Table Of ContentTable of Contents
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Sample from Petit Morts #3
Slings and Arrows
Petit Morts #2
Josh Lanyon
ISBN: 978-1-935540-05-2
All rights reserved.
© 2010 Josh Lanyon
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Barneveld, WI 53507
Dear reader,
We are witnessing the start of a huge shift in the publishing industry.
Before 2003, if I wrote a story that wasn’t corporate America’s idea of What
Deserves to be Published, the best I could have put together was a photocopied
‘zine that I distributed at whatever comic shops could be coerced into keeping a
few copies on consignment.
The advent of epublishing and print-on-demand has changed that. Big time.
We’re on the cusp of a meritocracy of ideas, where books sink or swim based on
what readers want, rather than what corporate marketing folks think will sell.
Every time you choose to buy from a small, independent publisher or self-
published author, you’re shaping the availability of future books. By saying
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you’re contributing directly to that author’s paycheck and making sure he or she
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Thank you very much for buying an independent book. It does make a
difference.
-Jordan Castillo Price, owner JCP Books
ONE
It was a cold winter’s night in Hartsburg.
A moon as dry and white as cork shone over the shadowed hills and dales of the
Napa Valley, shone like a distorted clockface in the wine dark water of the Napa
River. In the small town, shops were closing—window displays of red and pink
hearts, overweight cupids—winking out. Down wide and shady streets, curtains
and blinds were drawn across remodeled Victorian windows to keep out the chill
rustling in the eucalyptus trees.
Over at the college, students walked in pairs or singly across the well-lit campus.
The blazing buildings in Dorm Row pulsed with a variety of musical beats: The
Flaming Lips vying with Lady Gaga for air space.
Carey Gardner, twenty-three, blond, cute, and brighter than he looked, pushed
open the door to his dorm room on the third floor in Pio Pico House to find it, as
usual, crowded with his roommate Sty’s buddies watching TV.
“Yo, Bones!” Sty waved a beer in greeting.
“Yo,” Carey responded, swallowing his irritation. The “Bones” joke was getting
old. It was all getting old. For some reason Sty had taken Carey’s change of
major to anthropology personally. Sty was still clinging to his major in
management and entrepreneurship, which, granted, was better than the physical
education major of a lot of the other guys on the swim team.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Library.”
“Dude.”
There was pity in Sty’s voice. Whatever. They’d started out friends—technically
they were still friends
—and they were rooming together by choice. Or maybe it was more habit. Either
way, Carey was not being held prisoner in Suite E (commonly known as Cell
Block 8).
The problem was, Sty was the same easygoing, fun-loving goofball he’d been as
a freshman. And Carey…was not.
In order to graduate on time, Carey had to make up a couple of classes he’d
blown off the first time around. His courseload was heavy and his sense of
humor was not what it had once been.
“Make way for Dr. Leakey,” Sty ordered, and the interchangeable frat boy
sprawling on Carey’s bed, shifted to the foot of it and gave Carey a glinting look
from beneath his shaggy bangs.
Yeah. Like that was going to happen. Like Carey was going to lie down, sheep to
the slaughter, in the midst of these assholes.
“You’re blocking the TV, dude,” someone else said irritably.
Carey dropped his backpack under his desk, well out of the way of temptation—
although it was unlikely any of Sty’s pals would be tempted by anthropology
books. Or any books that didn’t have plenty of pictures of naked girls.
“Have a beer.” Sty used the remote to turn down the sound on the TV to the
vocal disappointment of an audience that didn’t want to miss one single second
of Olympic ski jumping.
“Thanks, but I’m—” Carey hooked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate he was
on his way out again
—although it was nine-thirty now and he had to get up for swim practice at five.
They both did.
“Wait, wait.” Sty actually bothered to push upright. “Something came for you.”
He jumped up and grabbed a large flat box wrapped in distinctive red paper with
a black ribbon.
“What is it?”
“It’s from that shop in the town square.”
