Dec 20

New Release Blitz: Parson by J. Hali Steele (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Parson

Series: Scorned Devils MC, Book Three

Author: J. Hali Steele

Publisher:  Changeling Press

Release Date: December 20, 2024

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Cover Art: Marteeka Karland

Genres: Action Adventure, Contemporary Women’s Fiction, New Releases, Romance, Suspense

Themes: Age Gap (Older Man), Christmas, Gay, Holiday Themes, MC Romance

Book Length: Novel

Page Count: 117

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Description

Building a hundred walls will not prevent Parson ripping away each brick to get to the man who is his.

Parson: Raised in a religious family who accepted Parson’s homosexuality, he struggles to understand Langston Gillman’s inability to embrace who he is, what he feels. Pars put off patching with the Scorned Devils MC in fear of losing his lover. Never again. Parson will patch with the club and he means to have the man he desires. Pars vows to pursue Lang until he stands vulnerable and ready to surrender.

Langston: Bullied as a child, Langston has reached the age of fifty-two loathing his gayness. He navigates life by planning every moment of each day. Still, occasionally he is unable to rid himself of his need for a man. Unfortunately, Lang desires bad boys. When one particular bad boy rides into his life on a Harley, his presence leaves Lang confused and angry. Langston finds himself yearning for more with Parson. Problem is the biker not only refuses to cut ties with Scorned Devils, the local MC, he will not be hidden by Langston.

Rules are made to be broken, and Parson will not live his life in denial. He intends to turn Lang’s world upside down, no matter the consequences.

Excerpt

Parson (Scorned Devils MC 3)
J. Hali Steele
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 J. Hali Steele

Parson

Calmness was the keystone of Parson’s life.

Today he sat beside his cousin, Mark, in a pew near the back of The Church of the Trinity Episcopal church, praying to find rekindle that trait. “I’m not asking for confession, and I don’t need a priest.”

Mark Turner was a deacon and while he could hear confession, only the priest could give absolution. Parson didn’t need that. “I’m not seeking the sacrament, because I’ve not done anything I regret.”

The deaths of the Bayside Specter president and VP had been a necessity, a matter of survival, and Pars experienced no remorse over the sordid affair.

“Good, because Father Tyson is preparing for Sunday service.” Mark stared. “What do you want, Randall? Sorry, you prefer Parson.”

“Right. Nothing, man. I’m torn about the relationship I’m in. Or was in.”

“You’re not living with — what’s his name, Langston? — anymore?”

“No.” Pars had done the one thing Langston Gillman would never accept. “He’s being unreasonable.”

“Have you spoke truthfully with him regarding your feelings?”

Mark was aware — hell, the whole family knew — Parson was openly gay. None held his relationships as a sin, believing his love life was between him and God.

“Does he know you love him?”

“No.” Parson twisted on the hard bench to better see Mark. “What makes you say that?”

“Lord help me. You’re thirty-one and you’ve never been in a relationship this long. What else could it be?”

Parson ignored Mark’s comment because, damn, Parson hadn’t thought about that. Yeah, he cared greatly for Lang, but love? “He kicked me out.”

“Let me guess — because you belong to the motorcycle club that runs around, or as some believe, runs, the city of Coatesville.”

“He doesn’t like that I’m a member of the Scorned Devils MC, but I can’t allow him to dictate who I can hang out and be friends with. Because of his feelings, I put off patching.” Parson picked at his fingernails. “Done playing games. I am who I am. Patched last week.”

“I see.”

Sunday parishioners started entering. Parson still needed to see Dread and talk about meeting with the city officials at Cutters tomorrow regarding plans for the Christmas toy drive. “Hey, thanks for letting me vent.”

“Wish you weren’t an only child.” Mark sighed. “Not sure I was much help, but if you ever need to talk to someone aside from…”

“They’re my brothers, Mark. They’d never see harm come to me.”

“That’s what concerns me. What lengths would your brothers go to in keeping you safe? I’m not blind to what happens with motorcycle clubs, Pars.” Mark stood. “I’ve heard about unsavoriness taking place in our community.”

Talk of the Specters’ bikes being destroyed at the Midway and rumors behind the incident had finally died down. There were other disputes, and if the perpetrators were wrong, yeah, they got beat down. Without knowing what his cousin might have heard, Parson couldn’t claim all the stories were lies. He wasn’t going to get in to it now. Glancing down at his watch, Parson headed for the door. “Damn, Mark, I gotta run.”

When Parson reached Hell’s Lair, the gate sprung open immediately. Damn Spinner, anyway. He was always on the computer, watching the comings and goings of everyone. Shit, it was Spin’s turn to keep an eye out for unusual activity around the Scorned Devils MC compound. Spin hadn’t come back to his place last night which, meant he’d camped out in the loft. As annoying as Spinner could be, he kept Parson’s thoughts from drifting to Langston.

Parson spied Dread with his feet propped on the desk as he entered the office. “Hey, man. What’s up?”

“Nothing much.” Dread scrutinized Parson. “You’re early for a Sunday.”

Pars usually hit the clubhouse after church. Today, he’d skipped services. “I was hoping to talk to you before you got busy.” Sitting across from Dread, he sighed loudly. “Is there another place we can hold meetings with the city council?”

“For years those fuckers have let us do the all the organizing for this event. Mostly they sit at meetings pretending they want to be there. They take credit at the end of the parade when all we get to say is — Santa Claus has come to town.” Dread studied Pars. “Hey, it’s for the less fortunate children. Shit, we’re the local MC some of those same members would like to see disappear. Don’t really want them in my restaurant unless they’re paying customers, but it is what it is, Pars. Sure as hell not having them here if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

“Wouldn’t expect that, but there are other places in town.”

“None I want to be involved with.”

“Look, Dread, Cutters is…”

“Langston is off on Sundays and Mondays. You won’t have to deal with any shit.”

Parson’s chest deflated when he relaxed against the chair back. He wasn’t sure Dread noticed. “Great.”

Standing, the VP walked to the office door and closed it. “No need for everyone to hear your business.”

Fuck, Pars was going to get an earful.

“I don’t know what happened and I don’t really give a damn. I know Langston’s been a prick this last month.” He stood right in front of Pars. “I see the fire in your eyes but I’m not the one you want to go toe to toe with today, or any day, about me calling a prick a prick. He’s been hell to deal with.” Backing up a step, he glared. “Fuck Langston. Or don’t. Whatever you choose, straighten your shit out because not every meet will be held on Monday. We have to consider the needs of a lot of people. If you can’t handle this, let me know now.”

“I got this.”

“Perfect.”

Pars got up to leave but Dread stopped him. “Another MC is joining us. They don’t have a drive where they are.”

“Who?”

“The Immoral Sinners out of Harrisburg.”

“Don’t know any of them well, but I do hear they are unruly as hell.”

“Yeah, I know. They’re small, but troublesome.”

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

A former MC associate, J. Hali Steele loves anything with wheels, including motorcycles, classic automobiles, and race cars. A retired winning ex-quarter mile drag racer, J. Hali often angles to get her butt back in the driver’s seat!

J. Hali is a multi-published, best-selling author of romance in Contemporary MC, ReligErotica, Paranormal, Fantasy, and LGBTQ stories where humans, vampyres, shapeshifters, and angels collide – and they collide a lot! When J. Hali’s not writing or reading, she can be found snuggled in front of the TV with a cat in her lap and a cup of her favorite beverage of the moment.

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Dec 17

New Release Blitz: Scars and Secrets by Thomas Grant Bruso (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Scars and Secrets

Author: Thomas Grant Bruso

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 12/17/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 67685

Genre: Contemporary Thriller, Lit/genre, contemporary, crime/thriller, family-drama, disappearance, murder, cancer, therapist

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Description

Ralph Ashton gets more than he bargained for when police question him about the death of his ex-boyfriend Elijah Ray, whose body is discovered at the edge of the Saranac River.

When the local police visit Ralph and ask him about a critical piece of case evidence, Ralph becomes a prime suspect. He sets out to learn what happened to Eli the night he left his apartment and is startled to learn about his former boyfriend’s shady past.

As Ralph pursues a dangerous investigation, he discovers things about Eli he did not know while they were together.

Ralph’s life starts to unravel when he loses more people close to him as his mother lies in a hospital bed dying of cancer. Is learning about the truth of Eli’s death worth jeopardizing his safety?

Excerpt

Scars and Secrets
Thomas Grant Bruso © 2024
All Rights Reserved

The Saranac River empties into the mouth of Lake Champlain and a sliver of late-evening sun shimmies and slices across shavings of broken ice like a school of shiny fish.

I straighten the blue-and-white striped silk tie my last boyfriend gifted me and stare out at the early November landscape. The ground is dusted with newly fallen snow, and the river, a swollen malignant serpentine of icy water, snakes through a vista of evergreens and sycamores.

I catch my hard stare in the reflection of the large picture window of my therapist’s office.

Dr. James Matheson, basketball tall with peacock-blue eyes and warm brown skin, dressed in a rosy-pink dress shirt and charcoal-gray suit, coaxes me back to the present. His voice is butter soft and attractive, musically inclined and bilingual. Spanish on his mother’s side, I think.

My thoughts unravel like vines on a branch, disoriented, a broken fuse box with faulty wiring. I blow out a loud breath and turn to the long-legged and handsome therapist, my hands packed in the pockets of my khakis so he won’t see them shake. Men make me nervous and weak-kneed.

Dr. Matheson is patient and smiling, waiting for me to speak, to say something, since I’ve been standing in silence for the last fifteen minutes, staring out at the dismal day passing by.

I think about my mother who lies in the hospital dying. I’ve just come from visiting her, before my scheduled therapy session. Dr. Matheson wants to discuss it, from his stone silence and sensitive stares.

