Aug 20

Release Blitz: Adventures in Dating…in Heels by Liam Livings (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Adventures in Dating…in Heels

Series: Kev, Book One

Author: Liam Livings

Publisher:  NineStar Press, LLC

Release Date: August 20, 2018

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 66200

Genre: Contemporary, cross-dressing, family drama, gay, coming out, coming of age, drag queens

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Synopsis

Kev Harrison is a teenager looking for a boyfriend and friends who will accept his cross-dressing. Only thing is, he lives in a small village near Salisbury, England, and it’s the nineties.

Tony Collins is Kev’s best friend, a Goth with a passion for fashion and anything to do with the Human League. He stands as the voice of reason while Kev muddles his way through coming out, career choices, and dating…in heels.

Excerpt

Adventures in Dating…in Heels
Liam Livings © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
1987

I first realised I wasn’t quite like other boys when I was seven. By then, I was old enough to know what I liked and what I didn’t like and, more importantly, confident and talkative enough to do something about it.

One afternoon, when Dad was at work and Mum was making cakes in the kitchen, I found a pile of Mum’s large dresses in the living room, waiting to be ironed. I knew they were hers as I’d seen her bustling about the house in them, just before Dad came home from work. At four o’clock every day, after I’d been home from school a while, Mum would disappear upstairs dressed as Mrs. Mop and reappear at quarter to five in one of her long flowing dresses, full makeup, and heels, her hair brushed out from spending a day under a head scarf.

Mum was really into the Mamas and the Papas, and during the summer holidays while Dad was at work, and once the house was straight and she’d “done through” as she called it, we’d dance to her twelve-inch records in the living room. She would come in from hanging out the washing in the back garden and say, “A good day for drying. If they’re done in time and I’m all done through, we can have a little dance with my records.”

One afternoon while Mum was upstairs making herself look nice for Dad, I grabbed one of her dresses and climbed into it, ready for our dance.

Mum walked into the living room as I held the Mamas and the Papas album, wearing her size-twenty dress covered in bright-pink daisies, a wide grin filling my face.

She took the record off me. “What you doing in my dress, love?”

“I like the flowers and I want to see what it feels like when I dance around in it, like you do.” Perfectly reasonable as far as I was concerned.

“They’re for me, not for you, love.” She put the record on and turned to me, her hands on her hips. “Take it off and we can have a dance together.”

But I didn’t want to take it off. I wanted to keep it on with my whole being. As I swayed from side to side, brushing the dress between my hands as I swung my arms around, I felt so right I couldn’t understand why I had to take it off.

“I’ll be careful. I won’t make it dirty.” Dirty was the worst thing in that house as far as Mum was concerned, and I knew I wouldn’t do that to the dress.

As the music filled the room, Mum knelt in front of me. “One dance. But it’s our little secret. Don’t tell Daddy, all right?” She made a zipping motion with her hand across her lips.

I nodded emphatically and started to dance with her to the music. It was the one that made me dance the most on the whole album, it was “One Way Ticket.” It all felt perfect: the swishing sound of the dress as it moved around me, the feeling of the gap between my bare legs, and how different it was from wearing trousers.

As I danced, I caught a glimpse of myself, stood in my mum’s frock, smiling as I jumped about.

The song finished, and Mum lifted the needle on the record player and told me to take off the dress.

There was a bit of a disagreement as I begged for one more song, held up my He-Man figure and said, “I want to dance for him.”

“You like He-Man, do you, love?”

I nodded and Mum kept looking at her watch. In the end, she unzipped the dress behind my back and lifted me out of it. As the dress lay on the ground, pooled around my feet, the back door clicked, signalling Dad’s return from work. Mum scooped up the dress and folded it quickly into the ironing pile in the living room, then greeted Dad, in his grey suit carrying a black briefcase, with a hug and a kiss.

“What’s for dinner?” Dad asked over Mum’s shoulder, staring at me.

I was still moving a bit to the song continuing to play in my head.

“What’s he dancing about for? Why’s he not got any clothes on? Hasn’t he got something useful to do, like lay the table?”

Mum pulled back from the hug and told me to throw on some clothes, and then asked me to lay the table as dinner would be five minutes. Raising her eyebrows towards me, she said, “Fish fingers, peas, and chips. Your favourite.”

I ran upstairs to dress, nipping in ahead of Dad. Once we had both changed, we made our way downstairs again. Mum beamed at my dad, who was now wearing a shapeless grey tracksuit he’d bought from a catalogue when Mum had complained his old tracksuit had too many holes to be darned anymore.

We continued with our little secret most evenings. Sometimes, I would watch Mum putting on her makeup from their bed and I’d ask what each item was for as she applied them.

“Can I have a go?” I asked once got the courage.

She turned, half her lips bright red, the lipstick in her hand. “Not on you. You can do it on me if you want.” She handed it to me. As I applied it to her lips, I had to force my whole body not to put a bit on my own.

“How does it come off?” I asked innocently.

She showed me the makeup remover in the jar on her dressing table and the cotton wool in the drawer.

Now I knew everything I needed to know.

When Mum was hanging out the washing or deeply involved in dinner preparation, I would take some of Mum’s makeup into the bathroom and make up my whole face and then stare at myself in the mirror, amazed at how I no longer looked like me. Afterwards, I’d dutifully remove it all with the bottle and cotton wool just as Mum had done.

That Christmas, Mum opened her present from Dad: a pair of shiny black high-heeled shoes. The toes went to a sharp point and the heel was longer than my index finger. She tried them on, parading around the room and twirling her feet at every turn.

I looked at the Meccano tractor set I’d just opened and my heart sank. Why didn’t I have a little sister so I could play Barbie dolls with her as I was growing up? I’d seen these dolls in their bright-pink boxes and blonde hair next to the muddy-grey Action Man in the toy shop. When I’d asked for one of those, Dad had said not to be so silly. I wanted an Action Man, didn’t I?

