Aug 06

Release Blitz: The Purist by M. Crane Hana (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Filed under Book Blitz, Giveaways

Title: The Purist

Author: M. Crane Hana

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: August 6, 2018

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Female, Male/Male

Length: 103200

Genre: Science Fiction, scifi, bisexual, aliens, adventure

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Synopsis

Eridan wields the coveted bardic rank of Master-Singer to keep his dying race’s culture alive in a brutal world of magic and war. He doesn’t know Sfassa, his brawny wife and musical partner, traded her fanged-and-furred alien shape for a more-human one so she could be with him. Their idyllic marriage shatters when, wounded by an assassination attempt, Sfassa must forever return to her birth shape and her own people.

Eridan still adores his wife and unborn child, but his prim religion and heritage now forbid his marriage. Only the Northwarden—a dangerously charming, genderfluid sorcerer who enforces civilization’s uneasy peace—can guide him toward a solution. Eridan finds he likes the Northwarden far too much for comfort.

Eridan can risk life and sanity to gain shapeshifting and Sfassa, or live a secret and protected life as the Northwarden’s lover. To keep them both, he picks a third audacious path, testing all his skills against vicious assassins, meddling volcano goddesses, his own dearly-bought pride, and the malevolent, sapient heart of the planet itself.

Excerpt

The Purist
M. Crane Hana © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Now

In the distance, a series of chords eased into a lively tune: the Witch-Queen’s daughter playing with growing confidence on her new girwood harp.

On the other side of the night-shrouded garden, Eridan Sydall, Master-Singer of all Lonhra, reeled homeward dizzy from wine and compliments. He’d only made the tall harp. By the time the princess grew into it, she’d be a Master in her own right.

Seeking his and Sfassa’s guest apartment, Eridan followed tiled paths and stairs between lush teal grass plumes, tall blue trees, and golden-glowing suncrystals on bronze pillars. The garden screened most of the Witch-Queen’s low palace on three sides. To the east, where the garden sloped down, Eridan glimpsed the lights of Throng, a sprawling tropical city where no building rose more than three stories from the rich soil.

Just when he thought himself completely lost, Eridan spotted two half-familiar palm trees on the north end of a terrace. A bronze bracket on one tree supported the Master-Singer’s banner, its black and dark red fabric rippling languidly in the night breeze. A suncrystal lamp hung from a bracket on the other tree. From the banner, lamplight picked out flashes of the silver emblems of his rank—harp, waves, and seven stars.

He navigated another short path through a dimmer courtyard, then pushed open a carved wooden door. Inside, the dark suite smelled of exotic flowers, clean-scrubbed tile still faintly damp, and a whisper of Sfassa’s musky-sweet scent.

Of course, she wasn’t back from the queen’s library yet. Eridan grinned, recalling the flustered archivists when they discovered the Master-Singer’s excessively tall, brawny barbarian wife was an avid scholar in her own right. Once convinced of Eridan’s safety in the palace, Sfassa spent her free time scribbling notes and comparing old folklore texts.

Eridan’s smile faltered as he noted the darkness in the suite. There should have been two ceramic lamps caging suncrystals, one in the salon where he stood, one over the arch leading to the kitchen and the bedchamber.

Cold, sharp metal touched the right side of his neck. The front door closed quietly behind him.

Eridan tensed. He had a knife at his belt and enough skill to use it in tight quarters. Instead, he breathed acrid chemical fumes, and his scream died in his throat. His muscles stiffened, locked in taut tremors. Something was horribly wrong in his brain, even his internal voice broken by pulses of static.

“Master-Singer, the silence-drug won’t kill you.” His assailant plucked the knife from his pocket and hauled his body back against her chest. “Go too long without the antidote and you’ll never write or babble more than nonsense again. Much less sing to the wrong ears. Don’t fight it. The faster your heart beats, the faster the drug will settle in your throat and brain. My sisters and I won’t kill you, you ugly little man. You’re to watch while we butcher your mongrel whore in front of you.”

Eridan slowed his breath, but he couldn’t calm his brain. If this was the infamous silence-drug he had half an hour at most. Who directed the attack? Who would know the two things he feared most to lose? Half the world, he thought next, cravenly regretting the last several centuries of being professionally obstinate.

The assassin didn’t speak again. Through the fog settling over his thoughts, Eridan tried to place the others by the sounds of their soft breaths and minute shifts of posture. They ranged around the door. Past the single window looking out on the garden, a soft rustle told him more people waited under the arch to the bedchamber.

The fog lifted a little. Eridan used the moment to aim his memory back a scant handful of hours. Had Sfassa been wearing her spears this evening? When she wasn’t in full armor, she wore a spear harness with the long leaf-shaped steel blades of her kori-spears jutting up like deadly feathers. Sfassa lived within arm’s reach of her weapons and felt naked without them.

The silence-drug worked differently on Eridan’s body than on the people it was meant for. His thoughts cleared enough to count his attackers from their breathing patterns. Five or six other people in the room, not counting the woman who restrained him.

The knife lost, he needed a distraction. He could move his right hand just enough to slip into the hip pocket of his own cotton robe. His fingers gripped the cool rounded shape of a glazed porcelain gourd-style flute, its tiny proportions meant for a Sirrithani child but just right for him. The young heir of Throng had formally traded it to him this morning for the girwood harp he’d crafted for her.

Gripping the eggshell-thin ceramic bulb, Eridan slowly flexed his wrist out of the pocket. He guessed the assassins used some kind of spell or artifact to let them see in the dark. He didn’t want them looking too closely at him.

Breathe and think. Sfassa would walk up to their door, probably with a satchel of notebooks in hand. Would she notice the lamps out? Would she scent the drug and Eridan’s fear?

Out in the garden beyond the banner, Sfassa called a happy farewell to someone. Her footsteps slapped closer and closer to the main door.

Now. Eridan opened his fingers. The little flute plummeted straight down onto the tiles and shattered noisily. Eridan heard a faint ping and a ripping sound at the same time.

His captor bit back a curse as she dragged him into the kitchen. Steel cut a fraction deeper into his neck. “You little Dana pest,” she whispered, lifting another drugged cloth to Eridan’s face.

Sfassa hurtled through the salon window in a crash of broken wood and ripped silk mesh, bringing some of the outer light with her. She howled as she dove low into the dim salon, avoiding the blades slicing where her throat should be. Light glinted against Sfassa’s feathery short mop of white hair. More faint silver sleeked along her bare body and shone off her spears. She’d stripped outside and weighted her dress with something.

She came up like a storm-surge, swinging her dress in a long, low arc. Two assassins fell with their legs wrapped in its tangle. She decapitated another with one spear, then stepped back and stomped down hard on two throats.

Their metal gorgets crushed before Sfassa’s considerable weight broke their necks. The remaining attackers paused. The one holding Eridan gave a frustrated hiss and dropped the second drugged cloth.

“I’ve the night-sight, too, dog-bitches, and I can smell you,” Sfassa growled in her low, burring voice. With another metallic ping she pulled her second kori-spear from the scabbard on her back. During the messy, grunting chaos Eridan struggled to stay upright, keep breathing, and remember his own name.

“She’s good. No matter. They’ll wear her down and gut her where she stands,” the assassin gloated softly in his ear. “Every blade but this one is poisoned.”

“I’m harder to kill than you think,” Sfassa snarled, swinging her head side to side, then orienting on the whisper. Someone gurgled their final breath behind her.

Eridan reached for the bare hand splayed across his chest, then wrenched back the woman’s little finger until it dislocated. She yelled as her arm swung wide. He ducked. His ear stung from the knife. Sfassa’s spear hammered into the assassin’s chest inches over his head, cleaving sternum and driving straight through heart, spine, and the tiled wall behind. The assassin choked and slumped, her slack fingers letting her knife bounce off Eridan’s shoulder and clang on the floor.

Sfassa gasped out, “Eridan? Little bard? Are you hurt?”

Eridan couldn’t answer. Shouts and running footsteps came through the garden, and he prayed it wasn’t more assassins. He stopped fighting gravity and let himself slide down the dead assassin’s legs, to sit on the now-filthy floor.

How many Master-Singers had been in enough battles to know the aftermath by scent alone?

You married Snowdancer, a wry part of himself warned.

Some of the blood smelled…wrong. Too familiar, even to his stunted nose.

Sfassa set down her right-hand spear, then found the salon lamp and unshielded it. Warm golden light spilled out over blood, steel, and slumped bodies. So much blood. Sfassa stood over the lamp, her strong body naked save for her harness and the shredded blue rags between it and her shoulders. Though she still held the left-hand spear ready, she smiled in sudden relief at Eridan.

“Well, love, I was expecting something like this since you sang heart back into those landcaste serfs outside Autanqa. But in the palace itself? And against me?”

Eridan forced out a single noise of sheer horror.

The first of the queen’s guards burst in through the door just as Sfassa looked down. Blood sheeted over her dark-bronze hips like a new skirt. Pink-gray intestines and pale yellow fat bulged from the long diagonal slash across her upper belly.

She rolled her eyes as if at a trifling setback. Said something filthy in a barbarian dialect, dropped her spear, and held her insides within the cut. Sfassa looked back up at Eridan, her next quip and fierce grin fading as her gaze tracked along his shaking body and frozen face. Her tall, whisker-fringed ears went flat against her skull.

She screamed, “Guards! Healers! Quickly, bring earthwitches! The Master-Singer’s been silenced!”

I can’t lose Sfassa. I can’t lose my voice. Please don’t make me choose between them!

