Even though everybody seems to enjoy this book, I am sorry to report that the subpar writing full of red herrings makes this a tedious read. Too much head hopping, for starters, between those covers, as the POV shifts rather haphazardly in some chapters, so much that often I could not tell whose hero serves as the momentary mouthpiece (e.g. "“He looks okay.” Indifference played out like a thief robbing him [= Raw] of his true feelings. He had noticed the sparkling blue, warm searching eyes, as though everything Edward gazed upon had a story to tell. The body, lean, muscular and yearning to be touched in all the right places. His strong legs, and chiselled face. The golden hair combed back and puffed up in the front like James Dean. Michelangelo had sculptured this man to perfection, not to mention those wonderful tattoos. He [still Raw] had noticed but kept it all to his vulnerable self. “A sweet catch, darling. You should get to know him.” Angie smoothed out the sheet covering him. “Stop! Angie. Stop! Stop trying to pair me up with people, especially ones I don’t know.” Angie’s face turned serious. She hated seeing Raw alone. She had told him if he ever did find someone, it would be the happiest day of her life." ~ "Much to his surprise [= Raw], the guy who had visited with her only yesterday, sat behind the steering wheel in a white SUV. Eugene or Edgar, he’d forgotten the man’s name. He casually lifted his bag and strolled towards the car. “Where’s Angie?” He asked, reaching for the passenger door handle. “She has an appointment and asked me to fetch you.” “An appointment? With who?” “Don’t know. Didn’t ask.” “If I knew, I would’ve gone with my dad.” Angie had warned him. Stay calm, she’d said. [= Edward] “Put your bag in the trunk”). One should not mince words here; seasoned writers scrupulously control such an issue so that the flow of the story is not disrupted. Purple prose easily comes to Mr Quail, as already sampled (male beauty is evoked in extraordinarily clumsy fashion indeed! this is how Raw describes Edward's naked chest: "Edward’s physique had all the right qualities: A spoonful of hair on his chest with a dark treasure trail from his bellybutton to his groin. The tattoos, beautifully crafted on every square inch of his stomach, chest, neck and arms, especially the one dedicated to his mother; “Forever yours, mom”, outside a red rose on his neck. The veins in his arms protruded as though about to break through skin"). Given the literary genre and the rather melodramatic tone of the book, this propensity for low brow puffiness should not be an issue, yet it is one, insofar as the florid tone Mr Quail goes for is compounded by more than the occasional wrong epithet and adverb, most usually an inept one instead of something both apposite and pointed (this happens when people write without pausing to reflect on the brick- and-mortar components of their first draft; here is a little sample: "Raw woke up in the hospital with a sweet perfume attacking his senses from the bouquet of yellow roses on the cabinet beside his bed" ~ "on his balcony overlooking Zoo Lake, Edward had set up a lonely table" ~ "And this body of mine looks like a Michelangelo shithouse" ~ "The magnified guy on your stomach [?]" ~ "Raw promptly waited outside the hospital at the pick-up point keeping an eye out for Angie’s old, red and green Ang" ~ "he existed in a world where reality and truth were at the forefront", predicated of Raw's sham of a life; "twice a month Curisco entered Raw and his team in matches. It broke their spirit, and each time, whether win or lose, Raw kept his spirits high. Never allowed the team to feel unworthy" [I fail to see the logic behind the entire sequence of actions]) and by nigh-inumerable instances of tasteless phrasing (my favorite being 'the cumbersome bulk' of Angie, a secondary character; I also enjoyed "a husky quality percolated in Edward’s voice with a gentle, breathy quality", wording that turns what was supposed to be an eulogy into hispid balbutience; Mr Quail pushes this defect far into grotesque territory, for example when he writes in Raw's POV "with Raw, one never knew when the bitch would out. Even if Edward looked like a god, smelled like grass after rain, or even had a pregnant bank account, Raw would never show his vulnerability" or "Caine made an impressive figure. His bulky frame imposed with [sic] a strong straight back and broad chest. Well-endowed with hair and sexuality [!] and his eyes penetrated with a mesmerizing quality"). And do not start me on the missing words, some of which result in sentences so spectacularly nonsensical that the book can hardly have been proof-read ("Raw never to pursued any man" and the like). How could one care for the characters and their feelings and struggle against adversity and themselves when the story boils down to such feeble, often ridiculous, literary values? I seldom felt in contact with real-life persons, only token, paper-thin characters clumsily walking around a preordained path. Even the boxing scenes have no cinematic value, being blandly woven together with little regard for colour and action ("every now and then, a punch lands with the sound of a car crash, and makes you legitimately hope the other guy gets up in one piece. With over a minute gone in round four, Raw’s opponent connected with a left hand to his jaw, landing with one of the more sickening thuds you'll hear inside a boxing ring. Raw crumpled to the mat in such a lifeless and disturbing manner, everyone watching held their breath in the hopes he would be okay"; here the shift from Raw's POV to a generic "you", instead of the expected "one" [as in "one can only hope the other guy etc"], adds insult to injury). Two stars, because I am in a magnanimous mood.