To Kristi, the Daria to my Jane. Or are you the Jane to my Daria? Either way, you’re my person.
To listen on iMusic, click here.
“Something in the Way” by Nirvana
“supercuts” by Jeremy Zucker
“Gravity” by Sara Bareilles
“The Search” by NF
“Gone Too Soon” by Andrew Jannakos
“If You’re Too Shy…” The 1975
“Motion Sickness” by Phoebe Bridgers
“A Thousand Bad Times” by Post Malone
“Breathe (2AM)” by Anna Nalick
“Runaway Train (with Skylar Grey feat. Gallant)” by Jamie N Commons
“Alaska” by Little Hurt
WELCOME TO BRIGS FERRY BAY…
Brigs Ferry Bay is a steamy MM romance series.
While each book can be read as a standalone, to get the full experience, they’re best read in order.
Enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, hurt comfort, age-gap romance, and so much more.
Fall in love with the charming small-town gay romances of Brigs Ferry Bay…
Archer
“I’ll say it again, we should head back early. This storm is going to be ugly.” Mason stares through the window in the cabin, studying the rolling waves of the Bering Sea.
“That’s why we shouldn’t. Everyone else probably is, which will make our haul that beyond valuable,” I argue.
“I don’t know. Everything I’m hearing is this one’s going to be ugly,” Adler warns. “But Archer’s right. We’ll be able to charge double if everyone else goes back to the port with a short load.”
“Then let’s do it,” I say, zipping my coat and sliding my hands back in my gloves. I massage Mason’s shoulders as we leave the cabin and step out into the miserable weather.
“It’s going to be a rough one.” Mason grabs hold of a giant crab pot and pitches it into the ocean. I can barely hear him over the wind and water slapping me from every direction.
“Not as rough as what’s going to happen to you later,” I holler back and throw him a wink he probably can’t see with my raincoat hood drawn down over my face.
He grins at me devilishly. Even with the icy temperatures and being soaked to my bones, my body warms. He’s a fucking gorgeous man with a penchant for danger. He’s perfect and tonight, after we’ve put in a long day and have finally warmed up, both by showering and making love, I plan to ask him to marry me. I reach down and feel the square box in my pocket and smile.
His rubber boots slip out from under him and he falls flat on his ass, sliding toward the cutout in the side of boat. His features turn panic stricken and he scrambles to reach for the thick rope that’s coiled next to him before he topples over the edge. I’ve only made it a few feet in his direction when he hops up in front of me. Our eyes catch and a million unspoken words are said.
Despite our earlier joking, we both know risks here are real. Temperatures often plummet to negative thirty degrees Fahrenheit, wave heights can top fifty feet, and winds can reach sixty knots. Yet day after day, we’re out here throwing crab pots and bringing them back in. All to catch the elusive king crab and go home with a fat paycheck, while hopefully not losing our lives.
“I meant to do that!” he shouts and I shake my head. Not funny.
Hours go by. We strategically toss pots, bring others up, and if we’re lucky enough to catch something, we empty the crab into a holding tank for processing when we’re back on dry land. After nearly eight hours of taxing labor, we ready ourselves to throw out the few remaining pots we’ll leave out all night.
“Last ten!” I say and use the lift to hook onto a pot sitting on top of the stack. I bring it down to the deck and unhook it while Mason braces himself to hurl it into the ocean.
“Cowabunga!” he shouts, chucking the pot and laughing at his lame Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles joke. All of his white teeth are showing when he smiles brilliantly over at me.
“You’re an idiot,” I joke. I’d never admit this to him, but I love that he watches old movies from the eighties and nineties. It’s our favorite thing to do back at our place in Homer, Alaska. If we’re not fishing and hiking, we’re cuddled on the couch with some cult classic movie on.
“You love me.”
I listen to the whir of the thick rope rubbing along the edge of the boat as the pot sinks deeper and deeper into the ocean.
Something’s off.
There’s an extra sound, like the rope is brushing something other than the boat. A sick feeling hits me in the gut. My eyes dart to the ground and see Mason’s boot is inside a loop in the rope. God fucking dammit. He knows to watch his feet, but he gets lazy at the end of the day.
“Mason!” I warn, pointing at his boots.
His face falls and he looks down. He tries to pull his boot free, but there’s no time. It’s already tightened around his ankle. The last image I have of my almost fiancé is the absolute horror on his face as he’s yanked off the boat and pulled into the ocean.
“Mason!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Mason! No!”
I run to the edge of the boat, but there’s no saving him. He’s thirty feet underwater by now and there’s no safe way to pull him out. It doesn’t stop me from trying. I grab a life vest and secure a rope to the boat and loop it around my middle. I’ve almost dived in after him when Adler stops me. He holds me close. I try to fight him, but I’m unsuccessful.
“You can’t do that, kid. You know as well as I do, he’s gone.”
“No. I can still save him. I can find him. Let me go.” I struggle against Adler’s arms.
“Won’t let you do that. I won’t lose both of my best friends in one day.” His eyes brim with tears.
“Mason!” I wail into the nothingness and sink to my knees, sobbing. “Noooo!”
“Archer.” Someone shakes my arm. “Archer. You’re having a nightmare. Wake up.”
I jolt upright and scan my surroundings. I’m in a bed, not on a boat. I’m in pajamas, not in rubber boots and a thick raincoat. It’s my sister’s tired face in front of me, not Mason’s. But one thing’s the same. Mason’s dead.
“Sorry, Sara. Did I wake you?” I scrub a hand down my face, running my fingers through my beard.
“I think you woke the whole house.” Her point is proven when I hear the sound of her three-year-old crying from a room down the hall.
Her brows furrow and she pinches the skin at the base of her throat. She’s worried. She’s always worried. The last thing I want to do is make things worse for her. I’m supposed to be here for her. Not the other way around.
I moved to Brigs Ferry Bay last week to help her when her loser ex-husband, Chad, abandoned her and their kids for a younger woman with no baggage. He emptied their bank accounts claiming it was his money since she was a stay-at-home mom, packed up all his things, and left without even a goodbye to their small children.
She called me crying, telling me she needed me. She didn’t know I was barely existing back in Alaska. She probably wouldn’t have asked for me to move here otherwise.