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Meet the Author

M. Crane Hana lives in a flat place filled with cactus. She writes romances in all flavors, spends too much time world building her sword & planet fantasies and space operas, and makes museum-grade artifacts from cultures that never existed. Publishing credits: (as Marian Crane) ‘The Blood Orange Tree’, Such A Pretty Face anthology, Meisha-Merlin 2000. ‘Saints and Heroes’, Thrones of Desire anthology, Cleis Press 2012.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | eMail | Wattpad | Tumblr

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Aug 06

Release Blitz: Death Days by Lia Cooper (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Filed under Book Blitz, Giveaways

Title: Death Days

Author: Lia Cooper

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: August 6, 2018

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 70000

Genre: Paranormal, college, teaching, magic, dark, slow burn, age gap, vampires, shifters

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Synopsis

By day, Professor Nicholas Littman works as an itinerant professor at a small college in the Pacific Northwest. He teaches seminars on mythology and the intersections of folklore and magic in the ancient world. By night, he’s the local necromancer, a rare magical talent that has left him alienated from other practitioners.

All Nick wants from life is to be left alone to run his magical experiments and teach kids the historical context of magic without anyone being the wiser. Unfortunately, his family is sworn to sit on the council of the Order of the Green Book—a group of magicians dating back to the Crusades—and they aren’t willing to take Nick’s no for an answer.

As though that wasn’t bad enough, a coven of Night Women has arrived in town, warning Nick that there are wolves at his door he had better take care of. But what can one necromancer do when every natural and supernatural card seems stacked against him?

Excerpt

Death Days
Lia Cooper © 2018
All Rights Reserved

One: The Professor
“Today we’re talking about the elision that occurs between Thoth worship in pre-Ptolemaic Egypt and early Greece. Let’s break into four groups for seminar,” Professor Nicolas Littman said, eyeing the half-empty teaching theater. He divided the room with a sweep of his arm and glanced at the clock on the back wall.

“We’ll meet back here in thirty minutes to discuss your thoughts as a group. And I want every small group to come up with a question to pose to the rest of us.”

He felt gratified at the way they began shuffling together into little clusters without further prompting.

“One of you should go use the lounge outside,” he said, waving absently at the small group at the very back of the room.

He didn’t care if they took the direction or not. He trusted in every student’s desire to escape the four walls of the classroom given a millimeter of freedom. All that mattered was that he now had thirty minutes of his own time in which to play hooky.

Nick grabbed a book and the vape out of his bag, and slipped out of the left-hand exit.

Why someone in the administration had decided to give him a corner theater for this class was beyond him. Four credits on Hermetic Mythologies and Cosmologies was hardly in demand. Especially when it was offered as a four-and-a-half-hour option on Saturdays. But if it meant they got a spacious room and the otherwise empty SEM II C building to themselves, he shouldn’t complain. His students could spread out to their hearts’ content, leaving him to steal outside to smoke without anyone around to gripe at him.

“Not even a proper smoke,” he muttered, flicking the round silver device on, warming the metal under his hand.

Nick sat on the concrete with his back to the building’s cement exterior and his knees bent, pressed the tip of the vape between his lips, and held down the button for a long, comforting drag. He closed his eyes to the bright sun and tipped his head back against the wall. Vapor streamed out of his pursed lips in a thick, fragrant cloud and pooled in the air above his head.

“Hiding from the students again?” an amused voice asked from above.

“I’m not hiding,” Nick grumbled.

A thin body lowered itself down onto the ground next to him, all long spidery limbs that folded with the kind of soft careless agility Nick hadn’t felt in a decade or two.

He looked over at his—teaching assistant wasn’t the word. Technically, Josiah didn’t work for him at all. He was just an independent contract student working on an eight-credit history project, but he let Nick use him like a TA so that’s how he always thought of him.

“What do you call this?” Josiah asked, knocking their shoulders together.

“Seminaring.”

Josiah’s face crumpled up with amusement. His flexible mouth stretched into a laugh while his shoulders shook. Nick held out the vape on offer and waited for Josiah to notice.

“Is it peppermint?” he asked.

Nick nodded.

“No thanks.”

“I’m not buying cake or whatever it is you like.”

“Are you trying to say there’s something wrong with cake?” Josiah returned Nick’s stony look with a nonplussed expression.

“It’s unna—”

“First of all: I don’t remember tobacco ever coming in ‘peppermint flavor’ before, and second: everything you do is unnatural, so that’s not a valid argument coming from you, Professor Littman.”

Nick grimaced. “Don’t call me that.”

“Nick.”

He sighed and took another long drag off his vape, waiting for the nicotine to soothe the flutter in his heart that Josiah’s words had kicked up. Nothing he did was natural. The kid had no idea just how right he was. Nick glanced down at his empty hand, automatically checking his nails for pesky traces of dirt, but there was nothing unusual to see. He’d scrubbed up hard the night before. Done a thorough job not to leave any of those unnatural traces that might have given Josiah a better-formed picture of what his professor and academic adviser got up to in his free time.

Shit, even in his head, he sounded like a pervert.

“You’re wrong. Some things I do are perfectly natural.”

“Like what?”

Nick gave the young man a slow look. “You have a very active imagination, Mr. Wexler.”

“The imagination is a hungry organ, seeking perpetual nourishment. I like to think that it’s not so much I’ve got an active imagination, but rather a well-fed one.”

“That you feed on thoughts of me?” Nick smiled, playing the comment off as a joke even though it left something low and hot in his body to sit up with interest. A curl of amused interest that quivered at the thought of a bright young man captivated by thoughts of him, even if they were merely frustrated or prurient or the passing whim of childish fancy, as he suspected was the case.

“Sometimes,” Josiah admitted, looking away.

The two of them sat in companionable silence until the phone in Nick’s pocket hiccupped its alarm to let him know that the requisite thirty-minute small group had passed, and he had to return again to face the lethargy of his classroom.

“Did you need something?” he asked, using the wall to push himself to his feet, and slipped the vape back into his pocket.

Josiah pulled out a sheaf of printouts from his backpack and held them up for Nick to take. “Two new chapters. I wanted to get your thoughts on them before I continue. It took a—the narrative took a direction we haven’t discussed before.”

“All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you want to come in?”

“Nah, I’ve got to meet Jen. Talk to you next week?”

Nick nodded.

Above them, the sky had dimmed as sure as if someone had taken a dimmer switch to the sun. Dark clouds cast a clear, watery gray light over campus, the edges of the quad hemmed in on all sides by towering dark trees that only helped to feed into the illusion of night creeping over them. The air smelled as though it were about to rain, bitterly cold and damp.

“Do you think it’s going to snow?” Josiah asked, climbing to his feet.

Nick shook his head. “Not a chance.”

He filed back into the teaching theater behind the stragglers. Sixty minutes for discussion and in-class readings, and then he’d be free for the rest of the weekend. Nick perched his feet on the edge of his desk, saw the streaks of mud clinging to his shoes, and dropped them again. He cleared his throat and looked out at the crowd for the first person to meet his eyes.

“Ah, Amelia, why don’t you start us off with a brief summary of what your group discussed.”

He folded his arms over his chest and listened with half an ear while his focus strayed repeatedly to the darkening sky and the promise of rain.

Purchase

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Meet the Author

Lia Cooper is a twenty-something native of the Pacific Northwest, voracious reader, pop-culture addict, and writer. She cultivated an early interest in writing through fandom and completed writing her first full length novel with the help of NaNoWriMo.

In the years since, she’s dabbled in catering, barista-ing, and working as a pastry chef before finally returning full time to the thing she loves most: storytelling.

When she’s not glued to Scrivener, Lia enjoys playing video games with friends and reviewing books for her booktube channel.

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Aug 06

Release Blitz: A Tangled Legacy by Mickie B. Ashling (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Filed under Book Blitz, Giveaways

Title: A Tangled Legacy

Series: Legacy, Book One

Author: Mickie B. Ashling

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: August 6, 2018

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 70900

Genre: Fantasy, fantasy, intersex, magic, royalty, gay, age gap, witches and warlocks, bisexual

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Synopsis

Prince Colin of Sendorra would have been the spare instead of the heir if fate hadn’t intervened. Like his father and forefathers, Colin is expected to marry and father a child or his principality reverts to Spain at the time of his death. Filling the royal nursery with healthy babies seems easy enough until Princess Charlotte—his childhood friend and intended bride—breaks off their engagement.

Nobel Prize winner—and powerful gray witch—Alain de Gris isn’t looking for love. Science and research have taken center stage for years until he walks into a club and lays eyes on Colin, thirteen years his junior.

Bisexual by nature, Colin seeks to avoid another engagement repeat by shying away from a same-sex relationship. There are no acceptable alternatives to provide legitimate offspring if he follows his heart.

But Colin can’t stay away from Alain and the witch finds him irresistible. Ignoring the absolutes isn’t easy when a legacy is in jeopardy. And while magic may offer a solution, it could also create more problems.

Excerpt

A Tangled Legacy
Mickie B. Ashling © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Colin

I slipped through a break in the eight-foot hedge that separated my granny’s rose garden from our garage. It was the same gap I used whenever I snuck out of the palace. Familiar with the prickly branches, I knew how to get through without a tear or a scratch. My bodyguards would be frantic the minute they realized I was missing, but the chance to sample nightlife as an ordinary man instead of a prince was too tempting.

Saddled at birth by a title I didn’t deserve, I’d spent all my life trying to convince everyone, myself included, that I had a right to exist. It wasn’t my fault that my twin, older by five minutes and thus the legitimate heir apparent, had been stillborn. Survivor’s guilt weighed heavily on my psyche, although it was pure chance that he died and I didn’t.

More than likely, the problem had lain with my method of conception. That story was glorified in the annals of our nation’s history. Male pregnancy had been risky from the word go, and no one knew this better than the man who gave me life, my father’s consort, Errol, the Duke of Maitland. He was a commoner who’d received the title after he married my other father, Prince Sebastian, who was heir apparent at the time. They’d been delighted to welcome me into the world, but it had been bittersweet after they were informed that my brother hadn’t made it.

