We Found Love: Excerpt & Pre-Order

OMFG! I can't believe this is almost here. We Found Love is now up for pre-order at [Dreamspinner], releasing January 5. The day before my birthday so that'd rad. This project is probably one of my favorite things I've done so far. Again, I worked with Allison Cassatta, but this... This book was darker. I've never cried so writing something. Teaching Professor Grayson was fun to write but in We Found Love, I felt like we really connected and the characters and the uniqueness of the setting just really made everything about this story work for me. I hope you guys love Riley & Hunter as much as we did. From a special hidden room, to horrible pasts, to getting their shit together separately and together... I just felt connected to these characters more than any in a long time. So here's an excerpt. And I'll add the pre-order link again at the bottom, as well.

We Found Love 

by Kade Boehme & Allison Cassatta

It’s no surprise Riley Connors is dealing with issues. He was kidnapped as a young boy, and his parents abandoned him after his newsworthy return. He bounced from foster home to facility and back. Now an adult, ghosts from his past continue to haunt him. After a suicide attempt, he is locked away in Hartfield so that people can make him tune in to emotions he has tried to bury. 

Hunter Morgan had the kind of love that spans ages. But the stress of college and adulthood became too much to handle, and the love of Hunter’s life turned to drugs. After he overdoses, Hunter finds himself soaring out of control on the same miserable path. His brother finds him and calls an ambulance, and the sister Hunter would rather not have calls it a suicide attempt, landing Hunter in Hartfield. 

Finding love isn’t easy, but it can happen under the most dire circumstances. Together Hunter and Riley may be able to grow from their pain. But they will need to learn to live for themselves, letting love come second.

EXCERPT:

They couldn’t just leave well enough alone, could they. Those colorful-scrub-covered assholes insisted on dragging everyone out of their rooms, even the most antisocial bastard in the group—a title Riley held with pride. No one there liked him. He didn’t like them. The hate/hate relationship worked well because it meant no one wanted to talk to him. But there he sat, in a corner far from everyone else, with a print copy of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest opened wide in one hand. He’d always thought it ironic and a bit offensive for that classic to be one of the few books they had in this place.

A yellow hue hung over the room, most likely thanks to the piss-colored walls and off-white linoleum. It seemed to keep everyone nice and subdued, or maybe that was the drugs they fed everyone there. Riley always kept his mouth shut and didn’t act out, so they never knew if he was high or not—or low, as it were.

The sound of creaking wheels in bad need of a lube job caught his attention. The two big-ass orderlies were wheeling another one in. Another fucking one. Wasn’t this place already crowded enough? Pretty much every room had two people in it already. His was one of the rare exceptions, but his had always been a special case. But he was low man on the totem pole in the grand scheme of things. An old-timer but not as home sweet home as the two sickos down the hall from him.

He showed up in the standard apparel—white T-shirt, blue hospital pants, and blue socks with nonskid soles so people wouldn’t bust their asses. They’d issue a pair of shitty plastic slippers to him once he got settled in. Even give him a comb for that messy blond shit on his head… if they didn’t think he’d hurt someone with it. This dude might be the type. He def looked the part.

“What the fuck are you staring at?” the newbie yelled, for no reason at all from what Riley could tell. But the newb’s dark stare was zeroed in on Riley. That’s when he knew he’d been the one staring and the newb was yelling at him.

Without hesitating long enough to take a breath, Riley averted his eyes back down to the book opened in his hands. He pretended to focus on the words while looking up through his dark eyelashes.

“Quiet, Morgan,” the orderly pushing the wheelchair barked.

“Or we could have this beautiful nurse here sedate ya,” the second one added, nodding toward the long-legged ginger who’d started working at the facility a few weeks ago. She hadn’t been properly broken in yet. No one had made any huge scenes for her.

Her cheeks pinkened, and Riley wanted to vomit. The sad thing was, the big Latino motherfucker hitting on her made the moves on all the cute nurses, who came and went at that place like bread going stale. No one with any sanity, hope for a career, or desire for better hung around that place—patients included. And Riley was quickly heading toward his nineteenth month, with no hope of reprieve.

The newb’s head swung when they abruptly made a right toward the patients’ wing. It was close to the nurses’ station for the ones who need to be watched closely. The farther down the hall you got, the saner the patients were—save for the old-timers, who were truly out of their minds but had learned the ropes and knew how not to rock the boat. Riley’s room was down that way, and from the looks of it, the newb was headed there fast.

Abruptly dropping the book, Riley pushed up from his corner perch and onto his feet. He absently followed, aware he was drawing closer to the action but not completely aware of the hows or whys. Curiosity? Maybe?

They stopped right outside his door, and Señor Badass reached for the knob. Riley’s gut twisted, heart going down for the count. The one thing he had in that place, his beloved privacy, was being yanked out from underneath him, and he couldn’t do anything more than watch. Bend over, kiddo, take it like a man.

