Men of Smithfield: Mark and Tony

By L.B. Gregg

When a guy's boyfriend turns out to be a fraud, he discovers new possibilities with an old friend in this sexy contemporary romance.

When Mark came home to find his boyfriend Jamie banging the landlord—in their bed—it was officially a bad day. Discovering that Jamie had also cleaned out Mark's bank accounts made it the worst day of his life. It's only logical that Mark wanted revenge, even if a few laws (and Jamie's nose) got bent in the process.


Lucky for Mark, the law is on his side when his old friend, state trooper Tony Gervase shows up. Mark has tried to deny his attraction to the sexy lawman for years. But after a hot encounter in the kitchen, the day ends a lot better than it started.


But the morning after, the Jamie situation goes from bad to seriously messed up. The jerk's in more trouble than anyone could have imagined. And as it turns out, Mark doesn't know Tony as well as he thought he did either . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781426894176

Book preview

Chapter One

I stormed into St. Joe’s at the height of the Noon Ash Wednesday Mass. Still dressed in my scrubs, I blew through those massive chapel doors like a gust of bitter February wind. I’d just seen Jamie’s pretentious car parked in front of the church, and I figured he’d come to this penitential mass hoping for absolution. He sat in the third row, head bowed, his gloriously tousled mass of golden hair gleamed like a beacon of innocence next to the shining helmeted updo of his repressed, miraculously blonde mother.

I bypassed the ushers, ignoring the hello from Mrs. Banks, my seventh grade math teacher and the folded program she tried to place in my hand. Failing to genuflect or splash myself with holy water—it would have sizzled on contact—I marched straight down the center aisle. My red rubber Crocs squeaked my progress through the hushed, echoing chamber of the sanctuary. Heads turned as I passed, no doubt wondering who dared to clop down the tasteful Moravian tile in the midst of this somber service. It was officially the kickoff to Lent, and the house was packed with the well-dressed, good citizens of Smithfield.

Faces I’d known my entire life surrounded me, but I blocked them out. I’m sure that even Christ’s eye was on me. The priest, Father David, droned the glum litany and looked my way for half a second, before dismissing me, as if he was the voice of reason and I, little Markie Meehan, needed to sit my ass down and get with the program.

Not happening.

I found a place in the pew behind Jamie and slid in. Glaring at the back of his head, I struggled with an overwhelming violence. Never in my life had I felt that kind of rage. I wanted to destroy him, not engage in some hissed conversation and exchange of keys. Fuck that. I was beyond civility. And Jamie DuPree wasn’t stepping one Gucci-clad toe in to my apartment. Ever again. The prick.

As I clenched the book rack, my fingers brushed against the Bible proudly displayed there. Eyeing the curls that hugged Jamie’s rough jaw, I slid the Good Book from its safe haven. The cracked leather felt worn, but the bulk was reassuring. Encouraging, even. So fueled by a boiling rage, I hauled back and gobsmacked that bastard as hard as I could in front of God and everyone.

The Bible hit the back of Jamie’s head with a resounding thwack! and Jamie pitched forward. His beautiful face collided with the pew in front of us with a sick smack. He hit the wooden lip hard, the sound like a puck getting whacked by the high-priced stick he valued far too much, and he dissolved onto the tile.

My follow-through sent me into an awkward nosedive over the back of the pew and onto the maroon cushion. Legs kicking, ass high, my face came perilously close to landing in Mrs. Dupree’s lap. I clambered to my feet, spewing outrage and fury and maybe a little filth.

"In our bed, you fucking bastard!" The words rang through the congregation as the entire community froze.

At least I assumed they were frozen. I wasn’t paying attention to anyone except Jamie and his stiff mother. I had nearly landed on top of her when the cushion shifted under her skinny ass and she rose to her perfectly clad feet and clutched her pearls. Her sour-lemon lips pursed, and she stared me down with—and perhaps I imagined this—the glowing eyes of demonic satisfaction. How dare you?

What did she think? That her words mattered here? Conversation with Jamie was definitely not happening now. I didn’t spare her another glance.

Liberated of my usual control, I felt free. Or just out of my fucking mind, so I cuffed him again with the Bible. He went down a second time.

The folks around me came to their senses and latched their rough hands onto my arms in some mockery of Christian brotherhood. Mark. Calm down.

You need to leave.

That’s enough.

No, it wasn’t, but they dragged me from the pew, ripped the Bible from my hand and drove me up the center aisle like a heretic. I looked into faces I’d known my entire life, and I knew I should have been shamed, but I had nothing to be ashamed of. Not yet, anyway.

Panting and blowing and utterly disheveled, I glanced over my shoulder just as Jamie, limp in his rumpled banker suit and tie, was assisted into his seat with caring hands. He looked stunned, and a little gray—well, except for the blood, which at this point steamed down his proud nose.

And then I found myself ostracized. My good neighbors tossed me right through the arched doors and back into the gasping chill of the February midday. Sweat froze to my skin. Alone, exposed, shunned on the front lawn, I was still royally pissed. I clenched my fists and marched back to the car, the bitter wind whipping my field coat wide as gritty sand and road salt blasted my face. My eyes watered, and my nose began to run. I hit the door lock on the Jeep and climbed inside.

Time to go home and pick up the pieces.

* * *

I made it as far as the stoplight at Route 202 and Milton before I noticed that the red light flashing inside my car didn’t stem from some lingering aura of anger—the light followed me from the resident trooper’s Ford Expedition. I slapped the steering wheel and shook the fog from my head. Shit.

