Another Fine Mess Anthology

177 Pages·2016·1.77 MB·English

by  McGinley Syd

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either
the author or publisher.

Another Fine Mess
Copyright © 2008

TOP SHELF
An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers
PO Box 2545
Round Rock, TX 78680

Dragonwalker Copyright 2008 © by Lee Benoit, Blood Rubies Copyright 2008 © by Angelia
Sparrow and Naomi Brooks, Hunter’s Kiss Copyright 2008 © by Margaret Leigh, Finding
Trouble Copyright 2008 © by Misa Izanki, Magenta Copyright 2008 © by Camilla Bruce,
Unfinished Business Copyright 2008 © by Laney Cairo, The Alpha Bet Copyright 2008 © by
Cassidy Ryan, Copyright 2008 © Unravel by Mychael Black, A Jolly Good Idea Copyright 2008
© by Syd McGinley, Bruised Knuckles and Bars Copyright 2008 © by Julia Talbot.

Illustration Copyright © Rene L yons
Published with permission

ISBN: 978-1-60370-312-3, 1-60370-312-8

www.torquerepress.com

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any
form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address
Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.

First Torquere Press Printing: March 2008
Printed in the USA
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To Papi,
With love and gratitude

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Table of Contents

Dragonwalker by Lee Benoit -5

Blood Rubies by Angelia Sparrow and Naomi Brooks - 34

Hunter’s Kiss by Margaret Leigh - 42

Finding Trouble by Misa Izanaki- 68

Magenta by Camilla Bruce - 85

Unfinished Business by Laney Cairo - 95

The Alpha Bet by Cassidy Ryan - 116

Unravel by Mychael Black - 131

A Jolly Good Idea by Syd McGinley - 142

Bruised Knuckles and Bars by Julia Talbot - 166

About the Authors - 176

Another Fine Mess - 4
Dragonwalker

By Lee Benoit

It all starts with a blowjob.

As it turns out, the blowjob itself isn’t all that important. In fact, it doesn’t even have all of my
attention, or I wouldn’t have noticed the wings.

I’m on my knees in Peter’s kitchen. I’d come to walk his dog at lunchtime, like always, and he’d
popped home from his office in the next town over because he’d “forgotten something.” Yeah, to
stick his dick in my mouth, that’s what he forgot. Not that I’m not happy to oblige.

But there’s happy and then there’s happy, if you know what I mean.

He smoothes his hand over my hair as I suck him off. He isn’t guiding me, or forcing me, no,
he’s tidying me up. That’s Peter all over: his priority during fellatio isn’t getting off, or holding
off, or controlling my technique, it’s subduing my unruly hair. How a guy like him can own a
dog is beyond me. But the dog, not his dick, is why I’m there, and we both know it.

Without letting up on my patented bob and weave technique, I swivel my eyes around to see if
Blackie’s still in the room. Call me a freak, but I think it’s kind of impolite of Peter to get sucked
off in front of his dog, especially since he says his dog is neutered.

There’s Blackie, sitting in a shaft of noontime sun from the kitchen window, watching us without
blinking, his yellow ear fur all lit up. Oh, yeah, Blackie’s not black; Black is Peter’s last name,
arrogant jerk.

In the light from the window, it looks like Blackie isn’t a dog, either. He dances his paws a little
on the floor, flexing his shoulders, and I swear I see a pair of wings extend behind and above
him, flap once, and fold back into nothing.

It’s a good thing Peter’s just finished shooting down my throat because I spit out his floppy prick
and sit back hard on the green linoleum.

“Did you see that?” I yell.

Peter chuckles and tucks himself away. “What, kiddo, did I make you see stars?”

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I must have a pretty harsh look on my face or something because his face registers concern for
the merest second. “Did I hurt you? Cut off your air?”

I look over at Blackie, who takes my sprawled position on the floor as an invitation to play. He
ambles over and I watch him every second, waiting for those wings to appear again. He sniffs
my face and licks at my mouth, which is kind of gross if you think about what was most recently
in my mouth. I stroke over his shoulders and down his spine, scratching a little.

No wings.

“Well, Endi, I better head back to the office,” Peter says, not offering to help me up off the floor.
“Those homeowners’ policies won’t write themselves.”

He chuckles smugly, as if what he does is so much more important than what I do. He pats his
hair, which is perfect even after a blowjob -- I think he shellacs it every morning. I stand and
check Blackie’s food and water -- taking one more look for wings -- and follow him out.

“Next time, Endi,” he says with a wave. He never kisses me. You never know where my mouth
might have been.

I head home to have my own lunch and pick up Lomi for our afternoon rounds.

