Mark cares for broken things: stubborn printers, messy lives, and the family apple orchard he refuses to lose. He never thought too hard about the way his best friend Elijah, a magnetic drag queen, made his chest feel too tight. Perhaps Mark’s mind was preoccupied by the flirtations of Viktoriya, a visionary Ukrainian designer and baker, whose attention felt like sunlight Mark didn’t know he’d been missing.
Then during a routine IT service call for a Rutgers professor, Mark found himself holding my prison—an antique bronze lamp. He sensed an injustice and compassionately freed me without a second thought.
Call me Eros. Not a genie nor a god—but both were based on me. I am just a powerful, ancient, cosmic entity. I can’t grant wishes, but I do like to meddle, and Mark’s love life became my favorite hobby.
Over six weeks, flirtations turn to confessions, and awkward moments into point-of-no-return choices. Glittering drag numbers become declarations. Bread-baking folds into intimacy. But when a developer closes in on the orchard, the pressure forces an impossible choice. The four of us must discover exactly how far we’ll go to protect what we’re building—or risk losing it all.
Mark cares for broken things: stubborn printers, messy lives, and the family apple orchard he refuses to lose. He never thought too hard about the way his best friend Elijah, a magnetic drag queen, made his chest feel too tight. Perhaps Mark’s mind was preoccupied by the flirtations of Viktoriya, a visionary Ukrainian designer and baker, whose attention felt like sunlight Mark didn’t know he’d been missing.
Then during a routine IT service call for a Rutgers professor, Mark found himself holding my prison—an antique bronze lamp. He sensed an injustice and compassionately freed me without a second thought.
Call me Eros. Not a genie nor a god—but both were based on me. I am just a powerful, ancient, cosmic entity. I can’t grant wishes, but I do like to meddle, and Mark’s love life became my favorite hobby.
Over six weeks, flirtations turn to confessions, and awkward moments into point-of-no-return choices. Glittering drag numbers become declarations. Bread-baking folds into intimacy. But when a developer closes in on the orchard, the pressure forces an impossible choice. The four of us must discover exactly how far we’ll go to protect what we’re building—or risk losing it all.
***Eros***
My name is Eros, or at least, that’s the name I’ve been using lately. I am what you humans might call a Djinn—or a Genie—though neither term fully captures what I am. I am an eternal consciousness, ancient as the universe itself. I’m the grain of truth behind many of your myths and legends—but don’t get ideas about omnipotence; that’s not me. I’ve always had a soft spot for your kind, especially in matters of the heart. There’s something intoxicating about watching two hearts find each other—or three, as I would later learn.
Let me introduce you to Mark Gerald Williams of East Brunswick, New Jersey, a twenty-seven-year-old mortal, my friend, and my liberator. When we met, he was neither warrior nor poet, nor did he possess any power to shake the heavens or command the tides. No, Mark was an unassuming man of quiet presence, with tousled hair the color of summer wheat fields after a rain. A soft, well-kept beard framed a face unremarkable in its features yet memorable for its warmth. It was a safe, friendly face that drew you in gently and whispered reassurance: this was a man you could trust. Behind kind eyes, like amber warmed by sunlight, lay the quiet depth of a man on the cusp of change. I trust you can now picture the man clearly.
Ah, but what does he do, you ask? What drew Mark into my orbit? Mark was what mortals called an “IT support technician,” which is a dismissive title I assume was meant to downplay his power. His gift lies in coaxing life back into lifeless machines. When they falter, he revives them, though I can’t say how. Perhaps he speaks to them—whispers their true names—so they obey him when they defy others. He may be some kind of wizard, though I admit that’s poetic exaggeration on my part. Mark is clever, but not the kind of clever that builds empires. His cleverness is humbler, like a well-sharpened blade—practical, reliable, and capable of cutting through minor problems.
