Riot Boy

Cover by P.L. Nunn

Page Contents

About Riot Boy
Etienne never thought getting his pocket picked could lead to a first date. He knows the second he catches punk boy Brady's eye that the guy is pure trouble, but Et can't resist his wicked sense of humor, pretty face, cold hands -- and the piss off swagger when Brady's on stage with his band doesn't hurt, either.

From Rimbaud to Buzzcocks to Malbec to handcuffs, they introduce each other to their favorite pleasures, and the chemistry is unstoppable. But Brady disappears in the night, won't give Etienne a phone number, doesn't talk about his past; Etienne's never known someone so hungry for affection, but with so many trust issues. Et would give all he has, but he has the feeling Brady needs saving from something before he can take it.

Then, the something shows up: Brady's dangerous family, all of them more than human -- including Brady, who has the ability to supercool matter with the slightest touch. Throw in the family talent for criminal activity, and it's an explosion waiting to happen.

Et wants to help him escape his past, but if Brady keeps disappearing, he may not get the chance.

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Etienne by Julia Alison. Click to enlarge.
Name: Etienne Fletcher
Age: 28
Height: 6'2"
Hometown: Pittsburgh, PA
Current Residence: Pittsburgh, PA
Occupation: Manager at Henderson's Books
Powers: [N/A]
Level: [N/A]
Control: [N/A]
Politics: Liberal
Religion: Lapsed Catholic on my mother's side.
Favorite music: Eclectic--from Chopin to Blondie.
Favorite movie/TV: Poirot, pretty much anything on Masterpiece Mystery. And any cartoon on Saturday morning. Partial to Sponge Bob Square Pants.
Favorite book: Candide, The Plague, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, The Brothers Karamazov, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, poetry--especially Rimbaud or Baudelaire.
Favorite fictional character: I had the biggest crush on Mercutio in high school. I don't think I ever got over it.
Favorite food: Cabbage pierogies from Pierogies Plus. I'd wait in line for hours. Hell, I have waited in line for hours. And then eaten it in my car in the parking lot.
Favorite drink: Trying lots of Argentinian Malbec lately. The venture's been successful so far.
Favorite sport: Football is compulsory in this town. I played tight end in high school, but I prefer my football on the couch with a beer.
Favorite artist: Mary Cassatt, Eugène Delacroix, Gustav Klimt
Favorite news outlet: NPR
Favorite superhero: Hercule Poirot. Or maybe Wonder Woman, since she reminds me of Susanne.
Favorite supervillain: Professor Moriarty. The evil geniuses are always scarier.
Describe yourself in one word: Inverse

Brady by Julia Alison. Click to enlarge.
Name: Brady Sinclair
Age: 24
Height: Around six feet. I think. Probably.
Hometown: Who wants to know?
Current Residence: Pittsburgh, PA
Occupation: Bass player. Occasionally other, less legal things.
Powers: Thermal (cold)
Level: Average
Control: Below Average
Politics: No thanks.
Religion: My grandma used to tell me to find Jesus. I used to tell her I was trying, but that guy wins at hide and seek.
Favorite music: The Clash, Buzzcocks, Joy Division, Sex Pistols, New York Dolls, Ramones, The Kinks, Velvet Underground, and other bands that don't suck. Especially the best band in the world: Willoughby Spit.
Favorite movie/TV: Anything by the Coen Bros. I like my creepy funny and my funny creepy.
Favorite book: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
Favorite fictional character: John Lennon in A Hard Days Night. Yeah, that counts.
Favorite food: I ain't picky, but I'm getting turned on to this whole Primanti sandwich thing. That pastrami and cheese with an egg--I will destroy that shit. Not a fry left.
Favorite drink: Jack's my man
Favorite sport: Not a huge sports guy, but thanks to brainwashing, Ohio River water, and those great pants they wear, I'm starting to dig football.
Favorite artist: I don't know much about art, but I once saw an exhibition with a bunch of Edvard Munch prints that were sort of variations on a theme. That was intense.
Favorite news outlet: With my attention span, The Daily Show is as good as it gets.
Favorite superhero: I think I'm legally obligated to say Iceman. Even though he'd kick my ass.
Favorite supervillain: I'd say Mr. Freeze, but that fucking awful movie killed it for me. Can we excommunicate that bastard from the Brotherhood of Evil Icy Dudes? (Now accepting applications.) I'm going with the White Witch from The Chronicles of Narnia. I feel for Edmund, man.
Describe yourself in one word: Pandemonium

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a little black card, which he put on the table between us. “Think you dropped this.”

My MasterCard.

Sure, I could’ve just dropped it somewhere, and in the writhing crush of the late-night zombie horde, he might’ve just happened to be the one to pick it up. And someone who knew me might’ve just happened to tell him who I was and how to find me.

But all I could think of was his hand in my back pocket. The one where I kept my wallet.

He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest and tossing his head as if to get his hair out of his eyes. Absurd, seeing as his hair probably wouldn’t have moved in a hurricane. “No, don’t thank me, really.”

“Thanks,” I said automatically.

That same grin.

Now I remembered the taste of his tongue, the feeling of his heavy belt buckle clinking against the button of my fly. I shifted in my seat. “How --”

“Found it.”

“How’d you know it was mine?”

“Because you left it right where you were sitting. I asked the bartender if it belonged to the Abercrombie and Fitch brunet. He knew exactly who I meant.”

I stuttered, first trying to find a reason to believe him. Then, once I realized I was only doing so because I was flattered, trying to find a reason not to believe him. Even if I had, in my near stupor, gotten out my card while talking to Susanne, what kind of bartender wouldn’t have just assumed I’d come back for it? Why would he let some random punk ass walk out with it?