Had I been speeding? No clue. Maybe I shouldn’t be driving.

I pulled over and did a quick search of the glove box for my paperwork. In the rearview mirror, my longtime friend and teenage heartbreak, Tony Gervase, climbed from his truck. A familiar look of resignation crossed his handsome face. His uniform hugged his muscular body. His trooper hat was perched on his head and he looked like he meant business.

Shit. Why the hell did it have to be him? I slunk down in my seat, not that hiding would help me. There was no hiding from Tony.

He lumbered to my window, cop trinkets swinging off his utility belt, and those butch boots made my thighs tense. An attractive gay man in uniform, Tony possessed the authoritative vibe some men—like me—were into: tall and dark with beefy thighs and brawny arms and a super-tight ass. A big, hot Italian cop. A million years ago, back when I was still in high school, I’d carried a torch for Tony. He’d been in college then, and I was just a scrawny kid. And while he’d always been kind to me—more than kind, he’d been my friend—he’d never encouraged my very obvious crush. Tony moved on, I grew up but our friendship remained. At least, until recently.

He was probably the best guy I knew, and for years I admired him from afar. I still thought about him at inappropriate times. Maybe there was something wrong with me, because he never once took what I so willingly offered. Eventually, I stopped offering. There’s only so much rejection a guy can take. Last summer, after Tony’s father got sick, Tony disappeared from my life and I walked into the open arms of Jamie Dupree.

The bastard.

I waited until Tony tapped on the glass before sliding the window down. Cold air blew into the car.

What seems to be the problem, Officer—

Knock it off, Meehan. What the hell were you doing driving fifteen in a forty through the center of town? I’ve been behind you since the Green.

Fifteen? Jesus, I’d taken lame to a new low. Sorry. Just spacing out. Had he heard about the scene at St. Joe’s? It’d only been about eight minutes since Jamie’s Bible-assisted collapse. Not even. Although, considering my snaillike pace, an hour could have easily passed.

Tony blinked at me from the other side of the door.

Um, I’m on my way home.

Thick fingers gripped the edge of the car as he leaned into the window. His fit body filled that narrow space. Everything all right, Mark?

Yeah, sure. Everything’s fine. I flipped my hair a bit and groped for some topic that would shift his law enforcement scrutiny. Hey, how’s your mom?

My mother’s good. She seems to like Florida.

Immune to my efforts to distract him, Tony remained Joe-on-the-job. Was he assessing my mental state? It was part of the job, I knew, but my heart pounded as I strove for a nonchalance I couldn’t possibly maintain. He angled closer, sniffing my breath for telltale signs of alcohol or worse until I exhaled and he eased from the window. I pressed my lips together. Maybe I’d had too much coffee with my betrayal this morning.

Evidently Smithfield gossip was traveling at a crawl because Tony didn’t know about Jamie. He’d have said something. Maybe the upcoming snowstorm had occupied the minds and mouths of the locals and they were too busy rushing off to Stop and Shop to bother sharing my lurid story. Or maybe no one cared that I’d utterly lost my mind for Lent.

Tony’s dark gaze swept the interior of the car. How’s Sarah? She have her baby yet?

Not yet. She’s fat and cranky, but don’t tell her I said so. I smiled weakly. How are you, Tony? I’ve been meaning to give you a call.

Mmm hmm. Sure you have. He didn’t soften his tone with a smile. I stifled my guilt. I had meant to call him, but I’d been with Jamie or at the hospital or doing…other things. I’d been a terrible friend, actually. Tony’s eyes, the edges normally crinkled in laughter, were guarded. I haven’t seen you in town lately. Or anywhere.

I know. I’m such an ass. Been busy with work. We should make a plan—maybe go to the Village and have a burger. But not today. Today I had a lover to toss from my house. Man, I had to go. So, look, T, what’s the deal? Are you writing me a ticket or what?

Tony straightened away from the warm car like he’d been stung, and then faced the biting wind. Shit. I’d been too abrupt. I needed to get home before Jamie came looking for me, but I didn’t have to act like an asshole to my oldest friend. Before I could apologize, Tony’s two-way radio blasted. He gave me a curt nod. Catch you later. Try to drive like a normal person. And say hello to your sister.

Tony. Wait. I’m sorry—

Too late. He flipped the collar of his uniform jacket and hiked back to the SUV.

I’d fucked that up. Again. I really needed to mend our relationship, but first I had to deal with Jamie. So I put the car in gear and eased onto Milton Road. With Tony’s cop stare on me from the truck, I carefully drove the speed limit the quarter mile home.

Chapter Two

Back at the apartment, I calmed down enough to formulate a plan. First? Find that wretched glamour shot of Jamie’s mother and toss it directly into the trash bin. Next, pile Jamie’s belongings in the living room. A bonfire in the small yard behind our place—my place—would have been a nice way to deal with Jamie’s crap, but the wind had picked up and I wouldn’t risk setting

Reviews for Men of Smithfield

[amf0001 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Mark Mehan discovers that Simon his live-in lover is cheating on him, and things go rapidly down hilll from there. First Mark assaults Simon in Church, then he has a run in with the law, reconnecting with old friend and flirt, Tony Gervase. Mark draws Tony into his crazy week, and then Tony rescues Mark from it...
Fun while you are reading it, an easy, breezy enjoyable book, but also quite forgetable, I had to look up Amazon to remember anything about it. It's $4 but also very short, this is clearly a novella, but Gregg shows a confident smooth writing style.