Some time ago, Starvation (After the Collapse #2) was released. The first book in this series is called Hunger, and it was released back in February. 

Five years ago, the world as we knew it collapsed, and the majority of people live in cities, which are run almost like individual kingdoms, but we get to follow people who have chosen to live outside of civilization. 

There are no paranormal elements to this series. 

In Starvation, we get to follow Dylan, who lives in a seaside cottage, and Hagan, who is a drifter. It celebrates National Apple Day, and you can read the first chapter below! 

Starvation

Starvation is a funny thing. It forces people to do things they didn’t believe they were capable of. 

When society collapsed, Hagan Wesson grabbed a backpack and wandered off. Life without rules suits him just fine, and in the beginning, there were plenty of things to find in abandoned houses. Five years later, most things have been picked through, and it’s becoming harder and harder not to fall prey to starvation. Which is why, when he sees Dylan, he believes he can trade some apples for a kiss.

Starvation is a dangerous thing. It turns strangers into enemies.

Dylan Hixon bought a cottage on the headland to get away from people before the collapse even happened. He never believed he’d have to live off the land, but he gets better at it every year. He’s working hard, and people always take, take, and take, which is why he won’t allow anyone to set foot on his property. He would like some apples, though.

Hagan doesn’t mean Dylan any harm, and yet he threatens to shoot him every time he visits. Would Dylan allow him to come inside if he brought more apples? And how many apples does he need to gather to get that kiss?

Buy links:

Gay Post-Apocalyptic Romance: 51,888 words

JMS Book :: Amazon

Chapter 1

Dylan Hixon strode through his garden, his rifle resting on his shoulder, a small plastic bowl in one hand, and hunger gnawing in his belly. October should be a time of abundance, and yet he hardly dared to eat.

Last winter had been way too lean for his liking, and he still hadn’t put on all the weight he’d lost during the cold, dark months.

He shuddered at the thought of them approaching again.

He’d been hungry most of his life. It had been a new experience for most people when the world as they knew it fell apart five years ago, but Dylan had spent most of his childhood being hungry. He was used to it.

A salty wind whipped up from the sea below, blowing a few strands of his blond hair into his eyes.

His cottage was situated on top of the cliffs, at the tip of the headland. The beach was a narrow strip below. It was wider farther into the bay, but people rarely came there anymore, which was good. Dylan didn’t allow anyone to get close to his cottage.

People always took and took and took. It didn’t matter if you didn’t have anything to give.

When he’d moved here, seven years ago, he’d believed he’d finally make a dream come true. After years of moving between foster homes, one place worse than the other, all he’d wanted was a place to call home. A house he owned, something no one could take from him.

He hadn’t believed he’d have to be able to live off the land. Sand and rocks didn’t make for fertile soil, and he hadn’t known shit about gardening—still didn’t know much, but learned more with each year passing.

So when he’d bought the house, he hadn’t been thinking about things like garden beds or solar panels or generators or anything of the sort. He’d only wanted a place with no close neighbors where he could lock a door around him and be able to breathe.

Things hadn’t turned out the way he’d hoped.

Once a month, he met up to trade with Frances, Kegan, Darian, Willa, Gael, and Kier. It was rare everyone showed up at the same time, but it happened. And nowadays Kegan brought Gareth too.

It embarrassed him to see how the others always had things they could trade while he had nothing.

He had salt.

It was what he did—filtered sea water and boiled it down until there was nothing but salt left, but it was a location thing. Had any of the others lived by the sea, they could’ve done it.

Frances had honey, Kegan had eggs, and Darian had things from the city. Willa, Gael, and Kier often brought things they’d grown or made. And on top of that, Gael knitted and crocheted things.

Dylan couldn’t afford anything he’d made, but he’d crocheted some beautiful blankets and knitted smaller things like beanies, scarves, and mittens. Dylan was sure he made other things too, but those were the kinds of things he brought to trade.