Nonetheless, I was loved and pampered from the moment I first opened my eyes. Everyone doted on me, and I had a wonderful, albeit lonely, childhood. Once in a rare while, someone heartless would point out that I was the spare who’d usurped his brother’s title, but the incidents were few and far enough apart to be ignored.

Of course, no one bothered to ask me how I felt about having two dads and no mother. Not that they were bad parents—far better than most, or so I’d been told—and my granny, the Dowager Princess Alexandra, and her ladies-in-waiting provided all the feminine influence I could possibly need, but that didn’t stop me from wondering if I’d be a different person had I been created conventionally.

As things stood, I was determined to cram as many life experiences as possible before assuming the throne. Hopefully, my father, the current ruler, would live well into his seventies so I could achieve my goals. Since my twin was watching me from somewhere beyond these earthly boundaries, I wanted him to take comfort knowing I was doing a fine job with the role I’d unintentionally usurped.

My red Beemer purred to life, and I inched my way out of the garage, hoping no one would hear the engine. Most of the staff had already gone for the day. It was late, way past dinner, and the odds of being stopped were slim. Thankfully, my exit was uneventful.

I drove slowly until I hit the open road and gassed the engine when the palace faded from view. Dancing was on my mind, and the songs blaring from my radio helped to put me in the right mood. Since I had succeeded in a clean getaway, I decided on something different tonight. There was a new club in town—one that catered to a sexually fluid crowd—and this would be the perfect opportunity to check it out.

My interest in exploring my gay side wasn’t something new. I’d been attracted to both sexes growing up but had chosen my childhood friend, Princess Charlotte of Navarre, for my future bride. My fathers had been delighted, but they warned me things might change. A first crush seldom worked out, they’d cautioned, but I was determined to make it work, and thus avoid the complications that might arise from a same-sex union. Rather than risk another man’s life, or that of my unborn child, I would go the conventional route and marry a woman. Charlotte was the perfect choice, until she wasn’t.

My best friend, the sweet girl who’d promised to be my forever love, no longer held my interest, nor I hers. Our recent breakup—remarkably amicable thanks to multiple shots of vodka—signaled the end of childhood dreams and aspirations. And now, I was single again, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Until I turned twenty-one. Then the invisible clock would start ticking, and pressure to marry and begin a family would escalate.

At the club entrance, I scanned my surroundings. Across the mass of heaving bodies, someone caught my eye. The stranger’s dark hair was combed back, probably tied in a low tail, but I couldn’t say for sure. He was surrounded by people but ignored the crowd after our eyes locked. Even from a distance, the tingling in my groin led me to believe we’d be a good fit.

My royal status precluded random pairings as the inevitable fallout would be disastrous in more ways than I could count; however, the intensity in the brunet’s gaze was pushing me to break a few of my own rules tonight.

I was wearing a tight navy-blue sweater to complement my eyes, and a pair of skinny jeans. The sweater’s fabric stuck to me like a second skin, the perfect showcase for hard-earned shoulder and arm muscles. My blond hair was chin length, and I normally tucked it behind my ears. Even though I’d been told many times that it needed to be at least two inches shorter, I resisted because it was one of the few things in my regimented life I could control.

As next in line to the throne, I’d been brought up with a strict code of conduct, and I did my best to adhere to tradition. But with my formative years behind me, there was less room for mistakes. Eyes were on me twenty-four seven, and slipping through the proverbial cracks was always a thrill. My energy was on high alert tonight.

Although I had Prince Sebastian’s fair coloring, I was built more like my other father, Errol. My wide shoulders, narrow waist, and muscular thighs combined with my height—six two on bare feet—were imposing, especially in formal attire. My facial hair was more a heavy scruff than a beard, but it was a disguise I’d adopted after my sixteenth birthday. Some know-it-all mentioned I was too young to be in such a position of power. The beard seemed to have the desired effect, adding the necessary years and a certain flair that drew men and women in equal measure.

My stranger disappeared from the dance floor, and I headed toward the rear of the club. There was a room, where one could presumably get more intimate, and I glanced around, hoping to spot him. He seemed to have vanished. Irritated that he’d eluded me, I went back to the main area and ordered a beer and a shot. Killing time until someone else caught my eye, I ordered another one-and-one after inhaling the first, and one more after that. The sudden buzz didn’t do much to improve my mood. I’d been looking forward to a few hours of mindless fun, and sex had been high on my list.

I cleared my tab with cash to stay incognito and decided to make one more attempt to find the brunet. As soon as I entered the dark room, I felt the man’s presence. He was leaning against a wall, staring at me with purpose. We met halfway, and I was hypnotized by catlike eyes, an interesting mix of browns and greens. The chemistry between us was sending shock waves directly to my groin. I didn’t want to appear inexperienced, but I hadn’t been with a guy in a long time, and I was nervous. It took a boatload of willpower to keep up my cool façade.

Finally, the stranger broke the silence. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

Circling my waist with strong arms, he dragged me against his body. We were the same height, and as our mouths got closer, so did our hips, but I avoided his kiss. I wasn’t ready for that yet and hoped he’d get the message. Without faltering, my hookup deftly moved to my neck and slowly licked his way up to the outer shell of my ear, whispering dirty nothings along the way. I could feel the barriers crumbling as my need took over, and the next time he tried to kiss me, I let him.

His lips were surprisingly soft, but stubble against stubble was a sensation I’d never felt before. Gradually, I responded to his questing tongue and let his strong hands clutch my ass cheeks and drag me against his growing erection. The jolt of desire made him reckless.

“Can we get out of here?” I asked hopefully.

“You bet,” my mystery man answered. He held my hand and led me toward the exit. A few seconds before we’d made a clean getaway, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. David, the royal event planner, and his partner, Sam, stood in our way.

“What are you doing here?” David asked, ignoring the guy beside me.

I was surprised to see him and went on the defensive. “None of your damn business.”

David was visibly shocked by my combative attitude but stood his ground. “You’ll be sorry in the morning.”

“Take your hands off him,” the stranger snarled. “He’s with me.”

“Look,” David said, trying a more amicable approach. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, and he’s obviously had too much to drink.”

“He gave me a clear message, and I’m acting on it.”

“Think again.”

Sam and David sandwiched me and headed toward the exit. My hookup was probably fuming, but our connection had been broken, and I couldn’t find the energy to put up a fight. David got behind the wheel of the car, and Sam sat in the back seat beside me.

After a few mild protests, I slumped against Sam and drifted off…

Purchase

NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble | Kobo

Meet the Author

Mickie B. Ashling is the pseudonym of a multifaceted woman who is a product of her upbringing in multiple cultures, having lived in Japan, the Philippines, Spain, and the Middle East. Fluent in three languages, she’s a citizen of the world and an interesting mixture of East and West. A little bit of this and a lot of that have brought a unique touch to her literary voice she could never learn from textbooks.

By the time Mickie discovered her talent for writing, real life got in the way, and the business of raising four sons took priority. With the advent of e-publishing—and the inevitable emptying nest—dreams of becoming a published writer were resurrected and fulfilled in April 2009.

Mickie discovered gay romance in 2002 and continues to draw inspiration from the LGBTQA community and their ongoing struggle to find equality and happiness in this oftentimes skewed and intolerant world. Her award-winning novels have been called “gut-wrenching, daring, and thought provoking.” She admits to being an angst queen and making her characters work damn hard for their happy endings.

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Jul 30

Release Blitz: Ghost’s Dilemma by Morwen Navarre (Excerpt & Giveaway)

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Release Blitz: Ghost’s Dilemma by Morwen Navarre

Series: Witch’s Apprentice, Book Two

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: July 30, 2018

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 64300

Genre: Paranormal, Fantasy, established couples, witch, magic, hurt-comfort, separation, illness, healer, epidemic

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Synopsis

Ghost is content to spend all his free time with Gerry. But scandal and hate surrounding Ghost’s appointment as the first male witch, along with a deadly epidemic, force Ghost to make choices that will separate him from his love.

Spurred on by a message from his mentor, Ghost embarks on a journey through mystical underground tunnels and lost civilizations to the frozen lands of his origin, seeking a way to neutralize the threat back home. While he struggles to find a balance between his duties as a witch and his calling as a seer, all Ghost really wants is to return to the haven he has found in Gerry’s arms.

Excerpt

Ghost’s Dilemma
Morwen Navarre © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Prologue
Gerry strode down the slate path beside the house, toward the familiar and rhythmic sound of Ghost chopping herbs. Ghost was absorbed in his work at his bench, so Gerry took the opportunity to stand in the doorway and admire Ghost from behind. His snowy white hair was tied in a messy tail hanging between his shoulder blades. His pert buttocks presented an enticing sight in his smooth leather breeches. Although he stood just a bit over sixteen hands in height, his lean muscles rippled under his shirt as he trimmed and tied the herbs to be dried. While Ghost finished hanging a bundle of greens by the stem, Gerry snuck up and wrapped his arms around Ghost’s middle. Ghost startled, then laughed and relaxed against Gerry.

“Do I smell scones?” Gerry asked into Ghost’s ear. Ghost turned to face him, and Gerry stole a playful kiss. His hip brushed against the curve of Ghost’s rear.

Ghost leaned back into the embrace. “I had the time this morning. The sole visitor I had was a woman with a deep cut. She slipped when she was chopping root vegetables and the knife went clean to the bone.” Ghost wriggled free from Gerry’s embrace. “Now, let me wash up and we’ll eat.”

Gerry patted Ghost’s rear as Ghost walked past him. Ghost ducked his head and smiled. Gerry followed him into the yard, enjoying the view as Ghost rinsed from the bucket by the well.