I glance at my wristwatch. I’ve been in Pretty Boy’s office for almost an hour, and I haven’t said much or given the good old doc enough to judge or dislike me or cancel my next session. I am surprised he has not asked me not to come back. Maybe he’ll call County Hospital and admit me to the psych ward on the fourth floor if I open my mouth and let him into my dark, sad life.

He does not reach for the phone. He sits poised in the high brown leather chair behind his polished cherry wood desk, with many medical certifications on the wall behind him.

He stares across the room at me, grins, keeping a professional manner, waiting for me to give him his money and time’s worth.

I drag myself toward the overstuffed leather chair across from his desk and collapse into it, as if it is my home base.

I find it hard to hold Dr. Matheson’s gaze. Shyness overcomes me and I wring my hands. My anxiety levels heighten. My stare darts across the room at the sudden arrival of hard balls of sleet beating the glass and the braying wind cutting through the tops of snowcapped trees across the lake.

My breath catches, and I hear Dr. Matheson talking, his voice muffled, the tail end of his last words: “…do you want to talk about it?”

I cringe and feel his eyes on me when I turn away to the ice-crusted window on the far wall. My eyes close, and my lips clamp shut in a jagged line as rage seethes under my thin layer of vulnerability. My gut clutches.

“Ralph?” he says.

My name means nothing to me. Foreign, a stranger, someone I left in the past.

I lift my head slowly, and it is as if an unseen, supernatural force presses down on my shoulders, forcing me to keep quiet.

I am guarded as the walls go up around me. A nerve twitches under my right eye. Maddening!

Dr. Matheson shifts in his chair, and I sense that I have kept him waiting too long; his displeasure is like a bulldozer digging through the tendril of roots and dead zone of my brain, demolishing my thoughts. He’s got to get home to his girlfriend, wife, whoever. Maybe it’s a blind date, I imagine, invoking vulgar and naughty thoughts of Dr. Matheson in a heavy-duty threesome. One of the bottoms is me. I lift my dreamy gaze to his masculine, model-thin face, chiseled jaw, and rugged handsomeness. I can smell the citrus scent of his cologne ten feet from where I sit. Heat crawls into my face, aroused, my interest and other unmentionable areas proudly piqued.

I want a man like James: Built like a Greek God, Zeus or Ares. Tough. Striking. Dominant.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, curling his small puckish lips. “You seem far away.”

Clingy cobwebs of darkness thicken inside my head, gauzy and wet, sticking to the wall of my brain like silly string. “Deadness,” I say, uncertain where this conversation is heading.

The face of my mother flashes in my mind, and I think about running back to the hospital and staying by her side.

James uncrosses his leg from left to right and changes positions so the side of his face illuminates in a shaft of soft glow from the floor lamp hanging over his shoulder. I want to tell him he looks fucking sexy that way, but I keep quiet. He holds his yellow writing pad, the tips of his fingers turning white, and I dream about what he can do to me with those meaty hands. Touch me in my favorite place, I want to tell him. But I don’t.

I picture him holding my face in his sweaty palms as we lock gazes, staring haughtily into each other’s eyes. The stiffness of my erection knocks against the fabric of my pants. I squirm in my chair.

“What do you mean?” he asks. “Deadness?”

I force myself to blink a few times, snap out of my hazy dream, and look up at Dr. Matheson. His expression is alarming, unblinking. He stares at me, bordering on the threshold of a stalker.

I find a way out of my rut, clawing, digging, and rummaging through a labyrinth of unfathomable responses. “All I want to do is listen to Twenty One Pilots or Nickelback and drink beer. Forget about life, people, and work.”

Except for my mother. My ex-boyfriend, Eli, too.

I want to see him. It’s been a while since he walked out on me and never returned.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Thomas Grant Bruso knew at an early age he wanted to be a writer. He has been a voracious reader of genre fiction since he was a kid.

His literary inspirations are Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Ellen Hart, Jim Grimsley, Karin Fossum, Sam J. Miller, Joyce Carol Oates, and John Connolly.

Bruso loves animals, book-reading, writing fiction, prefers Sudoku to crossword puzzles.

In another life, he was a freelance writer and wrote for magazines and newspapers. In college, he was a winner for the Hermon H. Doh Sonnet Competition. Now, he writes book reviews for his hometown newspaper, The Press Republican.

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Dec 13

Book Blitz: Trust is Sacred by Emily Carrington (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Trust is Sacred

Author: Emily Carrington

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: December 13, 2024

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Cover Art: Angela Knight

Genres: Action Adventure, Dark Fantasy, New Releases, Paranormal, Romance, Suspense

Themes: Gay, Holiday Themes, Medical Romance, Multicultural & Interracial, Werewolves & Wolf Shifters

Series: Medically Necessary (#3)

Multiverse: Searchlight Academy (#12)

Book Length: Novella

Page Count: 114

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Synopsis

Without trust, nothing is sacred. Not even long-held beliefs.

Oliver’s terrible secret is eating both himself and his would-be mate alive. He and Amir have been apart for three months, and absence indeed makes the heart grow fonder. Unfortunately, there’s terror, pain, and deceit lying between them.

Amir thinks purging and confession are medically necessary for spiritual and physical well-being. Oliver will stop at almost nothing to hide his scars.

Can these two be mated in truth or will Oliver’s past and Amir’s unstated fears push them away before the werewolves’ most sacred holiday, Winter Solstice?

Excerpt

Trust is Sacred (Medically Necessary 3)
Emily Carrington
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 Emily Carrington

August

In a very real sense, Oliver’s heart hadn’t ached this way in years. It was a mixture of longing and a sweet promise of eventual homecoming. He’d just sent his lover away on an airplane, back to New York. Amir would gather together his staff, choose a new doctor to take over his practice, and then be back down here to live with Oliver.

To become Oliver’s mate.

Werewolves didn’t have spouses. Except when they did. They also didn’t have Life Dancers. That was a psychic vampire thing, knowledge Oliver had gained over the last month. Wolves had mates, a name for their beloved, the person with whom they wanted to spend the rest of their lives.

He’d had a mate before. This time would be different. He’d protect his mate. He’d keep him safe, no matter the cost, and he wouldn’t allow his nightmares to drive them apart. To shove his lover toward the singular choice of suicide.

He pulled up in front of Llosgia Maxine’s house, where his heart told him he belonged. Granted, she hadn’t exactly accepted her title of alpha, or the duties commensurate with that status change. She would, though. He had faith. Well, mostly he had faith. Sometimes he worried that Tilthos Charles’s words would come true and Llosgia Maxine would choose to take up no title at all.

Except, of course, she’d already claimed Director of Werewolf Watch for herself. Maybe she couldn’t take on that responsibility and…

The front door opened and Tilthos Charles stepped out, looking even stronger than he had the night before, when he’d arrived at Llosgia Maxine’s and asked for a place for himself and his lover to sleep. Now, in the dimness of false dawn, the alpha above all alphas shouldn’t have been able to use his limited vision to see more than a car approaching. However, that didn’t seem to be the case because he smiled and waved as if he knew exactly who was arriving.

Oliver considered driving away. He didn’t want to hear the political answer as to why the Kreisha pack was still allowed to exist after all the shit three of its members had pulled. Geoffrey Huntington, Noah Travers, and Josiah Cobb had plotted to drive Tilthos Charles mad. They had made it so hearing his rightful title had caused him physical and psychic pain. They’d forced him to attack his lover, Luis. Now, though, surely Tilthos Charles was coming to tell him they’d been forgiven for some fucked-up political reason that boiled down to the alpha above all alphas… what? Didn’t want to kill? That might just be it.

The alpha above all alphas’ soft voice was in his head suddenly. Open the door, Oliver.

Oliver unlocked the doors. He waited for the alpha above all alphas to sit beside him, or order him to get out of the car, denying him his escape.

He acknowledged his expectations had no basis in reality, especially because everything he’d seen of Tilthos Charles when the leader was in his right mind was favorable. Still, he didn’t actually know how Tilthos Charles governed. He was only assuming, based on the one alpha he knew, that Tilthos Charles might have allowed power to go to his head.

“So uncharitable,” the alpha above all alphas said after opening the door. He sat in the passenger seat, folded his white cane, the symbol of his visual impairment, and then buckled himself in. “Feel free to drive if it will make you less edgy.”

“You’re reading my every thought?” Oliver asked. He’d assumed his shields were better than that.

“Not quite. You’re not projecting everything, I don’t think, but you’re very unhappy with me and that carries just fine.”

Oliver relocked the doors and pulled out of the driveway. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere that you can drive and listen without getting us in an accident would be good.”

Oliver grunted.

To his amazement, the leader of most of the world’s werewolves on this side of the Atlantic laughed. “You sound like Luis when he’s unhappy. Please tell me what’s bothering you.”

Oliver couldn’t bring himself to accuse the alpha above all alphas of any wrongdoing. Instead, he asked, “What happened to the six wolves who attacked you?”

“Huntington, Travers, and Cobb have been placed with different packs, separated by quite a bit of geography. Their new alphas reassure me their movements will be closely observed.”

Oliver turned off Llosgia Maxine’s street and just headed south, away from Washington, DC. He knew he wouldn’t be able to drive in heavy traffic and listen. “Why are they still alive?”

“I’m not in the habit of killing every single wolf who’s tried a coup. There would be considerably fewer wolves in the world if I exacted that sort of revenge. They’re being watched by three alphas I trust implicitly and I’m sure these bastards will show their true colors again. And unlike in baseball, they only get two chances.” He turned his head away from Oliver. “They’re not the only ones I’m watching. Kreisha Alexander let this go on right under his nose. At best, the very best, that makes him not perceptive enough.”

He faced Oliver again. “I’m asking you to keep me informed if he does anything inappropriate, dangerous, or careless. I don’t order you because I don’t want to step on your agency that way.”

“Please order me,” Oliver blurted.

