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Hot Mafia Blues A Gay Mafia New Adult Romance Last Chances Academy Book 2 1st Edition Parker Avrile (Avrile
Hot Mafia Blues A Gay Mafia New Adult Romance Last Chances Academy Book 2 1st Edition Parker Avrile (Avrile
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Table of Contents
Hot Mafia Blues (Last Chances Academy)
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
T
he Last Chances Academy books were developed to be fast-
paced, page-turning escapism with a good amount of steam.
These are not “present tense” novels. The setting is 2019.
The character of Kingsley Blake/Kyle Pressley was originally
developed for a short-short story I wrote for a workshop I attended
in November 2019. The story soon expanded to become, “Bully
Crush Blues,” the prequel to Kingsley and Stryker's complicated gay
romance. Their on-again, off-again romance unfolds over the course
of two full-length novels, Hot Roommate Blues, and Hot Mafia
Blues.
Once I had the seed of an idea for a last-chances academy for
hot gay bad boys, I became excited by the challenge of writing
longer romances full of deception and twists. However, weaving all
the devious threads together took time. Although started in late
2019, most of Book #1, Hot Roommate Blues, and all of Book #2,
Hot Mafia Blues, were written and edited in 2020.
If you've read the Runaway Model trilogy or the Darke & Flare
mystery trilogy, you may already know I usually travel to the
locations used in my books.
Welp. Not an option in 2020.
My last visit to Colorado was a decade ago—years before I
became a novelist. My travel diary, photographs, and memories
provided some background, but a lot changes in a decade. Rather
than delay writing King and Stryker's story until I could travel
responsibly again, I invented my own version of these places.
Enjoy your visit to my reality.
Prologue
Stryker
The Night Before
K
ingsley and I followed a blinking light into the dark forest
beyond the tent camp. For reasons best known to Special Agent
Martin Darnell of the FBI, he didn't want to meet King, his newest
informant, at the Knoxville Field Office during normal business
hours.
Seems legit. About as legit as Birds Aren't Real and the Flat Earth
Society.
King picked out the deer trail using the flashlight app on his
phone. I stayed right on his adorkable ass. He must've been out of
his tree, thinking I'd let him slip away that easy. No way I'm letting
my hot roommate meet some creepy federal agent all by himself in
an unfamiliar stretch of national forest.
King was as tall as I was, but he was slim enough to move in
silence. Much good it did him. The broad shoulders that made me an
offensive tackle back in high school kept me crashing into branches.
Darnell could hear us coming from a mile away.
Probably just as well. Surprising an FBI agent couldn't be smart
strategy. Those guys carried Glocks.
The blinking light closed in, winked off. A bulky man emerged
from the trees. Hard to get a sense of his shape from his puffy
jacket complete with hoodie that threw his face in shadow.
King thumbed off his phone's bright beam. To the shadow he
said, “I've brought someone you want to talk to. Only I want
something too.”
“You said you'd decided to cooperate. That you had information
for me.” An older voice full of whiskey gravel. “So let's have it, Mr.
Blake.”
“I cooperate with you if you cooperate with me.” King nodded his
chin in my direction. “This is a good offer, what I'm bringing you. I
give you this, and you leave me alone.”
The agent grunted. They couldn't see each other's eyes in the
dark, but they glared at each other anyway. Did they expect me to
stand here like a lump on a bump while they dickered over me like
two shady junk dealers in a flea market?
Shifting my weight from left foot to right, I stepped in close to
the looming shadow-man. “You heard him. This is the best deal
you're getting, Darnell. You leave my fucking roommate in peace,
and I'll be your fucking informant.”
Darnell turned his shadowy face in my direction. If he thought a
few glares and stares could frighten the son of Harrison Dale, he
was nuttier than a pecan grove full of squirrels.
“It's as good a deal as you're gonna get,” I said. “Leave King in
peace, and I'll work with you to find out what you need to know
about my father.”
“How can I be sure you aren't really working for Harrison Dale?”
The obvious question. I'd been thinking how to answer for almost
the entire ride. Ugly words, but I said them. “Who gets the money if
Father's in federal prison?” I pointed with both thumbs back at my
lying heart.
