Please welcome m/m author P.A. Brown, who's here to talk about The Rockford Files, police procedurals, and her new novel, Memory of Darkness, available now from Amber Allure.
In this raunchy mystery Johnny Wager is a 42-year-old street hustler, small time burglar and reformed car thief (well, mostly reformed) He's an ex-con who finds himself in the middle of a war between powerful adversaries that has disastrous consequences for a lot of people. In his search for justice Wager has a host of allies and foes, his disapproving son, the Los Angeles Sheriff's deputy, a six-foot-five black drag queen from New Orleans who wears four inch Jimmy Choos, her five-foot-five Puerto Rican boyfriend, an ex-Marine porno film maker, the Armenian mob and an incontinent Bassett Hound called Columbo.
Tell us about your recent publication.
Memory of Darkness is the story of a man with absolutely no regard for the law. He thrives by his wits, his good looks and wicked sense of humor. Being charming doesn't hurt. At seventeen he married his girlfriend when she got pregnant. The marriage was an unmitigated disaster, made worse when he discovered he was gay. His marriage fell apart. His ex-wife despises him, his son is now a Los Angeles County sheriff's deputy totally embarrassed by his old man, and for reasons he can't fathom, the Armenian mafia is out to kill him. Betrayed by friends, beset by his own conscience that has come back late in life with a vengeance, and the need to redeem himself, he battles the ruthless mob in the only way he knows how: with cunning and a total disrespect for the law.
What gave you the idea for this story?
The idea first percolated through my mind twenty-nine years ago when I was writing screenplays for a course in L.A. I had to come up with a character for a movie and being a huge fan of The Rockford Files and Jim Rockford, I came up with Johnny Wager. The screenplay never went anywhere but the character stuck in my mind. Fast forward to the present and I've published a couple of books and wanted something outside of my L.A series. Wager came back to me, but this time he was reinvented as a gay man who had a lot of baggage, a weird assortment of friends and was a con artist and reformed car thief – well, mostly reformed. Memory of Darkness grew out of that.
What do you like to read?
Mostly police procedurals, stories that look at the darker side of life, though I usually like them to have an ending that offers some kind of hope. I don't like novels that end on a black note, in hopeless despair. But cop stories, some thrillers, comedies – either in mysteries or not. I'm a huge fan of Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, and have read every one of his books.
Was there a time when you almost gave up? What made you keep going?
There actually was a time, about fifteen years ago when I did quit. I had no more stories in me and the ones I had written didn't do anything for me. I put them away and spent some of that time painting – I used to do acrylic paintings and pencil sketches of animals, mostly horses. But after a mind break the stories started flowing again. I picked up one of the old manuscripts and found I had a whole new insight into it. Since then I've never stopped. I'm not always super productive, but there was always something I was working on. I just couldn't stay away. The words come to me, and the ideas and I have to do something with them.
What was one of your favorite books as a kid?
The Black Stallion by Walter Farley. I was a horse nut. In fact, until I hit my teens and branched out, I wouldn't read a book unless it had horses in it. That's why I read Trixie Belden as opposed to Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys. Trixie was a horse nut who had her dream of having horses come true.
Kirk, or Spock?
Oh Spock for sure. I taught myself how to raise one eyebrow and flash the live long and prosper sign. LOL. I was a total geek. I think I wrote some Trek stories but they were not pairing anyone up sexually, so I don't think that qualifies as slash. I did the same with Starsky and Hutch because I was totally in love with Paul Michael Glaser.
For an excerpt from Memory of Darkness, please click the link below. Please note, the following excerpt contains graphic depictions of sex and violence. By clicking the link, you certify that you are eighteen years of age or older.
He eyed me with a practiced gaze, and I grew harder. Grinning, he slipped his hand between my legs, squeezing my already aching balls.
He licked his lips. “Nice package.”
I put my arm around his shoulder and bent down to shove my tongue into his ear. He shivered.
“Got a name, tiger?” I asked, nuzzling his neck. “Mine’s Wager.”
He sighed and closed his eyes. “Bunny.”
I drew back and looked down at him. “Bunny? What kind of name is that?”
“It’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you later, but right now I got other needs.” He grabbed my hand and cupped my fingers around his pulsing cock. I was happy to squeeze. “You got a place we can go?”
I did. Eager to take charge, I wrapped my fingers through his and pulled him along. “Come on.”
We were jostled as we made are way through the sea of spectators. I’ve been to past Gay Pride events in Weho, but this one had to be the biggest yet.
