Southern Fried

Southern Fried,
the romantic misadventure of Trip Jackson

and his stable boy, Zeb Jones, is about the love of family, the

love of one’s heritage, and the love between friends, both

old and new. It’s as antebellum as Tara ever was, but with

a deliciously suspenseful and sexy twist. Because what our

heroes are quick to discover is that not all is as it appears to

be, and sometimes life can get turned upside down when

you least expect it. Especially when lip-smacking romance,

deep-dish humor, and a side of mystery fall on your plate,

all, of course, served up southern-style.

“
Southern Fried
by Rob Rosen is a charismatic, erotic,

comic, and gastronomic trip through the South with a dash

of mystery and pinch of peaches. You’ll close the book

with a smile and a craving for sweet tea.”

-- Greg Lilly, author of the Derek Mason Mystery series

“
Southern Fried
is Rob Rosen’s best yet, a sexy and fun

whodunit set in a southern mansion full of soul food and

mystery. The chapter titles could have been pulled from

Paula Dean’s recipe files, so be forewarned not to start

reading on an empty stomach. Did I mention sexy? Plenty

of that and it’s hot!”

-- Mark Abramson, author of the Beach Reading series

“With any of Rob’s popular books you know you are

going to get something good, something interesting, and

this
Southern Fried
tale is no exception.”

-- Wayne Mansfield, Author of
The Stroke of Midnight

MLR PRess AuthoRs

Featuring a roll call of some of the best writers of gay erotica

and mysteries today!

Derek Adams

Z. Allora

Maura Anderson

Victor J. Banis

Jeanne Barrack

Laura Baumbach

Ally Blue

J.P. Bowie

Barry Brennessel

Michael Breyette

Nowell Briscoe

P.A. Brown

Jade Buchanan

James Buchanan

Charlie Cochrane

Karenna Colcroft

Jamie Craig

Kirby Crow

Ethan Day

Diana DeRicci

Jason Edding

Theo Fenraven

Angela Fiddler

S.J. Frost

Kimberly Gardner

Michael Gouda

Roland Graeme

Storm Grant

Amber Green

LB Gregg

Kaje Harper

Jan Irving

David Juhren

Kiernan Kelly

M. King

Matthew Lang

J.L. Langley

Josh Lanyon

Anna Lee

Elizabeth Lister

Clare London

William Maltese

Z.A. Maxfield

Timothy McGivney

Lloyd A. Meeker

Patric Michael

AKM Miles

Reiko Morgan

Jet Mykles

William Neale

Cherie Noel

Willa Okati

Neil S. Plakcy

Jordan Castillo Price

Luisa Prieto

Rick R. Reed

A.M. Riley

Rob Rosen

George Seaton

Jardonn Smith

Caro Soles

JoAnne Soper-Cook

Richard Stevenson

Liz Strange

Marshall Thornton

Lex Valentine

Maggie Veness

Haley Walsh

Missy Welsh

Stevie Woods

Lance Zarimba

Check out titles, both available and forthcoming, at

www.mlrpress.com

southeRn

FRied

Rob Rosen

mlr
press

www.mlrpress.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are

used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or

persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2011 by Rob Rosen

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole

or in part in any form.

Published by

MLR Press, LLC

3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.

Albion, NY 14411

Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet:

www.mlrpress.com

Cover Art by Deana C. Jamroz

Editing by Rick R. Reed

Print format ISBN# 978-1-60820-435-9

ebook format ISBN#978-1-60820-436-6

Issued 2011

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication

or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of

International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and

upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot

be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can

be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the

publisher.

Dedication

For my husband, Kenny, who’s the butter on my biscuit.

Psst
. Hey, hey you up there. Yep, you, you looking down all

confused like. I know we’re not supposed to talk, you and me,

but, heck, if I’m gonna be in it up to my ears, might as well take

as many innocent bystanders right along with me, right? Not that

you look all that innocent, mind you, but still.

Anyway, the shit already hit the fan – fuck it,
fans
, plural – and

damn if I didn’t leave my shit-smock back in New York. Who

knew it would come in handy, right? I mean, funerals are sad

and all, but they’re not supposed to be friggin’ deadly. Least not

for those of us still around to witness them, I mean. Granny, on

the other hand, well now, it couldn’t have been more deadly for

her, I suppose. Still, from what those nice people down at the

mortuary told me, she was the prettiest corpse you ever laid eyes

on, which, considering she was ninety when she kicked that old

proverbial bucket, that’s really saying something. Heck, they said

that by the time they were done with her she didn’t look a day

over sixty. Kind of bitter irony, I suppose: looking your best and

never getting a chance to see it. Though with Granny, I wouldn’t

put it past her. She was probably hovering over the service the

entire time.