Now, Dad said, “Shall we build the tractor?”

Desperate for something to have in common with Dad, I nodded, opened the box, and cleared a space on the living room carpet. Soon the tractor was built, with its red shiny three-inch wheels, bent tube of a body, and frame around the seat where my old Action Man could sit—if I could have found him. I’d just handed Dad bits and pieces, watching him build it. It was the most we’d talked to each other in years.

After everyone went to bed that night, I sneaked into the living room, pushed my tractor aside, put on Mum’s shiny black high heels, and walked around the kitchen, enjoying every quiet tap they made on the floor. After I’d had my fill, I put them back where they’d been left and went to bed.

Purchase

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

Meet the Author

Liam Livings lives where east London ends and becomes Essex. He shares his house with his boyfriend and cat. He enjoys baking, cooking, classic cars and socialising with friends. He has a sweet tooth for food and entertainment: loving to escape from real life with a romantic book; enjoying a good cry at a sad, funny and camp film; and listening to musical cheesy pop from the eighties to now. He tirelessly watches an awful lot of Gilmore Girls in the name of writing ‘research’.

Published since 2013 by a variety of British and American presses, his gay romance and gay fiction focuses on friendships, British humour, romance with plenty of sparkle. He’s a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, and the Chartered Institute of Marketing. With a masters in creative writing from Kingston University, he teaches writing workshops with his partner in sarcasm and humour, Virginia Heath as www.realpeoplewritebooks.com and has also ghost written a client’s 5 Star reviewed autobiography.

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Aug 20

Release Blitz: Eidolon by E.S. Yu (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Eidolon

Author: E.S. Yu

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: August 20, 2018

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 83000

Genre: Science Fiction, PTSD, Assassin, amnesia, dystopian, asexual, mental illness

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Synopsis

When Cyrex Corp, one of the foremost bioaugmentation companies in the world, sends Vax to assassinate Zai Lumero, Vax thinks it’ll be a simple, straightforward job. Zai is only a journalist, after all, and with his bioaugments, Vax has never botched a job before. But then the hit unexpectedly goes south, and before Vax can correct his mistake and finish Zai off for good, he discovers that Cyrex has turned on him, putting him in their crosshairs as well.

With no one else to turn to, he strikes a grudging partnership with Zai to help him expose Cyrex’s connection to a missing persons case and take the company down. Getting along with a justice crusader who hates Vax’s profession with a burning passion isn’t easy—though Vax finds himself drawn to Zai in a way he never expected.

As they race against time to unearth Cyrex’s secrets, Vax can’t shake the feeling that Zai is hiding something from him. And the closer he gets to uncovering the answers—of how he’s related to Zai’s investigation, and how Zai is connected to a past that Vax can’t remember—the more he suspects that finding out the truth might destroy him.

Excerpt

Eidolon
E.S. Yu © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
The call came, as it always did, out of the blue, making Vax choke and nearly spill his latte down his jacket. He reluctantly set his cup on the café table with a stifled sigh and, after another minute of buzzing, finally tapped the node in his ear. There was only one person who ever called him, and the call always meant bad news.

“You’ve reached Corporate Murder Services. How can I help you?” he answered.

“Very funny,” a smooth voice said. “I have a new assignment for you. Get to my office.”

“Now?” Vax massaged the bridge of his nose. For once, he’d managed to snag an unoccupied window table, and now he wouldn’t get to enjoy the sunshine or the view. “I’ll need thirty minutes to get there, give or take traffic.”

“Fine. See you soon.”

The call ended. Vax swallowed, his appetite suddenly gone. He downed the rest of his latte, got up from his seat, and texted for an AutoRide. Not for the first time, he thought about suggesting a text message next time, or even a video call, as being much more convenient than an in-person meeting; also not for the first time, he reminded himself glumly that that was never going to happen.

The world had to have been determined to hate him today; he got in the driverless car as it drove up, and just after it pulled away from the curb, the screen inside began broadcasting a news story about Cyrex’s CEO.

“Over the weekend, Cyrex Corp CEO, Atali Norman, pledged five million dollars to support STEM programs in schools across the country…”

Vax immediately changed the channel to one that aired several bioaugment commercials—including the one for Cyrex’s latest weight loss bioaug model that seemed to be everywhere lately—before reporting grim updates on the war overseas. He sighed, gazing morosely out the window at the passing traffic and the colorful screens on the street. Just the way he wanted to start his morning.

Cyrex’s headquarters formed the tallest building in Orphis City, visible from miles away. All glass, as though inviting the world to come and look inside; it had no secrets to hide. It made Vax think of an obnoxiously shiny diamond in the center of Orphis’s gleaming crown of wealthy, high-tech development, which was very photogenic and good for luring tourists to America’s fastest-growing biotech hub, if not exactly an accurate representation of the city as a whole. Vax got out of the car as it pulled up and walked through the glass doors at the entrance.

The sleek, modern lobby bustled with people. Vax waved the microchip in his finger through security and stepped into the elevator. He kept his gaze averted as people in suits and lab coats got on and off with each stop, fixing his eyes on the glimpses of his own reflection in the glass, flickering in and out of existence, like a ghost.

At the top floor, he exited the elevator. He tapped the touch screen panel by the glass door that read Atali Norman, CEO, and the panel flashed green as the door unlocked with a click. Bracing himself, he pulled the door open and walked into the spacious office. Atali himself was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a view of the entire city, talking to someone through his node as Vax entered.

“Honey, I know you’re nervous about starting at a new school, but I guarantee that your classmates will be nice kids who want to become friends with you. Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. Getting into Exelor Academy was the hard part; everything else should be a piece of cake. And if anyone’s mean to you? Just tell me, and I’ll take it up with the school. I’m serious!” He turned around and caught sight of Vax. “Sorry, Cathy, I have to go. Call me back later if you’re still anxious, okay? All right. Love you. See you later.”