“I saw the godsman today.” Ghost stiffened enough for it to be perceptible before Gerry continued. “He says we can make it official at the full moon.”

Six moons had passed since the godsman had refused to perform the rite for them, claiming Gerry and Ghost had not had a proper courtship and could not be sure of their convictions in such a short time.

“If you still want to, of course. And if you can last another quarter moon.”

Ghost spun and launched himself into Gerry’s arms. Gerry laughed as Ghost buried his wet hands in Gerry’s hair and pulled Gerry down into a heated kiss.

When Ghost finally let Gerry up, Gerry gazed into Ghost’s ice-blue eyes and smiled. “I’ll take the kiss for a yes.” Ghost opened his mouth to speak, but Gerry touched his finger to Ghost’s lips to stop him. “And I’m also going to tell you I’m the happiest man in the village right now. I love you, Ghost. I’d lay down my life to protect you, and I won’t ever let you be harmed. You’ll always be safe right here in my arms if you accept my offer to be my mate and bind yourself to me.”

“Of course the kiss is a yes.” Ghost’s eyes glistened like ice melting in the sun, and his lips trembled through his smile. “I’ll bind myself to you gladly, Gerry. I trust you to keep me safe, even when I’m reckless, and I know you’ll protect me from whatever goes wrong. Your arms are my sanctuary when I’m ready to give up because I know you’ll be strong for me. And I love you. I’ll love you for as long as I live.”

The full moon finally arrived, and Ghost and Gerry dressed in their best clothing to appear in the gods’ house. Gerry brushed Ghost’s hair until his long tresses shone. Ghost’s nimble fingers danced along the line of bone buttons on Gerry’s shirt. The traditional gift to the gods, consisting of a fat runner and a cask of mead, had been accepted and left on the offering table.

Gerry listened to the godsman’s droning voice. Ghost stood beside him. Both of them faced the gods’ wall, decorated with carved masks for the Seven and a blank mask for the Eighth.

“As our gods themselves have done, you come to take an oath to bind yourselves together. Ghost, you will no longer be solely Gerry’s dependent. You will be Gerry’s mate, first in Gerry’s heart. Gerry, you will no longer be solely Ghost’s alpha. You will be Ghost’s mate, first in Ghost’s heart. You must give each other unconditional love and trust, setting the needs of the other above your own. Gerry, you must protect Ghost and guide him. Ghost, you must trust Gerry’s judgment and let him guide you. Above all, you must not forsake the oath you take today in the sight of the gods.”

The godsman placed Ghost’s hand in Gerry’s. As he wrapped a thin red cord around their wrists, he said, “The Father and the Lady. He protects and she guides. The Hunter and the Farmer. He culls and she nurtures. The Sea and the Moon. He sends dreams and she awakens love. The Seeker and he whose name shall remain unspoken. Let all the gods bear witness to your oath.”

Gerry turned to gaze into Ghost’s clear blue eyes, seeing joy and love reflected back. “I offer you my protection and my love. I will care for you and keep you from harm for all of my days. You will be first in my heart, Ghost. Before the gods, this is my oath to you.”

Ghost’s voice was strong. “I accept your protection and your love, and offer you my love for all of my days. I will trust in your care and find safety at your side. I will care for you, and you will be first in my heart, Gerry. Before the gods, this is my oath to you.”

The godsman tied a loose knot in the cord that joined their wrists. “May the gods smile upon you both and bless this mating.”

The cord around their wrists did nothing to dampen the ardor of the kiss Gerry bestowed on Ghost, a kiss Ghost returned with equal enthusiasm. They were mated now, and Gerry’s elation could not be contained as he claimed his beloved witch for his own.

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Meet the Author

Morwen has been writing since she could first hold a pencil, and by all accounts she didn’t limit myself to paper. Walls, tablecloths and the occasional sibling were all fair game, and it shouldn’t be surprising to learn that markers were banned in her home with all due haste. Although she now contents herself with inconveniencing electrons, the desire to bring the stories in her mind to life hasn’t waned.

In her spare time, she reads, putters in the kitchen, and relaxes on her terrace or at the lake, weather permitting, with her corgi who strives to be part muse, part food disposal. She’s also addicted to coffee and has a close relationship with her Keurig.

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Jul 30

New Release Blitz: Exercising Restraint by Tamir Drake (Excerpt & Giveaway)

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New Release Blitz: Exercising Restraint by Tamir Drake (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Series: Different Dynamics, Book Two

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: July 30, 2018

Heat Level: 5 – Erotica

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 16800

Genre: Contemporary, ABO world, personal trainer, erotica, knotting, dirty talk, barebacking

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Synopsis

Pierce may have a crush on Steve, his sweet, funny personal trainer, but he doesn’t plan to act on it. They have a great relationship in the gym but are also friends outside of it, and Pierce has no intention of jeopardizing that. Besides, he may be an omega, but he’s got a good handle on his body’s biology. He’s not worried he’ll accidentally take things too far.

Steve may have a crush on Pierce, his smart and incredibly hot client, but he’s definitely not planning to say anything anytime soon. Pierce can do way better than Steve, and anyway, Pierce is a pretty casual dater. What Steve wants is anything but casual. And that’s not just the alpha in him.

When Pierce goes to Steve’s gym one snowy afternoon to work out, he thinks nothing of the fact that he’s in heat. He’s taken his libido inhibitor and is wearing his odor blocker, so there’s no chance of bothering Steve. Except, then the blocker wears off.

Steve wants nothing more than to keep himself under control, keep himself from doing something Pierce might not want. But Pierce might have something else in mind…

Excerpt

Exercising Restraint
Tamir Drake © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Pierce walked into Steve’s studio, the bell jingling cheerily as the door swung open and closed, and hung up his coat. He pulled off his boots, switched them out for his sneakers, and then stepped out onto the empty matted area.

“Steve?” he called.

“Coming! Pick some music!”

Pierce shrugged and headed over to the speaker system and fiddled with the iPod Steve kept plugged in there, scrolling to one of his playlists. Steve kept music for all his clients on it, which was one of many personal touches that made him the best personal trainer ever.

By the time Pierce had settled on a playlist, Steve had come into the studio. He was barefoot today, and Pierce winced. Bare feet meant it was going to be a hard-core cardio day.

Plus side to cardio: he was often so focused on what he was doing, time passed fairly quickly.

Downside to cardio: it made him kind of want to die.

“Hey,” Steve said, smiling. “How you doing today?”

“Not bad. Almost done with a couple of projects.”

“Awesome. Is one of them the book covers?”

Pierce couldn’t help but smile. Another reason Steve was so great was that he truly cared about his clients and remembered the details of their lives. “Yeah, the publishing company and I have pretty much settled on everything.”

Pierce was a graphic designer, and he worked primarily from home, which was one of the main reasons he’d found Steve and his studio. Because he spent most days sitting, he needed the exercise, and a reason to leave his house unrelated to getting groceries.

He did have friends he socialized with of course, but working from home was a lot of time to spend by yourself. Hence seeing Steve three times a week.

“So let me guess.” Pierce sighed. “We’re focusing on cardio first.”

Steve laughed. “What gave me away?”

Pierce stared pointedly at Steve’s feet.

Steve laughed again and wiggled his toes. “All right, all right. Sounds like I don’t have to introduce the program. Shall we get started?”

Pierce groaned and went to the center of the mat.

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Meet the Author

Tamir has the tendency to write feelings into everything, no matter how filthy. He’s not all that sorry about it.

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Jul 30

Release Blitz: Push Me Pull Me by Amanda Rhodes (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Filed under Book Blitz, Giveaways

Title: Push Me Pull Me

Author: Amanda Rhodes

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: July 30, 2018

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 20000

Genre: Contemporary, lesbian, pansexual, BDSM

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Synopsis

At twenty-four, Mallory Grant is still struggling with adulthood. She can’t seem to make it in to work on time and deals better with her Tumblr friend on the other side of the world than a face-to-face with a real live human. But when her boss threatens to fire her as a rental agent, Mallory has to buckle down with her new client or end up jobless.

Corinne Ibori is moving to the Chicago area and needs a place to call home. Mallory’s goal is to find just the right location for Corinne’s needs and show her boss she’s turned over a new leaf. Corinne is thirty-five, self-confident, beautiful, flirty, has a French accent, and knows what she wants.

Mallory is finding it hard to believe that what Corrine wants might be her.

Excerpt

Push Me Pull Me
Amanda Rhodes © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Today has to be a new record for me. Forty-five minutes late for work and I’m sitting in the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru behind a line of cars at least a half mile long. One might think I have no respect for punctuality. And they’d be right. I’ve been on a losing streak lately with my alarm clock. It tries so hard to wake me up with the beeping and the screeching.

I have to have my coffee before I meet the day head-on, though. Therefore, I wait. Might as well be productive while I sit here. I text Helena, asking her if she’s seen my Tumblr post with the new pictures of Charlize Theron. She’s cut all of her hair off, and it’s sexy as fuck. Maybe she did it for a new movie role, maybe just to torture me. It’s hard to say.

Helena replies back, “Duh, Mallory. Of course, I’ve seen it.” She immediately saved it to her hard drive for safekeeping. This is why we are friends. Unfortunately, though, she lives on the other side of the ocean so most of our conversations are in the form of emails and texts.

I don’t really do so well with live humans unless I’m getting paid to customer-service them. I’m perfectly content with the friends that live inside my computer as far as my personal life goes. Helena gets me, and I make her laugh. Works out perfectly.

A few more cars move, and I’m almost to the ordering screen. I check the clock. 9:15 a.m. Yikes. This is super late, even for me. Silently, I pray that my boss isn’t in this morning—still traveling or has tripped on her kids’ Legos and sprained her ankle.

