Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 8

burned away to the heat of the afternoon. By the time they reached the border they had nothing left in them. The US Consulate took custody of the kids, calling their parents to inform them they'd been rescued.
    Grayson sat on a couch in one of the back rooms of the consulate. Mac shuffled in, his eyes dull from the pain meds he'd taken, the limp pronounced. He dropped down beside Grayson, his big paw landing on Grayson's leg.
    "Babe, I owe you more than I've ever owed anyone in my life." Mac snuggled in close, kissing Grayson's hair.
    "I love you and no matter what, that's never going to change."
    "Gray, you could never do anything to make me stop loving you. Nothing is going to change. I'm yours forever."
    Grayson held the chill at bay focusing on his mantra I'm not a bad person , instead of the swirling mass of guilt and condemnation threatening to overwhelm him. "Forever, Mac, forever," Grayson whispered before he leaned in and kissed Mac, holding him tight as their tongues danced together. Eventually he would tell Mac everything, just not yet.
    THE END
    Author bio: Sara York is a multi-published author who lives in the southern half of the United States with her family and dogs.
    Contact info:
    Sara York
    ****

ROSES IN THE DEVIL'S GARDEN
    by Charlie Cochet

    A rugged, muscular man provocatively holds one arm up beside his head as he looks down at you. His other arm is across his chest, and in his hand is a gun. The words I am my beloved's are tattooed across his forearm. He looks sexy and dangerous.

    Dear Author
    Please tell me why this man is armed and dangerous and who it is he belongs to. I really would like to know if he is defending his beloved or about to shoot him for cheating.
    Sincerely,
    Ilona

    genre: historical (1925)
    tags: prohibition agents; best friends and lovers; sweet and rough sex; hurt/comfort; former WWI soldiers; HEA
    word count: 18,778
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    ROSES IN THE DEVIL'S GARDEN
    by Charlie Cochet
    CHAPTER 1
    "This story has no moral, this story has no end, this story only goes to show, that there ain't no good in men…"
    Why wasn't he surprised the dance floor was flooded by couples shaking a leg to a tune about murder? It said a hell of a lot of about the times they were living in. More than he cared to admit. It was ironic, really. All this trouble to cleanse the country of its depravity and heathen ways, and instead, the line between law-abiding respectability and delinquency had become blurred to the point of near extinction. Nowadays, even granny was making a mint from the nice young boys running a Gin mill from her basement— something which would've been a step up from this joint.
    This particular saloon was an old house converted into a sanctum of illicit activity, where everything from bootlegged liquor to prostitution was not only available, but encouraged. There were thousands of joints like it throughout the city, and for every one that closed down, three more popped up. In basements, flower shops, bakeries. No place was sacred, not churches, or funeral parlors, the latter being the worst of them.
    The limited amount of space around them was occupied by a makeshift stage, overcrowded dance floor, and a chipped wooden bar that stretched from one end of the room to the other. Shoved out of the way into darkened corners and gaps, were little square tables dressed in white tablecloths— a poor attempt to add some class.
    Plenty of well-to-do society folks had come out slumming, dancing the Charleston and the Bunny Hug in fancy beads and frilly feathers. The dames in their Louise Brooks bobs and rouged knees drank nearly as much as their beaus, who in their bright colored shirts and silly bowties were no doubt bursting to share their scandalous exploits with their less-adventurous fellows at the office, come Monday morning.
    If they only knew.
    On stage, the pansies and lady-lovers danced, hugged, and kissed. They mingled and teased the crowd in a way that only years ago would've had them all thrown in a wagon and carted off to the hoosegow. If they even made it that far.
    America had become the devil's den, and New York City its garden. Most of the time, Agent Harlan Mackay didn't know what to make of it.
    "Why do I let you talk me into these things?" He peered down at the questionable looking liquid in his glass with a deep frown. Granted, it had been a long time since he'd had whiskey of any discernible value, but he was pretty certain it wasn't supposed to