Insomniac Sean Diaz spends his nights riding the subway around Manhattan, ignoring the people he might encounter, getting lost in the rhythms of the train so he’s exhausted enough to sleep once he gets home. A hallucination of his dead high school boyfriend turns it into an obsession, but when Sean sees him a second time, he nearly falls apart.
That’s how Judah Morey, another nighttime rider, finds Sean. Concern prompts conversation, which in turn sparks friendship. When Judah invites Sean back to his place, Sean decides to take a chance for the first time in nearly a decade. Dating is new territory for him, but he thinks he’s ready for it. He just needs to figure out how to let go of the past so he can take that step into his future...
Heat Level: 3
Length: Extended Amber Kiss (15k words)
Read a short excerpt...
...I’d avoided the 4 for the most part, but when I got off work, I felt ridiculous for being afraid of it. I made the deliberate choice to get on and stay on until the early commuters started showing. In my mind, that would prove once and for all it was just like all the rest and I wasn’t going crazy.
I got the brilliant idea to recreate the exact situation from last time when I did the turnaround at 125th.
And he was there again, hovering at the edge of my peripheral vision, when I opened my eyes.
My heart thumped against my ribs, like it was just as desperate to break free and get to Dixon as I suddenly was. I couldn’t breathe. I was too afraid to even fucking move because he’d disappeared when I’d done that the last time. I refused to blink and have him vanish in that millisecond for as long as I could tolerate, and then exhaled in relief when his reflection was still there after I did.
I wouldn’t turn my head and look for him, but I let my gaze slide firmly in his direction so it was easier to focus.
When his reflection stayed steady, I felt like crying.
“Dixon,” I whispered.
He smiled at me. I broke. I looked.
The seat opposite the reflection was empty. The reflection itself was gone.
I bolted and ran down the middle to get to where I’d seen him, but the seat and window looked like all the rest of the car. My hands shook as they felt over every inch of the dirty glass, the gritty floor, the textured seat. When I collapsed against the center pole, I trembled all over.
I’d seen him. I was sure of it. Except he wasn’t there, and there was nothing to suggest someone was pranking me, and fuck, I wouldn’t be hallucinating about him now after all these years when I hadn’t even done that after he’d died, would I?
My eyes burned, but grinding the heels of my palms against them eased the urge to sob. It wasn’t an anniversary of any sort that I could figure out. It wasn’t even close. It was the middle of September, and Dixon had died a few weeks before his eighteenth birthday in February. Other months would’ve made more sense, like January for my birthday, October for when we met, December for when we had our first kiss, August for when I got out of the hospital.
September just might be the only month the entire year that I couldn’t find any special significance for at all. At least until now.
I was still sitting on the floor when we reached Grand Central. I thought about getting off, but my legs were watery and my head ached. Better to wait, get off at the Bridge, and spring for a taxi to take me home.
The doors whispered open. Just before they closed again, ready for the train to leave, someone hopped through the opening.
The new arrival was a husky guy in his thirties with a three-day beard and a bulging backpack thrown over his broad shoulder. He huffed as he sank into the closest seat, only noticing me after we’d started up. His relaxed posture stiffened, though to his credit, he didn’t otherwise move.
“You okay, man?”
The question startled me. Forget the fact that talking to strangers on subways is suicide. People rarely spoke to me unless they had to or had known me for a while. It served me well most of the time, but I wasn’t sure what to do about this...
I got the brilliant idea to recreate the exact situation from last time when I did the turnaround at 125th.
And he was there again, hovering at the edge of my peripheral vision, when I opened my eyes.
My heart thumped against my ribs, like it was just as desperate to break free and get to Dixon as I suddenly was. I couldn’t breathe. I was too afraid to even fucking move because he’d disappeared when I’d done that the last time. I refused to blink and have him vanish in that millisecond for as long as I could tolerate, and then exhaled in relief when his reflection was still there after I did.
I wouldn’t turn my head and look for him, but I let my gaze slide firmly in his direction so it was easier to focus.
When his reflection stayed steady, I felt like crying.
“Dixon,” I whispered.
He smiled at me. I broke. I looked.
The seat opposite the reflection was empty. The reflection itself was gone.
I bolted and ran down the middle to get to where I’d seen him, but the seat and window looked like all the rest of the car. My hands shook as they felt over every inch of the dirty glass, the gritty floor, the textured seat. When I collapsed against the center pole, I trembled all over.
I’d seen him. I was sure of it. Except he wasn’t there, and there was nothing to suggest someone was pranking me, and fuck, I wouldn’t be hallucinating about him now after all these years when I hadn’t even done that after he’d died, would I?
My eyes burned, but grinding the heels of my palms against them eased the urge to sob. It wasn’t an anniversary of any sort that I could figure out. It wasn’t even close. It was the middle of September, and Dixon had died a few weeks before his eighteenth birthday in February. Other months would’ve made more sense, like January for my birthday, October for when we met, December for when we had our first kiss, August for when I got out of the hospital.
September just might be the only month the entire year that I couldn’t find any special significance for at all. At least until now.
I was still sitting on the floor when we reached Grand Central. I thought about getting off, but my legs were watery and my head ached. Better to wait, get off at the Bridge, and spring for a taxi to take me home.
The doors whispered open. Just before they closed again, ready for the train to leave, someone hopped through the opening.
The new arrival was a husky guy in his thirties with a three-day beard and a bulging backpack thrown over his broad shoulder. He huffed as he sank into the closest seat, only noticing me after we’d started up. His relaxed posture stiffened, though to his credit, he didn’t otherwise move.
“You okay, man?”
The question startled me. Forget the fact that talking to strangers on subways is suicide. People rarely spoke to me unless they had to or had known me for a while. It served me well most of the time, but I wasn’t sure what to do about this...
It sounds intriguing & very original. I don't think I have ever read about insomnia in a romance novel. Adding it to my list. Thanks!
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