“Mallory, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to make it in today. You’ll be able to hold down the fort without me, right?”

“Absolutely, Shelly. You can count on me. I’ve been here for hours now. Everything is going smoothly.”

“Perfect. You’re an amazing employee. I’m definitely giving you a raise and maybe even an expense account. Also, I think you should take a month-long vacation when I get back. Honk.”

HONK. HONK. HONK.

The person who’s waiting behind is obviously super pissed by my delayed response.

“Sorry!” I yell from inside my car where no one can hear me. I wave, hoping they forgive my idiotic daydreaming.

Quickly, I pull through, order my coffee and the bagel I swore to myself I wouldn’t get.

When I make it to work, I realize that my daydream was exactly that. There’s a sticky note lying on my desk from Shelly.

See me when you get in.

There’s no “Thanks!” or her name with a smiley face. She knows that I’ll be aware of exactly who wrote the note. And she knows that I’ll be aware of exactly what I need to see her about.

The sense of dread I feel at moments like this never motivates me to do the right thing (i.e. show up on time), but only serves to remind me of how much I suck at life. That nasty little voice in my head is chanting “loser alert!” over and over.

Staring at the note, I take a minute to contemplate my next move. I could fake the stomach flu, invoking her pity. Well, at least temporarily. I’ll have to face the facts at some point, and that some point might as well be now. Sucking it up, I throw my things on my desk and do the walk of shame to her office.

I could easily walk through this maze of dull gray cubicles with my eyes closed. I’ve done it so many times. The chatter of twenty different people on the phone, scheduling apartment viewings, fills the air. Ben’s giant pair of green foam Hulk hands sit atop his bookshelf. I give them a fist bump. Ben glances up from his phone call, nods, and winks. He’s the only tolerable human here.

Almost every desk has one or two framed pictures of loved ones, boyfriends, kids, husbands. A candid of a group of friends at a wedding taunts me as I walk past Tracy’s desk. She also has a Post-it note holder in the shape of a red high-heeled shoe. She thinks it’s cute, and I think it’s hideous.

Each time I have to make the trip from my desk to Shelly’s, I’m forced to think about the absence of pictures and mementos on mine. Yeah, I could frame a picture of my brother or of my childhood dog, Scrabble, but I don’t actually want anyone here to know that much about me.

Peeking around the corner, I check to see if the boss-lady is on the phone or possibly reaming some other poor soul a new asshole, in which case I can hightail it out of here. No such luck. She peers up from her desk, her face the picture of annoyance. She extends her hand, waving me in.

“Hi, Shelly! You wanted to see me?” I ask cheerily.

“Save it. Sit down. We need to talk.” Her tone isn’t angry, just fed up. Honestly, this makes me feel even worse. She used to like me. And she’s stuck her neck out for me more than once. I’ve disappointed yet another person in my life. I might need to start a spreadsheet in order to keep track.

Awkwardly, I take a seat across from her, trying to work out if I should cross my legs or leave them uncrossed. Which leg position makes a person seem less like a failure?

“Listen,” she says, sighing deeply. “I know this isn’t your dream job. Nor would I expect you to treat being a leasing agent as such. But I do expect that you show some respect for me. I don’t make office hours for shits and giggles, Mal. You had an appointment this morning with a client. She sat in the lobby waiting for you for almost an hour.”

Fuck. Me.

“Exactly.”

I didn’t realize I’d said that out loud.

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Meet the Author

Amanda Rhodes watches way too much TV and has a ridiculous amount of books on her to-be-read pile, yet she keeps buying them. She’s been writing since… well for a long time. Amanda loves the paranormal, sci-fi, and fantasy but could never ever write it herself. She’ll leave that up to the weirdos who do it best. Amanda lives in Chicago with her wife, four children, and pitbull who is a lazy bum.

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Jul 23

Release Blitz: Torn and Frayed by Rodd Clark (Excerpt & Giveaway)

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Title: Torn and Frayed

Author: Rodd Clark

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: July 23, 2018

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: No Romance, Male/Male

Length: 102500

Genre: Contemporary, established couples, murder, escape, reunited, homophobia, serial killer

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Synopsis

Conscience isn’t something all people are born with…

Gabriel Church is a portrait in contrast. It would be easy to get lost in his pale-blue eyes, ache with the need to feel the strength of his masculine frame. He appears to be nothing but animal and instinct. The only people who know the full depth of that truth are dead, murdered, or two thousand miles away.

Gabe is a serial killer, and for the first time in his life, he has more on his mind than his own survival. This time he is running from Seattle to protect the only person he thinks innocent in his laundry list of crime and murder: Christian Maxwell, his biographer and unexpected lover.

Drawn to a place he never thought to return, Gabe finds new and different realities. Realities that insist he let go of his tragic past, those incredible perceptions of God, and his own divinity. He must open his eyes to what the love of a good man can do to heal a broken soul.

Excerpt

Torn and Frayed
Rodd Clark © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
When the killer Gabriel Lee Church pulled into town, the day was like any other. The traffic was heavy as morning commuters filled the routes and teemed into service roads like ants traveling in long foraging lines. As the vehicles inched forward and jockeyed and broke for entry into those faster lanes, one might’ve assumed there was a chaotic order to it all, a symphony of instruments working in tandem like a reflex arc operating without direction of a maestro. It seemed every car was speeding along at a harried pace to reach their jobs and appointments, but as hectic as it appeared, it never stopped the drivers and passengers from reaching for their cell phones, or tuning radios, or stuffing their faces with fresh, powdery donut treats while sipping their Starbucks coffees.

To his continued frustration, Gabe noticed the one thing drivers rarely used during their morning commute was blinkers, with few acting as if they remembered they even had them. He, on the other hand, always obeyed the rules of the roadway. No point evading police for murder if you were going to allow yourself to be hauled away because of a simple reckless driving charge. His stereo was on like many others, playing tunes from the eighties, which he’d grown to enjoy more than other shit he’d heard today. He didn’t like the rap influence in today’s pop hits. Give me an old James Taylor or Glen Campbell song. Now those were memorable. He didn’t have the radio tuned to any local station either, because he didn’t need to the hear traffic reports since he had nowhere pressing to be, nor anyone requiring an audience with him.

Gabe rarely had second thoughts about his nomadic lifestyle, although he regretted putting the Pacific Northwest in his rearview for more reasons than simply loss of beautiful scenery and the lonely, yet lovely stretches of endless highway. Leaving Seattle was harder than other cities he’d passed through because he had been forced to leave his writer behind. He hated abandoning Christian Maxwell. He’d actually grown quite fond of the man—someone who’d successfully slipped quietly into his life, and as surreptitiously into his bed, once he’d figured the story Chris was supposed to write was never, in fact, going to see the light of day. For all the good he’d found there, Seattle turned up only death and bad memories for him.

Or maybe it was another lie to tell one’s self. Another justification to say he needn’t make apologies, particularly when he knew Chris would be waking up alone in his bed. Clearly the writer wanted a relationship, but he would never understand the ramifications and the danger in that. Gabe never settled for too long anywhere, or with anyone. It seemed he was forever bound to be running from the law, as much as he was his own past.

Gabriel Church possessed a driver’s license, but it’d expired some ten years earlier. If the police stopped him, he’d flash it or one of the many false documents he’d gathered together over the long haul. They were simple guarantees for all the checkpoints and traffic stops he knew he’d have to make it past. But the Glock 9 mm really worried him more. He didn’t use guns very often, but one never knew what challenges lay in the path ahead, and he’d have been foolish not to carry something for every contingency. He acquired the weapon years earlier and carried it in his Dodge, snuggly buried under a corner of the interior’s loose nylon mat which’d come unglued at a spot just under his dashboard.

Amazingly, he’d successfully traveled across the United States many times in long, lazy passes headed nowhere in particular, and he’d never been arrested. He’d managed to talk his way out of every awkward intervention by the police. If they’d known who he was or what he was guilty of, their guns would have been pulled and stances taken in readiness of the kickback. He imagined he’d hear the screams from shaky officers demanding he drop to his knees atop the black asphalt as they withdrew handcuffs from tiny holders strapped to their belts. But Church had never been caught and always smiled back at the officers who ticketed him under his makeshift aliases. He would wave as he’d pull back into traffic and resume his speed, only to toss the crumpled tickets out his window a few miles farther down the highway. They were remnants of another warrant issued on his Joe Dirt personas from Idaho and Wyoming, supposedly traveling on business when they’d found the misfortune of changing lanes without a proper signal.

Gabe left the New Mexico border behind him the night before and was now traveling through San Antonio. Every joint in his body ached because he’d been stuck behind the wheel for over six hours. Leg muscles screamed at him over tiny twinges, alerting him he needed to stop soon and stretch his legs. He saw the fuel meter nearing empty and knew he needed to gas up as well. Just as his legs were begging for relief, his stomach began rumbling to life. Gabe needed to look for the nearest interstate diner. He’d been living on fast food burgers and convenient store burritos for far too long.

Seeing the familiar red roof of a Howard Johnson’s in the distance, he maneuvered his pickup to the far right and looked for the nearest exit off I-151. What do you get the man who has everything? Certainly his answer was fried clams. But then he realized the time of day. Too early for fried clams, so he chose instead to have a cup of coffee and a thick slab of chicken-fried steak. When he walked inside, the smell of food on the grill hit his nostrils, and he salivated. He’d forgotten how long it’d been since he’d had a good meal that hadn’t been served through a window.

As he waited near the entrance, a tiny waitress came bounding from the kitchen, stopping in her tracks when she spotted Gabe. Her mouth dropped open as she sized him top to bottom. Seeing an attractive man with no wife or babies in his arms must have given her some hope, he figured. Hope that the tip he left her was in direct relation to the number of flirtatious efforts she expended to receive it.