“Fuck,” he muttered. As far as anyone knew, that was his favorite word in a very limited vocabulary—most of which consisted of curses, because only things truly curse-worthy ever made him speak. And this moment was worthy of the most epically foul curse word in the litany of foul four-lettered concoctions.

“Whose bed is that?” he heard the newbie ask.

“His.” The orderly pointed in Riley’s direction.

Riley went deer-in-headlights, frozen and wide eyed and tasting the remnants of a flavorless lunch in the back of his throat.

Hunter looked up, unable to stop the scowl on his face from making itself known. “Whose?” He heard a growl in his own voice that was probably uncalled for, but why change his whole fuck-off demeanor now?

Then he saw his roommate. Saw him. It seemed cliché to think such a thing, but the man in the door was hard not to notice. The brief flick of a glance, a perfect tongue dancing on sweet, pillowy lips—hope and faith disguised in a compact, mistreated body.

“Oh, hey,” Hunter said dumbly.

“Hey,” his roommate said, barely a whisper.

Hunter found he couldn’t help bounding from his chair, extending a hand to shake. What are you doing?

His roomie jumped back. Well, not necessarily jumped so much as flailed. His wide eyes flicked in every direction but Hunter’s before his gaze fell to the floor. Hunter felt he’d fucked up somehow but had no clue how. His mama always said he was too forward, but fuck. Not like he had the energy to fuck someone or the hope to think he could be more to someone than…. Yeah.

He sat back down slowly. One of the orderlies huffed a laugh before leaning toward his ear and whispering, “Don’t sweat it. He don’t like nobody, dude.”

Hunter looked up at the orderly, who was pointing at a prominent scar on his chin. “He put me through a window.”

Hunter reared in surprise, then jerked his head in the direction of his new roomie. The dude was barely over five foot eight. Hell, Hunter thought he was short, and he was five foot ten.

He was wrong.

His roomie was also pale as fuck, the skin on his face smooth as a marble. Not like Hunter could see much of it. The way the cutie hid behind his bangs, Hunter wanted to shave the guy’s head just to see more of that.

Roomie was clearly uncomfortable under Hunter’s lecherous gaze, moving into the room and shoving his belongings into his pockets. He seemed extremely uncomfortable, but fuck if Hunter could stop himself. Who’d’ve thought? Horny even in the Crazy House.

“Riley, it’s cool, man. Would we put you with someone you wouldn’t be safe with?” the scarred orderly asked.

Riley’s expression said yes, they would indeed do that. Riley. Wasn’t that a fitting name for such a cute guy? What was he doing there? Probably trapped like me.

Clearly, Riley was normal like Hunter. No one with a tattooed sleeve and swagger like that was fucked-up. Maybe he was just shy? Who cared? At least Hunter had some eye candy for his stay.

The orderlies snorted. When Hunter turned his attention to them, he realized they were making fun of him, obviously realized he’d been checking out the fresh meat. The scarred orderly patted his shoulder.

“Good luck with that, homie,” Scarface said.

Hunter snorted. He wanted to say something clever in return, but when he turned back to Riley-Roomie, the brief glimpse he got of the man’s eye was a bit too feral for comfort.

He heard himself swallow, so there was no wonder the orderly had patted his shoulder. Even if this wasn’t prison, he suddenly had the urge never to drop the soap. Even if Riley-Roomie was that cute.

When the orderlies helped him onto his new bed, he lay back, not daring to look toward the other man. His withdrawal problems may have lessened, but he definitely felt a good headache throbbing, like a hangover with Riley’s name on it.

The orderlies were gone now. Hunter and Riley were alone. Alone together in that epically dangerous sort of way. Riley had no intention of turning his back on Hunter. Not now. Not two days from now. Not ever if he could help it. In fact, he didn’t plan on closing his eyes as long as Hunter was in that room. That’s ridiculous, freak.

He sat down on his bed and scooted as far back as he could get, settling in a familiar corner, wedged between the wall and the headboard. He wished he had his book. At least then he’d have something to look at—something besides staring at his new roomie.

“So, um”—Hunter nodded in his direction—“what’s your deal?”

“Excuse me?” Riley fired back, surprised by the sound of his own voice.

“Your deal? Why are you here?”

Of its own volition, Riley’s right hand locked over his left wrist. Red covered his vision, and he was taken back to the tub where’d he’d decided to hide and give a go at cheating fate and taking his own life. He remembered each droplet of thick blood floating on the surface of his bathwater and how, as he lay there shriveling and bleeding, he’d chastised himself for not planning the attempt better. Had he cut deeper or wider or maybe done it right after his old roommate had left for work instead of trying that night, he might not be here now, dealing with this shit.