Darnell liked that answer. Of course, he did. For some people, the
only motive is money. He micro-nodded with his chin. “This is
acceptable. My business with you, Mr. Blake, is now concluded.”
“I'm his ride back,” King said.
“Not anymore,” Darnell said. “You want out, you're out.”
I touched King's arm, hoping he could read all the little things in
my touch that I couldn't say in front of a stranger who was also FBI.
“It's all right, King. Go home. Sleep. Write your paper. I'm going to
be very angry if you don't turn it in on time.”
His brown eyes caught flecks of gold from the stars. They looked
a little wild. He both did and didn't want to go.
“Go,” I said. “For me. You can't keep going without sleep.
Problem is, you're the best roomie I've ever had, and I intend to
keep you.”
Part One
The Runaway
Chapter One
Kingsley
A
cold and cloudless sky washed me in the light of distant stars.
Cutting across the lawn, I arrived at the wide window of our
room in Bellmount Hall. Stryker hadn't thought to lock it behind me
before he left.
Lies, lies, my life was made of lies.
Over the sill and back inside the luxurious dorm. Not all rooms
were so comfortably furnished, but I'd been assigned to share with
none other than Stryker Dale himself, prince and heir apparent of
Chestnut Dale University. The perks included plush pillows and six-
hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. How that soft bed
called to me.
But I couldn't sleep one more time in the same room with an FBI
listening device. Going directly to the junk drawer, I found the dime-
sized gray plastic disc hidden in plain sight among the clutter. It's
easy to find a bug you planted yourself.
Fucking Special Agent Darnell forced me to. Said he'd take my
scholarship if I didn't.
Fuck Special Agent Darnell. Fuck the FBI.
I placed the plastic disc on the broad wooden tabletop of our
shared desk. Smacked it a few times with the sturdy heel of one of
Stryker's fashion-forward Chelsea boots. The disc spread out flat,
then flaked into pieces.
Anything Stryker wanted the FBI to know, he'd tell them himself.
They weren't getting hidden ears to be their cherry on top.
Over the sill and outside again, I dug deep into rich black loam
that smelled like money. It must have been purchased by the
truckload to cover the natural red soil of the region.
Everything here smelled like money. After all, the college board
had to justify the hefty tuition they charged to attend this last-
chance academy.
A thin line of gray to the east told me to hurry. It wasn't darkest
before this dawn.
There was a second device. I'd placed it in the deer blind Stryker
converted into a secret treehouse hideaway. He'd trusted me, still
trusted me. A sad irony since I was the most deceptive man he'd
ever know.
I should head out, destroy that one too.
No time. After a sleepless night, I had to write that paper for my
English comp class. Grover wouldn't give me another extension. I
turned it in by the end of the day or else.
And I hadn't even started.
A hike to the deer blind could be put off. The paper couldn't. If I
was the only one affected by my failure, I wouldn't even bother. But
cagey Professor Grover was also grading Stryker on his work as my
tutor.
I couldn't fail Stryker.
Back inside. Back at my desk. My eyes burned before I even
turned on the monitor.
The assignment was a gimme for most students, but the topic
blocked me. A Man I Admired from An Early Age. I couldn't
write about my father or my foster father. Their losses were too raw,
the need to lie about those losses too painful.
My father, along with my mother, was killed by a hitman from a
rival crime family. My foster father—Joseph Demayo, the capo—was
taken away by the FBI three years later.
No one could ever know any of that. Kingsley Blake, scholarship
kid, was a million miles away from teen mafia hacker Kyle Pressley.
Blake was an orphan who lost both parents in a small plane crash. I
could embroider on the theme, but honestly? I didn't have the heart
to invent any more lies about my parents.
Well, then. Write about a teacher. What teacher? In elementary
school, they were all women. Perhaps one of the tutors Joseph
Demayo hired for me... but no. Twist the story as I might, I couldn't
transform a computer hacker or a dirty fight trainer into the kind of
hero Grover asked us to write about.
“You're not under oath when you're writing English composition.”
Stryker's voice, husky and amused, seemed to whisper in my ear.
I jerked awake, and he was gone. His meeting with the FBI agent
was surely over by now. Unless he screwed up, unless he gave them
some reason to detain him...