“Only one, darlin’?” she asked as she rushed up with another table’s meal teetering on her tray.

“Sure,” he said, nodding politely as she ushered him to what he’d assumed was one of her prized tables in the rear of the restaurant.

“Be right back, hon,” she said, passing busboys in the aisles. By the time she came back, she was already carrying a carafe of coffee with a single glass of ice water. Gabe mentioned with a grin how he didn’t really need a menu, and she leaned in just enough to allow her perfume to filter in.

“I only want chicken fried steak with whatever sides you think I deserve,” he said with a grin. His charm with the ladies came easy for him, and because it did, he’d gotten laid more in his lifetime than the typical male could boast too. And since he’d met Christian, he was no longer married to the notion of a single gender in the sack.

Christian Maxwell was the first man he ever fucked, but the experience felt natural in hindsight. It felt genuine in a way that should’ve surprised him more, though it didn’t; the bucking sweaty pleasure and explosive release of seed. Ever since he left Seattle, he’d been afforded the time to think how nice it could’ve been to have him reclining in the passenger seat beside him. If only for the company and long conversations they could’ve had.

“Right away darlin’,” she said as she slipped back toward the kitchen.

Gabe watched her walk away and saw how his waitress, Alethea, pointed him out to nearby female staffers by the area where the coffee makers sat. He winked and heard faint girlish laughter issuing from behind the counter as each one surveyed him. He knew his eyes and his physique attracted women. He wasn’t metrosexual and cultivated, so he wasn’t always sure why others found him so sexually attractive. Gabe wore faded flannel and dusty work boots in lieu of the polished, esthetic sensibilities of a man obsessed with his own image.

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Meet the Author

Rodd lives in Dallas, TX and can be reached through his web presence at RoddClark.com.

If you were to ask him, he would say that enjoys M/M mysteries and suspenseful romance mixed in with his thrills. “Give me a good ole spy novel or fantasy to keep me up at night,” he might add. When he isn’t writing or reading, he claims to be the zookeeper of his menagerie of critters who call his place home. From cats to dogs to friendly raccoons, he enjoys them all.

With a dark and distinctively disturbing voice, his characters are flawed but intriguing; such as the main character of Gabriel Church in his romantic fiction series The Gabriel Church Tales, which begins with Rubble and the Wreckage.

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Jul 23

Release Blitz: Cold Like Snow by Sita Bethel (Excerpt & Giveaway)

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Title: Cold Like Snow

Author: Sita Bethel

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: July 23, 2018

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male, Male/Male Menage

Length: 65400

Genre: Paranormal, paranormal, ghosts, established couple, musicians, mild BDSM, ménage

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Synopsis

When René moves into his new home, he didn’t expect it to come with roommates. Two handsome roommates, to be precise. Too bad they’re ghosts.

The fact that they’re dead doesn’t stop them from running their fingers through René’s hair or tackling him onto the bed. It’s not long before things escalate and René finds himself with two ghost lovers that treat him better than any living partner ever has.

However, they can’t eat, can’t go far from the house where they died, and their fingers feel like icicles against René’s skin. The longer René is with them, the more he can sense them, but nothing can reduce the chill of their bodies against his. Still, it might be worth the hypothermia.

Excerpt

Cold Like Snow
Sita Bethel © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
René stood in front of the doorway and ran his finger over the outline of the key’s metallic surface before wedging it into the lock and stepping inside his new house. The cold air puckered the skin of his arms and neck. He rubbed his shoulders to keep them warm as he looked around. The flooring throughout the house was black-and-white linoleum. A wide living area faced him—to his left was a fireplace, straight ahead stood double glass doors leading to a small garden, and to his right a half bathroom, dining area, and kitchen. Between the dining room and the glass door, a staircase with a thick cherrywood banister curved up to the three bedrooms and a full bathroom.

René walked to the staircase and stopped short of the first step. He examined the black-and-white squares. They looked clean at first glance, but since he was searching, René noticed the thin rust-colored lines between the tiles. It was why he had bought the house. He’d heard the two previous owners had died after falling down the stairs. Afterward, the old building fell victim to exaggerated ghost stories. True, it did make the building more affordable, but the real reason it appealed to René was because he loved ghost stories and all things macabre. Ever since he was a child, tales that made others grimace had made René smile. He squatted to the floor and reached out to graze his fingertips against the tiles.

A long sigh escaped from between René’s lips. He stood and headed to his moving truck. After several hours of carrying boxes in, he decided to save the larger furniture for the next day. René lit a fire; orange light crawled across the floor and walls. He unrolled his sleeping bag near the hearth and slipped inside. The old house creaked. The silence in the house amplified every other noise, which echoed like a lullaby and soothed René into a hard sleep.

At dawn, before René was fully awake, he dreamed someone dragged their fingers through his hair. He rolled on his side, muttering, “It’s too cold to get up.” The next time he opened his eyes, sunlight brightened the room through the garden doors. He sat up, rubbed his face, and remembered the odd dream of being petted. He smiled at the dream as he stretched and moaned. René slipped out of the sleeping bag and shuffled toward the kitchen to make coffee.

The day labored on as René set upon the tedious mission of dragging his furniture inside his house by himself. Most items—the bed, the office desk, his baker’s rack—he had dissembled before loading into the rental truck, but a few pieces—the washer, dryer, and sofa—he had to strap to a dolly with bungee cords, making it slow to get them inside the house. There was nothing better to do during the constant back and forth than think. He’d spent most of his thirty-four years of existence rushing past his own life. He’d sped through junior high and high school as fast as he could, desperate to get away from the small-minded town where his aunt and uncle had raised him after his parents died of heat exhaustion during a camping trip. After he graduated, René fled to the nearest city, waiting tables to scrape up enough cash for a small apartment while he earned his associate degree. He jumped into a relationship with the first guy who openly pursued him, infatuated by the bold, flirtatious attitude that René never experienced from any of the guys back home. Even after his heart broke, René hurried straight to the next boyfriend, who ended up being much worse than the first.

He learned his lesson after that one, sticking to casual hookups as he focused on work and his studies. Once he finished school, René was desperate to find a job where he could afford more than ramen noodles and dollar-store socks. Now he was at a point in his life where he wanted nothing more than to appreciate everything he obtained and accomplished over the years. He escaped the small town. He made enough money to pay his bills. He finally bought a house. René wanted a chance to breathe and enjoy it. Perhaps find a decent partner who wanted to settle down, or at least get a dog.

He went through an entire box of granola bars and a pot of coffee before he decided to go to the store for groceries.

When he returned, René made a sandwich for lunch and then continued to set everything in order. By the end of the day, each stack of boxes sat in the correct room and the furniture was more or less placed where he intended to keep it. Too exhausted to assemble the bed, René spent another night in his sleeping bag near the fireplace, feeling like a strange post-modern male Cinderella.

In the early gray dawn, he had the same dream. Fingers, barely felt, ran through his hair and gingerly touched his cheeks and collarbone. René exhaled with content at the soft, misty caresses, and he wished ghosts were real before sinking into a deeper sleep.

In the morning, he started unpacking in the kitchen until he found the toaster and a skillet. After eating breakfast and unpacking the kitchen, he assembled the bed. Two nights on the floor had his shoulders stiff. René cursed as he balanced the sideboard of his bed frame in his lap and worked the first screw in one turn at a time. For the cost of a six-pack of beer and some pizza, May would have been more than happy to help René both move his furniture and set up the bed, but René relied on his best friend too much already. The next time May visited, René wanted to go out and have fun, not unpack a mountain of boxes, so he finished tightening the first screw and wondered where his bag of extras had disappeared. René groaned when he saw them on the other side of the room. He would have sworn he’d set them beside his lap when he started, but apparently he hadn’t. By the time he pushed the box spring and mattress onto the completed frame, René was worn out. He dropped onto the bed and made snow angel motions with his arms and legs before resting.

“Forget unpacking. I should just go to sleep,” René spoke to the bed, having no one else to talk to.

His muscles ached from carrying boxes and furniture, and the bed was firm but soft enough for him to sink a little. René shut his eyes and pulled a deep, intentional breath into his lungs. Daydreams played out behind his closed eyelids. It’d been awhile since anyone else had been in his bed with him, and he imagined a mystery lover sneaking to his bedside, sitting beside him, and kissing his stomach as he unzipped René’s pants. His fantasy spun out of control. The mattress felt like it really did shift with the weight of another person sitting close. René sat up and shook his head to rid himself of the ridiculous daydream. He made the bed before going downstairs to finish unpacking the living room.

By the third night, the house resembled a home. René examined his progress in the living room and nodded his head in satisfaction. As he stood in place, René’s hair slid against his shoulders, as if someone had brushed the long strands away from his face. He froze a moment, wondering if his imagination played tricks with his mind again, but the distinct pressure of a hand lighted on his shoulder and fingers ran down his cheek. He blinked, trying to process the strange sensation of being touched by invisible hands.

“Hello.” René’s voice sounded loud in the visibly empty living room.

The touching stopped after he spoke.

“Wait, don’t leave,” René said, afraid he’d somehow startled whatever had interacted with him. René’s gaze darted across the living room, searching for any indication that he wasn’t alone. Nothing was out of place. René sighed, his shoulders slumping forward. “I didn’t imagine that,” he whispered, to convince himself he hadn’t daydreamed the experience.

An idea drifted into René’s head. He spoke to the air in a bashful tone. “If you can hear me, would you follow me. Please?”

He walked up the stairs and opened the door to his office. Stacks of boxes lined the walls and surrounded the desk like strange cardboard obelisks. René pilfered through the boxes until he found one labeled office odds and ends.