“Cat got your tongue?” Hunter asked.

Riley raised his head. “No.”

“Then what’s your kick? I mean, I’ll tell you my secret if you tell me yours.”

There was a wickedness in the way Hunter looked at him, like he was committing to memory every detail of Riley’s face, his body, his tattoos, and the scars. Could Hunter really see the scars from across the room?

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

Hunter eased onto his side, wincing as if his body had had a rough go at things in the recent past. The wince made Riley get a closer look, and what he found in his roommate was the same thing he’d seen in people who’d spent a hell of a long time binging, slowly killing themselves with shit sold on street corners in the hoods of Louisiana. Hunter had the dark, sunken eye sockets, hollowed cheeks, clammy skin, and moistened brow of someone who’d been going through detox and was still fighting the remainders of his last buzz.

“Look, man, we can’t stay in the same room and not talk,” Hunter said, voice growing increasingly frustrated. “Say something.”

Suicide. The word clung to Riley’s tongue, begging to break through his pinched lips. He wanted to tell Hunter all about it, to explain the scars on his wrists and why he was covered in tattoos. He wanted to tell Hunter the entire story of his childhood, just because that stupid damn doctor had finally convinced Riley that talking about the past was good for the future. And yet, as bad as he wanted to say something, he couldn’t do it.

He rubbed his wrist, feeling the jagged line of scar tissue where the blade had sliced through his flesh. It ruined all the ink over his veins. Dots of white skin interrupted the colorful swirls. Nineteen months ago, he was minutes closer to all this bullshit being over.

“Oh shit,” Hunter said, eyes widening. “Did you….”

Riley blanched. “I… I….”

“Is that?”

“It’s—”

“It is. Isn’t it?”

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

HUNTER WAS DOING his best not to be a complete tool, but he was part curious, part stunned by the rather garish scars on his roommate’s arms. Looking closer, one could tell that the tattooed sleeve on the guy’s arm was also covering other scars. Were those small round spots cigarette burns? They didn’t look self-inflicted, but the story behind them couldn’t be pretty regardless.

Hunter had seen scars before; even thinking about those overwhelmed him with agony. He couldn’t stop himself staring a bit too openly. He wasn’t doing it to be rude, but thinking someone had mistreated the beautiful man before him like so many had Cory was enough to suck the breath from him.

Cory. Hunter’s chest tightened with misery as memories took him to a dark enough place that he had to sit on his bed, breathing deeply to fend off the ghosts. He hadn’t, however, averted his stare from Riley’s damaged skin, earning him a scowl. Riley crossed his arms over his chest, clearly attempting to hide the scarring. Hunter could tell Riley was pissed, but he looked painfully vulnerable.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Riley snapped.

Hunter flicked his eyes down to his lap, feeling like a jerk. Way to make a good impression. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

When Riley didn’t say anything, Hunter dared to look up again. His roommate’s expression had softened, mostly in his jaw, but his eyes had lightened too, like he was back in the hardest moment of his life.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Hunter said.

“S’okay,” Riley mumbled, rubbing his wrist again. “I don’t talk about it.”

Hunter had to resist the urge to snort. He’d not only used those words himself a million times over the last five years, but he’d heard it himself from…. Don’t think about him again.

“That makes two of us.”

Riley assessed Hunter with those disarming chocolate-brown eyes. They were almost catlike in their ability to pierce Hunter, seeming to look right into his soul and see his most wicked deeds. Hunter wasn’t sure he liked the thought that Riley could shake him up with just a searching gaze. He squirmed under the attention.

“For someone who doesn’t ‘talk about it,’ you sure were nosy,” Riley said frankly, a slightly arrogant mocking in his tone. He had obviously judged Hunter on first impression and found him wanting.

Hunter bristled, feeling his cheeks warm. He could beat his chest too. Fucking pipsqueak wasn’t going to be head dog here. Hunter worked with bigger, meaner sons of bitches in his brother’s garage. Some five-foot-eight little twerp wasn’t gonna intimidate him.

But again, he noticed the slight vulnerability in the man’s eyes when Hunter stood, pulling himself to his full five foot ten. Riley clearly wasn’t going to back down, but Hunter was sure he’d seen that small flash of fear, a moment of unguarded desperation not to be the weakling. Hunter felt his ire leave him immediately, righteous anger draining from his body, sad calm taking over. Someone had really done a number on this guy.

“You must get your ass beat a lot with that smartass mouth, man.” Hunter shook his head when Riley clenched his jaw, and Hunter advanced on him. Yeah, vulnerable or not, this guy was a fighter. Good on him.

“Don’t mistake my being short for being a punk.”

Hunter threw up his hands, trying to calm Riley’s need to fight. “I have no doubt you can handle yourself. You’re a scrappy fucker, huh?”

