Scott Seay and Brandon Russo are chasing down legendary creatures, one monster at a time! Scott, a cryptozoologist photographer, is on the trail again, this time following the legends of Sasquatch into the mountains of West Virginia. Brandon, still an unbeliever, has some vacation time coming up and enjoys hiking, so he accompanies his lover, along with a small group of Sasquatchers, in search of the elusive Bigfoot.
On their trek through the mountains, Scott and Brandon hear tales of other close encounters, deal with a pair of snobby lumbersexuals, and find mysterious hairs tangled in the underbrush. When the weather turns foul, and the group has to make it down the mountainside in front of a dangerous storm, will legends come to life? All they know is something is following them down the trail ... something with very bad intentions ...
“So, Rhonda called earlier,” he said, casually. “While you were at work.”
“Who?” Brandon had grown bored looking over Scott’s shoulder and had rolled over on their narrow shared bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Rhonda Farr. The editor of Farr Cry magazine,” Scott reminded him. “You’ve met her twice now.”
“The chick with the orange hair?”
“That’s the one,” Scott said.
“What’d she want?”
“I don’t suppose you’d want to do a working vacation,” Scott hedged.
“Are we seeking the chupacabra?”
“Um, no,” Scott said. “Why? Did you want to vacation in Puerto Rico?”
Brandon rolled over, kicking his legs up. “Not really. I burn easily. Besides, I don’t got a current passport.”
“Well, we’ll have to fix that, eventually,” Scott said. “But no, Farr Cry doesn’t really have enough incentives to pay for me to fly out there. Not yet. The Champie article did well. Nah, this is West Virginia. We can drive there in a day, stay for about a week, and then drive home.”
“You want to drive. To West Virginia.”
“Yeah. Bigfoot territory, the Appalachians.”
“Bigfoot. You think he’s out there?” Brandon shook his head. Brandon was not, Scott knew, a believer. “You buy into that crap?”
“I do the jobs for which I get paid,” Scott said, firmly. “If Rhonda wants me to tromp around in the mountains for a few days with a Sasquatcher team, I’m delighted to assist.”
“Sasquatch is one of the other words for the Bigfoot, as well as wendigo, yeti, and a couple of others. Giant man-like creatures, covered with fur.”
“She expects you to photograph that?”
“A few people have,” Scott said. “I’d be happy with a footprint or two, or maybe a suggestive looking cave-lair. Sasquatches are shy. And they have excellent hearing and a good sense of smell. Very hard to sneak up on one. And even if we get close enough to take a picture, that means we’re easily within attack range.”
“You’re trying to sell me on a vacation where we’re likely to be eaten by a giant monster?”
“Have I ever gotten you eaten by a monster?”
“Not yet,” Brandon admitted. “I’d prefer to get eaten by something else.” He glanced at Scott with overly suggestive eyebrows wiggling.
Scott widened his eyes innocently. “I’m afraid the landshark’s not native to Vermont.”
Brandon abandoned his not-so-subtle hints and dragged Scott onto the bed. “Come here, you,” he demanded. “You’ve been working all day. Gimme some kisses.”
Gladly, Scott submitted to his boyfriend’s request, tasting the traces of soda and chips on Brandon’s mouth. Brandon’s mouth was lush and wet and welcome and Scott plundered it with abandon, his hands wrapping tight around Brandon’s waist.