That got him a raised eyebrow.

“Kreisha Alexander is in the habit of ordering his wolves not to share things, good or bad, outside the pack. If I have your order first, and because you outrank him, I’ll be able to tattletale.” He grimaced. “That came out more bitter than I anticipated or meant. I’m sorry.”

Tilthos Charles seemed to have caught onto another part of his speech, however, because he said, “Is there anything you’re forbidden to share with me?” There was a growl in his voice.

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender women’s speculative fiction. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires. And in the contemporary world she’s named “Sticks & Stones,” Emily has vowed to create small towns where prejudice is challenged by a passionate quest for equality. Find her on Facebook at Shapeshifter Central or on her website.

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Dec 10

New Release Blitz: Teardown by William Campbell Powell (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Teardown

Author: William Campbell Powell

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 12/10/2024

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: M/NB

Length: 104100

Genre: Contemporary, literature/general fiction, contemporary, NB/nonbinary, pansexual, British, musicians, blues band, European music clubs, road trip, Germany, living rough, secrets, self-discovery

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Description

Growing up in a dead-end, Thames Valley town like Marden Combe, Kai knows there’s no escape without a lot of talent, hard work—and luck.

Two weeks before the Clayton Paul Blues Band plans to set out on tour to Germany, their singer quits, and drummer Kai takes matters in hand. With bandmates Jake and Jamie, they recruit a talented new singer—the enigmatic Dominique—as the new face of the band and set out on the road to Berlin in a rickety white van.

Dogged by mishaps and under-rehearsed, the band stumbles through their first shows, zig-zagging between chaos and brilliance. But as the first gig in Berlin draws near, the band begins to gel. They’re clicking with their audience, and even the stone-hearted Kai starts to crumble under the spell, first of Dom and then…of Lars.

As the end of the tour approaches, Kai must make hard choices. Dom? But she’s keeping a dark secret. Lars? Not after the acrimony of their last parting. The band? Or will that dream crumble too?

Excerpt

Teardown
William Campbell Powell © 2024
All Rights Reserved

The bus passed an abandoned car on the grass verge. Last week, a sign on the windscreen said Police Aware, but evidently, not so aware that someone couldn’t set fire to it in the interim. That was my cue to get off. I rang the bell, and the bus pulled to a halt about fifty yards short of a block of single-storey industrial units. It had been built in the 1960s, and the brickwork left much to be desired. Ditto the ironwork and the paintwork. Don’t even think about asbestos. The third unit along was the one I was looking for. The sign read The Band Hut, and it fit right in with Marden Combe…

I pushed open the door, and all was gloom within. Thick cardboard and felt covered the windows. I called “Hi” to Wally at the front desk, hunched over his phone, and the autopilot grunted back. I moved past room 1 (a folk-metal trio), room 2 (empty), and into room 3, signed with gloss white paint roughly slapped over its matt black outer door.

Usually, with great rock stars taking interviews in their home studios, there wasn’t an amp in sight unless it was some boutique marque they’d been paid to endorse. The studio would be airy, bright, and wood-panelled in glossy pine, with walls featuring three or four iconic guitars. Double-insulated patio doors would lead onto a beautifully manicured lawn, the whole set tastefully in the Cotswolds.

In Marden Combe, they did things differently. Black felt covered the walls and ceiling of Studio 3. Underfoot, recycled carpet tiles clung to my shoes, sticky as only years of spilt beer could accomplish. Worn and curling patches showed where the bass drum spikes had caught between two tiles and where the studio’s cobbled-together frankenamps had been dragged too many times. Gaffa tape glinted under fluorescent lights, hasty repairs criss-crossing the floor. Other marks—cigarette burns mostly—clustered round the amps; the still-potent reeks of ancient tobacco and stale weed lurked at the edge of awareness. A tired but eclectic collection of posters hung on the walls, providing a potted archaeology of Marden Combe’s indigenous music of the last half decade.

Jake was already set up and sitting on a Band Hut amplifier, cradling his beloved Fender Stratocaster. He didn’t look up, but I didn’t expect him to. He hunched over the fretboard, fingers spider-dancing their scales. Half in shadow, he was a little spiderlike himself, all spindly limbs that gangled and writhed. His hair, too pale for a spider, was cut short and neatly combed.

After a minute, he finished his phrase, and we nodded to each other. Jake wasn’t a great conversationalist, so I didn’t push him out of his comfort zone. It was called ‘letting the music do the talking’. It suited both of us.

It took me about ten minutes to get the studio’s drum kit set up the way I like it, with my own cymbals in place. All the while, Jake happily noodled on his Strat. Clay breezed in just as I was finishing up.

Clay was the kind of guy you’d want fronting a blues band. Beautiful, with ebon-black skin and close-cropped hair, he had a solid baritone voice with a growl that went up to eleven. Today, he wore jeans and a T-shirt from a Kyla Brox show, but on stage, he was sharp-cut suit and moves. Twenty-six years old and—speaking entirely in my capacity as detached observer—hot and classy as fuck.

“Hi, Clay,” I called.

“Hi, Kai. Where’s Jamie?”

“He said he’d be a few minutes late. The boss is making him do overtime.”

Which, given that it was Sunday, was brother Jamie’s standard polite fiction for his housemates roping him into cleaning the kitchen. A little unfair, given that Jamie is possibly the tidiest human being on the planet. If Clay had been thinking, he’d have remembered that.

“That’s a bugger,” said Clay.

“Yeah. Tell me about it.”

But then he just stood there. Like a kid busting for a pee but afraid to ask the teacher.

“D’you need a hand getting stuff out of the car?” I asked.

“No.” He held up the flight case that held his mic and harmonicas. “How long do you think he’s going to be?”

“I don’t know. He said a few minutes, but I’ve no idea what that is in real minutes.”

Clay sat on an amp, then got up and walked over to the soundproof door. He opened it and the second door beyond it. He peered through the gloom. I could hear the folk-metal band getting into their groove, and good luck to them, but I was glad there would be a vacant studio between us and their sawtooth D minors.

No sign of Jamie though.

It was like something was up with Clay. I was almost tempted to ask him if he was okay. But what if he said no? That was why I didn’t ask personal questions within the band. We played blues together, and we planned escape. We memorised the names of one another’s significant others so we could be polite if they showed up at a gig. Clay’s significant other, Sirelle was—again, in my capacity, et cetera, et cetera—hot, but she was also Little Miss Disdain. Jake did not have a significant other that wasn’t made of wood and didn’t have six strings. Jamie had been a sore test of memory up until Louise, but he was currently unattached. That was it.

Clay was making me nervous though. So:

“Are you going to set your mic up, Clay? I’ll help you set levels so you’re all ready to go when Jamie gets here.”

No reason he couldn’t do it himself, but I was also music tech, so I was allowed to ask.

“Uh, no.”

Then, he expelled a deep, doom-laden breath, and I knew this day, which had started only medium crap, was going to end full-on shitstorm.

“I can’t wait for Jamie,” he decided. “Ah, guys…I’ve got an announcement to make.”

Jake looked up but carried on playing irritating little shreds.

“Good news?” I asked, more in forlorn hope than expectation.

“Well, yes. Sort of. I’ve got a new job.”

That doesn’t happen a lot in Marden Combe. Let’s not piss on the parade just yet.

“That’s good. Well done. So, what’s not to like about that?”

“It’s…in London.”

“Good pay, then, I guess. But I don’t fancy your commute.”

“Oh, it’s not Central London. It’s in Acton. But you’re right about the commute. Apart from that, though, it’s a pretty good job. It’s a real step up in my career.”

It was my turn to take a deep breath. “Okay. So why aren’t you dancing for joy?”

“Well, it’s a big project, and they need to get started right away. So, I’m starting next week. There’s no flexibility on that date. We’re up against the wire.”

“Right. What happens when you go on holiday the week after? Are they okay with that?”

“That’s just it, Kai. This is a huge project. It’s a fantastic opportunity. I’ll be in right at the ground floor. I need to be there. I’ve promised them I’ll be there.”

Ah. This is goodbye, then. Why can’t you just fucking say it?

“So what happens to the Clayton Paul Blues Band? What happens to the tour? Köln, Aachen, Berlin? All those German punters waiting to see us two weeks from now?”

Clay wouldn’t meet my eye.

“I can’t pass this up, Kai. It’s a dream opportunity for me.”

“And you can’t wait?”

“They won’t wait. I aced that interview, but there’s a bunch of guys almost as good, ready to start tomorrow. White guys.”

“That shouldn’t matter. There are laws…”

“Shit, Kai. Don’t tell me you don’t know how discrimination works. The manager liked me, stuck his neck out to make the offer. But if I start pissing them about, making conditions… It wouldn’t be discrimination, no sir. But it would be ‘we need someone who can start immediately’—that’s what they’d say.”

I nodded. I did know. White male privilege, Kai. “And the band? Your band. Us. The Clayton Paul Blues Band that goes on tour in two weeks?”

“I don’t know.” It was a scream of desperation, and it made Jake stop shredding. Something had gotten through to him.

“I don’t know,” Clay repeated, quieter. “It’s just a tour. It’s not the fucking Beatles going to Hamburg to find their destiny.”

“No, it’s not. In the great scheme of history, it’s just a piece of fun.”

“Well, then. You’ll get over it.”

Eyeroll. Do you know how crass that comes across, Clay? And a deep breath.

“With the greatest of respect, Clay, fuck you. I do not plan to ‘get over it’. I said it’s just a piece of fun, but that’s why it matters. Marden Combe is a shithole of the first water. Nothing happens here. Nothing good has ever come out of here. If we stay here all our lives, dying will be the best thing that ever happens to us.

“So yes, it’s a piece of fun. And no, it’s way more than that. It’s the hope of escape. It’s the dream in our waking lives that makes all the crap worth enduring—the crummy job or the even crummier no-job.”