He shuddered at the thought of winter.

The fall had been unusually warm, which was good because he didn’t have enough food to last him through the year, and every day his plants could keep on growing in his garden was a blessing.

Things were a little better than last year, but he’d barely made it through last year, so a little better wasn’t good enough.

He strode toward the gate. Some blackberries were growing some distance away, and a few berries were still ripening. They weren’t nearly as juicy as they’d been earlier in the season, but they were edible.

He should expand the garden. He owned the entire ridge, and when he’d first bought the cottage, he had fantasies about having sheep grazing there. He’d imagined building a small shelter for them where they could come and go as they pleased.

Now, he was glad he’d never gotten around to it. He could hardly feed himself; there was no way he could keep animals.

Following the rounded brick wall surrounding his garden, he walked out on the field and toward the blackberry shrubs. He looked around before resting his rifle against a rock nearby. It was rare anyone came here, but you could never be too careful.

Most people took one look at Dylan and assumed they could walk all over him. All his life, he’d cursed his looks. He was short and lithe, which made people think they could do what they wanted. He’d never seen his parents, so he didn’t know if he was this small due to genetics or if his crappy childhood had anything to do with it.

He had an angular face with sharp cheekbones, and his long blond hair didn’t help matters. There were no hairdressers around, and while he hacked it off now and then, it was easier to tie it back and be done with it.

He’d been told he was too pretty for a man, but what the fuck could he do about it? Plus, it was most often creeps who said stupid shit like that, and he’d had enough of creeps.

It was one of the reasons he’d moved out here, away from people.

When things had started to fall apart, he’d stocked up on bullets, way more bullets than he ever believed he’d use. It was a precaution. He couldn’t change his looks, but these days he put a bullet in anyone who tried to touch him. It was a luxury he hadn’t had as a teen.

He’d endured till he turned eighteen and was allowed to be on his own. The freedom he’d imagined didn’t come, because being eighteen meant you had to provide for yourself, and Dylan didn’t have more than a basic education and little to no work experience.

He’d managed to find work as a waiter in a few different places over the years before things started going sideways. Once it did, people didn’t have enough money to eat out, no one bought expensive coffees, and work grew more and more sparse.

Luckily, he already had his cottage by then.

Should the world ever go back to what it had been, he’d most likely have to pay his mortgage, but as it was now, people living outside the walls of the city were assumed dead.

It was for the best. He didn’t have any money to pay any bills with.

Dropping a handful of blackberries into the bowl, he sighed. Pitiful, but better than nothing. He searched for a few more, but it was most likely the last harvest of the year.

He’d eat them fresh. He’d made some preserves, but it wasn’t worth dirtying dishes for a handful of berries.

Until five years ago, he’d never given canning or pickling or fermenting a thought, but now it was crucial. Sugar was nearly impossible to come by, but he got honey from Frances, so he made some jams using it.

Salt he could get whenever he wanted, so he fermented a lot. It had been scary in the beginning, but he’d gotten the hang of it now. Mostly.

The problem was growing enough to last through the cold months.

He turned to grab his rifle only to freeze. There was a figure coming up the slope. A man.

Ice filled his veins, and he more or less dove for his rifle. The small gravel road leading up to the house was visible from below the cliffs despite him not having done anything to clear it during the time he’d lived here, but it was rare people followed it.

He dropped the bowl with blackberries to the ground, not caring if they fell out. Then he raised the gun and fired a shot in the direction of the man.

The man slowed his steps but didn’t stop. He raised his hands in the air and turned to face Dylan.

* * * *

Hagan Wesson turned to face the man on the headland. He’d heard about him. A fae creature who snarled at anyone who came near.

The stories had intrigued him.

No one knew why he hadn’t left to live in the city like most other people or what he did all day. What did you do alone in a cottage? Someone had said he was beautiful, and Hagan had a thing for beautiful men.

They were few and far between these days, so why not pop in to say hi?

