Josh, a lonely trapeze artist, thinks he’s cursed. It’s an old family superstition. He can’t have sex on a day he flies or he’ll fall. Maybe that’s why he’s never had a steady boyfriend, though sometimes he dreams of one. In his show, a strange melody plays in the background. It follows him and surfaces from time to time on the street. When Josh’s uncle hears about the music, he tells his nephew to bring the old ring, passed down from generations since the time of the curse. Steve is a realtor who always reaches his goals, in sales or otherwise, and he moonlights as a dancer in an all-male review on The Strip. All his friends his age are married, and his best friend’s wife Genie wants to see him hitched, too. He’s a little bit challenged in the relationship department, though. He has some growing up to do, or maybe it’s his problem in bed, where he’s somewhat one-sided. Steve and Josh meet one crazy night when Josh breaks all the rules used to protect him from the curse. After that, he runs. If it wasn’t for Genie’s matchmaking, Josh and Steve might never see each other again. Though not yet ready for a boyfriend, Josh does need a realtor. What a good way for he and Steve to get to know each other, while Josh works up the courage to tell Steve about the curse. Still unaware of Josh’s problem, Steve falls in love with him. When Steve finds out about the curse thing, it’s a big disappointment, but he wants Josh anyway. There’s no doubt Josh is worth the wait. Maybe the curse isn’t real after all. Can lonely Josh overcome his fear of it? Can horndog Steve handle a curse? Is the answer in the ancient ring?

The Curse of Flight

Home, he pulled the bike up on the stoop and unlocked the door to his old Huntridge cottage. Since he got a crime report from the neighbor, he brought his friend in with him. Safer inside than under the carport, they could see each other this way.


A carpet runner spared the blond wood floor, original to the house. They did things differently seventy years ago when this neighborhood rose from the desert. Few bothered with garages, or so the neighbor told him over the fence one day.


The door shut on his narrow street, quiet with little traffic. Nothing but silence welcomed him in the living room. Around the wall to the kitchen, he took a damp cloth, came back, and wiped the dust from the bike. A good friend since he’d seen it on that street in Naples, the black and gray lines spoke to him. He knew he must have it, or one like it at least.


Chapter 18