Taste Test: Under Arrest Is Out

Wednesday, March 21, 2007


Taste Test: Under Arrest
a mini anthology
edited by Rob Knight


You have the right to read about sexy cops!

That's right, cuff 'em and take them home. These cops are hot, tough, and looking for love. From CB Potts comes a small town cop with a big town problem on its hands. He's got a grumpy grandma, a pack of criminals, and the hottest man he's ever seen to deal with. Vincent Diamond brings along a retired cop with a terrible need to be touched. And from James Buchanan, we get a tale from the other side of the law, with a bad boy who has a real thing for the lawman.

Lock this one up in your bedroom today!
An Excerpt from Pat Down by James Buchanan

Jeff was a fuck up. He knew he was a fuck up. He knew it because he was running hell bent across the back side of Doniphan Drive. Sprinting along the boarder between Texas and New Mexico somewhere past two in the morning, the slap of hard soles on the asphalt drove him. His jaw ached. Throbbed was more like it. Stupid moron in the bar had decided to swing a punch and then everyone got mad because he threw one back. Life was just unfair.

What was even more unfair was being hauled out of the pile of arms and legs by Chris Mathers. High school hunk, all around jock: the good boy who went off to college and was going to be someone. Jeff couldn’t even allow himself the luxury of hating Chris. Chris had been nice in a way that the popular kids weren’t supposed to be.

Easy and confident Chris strode through life. In gym, Jeff watched without watching, memorizing how Chris moved. Jeff longed for the odd, off-the-cuff blessing of a smile, and hated himself for doing so. Chris’ voice seeped through his frame during science class. Hidden behind those big ceramic slab counters, Jeff would jack-off in the back row of the lab. No matter how much Jeff tried, oblivious Chris never saw anything, never noticed. What did he expect? Straight arrow described Chris Mathers, in more than one sense. Jeff had always been, and always would be, among the not quite good enough crowd.

Plus he didn’t have tits. Giggling herds of girls swarmed the jock everywhere he went. That’s where Chris’ attention lay.

After graduation, Chris had gone on and up. Everyone expected him to become a banker, lawyer, or doctor. Jeff headed to the State University. He’d graduated. That was the best that could be said for it. Well, and he’d finally accepted himself, which helped him move beyond much of his angsting high school past. Put it all behind and move forward was his motto. So his job was crap, at least he liked himself now. His bosses liked him. Guys at the plant liked him. Sometimes, like tonight, he and a bunch of his co-workers would head out for a beer. Jeff would relax, hang out and for once be part of “the crowd.”

Then some jerk had said the wrong thing in the parking lot. The instigator had been massively ploughed. Jeff hadn’t been feeling much pain either. Enough people egging them on and words went to blows. Jeff happily pounded the assholes face into the gravel until a hard, lean set of arms wrapped around his chest and hauled him off.

He’d spun around, ready to come out swinging, and found himself staring into set of dark brown eyes. Eyes he hadn’t seen in seven years. All the hell Jeff though he’d left behind pushed its way into his not-quite-sober brain. Like an idiot he’d sputtered out, “Hey, Chris, long time, no see.”
Chris hadn’t said anything. He just stared with narrowed eyes and a hard set mouth. Then Jeff’s gaze drifted down over a hard muscled chest. Jeff remembered that chest getting a lot of behind the eyes time in his teenaged stroke fantasies. Whispering sweet nothings, Jeff would ease Chris out of his lettermen’s jacket. He’d watch those dark nipples get hard under a thin t-shirt and then he’d just lick every inch of skin. That chest had gotten him through many a one-handed date.
Unfortunately that chest was now covered in a black uniform shirt. Storm-grey pocket flaps, epaulets and placket under the buttons jarred against the dark background. Gold accents came off as gaudy not military. Silver patches were stitched to straining short sleeves. A thin leather belt crossed from his left shoulder to right hip, sliding under his badge. It all looked like some military dictator’s idea of a joke. And cowboy boots; only in New Mexico could a State Patrol officer get away with cowboy boots.

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