Riley didn’t seem mollified, but the situation was definitely getting less hostile with Riley taking a step back. “If you don’t fight for yourself, who will?”

Sadness tinted the words. Hunter wondered if anyone had ever fought for Riley other than himself. He suddenly seemed very young and alone. That depressed Hunter, and he had no idea why. No, Riley wasn’t anything like Cory. Everything that happened to Cory, he’d done to himself in one way or another. Riley seemed like he’d had shit handed to him. He really itched to know Riley’s story.

He opened his mouth to respond, but a nurse popped his head in the door. “You boys behaving?” The overbright, chipper smile on his chunky face made Hunter want to smack the guy.

With a grunt, Riley simply rolled his eyes. “You know me, Bobby. They call me Mary Sunshine. I’m the best welcoming committee ever.”

The Bobby person snorted. “Right. Six roommates in three months. You’re a regular peach, Riley.”

Six roommates in three months?

Riley’s expression turned mildly amused, but he never dropped his guard completely. “Someone’s gotta keep the boys in line.”

“Who’s keeping you in line?” Hunter asked. Riley snapped his head in his direction with a sneer.

Nurse Bobby laughed openly. “Sounds like you found one who won’t take your shit, Connors.”

Riley Connors. Even the guy’s name was cute.

And that was the last thought Hunter needed to have. Yeah, this hell pit was the best place for developing crushes. That’d be a story for the proverbial grandkids. So Gramps and Grampa met in the nuthouse….

Riley was still sneering at Hunter. Hunter felt a little thrill at being able to get under the little spitfire’s skin. It would at least be entertaining riling him up. And Hunter couldn’t lie, the guy was hot when he was brooding or scowling. Mad was a good look for him.

“Okay, boys,” Nurse Bobby said. “Before we start pissing on the furniture to mark our territories, it’s mealtime. Come to the common room.”

Riley gave one last baleful glance at Hunter before sauntering away. And even through the tacky scrub pants he was wearing, Hunter could see the swell of a pert, sexy ass.

Wrong time, wrong place, wrong fucking guy, Hunter. His inner voice had never lied. A laugh pulled his attention back to Nurse Bobby, who was shaking his head. “You’re a glutton for punishment, new guy.”

What the hell? Had he been that obvious?

Alright guys. Hope you enjoyed! I'll start up Snippet Sundays this coming weekend <3


Don't forget you can pre-order from Dreamspinner Press by clicking HERE.

<3kaderade

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Releasing January 5, 2015!

Pre-Order Available Now!

Teaching Professor Grayson Is Out Now!!

Yay! It's finally here. Release day. Thanks so much, again, to Dreamspinner for believing in the story and it was such a joy working with Allison to write this one. Attaching the cover, blurb, excerpt and buy links!

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 Teaching Professor Grayson

by Kade Boehme & Allison Cassatta

Christian Grayson is a professor of sociology who comes from a close-knit Southern family steeped in values and tradition. He left Tennessee using education as his excuse for escape, when he truthfully only wanted the freedom to be who he truly was. But at age forty, he’s still in the closet and still adheres to the morals his father, a Southern Baptist minister, raised him with. This includes saving himself for Mr. Right. 

CJ Hata has been under Christian's wing since his freshman year. A genius, pure and simple, he's a senior now and no longer needs to report to Professor G, but he still seeks his teacher out occasionally for a friendly chat. 

When Christian accidentally outs himself to CJ while pouring his heart out about his dying father, CJ feels totally out of his element. He convinces himself to put forth his best effort because the man he’s been crushing on for four years needs a friend. In the meantime, everyone around CJ is stumbling out of the closet, but the one person he really wants to come out has barricaded himself in with the bible and his family's expectations.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

“Your father ain’t gettin’ no better.” If ever a voice dripped with worry, Christian’s mother’s certainly did then. The quiver of her words. The raspiness of her tone. She sounded utterly exhausted. How long had she been at the hospital this time?

“I can get away this weekend,” Christian said, rubbing his hand across his furrowed brow, looking over the stacks of papers he hadn’t graded and the essay questions he hadn’t finished composing.

The I think remained implied.

Truth be told, Christian Grayson, professor of sociology, didn’t have time to put his life in Florida on hold to go back to Tennessee. Students needed him. The school needed him. However, Christian Grayson, first son of Pastor Richard Grayson, would make all the time he needed for his family. Because good children made sacrifices for their parents.

“I can fly out Friday after class,” Christian continued, arranging a plan in his head.

“I think that’ll be wonderful.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do.”

“Christian?”

His murmured name finally stilled him. He stopped shuffling papers. His body turned rigid. Her once warm, motherly tone was now laden with sadness. Sadness and worry.

“Pray ’til then?”

The plea gripped his heart like a tightened fist. His mother had always been such a strong, inspiring woman, with an unwavering faith in God. Now… well, she sounded as though she’d already lost the love of her life.