A father who was too distant. A step-mom who was too close. But I didn’t say it. Nobody else’s business.

Clay shook his head. “I can’t be responsible for the crap in your lives, Kai.” It was a whisper.

Jake turned back to his guitar and started adjusting his pedal board. He wasn’t going to get involved if he could help it.

“Okay,” Clay continued, “you’d better cancel it—”

“Your band. Your tour. Haven’t you got the balls to cancel it yourself?”

“I thought…you could find a stand-in for the tour. If you wanted it that much.”

“A stand-in? And keep the band going afterwards, Clay? Is that what you want? This band as your bolthole, waiting for you to return when the new job settles down?”

I let that sink in, then asked him, “Can you commit to that?”

“Shit! I don’t know.”

“Don’t know? Or don’t want to tell us?”

“Put it on hold. We can put the band on hold, can’t we?”

“How long for?” I asked him.

“I don’t fucking know! I’ll be flying over to the US quite a bit. And there’s a bunch of guys in Japan I’ll need to work with. Six months, maybe?”

And then it hit me. I knew why Clay couldn’t meet my eye.

“The Cherry Tree. You must have known about this last night, and you didn’t say a fucking word. We’re already in the Last Chance Saloon. This is Boot-fucking-Hill.”

I’d struck true. His mouth hung open, and the longer it stayed that way, the more certain I was.

“Y-yes, Kai. I had the offer, but I didn’t know if I was going to take it. Honest, guys. But I thought it over, slept on it, and knew I had to take my chance.”

Well, it might be true, but my money was on Clay being too chicken to stuff the band in front of Simon. It had been too long a pause, while he crafted a damage-limitation lie.

“This’ll cost us our Saturday slot,” I said. “You know that, don’t you? Simon knows we won’t find a new singer in time.”

“One of you could—”

“Simon’s already got a plan to fill our slot, else he wouldn’t have given us ‘the talk’ last night. He’s a lovely guy, but he’s a businessman too.”

“He wouldn’t do that to you, Kai. You’re one of his golden…kids.”

Well, it was true, about being a ‘golden kid’ at least. Simon had taken me under his wing when I first got the notion I might become Kai. But that didn’t change a thing because Simon taught self-reliance and owning the consequences even while he was still putting the pieces back together, with himself as the prime example.

“You know better than that,” I said. “He owes the band nothing. He owes me nothing. And neither of us would have it any other way.”

But I did owe Simon. Maybe what I owed him was enough notice to give another band a clear shot at the residency.

Which was all very noble but not the issue at hand. Time to wrap this shit up, Kai.

“You said six months,” I began.

Six months. Six months without a band. I felt the dread rise up like a wave, ready to pull me under. The Clayton Paul Blues Band was my life.

Had been my life.

Six months though. Six months was more than enough time to build a new band. If I could pull the rest of the guys through.

Jake was in shock, biting his lip. His eyes darted about the room, to me, to Clay, back to the fretboard, where spider fingers shaped chaotic chords.

“No good. Jake, you don’t want to be six months without a band, do you?”

Jake put on his best rabbit-in-headlights gurn.

Bad move, Kai. This isn’t ‘pulling the guys through’.

But maybe I hadn’t screwed up. Maybe Clay sensed that the worst was over.

“No, you’re right,” he said. “It’s not fair to ask you to wait. It’s been a blast with you guys, but all good things come to an end.”

He held out his hand. “Kai? No hard feelings? Maybe play together someday when all this is done?”

I shrugged. But…why burn bridges? If I’d had the chance, wouldn’t I have done the same?

“Maybe.” I shook his hand. “Good luck with your escape from Alcatraz, Thames Valley. And don’t cancel the tour. I want to think about that.”

He shook hands with Jake too. There was an awkward silence. Jake went back to his guitar and began dabbing harmonics.

“Look, guys,” Clay said. “I’d like to stay and say goodbye to Jamie, but I guess you’ll want to talk over what’s next, and you won’t want me around for that. I’ve paid the Band Hut man, so the room’s yours till ten o’clock anyway. Least I could do. Okay?”

The Band Hut man. Clay, his name’s Wally. He’s been the set-up guy for two fucking years here, and you can’t be arsed to remember his name.

Clay’s harmonicas and microphone were still in his flight case, unopened. He picked the case up, squared his shoulders, and left the Band Hut, leaving us to pick up the shards of a blues band.

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Meet the Author

William lives in a small Buckinghamshire village in England. By night, he writes contemporary, speculative, historical, crime and other fiction. His debut novel, Expiration Day, was published by Tor Teen in 2014 and won the 2015 Hal Clement Award for “Excellence in Children’s Science Fiction Literature”. His short fiction has appeared in Metastellar, DreamForge and other excellent ’zines. By day, William writes software for a living, and in the twilight, he sings tenor, plays guitar, and writes songs.

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Dec 06

Best Man by Will Okati (Excerpt & Giveaway)

 

Title:  Best Man

Author: Will Okati

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: December  6, 2024

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 50 pages

Genre: Romance, Romantic Comedy, Christmas, Gay

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Synopsis

Taking chances is what Alexander lives for – especially when it comes to love.

Alexander’s a man of uncommonly happy disposition. His luck always holds true, and he takes chances with cheerful abandon. When he sees a Christmas Eve wedding running amok and a hot best man in need of help before Bridezilla goes boom, it’s second nature for him to step in and lend a hand — especially with regard to the delectable best man, Noah. He’ll offer that one anything he needs — a hand, a mouth, an… ahem.

And why not? The way Alexander sees it, he’s having fun and earning good karma — and he might just already be falling in love.

Excerpt

Best Man
Second Edition
Will Okati
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 Will Okati

If a man acted as if he belonged in any given place, people usually didn’t ask questions. Alexander took the steps at an easygoing pace and casually strolled to the lovely man’s side. “Need a hand?”

“I could use three, to be honest.” Pretty eased a double stack of linen napery on a bare table and stretched his arms, pulling each at the wrists to release the cramped muscles. Alexander could massage those for him, but… later. “Do I know you?”

Beauty and brains. “Not in the least,” Alexander replied, twinkling at him. “I was passing by and thought I’d see if Good Samaritans were still in style.”

Pretty rubbed his arms as he gave Alexander a once-over of bemusement and perhaps a bit of appreciation. “At least you’re honest. If you promise not to take off with a box of table favors or hit on one of the bridesmaids, then be my guest. I’m serious about the bridesmaids. I love my sister — the bride — but if one more thing sends her off the deep end –”

Alexander laughed. “Don’t worry. About the bride or the bridesmaids.” He winked. “They aren’t what caught my eye.”

“Is that a fact?” Pretty’s cheeks turning faintly pink, and the appearance of a small smile gave him away. “That makes two of us.”

“You’re honest, too. And beautiful.”

The pink darkened to crimson. “And you’re a flatterer.” That would have been worrisome if he hadn’t grinned at him and pushed one-half of the napery Alexander’s way. “If you’re sure you want to get involved in the madness… then you can be my guest.”

“You can trust me,” Alexander said, ripe with confidence. “Watch.” He took the top cloth off the stack and gave it a good snap, meant to send a long cloth billowing out.

It would have been more impressive if said cloth hadn’t turned out to be a dinner napkin.

Pretty burst into laughter. “I have to keep you now. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I turned you out to wreak havoc on general society.” His cheeks remained pink and his blue eyes lambent. He offered his hand. “Noah McMasters. Call me Noah.”

Alexander took Noah’s hand. A very nice hand it was, too, slim and smooth but firm. “Alexander.”

A hint of dimples enriched Noah’s smile. “Just Alexander?”

“I have a surname, but I’ll make you work for that one.” Alexander winked at Noah — the name fit him as well as a tailored glove, small and lovely — and draped the napkin over his arm. He clicked his heels together and bowed from the waist. “Right now, I await your command. Tell me what you want from me and I’m yours.”

Noah ran him over with an assessing gaze, and no, “ran him over” wasn’t hyperbole. Technically, yes, but the sense of his taking Alexander’s measure left Alexander feeling as if he’d been subjected to the tender mercies of a steamroller with amorous intentions.

Amorous, though, that was good. And clever. That was better.

“What would you have done if I’d told you that I didn’t need help?”

Alexander gave that the consideration it was due; precisely half a second. “I’d have tried my luck down a different road that led to the same place, because if all this has to get laid out before the wedding, which I’m guesstimating is less than an hour or two away –” he waited for Noah’s nod –”you need the help. So why not? And if you want me to hit the road instead, all you have to do is say. I’ll wish you well and be on my way.”

Noah snorted delicately. “I actually believe you, and that makes you different from at least seventy-five percent of the guys I’ve known.”

“Wait.” Alexander dropped his handful of cutlery with a clatter. “How many of those guys –?”

“One ‘no really means yes, doesn’t it?’ was all it took,” Noah said. “I push the rest out at arm’s length as soon as I know what I’m dealing with. I’m pretty and I’m small, but I learn quickly, I’m sneaky and I’m fast and I don’t fight by the Marquis of Queensbury rules.” He laughed. “Look at you. I can tell what’s going through your head right now, you know. Where do I find them and how do I hurt them?”

“If you’d ever let me finish a sentence, I might confirm that.”

“I find preempting the obvious saves time and I take it as a personal challenge.”

Noah hefted the crate that looked far too heavy for him onto his hip and nodded toward the tables. “I’ll say leave the linens alone, but if you’re determined to lend a hand, then get lending. Follow behind me and lay out the candles and other claptrap. Deal?”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Sir. I could get used to that. Come on, this way. We’ll start at the end and work our way up. I like to take my time and do it right.”

“No sense in not bringing your A-game if the situation calls for it.”

Noah chuckled. “You’re adorable when you try to flirt.” He separated the napkins from the tablecloths and handed Alexander half. “Are you coming?”