He pulled the tape from the top of the box and set aside small statues of gargoyles, skeletons, and imps. With both hands, René removed the old Ouija board from the cardboard box. He’d never used it before and only owned it for the aesthetic, but now he sat on the tiled floor with the board in his lap and the heart-shaped planchette under his fingertips.

“I know this is dumb,” he said. “I know this is a stupid toy, but why not use it? Crap, I hope I’m not talking to myself. I just want to—” A breath hitched in René’s throat as the planchette scrawled across the wooden surface of the board.

“Oh good! I was hoping you’d want to talk. Hold on. Let me get a pen.” René rummaged through another box until he found a pack of pens and a notebook. He held the paper in his lap so he could write down the letters. “What’s your name?” René asked, but to his disappointment, the planchette only swerved in between the yes and no options at the top of the board. He frowned, thinking of what he might be doing wrong. Another question came to mind. “How many of you are here?”

The pointer swerved to the number two on the board.

“What are your names?” The planchette moved without him touching it, freeing up his hands to write each letter.

Marcus.

Bastion.

“Really?” René raised an eyebrow. It was a rhetorical question, but the heart planchette spelled another sentence.

“You have a problem with our names?”

“No.” René smiled. “My name’s Rembrandt. Our mothers should be slapped. Call me René, though.” A nervous chuckle slipped past René’s lips. “Not that I can hear you say my name.”

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Meet the Author

Sita Bethel obtained a B.A. in Creative Writing at Arkansas Tech University; however, she learned how to write fiction on sites such as Archive Of Our Own and fanfiction.net. She keeps coloring books near her computer for when she’s “writing,” and owns an awful lot of dice for someone who’s never played a tabletop RPG. Sita Bethel currently lives in Arkansas, teaches Zumba Fitness and Salsaton classes at a local gym, and hopes to someday own a fortress of solitude staffed with incompetent henchmen.

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Jul 23

Release Blitz: Dark City by Sarah Kay Moll (Excerpt & Giveaway)

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Title: Dark City

Author: Sarah Kay Moll

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: July 23, 2018

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Female, Male/Male

Length: 74200

Genre: Contemporary, Dissociative Identity Disorder, mob, murder, family drama, gay, bi, in the closet, BDSM

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Synopsis

Jude has a tender heart. Yet he was born into a criminal empire and groomed from childhood to step into his father’s violent footsteps. To survive, he created a second personality. Ras is everything Jude isn’t—cruel, remorseless, and utterly without fear, as incapable of love as Jude is of malice.

But when Ras meets a ruthless socialite, he begins to feel a strange stirring of emotion, a brush of Jude’s passion against his own dark heart. Meanwhile, Jude finds himself with a knife in his hand, the evil in Ras’s soul bleeding into his own.

As the walls between them crumble, they could lose everything—their lovers, their family, and their hold on the dark city itself.

Coming together could break them…or make them whole.

Excerpt

1: Jack of Spades
Around me, the hallway is silent. No soft brushes of footsteps on the dark green carpet, no huff of breath, no rustle of clothing. But a fragment of a second before he strikes, I know he’s there.

I raise my hand, grazing my fingers over a thin metal wire but failing to stop it from circling my neck. My attacker jerks my head toward him with the noose, the cold wire digging into my skin. Like any trained Special Forces soldier, he’s turned his back to mine, intending to yank me over his shoulder like a duffel bag and strangle me with my own weight. I have only a single second before my feet leave the ground, and I use it well, launching myself into the air. I backflip over him, turning through the still, stale air to land on cat feet facing him. The wire, made long to give better leverage, loosens enough for me to pull it over my head.

I throw a kick, a downward thrust toward his knee. Graceful as always, he steps easily aside. He answers it with a quick punch, fist flying toward my jaw, but my arm is already there, deflecting the blow harmlessly away.

I barely dodge another jab, a decoy strike before he grabs my arm, twisting it behind me and pushing me up against the wall. A picturesque landscape in a gilt frame crashes to the floor by my feet.

He jerks the captive limb once and pain shoots up and down my arm like sharp splinters of bamboo. He’s always believed pain to be an excellent teacher, so it’s become a frequent companion.

When he releases me, I turn to face him, shrugging my right arm a few times to work the pins and needles out.

“You heard me,” he says, approval softening his stern features, the crooked nose—broken three times over his forty-five years—the steely line of his mouth, the sharp angle to his jaw.

“It wasn’t exactly that, sir,” I say. “It was more like I sensed you. I didn’t hear much but I knew you were there.”

“Even better. Go get something to eat. I’ll be there in a few.”

“Yes, sir.”

I continue down a hallway lined with dim lights encased in stained-glass sconces. Narrow latticed windows let the deep blue of twilight fall over me.

The kitchen I step into at the end of the long hall is brighter, cheery white-yellow light over dark wooden counters. My mother stands at the stove. Beside her, sausages in a cast iron skillet hiss and spit.

“It smells good,” I say. On rare nights, Mom lets the housekeeper go home early and cooks something herself—the rich, salty flavors of her homeland.

“Hello, Jude,” she says in her faint voice, delicate as a flower’s petal and rarely louder than a murmur. Her soft smile fades as she walks toward me and runs a gentle finger across my neck where there must be a red line from the garrote. “Your father needs to be more careful.”

“My father knows what he’s doing.” I trust him, and I don’t want her to talk like that when he might overhear.

She sighs, turning back to the stove as my brother Eli walks in. He’s wearing his date-night clothes, groomed and stylish as someone on a magazine. He hates to hear how alike we look, but we do both have thick black hair, a striking contrast to our pale skin, and the same high cheekbones.

We take after our mother, who looks a little like Snow White, gazing wistfully out into the dark gardens. They’re January-dead right now, brown and crumbling, but flourish in the summers; rows and rows of blushing rosebushes, a pale cobblestone path laced between.

“Mom.” Eli puts his hands on her shoulders and says something in Russian.

She turns to face him with a smile, responding in kind. I listen to their murmured words, but only understand a few. I wasn’t allowed to speak Mom’s native language since we came to the city, and somehow I’ve managed to forget almost everything I knew. It means Mom is close to Eli in a way she can’t be with me. She reaches up to pat him gently on the cheek, affectionate as always.

While they talk, I get a beer out of the fridge for him so he’ll have to look at me for at least a few seconds. His hostile green-eyed gaze doesn’t linger as he takes the cold bottle from me.

“I thought we could take the horses out tomorrow,” I say.

“No.”

“But you haven’t ridden Sun in months.”

He glances at the stove, but Mom has stepped out of the kitchen. “Fuck off, Jude. I’m busy.” He turns and walks to the table. I follow and he sighs, setting his beer on the wooden surface with a clunk.

“Do you always have to look at me like that?” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like so sad. You look like a fucking puppy I kicked into the bay.”

I cross my arms, as though I could block his stinging words and hide the part of me that feels just like a puppy he kicked into cold water.

“You’re an asshole,” I say. “I just wanted to spend time with you.”

“You want to step into the gym and say that?” He walks toward me, an intimidating frown on his face, taking full advantage of the six inches he has on me, his bulky frame. By now, I’ve given up the hope I’ll ever be as big or as strong as he is. But I’m faster, darting like quicksilver, elusive as water when we spar. As we’ve grown up, I’ve become his equal.

I hold my ground, looking up at him. “Yes. Let’s do that.”

“Fucking waste of my time.” He steps away and turns back to the table. It’s my victory, but I don’t feel any triumph, just the usual weary guilt.

Mom sighs, standing in the doorway. She doesn’t say a word, so used to our fighting she only tries to stop us if we’re actually hitting each other. I should be more careful to keep it from her.

Dad comes in. He catches my eye with a warm, proud smile that makes me feel a little better. My mother turns her face up toward him, and he kisses her on the cheek. Her features are angular but beautiful, her slender neck clad in a gray turtleneck that doesn’t quite cover the bruise at the base of her jaw. Dad must have been drinking last night. He doesn’t mean to hurt her, but he can’t always help himself. I should have been here to stop him.

“Smells good, Nadya,” he says.

She gives him a timid smile. “For you, Vance. Mama used to make it when you visited us. You remember?”

“Of course I do, honey,” he says.

Mom puts plates on the table in the breakfast nook, a small alcove surrounded by tall windows edged with lacy curtains. They let the darkness encroach on us, stars absent in the overcast sky.

“Do you have plans for tonight?” Dad asks. Eli and I both know he’s talking only to me, Eli beneath his notice as always.

“Brienne’s throwing a party,” I say.

“Oh, Jude,” Mom murmurs. “Shouldn’t you stay and study? Have you studied one time since you were suspended?”

“That’s right,” Dad says. “You’re back to school on Monday. Fucking shame. I had something pretty interesting planned.”

“I don’t have to go.” I’d much rather work with Dad, like I’ve been doing since I was thirteen. Now that I’m eighteen, I’m an expert in everything from smuggling illegal drugs to running protection rackets.

“You do have to go,” Dad says. “I had to pull a lot of strings to get them to take you back, so don’t fuck it up again, hear me?” A cold, steely wire is threaded through his words, and I know I’ll have to be careful.

“I don’t know why you care,” Eli says. “Jude doesn’t learn anything. He doesn’t even try. When I was—”

“He’s learning plenty,” Dad says, talking over Eli as usual. “You’re not there to learn calculus or some shit. You’re there because that’s where the mayor and city councilmen and CEOs of major corporations send their kids. When they run this city, you’ll be glad you know their names.”

“They’re not going to run this city,” I say, grinning. “We are.”

Dad chuckles. “Don’t get cocky. But I do have the feeling that someday soon, we’ll be able to do a lot of expanding.” He stands. “You can’t go to the party tonight. I need you boys with me. We have work to do.”