Yet, for all his talents, Mark struggles with the peculiar rituals of his people, the unspoken codes that guide mortal interaction. He stumbles through them like a child learning to dance—well-meaning but awkward—often treading on toes or toppling the occasional vase. It’s not malice or ignorance, just a natural misalignment with the rhythm of others. He can carry on any conversation with ease, yet he’s hopeless when it comes to starting one. Still, he has a good heart. The kind of man who’d scale a wall to rescue a cat, only to find it’s the wrong wall and send the ladder crashing down.
He grew up among trees—apple trees, to be precise—in a small East Brunswick orchard. The orchard has belonged to his family since the days of the Revolution, when mortals fought one another over their notions of freedom. Mark and his siblings—Jefferson, the eldest, and Lexie, the youngest—spent their childhood among these trees, plucking fruit from their boughs and learning the rhythm of the earth. They chopped wood and lived a life as honest and rooted as the trees themselves. It was a good life, or so it seemed to me, though Mark’s eyes sometimes betrayed a quiet wistfulness when he spoke of it. Perhaps it wasn’t the work he missed but its simplicity: when a tree needed tending, he tended it; when an apple ripened, he plucked it; when the simple machinery faltered, he mended it. That life shaped Mark—heart, mind, and body.
Mark was caught between the quiet, earthy honesty of his family’s orchard and the bright, digital noise of his work at Rutgers. He is a fixer of things, a doer of good, even if his efforts don’t always go as planned. He is, in short, a man of contradictions, kind yet clumsy, clever yet not too clever, noble in spirit but prone to mishaps. A mortal through and through, yet carrying a spark of something more—one I recognized the moment he entered the office where I lay captive in a bronze oil lamp, a souvenir from Morocco.
***Mark***
My name is Mark. I don’t like attention. I don’t think I’m special, and I can’t imagine my story is unique. Talking about myself feels like my bones are trying to escape my skin. It just makes me feel more than a little uncomfortable. But this is my story, one my best friend Eros is hell-bent on telling.
I worked for Rutgers University’s IT department as part of the support staff. I was one of the guys who showed up when staff or students had computer problems. It wasn’t glamorous, but I took it seriously because small things could have big consequences. Solving a small issue fast could mean the difference between a student passing or failing, or a professor being able to hold class at all. I don’t think I need to explain much more. These days, who hasn’t needed to call a help desk occasionally?
The university’s IT department was spread across the main campus and its annexes. What is relevant to this story is that I was one of the few technicians who acted as the boots on the ground. I showed up in person whenever necessary for the more analog professors, those who preferred working face-to-face. As a result, I ended up with a handful of repeat clients: some who latched onto me, and others whom I adopted, either because they were difficult or simply because I liked them. I mention this because two of those regulars are important to this story: Dr. Jason Newell, whom you’re about to meet, and Viktoriya, whom you’ll meet later.
Dr. Newell was a philosophy professor, one of those analog types I mentioned earlier. He could be difficult, and I was one of the few technicians who could get him to cooperate. I didn’t mind; his issues were usually simple to fix, and over time, he learned to trust me. It didn’t matter if one of my equally competent colleagues offered to help. He wouldn’t listen until he’d spoken with me. To save everyone time and frustration, we agreed that he’d call me directly for any computer-related issues.
Recently, however, he began experiencing unusual, seemingly inexplicable problems that gradually escalated. The root cause was something I could never have predicted—or even imagined in a billion years.
***Eros***
The first time I met Mark, he’d been summoned to Dr. Jason Newell’s office after I’d caused the professor’s computer to shut down unexpectedly. Dr. Newell had been irritating me with his endless complaints about his students and his self-important revisions to his textbook-length syllabus. In a moment of mischievous impulse, I reached into his so-called “laptop”—a ridiculous name for something that never once rested on his lap—and located its power source and severed the connection. Moments later, Dr. Newell grabbed his phone and demanded an immediate repair, insisting he had critical work to finish and couldn’t afford to be delayed by the university’s “unreliable equipment.”
