Hey y’all! I’m BA Tortuga, resident redneck and lover of all things cowboy.
I wanted to share an exclusive excerpt of The Seashores of Old Mexico with y’all. Clint’s been barbacking at this little dive bar in Mexico, hiding out from the cops and how Jack makes him feel.
Clint nodded to Ramon as he carried another keg from the back to the front. Saturday and everybody was in the bar, dancing and singing and shit, and hell, after two weeks? He didn’t feel like he was gonna get beat to death with his own tongue. He still stayed out of the way and quiet, because damn, Jack was good to him and God knew he didn’t want it to stop, but he was sort of….
“Here’s this one, man. What next?” He’d got the storeroom all cleaned up and the loose boards nailed down in the back so he didn’t fall carrying boxes anymore. It was working.
Ramon gave him a grin, one that had the ladies falling all over. Did nothing for him, though. Ramon was a good guy, but damn.
“Just get the glasses washed, man. Then it’s time for some salt and lime.” Ramon liked to have a shot at the end of his shift.
“Sure.” He nodded and headed to the sink. It was mind-numbing work, sort of, so he didn’t have to worry or nothing. He could just wash and relax and think on things.
Things like guys that did, uh, do it for him.
“Hey, Ramon. How much have you skimmed off my till tonight?” Well, there was Jack, smiling and glad-handing the customers. The man did love his job, you could tell.
Yeah. That was. God. Clint. No. No, he’s your boss, and he’s nice, and no. Lord.
He focused harder on the scrubbing, making sure those glasses shone.
Thing was, it was hard not to look. Dark curls came out from under that hat, tanned skin on the face and throat framing a white smile and brown eyes, and that was a cowboy body, no matter what the man did now. Rangy, with low-slung jeans and a tight, tight ass….
Soap. Glasses. Rag. Damn.
He needed to go to bed early tonight, get up close and personal with his hand and a nice, long fantasy.
He missed Ramon’s reply, but it made Jack laugh out loud, the sound raucous and growly. Lord. He was gonna break something.
“How’s it going, kid?”
“Just fine, sir. Thank you.” He found a smile and pressed his hard cock against the sink, the zipper hurting enough to make it deflate. “You having a good day, Mister?”
“Yeah. Been working on the books, and now I’m wanting a beer. Get me a Dos Equis?” Plopping down right at his end of the bar, Jack hummed along with the music, head bobbing.
“Sure.” He played fetch and carry, remembering to get the slice of lime.
See him. See him not fuck up. Go him.
“Thanks, son.” He should be grateful that Jack thought of him as a kid. He really should.
“No problem. I’m gonna go on, if there’s nothing else you need.” ’Cause, damn. There was something he needed.
Maybe he could go for a swim.
Did coming in the water draw sharks?
“Oh.” Was that disappointment? Disapproval? Dis-something-else with two p’s? Jack nodded. “Sure, kid. It’s your time.”
“There something else you want me to do?” He would. He wasn’t a fucking loser.
“Nope. I was just thinking you might have a sit with me. Have a beer.”
Well. That was new.
Much love, y’all.
Seashores of Old Mexico
After a bar fight gone horribly wrong, Clint is on the run, tired, hungry, and desperate to get out of Texas and across the border as fast as he can. But more than anything, he needs a place to relax and feel safe—at least for a little while. Searching for work, he stumbles into a cantina on the beach and runs into its owner. Jack might be a little older and a little worldlier, but the two men have enough in common to form a fast friendship that soon spills over into the bedroom.
But Clint isn’t the only who’s done things he isn’t proud of, things he’d rather keep hidden. Both of them have to be ready to drop everything and run if the past gets too close, and that’s no foundation for a relationship—especially since the truth always comes out eventually.
About BA Tortuga
Texan to the bone and an unrepentant Daddy’s Girl, BA Tortuga spends her days with her basset hounds and her beloved wife, texting her sisters, and eating Mexican food. When she’s not doing that, she’s writing. She spends her days off watching rodeo, knitting and surfing Pinterest in the name of research. BA’s personal saviors include her wife, Julia Talbot, her best friend, Sean Michael, and coffee. Lots of coffee. Really good coffee.
Having written everything from fist-fighting rednecks to hard-core cowboys to werewolves, BA does her damnedest to tell the stories of her heart, which was raised in Northeast Texas, but has heard the call of the high desert and lives in the Sandias. With books ranging from hard-hitting GLBT romance, to fiery menages, to the most traditional of love stories, BA refuses to be pigeon-holed by anyone but the voices in her head. Find her on the web at www.batortuga.com