Worrying wasn't useful. Writing this stupid-ass paper was useful.
Keeping my grades up so I could pass as a legit scholarship kid was
useful.
“Make something up,” is what Stryker would say. “Student essays
are fiction, science fiction.”
They're fiction because people are liars. Who knew that better
than Kingsley Blake, who'd once been boy hacker Kyle Pressley?
Fine. I'd make up a teacher.
First, I had to make up a name. Then a story. My eyes felt heavy.
Somehow, I was outside again burying the listening device. It
was bigger, bright orange instead of gray, and I had to dig deeper to
get it hidden. Even as I dug, the device was growing. No matter how
deep the hole, it was never deep enough.
Stryker, blinking, appeared at the window. “What are you doing,
King? Come back to bed.”
A sharp stab of fear to the heart.
He saw me digging. He knows.
“You spied on me.” His voice had changed on a dime into a
stranger's voice. “You planted a bug in our fucking bedroom. You
betrayed me. You lied to me. Who even are you?”
A hand clamped on my shoulder. I jerked awake spinning in my
chair.
Grayson Easterly gestured toward a brown cardboard tray with
two cups of coffee on it. I liked Gray. Tall and pale, with freckles a
lot of guys would find kissable, he'd make a fun boyfriend for
somebody.
It didn't mean he had the right to let himself into my room. His
job at the dorm's front desk—the easy access it gave him to our
room keys—had gone to his head.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Stryker called. Said to bring you coffee and ride your ass until
you finish some overdue paper.”
“He could've called me.”
“He did. You didn't answer. You must've been conked out cold.”
“Time is it?” But I was already pulling out my phone. It was
eleven, and, sure enough, I had texts.
>STRYKER: Don't text back. I won't answer. Not until Grover
says you turned in that paper. So get to work.
>STRYKER: It's all cool with special agent man.
>STRYKER: Put him out of your mind, he won't bother you
anymore.
The first question which comes up in the care of the insane is with
regard to removal from home and commitment to an asylum; and
here a great many points must be taken into consideration. It is not
always that a home can be accommodated to the use of an insane
member of the family. There are not many in which there can be
proper quiet and seclusion without depriving the patient of that
abundance of fresh air and outdoor exercise which is so often
required in treatment. Frequently those nearest to him irritate him to
the last degree, or he has some aversion or delusion in regard to
them rendering their presence injurious. If the delusions and
impulses of a patient are not such as to endanger the lives of the
household, his violence and excitement and uneasiness or
melancholia may make life simply intolerable to his relatives, or his
exactions may be exhausting to their strength and his constant
presence a means of making still others insane. His noise may
disturb a whole neighborhood. His vagaries may require control, his
indecencies concealment, his enfeeblement help more than can be
sufficiently given outside of a hospital, his general condition more
judicious care than his friends can command, and his example may
have a pernicious effect upon children growing up with an insane
diathesis. In many people a long time insane much of their vicious
conduct is due to habit or to tendencies which they cannot or will not
control without the steady, kind discipline which cannot be got at
home.
A man with delusions by virtue of which he thinks that some one is
plotting to ruin or kill him is apt to commit murder; a mother who
believes that the world is going to ruin and her children to torture
may be expected to put herself and them out of misery; a demented
woman chops off her infant's head because its cries disturb her; and
the maniac's delirium or epileptic's fury drives him into any horrible
act. Such people need to be watched always by some person or
persons fully able to prevent their doing harm, which in many cases
can only be done, with any reasonable degree of liberty to the
patient, in a hospital for the insane. If the danger is obviated by
removal of certain persons—children, for instance—or if watching by
nurses serves the purpose, and there are no Other objections to
such a course, there are cases in which the chances of cure are
more if the patient remains at home whenever the disease pursues
an acute course. Most of the insane, however, have passed the
curable stage; the majority need the moral support and freedom from
responsibility or the regular life and regimen of a hospital; and a
large proportion of the cases following a subacute or chronic course
must be removed from home. The expense attendant upon the safe
treatment of mental disease in a private house is entirely beyond the
means of most families, just as they cannot send their consumptives
to Colorado or France, and so the hospital becomes a necessity.