It’s nice living in a tiny, little town all your life. Everybody knows you, and nobody locks their
doors (except Peter), and every little thing, from the burl on the oak in front of the post office to
the assortment of old fellas sitting outside Burgess General, is familiar.

I wave to the old guys, missing my Grampy a little. No matter how many of the porch-sitters
pass, there always seems to be four of them on the wide porch. I think they’re the only people
left in town who walk their own dog.

Just in case, I look for wings on old Sounder, their collectively-held dog, but there aren’t any. I
think I see a wisp of smoke rising from his nostrils, but I wouldn’t put it past Milton and them to
give Sounder a pull on their pipes, so I don’t think much of it.

I go round the back of my house, open the kitchen door, and land on kitchen linoleum for the
second time in thirty minutes. Only this time, I’m completely thrilled to be there.

Lomi is the smartest and most beautiful dog in the world. She doesn’t need a leash but I use one
anyway. Sets a good example for all the less perfect dogs out there.

After lunch (roast beef and apples for me, roast beef and kibble for Lomi) we don our armor
(jacket for me, leash for Lomi) and head out to patrol the streets of Endicott. That’s right; I have
the same name as the town. I don’t want to talk about it.

We lollop along saying hello to everyone, then nip in at the co-op to say hey to Butch.

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“Hey, sexy guy,” I say.

“Hey,” he says back. He stacking kiwis and holds up two in his big palm, rolling them around

like they’re a pair of balls.

I giggle.

Butch frowns. He hates it when I act queeny. But I wrangle animals for a living and he fondles

fuzzy fruit, so I let it go. I make a peace offering.

“Peter came home while I was feeding Blackie.”

Butch’s eyebrows shoot up to meet his hairline (not that it’s a long trip) and he leers.

“You’ll tell me all about it?”

“Sure. I was bent over the tub of kibble, digging around for the scoop, when --”

“Idiot! I meant tell me later.”

Lomi does that head cocking thing to show she doesn’t approve of Butch’s tone but is too refined

and polite to say anything. For a second I think I smell sulfur.

“And get that dog out of here before Walter sees it.”

I make a “pooh” noise.

Walter humps in with a crate of something leafy balanced on his head. He was in the Peace

Corps in Tanzania like fifty years ago and carrying stuff on his head is his way of keeping his

glory days alive.

“Hey, Walter,” I say. “Lomi came to visit you!” Preemptive strike. I don’t want to be accused of

smuggling a canine into a health food store.

“Hey, Endi. How’s my pretty girl?” He means Lomi. I’m not that queeny.

“We’re good. On our way to the park. You need anything delivered?” If it’s something heavy

Walter will make Butch carry it, and then we can walk together and I can tell him about

Blackie’s wings and Sounder’s smoke.

“Just some of the Sisters’ bread for the firehouse.”

“Think you can handle it?” Butch asks me. He really only wants to spend time with me if he’s

fucking me or I’m telling him about one of my adventures – that’s how I know he’ll be by later,
to hear about Peter’s surprise inspection. Grammy would say I deserve better but this is Endicott,
not San Francisco: boys who like boys are pretty thin on the ground.
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“Yeah,” I say and heft the basket of bread Walter gives me.

“What’s that smell?” Walter asks as Lomi and I turn to leave.

“Sourdough?” I suggest.

“Smells like burning hair.”

I know what he means. Around the edge of the bread basket I catch sight of Lomi, squinting into

a little puff of smoke and glaring in her classy way at Butch. I blink hard. Must be dust or steam

from the bread.

Lomi and I resume our patrol. It’s always nice to have a legitimate excuse to stop at the
firehouse. Not that I don’t stop to say hi all the time, but if I bring something to eat I usually get
invited to pal around with the firefighters and EMTs. If I’m there to work, I get stuck in the exam
room with the pups and a pair of nail clippers. Not that that’s a bad thing, but what would you
choose if your choices were doggy toenails versus firemen in suspenders?

“Hey, Endi!! Not your regular day, is it?”

“Yikes! Jimmy, grab this before they knock me over!”

I’m about to go down under a wave of spotted dogs. I swear every stray in the county with more

than two spots on it ends up at Endicott’s firehouse. No Dalmatians, just spotty mutts. I’m caught

in the undertow.

Jimmy grabs the bread -- gotta admire the man’s priorities -- and shouts the herd into the run out

back.

“Got time for a slice of this? Maybe some coffee? Quiet day around here.”

“Didn’t you get the memo, asshole? No caffeine for Endi. Station policy.”

That’s the chief. He says I’m sensitive to stimulants.

Chief steers me into the kitchen by my shoulder and looks me dead in the eye. I practically melt.