Yes, and probably very soon.

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Meet the Author

Willa Okati (AKA Will) is made of many things: imagination, coffee, stray cat hairs, daydreams, more coffee, kitchen experimentation, a passion for winter weather, a little more coffee, a whole lot of flowering plants and a lifelong love of storytelling. Will’s definitely one of the quiet ones you have to watch out for, though he — not she anymore — is a lot less quiet these days.

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Dec 03

New Release Blitz: Free from Falling by E.L. Massey (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Free from Falling

Series: The Breakaway Series, Book Four

Author: E.L. Massey

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 12/03/2024

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Female

Length: 87100

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, sports/hockey, athletes, rock band, musicians, trans, bisexual, idiots-to-lovers, team dynamics, family dynamics & drama, pining, transphobia

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Description

Justin “Matts” Matthews is good at a lot of things: Rubik’s Cubes, playing guitar, herding cattle, and most importantly for his career in the NHL, hockey. He’s not good at human interactions or social cues, especially when it comes to women. This deficiency is an annoyance rather than a problem, right up until he meets Sydney Warren. If it’s not love at first sight, it’s sure something close.

Sydney Warren, frontwoman for up-and-coming rock band Right Red Hand, is fierce, driven, and she doesn’t do relationships. Being an out trans woman in the music industry is more than enough pressure—a romantic entanglement would be added stress she doesn’t need. A romantic entanglement with a professional hockey player who, to all accounts, is only just learning to be an ally is definitely not what she needs. And yet.

After a chance encounter, Matts and Sydney become unlikely friends. However, in the stolen moments of their busy schedules––late-night phone calls between NHL games and concert tour dates—they start to question if maybe “friendship” isn’t so apt a description for whatever this is between them.

But can they overcome the outside pressures from family and media that would rather their relationship end before it has a chance to start?

Excerpt

Free from Falling
E.L. Massey © 2024
All Rights Reserved

“Hey, Matty. Are you petting a dog in some back room at a party again?”

He almost hangs up the phone. Because, yes, Justin Edward Matthews—Matts to anyone who matters and Matty to his asshole stepbrother—is hiding in a back room at a party petting a dog. Again.

“I hate you,” Matts says.

“You don’t. What’s the dog’s name?”

“It’s Hawk, Eli’s dog.”

“Give her a kiss for me.”

He does. He’s sitting on a fancy bench thing at the base of an equally fancy bed in one of the dozen bedrooms at the house where the party is taking place. He doesn’t know if Hawk is allowed on the furniture or not, but he figures if she’s mostly in his lap, they’re good either way. He leans into Hawk’s warm bulk and briefly buries his face in her neck.

“So,” his stepbrother says, “the gay kid talked you into going out and socializing, huh?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Matts says, straightening.

“I’m not saying it like anything. I’m stating a fact. He’s a kid. He’s gay.”

“He’s twenty-one, and he’s married to my captain. He’s not a kid. And he’s one of my best fucking friends. Use his name.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Matts is regretting calling Aaron already. They used to do it all the time—calling each other whenever they got drunk. It was the way they bonded as teenagers when their families were recklessly combined. Matts was off at boarding school, so lonely it was hard to breathe sometimes, and Aaron was unceremoniously uprooted from the only town he ever knew, suddenly expected to call a stranger “Dad.” Their relationship was easier then, born out of isolation and a shared resentment for the people they called parents. But in recent years, their conversations have gotten more and more stilted. Exhibit A: this conversation.

“Hey,” Aaron says, like he can hear what Matts is thinking. “I’m trying. You know I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

“Okay,” he says quietly. An extremely awkward pause follows. “Well. Why are you hanging out with Hawk and not a less furry lady?”

Aaron has a point. The only good thing about going to parties is that sometimes girls will recognize him, and he can get laid without having to stumble his way through a conversation first.

“I came upstairs to use the bathroom. And it’s time for Eli to check in anyway. I’ll go back downstairs when he does.”

Hawk is Eli’s service dog. Eli doesn’t go to parties much, but when he does, he brings her with him and keeps her somewhere quiet where he can have her sniff him or whatever she does to predict his seizures every so often. And he always has someone with him as human backup too. Tonight, Matts is the human backup. Because he’s still doing PT for another week and isn’t cleared to travel with the team yet. He made the mistake of having dinner with Eli, and afterward, Eli looked at him with his big stupid sad eyes and asked him to please go with him, and Matts is a pushover.

He doesn’t like parties in general, but he especially doesn’t like them when he keeps having to explain that, no, he’s not Eli’s professional-hockey-playing-husband. He’s Eli’s professional-hockey-playing-husband’s injured alternate captain. Which is weird. Not because people are assuming he’s gay. That’s fine. That’s whatever. But people are assuming he’s married. Twenty-one-year-olds should not be married. Even if it seems to be working for Eli and Alex.

“The drinks are all colorful and sparkly,” Matts says. Making fun of rich people’s alcohol preferences is always a safe topic with his family.

“No,” Aaron gasps with faux outrage. “Sparkly?”

“No beer cans in sight.”

“The horror. Not even a bougie IPA?”

“There’s a tended bar, and the menu is all cocktails.”

“Gross. What color did you go with?”

Matts sighs in the direction of his drink on the nightstand. “Green. And then purple. And the worst thing is that I’m drunk after two of them.”

He regularly goes shot-for-shot with Russian NHL players. A neon drink should not be laying him out. He tries to look at his tongue to see if it’s changed color and is unsuccessful.

“Are you still on meds?”

“No, Mom, I’m off everything as of two days ago. Healing great. Should be playing again in another week. And I can’t even celebrate with a beer.”

“What a brave little soldier you are,” Aaron says. “Hey, speaking of moms. Are you coming home for Christmas or not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Is my dad…” He flips Hawk’s ears inside out. One will stay that way. The other won’t. He boops her nose, and she sneezes.

“You’re gonna need to finish the question if you want me to answer it.”

Matts sighs. “I don’t know. Just…you think he’ll ever apologize?”

“I think those would be hell-freezes-over type odds.”

“Yeah.”

“Come home anyway.”

“I’ll think about it.”

The door opens, and Eli slips inside, music from downstairs bleeding through before he shuts it again.

“Hey,” Matts says, “I gotta go. I’ll call you Friday, and we’ll talk about Christmas, okay?”

“Sure. Hey, uh, say hi to Eli for me.”

“Yeah,” Matts says, “I will.” The word “thanks” gets a little stuck in his throat, but he mumbles it out and follows it with “bye.”

He slides his phone back into his pocket as Eli slides onto the bench beside him.

“You okay?” Eli asks. He’s a perceptive little shit.

“Fine.” Matts gestures toward the door. “It’s just a lot. Do you always have to be so damn good at social shit? You’re making me look bad.”

“Oh, no,” Eli says, “you do that on your own.” He gives him a second look and gentles his tone. “You do look a little rough though. You want to go outside? Or we can call it early.”

“Outside works.”

They sit with Hawk for a few more minutes, and when she remains calm and sleepy, they bid her goodbye and head downstairs toward the backyard.

But halfway through the living room, Matts stops.

Because there’s a girl in the kitchen.

Well, there are a lot of girls in the kitchen. But this girl is wearing black ripped skinny jeans, and her equally black ripped shirt—advertising some incomprehensible metal band on the front—has no sleeves or collar. The shirt’s sides have been cut from arm to hem and reattached with long lines of glittering safety pins. Her lips are full. Her hair is a wild riot of brown curls.

She looks like the unholy offspring of ’80s hair-metal-era Bon Jovi and ’70s Joan Jett, and her whole vibe is…unexpectedly but thoroughly doing it for him.

“Who,” he asks, “is she?”

“Absolutely not,” Eli answers. “You are not ready for Sydney.”

“Sydney,” he repeats.

“No,” Eli says again, forcefully steering them toward the back porch. For someone so lean, he’s surprisingly strong. Sydney also looks lean and strong. Her glutes and thighs are particularly nice. She could probably squat him. He’d be happy to let her try.

“I thought the whole point of me coming tonight was that I needed to…expand my social realm or whatever.”

“Social repertoire is the phrase I used.” Eli is still pushing him. Matts is still resisting.

“Repertoire. Right.” He cranes his neck to keep Sydney in sight. She’s completely flat-chested, but her ass is something else. He wonders if she plays hockey.

“And, yes, it was,” Eli agrees. “But I know that look, Matthew.”

“Not my name.”

“I know that look, Justin Edward Matthews.”

That is, admittedly, his name.

“You don’t want to meet her,” Eli says. “You want to hook up with her.”

“And that’s…bad?”

“Have you ever even spoken with a trans woman before?”

“Trans…as in transgender?”

“No, as in transformer. Yes, transgender, idiota. And clearly, your taste in music is worse than I thought if you don’t already know who she is.”

“Wait, she’s a boy? Or—used to be a boy?” She doesn’t look like a boy. Though that might explain the boob thing. Is that bad to think? Eli would probably hit him if he said it out loud.

“And this is why you’re not allowed to talk to Sydney,” Eli says. “She would eat you alive.”

Sydney catches him staring, and Matts waves as Eli finally, successfully, shoves him around the corner and through the sliding doors to the porch.

Sydney appears again, moments later, from the opposite side of the open-concept kitchen, and purposefully makes her way toward them.

“Oh, fuck me,” Eli mutters.

“No thanks.”

“Eli,” Sydney says, stepping over the threshold to join them. “Who’s your friend?”

“Hi,” Matts says. “I’m Matts. I play hockey with Eli’s husband. Eli says I’m not allowed to talk to you because you’ll eat me alive.”

She gives him a considering once-over. “Eli is likely correct, but I’m sure we’d both enjoy the experience.”

Eli throws up his hands.

