, Margaret, and Kerry. I guess I should have led off with a blurb or the like, shouldn’t I?

    With his easy laugh and knowing eyes, Jell grew up “street,” while I was raised to be a pillar of society. When the FBI asked me to betray him–the guy I’ve crushed on since ninth grade–I went straight to Jell. So we have one less secret between us. Which would be great if we didn’t have to escape a psychiatric clinic in the middle of the night, half naked, with people shooting at us.

    The only refuge we can agree to head for is my crazy cousin Gator’s retirement village.

    Now we’re lost. We’re cold.

    And I’ve never been so alive.

  4. Thanks for the scene and the giveaway. I haven’t read any of your books but seeing how much draconlady recommends them, I’m gonna add it to my neverending list. 😛

  5. Thanks for dropping by, Katie, Diane, Serena, Lilian, Laurie, and Terri. This is not the opening scene. The opening is here:

    My hackles rose as I came in through the garage door, though it took a minute to identify why: the crackle of the deep fryer and the aroma of onion rings. Mom fried grouper yesterday, and with her fixation on Black Men’s Heart Disease, my mother does not countenance fried food twice in a week.

    Terrific. Another we-still-love-you display to set the backdrop for another discussion of my sexual orientation. As if talking me out of being gay would be like talking me out of joining the Navy.

    My flunking out of med school-the family’s first epic fail since Emancipation-had been bad enough. Nobody seemed sure whether to treat it more like my sister-in-law’s miscarriage or Cousin Wendy’s eloping with a known drunk.

    And now, as of Monday, I’d topped that. Maybe I should have come out when the fatal grade report arrived, killed all the family’s illusions at once, instead of waiting a few weeks to offer that twist to the knife.

    “Ethan? Did you wipe your feet?”

    I always wipe my feet. “Yes’m, but if I were an ax-murderer, wouldn’t this be a little bit late to ask?”

    She smiled up at me. Not with her serene smile, but the careful one she’d worn since Monday. “I have a pot of boiling grease to throw.”

    Like you’d ever do that. I kissed her offered cheek.

    She’d had her braids redone, meaning she’d taken the day off work. Normally the incense from the braiding parlor clung to her skin. When I was little, I’d root through her braids, sniffing like a puppy, while she laughed. Today, fried onion overrode the scent.

    The oven dinged. She waved at it, her eyes on the fryer. “Would you get that, please?”

    “That” was garlicky Cuban chicken with rice-Yes!-and next to it a cheese-topped casserole with bits of broccoli and scorched triangles of sweet pepper peeking out.

    My mood lightened as my mouth watered. Three hot dishes meant company, but no roast meant family only. Conversation would center on some cousin’s engagement or breakup, job or job prospects, or the ever-popular question of how to protect black youth from the invidious street culture. Topics besides my very personal business, thankyouverymuch. “Who’s coming for supper?”

    “Tonight it’s just Honey and Ron. Plus Dido, maybe.”

    Aunt Picky, Uncle Persnickety, and their Cousin Dyed-oh, who badly needed a husband to manage. I smothered a sigh. “I’ll give the front bathroom a quick polish.”

    “Your dad just finished it. He’s changing now.”

    Meaning I needed to wash up and change out of my scrubs quickly. My student nurse uniform. I’d bought this to wear as an intern, and wore it now as a symbol of my fall.

    Her voice drifted after me. “Ron wants to talk to you after supper.”

    Terrific. They’d decided to sic the FBI on me.

  6. Oh wow this book sounds like it is going to be a very good read. Never heard of this author before thank you for the introduction. 😄

  7. Thank you, Nikid, Chris, Feline Wyvern, Marcine, Laurel, and Wyvern. It’s my attempt at a perfect dick-lit beach read, even if both heroes do get shot.

  8. It being almost eleven thirty here, I asked my son to pause in his pursuit of whatever that catlike noise was to give me a number. He picked you, Cathy Lee Hart. Please email me with your preferred format and I will in return send you a copy of Golden Boys. Good night, everyone.

  9. I laughed when I read Aunt Picky and Uncle Persnickety. I’m sure all of us know someone who these names would fit. Now when I see two people in particular I’ll be thinking of you. The snippet made me want to know more. Thanks so much.

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