Jimmy’s cute, in a just-scrubbed, greased-pole, fireman kind of way, but not even the sight of
him sliding down the fire pole naked will ever get me revved the way one serious look from the
chief does. Chief’s eyes are the same brushed-steel color as his hair. He’s pushing fifty, really
tall, and has this bushy moustache and this huge grin and if he weren’t practically related to me
I’d add him to my rotation of kitchen-floor blow jobs.

“Everything okay, Endi?” I know what he means.

“I’m getting there, Chief,” I say. I try to hold his gaze when I mumble, “Still cry some nights.”

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The chief’s moustache ripples a little, like a caterpillar on a branch. “Me, too, kid.” His smile is
sad. Grampy was his best friend, and his boss back before Grampy retired. We knew he wouldn’t
last long after Grammy passed, but I know we were both hoping for a little more time. I wasn’t
finished yet, you know?

We reach the kitchen and Jimmy starts slicing one of the loaves.

We chat about my job, the pups, station gossip. Then Chief says, “That boy treating you right?”
He means Butch.

I shrug. “I guess so.” There’s a lot I don’t say, but Chief seems to hear it anyway.

He nods with that sad smile again and pours me some juice.

“Can Lomi have some water?” Lomi is so well behaved she gets to stay in the firehouse when all
the other dogs have to go outside, and she loves me so much she doesn’t mind not getting to play
with her buddies. Butch doesn’t understand that.

I smell that sulfur smell again and look at her full on. Sure enough, little curls of smoke are
rising from her nostrils. I look at Jimmy and Chief from under my hair to see if they notice.
Surely firefighters would be the first to smell smoke. But they don’t wrinkle their noses or say
anything; maybe they’re immune to the smell after years on the job.

***

If you’ve never watched a half-grown puppy make war on a Frisbee, I feel sorry for you.

The dog park in Endicott is out past the Perpetual Indulgence cemetery, fenced in and with a
view of the bay. Lomi is running and leaping and tumbling over her own feet and landing on her
belly, a joy to behold, when from the other side of the fence I hear the cry of someone in great
and sudden pain.

I look over and see a tall, skinny, older guy with his face pressed up against the bark of a maple,
one arm wrapped around the trunk to keep his balance and the other stretched out against a
golden retriever pulling hard on his leash.

I tell Lomi, “Stay,” and vault over the fence. So I’m showing off a little, so what?

I kneel down beside the dog and let him smell me. When he settles a bit, I take hold of the lead
near his harness and ease him away from the tree. The man stumbles a little as he lets go the
trunk and rubs his face with his free hand, the other hand still white-knuckling the lead.

“Sorry to jump in without asking, Mister. You looked like you could use some help.”

“He’s got a mind of his own,” the man says.
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“That’s one relief, then, isn’t it?”

It takes him a sec to work that one out, but when he does, he laughs.

“You wanna let him run a bit? You could take a load off.”

“I fear he would run and not return.”

I sweep my arm in the direction of the dog park, where Lomi’s playing sniff-butt with a double-
wide Newfie. “He won’t get out of the park. I’ll watch him, and Lomi will help.”

“Park?” The guy hasn’t even turned to look at it, seems focused on something a meter or so past
his dog’s head. All of a sudden the dog’s harness makes sense.

I feel self-conscious, now that I know he can’t see the park. “There’s a dog park just here,” I
explain. “Park within a park.”

The guy looks dismayed that the answer to his problem is less than spitting distance away, and
suddenly I don’t feel awkward about him being blind anymore. “I’m happy to take him in,
introduce him to some of the other dogs,” I say brightly. “You looked like you could use a break,
is all. What’s his name?”

“Drake. It means --”

“Dragon. I know. Very cool name.” I am educated, after all. “So,” I venture again, “you want me
to take him for a bit of a frolic? Might help him settle, make it easier for you to get where you’re
going later.”

“All right.” The guy sighs and releases the harness handle, passes me the lead. “I’ll just sit…” He
doesn’t move his head around from side to side the way a sighted person would who was looking
for a place to sit. He just sort of stands there.

“There’s a bench just outside the gate to the dog park,” I suggest. “I could show you. I mean,
take you there,” I finish, hoping he can’t hear the wince in my voice when I say “show.” I don’t
want him to feel self-conscious, either.

He smiles a little and raises his hand, palm down as if in mid-tousle of an invisible child’s head. I
take it in mine and lead him and his dog over to the bench, talking as we go. “I’m Endi. Short for
Endicott.”

“Like this town?” he asks. New people always ask.

I try to inject an eye-roll into my voice. “Yeah, same as the town. The Burgesses were the other
founding family, way back. I’m the last Endicott, but my dad wasn’t one so they used it for my
first name.” I don’t add that Chief is the last Burgess, even if half the businesses in town have his
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