“I promise, Mom. I’ll see you Friday. I love you.”

“I love you too, Christian. Be safe.”

With those soft words left between them, Christian hung up his phone and all but melted into his chair. The weight of the world was firmly planted on his shoulders, pinning him down in his seat. He leaned his forearms on his messy desk, clenching both hands together. Thanks to a blossoming headache, he imagined his brain in the same sort of vise.

A soft rapping at the door pulled Christian away from his internal breakdown. He raised his head to find a student standing between the jambs. She was a bright girl with a sparkling personality who could’ve used a bit more clothing and had a good chance of making something of herself if she stopped using her sexuality to get ahead.

“Miss Morris.” Christian sat back and squared his shoulders, folding his hands in his lap like his father used to do when he was about to school his son on being a proper man of God. “How can I help you?”

“May I come in?”

“Please.”

She did, sauntering into his office like a streetwalker. Christian only made the connection because of the black skirt barely covering her bottom. Her spiked heels were so high she would’ve towered over him by an easy inch had he been standing, and Christian wasn’t a short man. Not quite six feet tall, but close enough.

When she sat down, she made a show of crossing her legs. She leaned her elbows against her knees, pushing her breasts up into the V of the skimpy plaid top she wore. It might have looked nice with a black sweater to cover the parts better left to a straight man’s imagination. But Christian wasn’t interested.

“How can I help you?” he asked, hoping she would drop the seductiveness. Somehow, he knew he wouldn’t be so lucky.

“Well, remember I told you I needed help with my women’s studies assignment?”

Nodding, he recalled how odd he thought it was for her to ask for his help. He wasn’t sure what he could do, but Christian never said no to a student.

“Miss Morris, what exactly is the assignment?”

“I have to write a paper on women in religion, and I’m trying to do something fresh. Something that hasn’t been drilled into the ground a million times already.”

“And you’re asking me because…?”

She frowned, straightening in the chair. Her cleavage no longer peeked from the neckline of her plaid blouse. Christian silently thanked God. He’d been uncomfortable since she’d walked in the door.

“Don’t you have a theology degree?” she asked.

“Well, yes, I do, but I—”

“Then you’re the only person I know who can help me with this.”

Was now the time to tell her he’d been raised in a home where the woman knew her role—mother, homemaker, unwavering supporter of her husband? While his mother was always strong in his eyes, she still followed the roles society and the Bible prescribed for her. He wasn’t the man for this particular job. Not at all.

Christian sighed. “Miss Morris, I—”

“But, you’re a believer,” she objected. You go to church.”

Maybe, but being a believer and going to church didn’t mean he had any right preaching to her, especially not in the case of a woman’s role in the church. He wasn’t even sure he had a proper role in the church anymore. What about abominations? What about sodomy? About his being gay? He had no right speaking to anyone about God. Right?

“Professor Grayson?” Miss Morris reached across the desk. She laid her hand over his. Worry washed over her face. “Are you okay? You paled.”

“I’m fine.”

He pulled back, tucking his hands in his lap again. When had he sat forward? When had he leaned his elbows on his desk? Christian never did such a thing. It was a no-no in the Grayson household. His mother would’ve scolded him terribly.

“Miss Morris—” Christian cleared his throat and cleared his head. “—you need to determine your subject on your own. Do some research. Come back to me when you have an idea of what you want to talk about. I will gladly help you, but I’m not doing the paper for you.”

“I understand.” She nodded.

She stood, squared her shoulders, and poked out her cleavage—as if he hadn’t already seen enough. “I really wish we could work on it together.” She pouted. No doubt the look had seduced many unsuspecting men, and maybe if Christian liked that sort of thing….

Licking her lips, she pressed both palms down on his desk, leaning in to, again, highlight her ample cleavage. “Or we could get dinner and talk, or—”

“Such a suggestion is highly inappropriate, Miss Morris.” But I wouldn’t be interested if it wasn’t.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re dismissed.”

Without another word or a moment of hesitation, she made an about-face and click-clacked her way out of Christian’s office with surprising speed, considering the height of those heels. Christian lowered his eyes to the picture of his family: his mother and father, Ashley, his baby brother, and his sister, Linda.

His father looked so healthy and virile, so full of life, in the photo. It was taken more than a decade ago, right before Christian had left for Florida in hopes of making a new life for himself, in hopes of finding himself and finally being honest about who he was inside.

Now here he was, ten years later, with nothing to show for the move save for a pretty good job. He hadn’t fallen in love, and honestly, hadn’t really tried. The idea of being out and proud seemed like such a ridiculous notion, what with all the God Hates Fags propaganda blowing up the media. The idea of a deity he revered hating him, not to mention the danger of soiling his family’s good name, made shoving himself to the back of the closet so easy to do. So much for being honest with himself, for being the true Christian Grayson. That man had yet to show his face.