“Hi.” He grinned as the lithe man came closer. His features were sharp, and there was something ethereal about him. Whoever had called him fae was right on the money.

The man’s expression was blank, and he didn’t speak.

Hagan smiled wider. Tough crowd.

“Walk away.” The fae’s voice was sharp.

“But I just arrived.”

Another shot rang out. This time the bullet hit the ground only a foot or two from where Hagan stood. If he took the rifle, he didn’t think he’d have a problem restraining the man, but he didn’t want to fight. He wanted to know more about him.

“My name is Hagan Wesson.”

“I don’t bother with gravestones, so I don’t need to know. Get off my property.”

How many bullets did the rifle have? Hagan wasn’t an expert on shotguns; he preferred knives. They weren’t nearly as loud. It was a hunting rifle, so what was normal? Five bullets in the magazine? It would mean he had three left.

But would he waste them on Hagan? He most likely needed to save them for a life-or-death situation.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.” Best to put it out there, so the man didn’t think this was one of those situations. “I only wanted to give you an apple.” He slowly lowered his right hand, grabbed a perfectly shaped apple, and put it on the ground. He’d found an abandoned house five or so miles away with more than a dozen apple trees. It must’ve been a small orchard at some point in time.

The house itself was falling apart, but there was a lot of fruit, and Hagan had seen an opportunity to fill his pockets. He didn’t have much room in his bag, but he managed to get a few in there too.

“What’s your name?”

“Leave.”

Hagan grinned again. “Your name for an apple. It’s only fair.”

The man’s eyes narrowed, then he worked the bolt, making the rifle spit out the empty shell, and, most likely, put a fresh one in the chamber.

Raising his hands again, Hagan studied him. He hadn’t softened one bit. His face was still blank, not so much as a hint of a smile.

For a second, he wondered if he’d misjudged the situation. Normally, he could charm his way out of every scenario. He was nowhere near as pretty as the man was, and he was covered in tattoos, which sometimes put people off, but he normally could get almost anyone to like him. It didn’t take him more than a minute or two to convince little old ladies he was a good boy despite his looks.

His friends knew better, of course, but they wouldn’t be his friends if they could be fooled by an easy smile.

“What’s your name?” Hagan took a step back. The man’s gaze flicked to the apple for a fraction of a second, and Hagan almost gave in to the grin. He wanted it.

No reply came.

“A name for an apple is only fair.” He took another step back. He’d go back to the orchard. How many apples could he carry? Maybe he could hide his clothes among the cliffs to free up some space in his backpack. Or maybe he should go to Isidor and leave a few things there for a day or two.

“Come on, man. Your name.” He plastered on one of his more innocent looks, but it made the man’s eye twitch, so he quickly replaced it with a wicked grin. Damn.

He took more steps toward the gravel road. “What’s your name?”

The man looked at the apple, then at Hagan.

“Dylan. Now leave, or I’ll kill you.”

“Dylan.” Not the fae name he’d expected, but then again, what were fairies named? Tinker Bell? “I have to say, Dylan, when I walked—”

A third shot hit the ground, only inches from Hagan’s feet. Okay, he’d better get going.

“See you around.” He grinned again, but this time it was a little harder to make it look real. He believed he pulled it off, but his heart was thudding fast when he turned and gave Dylan his back as a target.

He’d get more apples. He’d eaten all but two, and apples lasted a long time. He was no expert, but he believed some of the trees were winter apples. Maybe he should get a crate, fill it with apples, and give them to Dylan.

Huffing, he adjusted his backpack and headed toward Isidor’s place. He needed some time to recuperate.

It took nearly forty-five minutes to walk to Isidor’s. He lived north of Dylan, inland, but still a good bit away from the city. His family were farmers, had land on the opposite side of the city, which most likely was why he’d chosen to stay here.

