Authors: Rob Rosen
Tags: #MLR Press LLC; Print format ISBN# 978-1-60820-435-9; ebook format ISBN#978-1-60820-436-6, #Gay, #General, #Romance, #Erotica, #Fiction
Southern Fried,
the romantic misadventure of Trip Jackson
and his stable boy, Zeb Jones, is about the love of family, the
love of one’s heritage, and the love between friends, both
old and new. It’s as antebellum as Tara ever was, but with
a deliciously suspenseful and sexy twist. Because what our
heroes are quick to discover is that not all is as it appears to
be, and sometimes life can get turned upside down when
you least expect it. Especially when lip-smacking romance,
deep-dish humor, and a side of mystery fall on your plate,
all, of course, served up southern-style.
“
Southern Fried
by Rob Rosen is a charismatic, erotic,
comic, and gastronomic trip through the South with a dash
of mystery and pinch of peaches. You’ll close the book
with a smile and a craving for sweet tea.”
-- Greg Lilly, author of the Derek Mason Mystery series
“
Southern Fried
is Rob Rosen’s best yet, a sexy and fun
whodunit set in a southern mansion full of soul food and
mystery. The chapter titles could have been pulled from
Paula Dean’s recipe files, so be forewarned not to start
reading on an empty stomach. Did I mention sexy? Plenty
of that and it’s hot!”
-- Mark Abramson, author of the Beach Reading series
“With any of Rob’s popular books you know you are
going to get something good, something interesting, and
this
Southern Fried
tale is no exception.”
-- Wayne Mansfield, Author of
The Stroke of Midnight
MLR PRess AuthoRs
Featuring a roll call of some of the best writers of gay erotica
and mysteries today!
Derek Adams
Z. Allora
Maura Anderson
Victor J. Banis
Jeanne Barrack
Laura Baumbach
Ally Blue
J.P. Bowie
Barry Brennessel
Michael Breyette
Nowell Briscoe
P.A. Brown
Jade Buchanan
James Buchanan
Charlie Cochrane
Karenna Colcroft
Jamie Craig
Kirby Crow
Ethan Day
Diana DeRicci
Jason Edding
Theo Fenraven
Angela Fiddler
S.J. Frost
Kimberly Gardner
Michael Gouda
Roland Graeme
Storm Grant
Amber Green
LB Gregg
Kaje Harper
Jan Irving
David Juhren
Kiernan Kelly
M. King
Matthew Lang
J.L. Langley
Josh Lanyon
Anna Lee
Elizabeth Lister
Clare London
William Maltese
Z.A. Maxfield
Timothy McGivney
Lloyd A. Meeker
Patric Michael
AKM Miles
Reiko Morgan
Jet Mykles
William Neale
Cherie Noel
Willa Okati
Neil S. Plakcy
Jordan Castillo Price
Luisa Prieto
Rick R. Reed
A.M. Riley
Rob Rosen
George Seaton
Jardonn Smith
Caro Soles
JoAnne Soper-Cook
Richard Stevenson
Liz Strange
Marshall Thornton
Lex Valentine
Maggie Veness
Haley Walsh
Missy Welsh
Stevie Woods
Lance Zarimba
Check out titles, both available and forthcoming, at
southeRn
FRied
Rob Rosen
mlr
press
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2011 by Rob Rosen
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole
or in part in any form.
Published by
MLR Press, LLC
3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.
Albion, NY 14411
Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet:
Cover Art by Deana C. Jamroz
Editing by Rick R. Reed
Print format ISBN# 978-1-60820-435-9
ebook format ISBN#978-1-60820-436-6
Issued 2011
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication
or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of
International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and
upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot
be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can
be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the
publisher.
Dedication
For my husband, Kenny, who’s the butter on my biscuit.
Psst
. Hey, hey you up there. Yep, you, you looking down all
confused like. I know we’re not supposed to talk, you and me,
but, heck, if I’m gonna be in it up to my ears, might as well take
as many innocent bystanders right along with me, right? Not that
you look all that innocent, mind you, but still.
Anyway, the shit already hit the fan – fuck it,
fans
, plural – and
damn if I didn’t leave my shit-smock back in New York. Who
knew it would come in handy, right? I mean, funerals are sad
and all, but they’re not supposed to be friggin’ deadly. Least not
for those of us still around to witness them, I mean. Granny, on
the other hand, well now, it couldn’t have been more deadly for
her, I suppose. Still, from what those nice people down at the
mortuary told me, she was the prettiest corpse you ever laid eyes
on, which, considering she was ninety when she kicked that old
proverbial bucket, that’s really saying something. Heck, they said
that by the time they were done with her she didn’t look a day
over sixty. Kind of bitter irony, I suppose: looking your best and
never getting a chance to see it. Though with Granny, I wouldn’t
put it past her. She was probably hovering over the service the
entire time.