He ended the call with a press to his ear and turned to face Vax fully. Holographic text flashed in front of his eyes, projected from the transparent augment by his temple. The morning sunlight turned his blond hair into pallid silver, matching his pale skin, as he smiled.

“Hello, Vax. You’re looking well.”

Vax wasn’t in the mood for small talk. “Who’s the target?”

Atali sighed in mock disappointment. “Always business with you.” He produced a microdrive from his pocket, which he inserted into the desk before tapping the touch screen desk surface. The windows behind him darkened and displayed a picture of a young, East Asian man with black hair and light-copper skin.

“Do you know who this is?” Atali asked.

Vax studied the picture more closely. The guy was quite good-looking—as much as Vax wished he could block that thought from his mind—but he didn’t recognize him. “No, sir.”

“That’s Zai Lumero, age twenty-five. He’s a journalist who writes for the Daily Voice, one of those independent news sites that aims to report on ‘true issues’ affecting people’s lives.” Atali spoke with the bored disdain of someone talking about an infestation of rats in a neighboring building. “He lives right in the city.”

So Vax wouldn’t be traveling this time. That was a bit disappointing, but he’d live. Journalist…what, had Lumero written something online that offended Atali? It seemed like overkill to Vax. Not that his opinion counted for anything, though.

“He’s also the son of Lin Zhao Lumero, the current head of Meridian, Inc. Though he’s been estranged from his family for a few years, due to his decision to become a justice crusader.”

“Wait, the son of Meridian’s CEO?” Vax echoed. Meridian might have been Cyrex’s biggest competitor, but he didn’t think Atali was reckless enough to order a hit against its CEO’s son.

“Yes.” Atali’s lips thinned into a displeased line. “Unfortunate that he has such a prominent connection, but it can’t be helped.”

Oh. So this wasn’t directly related to inter-corporation politics. Still… “How estranged are we talking about? This sounds like it could bring down a lot of heat.”

“Do your job correctly, and that won’t be an issue,” Atali said, his voice turning icy.

Vax flinched at his tone and dropped his gaze. “Yes, sir.”

“Ambush him in his apartment. Make it look like a home invasion gone wrong.”

That was a first…and this assignment was sounding worse by the minute. “That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

“Did I ask for your input?”

“No, sir,” Vax muttered, “but you got it anyway.”

Atali gave him a cool look. That was as much as Vax dared to push him.

“After you take care of him, take his computer, pod, anything he might’ve stored his information on, and destroy them somewhere far from his apartment, so no one can retrieve the information.”

Because Atali was genuinely afraid of what Lumero had found, or because he thought it would divert attention from the murder? In any case, Vax wasn’t being paid to care. He picked up the microdrive with Lumero’s information from the desk and slipped it into his pocket.

“How soon do you need it done?”

“By the end of the week.”

Vax tried not to look too disappointed. For a journalist with presumably minimal security, it was doable, though he would’ve liked more time. “Okay,” he said.

“So,” Atali said, in a pleasant tone now, “how have you been? Do anything fun lately?”

“No, sir.” Vax stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. He’d hoped the conversation would be strictly business; now he was stuck trying to figure out the least offensive thing to say that would allow him to exit.

“It’s been a while. We should catch up once you’ve taken care of Lumero.”

A wave of dread swept through Vax. He kept his eyes fixed on his shoes, trying to breathe through his nose, clenching his trembling hands in his pockets. No, I’m fine not catching up. Really.

He was aware of Atali slowly circling toward him, all of his senses instantly snapping alert as soon as Atali crossed an invisible threshold from close to too close. Without warning, Atali grabbed his chin and jerked it up and to the side, forcing him to meet his gaze. Vax winced at the sharp movement and the way Atali’s thumb dug into his jaw, hard enough to bruise, his skin crawling at the unwanted contact.

“You’re supposed to look at someone’s eyes when they’re talking to you.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered in a flat tone, struggling not to let his gaze slide away. He didn’t want to make things worse, even though Atali’s eyes were cold scalpels, flaying and dissecting him into pieces of pulpy flesh.

Atali held his jaw for a moment longer before releasing it. “Don’t screw this up,” he said, his voice cool and clipped with dismissal.

Vax exhaled, rubbing at where Atali had grabbed him. He could still feel the lingering pressure, like phantom fingerprints left behind on his jawbone.

“Yes, sir.” He left as quickly as he could.

Purchase

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

Meet the Author

E.S. Yu is a writer of speculative fiction and a geek who lives for video games, superhero comics, and all things sci-fi/fantasy. E.S. is a recovering law school graduate who lives off green tea and dreams of writing full-time; for now, she follows wherever her muse takes her to places sometimes dark, sometimes quirky, but always hopeful.

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Aug 18

Release Blitz: Escaping Exile by Sara Dobie Bauer (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Escaping Exile

Series: The Escape Trilogy, Book One

Author: Sara Dobie Bauer

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: August 13, 2018

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 21400

Genre: Paranormal, paranormal, historical, vampires, cannibals, gay, bisexual

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Synopsis

Andrew is a vampire from New Orleans, exiled to a tropical island in the 1800s as punishment for his human bloodlust. During a storm, a ship crashes off shore. After rescuing a sailor from the cannibals native to the land, Andrew becomes fascinated with his brilliant, beautiful new companion, Edmund.

Edmund is a British naturalist who has sailed the world seeking new species. Intrigued by creatures that might kill him, immortal Andrew is this scientist’s dream-but so is making his way back home. Edmund will fight to survive, even while wrapped in the arms of a monster.

As light touches and laughter turn to something much more passionate, the cannibals creep ever closer to Edmund. Can the ancient vampire keep his human alive long enough to escape exile and explore their newfound love, or will Andrew’s bloodlust seal his own doom?