A short while later, Mark walked into the office—and into my life. He carried himself with quiet confidence, narrating his actions as he worked in a calm, reassuring tone. Without waiting for an invitation, he took a seat and explained that a sudden shutdown could have any number of causes, though a power loss was usually to blame. Within minutes, he had replaced the battery and power cable, bringing life back to the ironically named laptop. Then, as smoothly as he’d arrived, he stood, gathered his tools, shook Dr. Newell’s hand, and left. I was stunned. If it had been possible, I would have said I was in love.
Of course, I wasn’t in love. Love is a distinctly human experience, one I’m incapable of feeling. But I was fascinated, intrigued, and curious to know a human for the first time in centuries. Luckily, I already knew how and when Mark would be summoned, and to my advantage, it involved my newest hobby. So, over the following weeks, I devised increasingly elaborate ways to make Dr. Newell’s computer fail. Each time, he called for Mark. Mark would arrive, diagnose the issue, and resolve it with frustrating efficiency. But once, the problem was complex enough to leave him genuinely stumped, and he took the professor’s laptop with him.
What I needed was a way to communicate with Mark. I had to work out a way to get Mark to pick up my lamp and take me away with him without alarming him or Dr. Newell. As it happened, fortune favored me. Shortly after Mark left with the laptop, Dr. Newell plucked my lamp from his desk and began pacing, as he often did when anxious. It was a habit of his—carrying me around, muttering to himself while pretending to reason with the universe. This time, however, he was genuinely worried about the safety of his precious work. Apparently, that laptop contained years of philosophical nonsense. When he asked the universe why this kept happening and softly wished it would be the last time, I knew what to do. For the first time, I whispered an idea—a thought as light as a breeze—into Dr. Newell’s mind.
“Your problems began shortly after you started keeping this lamp on your desk. Apart from what that strange street vendor told you, you know nothing about it. There may be a connection beyond your understanding. Tell Mark about it—and show him the lamp—when he returns. He seems clever; perhaps he can resolve this once and for all.”
And that is exactly what Dr. Newell did next.
***Mark***
I returned about an hour after taking Dr. Newell’s laptop to my office, where I’d spent a frustrating hour trying, and failing, to diagnose it. I walked in with two boxes, one under each arm, and my usual bag of tools slung over my shoulder. I entered the office without fanfare, determined to get this mystery off both my mind and my plate.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t manage to get your laptop to respond,” I said as I set the boxes down and unpacked them while Dr. Newell watched, confused, with an old oil lamp in his hands. “It’s almost as if the power and charging circuits had been severed, which should be impossible, considering they’re all physically intact. I could spend days figuring out what went wrong, but I think the best—and fastest—solution, which I know you prefer, is simply a replacement. Lucky for you, we have a few spares for just such a case,” I said, removing the protective plastic from the new laptop. “I know you have a lot of work saved, and I was able to connect to your hard drive and recover your data externally. Once I get your new laptop set up, I’ll restore the data I’ve backed up. It shouldn’t take long. Any questions, Dr. Newell?”
I doubted Dr. Newell understood half of what I’d just said. My explanation was far too direct and practical for someone who spent his days pondering unanswerable questions. Eventually, he surfaced from whatever abstract thought he’d been drowning in and responded.
“That sounds good, Mike,” Dr. Newell muttered, getting my name entirely wrong, as he often did whenever he felt intellectually cornered. “I was wondering why these problems kept happening. It occurred to me this started shortly after I started keeping this souvenir lamp on my desk. I picked it up at a market in Morocco in May. A humorous trinket … a magic genie lamp, or so the merchant claimed. Could you take a look? I doubt there’s any real correlation, it’s probably a coincidence, but perhaps it’s still an idea worth exploring.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. You know what they say—correlation isn’t necessarily causation,” I said as Dr. Newell stared with a befuddled expression. “But that’s science, not the humanities. Still, it’s only just September now, so three months could be long enough to establish a pattern. Honestly, I’ve seen stranger things I couldn’t explain. Okay, I have your data transfer running now, and it will take a few minutes. Let me take a look at this magic lamp,” I said with a pandering chuckle, accepting the lamp from him. “Who knows, maybe a mischievous genie inside is causing all this trouble?”
