CROSSROADS ANTHOLOGY, Best-selling Gay Fiction Series
"Diablo carefully orchestrates the scenes to include just the right amount of fear, stimulation and eroticism. I give this anthology FIVE Stars!"
About Crossroads, Book 1
Private investigator and ex-cop Frank McGuire is on a quest to find his dead partner's missing son. Rand Brennan has an identity issue, exacerbated since the death of his father. Hoping to find himself, Rand drops out of college, takes to the streets, and doesn't realize he's embroiled in duplicity and murder with a serial killer.
About Crossroads Revisited, Book 2
PI Frank McGuire is beginning to think Baltimore is a melting pot for serial killers. Another maniac is stalking the streets but this time the killer is after gay college students. Intent on protecting his lover Rand, Frank sends him away when en enemy from his past shows up. A distraction Frank can’t afford now that the serial killer’s next victim is Rand.
About Crossroads Showdown, Book 3
Tough PI Frank McGuire agrees to help the FBI locate three abducted children from a small town in West Virginia. When Frank channels his inner spirit for assistance, he mistakenly calls forth a ghost. As Frank races against time to locate the missing girls, he receives help from a dead spirit. Rand stands up to Frank and issues an ultimatum―commit to a relationship or risk losing his love when he returns from chasing ghosts.
About Crossroads Shadowland, Book 4
Frank’s new case takes him to the heart of New Orleans. A century-old ghost kidnaps two young boys, and gay-haters stalk the streets of the city. Frank must enter another realm to rescue the young boys and venture into the seedy bowels of New Orleans to save the man who holds his heart.
Excerpt CROSSROADS REVISITED, Book 2
Thomas Kincaid sat up in bed and glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand. Four AM. What had awakened him? Something, but his sleep-numbed brain couldn't remember if he'd been dreaming or hearing reality. Snoozer didn't bark, and Lord knows the beloved mongrel yelped if a leaf dashed against the windowpane.
Ah, that's right, the yipper accompanied his mother to the cabin for the weekend. He wanted to join them, but promised his professor his term paper (Human Cloning: Catastrophe or Medical Breakthrough?) would be on his desk first thing Monday morning. Guilt shrouded him. He shouldn't have gone to the bar tonight. Should've stayed home and finished the damn paper.
He paused for a moment and listened. Another sound, so slight, he almost didn't hear the subdued footsteps. His heart banged against his rib cage and a surge of adrenaline pumped through his body. What should he do, and where in hell had he left his cell phone? A silent groan left his lips. He'd left it in his backpack on the kitchen table, and the only live phone in the house sat on the bureau in his mom's bedroom.
He pushed the covers back and rose from bed. With the stealth of a cat-burglar, he walked toward the far corner and plucked his Little League bat from the wall—the one he used to hit the only homerun of his life. Not much of a weapon, but he felt more secure clutching the bat in his hand. He opened his bedroom door one inch at a time.
The bedrooms faced the backyard, and around the neatly trimmed lawn and flower beds stood a privacy fence. He learned long ago how to scale it. For some reason, he felt certain the noise had come from the kitchen, or perhaps the great room in the front of the house. His choices seemed simple—reach his cell phone or his mother's room. Somehow, he had to call for help.
The noise grew louder. Whoever entered the house seemed emboldened by the lack of response from its inhabitants. He slunk into the hallway and warred over which direction to take, left to the live phone line or right to the kitchen. He chose the first. Better to call the police and climb out his mother's window. His life held more value than television sets, stereos, or other material items.
Please God, let it be a thief and not some maniacal killer.
Every muscle and tendon in his body launched into high alert. He drew several deep breaths and talked himself down. Most intruders came for cash, jewelry, or hot items they could pawn for drug money. Hadn't he read somewhere most weren't armed? Even if he hadn't read it, the thought comforted him.
He moved down the hallway toward his mother's room as quiet as a church mouse, his only thought to get to that phone. Still clutching the bat in his right hand, he slipped into the room, dashed toward the phone, and lifted the receiver with his left hand. At the lack of a dial tone, his heart sunk. Someone cut the line.
A whisper warned him the burglar stood right outside the bedroom door. He froze and a sickening feeling took flight in his gut. This couldn't be happening; this only happened to others, strangers you read about in the newspaper.
Shit! The newspapers. The headlines loomed behind his eyelids: Fourth Student Found Dead in the Patuxent. The door creaked open, the sound reminding him of a scene straight out of Friday the Thirteenth. A shadow—tall, dark, and intimidating—moved into the room. Through a shaft of moonlight, he saw the gun in the man's hand, a nine millimeter he thought. In the other, the man held a flashlight and shone it into Thomas' face.
Confusion stormed through his mind. He'd know that voice anywhere. "You! What are you doing here?"
"And I thought you'd be so happy to see me."
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