The Language of Horses
The whole mess started, like most of my problems, because Maddy wouldn't leave me alone.
Echo Transit
Amateur fiction writer in London, keeping company with a senior shepherd mix and a glass of cabernet on Friday nights. I mostly write in Interracial Love and Mature, especially stories built around the long-distance pair finally in the same room and people who work as personals or similar real-world trades. Always happy to hear from readers who enjoy a real plot alongside the heat. Ranked by how many readers finish them. Some are free to read in full; the rest open with a free preview.
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Stories by Echo Transit
Kayak and the Caterer
The warehouse smelled like old velvet and salt, which is what happens when a band stores forty years of stage costumes a hundred yards…
Ground Stop
The announcement came over the speakers in that flat voice they use for bad news, the one that sounds almost apologetic about it.
Last Call Confessions
The Crimson Oak sits in the lobby of the Wexford Hotel, which is one of those old hotels that costs too much and smells like money trying…
Salt and Static
The storm came in around six, and by seven the lights in the building were doing that thing lights do before they die, a flicker, a buzz…
When He Walked In
The open house was going the way open houses go when the house is ugly.
Cleaning Up After Hours
The Neon Note at half past midnight is a whole different animal than the Neon Note at ten.
The Last Day on Set
The wrap was done by six, which meant the AD stopped yelling around six and the lighting crew started coiling cable like people who…