And now, to add more fuel to a blazing fire, his father’s cancer had reached the point the doctors had been promising for months. The time no one looked forward to was finally upon them.

The family’s patriarch, their anchor and their shepherd, was sick and dying, and there Christian sat chastising some desperate child over her inappropriateness. It seemed so unimportant now. Before, the only thing he had ever wanted to do was mold young minds and create freethinkers. He wanted a better future for men and women like him—those who loved the same sex but were too afraid to own their sexuality. He’d wanted to help build a new world, a world where people could love God and be gay and no one would bat an eye. Now, he only wanted to be there for his mother and father, even if they didn’t know the truth their son hid from them.

He turned his eyes toward the ceiling, toward off-white corkboard tiles and fluorescent lighting, and silently asked God why his life had to be so difficult. Why couldn’t he have been blessed with the simplicity of being straight, with uncomplicated ideals he shared with his family? He could be harvesting corn or green beans rather than dealing with the inappropriateness of oversexed twentysomething children. His brother and sister had spouses and children already. They had homes in Tennessee, close to the farm, and they worshipped in their father’s church. Christian was the outsider. He was the one who had to be different, even though he’d spent nearly every night of his young adulthood praying to be normal like them.

With a sigh, Christian ran his fingers through his hair. The older he got, the coarser it became. He was starting to find slivers of gray mixed in with the chocolate brown. Those tell-tale grays even sprinkled the faint dusting of hair around his jawline. He was getting older, old enough his parents expected him to be settled down now, and while he wanted to be, it seemed so much easier to lie and say school kept him too busy than to tell them he was gay.

Another tap at the door tore a groan from Christian’s lips. None of this was out of the ordinary, and yet today he wished for something different. He wished he could get a minute alone to deal with everything tornadoing through his head.

“I’m sorry. I can come back,” the person in the doorway said.

Christian’s head jerked up. His gaze landed on the one person he wouldn’t mind talking to right now—a man who he’d grown fond of over the past three years or more, a student who’d proven his genius, whom Christian respected.

“No, please. Come in,” Christian said, righting himself in his chair.

CJ’s smile did Christian in, made warmth radiate from his heart and through his limbs. If a single curl of lips and flash of teeth could brighten an entire room, CJ’s could. And Christian’s mood brightened right along with it.

CJ hesitated a moment before walking into Professor G’s office. Poor guy didn’t look too good, his face a little pasty, when CJ had first knocked. “You sure? I can come back if now’s not good.”

Professor G sat up, smiling brightly and squaring his shoulders. “No, please. I was just resting my eyes for a second. What can I help you with, Mr. Hata?”

CJ struggled not to roll his eyes. Not only had he told Professor G not to call him Mr. Hata—he’d been in the man’s classes for over three years—but Professor G mangled the pronunciation of CJ’s last name every time he said it. CJ blamed his need to correct people on his father’s being so particular about the way Americans slaughtered Japanese words. If CJ were totally honest, he’d admit he liked the way Professor G’s Southern drawl made his name sound like “Hawt.”

Hot. If only Professor G saw him that way. CJ would’ve gladly done any number of things—all those things failing students did with the promise of an easy A—without expecting anything in return. He’d spent three years looking at those broad shoulders in every manner of farm-boy-cum-edumacated-man button-down shirt. And nothing was quite as distracting in an advisory meeting as those piercing blue eyes. Or maybe it was the lips. Or—

“You needed something?” Professor G’s smile hadn’t dimmed; he looked more amused than anything.

Shit. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I just… zoned out.” CJ mentally kicked himself. This was about graduation. If there was one thing he would in no way jeopardize, no matter how sexy the professor, it was his education.

“I saw something on my transcript I needed to ask you about.”

“Of course. Let me pull it up.” Professor G rolled his chair closer to his desk and moved files around until he unearthed a keyboard. He clicked rapidly over the keys, pounding out in loud succession a series of letters and numbers that eventually granted him access to the records of every student in his care. It seemed to take fifteen forevers. When the sound ceased, the professor shifted his eyes toward CJ.

What the hell was he looking at? Why were his cheeks turning pink?

Oh. Wait. Maybe because CJ had his bottom lip sucked between his teeth like a baby with a freakin’ pacifier. Yeah. Professor G was so cute, though CJ was as sure a guy who had to be close to forty wouldn’t enjoy being called cute any more than CJ liked being called a “twink” at twenty-two.

Get. Your shit. Together, Hata. He shook off his crushing man crush as best he could as he made his way to one of the chairs facing Professor G.

“Oh, I see.” Professor G turned a sardonic glare CJ’s way, and it was CJ’s turn to look embarrassed. He’s seen your incomplete in music appreciation.

