Someone on the train has an appetite for murder!
Kaden ‘Buddy’ Reznor is gorgeous, hung like an elephant, built like a brick shithouse, and the host of the world’s top-rating television cooking program, The Six-Pack Chef. So why is someone trying to kill him?
As The Gravy Train wends its way from London to Vienna, with stops in some of the hottest cuisine capitals of Europe, Kaden Reznor is the ‘icing on the cake’ among the chefs on board, employed to create extravagant dishes and present classes to the foodie audiences aboard the luxury train. But his sexual partners keep dropping dead until even he realises his life is in danger. Who can he trust? All that stands between him and certain annihilation is a mysterious young man who has been sent as his assistant and the CEO of the train tour company whom he ravaged on the London Eye.
This series includes:
First Course: In The Soup_Ebook ISBN: 978-1-60054-554-2 - $3.00
Second Course: Salad Days_Ebook ISBN: 978-1-60054-570-2 - $3.00
Third Course: Whores d’Oeuvres_Ebook ISBN: 978-1-60054-586-3
Fourth Course: Beefed Up And Porked_ Ebook ISBN: 978-1-60054-588-7 - $3.00
Fifth Course: Torte a Lesson_Ebook ISBN: 978-1-60054-608-2 - $3.00
Sixth Course: Café Or Lay_5112_1008 - $3.00
lyd Category: His and His Kisses
Length: 336 pdf Pages / words 68255
Formats Available: pdf, prc, lit, zipped html, lrf, epub, RocketBooks, Trade Paperback, Spiral Bound Print
Complete Digital Edition Cover Price: $14.50
Trade Paperback Cover Price: $17.99
One of the best views in London was spread out before me. I was close to the top in one of the observation bubbles on the London Eye, that enormous wheel that overlooks the Thames near the Houses of Parliament and the phallic Big Ben, but I wasn’t looking at them. Nope, the best view in London at that precise moment was the arse that was spread invitingly before me. Coincidentally, it also belonged to a Ben.
We were alone in a cabin meant for twenty-five, even I baulked at twenty-four delicious arseholes spread before me, having bribed the attendant with a number of large denomination Sterling notes, a surreptitious grope, and a business card with my private phone number: sometimes it pays to be famous. Now, when I should have been admiring Ye Olde World charms of the English capital I was, in fact, admiring the new world charms of the English rump. And I was about to embed my cock in said beauty, to the delight of the few glass cabins around us that could see everything we were doing. There was absolutely no privacy, but I cared little for that. Ben, though, seemed much less eager to have his arse banged than I was to shag it.
And that, dear reader, is where this adventure began.
The how and why are a different matter. For that I have to back up a little – not my usual style.
Maybe if I start this tale the way I was taught by the austere Mrs. Patterson at my state high school in Sydney, Australia. I’m not a writer, you see. It’s not my forte, but we’ll get to that. So, at the top of the page I write my name. Kaden ‘Buddy’ Reznor. I used to hate that name at school because it made me stand out. Joke, right? Now I do everything in my limited box of tricks to stand out. Some people would call that ironic but I guess those sort of folk aren’t likely to be reading this. See, my ‘minders’ told me to act all sort of folksy for the market this book is aimed at.
That’s all bullshit. My real name is Buddy. Bit common, right? But that’s why my program on YouTube was called The Taste Buddy. You ever watch it? Good, right? Until some rather more, shall we say, private home videos began to appear as well, dropping the definite article – the “The” for those of the more grammatically challenged amongst you – under the title Taste Buddy. Some trashy folk whom I’d invited back to my apartment to share a few moments of intimate pleasure thought they could jump on the celebrity bandwagon by making a video of themselves actually tasting me in the flesh, thought it would enhance their desirability while tarnishing mine. In actual fact, it had the reverse effect: my popularity increased in direct proportion to my cock size.
Okay, I’ll admit most of it was my fault. But, gimme a break, what do you expect, I’m gorgeous. Have you seen me? Right. Why be modest? That only comes across as crap. I’m an alpha male with alpha male appetites. Gotta spread my seed around. Distribute the wealth, so to speak. And there’s an awful lot of guys out there want to sub for me. Yep, I’m gay. Right at the very end of the Richter Scale of gayness. I’m not saying ‘no’ if the right woman came along, but there’s so many fuckin’ men to get through before that will ever happen.
Sometimes if I’m feeling lazy or tired I’ll sub, but it’s gotta be the right man. Big, big, big. Then I can be a nelly queen like the best of ’em. No offence meant. The term is not derogatory in my book. I think bottom guys are the salt of the earth. I just ain’t one of them. But I admire them greatly. The way they suck cock, the way they spread their cute pink hole for the ramrod invader who is only intent on stretching their limits.
That’s what I was doing in the lead up to this adventure. Stretching Ben’s limits, as well as his hole. He saw himself as strictly top, I saw him as mainly bottom. And that’s what we were negotiating at that moment.
Barry Lowe loves crime fiction from Arthur Conan Doyle to Arnaldur Indriðason. In primary school he created his first crime fighter, The Count, which he read aloud to his classmates each afternoon. Since then he’s been happily churning out the odd gay sex comedy for stage as well as a mountain of newspaper columns and an avalanche of erotica for print and eBooks. He is also the author of Atomic Blonde, a biography of 1950s sex goddess, Mamie Van Doren. He finally decided it was time to combine his love of food with crime and turn his hand to an adult whodunit. He lives in Sydney, Australia, with his long-term partner, Wally.