Synopsis:

Perfect for fans of T.J. Klune, Becky Abertalli, and David Levithan, this hilarious, big-hearted LGBTQ+ mystery follows an unlucky in love—and life—gay relationship blogger who teams up with a take-charge lesbian and a fiesty bull terrier to find a missing go-go boy and bring down an international crime ring.

Seattle teacher and part-time blogger Hayden McCall wakes sporting one hell of a shiner, with the police knocking at his door. It seems that his new crush, dancer Camilo Rodriguez, has gone missing and they suspect foul play. What happened the night before? And where is Camilo?

Determined to find answers, pint-sized, good-hearted Hayden seeks out two of Camilo’s friends—Hollister and Burley—both lesbians and both fiercely devoted to their friend. From them, Hayden learns that Camilo is a “Dreamer” whose parents had been deported years earlier, and whose sister, Daniela, is presumed to have returned to Venezuela with them. Convinced that the cops won’t take a brown boy’s disappearance seriously, the girls join Hayden’s hunt for Camilo.

The first clues turn up at Barkingham Palace, a pet store where Camilo had taken a part-time job. The store’s owner, Della Rupert, claims ignorance, but Hayden knows something is up. And then there’s Camilo’s ex-boyfriend, Ryan, who’s suddenly grown inexplicably wealthy. When Hayden and Hollister follow Ryan to a secure airport warehouse, they make a shocking connection between him and Della—and uncover the twisted scheme that’s made both of them rich.

The trail of clues leads them to the grounds of a magnificent estate on an island in Puget Sound, where they’ll finally learn the truth about Camilo’s disappearance—and the fate of his family.

Excerpt:

Chapter One

Man Down Half opening my good eye, I squinted up at the fluorescent tube dangling from the stained popcorn ceiling. The club’s manager had suggested the storeroom as a place for me to chill until my nose stopped bleeding. I appreciated the gesture. The idea was a win-win. It saved me from the pointing and whispers of the crowd, and getting me off the dance floor restored the party atmosphere typical of a weekend night at Hunters. Despite the damage done to my face, the worst of the experience had been me being the center of attention for all the wrong reasons—embarrassing for most, excruciating for yours truly. Everyone who knew me would say I was quiet and reserved—perhaps to a fault. My latest ex had joked that my tolerance for thrill-seeking maxed out on the teacups ride at Disneyland. I’d brushed off the comment with a laugh, but in truth, the remark had stung. Being five foot four (rounding up) and weighing 125 (again, rounding up) makes one sensitive to such jabs.

Add in the fact that I’m freckled and possess a shock of red-orange hair that that same ex had pegged as being the color of a Cheetos bag, and you understand why I might take offense. “Damn, dude, you’re going to have a nasty shiner. Does it hurt?” The voice startled me. I hadn’t heard anyone enter the storeroom. “Yeah, a bit. Though it probably looks worse than it feels,” I replied, trying to come off as tougher than I was. The guy stepped closer to my impromptu bed of liquor crates. It was the dancer. The dancer who had accidentally kicked me in the face. He leaned over me, momentarily blocking the harsh light, made a soft whistle. “Ugly.” “You really know how to flatter a guy,” I said, propping myself up on my elbows. He laughed, reached down a hand with the letters X.O.X.O. inked across the knuckles. “I’m Camilo.” “Hayden. Good to meet you, Camilo.” I had only ever seen Camilo up on stage. Now at ground level, he appeared to be taller than me by a good eight inches. I’d say he was about six feet. “Be back in a minute,” he said. “Just need to tell Hank I’m headed out for the night.” Camilo’s sneakers thumped across the concrete floor. Earlier, I’d noticed his shoes had no laces; the tongues of his shiny red high-tops had flapped wildly as he’d bounced across the plywood-covered pool table. Tonight wouldn’t be the first night I went home alone feeling sorry for myself. Though I had elevated my game considerably: I’d be returning to my apartment bruised and bloodied. Still, I could use the evening’s main event as material for a new post for Mates on Dates, where I took on topics related to the perplexing and often disheartening world of gay dating. I’d been toying with the notion of a humorous piece, and if I couldn’t squeeze a laugh out of this, then I should hang up my blog. Suddenly a moment of inspiration struck with the title “Go-go Boy Misfire.”

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