I was fairly certain my joke was lost on him; he seemed genuinely concerned by the idea. Which was absurd, he had no reason to suspect that this lamp had anything to do with his problem. I held the lamp—a handsome antique, nothing outwardly suspicious. Then, a thought that was not my own slipped into my mind like a whisper:
“This is a strange lamp in your soft, powerful hands; it feels charged. It tingles. It may be more than it appears. You’ve heard rumors that some of those markets sell things like this lamp to colonizers—objects that can disrupt electronics or produce static discharge, a petty kind of revenge on the foreign invaders. Take it with you and tell the professor you’ll examine it. At the very least, removing it will reassure him that a mysterious source of misfortune that has been plaguing him can’t cause any more trouble.”
“I think I see what you mean, there’s something unusual about this lamp,” I said, half to myself, half to Dr. Newell. “You know, I’ve heard some of those markets sell trinkets that can mess with electronics or cause odd static discharges. Supposedly, it’s a kind of petty revenge on tourists. But I’m sure that’s only a nasty rumor. Why don’t I take the lamp back to my office? I’ll keep an eye on it, see if it acts up, and that’ll take it out of the equation for you. If you still have trouble, we’ll know the lamp isn’t to blame. And if I do, we’ll know it’s more than coincidence. I’ll bring your souvenir back in a few days, assuming it behaves. Looks like your files have transferred, you should be good as new. I’ll pack up and leave you to your work.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Dr. Newell said, looking much calmer. “I appreciate your help with this, Mike. Hopefully, this means you’ve finally managed to solve the problem, and I won’t need to call you again.”
My jaw tightened at Dr. Newell’s little microaggression. He knew my name, and he damn well knew none of this was my fault. He’d also called me countless times before, never once bothering with a thank you. Still, it wasn’t worth the energy to correct him. So, I packed up the empty boxes and plastic wrap, then left the office with the bronze lamp tucked safely in my bag.
***Eros***
Mark walked quickly out of the building and jogged across the street, my freedom glimmering on the horizon. Back in the office, I’d sensed for a moment that Mark might have noticed something unnatural in my intrusive thought. His joke about the lamp harboring a genie had struck uncomfortably close to the truth. I couldn’t tell whether that came from his natural perceptiveness or my own carelessness. Either way, my first objective was complete. Now I just needed the right moment to speak with Mark.
His office was only half a block away. After tossing a few empty cardboard boxes into a blue dumpster, he stepped inside. He took the elevator down to his basement office. The entire time, he fiddled with a rectangular electronic device unfamiliar to me. Meanwhile, I jostled inside his bag, wondering what would happen next. I needed to speak to Mark, but I had to do so cautiously. The last time I spoke directly to a human, their panic sent my lamp hurtling out a window, narrowly missing several confused and furious pedestrians below. That must have been seventy or eighty years ago—perhaps longer. Tracking time with such limited access to the outside world had always been nearly impossible.
The elevator doors slid open, and Mark stepped into a wide, dimly lit corridor, then through a door propped open, a sure sign someone was already inside. He passed shelves stacked with mismatched boxes and bins on his way to a small cubicle that held two desks. The nameplates outside the cubicle read “Mark Williams” and “Otto.” A friendly-looking fellow occupied the second desk. I assumed this was Otto, who must be Mark’s coworker. He had unusual bluish-purple hair and wore sunglasses. He looked up as Mark dropped his bag beside the desk.
“Hey there, Mark. Any luck with the professor’s laptop? You seemed pretty frustrated when you left.”
“Hey, OT. Some luck. I took the easy route and just replaced the damn thing with a spare. That should get him back up and running for now. I thought about diagnosing the old laptop, but only to satisfy my curiosity. It’s probably a write-off anyway,” Mark said, sinking into a well-worn chair and leaning back until he was staring at the ceiling.
“Smart move,” OT said without looking away from his work. “I’d rather not hear from him again anytime soon. Want me to check the warranty? If it’s still active, we can send it back to the supplier for a replacement.”
