When Cole met Jane, something special happened, and they found love. But when Anthony appeared, his kept secret unravelled, and it ended in disaster.

Can a lucky find in the aftermath help him become who he is and reach the moreness he seeks? And is there room to forgive the unforgivable?

Three Ways

In Sydney, Australia 2013, Cole Brodas searches for love, but does not know where he will find it, or how profound it will be.

Exploring physical, emotional, and spiritual connections with others and ourselves, Three Ways builds on themes of authenticity, honesty, and higher purpose, and broaches the topics of closeting, phobia, trauma, and forgiveness.

An eleven-year labour of love now in its final draft before editing, this bisexual rite-of-passage romance is geared to both mainstream and queer mature audiences, and resides in a sweet spot between not-Young Adult, not-smut, and not about a threesome.

With unforgettable characters, amazing moments, simple profundity, and stretching from the suburbs to the city and its landmarks, it has been quite a journey to write, and led to my growth as a queer author.

When to Expect Release

Intended for self-publication, it will be a while before Three Ways is available for purchase.

While I don’t want to make promises with limited writing time, the slow process of overhauling the manuscript, the Bipolar/ADHD, and in need of downtime, I’ll put it at an April/May finish very tentatively

Once I can find openings with an editor and beta readers, arrange for cover designs, and polish the prose with the suggestions and a critical eye, I may be able to hit the publish button before the end of 2026.

But there will be updates, there will certainly be a cover reveal, I may be able to knock up a mood board and get a trailer done, and you will find a Spotify playlist with the Three Ways “soundtrack.”

What is Next for My Career

I’m already fomenting the next project, which I hope will take eleven months rather than eleven years, building on the experience gained in the re-write/re-structure to create rich but approachable narratives starring rounded characters, with more POVs as the stories demand.

Please Enjoy Chapter One

Three Ways – © T. M. Shannon, all rights reserved.

The woman sat alone, her face deep in the backlight of her iPhone, with Cole Brodas her witness. She wore a cream blouse, jeans belted at her waist, had hair down to her shoulders she tucked and tucked behind her ears, intent on her screen that she ignored her drink in a tall glass.

Cole chortled. “Probably on Faceplant.”

Jimmy shoved his shoulder, held his glass of Heineken out. “You’ve been drooling over that since you sat down.”

Cole took his glass, ashamed to live in a world of inhuman humans. “Women are people. Could you be nice?”

Jimmy stared as Graham arrived. “Ooh, all prim and proper.”

Graham put on a toff hat. “‘Mister Brodas, at your service, ahem.’”

“Ugh, you’re both pains.”

Cole drank his Heineken, eyes back to the woman still on her phone and just as attractive as before.

Graham laughed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“What’s that, Lassie? You smell some pussy?”

Cole went to spit beer, tabled his glass. “Fuck, Jimmy, you right?”

“Well, I ain’t a lefty.” Jimmy drank half of his beer.

“That’s the same half of the species as your mum.”

“And like you’re not thinking of fucking her brains out.”

“I, well—” Cole sank. “Shit.”

“’Course you are.” Jimmy checked her out. “Pretty hot, bet she’s not a princess either.”

Cole glared. “Just ’cause she’s hot, it doesn’t make her a slut.”

“Meh, moral proselytising.”

Graham frowned. “Where’d you learn such a big word?”

“Piss off ya faggot.” Jimmy drained his beer, banged the empty glass on the table. “C’mon, luck’s running out downstairs.” He left.

Cole stared at Jimmy’s back and drank his beer to more swept hair.

Graham laughed. “Really?”

Cole tipped his head at the woman. “What do you reckon?”

“Ehh, she’s too big.”

“You’re—she’s normal. You pick up sticks.”

“You and your curves.” Graham drank. “Coming down the pokies?”

Cole tisked then sighed.

“Or you can stare at her all night, cause a disturbance in the Force to get her attention.”

Cole’s shoulders fell. “It’d be easier to save Skyrim.”

“Oh, you love that game.” Graham pointed his glass at Cole. “A girl’s not happening if you don’t get off your computer.”

Cole glanced down and sighed.

“C’mon, let’s go for a bash.”

Cole stood. Pity and dismay stabbed his heart, and he took his glass with a last look of longing.

Graham glared. “Right, none of that. I dare you to go pick up.”

“I don’t do dares.”

“Oh, you’re doing this one.”

“No.”

Graham pointed at the woman. “Strap on a pair and get over there.” The words made no dent. “Look, you want Jimmy taking a shot at that?”

“She’s a human being for fuck’s sake.”

“You want to keep her away from the caveman? Get over there.”

“Alright, I’m going.” Cole drained his beer.

“Settle down with the Dutch courage, would ya?”

Cole wiped his mouth. “Just, can you keep Jimmy downstairs?”

“He’ll be right, he only gives a shit about free spins.” Graham smiled. “Happy trails, Mister Brodas.”