Excerpt

Escaping Exile
Sara Dobie Bauer © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
The crack as the hull breaks echoes across the beach, into the woods, and inside my head as I try to sleep. I was just beginning to dream of New Orleans. I almost smelled whiskey and muddy streets—almost. Instead, I jolt awake, still surrounded by the fresh flowery scent of this blasted tropical island in the middle of… Well, I don’t know really. That’s the point of exile.

I pull on a worn linen shirt. For the first few months here, I slept with my clothes on in case the cannibals came knocking. They never did. I think they knew this strange white man would make a disgusting meal. As if they could smell death on me. I wonder if eating my flesh could actually kill them. Wouldn’t mind offering a bite if only for some entertainment. I haven’t watched a human die in ages, but now, here we go: a shipwreck. There’s bound to be death in abundance tonight.

It’s not raining when I step outside my house. Yes, I have a small house on a tropical island in the middle of the ocean, overrun with cannibals and all manner of man-eating beasts. Michelle wasn’t that cruel when she sent me here. She did provide me with a home. Congratulations, you heartless bitch, you gave me a house in which to spend eternity alone.

I didn’t even mean to kill that last human back home in Louisiana.

Or maybe I did.

A leathery leaf to the face brings me back to the present as I stomp in tall boots through thick foliage. Despite the lack of rain now falling on my island, a flash of lightning illuminates the beach ahead long enough for me to see them—the natives who’ve managed to steal so many meals from me.

The irony would make me crack a smile if not for my ever-growing bitterness. I once considered capturing a cannibal, but then, they might come hunting me and I’m not half as strong as I once was. And I don’t think Michelle means to leave me here forever. I must wait out her overblown sense of justice.

From where I stand, sheltered behind a fence of palms, I see remnants of a great ship washing to shore. Thunder cracks as a man screams. My focus darts toward the dancing orange light of the native’s torches, and I see but outlines of their naked bodies as they tug and pull on a creature wrapped in white fabric. I squint and identify a man in his sleeping clothes. Dinner is served.

My gaze skims the beach, but it’s mostly detritus and dead men. Dead men are no good to me as their blood is most certainly not part of my unique diet. Oh, but then, there’s a scent on the wind. There is something alive nearby, and it’s bleeding. The smell of blood mixes with the salt of the sea and bitter stress-sweat.

I hone my senses to find the source of blood, but it’s been so long. Once a master, my hunting skills are now out of practice. I take a step back into the jungle and move to my right, away from the dancing torches and the man’s screams, and almost trip over a body. Out of practice is apparently a gross understatement as he was near me this whole time.

Unlike his soon to be devoured compatriot, this man is fully clothed in a coat and trousers. His hair is dark, and he wears black gloves. He’s but a shadow on the sand as I lift him and carry him farther into the woods.

Finally, a meal they won’t steal from me.

Safely inside my little house, I lay the man on the floor and poke at the fire until it roars like the thunder outside. Now, it rains. The ocean storm falls heavy, rocks on the roof, and an animal howls nearby, woken wet from its slumber.

I peel off his soaked clothes as the wound on his head continues to bleed. Unconscious, it’s a wonder he wasn’t pulled away by the current to die in the arms of some mythical mermaid. As I look at him in the firelight, I realize he is indeed a wonder. Perhaps it’s been too long since I’ve felt another man’s skin, but perhaps not. This injured sailor might be beautiful.

Looking at his hairless face, I would have guessed him barely a man. The thick muscles of his chest, arms, and legs dictate otherwise, as do the calluses on his hands. Not only is he a full-grown man, but he’s also a man who works hard. He is lean with hair the color of the ocean on a moonless night—and if I don’t stop his head bleeding, my curse of nothing but dead flesh could continue.

“Don’t die,” I say to him. It’s the first I’ve spoken to a human in ages.

I move him, naked and dry, to my bed and cover him in blankets before wetting a cloth and wiping his wound. It’s a sizeable gash high on his forehead. The dark creature inside me wrestles at the sight of his blood, but I woo it with promises of later, later.

I hold the rag to his head and realize I have no bandages. It’s not as though I need them. I’ll just have to sit here then. I perch on the side of my bed, and my thumb touches his bottom lip. Like a sunrise, this man is becoming more beautiful by the minute. I want to ravage him. I push the blankets away enough to run my hand over his chest. An angry scrape mars the pale skin, and I bet my guest will be covered in bruises by morning. The sea is not a gentle mistress. I know. I’ve tried to escape my exile by swimming out into white waves to no avail. The crushing currents always bring me back.

A log pops in the fire as the rain continues. My house now smells of smoke, mud, and him. I climb farther into the bed and recline at his side. I still hold the cloth to his head as I wrap him in my arms and run my nose up the side of his neck.

I think Michelle would be angry to see how happy I am.

Purchase

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

Meet the Author

Sara Dobie Bauer is a bestselling author, model, and mental health / LGBTQ advocate with a creative writing degree from Ohio University. Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, she lives with her hottie husband and two precious pups in Northeast Ohio, although she’d really like to live in a Tim Burton film. She is author of the paranormal rom-com Bite Somebody series, among others sexy things.

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Aug 13

Release Blitz: In Vino Veritas by Sydney Blackburn (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  In Vino Veritas

Author: Sydney Blackburn

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: August 13, 2018

Heat Level: 2 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 33200

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, family drama, gay

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Synopsis

Anthony Beretta inherited the family winery at the tender age of twenty-four. It’s a struggle to keep it up, but he loves it and is determined to make it work even if it kills him. That is, if a motorcyclist doesn’t kill him first. He initially judges the man, attractive as he may be, on the basis of his appearance and apparently limited vocabulary. He soon discovers he’s wrong, but by then Oscar Kennett has already judged Anthony on his appearance.

Oscar thinks Tony Beretta is uptight and snobbish, and Tony’s speech for the charity they’re working on together reinforces that, even when he finds out Tony did it just to push his buttons. His adorable curls and sexy glasses might not be enough to change his mind, but maybe there’s more to Tony than meets the eye.