Hagan had met him when he’d come to the city as a seventeen-year-old, thrown out of his home for his sinful lifestyle—Hagan was sick of homophobes—and struggling to get a job. Hagan had been twenty-one and had already been working in his uncle’s restaurant. He’d brought him there, had asked his uncle to give him a job. He had, and Isidor had remained his friend ever since.

The house he owned was small, but there was a loft where he’d placed a couple of mattresses for when Hagan and Rami came to stay.

Rami had managed to score a job, not an easy feat these days, especially if you lived outside the walls. There was a fishing boat in Bayside Marina still going out most days of the week, and they’d hired Rami.

Knocking on Isidor’s door, he waited.

The lock sounded a moment later, and the door swung open. Isidor pulled him in for a hug. “I was thinking about you earlier today.”

“Yeah?” Hagan hugged him back, hard. “Were you missing me?”

“Sure, sure.” Isidor chuckled and let go of him. “Come in. Close the door. It’s getting chilly out there.”

He had a fire going in the kitchen, and Hagan followed him in there and slumped down on one of the chairs. It was a tiny kitchen, but the entire house was tiny, so it was to be expected.

“You missed Rami. He left yesterday.”

“Fuck. How was he?” It had been a couple of months since he’d seen Rami.

“Good.” He nodded toward the refrigerator. “Brought me some stuff he’d bought in town.”

“Nice. Was he allowed into town?”

Isidor nodded. “Yeah, apparently, they go to the bank to get paid.” He shrugged and reached for a plate in one of the cupboards.

Rami was always generous. Hagan was sure he had some money tucked away for himself—he hoped he had—but he always made sure to bring something. Hagan tried to do the same. He shared whatever he had with Isidor when he came around. Reaching into his backpack, he grabbed the two apples he had left. “I also brought you something.”

Isidor took them with a smile. “Oh, nice. I’m pretty sure my apple tree is dead. I don’t know what happened to it. It grew leaves in the spring, then they shriveled up and dropped off. When I scrape the bark off the twigs, it looks dead. I’ll leave it over winter and see if it comes back to life in the spring, but it doesn’t look promising.”

He placed a skillet on the wood-burning stove and grabbed four eggs from the refrigerator. Hagan’s stomach growled. Rami must’ve brought them. It was rare to find eggs outside the walls.

Isidor did his best to hide the house away. From the outside, it looked abandoned. He’d boarded up the windows facing the street, the front yard was nothing but weeds and tall grass, but luckily the backyard was walled in. There, everything was pristine, but there was no room for chickens. And if you had animals, you not only had to plan for the noises they made, you also had to be able to feed them.

The smoke from heating the house and cooking was nothing they could hide, but hopefully people weren’t watching the house in the evening.

“So what have you been up to?” Isidor placed plates on the table.

“I visited the fae on the headland.”

Isidor sighed. Loudly. “Why?”

“You know who he is?” He’d never mentioned Dylan in any way or form.

“I know he shot a guy who tried to get into his house.”

Something unfurled in Hagan’s chest. “Someone tried to get into his house?”

“I don’t know if it’s true. It was when I visited Camp Sorrow last year. I heard someone say the man in the headland cottage had shot someone in the thigh. But you know how things are at Camp Sorrow, lots of gossip.”

Hagan nodded. He hadn’t been to Camp Sorrow since last winter. It took him two days to get there from here, and he hadn’t had anything good enough to trade to bother to make another trip. Maybe he should. There was always food in Camp Sorrow. Perhaps not the best food, but there were meals to be had in the dead of winter as long as you had something to trade.

“So you don’t know if it’s true?”

Isidor turned the eggs. “All I know is people stay away. I suggest you do the same.”

Hagan didn’t want to stay away. He wanted to get to know him. There had to be something he could do to help Dylan. It couldn’t be easy to live all alone out there so far away from everything. “His name is Dylan.”

Isidor shot him a look over his shoulder. “Hagan.”

It always surprised him how some people could make his name sound like a warning.