But if said random punk ass really had stolen it, why the hell would he bring it back to me? In person?

Finally I said, “Oh. Right. I mean, thanks.”

He smirked yet again. His lips were pale pink in the sunlight through the picture window, bowed with that sensitive plumpness that had made kissing him so damn delicious. His eyes crinkled at the corners, just the faintest hint of lines to come. “Who’d you leave with last night?”

I was surprised into telling the absolute truth. “Um, no one. What’s your name again?”

“I never told you.”


“I know it’s kinda trite, but you can’t ask for my name again when I never told you what it was in the first place.”

My mouth fell open but not because I had anything to say.

He held out one hand, grinning again. “Brady Sinclair.”

I took it. It was long-fingered and strong and cold -- I remembered that from last night too. “What kind of name is that?”

“Always thought it was kinda hot, myself.”

Caught off guard, I laughed. This guy was either completely insane or completely fascinating. Not that the two were mutually exclusive. Just that one was always dangerous, the other only mostly dangerous.

Bearing that in mind, I declined to rise to the bait. I slipped my card into my wallet and asked, “You here for coffee or…?”

“Or to bother you while you try to read your paper? Some from column A, some from column B. So who’d you leave with, really?”

“Does my sister count?”

His eyes narrowed.

Beyond weird. The guy had probably picked my pocket, and here I was asking, “Why? Who’d you leave with?”

“No one. Guy I wanted to leave with left early. Walked right out the door with a couple a rug-munchers and left me high and dry. Motherfucker had a body to die for too.”

I didn’t bother wondering why he’d asked me with whom I’d left if he’d seen me walk out with Suse and Lucy. Just like that, I knew exactly why I was still having this idiotic conversation: it was the most sustained attention I’d had from a man since that last god-awful night with Paul.

The night when we’d had the most incredible sex ever. Right before he told me he’d been cheating on me.

Brady asked, “You got a job?”

“Yeah. Manager at Henderson’s.” I nodded out the window.

“Books, that’s cool. What you got there?” He pointed at my coffee.

“Americano. Uh, want some?”

“Thanks.” He took it, sipped, and smiled. “Black, huh? I think I like you, Etienne.”

“I’m flattered.” But I had reached my threshold. It had been a bizarre twenty-four hours, and I couldn’t handle much more before my head finally exploded. “I should probably get to the store, though.”

“Okay.” He leaned back again, eyeing me over my own coffee. “But I’m only gonna track you down once, Etienne Fletcher. Twice would just be creepy and desperate.”

Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t -- “You…want my number?”

Yep. I did it.

Took me forever to piss, seeing as I had to wait for my dick to settle down. But it was more than worth it when I came back to him. Just sitting there, his tattooed right arm raised over his head to accommodate the chain trailing from the defunct steam radiator behind the couch to the glittering cuff at his wrist. The rest of him draped lazily over half the couch, his left hand resting on his bare stomach, wide shoulders relaxed and moving faintly with his breath. He was sunk deep into the cushions with his head reclining against his bound arm, his legs spread wide, perfectly at ease. The outline of a full-on erection between his legs was startling by contrast.

Like it had turned him on, just waiting for me.

He knocked me breathless, but I somehow managed an appreciative, “Goddamn, Brady.”

“Looks natural, huh?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“How long does it take to piss, anyhow? I’m dying out here.” He squirmed, lifting his ass and arching his back a little.

“Technical difficulties.” My cock, which had returned to attention the second I’d seen him, experienced yet another surge. I saw spots. “Looks like waiting suits you, though.”

He licked his lips, still grinning.

I took a few steps nearer, but restrained myself -- somehow. Even looking at him was so unreal, something perverse in me wanted to drag it out. “I think you like it, even.”

“Love it. How about you?”

“Thinking of throwing away the key.”

He leaned his cheek against his arm again and adjusted his swollen cock with his free hand. He left his hand where it was, rubbed at himself through his jeans, and squirmed some more. “Mmm, c’mere.”

Jesus. A few more steps before I could stop myself. I reached into my back pocket and produced the key.

“And put that shit away.”

“Okay, but…” I let it trail off, leaving the key on the coffee table as I knelt on the couch beside him. When he sat up, I leaned forward and kissed him, bracing myself with one hand on the back of the couch, wrapped around his cuffed wrist. I made it quick -- I could hardly breathe, so it wasn’t a conscious choice -- and when I pulled away, he bit down gently on my bottom lip. I gasped but managed to finish the sentence. “Pretty sure the guy with the key gets to make the demands.”

His breath went ragged; he gripped the arm of the couch, white-knuckled. He leaned up and forward but couldn’t conveniently reach me when I settled back. “Guess I need some training.” He smirked. “You up to it?

Title explanation snippet via Superpowered Love
The "Orgasm Addict" excerpt from the Riot Boy Soundtrack posts

Raine @ Reviews by Jessewave 4.75 (of 5) stars - a Recommended Read!
Daisiemae @ Night Owl Reviews 5 (of 5) stars - a Reviewer Top Pick!
Kassa @ 3A.M. 3 (of 5) stars
Layne @ BlackRaven's Reviews 4 (of 5) stars
Teresa @ Fallen Angel Reviews 4 (of 5) angels
Cactus @ Long and Short Reviews 3.5 (of 5) stars
Samhaine Queen @ Dark Divas Reviews 4 (of 5) divas
Valentina Heart @ The Romance Reviews 4 (of 5) stars
Jay @ Joyfully Jay 5 (of 5) stars
Melanie @ Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words 5 (of 5) stars
Sammy @ The Novel Approach 5 (of 5) stars

Short Story
Grab a free copy of Willoughby Spit, a short story following the events of Riot Boy (and just preceding the events of Re-entry Burn) at my free reads page!

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