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Meet the Author

Sarah Kay Moll is a wordsmith and an amateur homemaker. She’s good with metaphors and bad with coffee stains, both of which result from a writing habit she hasn’t been able to quit. She lives a mostly solitary life, and as a result, might never say the right thing at parties. She’s passionate about books, and has about five hundred on her to-read pile. When she does go out, it’s probably to the library, the theater, or the non-profit where she volunteers.

Sarah lives in a beautiful corner of western Oregon where the trees are still changing color at the end of November and the mornings are misty and mysterious. She spends her free time playing video games and catering to her cat’s every whim.

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BDSM, bi, Dissociative Identity Disorder, family drama, Gay, in the closet, mob, murder
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Jul 23

Release Blitz: The Fox, the Dog, and the King by Matt Doyle (Excerpt & Giveaway)

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Title: The Fox, the Dog, and the King

Series: The Cassie Tam Files, Book Two

Author: Matt Doyle

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: July 23, 2018

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: No Romance

Length: 58000

Genre: Science Fiction, futuristic, lesbian, private detective, Sci-fi

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Synopsis

New Hopeland City may have been built to be the centerpiece of the technological age, but some remnants of the old world still linger. The tools of the trade have changed, but the corruption remains the same, even in the criminal underworld …

When PI Cassie Tam and her girlfriend Lori try to make up for their recent busy schedules with a night out at the theatre to watch the Tech Shift performer Kitsune, the last thing they expected was for Cassie to get a job offer. But some people are never off the clock, and by the end of the evening, Cassie has been drawn into a mundane but highly paid missing pet case. Unfortunately, in New Hopeland City, even something as simple as little lost dog can lead you down some dark paths.

Until now, Cassie wasn’t aware that there even was a rabbit hole, let alone how far down it goes.

Excerpt

Chapter One
“Caz! Be careful!” Charlie lets out an exasperated sigh, and adds, “Those are new cushions.”

I stop wiping the freshly spilt coffee on my trouser leg with my hand and give her an only partially serious indignant look.

“What? You can handle a bit of caffeine, the material can’t.”

“Terribly sorry,” I reply, relaxing back into Charlie’s couch. I raise my mug daintily to my mouth and take a sip, complete with a raised pinkie finger, then place the mug gently back onto the coffee table between us. “Better?”

Charlie almost gags on her own coffee as she tries to stifle a laugh and ends up dribbling some of the molten goodness down her chin.

“Oh, do be careful, Charlotte. These are new cushions,” I say, throwing in my best mock posh tone.

And now we both laugh, the sound bringing with it warm memories of times long gone.

The woman opposite me, Charlotte Goldman, is one of the top synth stimulant dealers in the city—an Elite Seller in fact. She’s also my ex-girlfriend. We only dated for a year but our breakup, while not what you’d call nasty, shook me and left me far too snarky to be dateable for a long time afterward. Then, Lori Redwood came knocking. She hired me to investigate her brother Eddie’s death. He was a VR junkie, and I honestly thought that the case would be simple when I took it. It wasn’t. For many reasons.

Somehow, Lori managed to break through my previously impenetrable walls, and one of the positive changes that she’s set about making in my life since we started dating is to make sure I reconnected with Charlie. I’m grateful, but I don’t think her intentions were entirely pure. Our now mutual friend, Jane, once told me that Lori had a habit of dating assholes. Part of me thinks that having me talk her up to my ex, who, if I’m being honest, I was still a little hung up on, is a way of boosting her own confidence in us. I could be wrong, of course. It has, unfortunately, been known to happen from time to time.

No matter what Lori’s reasons were, I am glad she did it. I’ve missed Charlie. Missed the way she makes me feel when I’m around her. Up until recently, I thought that was entirely due to the romance, but looking at it now, I know that I was wrong. I would be lying if I told myself I could look back on it and say we were never suited in that way, but the things I missed the most don’t need romance thrown in. Relaxing over a hot drink, catching up on what we’ve been up to, that sort of thing.

“And what’s that smile for?” Charlie asks, smiling wickedly with the question.

“I was just thinking about how much I’m enjoying being able to kick back around someone and be the person who isn’t an investigator for hire, stuck in the middle of something potentially nasty.”

Charlie lets out a short, gentle laugh and pushes her long auburn hair back behind her ears. “Having trouble opening up around Lori, huh?”

“It takes a while with me. You know that.”

“Yeah. I had, what? Three, three and a half months of grumpy Miss Sleuth until you started relaxing properly around me?”

I nod. “Honestly, I’ve just been so busy since the Locke trial that I haven’t had as much time with her as I’d like.”

“And yet you’re making plenty of time for me,” Charlie replies, shaking her head sadly.

“Lori works, too. We talk a lot, but meeting up is the difficult bit. I’m heading straight there from here, though. We’re gonna make a night of it. You just happened to be on the way,” I add with a cheeky wink.

“Oh, I bet you are.” Charlie laughs, ignoring my jibe. “Does she have something picked out for you already? A nice little PVC one-piece, perhaps?”

I sigh and drop my face in my hands. At some point, Charlie realised that she knew a few people who knew Lori. Then she found out that Lori frequented Tourniquet, the late-night cafe where we had our first date. It’s a nice place: good food, good drink, good prices, all you could want, really. But, as soon as Charlie discovered that its primary patrons are members of the local fetish scene, her mind went straight to PVC and leather, and she decided that would make great material to crack jokes at my expense. Yes, I am glad Lori helped me reconnect with Charlie. At times like this, though, I could kill her for it.

“It’s not like that,” I whine.

Rather than push ahead with her assault like she has the last couple of times, Charlie goes quiet for a moment. “Caz, were you into stuff like that when you and I dated?”

“No. I never even thought about stuff like that when we were together.”

“I thought not.” She smirks. “You’re a relationship chameleon.”

I look up, sure that my face is a picture of confusion. “A what?”

“A relationship chameleon. It means that you change when you’re dating someone and become more like them. Like how you were into retro rock when we met, and then suddenly took a major interest in jazz when you found out that I like it.”

“I just never gave jazz a chance before,” I groan. “And I still like retro rock. Besides, everyone changes a little when they’re in a relationship.”

“True.” Charlie nods. “We all adapt or pick up little things here and there. I, for one, learned how to comfort a big, scary detective who’s a massive wuss when it comes to jump scares. You change a lot, though. Do you remember how you told me about changing your drinking habits when you were dating what’s her name…uhm…” Charlie clicks her fingers, trying to remember the name.

“Dani,” I fill in the blank. “Dani Cole.”

“Dani,” Charlie repeats, pointing a finger at me in triumph. “You barely touched alcohol until you met her, but by the time you’d started seeing me you were drinking at least one beer a night. I bet you still do. It’s not just habits, though; your personality alters too. You were really shy when we first met, then while you were with me, you started adopting some of my snark. From what you told me about how you were in your youth, I reckon you got the shyness from someone else.”

“Or maybe your snark is catching?”

“I prefer so lovable that people can’t help but imitate it, but I’ll take it. And when we split, you reverted to a mix of moody and shy. It was like you didn’t know where to focus yourself anymore. And now you’re suddenly a bit more confident and…I dunno, jokey.”

“Maybe I was just miserable alone, and now I’m happy again?” I try.

“Or maybe you’re adopting some of Lori into yourself. Caz, I can tell when what you’re saying is you and when it’s something else you’re trying to take on. I always could.”

“Charlie, I’m happy. Is that really that bad?”

“No, it’s not. And I am glad that Lori’s convinced you to reconnect, I just don’t want you to get yourself hurt. We didn’t work out, but I do care for you. Promise me that if she tries getting you to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with you’ll say no, OK?”

I frown. “She’s not like that. She won’t try to force me to do anything. What’s brought all this chameleon stuff on, anyway? You’ve never mentioned it before.”

“I kinda wondered about it before, but…I just realised something, that’s all.”

“What?”

“Well, when I mentioned the PVC thing, you…”

“I, what?” I prompt, and immediately start to regret it.

“I could see it on your face. You weren’t entirely opposed to the idea.”

My cheeks start to flush, and my mouth drops open in shock, unable to form a smart-ass retort. Hell, I can’t even manage a stupid-ass retort at this point.

Charlie laughs, and it’s a long, whooping laugh that spills into her words. “It’s a good job that she thinks you’re cute when you’re embarrassed because you are so going to be blushing a lot when you two get out of first gear.”

“Gee, thanks,” I groan. With all the amusement I’m giving people lately, I’m beginning to wonder if I should consider switching careers and becoming a stand-up. I glance over at the clock on the wall. It’s a hybrid model that works with modern digital tech but built to resemble an old pendulum piece. They’re all the rage right now, or so I’m told. From the way the video display just jumped, I think Charlie’s might be broken. A quick check of my phone confirms that the time is right, at least.

“I better head out,” I say, getting to my feet. “And your pendulum just jumped, by the way. You may want to get that checked out.”

“Oh, it does that.” Charlie smiles, rising to walk me to the door. “I’ve had it checked over three times now and there’s no faults. It keeps the right time, so I’ll forgive it a few little visual blips.”

“Thanks, Charlie. It’s been a fun afternoon.”

“It really has. And don’t worry too much about the chameleon thing, I am half joking. I don’t expect you to be having the Tech Shift op any time soon, at least. Although…they do say that everyone starts to resemble their pets, right?”

“Diu,” I groan.

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Meet the Author

Matt Doyle lives in the South East of England and shares his home with a wide variety of people and animals, as well as a fine selection of teas. He has spent his life chasing dreams, a habit which has seen him gain success in a great number of fields. To date, this has included spending ten years as a professional wrestler, completing a range of cosplay projects, and publishing multiple works of fiction.

These days, Matt can be found working on far too many novels at once, blogging about anime, comics, and games, and plotting and planning what other things he’ll be doing to take up what little free time he has.

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