We passed a Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department booth where they were actively recruiting. That was a hell of a change from past years when the only contact the sheriffs had with the gay community was with their saps.
We passed the booth. Half a block down Santa Monica Boulevard I spotted a familiar face. What the hell did Markie call him? Preacher? Had he ever told me his real name? A cop of the old school. He always put on the facade of tolerance, but under it I suspected he belonged more to those club-wielding bullyboys from Gates’ LAPD days. Not that he ever gave anything away in front of me. He was the model of political correctness personified.
He spotted me and his craggy, time-hewn face took on the look I was all too familiar with. It’s a creepy look, eyes like sharks, never blinking, never wavering. Full of malicious glee at what he planned to do to next.
“John,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Ditto,” I said. I parked Bunny behind me, keeping a tight grip on his hand. No telling how he’d react being this close to a cop, and I wasn’t about to lose this primo player.
Preacher looked down at our entwined hands. I thought I saw his lips twist.
“Still the same old Johnny,” he said.
“Some things are just meant to be.” I took in his leather jacket and black linen pants. “What are you doing down here?”
“Keeping an eye on things.”
Typical cop response. Ambiguous as hell. “Well, see you around. Say hi to Markie for me.”
His eyes narrowed. “Sure.”
I dragged Bunny away, and twenty minutes later we climbed into my maroon eighty-six Monte Carlo. I threw the car into gear and headed east. Only then did I dig through my Eastpak and find the E I had picked up earlier. He took the proffered hit and to show his appreciation, wormed his fingers past the snaps of my fly and pulled my fat seven inches out. He ducked down and slathered my cock with spit.
“Not so fast, cowboy.” I pulled him up after nearly running up on a curb and taking out a little old lady and her Peek-a-Poo. “Cool your jets. We got plenty of time when we get where we're goin'.”
He licked his already-wet, plump lips, which did nothing to tame my boner.
I left him grooving in the car to Tiesto while I made arrangements at the front desk. The rooms at Summerside were nothing to write home about, but for a hot sheets motel, they kept them reasonably clean, and it was cheap. I guided Bunny up the steps to the second floor landing. He waited patiently while I fumbled the door open. I didn’t bother turning on the lights. There usually wasn't much to see in these places, so why throw light on it?
He popped off his boots and socks before I even shut the door. His chest was sculptured marble even in the dim light, and I felt a corresponding jump in my cock. I set my Eastpak down on the only chair the room boasted and reached in to pull out my bracelets. His eyes grew wide when he saw the cuffs.
“Want to play a game?” I asked huskily. “Do as you're told and I'll be real good to you. There's a twenty in it for you.”
He licked his lips again and dropped his gaze to my thickened crotch. “And what if I'm not good?”
“Then I'll be really bad.”
Shaking, he stripped off the rest of his clothes and lay down on the bed, his knees bent and his fist closed over his fat cock. I'd been right. He was a natural blond. Wispy curls of pale hair circled his prick and lightly covered the wrinkled sack below it. My own prick ached at the sight.
I slapped away his hand. That was mine. “Turn over,” I ordered.
He hesitated only long enough to earn another slap from me, then did as he was told. It only took me a couple heartbeats to secure him to the headboard. I undressed, then went back to raid the Eastpak a second time.
He looked sideways at me when I approached the bed, his eyes fastened on my bobbing cock. He again flicked his tongue over his lips and smiled.
I knelt on the bed and slid my cock down his throat. The guy had a talented mouth. Within minutes he nearly had me blowing my load. I pulled out. I traced the outline of his swollen mouth with my leaking cock, then backed away when he tried to take me in a second time. He looked at me with glazed eyes. His own erection was swollen, pressing against his cock ring and the nubby blanket under him.
“Not so fast, kid.”
I propped my iPod on the bedside table. The Foo Fighters were playing "Best of You." Talk about righteous.
Bunny jumped and clenched his ass when I shoved my fingers up inside him. He humped my hand, leg muscles bunching like wire cables.
“I got something a lot bigger than that for you.” I skimmed a condom down over my leaking dick and slathered it with lube. He squirmed against my stiff fingers when I greased his fine ass up.
I climbed onto the bed behind him and got an eye full of his waiting hole. Easing in the head of my cock , I held his hips in an iron grip as I continued to slid inside him. Tight and hot. He groaned as I pushed my not inconsiderable piece of meat all the way up his backside. I was breathing pretty hard myself. I licked the sweaty skin behind his ear and whispered, “Hang on tight. I’m gonna ride you till you squeal.”