“What shop?” Carey asked slowly.
Sty lifted the box and checked the gold label beneath. “Sweets to the Sweet.”
“Candy? I didn’t order that.”
Five pairs of gleaming eyes zeroed on Carey. In fact, he thought he saw a pair of
yellow eyes shining beneath the bed. The promise of free chocolate was not to
be taken lightly in this jungle.
“Well, if you didn’t order it, maybe it’s a gift. Maybe your parents sent it.”
“Or your girlfriend,” another of the jerk-offs put in.
Carey ignored him. He reached for the box; Sty handed it over reluctantly.
“You’re not going to eat that whole thing yourself?” he protested, as Carey
turned to the doorway.
“You’re in training.”
“So are you, dude. I’m saving you from yourself.”
“He’s headed for Little Castro,” someone cooed as Carey closed the door behind
him.
On the other side of the sound barrier Carey took a couple of steadying breaths.
Not worth it.
He knocked on the door to the left.
“Venido adentro!” The voice behind the door was muffled.
Carey opened the door to Heath and Ben’s room.
Heath Rydell was lying on his bed in paisley boxer shorts reading the
CliffsNotes to The Mill on the Floss. He was a tall, languid-looking young man
with red hair and wide brown eyes. Ben Scully sat at his desk jotting down notes
from a book titled 501 Spanish Verbs.
“Hola.” He was smiling. Ben was blond, broad-shouldered and blunt-featured.
He wore jeans and a Hartsburg College tee shirt.
“Don’t those douchebags ever shut up?” Heath inquired. It was a rhetorical
question.
Carey held up the wrapped box. “I come bearing gifts.”
At the promise of food, Heath, who looked like a consumptive and ate like a
horse, sat up. “What is it?”
“Candy, I think.”
“Where did it come from?” Ben asked, setting aside his book.
“I don’t know.” Carey flopped comfortably down on the foot of Ben’s bed and
slid the black ribbon off the box. “I guess someone sent it.”
He ripped open the blood red paper and his eyebrows shot up. He lifted out the
heart-shaped box.
“Candy for sure.”
“Wow,” said Heath, scrambling over to the foot of his own bed. “Look at that
thing.”
“That thing” was an old-fashioned confection of red velvet, pink silk roses, and a
black satin ribbon.
“That must be two or three pounds of chocolate,” Ben said, impressed.
“There’s a card.” Heath got up and knelt beside the bed at Carey’s feet, reaching
beneath the blue comforter. “It fell when you lifted the box out.” He handed the
small white envelope to Carey.
Carey slid his thumb under the flap, slid the card out. He read aloud, “From your
secret admirer.”
Heath chortled as Ben inquired, “Who’s your secret admirer?”
Carey shook his head.
The three of them considered the bizarre notion of Carey having a secret
admirer.
“No offense, darling, but you’re not the type.”
Ben shot Heath an impatient look.
“It’s true,” Heath insisted. “Look at him.”
They both studied Carey, who stared uneasily back at them.
“If he was any more vanilla he’d come in a bottle.”
“Thanks!”
The other two snickered.
At last Heath said, “Are you going to open that or just fondle the ribbon all
night?”
Carey snapped out of his preoccupation and slid the ornamental lid carefully off
the heart-shaped box.
The smell of chocolate—good chocolate—wafted through the over-warm room.
He closed his eyes and inhaled. It was unreal, that scent. Like pheromones or
something. Weight was not a problem for him, but he was in training, and this
was… Jesus, that smelled good…
He resisted the temptation to bury his face in the box and graze; instead he
bravely settled for a single dark chocolate and almond cluster, handing the rest of
the candy around.
“Whoever he is, he has good taste,” Ben said, his mouth full of marzipan.
“He? It’s probably a chick,” Heath objected. “You know who it is? It’s probably
that Nona chick from your anthropology class. She’s got the hots for you, dude.”
Carey shook his head. A three-pound box of fine chocolates—and these were
very fine indeed—