“Don’t let him fool you though,” she says conspiratorially, bowing with a flourish that somehow doesn’t spill her drink. “I am but a humble bard, at your service.”

“Bard, sure,” Eli mutters. “Humble though—”

“You look like you need alcohol, Eli,” Sydney interrupts.

He sighs. “I do. Syd, behave. Matts, good luck.”

“Wait,” Matts says, “aren’t I supposed to be…monitoring you?”

“Monitor me with your eyes while I go acquire a beverage. I promise to swoon obviously if I need your attention.” Eli throws one wrist against his forehead and falls briefly to one side before straightening and making his way back inside.

“So you’re Hawk’s understudy tonight?” Sydney asks.

She has dimples. It takes him a beat longer than it should to respond because of them.

“That’s me. Temporary service human. Not as cute as the A-team upstairs, I know.”

She gives him another leisurely assessment, and he suddenly wishes he was wearing something more edgy than khakis and boat shoes.

“I wouldn’t say that,” she murmurs over the rim of her glass.

He watches her drink; he watches the light from the hanging lanterns on the porch glint off the rings on her hand; he watches her tongue slide over her drink-stained lips. He realizes he’s staring.

“So how do you know Eli?” Matts asks, only a little desperately.

She tips her head, expression suddenly assessing. It’s an oddly predatory look for someone whose curl-augmented height barely comes up to his chin.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” Sydney says.

“I—no.” He squints at her, remembering Eli’s assertion about his taste in music. “Should I?”

She reaches out to flick the collar of his button-down. “I guess not. Though one of our songs is on syndicated radio currently.”

“You’re a musician?” That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense. “What’s your band called?”

“Red Right Hand.” She looks like she’s braced for something as she says it, but the name means nothing to him.

“Is that, like, a Twister reference?”

She coughs on a laugh, then hides her smile with the back of her wrist, her long fingers—guitarist fingers?—splayed over the mouth of her cup.

“It’s a Paradise Lost reference,” she says:

“What if the breath that kindled those grim fires,

Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage,

And plunge us in the flames; or from above

Should intermitted vengeance arm again

His red right hand to plague us?”

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Meet the Author

E. L. Massey is a human. Probably. She lives in Austin, Texas, with her partner, the best dog in the world (an unbiased assessment), and a frankly excessive collection of books. She spends her holidays climbing mountains and writing fan fiction, occasionally at the same time.

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Nov 26

New Release Blitz: When Summer is Gone by Chris Simon (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  When Summer is Gone

Series: The Likes of Us, Book Two

Author: Chris Simon

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/26/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: No Romance, Male/Male

Length: 101700

Genre: Historical, Genre/lit, historical, family-drama, bisexual, coming of age, docker, male prostitution

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Description

London’s East End, 1930s

Young docker Alfie Atwood was born into a poor but happy family and he was blessed with matinee-idol good looks which draw people to him like moths to a flame. His appearance and sunny disposition may be widely admired and even envied, but he isn’t as carefree as he seems and has bitter experience of a darker side to youth.

When his father Bill is killed in a dockside accident, Alfie is forced to become the main breadwinner. He and his mother Alice are horrified to find that Bill owed money to some bad people—the notorious brothers Mosh and Solly Alexander. They “own” the district and now they want the debt repaid.

A docker’s weekly wage and the few shillings that Alice can scrape together are not nearly enough…until Alfie’s friend Frank whispers a solution in his ear. Has the time come for the young man to use what Nature gave him to solve their problems? And if he does, won’t he be letting himself in for a whole host of new ones?

Excerpt

When Summer is Gone
Chris Simon © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
A Trip to the Moon in a Hot-air Balloon

Wednesday, 23 July 1913

Cubitt Town on the Isle of Dogs in the East End of London was never quiet, but what peace there was that afternoon was shattered by Alice Atwood’s anguished cries, echoing across the alleys and yards as she endured a long and painful labour. Alice’s neighbours, Elsie and Pearl, sat outside their front doors, their faces grim. They’d fetched clean towels, boiled water, made tea for the anxious father-to-be and for Mrs Charles, who served as midwife to all the local women. There was nothing more to be done.

“Oh, Elsie! It’s been nigh on five hours now,” said Pearl, as though her friend could end their neighbour’s suffering.

“I know, duck. I’ve been sitting here right next to you the whole time.”

Elsie Jarvis was a short, stout woman in a pink-and-blue floral apron that fitted snugly around her plump figure. In contrast, Pearl Rogers was tall and thin; her apron could easily have been wrapped twice around her skinny frame. She picked up the broom leaning against her windowsill and restlessly swept some dust from the pavement into the gutter. After a few desultory thrusts of the brush she paused, leaning on it.

“You never know, Else, maybe this time…”

Elsie shook her head gravely. “Oh, I wouldn’t have thought so, my duck. I pray so, but there’s no sense in us getting our hopes up. If three of ’em have died already, stands to reason there must be summink very wrong, mustn’t there?”

Pearl nodded sadly. “Yes. Well, whatever ’appens, I ’ope to Gawd it ’appens soon.”

“I know. My Bert will be home from work shortly and he’ll be banging on the wall with his slipper if she’s still making this racket. He’s got no compassion in him at all.” Elsie’s round face expressed contempt, for Bert and for all men.

They looked anxiously up at the Atwoods’ bedroom window as the screams reached a new peak and, after a short, tense silence, were replaced by the thin piercing cry of a newborn.

“Aw!” the friends cooed in unison. They couldn’t help themselves. The gloom was magically dispersed, as though the infant had come into the world waving a wand.

As the crying grew stronger, Pearl said, “Well, it don’t sound like this one’s gonna snuff it any time soon, Else,” and she threw her skinny arms about her plump neighbour in celebration.

*

The bedroom was flooded with sunlight, the nets dancing softly in the breeze. Bill Atwood wouldn’t tell his wife that she looked “radiant”—they were past that now. Her hair was matted with sweat, her face pinched with premature grief, and no trite compliment would lift her spirits.

The yellow wooden cradle he had fashioned with pride for their firstborn stood at the foot of the bed. He had come to hate the sight of it, as though it were an open grave. If this went like the other times, he vowed he would burn it. He approached tentatively, fearing that what he’d see would break his heart. In the cradle lay a tiny scrap of a baby, barely asleep, for although his eyes were closed his limbs were restless. Bill was glad because it meant he was alive. He lifted out the little body which began to scream in protest, using lungs so small that Horatio, the Jarvis’s cat, basking on the scullery roof, didn’t even cast a languid glance upwards to see what all the fuss was about.

In Bill’s strong arms the baby relaxed; his blue eyes looked up towards his father for the first time and Bill could not at first speak for love. His voice cracked as he spoke. “’Ello, mate. ’Ello. My little boy. My son.”

He kissed the infant’s forehead and moved over to the side of the bed where Alice had turned her face towards the wall and was crying bitterly.

“I don’t wanna see ’im, Bill. Take ’im away.”

“But Alice, he’s all right and he’s beautiful.”

“I can’t. If I look at ’im I’m gonna love ’im, and he’ll just be taken like the others. It’s no use. I can’t go through that again.”

“Alice. I understand, darlin’. But he’s perfectly healthy.”

“’Ow d’you know?” She was tortured by the suggestion of hope.

“Well, Mrs Charles said…”

“She said that about the others,” she howled.

“It might be different this time, love.”

“It won’t be! I know it won’t! It isn’t meant to be.”

“It might be.” His voice became less gentle. “And even if it ain’t, if this little boy only has one hour on this earth, don’t you think he deserves an hour’s love?”

Yes. Even if it broke her heart. If it was the only thing that she could ever do for him then she had no choice. She turned towards her husband who placed the tiny bundle tenderly in her arms. If this little boy’s heart were to stop beating, then so would hers.

Bill left her alone with the baby. He also was suspicious of the hope welling up inside, but it wasn’t to be suppressed. Tears stung his eyes, and he couldn’t help but smile as he joined his neighbours outside and lit up a Senior Service.

“Aw! Congratulations, Bill.” Pearl beamed. “What yer gonna call ’im, d’you know?”

He cleared his throat. “Alfred Lansbury Atwood—Alfie,” he declared with pride. Just speaking the boy’s name out loud made him feel that it was going to be all right.

“Lansbury?” said Pearl incredulously.

Bill shook his head. “You’d better ask the missus about that.”

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Meet the Author

Chris Simon is the youngest son of a headteacher and was born and brought up in North Wales. He attended college in Liverpool and Manchester studying Geography and English and returned to Wales to work at a holiday camp, doing everything from chalet allocations to scrubbing grill pans in the off season. He did this over three summers before moving to London to join the civil service, starting in North London benefit offices and ending with the Department for Transport in Westminster.

As well as football and music, Chris has a great love of social history, particularly that of London. After visiting the capital at the age of twelve his desire to live there became the first certainty of his life. He settled in Walthamstow in East London and is a keen supporter of Manchester City and, of course, Wales. It had always been his intention to write a novel whenever he found the time—and now he has.

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Nov 19

New Release Blitz: BEAcon of Love by Jamie Sands (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  BEAcon of Love

Author: Jamie Sands

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/19/2024

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 45900

Genre: Contemporary Romance, romcom, gay, neurodiversity, comic-con setting, artists, TV stars, creatives, cosplay, costuming, online influencer, humor, friendship, game geeks, outing, coming out, introvert/extrovert, anxiety/panic attacks, autism representation, people pleasing

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Description

Cole has come to BEAcon for one reason: the contest cup. He’s spent months knitting chainmail and perfecting his poses. With cosplay rivals to out compete and the chance to attend panels for his new favorite show, Cole can’t afford any distractions—especially not falling in love.

Milo, star of the viral breakaway TV show Dusk City, would rather be staked through the heart like the vampire he portrays than crammed into a convention center with thousands of fans. Sure, success is great—but not when the future of the show and your co-workers depend on him staying in the closet. The frenzied fan reaction is nothing short of overwhelming.

