"It's Chicago, the dark, two men and a train. One in tight, faded jeans and a black leather vest, the other in a gray suit adorned with a carnation dyed maroon. The screeching sounds of the El invade the night, but they're easy to forget when a cold blade is pressed against your skin. Rick Reed's Riding the El at Midnight is gay horror that will haunt you long after the ride is over."--Jolie du Pre, author of lesbian erotica
"A few lines into the story Riding the El at Midnight takes a surprising jolt, leaving the reader as unsteady as if they were trying to maintain their balance standing while riding a moving train. The rest of the read is a futile effort to regain a recognizable equilibrium. Yet another disturbing but well-conceived story of the type for which Reed is renowned."--Sharon Maria Bidwell, diverse cross-genre author of The Swithin Chronicles and Snow Angel
"...A short, fast-paced chiller that will leave you feeling slightly perturbed. Rick Reed has written a chilling scenario between two men, two strangers, who may or may not be slightly disturbed. So if you like your stories with a much darker edge that cause a shiver to run up and down your spine then this is the book for you."--Woodland Nymph, Literary Nymphs Reviews
...There was something about the heat, which pressed into his basement apartment, a great lethargic beast that made Mark quiver with anticipation. The heat possessed him, making him feel at once languid and erotically charged, surrounding him with a sensual force, like a lover who would not be denied. One who would take without asking, take and take and take.
But in the end, it was Mark who would be the recipient.
He turned in front of a full-length mirror. “Whore,” he whispered, biting his lip, then burst into laughter that tinkled and fell about him: shattered glass.
Mark wore a black leather vest, jeans so faded and torn they were almost white, hanging together by mere threads, and chaps. Engineer boots, silver nipple rings joined by a chain, and a ring in his navel completed his ensemble. An eagle, wings spread and talons ready to seize, adorned his left bicep.
A black leather messenger bag hung at his waist, filled with the usual assortment: a rubber hood with two small holes, a length of clothesline, a roll of duct tape, a thin purple wand that would administer a not–so–gentle electric shock, a butt plug, tit clamps, a small brown–glassed bottle of poppers, a tube of KY Jelly, and a wad of Kleenex.
“All ready,” Mark said aloud and hurried to the front door.
A southbound el train, two blocks over, rumbled as it clattered along the tracks...