“Thanks, and sorry you had to deal with him. I told him to call me directly, but you know how he is. You’ll never guess what the professor thinks is causing his problems.”
“Don’t tell me it’s another one of his Immanuel Kant misinterpretations, is it?”
“That might still be on the table, but no—it’s a magic genie lamp.”
“Wait. Hold up. Say that again, Fam.”
“This,” Mark said, pulling my lamp from his bag and holding it out for Otto to see. “Not really a magic genie lamp, of course, but he said his issues began right after he started keeping this on his desk. He seemed genuinely worried, which is unusual. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was probably just some faulty solder. I told him I’d test his theory, and come on, you can’t say we haven’t seen our share of problems with no logical explanation.”
“True,” OT said, inspecting the antique bronze lamp without lifting his sunglasses. “I shudder to think how the public would feel if they knew how much of our job relies on elbow-to-the-jukebox fixes we can’t logically explain. Do me a favor, if you’re going to test that theory, do it at your apartment, far from our server racks. I’d rather not explain to the university that their email server went down because of a magic genie lamp. They might actually believe it. And one more favor: if it does turn out to be magical and you end up with three wishes, call me. I’ve got a few ideas that could use one or two.”
“And that’s exactly why people keep their wish-granting genies secret. I’ll have to call you after Elijah—we’ve got a standing pact to share any wishes and stop each other from making the classic wish mistakes. Anyway, it’s been a long day. I’m going to pack up and head home,” Mark said, standing and swapping items between his bag and desk. I watched Mark file a few papers, return some boxes to the shelves, and finally slip my lamp back into his bag. “Need a hand with anything before I head out?”
“That’s a negative. Just waiting for this backup to finish, then I’ll head out myself,” OT said, giving a gesture somewhere between a salute and a wave. Mark returned it silently.
That was it. I didn’t need to interfere at all. Mark would take me home with him, where we could finally have a private conversation. Everything was unfolding even better than I’d hoped. As much as I liked Otto—or OT, as Mark called him—I knew I needed to speak with Mark alone, at least the first time. Not that anyone but Mark would hear me—humans tend to panic when they hear a voice no one else can. Mark left his office, caught the elevator, and soon trotted out of the building, heading home.
***Mark***
My apartment was only a few buildings away from the office. It was in a block of old student dormitories that the University reserved for staff to use as needed. It was one of the best perks of the job. The downside was that it came with the condition that I was on call 24/7, which only became a problem because I was terrible at saying no. It was an arrangement I could live with because it meant I didn’t have to overpay for an apartment in New Brunswick or commute from my family home in East Brunswick. Not only did it mean I didn’t have to commute at all, but I was also just two blocks away from The Queen’s Head Club, the bar and drag club where my best friend in the world, Elijah, worked and performed.
As soon as I stepped out of my office building, I pulled out my phone to call Elijah. It was still early enough that the club wasn’t really open. I tapped his photo—a picture he’d taken of himself with my phone. It rang twice before he answered.
“Mark, why do you insist on calling like an elder millennial instead of texting like a normal boyfriend?” Elijah said in his usual mock-scolding tone, one he’d clearly practiced for effect. “What’s going on? Are you coming in?”
“Elijah, how many times do I have to tell you that you only wish I was your boyfriend. I just don’t go for beards, and I call because it drives you crazy,” I said back to him, laughing. He had an effortless way of making me laugh. “I’m not going to make it tonight; I got my hands on a magic genie lamp and will spend my night making questionable decisions without you.”
“Oh, you bitch. Well, I’m stuck here, so I can’t stop you. But I promise, if you come here tomorrow night with a twelve-inch pianist, I will never give you a free drink again.”
“You know me better than that—I’d shoot for eight or nine inches max.”
“Dammit, Mark, I have to go. Customers. Text me next time, I love you,” Elijah said, sounding a little frustrated but very amused.
“You know I won’t. Love you too. Good luck with those customers in a closed bar. Goodnight,” I replied, feeling equally amused and a little pleased. I’d managed to fluster him a little during a conversation that lasted only as long as my walk across the street to my building.