“Music appreciation,” the professor said drily. “Again.” And drawly.

Focus. “I thought you said if I did those other electives….”

“CJ. You’re the only student I know who has grades like yours and doesn’t want to take the easiest elective at this school.”

“It’s Dr.—”

“Dr. Fielder. I know. ‘He’s incompetent, obviously uneducated, and not worth his tenure.’”

Well. Fuck Professor G for his perfect imitation of CJ’s snobbery. “It’s not polite to mock people.”

Professor G laughed. It was a joyous sound, and he looked much better than he had when CJ walked in, but he wasn’t sure he liked the professor’s joy being at his expense. He chose to believe the professor was laughing because of him, not at him.

Regardless, CJ glared at him. “It’s not nice to mock your students, is it?”

“Even if it’s true?” Professor G arched a brow.

CJ snorted. “What? That the man is a hack? Of course it’s true.”

Okay. So maybe CJ was a bit judgmental. No newsflash there. But Professor G closed his eyes, smiling and shaking head. So CJ couldn’t help but think if his being an ass made someone else’s day better, why change it? Right?

“Okay. Well. How do I get out of this?”

“CJ, you don’t. You need to register for the class. You’ve still got three days to get a spot.” Professor Grayson looked back at his computer screen, clicked his mouse a few times, then gave a triumphant “You’re in.”

“Thanks,” CJ grumbled.

Professor G looked back his way, expression much more serious this time. “CJ, we’re friends, right?”

CJ raised his brow. Yes, friends is what they were. CJ wished it were more, but he could live with the fact that he’d earned enough of the man’s respect over the years to be on a more personal level with him.

They’d worked on committees, been two of the few volunteers for most of the student government events. Professor G had recommended CJ to the education center where CJ worked as a tutor. There’d even been the one trip to a political debate they’d organized for the sociology department. Unfortunately, only five people had decided to go, so it wasn’t an official trip, but CJ and Professor G ended up hanging out and discussing politics and the social relevance of the events the speakers had gotten on their soap boxes about long after the others in their group had dwindled away.

Now, CJ helped more than Professor G’s paid TA, equally to stare at the man and to pick his brain. He was smart and timidly funny, if not a bit unwordly for a man his age.

So, yeah. They were friends, albeit in a strange and more formal setup than CJ liked.

“Friends. Yeah, we’re friends.” CJ groaned when he realized what was coming. “Oh, no. Dude. This is where you do the ‘Professor G is disappointed in CJ’ thing?”

Christian smiled warmly and rolled his eyes. “Of course it is. You’re too smart to have to take another semester because of one elective, a very simple elective at that. I’ve helped you slide by, but you shoot down all the others.” Because they all suck. “Can you please just take the class and play nice with Dr. Fielder?”

“I don’t—”

“For me?”

CJ blinked.

Oh, but there was a list from here to Timbuktu of the things CJ wouldn’t mind doing for Professor G—none of which included anything remotely close to taking a stupid class and playing nice with Dr. Half-wit. Nope. His list contained items that had little to do with academics… or clothes. CJ couldn’t stop the blush or the way his tongue flicked out to wet his lips.

Professor G’s eyes widened slightly and he hurrumphed before averting his gaze and shuffling papers. “I’m running out of excuses for bypassing their classes.”

Definitely overthought that one, dumbass. “Okay.” CJ also averted his eyes, scratching the back of his neck and trying to play off his stupidity. God, he hoped his cheeks weren’t too red. “I’ll do the class.” He snatched his book bag up before he could do anything else to make himself look like an idiot.

“Would you do me a favor?” Professor G’s soft, almost expressionless voice stopped CJ from disappearing back into the sea of students shuffling down the hall. He raised his head, shooting a glance over his shoulder. “There’s somewhere important I need to be this weekend and I’m already running behind. If I gave you a list of topics I want covered, could you maybe put together some good essay questions and hand them to my TA by Monday? You know this material well. Better than him, even.”

The last bit was mumbled, probably not meant for CJ to hear. The grave look Professor G had been wearing earlier slid back over his face—skin pale, eyes dark. CJ wanted to ask what the hell was up, even waffled between being blunt and asking the question or hinting around about his professor’s look of certain doom.

“Yeah. Sure. I can handle it.” CJ frowned. “You okay?”

“Mhm….” The sound was an acknowledgement. Not an answer to the question. And Professor G wouldn’t look him in the eye.

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Teaching Professor Grayson: Snippet Sunday/Christian's revelation

Another Snippet Sunday for Teaching Professor Grayson! [Pre-Order Here] or [Amazon]. Holy crap! It's the last weekend because we release the coming up Friday (November 21)! *squeals*. So I saved Christian's big reveal for last. The guys are hanging out, going to one of CJ's favorite beach spots to have a moment to discuss where they stand. It's the beginning of ... well... THEM so things have been a little up in the air. I love this moment...