Except in dangerous cases, however, the hospital should never be
hastily decided upon. A little delay does not diminish the patient's
chances of recovery, and may show that the attack is only transient,
whereas removal to a strange place might aggravate the disease
and increase its duration. It is particularly important not to choose an
unfavorable time to commit an insane person to an asylum, and
thereby add to discouraging conditions already existing an additional
source of despair at a time when every influence should be as
elevating and cheering as possible. In most cases, especially if there
is a suicidal or homicidal tendency, it is best, when removal to an
asylum has been decided to be necessary, not to argue the question
with the patient, but to explain why it must be done, and then do it
without delay.
The law provides the methods of commitment to asylums. They are
so different in the different States that they cannot be discussed
here.11 The one rule holds good everywhere, however—that it is far
better to use force than deception in sending the insane from home
to asylums, and that the cases are very few in treating the insane in
or out of asylums where deception is either justifiable or wise. A
second safe rule is that a person of unsound mind is always a
source, immediate or remote, of more or less danger.
11 An abstract of the various laws may be found in the appendix to the American
edition of Clouston's Clinical Lectures on Mental Diseases.
In the general care of the insane it is the duty of the state to see that
they have all the rights of the citizen which are consistent with their
proper and safe treatment, including the benefits of property and
estate. There certainly should be in all countries, as in England,
officers whose duty it is to see that this is done. For a large number
of people with defective or diseased brains, who are now allowed to
wander about committing crimes and serving repeated sentences in
reformatories, houses of correction, and prisons, an enlightened
public policy would find the best, and in the end the cheapest,
treatment to consist in keeping them under supervision and control
as unsound members of society.
There are many crises in life when the mind totters and seems ready
to fall, which the physician is more likely to recognize than any other
person. Sometimes the odds are too heavy to fight against, but often
there is a transient mental disturbance in such critical cases, or an
incipient insanity, according as the indications are met with wisdom
and patience or with neglect, indifference, and lack of judgment. The
treatment called for is of the person rather than of the mental state,
and in all forms of mental disease success in treatment depends
very materially upon the personality of the physician, who must
adapt himself also to the personality of the patient.
In about one-fourth of the cases of insanity there is no hereditary
predisposition to the disease, and its prevention can be most
hopefully looked for in attention to the general laws of health, the
observance of which tends to secure immunity from all diseases. In
the remaining cases—three times as many, in round numbers—the
most hopeful course is in abstaining from marriage altogether or in
the avoidance of unwise marriages; and it is an encouraging fact that
many people in the community now take that conscientious view of
the matter, although if they decide what to do without competent
advice they are liable to err in the opposite direction of exaggerating
their morbid tendencies, and so increasing their unhealthy
predisposition. There are certain groups of physical and mental
manifestations which the experienced physician recognizes as signs
of tendencies which only await favorable conditions—a sufficient
exciting cause—in the indulgence in drink or other excesses, in the
exclusive search for wealth or fame, in the absence of healthy
occupation, in mental wear and worry, in over-excitement, in the
various conditions of ill-health, to develop into actual insanity. This
physiognomy of temperament suggests to the observant physician a
warning against excess of all kinds, and a recommendation for that
course in life which promises the greatest likelihood of preserving a
quiet mind and a healthy body and of securing a rational
employment. Too much work is less dangerous to most people than
too little.
Moral insanity is seldom seen in the insane asylum until the disease
has passed over into pronounced mental enfeeblement or delusional
insanity. Purely moral insanity—“an uncontrollable violence of the
emotions and instincts”—is probably as rare as purely intellectual
insanity. Moral insanity is attended with some mental impairment,
just as moral perversion is part of intellectual insanity. Indeed, I have
heard patients complain as much of the degradation of character in
their insanity as of any symptoms referable directly to the intellect.
The term is not a fortunate one, but, like the expression moral
treatment of the insane, it is in quite general use. It is recognized by
all the authorities on mental disease, whatever may be their opinions
as to the limitations of responsibility in it. It is especially to it that we
can apply the words of the Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table, that the
worst forms of insanity are those to which the asylum shuts its doors.
It is marked by moral perversion, change of character and action,
and so little intellectual impairment as to be easily overlooked by one
not familiar with morbid mental phenomena.