Life After Joe

Life After Joe

by Harper Fox
Life After Joe

Life After Joe

by Harper Fox

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It's not the breaking up that kills you, it's the aftermath.

Ever since his longtime lover decided he'd seen the "heterosexual light," Matt's life has been in a nosedive. Six months of too many missed shifts at the hospital, too much booze, too many men. Matt knows he's on the verge of losing everything, but he's finding it hard to care.

Then Matt meets Aaron. He's gorgeous, intelligent and apparently not interested in being picked up. Still, even after seeing Matt at his worst, he doesn't turn away. Aaron's kindness and respect have Matt almost believing he's worth it—and that there could be life after Joe. But his newfound happiness is threatened when Matt begins to suspect Aaron is hiding something, or someone...

35,000 words

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781426890369
Publisher: Carina Press
Publication date: 06/01/2010
Format: eBook
Pages: 384
Sales rank: 740,693
File size: 413 KB

About the Author

Harper Fox weaves her stories from her home in rural Northumbria in the UK. She loves northern England all the more because it is the country of her adoption—her grandfather came here as a refugee from Lithuania during the Second World War. The landscape inspires her to poetry of the magical-realist kind, and her work has appeared in several British literary magazines. She is not quite sure why the area also inspires her to erotic M/M prose, but she doesn't look the gift horse in the mouth.

Harper has been published by Carina (her first success), Samhain Publishing and Loose Id. She has written M/M stories all her life, and she hid them in drawers until the hard drive was invented. She loves being able to share her romances with a readership now, as well as the backgrounds they're set against, which are some of her favourite places in the UK.

She is lucky enough to have lived for the past twenty-four years with her SO, Jane. She isn't that old, really—they met when they were very young. Honest.

Read an Excerpt

December, Northeast England

I concluded, towards midnight in the Powerhouse, it isn't breaking up that kills you. It's the aftermath. This revelation, coming hard on the heels of six or seven shots of JD, seemed momentous. I wanted to communicate it to someone. But that's the problem with the Powerhouse—and the Barking Dog and the rest of the handful of gay dives struggling to hold on through the regeneration of Newcastle upon Tyne's west end—you don't communicate, at least not verbally. A track whose sole lyrics were riverside, motherfucker repeated at intervals across its trippy, bone-shaking bass had been circling round the club for the past ten minutes. If I wanted to talk, I'd have to get up close and personal. Right up against someone's ear.

Maybe I could try it with him. The stereotype there at the bar. While I was at it, I could tell him the rules—because there are rules down here, even for the heaving sea of flesh and muscle fighting it out on the dance floor, assuming their positions and their partners for the night. You don't come here alone four weekend nights in a row, sit there looking the way he did and not expect to be picked up. Not that he seemed offended by the regular attempts. Whatever his method for repelling boarders, it was quiet. Good-natured, even: most of the rejects had come away smiling.

All right. My turn. If he was the archetype of lonely dignity—dark, impassive, bloody beautiful in the industrial style, all lean muscle under his tight black vest, leather jacket slung across the bar beside him—I was my own kind of caricature, perhaps a match for his. Friends, mirrors and an undamaged ego had once told me I was lovely too. Postgrad-student, promising-young-doctor lovely. Wheat-sheaf fair to his dark. I always got my man. The song said, riverside, motherfucker, and it felt like the word of God.

I got to my feet. He was watching me, as expressionlessly as he watched everything and everyone else around here, but I did have his attention. The wheat sheaf got displayed to best advantage if I gave it a casual push back with one hand. I went for the manoeuvre, caught the tinsel banner some festive-minded fuckwit had thought apt to string around the walls of the city's most hard-core pickup joint and brought the whole lot down.

I slumped back into my seat. I didn't have left inside me whatever it took to be mortified, or even amused. I just didn't fucking care. The trip-hammer rhythm went on. Riverside, motherfucker. At the bar, the stereotype had turned so his fine-sculpted profile was all I could see. It was perfectly still. If he was laughing his arse off inside, it was down very deep. Wow. Kind as well as gorgeous. He was definitely breaking every damn rule around here.

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