About Desert Run
by Marshall Thornton
189 pages / 58000 words
ISBN: 978-1-61040-142-5
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Palm Springs, 1973. Don Harris is a piano player on the run after
killing a Chicago mobster's son in a bar fight. On the lam, he meets a
pretty blonde girl in town for a convention. He lets down his guard and
spends the night with her only to discover she’s the younger sister of his
best friend all grown-up. Foolishly, she tips her brother off to Don’s
location, and he’s on the run again, hoping to find a safe place to land.
Out of money and desperate, Don accidentally walks into a gay bar where he
allows a kid named Harlan to pick him up so he'll have a place to stay. As
the mob chases them, Don begins to fall for the kid, putting them both in
harm's way. Harlan has problems of his own, and Don knows he shouldn't get
involved but he can't help but step in when Harlan gets in trouble. To save
himself, Don's got to save Harlan.
Review
Kiernan Kelly, author of the In Bear Country books, writes: Don Harris has a past, one he desperately hopes he's left far behind in Chicago along with his real name. Playing piano in a local bar in the middle of the desert isn't exactly a dream job, but it keeps him fed and free from bullet holes. He's alone by choice, contenting himself with picking up girls for one-night stands when he needs relief, and keeping his head low the rest of the time.
One such pick-up turns out to be a link to his past, however, and his carefully crafted life quickly spirals out of control. On the run, he meets Harlan, a young man who earns his living "caretaking" for a celebrity, meaning of course, taking care of said celebrity in bed. Harlan offers Don a place to hide, but their relationship segues from platonic to something else, something both physical and deeper, forcing Don to question his sexuality. It's a rollercoaster ride of bullets, mayhem, and hot sex as Don tries to find a solution to his problems that won't leave Harlan and himself dead.
Marshall Thornton's Desert Run is an exciting romp, full of twists, turns, and gangsters, and some very hot sex!
Sample
Inside, the place was one long room with a bar built
into the middle and a pool table in the back. The décor was supposed to
suggest the old west; the walls were covered in weather distressed wood, as
though they’d gone out into the desert, found an old abandoned building,
torn it down and tacked it up on the walls in the bar, which come to think
of it, was exactly what they’d done. In one corner an old saddle was hung on
the wall. There were rodeo posters and more than a few Marlboro ads, but
only the ones with cowboys.
The bartender had an impressive handlebar moustache. He wasn’t wearing a
shirt and had the kind of muscles that said ‘don’t cross me, I’ll beat the
shit out of you.’ I politely asked for a Miller and he gave me a longneck,
without asking if I wanted a glass. I looked around. No one had been offered
a glass. I took a long gulp of beer. I told myself that it was thirst that
made me drink down half the bottle. Warmth spread through my chest, but more
than warmth, relief. I’d missing drinking. Missed it more than I’d let
myself realize. It was like sitting down with an old friend about whom I had
fond memories, and yet a friend I knew would turn on me if I let him. I
finished the beer and nodded at the bartender for another.
This one I let sit in front of me. I knew if I drank at that speed I’d be
out of money in a little more than an hour. My choices were to slow down or
leave the bar completely. I slowed down. To distract myself from the beer
sitting in front of me, a sweat breaking out on the brown bottle, I looked
around the bar. There were about fifteen other patrons, all men, a couple
sitting together talking softly, most by themselves. Women didn’t like to go
to bars by themselves, still in a place like this someone usually brought a
girlfriend or a wife. Sometimes girls came in pairs. Safety in numbers. Then
I realized my mistake; I was in a fag bar.
Back when I was in the army, a couple of my buddies dragged me into a queer
bar in San Diego as a joke. Built it up as a place where we were sure to
score, something we wanted to do before we shipped out. It took about ten
minutes before I got the joke. I made a big stink, because when you’re with
your buddies that’s what you do, then we got out of there. It didn’t seem a
good idea to make a big stink in this place. Didn’t look like too many of
these guys would put up with it.
People who’ve never been in a queer bar imagine them to be dangerous places.
I have to admit I was one of those people. Looking around, I realized that
other than the fact it was all guys, there wasn’t a lot to tip you off.
There weren’t any queens running around in make-up and feather boas, though
it was a bright sunny afternoon, maybe they came in after dark. The crowd
didn’t look like they were planning to band together and snatch some poor
normal kid off the street and butt-rape him on the pool table. It was a
pretty average kind of place. Except it wasn’t. When I looked closer, I
could see that the body language was different. It was like every guy in the
room was a hungry lion looking to pounce. Only there weren’t any gazelles.
These lions pounced on each other. Maybe it was a more dangerous place than
it seemed.
Getting up from the bar, I walked over to the pool table. I put a dime on
the side and then scratched my name onto a small blackboard stuck on the
wall. I’d played pool a lot while I was in the service. I wasn’t great, but
maybe I was better than these guys. Maybe I could even get a couple side
bets going. It was a risk, but then what about my life wasn’t?
I went back to the bar and waited with my beer. I tried to sip slowly, but
that didn’t work so well. I was nearly finished. A kid at the end of the bar
got up and put a dime on the pool table behind mine. He had a head of black
curls floating around his ears and looked like he’d been drawn my
Michelangelo – if Michelangelo had ever drawn a boy in gym shorts, a T-shirt
two sizes too small, striped socks, and running shoes. He couldn’t have been
much more than twenty, twenty-one. His face was round and his nose plopped
in the middle of it like a dab of clay on a statue. His eyes were a deep sea
blue. He was tall, a good four inches taller than me, at least. Which didn’t
mean I couldn’t take him in a fight if I had to.
It was my turn to play and I was matched against an older guy in his
thirties named Denny. Denny wore a wife-beater and a pair of Levis. He had
on big black motorcycle boots. But I didn’t remember seeing any bikes out
front. I introduced myself and suggested the loser buy the winner a beer. I
figured I’d work it up to money later, if I turned out to be a shark. If I
didn’t, at least all I’d lost was the cost of a beer. Denny accepted the
challenge and ten minutes later he was at the bar buying me a beer.
The kid with the curls came over to take his turn. “I’m Harlan,” he told me.
“What’s your name, man?”