Once inside, I dropped my bag on the kitchen table—which also doubled as my counter. I dashed to the bathroom; I don’t know what it is about getting home that makes going to the bathroom feel like an emergency the second you walk through the door. Once I’d taken care of the usual inconvenient biological urgency, I washed the day’s work grime from my hands. Walking back to the kitchen, I picked up a towel hanging next to the kitchen sink and dried my hands before tossing the towel aside. Then, I opened my bag on the counter and pulled out Dr. Newell’s antique lamp.
“Hello, Mark! I am delighted to meet you,” an unnatural voice shouted directly into my mind. I yelped and dropped the lamp before I even realized what I was doing.
“Is someone here? What was that?” I stammered and looked around in a panic.
When I heard no response, and after I had taken a few calming breaths, I reached down to pick up the lamp from the floor, where I had dropped it.
“I’m sorry I startled you. Please don’t panic. I’m inside this lamp. I assure you, I am quite real, and you are not imagining this. I am not proud of how I just handled myself. I apologize. I was beyond excited, and the moment you pulled the lamp out, the carefully crafted moment of communication I had been planning slipped away from me,” the unnatural voice in my head said, but much softer this time.
“What? Hello? Is this some kind of joke? OT, is this you?” I pleaded. I was not amused and did not enjoy this joke.
“Mark, this isn’t a joke. Please, stay calm. My name is Eros. I’m what you mortals might call … a genie. Now, can we talk?”
“Genie? You’ve got to be shitting me. Okay, Eros,” I said with a laugh, giving in to the lunacy. “Sure. Let’s talk about how I have lost my mind.”
If the title did not give it away, I will, The Fixer, The Maker, The Drag Entertainer is a wild ride! The story centers around Mark who is discovering his sexual orientation while navigating relationships between Elijah (his gay best friend and drag performer) PS we love a queen and Viktoriya (Ukranian immigrant fashionista).
As a straight BL lover I went into this with a mixture of curiosity as I was intrigued to see how the author would integrate such powerful themes and characters together. I was ready for nuclear levels of spice and snark but I was pleasantly surprised by the genuine portrayal of love and friendship. Mark is grappling with a gamut of emotional issues- from questioning his identity to blasting past the stereotypes being thrown his way. His struggles added a realism that a lot of persons face in their own way.
I thoroughly enjoyed how genuine Elijah felt- writing a queen can sometimes feel like they’re taking over the pages but his slow burn yearning for our confused Mark was so earnest. The journey of their relationship from friends to lovers displayed immense character growth from both of them considering how we began.
The dynamic between Mark and Viktoriya was different in that their challenges stemmed from cultural differences. The tenderness of their connection felt like growing a baby seed- hardwork, sunlight and lots of love!
Here’s where it gets chaotic- Elijah and Viktoriya were the duo I did not see coming. I won’t say more but the tension of the rivalry was comical.
I haven’t read many drag books so getting insights into the culture, the flavors of polyamory and queer romance definitely broaden my perspective on love and identity and I applaud the author for this.
Now that we have the humans out of the way, let’s talk about Eros as he is the main attraction. I love how he embodied a cosmic being with a curiosity for humans and emotions. His interactions with Mark highlight his fascination with love, relationships and mortality. He is literally the voice inside his head people ! Like we know he is omniscient but his POV was intriguing because he bridged the magic-human barrier to offer genuine advice, affection and when dealing with Mark- a healthy dose of frustration. Eros could have easily dominated the plot but I liked how his narrative never overshadowed the drama. His role felt “fatherly-guidance counselor” but then he would get philosophical and we remember his true identity. His playful witty sarcasm added charm to the writing that was unexpected.
Overall, this book resonated with me because of its heartfelt and at times sarcastic narratives and how it embraced the complexity of polyamory over a simplistic conventional solution. The magical element of Eros made me realize that while I may not have a Djinn, I can look through my friends and family and spot people who kinda fulfill his role in my life in one way or another.
Thank you to the author and Reedsy for providing me with an ARC in exchange for my honest review.