Cole the dickhead kept his vigil as he fought off moves—the woman laughed at a post and clutched her stomach. “Interesting conversation…” He blinked, crackled his neck and knuckles, and went.

His guts ached. His heart thumped. He wiped his palms on his pants. Disembodied at the point of no return, he coasted to her table, paused to an awkward turn, but still ahemmed. “Is that an interesting conversation you’re having?”

Time froze, served him a pit of agony on a bed of please turn to me.

She blinked, glanced about with parted lips, and caught up. “Sorry?”

He took her in as he repeated his line, nice lipstick on kind lips, her eyes heightened by light eyeshadow, and her eyebrows fine-tuned.

She glanced at her phone. “Maybe.”

“Could I interrupt or rescue you from it?”

She ermed.

“Well, if that doesn’t grab you, how about a compliment and a lame pick-up line?”

She chuckled, scratched her shoulder, tipped her head. “Such as?”

“I like how you tuck your hair behind your ears, but gotta say I love how it frames your face.”

“Whoa.” She tucked behind both ears and eased her shoulders back. “You’ve been watching me.”

“Yeah, from the table over there. My mate caught me staring.”

“Oh.” She shifted on her stool. “And the pick-up line?”

He sought heaven falling, mind running, but Skyrim leapt forth. “Did you use to be an adventurer like myself? Because I just took an arrow to the knee.” And his crowd booed.

“Yeah, nah, I don’t get it.”

He winced. “It’s from this game I play, whole bunch of town guards with knee injuries. Doesn’t slow them much.”

“It’s not a joke if you have to explain it.”

He tisked. “That’s fair. The peril of real life is there’s no save point.”

“Hmm?”

Hope flared and set him up. “Yeah, I could reload from the save and ask, ‘Are you a bin chicken? ’Cause I’ve been checking you out.’”

She grinned and locked her phone. “That’s more like it.”

He loosened up, stayed on target, and liked her ears.

“What brought you over here?”

“Honestly, a little push out the chair.”

She leant in. “Just a push, or were you dared?”

“Well…”

She bit her lip.

He went from a royal flush to the cesspit, eyed his former table, and replaced his impediment with raw confidence. “Alright, I got dared, but I challenged myself to ask if I can get your next drink, and if it’s no, I won’t spend the night wondering what might’ve been.”

She looked him over. “You’re not giving up.”

“Nope.”

She crossed her arms and leant on the table. “Can I be honest?”

“Please.” His guts churned.

“You gave me two compliments, a lame pick-up line, a worse line, a dose of honesty—but you should’ve kept quiet about that.”

“Not my best move.”

“I’ll give you points.” She sent her left arm to the table, right hand to her thigh. “But you won me with your eyes and your neck in that collar.” She smiled with eye twinkles. “Sorry to be difficult, I wanted to see what you had.”

He chuckled. “Well, you’re something. I thought I was toast with the Skyrim reference.”

“Lucky you saved.” She swept her hair. “What’s your name?”

He sent his right hand to the table, left to his hip. “Cole Brodas. And you?”

She looked at his hand with widened shoulders. “Jane Preston.”

He eyed her tall glass, just dregs and melted ice. “And can I sort you out with another drink?”

She pursed her lips and glanced at the bar. “You could, but I’m not a fan of guys bringing me drinks.”

“Then why not come get it with me?”

She eyed the crowd. “We’ll lose the table.”

“I’ll find us somewhere else.”

“Really…”

He turned serious. “I know you’re worried ’bout a guy slipping a pill in your drink, and it’s packed. But I’d be honoured if you joined me.”

Her eyebrows rose. “And a charming gentleman to boot. I’d love to.”

“Made me pull out all the stops, Not Plain Jane.”

She grinned.

“Shall we?”

She stood from her stool and passed Cole.

He moved away but caught her perfume—floral, sweet, delightful.

She glanced back to eyes level with hers, then led him to the bar.

He leant in, asked her order, his beer paired to a vodka lemonade. A man turned with drinks in hand, Cole stepped back to let him pass, then moved closer to Jane.

The bartender came, asked Jane’s order, and she turned to Cole.

He gave it.

The bartender poured Cole’s beer to halfway, built Jane’s with a slice of lemon on top, and put the finished drinks on the bar. “Sixteen, thanks.”

Cole paid, he and Jane took their own drinks, and her table taken, he led her to the end of the bar, glass out for her to cheers.

She clinked with him. “You find good places in bars.”

“I used to work in hospo, plus this is my work local.”

“And what do you do for work, Mister Brodas?”

“Accounts admin in funds management. You?”

“Oh, I’m office manager and PA in business finance.”

“Big company?”

“Australia, New Zealand, but we’re joining an Asia-Pacific network.”

“You do alright?”

“The pay’s good, so I’m not stressing about my HECS debt when I hit the shops, but I’m underappreciated and ugh, my boss…”

He bristled. “Not a sleaze, is he?”