“Wait a darn minute,” I bet she was hollering over to that

angel, Gabriel. “Yeah, yeah, I see your damn light; just hold your

horses. Gotta find out what these folks really thought of me.”

Truth was, it wasn’t a whole hell of a lot. People respected

her, for sure, but love is such a strong word. And so is hate. Oh,

I certainly loved her, of course, but she was my granny. Only

family I ever really had. But she was more of an acquired taste.

Sort of like escargot. I mean, you can cover it up with rich sauces

and charge a pretty penny for it, but when it comes right down to

it, you’re still just eating a bunch of snails. That was Granny, all

2 Rob Rosen

right: a bit of a slug with one damn fine, pretty shell.

Sorry, Granny, but I’m not telling this nice person anything

they couldn’t just as easily find out for themselves. I mean, you

just had to listen to the scuttlebutt outside the funeral home if

you wanted to get yourself an earful. Not that they weren’t trying

to keep it from me, her only living relative and supposed heir to

her fortune, though. Except I heard it just the same. Loud and

clear.

Wait, wait. You caught that
supposed
heir, huh? Well, and

rightly so. See, I assumed everything was coming to me, too. Like

I said, we were all each other had, in terms of blood. My parents,

my mom being Granny’s only daughter, see, both of them were

killed in a car accident when I was just a baby. No other family

from what I’d been told. No aunts or uncles, maybe some distant

cousins nobody ever talked about. No one sending Christmas

cards who wasn’t on the payroll, though. So the estate should’ve

come to me. Lock, stock, and barrel.

Smoking barrel, as it turned out.

Cue the doom and gloom music.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here. I mean, you have to

be wondering why this is the first time I’d been back home in

nearly ten years, right? Well, that was Granny’s doing, too. Come

to think of it, everything was Granny’s doing. Always was. And,

based on the reading of her will, would be for quite some time

to come.

“Nothing for you down here, Trip,” she told me, way back

when, a week shy of my eighteenth birthday as she packed me

up and shipped me off, first and last time she ever stepped foot

inside an airport. “Just me and a bunch of pissy servants out in

the middle of nowhere. Best for you to go up North, get yourself

a decent education.”

Not that I had a choice, really. Once she made up her mind,

that was all she wrote. Besides, she was right. Granny lived deep,

deep inside the South Carolina low country, and that’s about as

deep as a fellow can get, the nearest neighbor a good several

southeRn FRied
3

miles away down a barely paved road. More alligators than people

in those parts. Still, it was the first time I’d been away, and I was

pretty near terrified. And the North? Granny was a die-hard

southerner. Most I heard about the North was that it was full of

people who talked too loud, too fast, and ate with their mouths

open. Meaning, about all I could picture were folks with really

strong jaws. Plus, there wasn’t a Baptist in the bunch. Least not

her kind of Baptist. But, like I said, that’s what she wanted for me

and that’s what I got. A kiss and a hug and a wallet full of cash,

and I was on my merry way.

New York City.

And, man, did I ever take a bite out of that apple. Sucked it

dry, seeds and all. Two college degrees, a handful of ex boyfriends,

and a closet full of Marc Jacobs later, and,
wham
, you got yourself

the man standing before you today. All traces of the South were

wiped clean the hell away. Mostly. Which is why, getting off that

plane in Savannah, I felt like a fish out of water. Catfish, if I had

my way. Southern fried.

Makes your mouth water, doesn’t it?

Anyway, not like me and Granny didn’t see each other in all

that time. She’d get her chauffeur to drive her up to Atlanta, fly

me down, meet me at the Peachtree Hotel, get us a couple of

suites overlooking the city. She’d take me shopping, catch me

up on her antics, and try to pry me for mine. Though good luck

with that, right? Would’ve put her in her grave way before her

ninetieth birthday, let me tell you. A boy can antic the hell on out

in New York City. Antic enough to leak on over to New Jersey,

for that matter. Suffice it to say, Granny got the watered down

version. Buckets of water, really.

Oh, she knew I was gay, and all. Would’ve taken a whole

ocean to water that little tidbit down. And let me tell you, there’d

still be some flame left over. Still, the Southern Baptist in her got

put on the back burner when it came to the gay stuff. Granny was

a veritable fag hag when she wanted to be, in fact. Dragged me

to more than my share of gay bars in Midtown Atlanta. Queen

of the ball, she was. Queen of the queens of the ball, to be exact.

4 Rob Rosen

But that was the side of Granny only I ever got to see, when

she let her hair down, kicked up her heels. Orthopedic though

they were. Back at the mansion, and, yes, it was as antebellum as

Tara ever was, she was a prim and proper and very, very bibletoting-southern lady: hair in a bun, blouse buttoned up to her neck, lips pursed, eyes steely gray. The woman put the fear of