“Wait a darn minute,” I bet she was hollering over to that
angel, Gabriel. “Yeah, yeah, I see your damn light; just hold your
horses. Gotta find out what these folks really thought of me.”
Truth was, it wasn’t a whole hell of a lot. People respected
her, for sure, but love is such a strong word. And so is hate. Oh,
I certainly loved her, of course, but she was my granny. Only
family I ever really had. But she was more of an acquired taste.
Sort of like escargot. I mean, you can cover it up with rich sauces
and charge a pretty penny for it, but when it comes right down to
it, you’re still just eating a bunch of snails. That was Granny, all
2 Rob Rosen
right: a bit of a slug with one damn fine, pretty shell.
Sorry, Granny, but I’m not telling this nice person anything
they couldn’t just as easily find out for themselves. I mean, you
just had to listen to the scuttlebutt outside the funeral home if
you wanted to get yourself an earful. Not that they weren’t trying
to keep it from me, her only living relative and supposed heir to
her fortune, though. Except I heard it just the same. Loud and
clear.
Wait, wait. You caught that
supposed
heir, huh? Well, and
rightly so. See, I assumed everything was coming to me, too. Like
I said, we were all each other had, in terms of blood. My parents,
my mom being Granny’s only daughter, see, both of them were
killed in a car accident when I was just a baby. No other family
from what I’d been told. No aunts or uncles, maybe some distant
cousins nobody ever talked about. No one sending Christmas
cards who wasn’t on the payroll, though. So the estate should’ve
come to me. Lock, stock, and barrel.
Smoking barrel, as it turned out.
Cue the doom and gloom music.
But I’m getting ahead of myself here. I mean, you have to
be wondering why this is the first time I’d been back home in
nearly ten years, right? Well, that was Granny’s doing, too. Come
to think of it, everything was Granny’s doing. Always was. And,
based on the reading of her will, would be for quite some time
to come.
“Nothing for you down here, Trip,” she told me, way back
when, a week shy of my eighteenth birthday as she packed me
up and shipped me off, first and last time she ever stepped foot
inside an airport. “Just me and a bunch of pissy servants out in
the middle of nowhere. Best for you to go up North, get yourself
a decent education.”
Not that I had a choice, really. Once she made up her mind,
that was all she wrote. Besides, she was right. Granny lived deep,
deep inside the South Carolina low country, and that’s about as
deep as a fellow can get, the nearest neighbor a good several
southeRn FRied
3
miles away down a barely paved road. More alligators than people
in those parts. Still, it was the first time I’d been away, and I was
pretty near terrified. And the North? Granny was a die-hard
southerner. Most I heard about the North was that it was full of
people who talked too loud, too fast, and ate with their mouths
open. Meaning, about all I could picture were folks with really
strong jaws. Plus, there wasn’t a Baptist in the bunch. Least not
her kind of Baptist. But, like I said, that’s what she wanted for me
and that’s what I got. A kiss and a hug and a wallet full of cash,
and I was on my merry way.
New York City.
And, man, did I ever take a bite out of that apple. Sucked it
dry, seeds and all. Two college degrees, a handful of ex boyfriends,
and a closet full of Marc Jacobs later, and,
wham
, you got yourself
the man standing before you today. All traces of the South were
wiped clean the hell away. Mostly. Which is why, getting off that
plane in Savannah, I felt like a fish out of water. Catfish, if I had
my way. Southern fried.
Makes your mouth water, doesn’t it?
Anyway, not like me and Granny didn’t see each other in all
that time. She’d get her chauffeur to drive her up to Atlanta, fly
me down, meet me at the Peachtree Hotel, get us a couple of
suites overlooking the city. She’d take me shopping, catch me
up on her antics, and try to pry me for mine. Though good luck
with that, right? Would’ve put her in her grave way before her
ninetieth birthday, let me tell you. A boy can antic the hell on out
in New York City. Antic enough to leak on over to New Jersey,
for that matter. Suffice it to say, Granny got the watered down
version. Buckets of water, really.
Oh, she knew I was gay, and all. Would’ve taken a whole
ocean to water that little tidbit down. And let me tell you, there’d
still be some flame left over. Still, the Southern Baptist in her got
put on the back burner when it came to the gay stuff. Granny was
a veritable fag hag when she wanted to be, in fact. Dragged me
to more than my share of gay bars in Midtown Atlanta. Queen
of the ball, she was. Queen of the queens of the ball, to be exact.
4 Rob Rosen
But that was the side of Granny only I ever got to see, when
she let her hair down, kicked up her heels. Orthopedic though
they were. Back at the mansion, and, yes, it was as antebellum as
Tara ever was, she was a prim and proper and very, very bibletoting-southern lady: hair in a bun, blouse buttoned up to her neck, lips pursed, eyes steely gray. The woman put the fear of