“Thank God, no.” She sipped. “He’s a spoilt little so-and-so.”

“Like what, John McEnroe or Mister Darcy’s poodle?”

She clutched her stomach and laughed. “Darcy’s poodle.” She wiped her eyes. “That’s all I’ll see when he goes off now.” She laughed further.

“Careful, you’ll fall over.”

She sighed. “Where are you living?”

“Liverpool, down in the deep Southwest.”

“Born and raised?”

“Nope, Newcastle, then lived five other places.”

She gaped. “You beat me moving from Haberfield to Annandale.”

“Oh, you’re Inner West. How’s the rent?”

“Very decent since I’m still living with dad. Yours?”

“Pretty cheap. It’s helping with the savings and spendings.”

Jane got her drink to halfway and put it on the bar top. “Sorry, gotta go to the loo. Can you watch my drink?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

He stared as she left. “And when are you asking for her number?”

Jane returned, and he heard about her romantic comedies, shared a bit about his RPGs with relaxed shoulders, a smile, and his eyes locked to hers. Drinks finished, they went back to the bar, and she got that round.

They compared the commute, him the train and her the light rail. He dared to ask her age, told she was twenty-six before she mocked him for being thirty-one. Then she asked about his moves, told about Saint Clare, Sutherland Shire, Boronia Park, the Central Coast, and Pendle Hill.

He leant on the bar, right hand on it, beer in the left. She smiled and moved her vodka to the right hand to put her left on his.

Electricity shot up his arm into his scalp, joys and rewards, imprints of her looks, clear and short nails, that perfume, her tone etched into his memory by neurochemical fire. Geiger counter all crackles, he longed for her number.

“Are you on Facebook?”

He returned to reality. “I never touch it. Kinda old-fashioned.”

“So, phone and texts?”

“And face-to-face for the bonus of hand contact and perfumes.”

She moved her hand over his, sent her glass beside her arm, flicked her hair, and drew a line down her jaw to her collar. “You think well.”

He turned his charm and swagger up. “Well, I’m liking you.”

She blushed and picked her collar. “You better not be playing with a girl’s heart.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But about phones, can I get your number?”

“We’ll talk another meeting, yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

She sighed. “So, I don’t give my number, too many creeps around.”

“Ohh.”

“But don’t get down. If you can trust me, I’ll get yours instead.”

He grinned. “Definite Not Plain Jane territory.”

“Especially because this is a test.”

“Ahh, nice.”

“I’m going to give you someone else’s number. I’d like you to send a photo to it, then they’ll send it to me.”

He tipped his head. “What sort?”

“Something showing me your sense of humour. Send that, and then I’ll make a call.”

“Alright.” He left her hand, put his beer on the bar, got his Windows Phone out, and opened his texts. Given the number, he yawned from his hellish week—went to gallery, sent the photo, and pocketed his phone.

Her eyebrows rose, and the call went through. “Hi Dad.”

His jaw dropped.

“I’m at a bar, sorry it’s pretty crazy. Did you get a picture?” She held on. “Oh, thank goodness. Can you send it and his number?” She smiled at Cole. “From Liverpool, dad, and I’m out with the girls tonight anyway.” A nod. “See you in the morning.” She hung up.

He shook his head. “Wow.”

“Pretty sure of yourself. Two guys ran for it the minute I called, and the third turned white on a call from dad.”

“Great move to keep the perverts at bay.”

“And if it’s not dad, it’s a friend.” Her iPhone du-ga-dinged.

“Uh-oh.”

Phone unlocked, she opened the photo. “Is this you?”

He grinned at the shot of him on his knees, head back, arms up, with his gamepad in hand. “What’d your dad say?”

“‘Ha-ha-ha, great taste in movies, Pass Go, collect two hundred dol-lars.’”

He scoffed. “Serious?”

She showed him.

“Winning all the points.”

Her phone du-ga-dinged again. She checked the text. “Ooh, the girls are here, I gotta run. You sticking around?”

“Nah, been a crazy week, need some quiet time.”

“You’re old, I’ll leave you be.” Her eyes twinkled

He shook his head. “Been a pleasure, Not Plain Jane.”

She shifted close. “Same, Mister Brodas.”

Custom told him to make a move. “I’ll let you go.” It kicked him.

“Without a goodbye kiss?” She turned her head and glanced at him.

His gentleman gland tipped its hat. “Nah, I won’t spoil the company or conversation, but I’ll stub a toe tonight, break a glass tomorrow, make that kiss really mean something next time.”

“You really are one of the good ones.”

“Best compliment ever. Hear from you over the weekend.”

“Talk to you then.”

He strutted to the stairs, waved at her for a smile, and went down to George Street, joined the crowd at the pedestrian lights, and slapped the button to cross to Wynyard station. “Sa-fucking-weet.”