When Milo’s anxiety gets to be too much, Cole doesn’t hesitate to come to the rescue of his handsome TV crush. His unorthodox solution opens the doors to an unexpected—and undeniable—connection. Between signings, meltdowns, and the swirling microcosm of the huge fan convention, can Milo and Cole ever be in the same place at the same time again?

Excerpt

BEAcon of Love
Jamie Sands © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Cole

Cole Parrish could not contain his excitement.

They were checking into the hotel. After a year of preparation and multiple days stuck in the car with his best friend, the greatest fan convention of the year was happening: BEAcon.

Bryce had driven the last leg of their road trip and groaned softly as he stretched out his back. The drive to Nevada from California wasn’t super long, but they still liked to split it over a couple of days and take their time. Neither of them was fond of driving for over four hours at a time.

Cole looked around, bouncing on the balls of his feet. The people in the check-in lines were just like him. They wore superhero T-shirts, or shirts with Tolkien quotes, or even casual cosplays. Cole glanced down at his own—a Dusk City fan shirt. Dusk City was the hottest new TV show of the season. Chances were there’d be a lot of cosplayers inspired by the urban fantasy show and its handsome cast who would be appearing at the convention. Especially Caleb, the smolderingly gorgeous vampire lead character.

Cole had a large suitcase and three suit bags full of costumes carefully handcrafted over the last year. Bryce had a duffel bag with his two tried-and-true cosplays inside it. He helped lug Cole’s bags up to their room.

“I dunno why you have to be so extra every time.” Bryce rolled his eyes

“I have to be extra for the community.” Cole made his eyes wide and innocent. “I have fans, you know. And they deserve every piece of effort I put into this.”

Bryce knew he was teasing. “You have maybe ten fans. And they just follow you for the time you accidentally showed nipple in that one video.”

“How dare you?” Cole slapped at Bryce’s elbow, which wasn’t easy while holding the garment bags.

“I’m here to keep you grounded, my friend. Someone’s got to.”

“You’re not just here to keep me grounded.” Cole shifted his weight. “You’re here to stalk Zack as well.”

Bryce colored. “Zack is… I don’t know why you’d bring that up.”

“Uh, because you’ve been talking nonstop about him on the drive here, how hot he is, and how much you hope you get to see him? Even though he’s my deadly cosplay rival and not even that good-looking?”

Bryce couldn’t meet his eyes.

Cole decided to backpedal. He didn’t want to make his friend uncomfortable, so he changed the subject back to a safe topic: himself. “Well. As soon as I get a brand deal for my social media, I’ll be getting my own room. No more sharing with hobbit peasants like you any longer.”

“Honestly? I can’t wait,” Bryce deadpanned. “Want me to take some pictures of you with your nipples out? That should do it.”

Cole stifled his reaction. Snooty narcissists did not snort in public.

He said instead, “My skills at crafting a fantastic costume and my natural charm and gift of connecting to others are what draw people to me. Not that someone who turns up to every event as Bilbo Baggins since they were seventeen could ever hope to understand.”

“Bilbo’s a classic.”

“Bilbo is great, but your costume is vintage. The character is vintage. You’re only twenty-two, like me. Liven it up and stop playing a hundred-year-old character.”

“Yeah, well, my job doesn’t allow for frequent visits to the gym to get my body superhero-ready.” Bryce reached over and pinched Cole’s bicep. “So, I’m going with the hobbit.”

“We work at the same pizza place, and you barely have more hours than I do.”

“Whatever, pretty boy.” Bryce flapped a dismissive hand as the elevator reached their floor, and they piled out.

“I read another rumor for what the B-E-A stands for in BEAcon, by the way.” Cole scanned room numbers as they turned into a new corridor, searching for theirs.

“Yeah?”

“Boardgaming, Egames, and Anime convention.”

Bryce frowned. “This convention has been a thing since before egames existed.”

“Yeah, I still think it stands for Badass Elves and Aliens.”

Bryce laughed. “Broadcasted Entertainment and Assortments is the one I’m sticking to.”

“Why would they have an acronym for assortments?” Cole said as he unlocked their door.

They shuffled inside. Two twin beds, a tiny desk, and a chair filled the room, leaving only enough space for Cole to drag his suitcases in.

“I call dibs on the closet,” he said.

Bryce snorted, slinging his bag on the nearest bed. “Wardrobe’s all yours. I’m claiming the shower.”

“Good idea. I don’t mind rooming with a hobbit, but a smelly hobbit?” Cole pulled a face.

Bryce aimed a playful swat at him.

Cole ducked, immediately tripping over the bed. “Is it me, or do these rooms get smaller every year?”

“It’s you and your giant ego; it gets harder to squeeze into the room. That or inflation.” Bryce squeezed past Cole’s suitcase and into the bathroom.

“Inflation? That makes no sense.” The only reply was the sound of water hitting the shower floor. Cole looked into the wardrobe only to discover he had a major problem. The tiny closet was big enough to house three costumes. He had five.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

A number one bestseller on Amazon, Jamie (he/they) writes optimistic urban fantasy and romance, highlighting queer characters. They also dabble in short stories in all sorts of genres, notebook design, and tabletop roleplaying game design. Their work has been shortlisted for the Sir Julius Vogel Award. Jamie grew up in Wellington, New Zealand, and was a library devotee and constant reader of fiction from a very early age. They now live in Auckland with their wonderful spouse. Jamie has visited Japan three times and would like to move into Tokyo Disneyland. Pen names include Jaxon Knight (contemporary rom coms) and Drake LaMarque (mostly paranormal historical, high steam).

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Nov 12

New Release Blitz: Monsoon Queen by Jo Carthage (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Monsoon Queen

Series: The War Between Cedar and Oak, Book One

Author: Jo Carthage

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/12/2024

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 43300

Genre: Historical Fantasy, historical fiction/1800s, fantasy, romance, lit/genre fiction, bisexual, lesbian/sapphic, anti-colonialism, East Africa, Yemen, conflict, mages/magic users, dark lord, insurgents, torture/whips, pirates, dark prince, woman mage, porqué no los dos

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Description

Twenty-year-old Noor has been hiding her magic and biding her time in the spice markets of 1812 Tajoura as she and her neighbours wait for the ravenous British Empire to sail into their homeport, cannons blazing. But when the HMS Victory arrives, so does the chance of a lifetime to join a found family in the Yemeni resistance. Noor finds herself caught up in the fight against the Empire’s battle mages and Rami, the dark prince who leads them.

In a case of mistaken identity, Noor heals Rami before a decisive battle. She sees the good in him, and her heart is torn.

Noor’s new friend Razan—a brilliant and beautiful inventor for the resistance—has no such qualms. She hates Rami for his role in the raid that killed her parents. Razan has found a way to harness Noor’s power to defeat the British, and the two women grow ever closer. On a perilous camel ride to the coffee roasting city of Mocha, Rami strikes, kidnapping Noor and taking her back to his cruel master on the HMS Victory.

In order to survive, Noor will need to call on everything she learned in the spice markets and the Yemeni resistance.

Rebels, mages, lovers. With the final battle looming and the resistance struggling without her, Noor must keep her eye on the prize: saving Yemen from the British Empire. If she can keep Razan in her bed and save Rami from the Empire, she will have the future she’s always dreamed of. But first, Noor has to survive the storms to come.

Excerpt

Monsoon Queen
Jo Carthage © 2024
All Rights Reserved

The jute rope flowed through Noor’s hands as she climbed down into the shipwreck. The shallow waters of the Gulf of Tajoura filled the creaking hold, but the crew deck was just above the lapping waves. She landed, and her sandals crunched on salt-encrusted cedar. Noor breathed a sigh of relief. At least this deck isn’t entirely rotted. Though she’d lived all of her twenty-one years within smelling distance of the sea, she could not swim. She hadn’t been permitted to learn.

Noor stood in a pillar of noonday sun shining through the hole she’d hacked in the deck above. Everywhere else was darkness. Noor peered into the gloom, checking for any cracks of sunlight on the side of the wreck where she knew her master, Musa, had anchored his dhow.

When she was certain he couldn’t see, she let a gentle glow rise in her fingertips, lighting the hold. Musa didn’t know she could cast light or move objects with her mind. He hadn’t been there when she’d found her magic that past summer, her hands on the body of a soft black cat who’d been trampled by a British officer’s horse. If he had seen her healing, he’d have had her killed.

Slaves could not be mages in Tajoura.

Before her magic had come, Noor had thought she would be trapped with Musa for the rest of her life; now, she studied with her imam every chance she got, gaining control over her power and searching for a chink in the world she could pry open long enough to escape.

The shipwreck jerked, a low wave slamming into the side.

Noor got back to work. She surveyed the crew deck, checking every corner and cavity until…there. A small tumble of rags and arm-length splinters of cedar shielded a glint of silver.

She hitched up her guntiino, the long red and yellow striped wrap she wore like an Indian woman’s sari, and raised her hand to light her way into the darkness.

Noor pulled Musa’s leather purse from under her guntiino and began filling it with silver coins.

“Teach that captain to talk too freely in the hookah shop,” she muttered as she swept up the treasure. “Or maybe just to know a thief when he sees one.”

Musa had overheard this dhow’s former captain in the hookah shop the night before, moaning about his sailors abandoning their backpay as they scrambled to escape the wreck two monsoon seasons ago. This boat was one of many. Ever since the British Empire had set their sights on Aden to the East across the Gulf and rumours of sightings of Lord Admiral Nelson’s Victory had been reported from the Cape northwards, merchants who’d never plied Tajoura’s shallow and reef-filled waters were trying their luck on the last free port on the Horn of Africa.

Many didn’t survive the experience.