Excerpt

In Vino Veritas
Sydney Blackburn © 2018
All Rights Reserved

One: Beretta Estate Winery
Anthony Beretta hovered in his office, listening to his cousin Katie extol the virtues of their Concord wine.

“It’s a heritage grape,” she was saying, “the kind they make grape juice from.”

Because wine that tasted like commercial grape juice was so popular. Still, there were customers to extol its dubious virtues to, and that was something. Didn’t mean he wanted to meet them, not over the Concord.

“It makes a great spritzer and is the perfect base for a sangria,” she continued. “Not too sweet, but with a full fruity flavour.”

He had to hand it to her. She knew how to sell it. Then again, Katie loved the winery almost as much as he did.

He moved away from his office door and sat behind his desk, looking once more at the open agenda. The winery hosted events, mostly weddings, and provincial regulations had recently changed. He had an appointment with his insurance broker in Bayham in little more than an hour. Which was why he was wearing his suit, instead of the jeans, T-shirt, and heavy cotton button-down he normally wore when he worked at the tasting room. He tugged at the lavender tie that felt like it was strangling him.

After checking the time on his phone once more, Anthony cleared his desk and locked the files away. No one else needed to know how shaky the winery’s finances were. He got to his feet and patted his jacket pocket for his car keys.

There was a mirror beside the door, so one could double-check one’s appearance before going to talk to customers. Anthony gave himself a critical look, pushing his glasses up his nose automatically. The mirror showed him what he was—a rail-thin man just shy of six feet tall, with hair that would never look anything other than dishevelled and dark-framed glasses. At least the glasses went some way towards disguising the shadows under his eyes. He looked like an upended mop, albeit a well-dressed mop.

He scowled. He’d much rather be in his jeans and work boots, out with his stubborn Foch vines. Three years ago, he’d put those bastards in, after his father had the gall to die of a heart attack.

His mouth tightened. He couldn’t think of his father without a sour mix of anger, grief, and guilt.

A discordant jangling let him know the customers had left, and he pushed his door open wider just as Katie rounded the corner. “Ant,” she said, “so glad I caught you. Could you pick up some of that jalapeño sauce from the Mexican store? It really shows off the Viognier. It’s a hard sell on its own.”

He refrained from scowling. Ant was a childhood nickname he’d long outgrown. His name was Anthony. She was right about the Viognier, though.

“Jalapeño sauce. Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve thought about giving me Friday off,” she said, her tone rising at the end of the sentence, but not quite enough to make it a question.

He stifled a sigh. “And you’re not asking Leigh to switch with you because…?”

“Because it’s her wedding shower. Jesus, Ant, pull your head out of your ass once in a while.”

He ground his teeth as he bit back a sharp reply. “Fine. You have Friday off.” It wasn’t like he had anything better to do on a Friday. The tasting room closed at seven. He could catch up on the paperwork while he ate, and on Saturday, he could spend the day in the vineyard, trying to discover why the Foch vines were underproducing.

“You’re a prince,” Katie replied, but her snark had hardly any bite.

Happy employees were long-term employees, his father had always said. Katie really did care about the winery. She just had a social life. He shouldn’t be so hard on her.

And what about my happiness?

As the owner of the winery, there was no one around to see to his happiness. He didn’t even know what would make him happy anymore.

“Sorry, Katie.” He forced a smile. “Do you mind picking out a gift the estate can give her?”

“Yeah, give me a hundred dollars. It can be from the winery, you, Aunt Rosie, and me.”

“Take it from petty cash.”

“There’s no petty cash left, remember?”

He turned to hide his wince. “I’ll take some money from the account while I’m out.”

She hesitated. “The Wine and Song event will go on this year, right?”

“That’s why I’m going to town.”

“I know. It’s just… Is there anything I can do?”

His answering smile was forced. “Be careful what you volunteer for, cuz. Keep your fingers crossed the insurance hasn’t gone up too much.”

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Meet the Author

Sydney Blackburn is a binary star system. Always a voracious reader, she began to write when she couldn’t find the stories she wanted to read. She likes candlelit dinners and long walks on the beach… Oh wait, wrong profile. She’s a snarky introvert and admits to having a past full of casual sex and dubious hookups, which she uses for her stories.

She likes word play and puns and science-y things. And green curry.

Her dislikes include talking on the phone, people trying to talk to her before she’s had coffee, and filling out the “about me” fields in social media.

Besides writing, she also designs book covers for poor people.

Website | Facebook | Twitter

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Aug 13

Release Blitz: Irresistible by Andrew J. Peters (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Irresistible

Author: Andrew J. Peters

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: August 13, 2018

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 79100

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, humorous, romantic comedy, rich man/poor man, action/adventure, abduction/kidnapping, criminals, Greece

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Synopsis

Brendan Thackeray-Prentiss is an Ivy League-educated trust-funder who Gotham Magazine named the most eligible gay bachelor in New York City. He lives for finding his soulmate, but after walking in on his boyfriend of three transcendent months soaping up in the shower with an older female publicist, he’s on a steady diet of scotch, benzodiazepines, and compulsive yoga. Men are completely off the menu.

Callisthenes Panagopoulos has a problem most guys dream of. With the body and face of a European soccer heartthrob, the vigorous blond hair of a Mormon missionary, and a smile that makes traffic cops stuff their ticket books back in their utility belts, he’s irresistible to everyone. But being a constant guy-magnet comes with its discontents, like an ex-boyfriend who tried to drive his Smart car through Cal’s front door. It makes him wonder if he’s been cursed when it comes to love.

When Brendan and Cal meet, the attraction is meteoric, and they go from date to mates at the speed of time-lapse photography. But to stay together, they’ll have to overcome Cal’s jealous BFF, Romanian mobsters, hermit widowers, and a dictatorship on the brink of revolution during a dream wedding in the Greek isles that becomes a madcap odyssey.

