How I met My Man, by Rick Reed, reviewed by Carol Zampa

BLURB

How a guy gets his man can happen in a dozen different ways: online, at a bar, through friends, at a masquerade party... or even at the scene of a murder...

The road to love is seldom straight, and for Stephen Embert, that road couldn't possibly be more crooked. First, he arrives home to find an anonymous card in his mailbox that says, "I've been inside your house," then comes the midnight home invasion. But Stephen forgets these disturbing occurrences a month later when he attends a masquerade party and hopes to finally meet Mr. Right.

But who is the stranger in black with the disturbing emotionless mask following him? And why does the stranger always get in the way of Stephen hooking up with Jeffrey, the angelic and nearly naked leather hunk, who wants nothing more than to get Stephen alone for some romance? Appearances are not always what they seem, and discovering true love can sometimes be a matter of life and death.

REVIEW

Rick Reed is called “the Stephen King of gay horror”, but I don’t know where THAT title came from. Because Stephen King’s brand of horror isn’t nearly as deliciously sensual and sexy as Mr. Reed’s. Never, before reading my first Rick Reed horror story (“IM”), had I experienced fear and tension—the kind that makes your heart pound hard—sweetened with a heaping helping of titillating sensuality.

How I Met My Man is my second horror/thriller book from Reed, and the chilling cover was the ONLY thing that hinted a much darker mood than what the Donna Reed (no relation to author…lol) cozy-romance title suggests. The title, I might add, is a luscious trick that simply adds to the story’s wonderful balance of normalcy and fright.

The hero of the story is Stephen Embert, and we meet him as his area of Chicago has just had its third killing of a gay man.

As usual, I’m not telling plot, just juicy titbits to tempt you.

The fear factor begins when Stephen returns to his one-room apartment in a Frank Lloyd Wright landmark building (lucky guy), and receives an unsigned card in the mail—an elegant card with a black and white photo of a black ostrich plume. As if the picture alone wasn’t alarming, the words I’ve been inside your house are written on the card.

When Stephen enters his apartment, the goose bumps started again—for ME. He tells us, Someone had been here. There was a strange feeling—things were unsettled where usually they were settled. It was as if the very particles of dust in the apartment had been re-arranged. More obviously and chillingly, his collection of signed David Sedaris books had been rearranged, and someone had been in his bed, leaving a condom filled with hand lotion on the sheets.

After going to bed, he experiences something that almost everyone can relate to, that scary experience when our pets wake us up, when THEY are afraid. What woke me was a sudden presence weighing down the opposite side of the bed. It was Cora (his Boston Terrier). Amazingly spry for an eight-year-old girl, she had hopped up on my bed and was now sitting at the edge of it, ears at the alert, a low growl humming in her throat. Her little, smashed-in face was pointed toward the living room.

Okay, okay, that’s it for the plot, except to say our girl, the spoiled Boston Terrier, was NOT imagining things. Someone indeed had been in Stephen’s apartment while he slept.

This story would not let me stop reading once I started, and I’m not just saying this. Once THIS eerie character showed up on the scene, there was no closing the book: Instead, he held both arms rigidly at his sides. His hands were sheathed in a criminal’s black leather gloves. But the most alarming thing about him was his mask. It almost looked like one of those Jason, Friday the 13th affairs—you know, a hockey mask. But this one was more elaborate, almost elegant. It appeared to have been crafted from porcelain and it nearly glowed in its paleness and pure, pure white. There were only three openings in its smooth, emotionless surface: two round holes for the eyes, a slim straight line for the mouth and two tiny nose holes. It was the kind of face you would not want to see looming over you should you awaken suddenly in the middle of the night.

But—in his lovely distinction from the same ol’ horror that King renders, THIS creature appears on the scene as well, and…well…his description speaks for itself: He was glorious. Perfect. An unrivaled specimen of masculinity almost too beautiful to live. He stood about six two and his body was lean, tightly defined, and covered with satiny olive flesh that begged to be touched, if only you could find yourself worthy. His muscles spoke of quiet strength; they were there, visible, but had none of the pumped-up overkill of a gym rat who spent far too much time working on his body (and perhaps far too much money on steroids). He had a thick shock of black hair sticking up from the top of his head, while the sides and back of his head were shaved close. A silver hoop dangled from one ear. Surveying the party, he revealed eyes so dark the pupils were lost within the irises. I felt as though if I were to tumble into those eyes, I could die happy. His lashes—the only feminine thing about him—were long and thick. His lips full and kissable. His face was chiseled, with a very fetching cleft in the middle of his chin. That touchable skin? It was almost hairless, save for thick, coarse dark hair on his forearms and calves. And, of course, there was a lovely treasure trail leading down, across his flat stomach, and into the black leather briefs he wore as part of his costume.

There you have it.

One question, though. Don’t you want to know how the frightening—and believe me, it IS chilling—story even remotely ties in with the sweet title? I’d love to tell you, but it’s one of the most delicious, unexpected twists to the story.

Now my favorite part, the most important part of ANY book. The character. The more I read of Mr. Reed’s work, the more I see that he surely incorporates much of himself and his very keen perception of human nature into his writing. Stephen is, like most of Reed’s creations, a living, breathing, down-to-earth, gold mine of emotion. His sense of humor adds the most delicious airiness to this story which, somehow by contrast to the extremely sinister plot, makes him irresistible and sexy as hell.

Stephen is all of us. We get so blindsided by our wants and needs, often to the point of being obsessed with them. We wear blinders which might be useful for horses but can be deadly for people and their emotions—and their libidos.

Reed’s character portraits are vivid, especially Tabby Tyler, probably the most flamboyant queen on the north side of the city. Stephen’s neighbor Tom Horton is everybody’s neighbor, and—just because he’s such a true-to-life portrait—you’ll know him intimately before his first scene is over.

There are so many carefully crafted hints in this story that darling Stephen—simply because he’s just too damn horny to pay attention—misses; and, when I got to the end and the secret was revealed, I wanted to knock myself over the head. I’d been as engrossed in goings on as much as Stephen and I, too, overlooked what was staring us in the face.

I love that! Only magnificent story-telling can mesmerize a reader to the point they’re being hit on the head with a hint-laden sledge hammer and they STILL don’t see it until it’s too late.

But that’s the way life really is, and that’s one thing Rick Reed is a master at: the human factor. He’s got that aced.

Oh, and to Stephen King: Eat your heart out, bubba, and grab a copy of How I Met My Man. You might learn a thing or two.

[A slightly different version of this piece appeared first on Miz Love Loves Books.]