A funny thing happened on the way to the end of the Dirty Series…
I introduced Ichiro Tokugawa, Cole’s half-brother and, well, things went to shit in a handbasket where Bobby Dawson was concerned.
I in no way planned for Bobby to have his own book. Never even crossed my mind. I’d sooner write Claudia a book instead of Bobby but… things went Jabberwocky real quick.
Suddenly, I was shipping a goddamned couple in my own book. What. The. Hell.
Ichiro’s personality is… complicated. Bobby’s not so much. So writing them together… involved adding canon and back story I’d thought about but never really scribbled down into any of the books. Not because Cole’s a selfish bastard but because, well, the Dirty series isn’t about Bobby, Ichi and how their lives are doing.
And playing their relationship out in between the pages of Cole’s life did not seem fair. A relationship deserves some kind of acknowledgement, so in Dirty Deeds I began to lay the seeds down for Bobby and Ichi to be sneaking behind Cole’s back and working on doing the one thing they shouldn’t be doing—falling in love.
So, here I am, with a cover and a bit of a snippet—which I’ve posted on Facebook before but ah, why not? This is raw. No editing and hey, Grace and the rest of her DSP editing Crewe will polish it up and make me look good once again, so… expect it all shiny and sexy come this December from Dreamspinner Press.
Here we go, guys… Bobby and Ichi…together at last.
Down and Dirty Excerpt:
Bobby didn’t know why he’d let himself get conned into fighting LAX traffic and then back up to Hollywood, but Cole asked for a favour, so when a guy’s best friend coughs up gas money and a Starbucks gift card for a trip to Air Cargo, he’d have to be an ass to say no.
He wanted to say no. God knows he wanted to. Because transporting the heavy leather massage table to Hollywood meant getting up close and personal with Ichiro Tokugawa, Cole’s hot and definitely off limits little brother.
There were rules.
Lines a guy did not cross with regards to friends.
A guy didn’t drink the last beer. He didn’t throw up on anything without cleaning it up, and a good friend paid his friends with beer and pizza when they sacrificed a Saturday to help him move. A guy got drunk with his friend at funerals and wrote embarrassing speeches about them when they married the love of their life. A guy did not date an ex—an ex defined as someone who once was considered an actual boy/girlfriend and not a trick. Same thing went for siblings and possibly cousins.
Especially where good friends were concerned.
Doubly so when the other guy was the best friend Bobby’d ever had in his entire life.
But that all meant shit because deep down—and not so deep down—Bobby was keenly aware of one glaring claxon of trouble.
He badly wanted to fuck Cole McGinnis’ younger brother.
Hollywood Boulevard at noon was a game of Frogger and Dodge-the-Ped. Oblivious tourists didn’t seem to understand the black stripe going down the middle was filled with cars, and the various freaks working the strip in superhero costumes, or their own version of weird, were more than willing to risk dying under American steel as streams of buses disgorged fat-walleted victims. Every inch of space along the street’s main stretch was filled with people, sound and a riot of colour.
Old school glamour and faded glitz fought valiantly against the encroachment of the shiny-bright, neon-rich flash of buildings marching up from the coffers of a newer Hollywood. Only bits and pieces remained of the days when a woman asked a man if he knew how to whistle, and those remaining shreds were being quickly swallowed up by glass and steel monuments to capitalism.
“Jesus, Dawson,” Bobby muttered under his breath, “when the fuck did you get so old?”
He didn’t feel old.
He could still beat Cole down in the ring and hit a mile mark in six minutes. Hell, the night before he’d kept up with the three twinks trolling the Down and Dirty, looking for a good time. He’d shown them a hell of a good time, even going so far as to dip more than his wick into the blondest of the trio, but fifteen minutes into wringing cries for more out of the man, Bobby’s mind drifted off. Instead of concentrating on the blond he’d impaled on his dick, Bobby found himself thinking about Ichiro, a snarky Japanese man who was more off limits to him than a radioactive vibrator.
“Like the goddamn apple in the Garden of Eden.” Stopping long enough to let a gaggle of visor-wearing tourists cross the road, he stared out of the window at a sea of bobbing Hawaiian shirts and zinc-slathered skin. “You know you want a bite, Dawson. One big fucking bite and if you do it, your world’s going to go to shit. And no guy is worth that kind of trouble.”
But damned if Ichiro didn’t look like he’d give it his best shot.
The man was just swinging off of a Harley Fat Boy Lo when Bobby pulled up in front of Ichiro’s new shop. Snug leather chaps framed Ichiro’s ass and ran snug down his powerful legs, the leather nearly blending in with his black jeans. After taking off his helmet, Ichi shook out his razor-edged mane, running his fingers through the bright red-streaked strands to work out any knots, his leather jacket wrinkling as his shoulders moved. Mirrored sunglasses shielded Ichi’s cinnamon brown eyes from view but nothing could hide the man’s lush mouth. Its plump lower lip promised sin and wickedness with every moue and nibble from Ichiro’s white teeth.
“Fuck, get your shit together,” Bobby took advantage of the truck’s higher profile and tugged at his crotch to loosen the denim around his growing bulge. “It’s just another piece of ass. Just like the thousands you’ve looked at before.”
Then Ichiro bent over his Harley’s seat to lock it down and Bobby’s mouth crackled with the sudden lack of moisture on his tongue.
“Goddamned cock tease.”
Getting out of his truck, Bobby nodded a hello to Ichiro, who was digging something out of his pocket. The worn in chaps didn’t seem willing to give up their prize, but the leather finally gave in and Ichi tugged out a loop of jingling metal keys.
“Hey, thanks for going to get the table, Bobby.” Ichiro’s roiling purr was huskier than his older brother’s, and he caught each word carefully before speaking, as if testing out its flavour before letting it go. His English was flawless, a tinge of softness to his consonants but his voice was firmly masculine, a rough velvet Bobby liked listening to.
Damned if he didn’t like hearing the man say his name.
Even better if he could hear Ichiro scream it.
About the Author: Rhys Ford was born and raised in Hawai’i then wandered off to see the world. After chewing through a pile of books, a lot of odd food, and a stray boyfriend or two, Rhys eventually landed in San Diego, which is a very nice place but seriously needs more rain.
Rhys admits to sharing the house with three cats of varying degrees of black fur and a ginger cairn terrorist. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep a 1979 Pontiac Firebird, a Toshiba laptop, and an overworked red coffee maker.
Find Rhys at rhysford.com and Facebook.