Johnny Wager has been a loser all his life and proud of it. But when a West Hollywood twink ends up dead in a hotel room with Wager literally holding the bag, he knows his life is going to change for the worse. Pursued by the West Hollywood sheriffs for a murder he knows he didn't commit, Wager has to stay one step ahead of them and prove his innocence. It doesn't help matters any that his own son, Mark Wager, is a deputy sheriff who has joined the manhunt and has more reason than anyone to find the father who failed him all his life and bring him to justice. Add Hyacinth, a six-foot-five drag queen from New Orleans, Taz, her Puerto Rican boyfriend, an ex-Marine porno filmmaker and his incontinent Basset Hound Columbo, and the Armenian mob chasing them all through the streets of Los Angeles and the art walks and canals of Venice Beach. Wager pursues his own answers to the question of who is trying to kill him in the sleazy bars and back alleys of Hollywood all the way to Cathedral City. Can Wager stop the killers and reconcile with his son or will he end up being the next victim? 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.
Pat gives an overview of the book:
I prowled behind the barrier separating the turistas from the action on Santa Monica Boulevard as the Christopher Street West Gay Pride parade marched by. I was feeling pumped and ready for some hot action. I'd already been cruised by half a dozen guys who definitely fit into my hunk category, but I was looking for something special today. After all, I'd just suffered the indignity of my fortieth-second birthday. Proof that I was over the hump. A milestone I could have done without.
Well I was here to prove I wasn't. Too old, that is.
Then I saw him.
He might have been twenty-one, but since I didn't plan on taking him into any bars I didn"t have to card him. He'd stripped off his T-shirt and his muscled chest gleamed wetly in the afternoon sun. He was clean-shaven without a stray hair anywhere on his hard, bangin' body. A short shock of hair made him a natural blond, but there was only one way to prove that beyond a reasonable doubt. I'd have to see the goods myself. He had an ass to die for, and he sure didn't mind showing it off. He wore a pair of skintight cutoffs that hugged his bubble butt and outlined his bulging cock and a fine set of balls I suddenly ached to taste. I could even make out the thin line of the cock ring he wore. My own cock rose to press against my Levis as I imagined driving it up that dark channel and hearing him squeal. Our eyes met and there was enough electricity there to power DWP.
I pushed through a quartet of leather men gathered in the Mobil gas station, who were ruining the whole leather mystique by talking about last night's Lakers' game with the kind of enthusiasm my grandmother shows for her knitting. They opened to let me through, but not without a few glares that warmed my heart. The smell of gasoline mingled with a dozen competing fragrances from hundreds of hot male bodies.
"Faggots," I muttered before I actually squeaked by them and found myself standing in front of perfection.
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?"