Aside from the occasional direction from CJ, they both remained quiet. The silence wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy by any means. CJ, inquisitive by nature, often asked questions some found socially unacceptable in their lack of couth, so he was trying his damnedest not to bludgeon the answers he wanted out of Christian. But dammit, he was sick of the angst. The longer the road stretched on, regardless of the drive west on I-4 and south on Highway 41 only lasting twenty minutes, the tighter CJ’s chest had grown from stress and utter confusion as to how he should be feeling.

But Christian had been clear. He’d rejected CJ’s advances. He’d drawn a line in the sand. They were teacher and student. CJ had told him to leave him out of this midlife crisis, yet here he was in the car with him. What the hell was he thinking?

“This it?” Christian’s question snapped CJ out of his inner fuckery.

“Oh, shit. Yeah. This is it.” He pointed to the parking area.

Christian cleared his throat, causing CJ to look his way. A glare greeted him. “Oh, shit. I mean… shoot,” he said lamely. “I know. Language.”

Christian gave one more disapproving glare before smiling and rolling his eyes.

CJ was so glad when the ignition was switched off, he practically bounced out of the car. He loved this beach. It wasn’t flashy since it was on the lower side of the bay. It didn’t have quite the same smell as beaches farther north up the panhandle, or the same white sand. But the sun was just as perfect here, and the air was just as magic. There was something about Florida for CJ, and for all his distaste for people who didn’t wish to expand their worldview, he couldn’t imagine wanting to be too far from home, from the beaches and the people.

Christian fell into step beside CJ, and for the first time since they’d left the school, CJ was completely in his element, much more comfortable.

“Want to hit the vendors for some food?” CJ pointed toward the side of the parking lot, where a few cars were parked and people milled around in their business suits by food carts, seeking a break from their offices around the area.

“Only if you’re hungry,” Christian said. Then he nodded back the other way, toward the water. “I’d rather head away from the people. If that’s okay with you.”

CJ studied Christian carefully. He seemed uneasy. CJ nodded and started down the path to the beach. The wind hit his face gently, and he hoped the atmosphere would serve to calm Christian as it did him. When he stepped onto the sand, he removed his shoes and made his way down to the water. He waited quietly for Christian to catch up.

After a moment of silence, CJ glanced over at Christian whose toes were also dug into the sand, head turned up toward the sun, face relaxed. CJ was almost overwhelmed at how fucking young the man looked in that moment. He didn’t know whether to smile or cry for Christian, but he was desperately glad to be there.

“I see why you wanted to come here,” Christian said, voice wistful. He sounded genuinely content, and the change was refreshing. When he turned his squinted gaze away from the clouds, CJ saw the peace in it firsthand. “You’ll be proud of me. I hope.”

CJ wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I found a therapist.” Christian rubbed the back of his neck. “An LGBT friendly therapist.”

CJ definitely fumbled, but… “Good for you. Really, Christian.” And he meant it. He was so glad Christian was getting help. “I’m glad. I wish I’d been able to… I don’t know what I wish. But good for you.”

“You did plenty. You’re the reason I went, actually. No one has ever talked to me like you did, and it stuck.” Christian snorted. “Boy, did it stick.”

“Seriously? I was a complete dick to you—”

“Stop. Okay? I needed someone to be a… a… a dick to me.”

“I wasn’t saying you didn’t deserve to be treated like a dick. Cuz you were one… but….” CJ couldn’t stop himself from laughing at a forty-year-old man being hesitant to say the word dick. “Really? Dick? What do you call your own?” Oh. Hell. Had he said that out loud?

Abruptly averting his gaze, Christian took to rubbing his neck again. Were his earlobes really turning red? “I um… I can’t think of a time I’ve talked about it. I, um… haven’t done the deed.” He looked back at CJ. “You know….”

“Whoa.” CJ choked on the word. “Wait. You’re a virgin? Isn’t that like a movie thing? The 40-Year-Old Virgin?”

“Oh, you’re funny.” Christian rolled his eyes. “I promised to save myself for the person I fall in love with. It’s a personal choice. But that’s kinda not the point here.”

“Well I feel like a slut now. Thanks.”

Christian threw up his hands, shaking his head in a fierce “No,” eyes wide and mortified.

CJ started laughing his ass off and shoved Christian’s shoulder. “I’m just fuckin’ with you, man.” He kept laughing at the glare he got in return.

“Language,” Christian chastised, which only made CJ laugh harder.

That does is guys. I hope y'all enjoyed and I really can't wait for this book to be released. It was such a pleasure to write and I think CJ and Christian are among some of my favorite characters I've written. So you guys hit up the pre-order links at [Dreamspinner] or [Amazon]. And happy reading!

<3kaderade

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Coming November 21, 2014!