A gay romantic comedy of errors based on Chariton’s Callirhoe, the world’s oldest extant romance novel.

Excerpt

Irresistible
Andrew J. Peters © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Brendan Thackeray-Prentiss was not interested in finding a boyfriend.

He reminded himself of this whenever he passed by an attractive young man on the Upper East Side streets, or when this or that friend took to social media to proclaim a change in their relationship status, or when he clicked through an especially earnest e-mail driving for donations to help gay couples maintain their legal status in the Deep South Bible Belt, and most of all when people asked him, “How is it possible the most eligible gay bachelor in New York City is still single?”

Brendan had made a vow, and it had received the endorsement of his therapist, Dr. Clotilde Trapp. He was taking time off from sex and dating in order to clear his head, and to renew, and to rise up from the ashes like a phoenix, if he wanted to be dramatic about it, which he truly had earned the right to be.

Thiago, a model and an erstwhile compulsory homosexual, had thoroughly shattered Brendan’s belief he knew anything about love. After three full months of practically living together—including traveling together to St. Barts for the most we-belong-together weekend ever experienced by two sexually attracted, socially, intellectually, politically and morally compatible people in the universe—the fantasy had dissolved to black and been unveiled as a waking terror when Brendan returned to his apartment one afternoon and walked in on Thiago and a fortysomething, obscenely nippled fashion publicist in the shower. Thiago’s only words— “You can join us if you want.”

Brendan was on a detox from the gays (and those who styled themselves as “gay-adjacent”) for at least thirty days. His hookup and dating media had been deactivated. His libido had been psychically stowed up in bubble wrap and locked away in storage. No flirting with the coffee shop barista when he purchased his daily macchiato. Eyes on his own business in the locker room at the tennis and racquet club. No “what-if” conversations with himself about a new guy in the neighborhood who kept the same schedule for picking up his groceries. Brendan was entirely committed to an asexual lifestyle, drawing on the same well of discipline that had seen him through his presummer purge of sugar, bread, and alcohol.

That was until he opened the tinkling bell door of The Golden Fleece Antiques and Curio Shop on Lexington Avenue, and a young man at the cashier’s desk looked up at him with the buoyancy of a hand-raised golden retriever.

“Hi!” the clerk said.

He had a preternaturally handsome face of Mediterranean origins and the vigorous, cherubic hair of a Mormon missionary. He wore a teal, graphic T-shirt, which augmented the stunning aquamarine color of his eyes. The T-shirt rode up his upper arms, which were well defined like an Olympic diver or a god of Mount Olympus for that matter. The shirt was emblazoned with a triple-scoop ice cream cone and a question: “Want a lick?”

Brendan’s mouth hung open. He couldn’t produce a word or even budge. Helpfully, the shop clerk didn’t act like he was a mentally impaired patient run free of his caretakers.

“Sorry to startle you. I guess I overdid it with the welcome. I haven’t had a customer all morning. Take a look around and don’t mind me. Or go ahead and mind me if you need any help.”

Brendan smiled, nodded, and took a stumbling step toward the nearest display of bric-a-brac.

The shop felt like a cage in which he’d been ensnared. Brendan tried to fix his attention on the chintz teacup sets and art deco tumblers, but his awareness of the clerk was too much. Was he supposed to pretend he wasn’t sharing the same space with the most deathly adorable creature he had ever seen in his entire life? Brendan’s heartbeat accelerated to the range of near cardiac arrest, and he was reasonably sure he was sweating through the armpits of his burgundy gingham shirt.

He drifted discreetly behind a shelf of African fetishes to consider his options. He could make a sprint for the door and fast-track down the street, never to step within ten blocks of the shop, praying to never run into the clerk again. The alternative was to have to face that otherworldly, beautiful man as a garbling, awestruck lunatic.

Brendan clamped down on his panic. He was twenty-eight years old, far removed from his scarring teenage years at boarding school, charting out routes through campus to avoid running into his torturous crush—Jacob Chandler, captain of the lacrosse team, who used to punch his shoulder and call him “Brendawg,” which sent him into a withering, red-faced fits of aphasia. Brendan now held his own with men. He had no reason to feel inferior. He kept his body in shape. He wasn’t too modest to acknowledge his WASPy good looks claimed attention at times. Gotham Magazine had named him the most eligible gay bachelor of 2018.

For all he knew, the clerk was one of those oblivious heterosexual types who didn’t notice when other men took an interest in them. It made no difference anyway. Brendan had sworn off sex and dating. Even if the clerk was amused or offended by his shrinking, girlish behavior, they were nothing but passing strangers.

A reasonable plan came together. Brendan would grab the first thing in reach, pay for it at the counter, and exit the store with the dignity of having conducted himself like a normal customer.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

Brendan seized up like a jailbird caught in searchlights. That friendly, innocent voice. A hint of a lazy, Upstate accent? A cool wash of awareness passed over Brendan. Was he really plotting schemes to rush out on a stranger whose shop he’d entered quite willfully? Brendan came around the shelf, holding it together for the moment.

“My grandmother’s birthday,” he said. “She collects cameos. I’ve been buying them for her since I was a kid.” Brendan tried something breezy. “I saw the name of your store and thought I might be in luck.”

The clerk set down a leather-bound book he’d been reading. “We’re Greek, but we don’t have any cameos that old. I mean, the store’s Greek. My uncle owns it. My great-uncle actually. I’m only half Greek. The other side’s Polish and German. But we do have some Victorian cameos in the cabinet.” He stood up from his chair and waved Brendan over to a glass-enclosed jewelry case.