Musa had sailed her out here on his rickety dhow several times a month for years, ordering her to loot the remains of shattered ships. He claimed any treasure she found or took it out of her hide if she tried to conceal it, to save up enough to buy passage somewhere else, anywhere else. Musa forgets that the alternative to allowing slaves to buy our freedom is having his throat slit in the night. Noor dreamed about it, but she didn’t kill, wouldn’t risk her secret connection to haya magic by using it for violence. Her imam had warned her that to do so might sever her connection forever. But even without knowing she had powers, Musa should have been more cautious. For now, Noor was biding her time, trying to find another way out.

So here Noor was, collecting other people’s pay for someone else’s profit; it wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. She was relacing the purse when something else glimmered in the heap of mouldering cloth.

Noor’s fingers were delicate and careful of scurrying crabs and cedar splinters. There. She found what had caught her eye: a Yemeni dagger, a jambiya, with a pearl-dotted sheath and a polished moon-coloured lunella shell as a pommel.

It shone in her light.

“What kind of Yemeni man would abandon his family’s jambiya?” she muttered.

Beautiful weapons were impossibly expensive for someone like her and far too dangerous to own. She took a breath and stuffed it down the front of her guntiino. The dagger fit snugly between her belt and her belly. The leather purse went between her teeth. She climbed up her rope, arm over arm. Noor extinguished her light as the sun hit her upturned face. She reached the bare bit of stable hull that she’d tied onto and stood up on it, gripping the gunwale as the rising tide shook the wreck.

Noor glanced over the edge to see Musa glaring up at her from the helm of his tiny, shallow-drafted dhow, bobbing only a few arm lengths away from the wreck. His bald head glittered with sweat. His mouth was twisted and red.

“That’s it?” he shouted, gesturing at the purse between her lips.

She turned to descend the rope ladder, making a face where he could not see. Her sandaled feet slipped on the slimy, fraying rope, hands cramping tightly above the knots. A wave bucked the ship, and she slammed into the hull, the contents of the purse bruising her lips. The rope snapped—

Noor fell, and the warm water was over her head in seconds. She forced herself to hold her breath, struggled to look up, eyes burning with the salt. There it was, Musa’s hand lowering to rip the purse from between her teeth.

The current shoved her back against the hull of the wreck, and she lost hold of her climbing rope.

Noor shoved her panic away and pushed away from the wreck, tried to think of how she could use her magic, but her mind thrashed as the water forced itself between her lips. She couldn’t focus. She crunched against the hull again and turned into it, fingers digging into the rotting wood, forcing herself up one handhold at a time until she got her bruised lips above the water and gasped in sweet, salty air. A wave filled her mouth. She slipped and found a new hold, again and again, each breath a little shallower, until she felt Musa’s fingers dig in around her elbow before wrenching her over the side and throwing her to the deck.

As she tried to stand, he hissed, “You ugly idiot, I got my sandals wet because of you,” and cuffed her hard to the deck.

The jambiya’s sheath jammed into her stomach, and she curled around it protectively.

He hasn’t seen the blade yet.

Musa had already turned back to the helm, cursing her loudly as he adjusted the rudder, his fishing spear bloodied across his back. She had a moment to catch her breath.

Unfortunately, what she breathed in was the smell of a freshly killed dugong. The gentle creatures were like horses or the cows the Afar herdsman brought to the annual bazaar that had started just the prior month. With soft grey skin and silly faces, the dugong bore live babies. Her master liked to hunt them while he waited for her to scavenge for him, though Noor knew it was no real hunt. The sweet things would gather around any boat, as curious as kittens. She rolled away from the corpse, trying to keep her disgust off her face.

Then she froze. Strange bells sounded from across the harbour. Turning, Noor cocked her head, trying to find the source.

Silence.

Somali traders’ ships didn’t use bells. Neither did the double-masted Yemeni dhow that slipped into port under cover of night to avoid British patrols.

Only British imperial warships rang bells when they entered a harbour. She’d heard that from refugees, from women who’d escaped Mocha and Sidon.

No British warship had ever yet entered Tajoura’s harbour.

The bells rang again, and Noor’s breathing kicked up when she saw their source. At the mouth of the harbour, a ship as massive as the biggest mosque in Gaza, crowded out the sky. Its dozen square sails covered the faces of the clouds, each deck painted black and gold in succession, the colours wavering in the golden morning light.

“I’ve heard of that ship,” Musa growled behind her. “Striped like a bee, stung Napoleon in their last wars. The Victory. Their great Admiral Nelson died there.” He slapped at the ropes in the rigging, jerking the knots, swinging the sail out and into the wind. “They’ll blow us out of the water as soon look at us, with their alam mages or cannons or both.”

The bells rang louder.

Noor stared at Musa, the jambiya heavy against her stomach. If Musa stayed facing away from her, she could creep up behind him, slide the dagger out, and slit his throat the way he had the dugong’s.

There was a reason slaves weren’t allowed weapons.

The bells sounded, and she felt the weight of the knife like the promise she’d made to herself years ago: free yourself so you may remain free. She kept her eyes on the Victory as Musa hurried them back to port.

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Meet the Author

Jo Carthage is a bi, cis woman living in Silicon Valley. In her career, Jo has worked with survivors of labor and sex trafficking in DC, helped get incredible women and queer folks elected to state and national office in three states, and thinks politics and science fiction go together beautifully. Jo’s grandfather worked as a nuclear physicist at Oak Ridge in the 1950s, but it wasn’t until a 2019 family road trip veered off course and she spent an afternoon at EBR-1 that she started to write Atomic Age fiction.

Jo was honored to have Nuclear Sunrise favorably reviewed by the Director of the Mescalero Apache Cultural Center and intends to donate a portion of proceeds to their important work. As a writer, Jo loves slow burn, hurt/comfort, queer history, enemies-to-lovers, and happy endings.

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Nov 09

New Release Blitz: Terror by J. Hali Steele (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Terror

Series: Scorned Devils MC, Book Two

Author: J. Hali Steele

Publisher:  Changeling Press

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Release Date: 11/08/2024

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 100 Pages

Genre: Action Adventure, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense, Gay, MC Romance

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Description

Terror: Once, he had been Terrance Holton, a young gay man who learned to shove what he is so deep inside himself, he almost forgot. He grew up to be Terror and he is the Vice President of one of the baddest outlaw motorcycle clubs in Pennsylvania. The consequence of denying who he really is turns Terror into a threat to everyone around him, and eventually lands Terror in jail. There he connects with a beautiful older man who teaches Terror to love who he is.

Tinman: Timothy Jacoby gave years of his life to leading a motorcycle club that no longer exists. He did anything for his MC and his brothers, never hiding who he was. Then Tinman got arrested and sent to prison, where he serves ten years. When Tinman meets a younger biker who hides his gayness from the crew he rides with, he vows to keep Terror safe, but he hides his own past as a biker. Unable to forget their blistering encounters, the minute Tinman is released, he’s hellbent on finding Terror again. This time he’ll keep his prize.

Both men’s secrets are about to collide, and they just might blow the Scorned Devils MC to smithereens.

Excerpt

Terror (Scorned Devils MC 2)
J. Hali Steele
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2024 J. Hali Steele

Terror

Goddamn Dread and his fuck-the-world attitude. Defying every norm, the man flaunted his desire for other men. Took them without a care for what anyone thought. Yet he was still the most respected Scorned Devils MC club member, the MC club’s sergeant at arms, and other MCs feared him as if he were some kind of hero with super powers or some shit.

Back then, Terror had detested Dread — mostly for causing his own dormant childhood feelings to resurface.

Now Terror was returning home from prison feeling as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Having heard from Cat, a man Terror had introduced to biker culture and the Scorned Devils MC days before his release, he was aware of the showdown between Cat and Dread. He’d told Cat to pack up and return to Kansas. Terror didn’t even go home to get his bike. He had bigger plans. He couldn’t wait to see the man who’d taken up so much space in Terror’s head while he’d been locked up for nearly three years. Terror had berated Dread mercilessly about being gay. Treated him even worse whenever Terror heard about Dread screwing any man who would have him.

When he’d been arrested, Battle Graves, their MC president, had been the one to show up to bail Terror out. He’d turned down Bat’s offer of legal representation. The bastard Terror had beaten to within an inch of his life? Shit, he’d do that again if he had to. No reason to fight the charges and have his brothers find out what went down in that motel room in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.

At that time, Terror hadn’t been ready to come out.

He’d been named Terrance Holton by his drugged-out single mom, who’d simply vanished one night. Wading through the foster care system at a young age, Terror had realized he might be gay. Afraid and beat down, he’d buried Terrance deep in his psyche. Deep enough to almost forget the boy existed.

As he grew older, nothing scared the man he became — an angry-as-hell bastard who cared for no one. Made everyone call him Terror. If they didn’t, he whipped their asses.

He came to embrace one thing — an old motorcycle he’d stolen from the shed behind his last foster home. It was never reported because that motherfucker would never talk to anyone again.

That motorcycle… the speed, his disdain for the law, it led to Terror’s prospecting with the Scorned Devils MC.

Meeting the club’s sergeant at arms changed everything.

Now he was back. And he was ready to show his true colors.

Would his brothers and other clubs receive Terror the same way?

Purchase at Changeling Press

Meet the Author

A former MC associate, J. Hali Steele loves anything with wheels, including motorcycles, classic automobiles, and race cars. A retired winning ex-quarter mile drag racer, J. Hali often angles to get her butt back in the driver’s seat!

J. Hali is a multi-published, best-selling author of romance in Contemporary MC, ReligErotica, Paranormal, Fantasy, and LGBTQ stories where humans, vampyres, shapeshifters, and angels collide – and they collide a lot! When J. Hali’s not writing or reading, she can be found snuggled in front of the TV with a cat in her lap and a cup of her favorite beverage of the moment.

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