I had my eyes closed, grooving on the moment, which is why I didn’t see anything until they burst through the door, into the room. I jerked away from the frenzied body in my arms and got a brief glimpse of two men wearing ski masks and gloves before one of them swung what felt like a tree trunk upside my head and sent me tumbling down into darkness. Dimly, I thought I heard someone screaming. Then there was nothing.
My head pounded. Pain played a savage tattoo inside my skull as I rolled onto my side. At first I couldn't tell if I was crashing from the E or something more sinister. My face pressed against something rough. As consciousness returned in slow, painful increments, I grew aware I lay on the floor. The carpet under me smelled old and musty, like stale vomit. The other smells hit me then.
Metal. Blood. Shit.
I climbed awkwardly to my knees and gaped at the bed, not comprehending what I saw for a heartbeat or two. Memory flooded back. Memories of fucking Bunny’s delectable ass. Memories... someone had broken into my room. What the fuck?
Someone had raided my Eastpak and had shoved my fattest butt plug up Bunny's once sweet ass. My massive black dildo had been rammed down his throat. They hadn’t been gentle when they did it. Blood pooled on the ratty bedspread under him.
His throat had been sliced open. The bed was bathed in blood, as were the walls over his nearly decapitated head. The stench of clotting blood and evacuated bowels filled my nose and coated the back of my mouth. Nausea welled and the two beers I’d had earlier at Gay Pride threatened to come back up.
Outside, the rising wail of police sirens grew closer.
The sirens snapped me out of it. My clothes were everywhere. I hadn't been paying attention to anything but fucking Bunny's luscious ass, and I wasted precious seconds finding my jeans and the T-shirt that were now splashed with blood, like a fun house tie-dye job. I considered waiting for Five-Oh to give them my side of the story, but get real. How likely were the cops to believe me that two complete strangers broke into my motel room and did this? I was a two-time loser in the California penal system, third time and I’d be doing life—if they didn’t put a needle in my arm and save everybody the trouble. I didn't have time to pack my bag. I'd have to leave it.
Halfway out of the room, I clung to the door and glanced back at Bunny lying butchered in the middle of the bed. Hieronymus Bosch written in new age blood.
Then I spun around and bolted down the stairs. My foot slipped and I nearly took a header, catching myself on the iron railing, which wobbled under my frantic grip. I hit the ground running.
Luckily I hadn’t locked the car. I clipped my head getting inside and my hands shook as I jammed in the key. The engine belched and started amid a cloud of blue smoke. Bone-jarring Metallica bounced off my skull until I fumbled the radio off. I needed to think, and I couldn’t do it with that playing.
Staring unseeing out of the cracked windshield, I tried to focus my thoughts. Come on. Think.
But the only thing lodged in my brain was the endless litany: this can’t be happening. This isn’t real. It had to be bad E. Someone spiked it. If I ever caught the mother fucker, I'd kick his sorry ass to Bakersfield. Seriously, who would kill a harmless nobody like Bunny? I refused to even give thought to the next question: why had they left me alive?
I slammed the Monte Carlo into gear and bolted out of the parking lot.
Tires squealed as I roared over to Fountain Avenue, then onto La Cienega Boulevard, racing through the lights at Santa Monica. I forced my foot off the gas when I noticed several pedestrians turning to watch me. Last thing I wanted was to leave a trail of witnesses.
I glanced at the radio clock. Three-oh-five. It was maybe ten minutes since I’d fumbled awake to find Bunny’s corpse. The cops would be all over the motel by now. How long would it take them to break JJ, the front desk clerk? I never registered under my own name, but JJ knew me well enough. Better not count on much time. Even if he didn’t think I had anything to do with Bunny’s death, he wasn’t going to put himself between me and the local brown shirts.
I briefly thought of turning myself in, telling the cops what I found. Right. I have such a good rapport with the West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department. They’ll believe me when I tell them I had nothing to do with Bunny’s death. It’s all a bad coincidence that he was wearing my cuffs and that my butt plug was shoved up his ass. Let's not even think about my dildo. Hell, if it was me, I’d think I was guilty.
I knew who I had to call. I fumbled in my pocket for my cell phone and speed-dialed the number.
“Deputy Sheriff Mark Wager, West Hollywood Division.”
When I opened my mouth nothing emerged.
“Who is this?” Mark’s voice took on the rough edge I was all too familiar with. “If that’s you, Robin, then talk. Don’t fucking joke around with me.”
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