Ornamental pins and pendants swam in Brendan’s vision. His gaze bobbed stubbornly up to the clerk on the other side of the cabinet. He was as adorable as a puppy. Barely out of college, Brendan guessed. Was he a cuddly puppy in bed? Christ. Brendan’s imagination had burst free from its hinges, and he couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances at the clerk. His pectorals filling out his T-shirt. The golden hairs on his anatomically perfect forearms. The flecks of sun on his long, broad nose. His supple, berry-brown lips. “Want a lick?” Yes, please. At the crook of the clerk’s neck, and his armpit, and his nipples, and every blessed place between his legs. A smoldering image blew up in Brendan’s mind’s eye. The clerk’s mouth opening wide to swathe his tongue around a triple-scoop ice cream cone.

“I’ll show you what we’ve got.”

Brendan buried his gaze in the floor while the clerk unlocked the cabinet. A blush seared his face. He felt like a pervert and never more happily so.

The clerk brought out a double cameo silver hair comb and two cameo brooches and set them neatly on the glass counter. Brendan awakened to the world of the antique shop. Grandmum’s birthday. Focus Brendan. He looked over the jewelry. A gold-framed brooch with a cherub carved on its oval plaque caught his eye. His grandmother had an extensive collection of ladies’ silhouettes. The cherub was special.

“I like that one too,” the clerk said, looking from the brooch to Brendan with a grin.

“It’s gorgeous,” Brendan said.

“Is your grandmother romantic?”

Brendan smirked. “I suppose. She’s been married three times.”

“It’s Eros. The god of love. That’s why I asked.”

Was there a defensive tone in the clerk’s voice? Had Brendan been too brusque? The thought of hurting his feelings shamed him. “It’s really exceptional,” he said.

“She’s lucky to have a grandson like you.”

Brendan shifted this way and that like a bashful boy.

“I mean, a lot of people, when their grandparents get old, they hardly pay any attention to them at all.” The clerk said it like he was sharing shocking news from an investigative report. So sweet and unpretentious. Brendan’s insides turned to goo.

He came back together. “Oh. My grandmother and I are very close. She practically raised me. I’m closer to her than my mother and father.”

Their glances met for a breath and then darted away.

“You know, you’re a really sweet guy,” the clerk said.

Brendan ventured a glance at him. “You barely know me.”

“I think you are. I mean, how many guys take off from work in the middle of the day to buy birthday presents for their grandmother?” The clerk tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. His face darkened, and he looked askance with a self-reproachful snigger. “I shouldn’t have said that. Probably made you uncomfortable. Never mind me. I’m always going on too much, talking to the customers.”

Brendan shook his head. “I don’t mind at all.”

“So what’ll it be? Is that the one?” he asked, giving Brendan a playful shrug of his blond eyebrows.

“Definitely.”

The clerk grinned. “I’ll get it wrapped up for you.”

Brendan followed him to the cashier counter, where he brought out tissue paper and cellophane tape. With the impending termination of their transaction, a sorrowful ache worked through Brendan. His glance pivoted around. It was only lust. In which he was not permitted to indulge. But what if the clerk was “the one” he was meant to be with? What if fate had conspired to introduce him to his soul mate while he’d marked off a blackout period in his dating life? He had to take these things into consideration.

He noticed the leather-bound journal on the counter. Lettres de Jean-Arthur Rimbaud. The clerk was reading love poems by the most notorious, iconic homosexual who had ever lived? This was encouraging.

“You like Rimbaud?” Brendan asked.

The clerk looked up from his wrapping. “Yeah. I thought I’d try to read his work in the original French this summer.”

“I minored in French literature,” Brendan blurted out.

This earned him a smile of gleaming, white teeth. “I was a classical studies major.”

“I minored in that too.” Brendan tried to explain without sounding pretentious or mentally unbalanced. “I was an English major, but I couldn’t really decide what I wanted to do. I ended up triple minoring in French lit, classical studies, and art history. With a certificate in dramaturgy.”

“That’s amazing. What do you do now?”

“Um, my family has a business. It’s not anything related to my degree.”

Purchase

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

Meet the Author

Andrew J. Peters has been writing fiction since his elementary school principal let him read excerpts from his mystery novel over the PA system during lunch period, an early brush with notoriety, which quite possibly may have been the height of his literary celebrity. Since then, he has studied to be a veterinarian, worked as a social worker for LGBTQ youth, and settled into university administration, while keeping late hours at his home computer writing stories. He is the author of eight books, including the award-winning The City of Seven Gods (2017 Best Horror/Fantasy Novel at the Silver Falchion awards) and the popular Werecat series (2016 Romance Reviews Readers’ Choice awards finalist). Andrew lives in New York City with his husband Genaro and their cat Chloë. When he’s not writing, he enjoys travelling, Broadway shows, movies, and thinking up ways to subvert heteronormative narratives.

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Aug 13

Release Blitz: ECHO Campaign by Taylor Brooke (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  ECHO Campaign

Series: Isolation, Book Two

Author: Taylor Brooke

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: August 13, 2018

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: No Romance

Length: 62700

Genre: Science Fiction, New adult, dystopia, thriller, action, captivity, clones, bi, trans, poly relationships, PTSD, pseudo-military

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Synopsis

Brooklyn Harper’s worst nightmare has become her reality. She has been captured by Isolation.

Trapped in a white-walled labyrinth by Juneau Malloy, Brooklyn is faced with the horrors of Isolation’s finest training yet. The skills she learned in Camp Eleven are put to the test during brutal assessments of her physical strength, mental sharpness, combat expertise, and emotional fortitude.

Juneau offers the renegade Omens a deal—sign a contract and hand over their freedom or endure torturous trials day after day. A test of wills surfaces, and if Brooklyn isn’t careful, her recklessness could come at a price she isn’t willing to pay.

While Brooklyn confronts her worst fears, Julian Matsumoto comes face-to-face with Isolation’s biggest secret. The unknown is at his fingertips, a plan is forming behind closed doors, and Julian must choose between a life outside the facility, or a chance to destroy the corporation who stole him and his friends from their lives once and for all.

ECHO Campaign is the second in the Isolation series.

Excerpt

ECHO Campaign
Taylor Brooke © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Brooklyn opened her eyes. Darkness pressed down on her. It weighed heavy on her chest and arms and legs, folding around her like silk. She felt sheets beneath her, fingertips twitching restlessly, stiff from hours or days or weeks of being stationary. She curled her toes and shifted back and forth on the stiff mattress. The fog began to lift. Where am I? Where are they? It came back to her little by little. The camp, the woods, the river, the warehouse, the club, then Juneau. Flashes, stills, moving pictures she struggled to remember, memories she couldn’t fit the right voices to.

She flared her nostrils and sat up, bracing for an onslaught of pain that didn’t come. Her pupils dilated. She took a breath and another, steadying her heartbeat. She lifted the edge of the plain, gray T-shirt and checked for wounds. There was nothing but smooth skin.

Porter’s thumb on her rib—her splintered bone. His hand smashed over her mouth. Helicopter wings. Engines—Rayce in a bed next to her—I’m bleeding—searing pain in her chest—a tube shoved between her ribs—Serisky. She threaded her fingers through her hair and gripped the top of her head, pulling herself into a ball.

They’d been taken. Juneau had found them.

Brooklyn’s cheeks heated and her throat clenched. She didn’t know what they’d done to her. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know where to go. She was suddenly at odds with her instincts, battling the urge to break down, to scream for help, and welcoming stillness instead.

The room smelled sterile. Like plastic, maybe. Clean. Brooklyn counted her fingers and then her toes, ran her tongue across her teeth to make sure none were missing, and kept the anxiety pooling in her gut from climbing into her throat. Now was not the time to break down. Her vision blurred. She swallowed hard and whispered, “My name is Brooklyn Harper.” One breath. “I am nineteen.” Two breaths. “I’m from San Diego.” Three breaths. “My name is Brooklyn Harper.”

Silence cradled her voice. She had never been alone like this—the kind of alone that swallowed her.

Brooklyn buried her face in the sliver of space between her knees and chest. She inhaled through her nose, deep and long, and let it out in a swift breath through her mouth.

You’re trapped. They’re gone. It’s over.

Fear played behind the rest of her thoughts. Fight or flight. Focus or panic.

“Okay,” she breathed out. “Okay.”

There was a nightstand next to the bed with perfectly round edges. She reached out and pushed it, not surprised to find it bolted to the ground. There was nothing else. She moved her legs too quickly and blood rushed into her feet. Pins and needles made her knees buckle and her shoulders ache. Her head spun when she stood, but she planted her feet, and stayed steady. You’re alive. There was nothing else. Stay alive. Just the nightstand, the bed, and a door on the other side of the small room.

Click. Click. Air through gears. Something turning. Brooklyn’s attention flicked to the white sphere humming in the far corner. She walked back and forth. It moved with her, following every step she took. A camera.

They’re watching me.

Brooklyn didn’t know what was worse; this stillness or knowing that she was being studied. It made her afraid first, angry second. She dragged her palm across the wall, feeling for any dip or seam, but there was none. No handle, no lock, and no hinges. A tiny window, shielded by a locked metal panel, allowed the outside to look in.

She shoved her index finger in her mouth and nibbled on her nail. Pacing turned to sitting, then back to pacing. Seconds turned to minutes. Or maybe they didn’t. She had no sense of time, no sense of direction. It could’ve been days. Trapped. The word kept coming back, sinking into her bones. You’re trapped. She searched for a vent. An outlet. Anything. But the camera kept humming and the darkness kept pressing on her and Brooklyn was achingly alone.

She debated screaming. Hurting herself. Clawing at the window until the glass shattered—if it could shatter at all. But before she could do anything, the sound of footsteps shuffled on the other side of the door.

Her heart lurched. She scrambled onto the bed and crouched in the corner, poised like a viper. Whatever came through that door was going to let her out or she was going through them. The room illuminated. Brooklyn squinted, fists heavy on her wrists, and held her breath.

“It’s just me.” Gabriel spoke with a warm smile. “I wanted to check on you.”

The tension in Brooklyn’s chest unraveled. Memories ran at her, climbed over her, were shoved down her throat and choked on.

Blood on Gabriel’s white teeth. Black streaks through her blonde hair. The way she tasted.

Brooklyn’s eyes stung. “You’re alive?”

“Of course I am,” Gabriel said. She took easy steps and reached for Brooklyn’s hand. “The Surrogates brought me back here and the doctors gave me a couple transplants. I’m good as new.”

“I…” Brooklyn wanted to lace their fingers, but she didn’t. “I watched you die…I watched them take you and then you came back and…”

She remembered Dawson’s voice from the motel. Look at its mouth.

Gabriel hushed her. “None of that matters, does it?”

Brooklyn’s heart pounded. Her fingertips danced across Gabriel’s face, landing sure and firm on her lips. Perfect. Unmarked. Unfamiliar. Brooklyn’s nail caught the edge of the clone’s smile and dug in. “They did a good job,” Brooklyn whispered. She traced its cheekbones, the slope of its neck. “You’re just like her.”

The smile stretched across the clone’s face evaporated. It lunged, grappling for Brooklyn’s throat. She acted on instinct and heaved both legs back, aiming the soles of her feet at the clone’s chest. Brooklyn needed to get to the door. Quickly. Now. Right now. She bolted, but the clone snatched her ankle and she went crashing to the linoleum. Brooklyn hit the floor and huffed. She cocked her knee back and smashed her heel into the clone’s nose.

The fight didn’t last long. Even if the clone was as strong or capable as an Omen, there was something missing. Brutality, maybe. Recklessness. Desperation. Brooklyn didn’t know. She didn’t care. Her throat was dry and her lashes were wet, and the clone had the greenest eyes. Blood spurted over its lips. It sank against the wall and touched its mouth, glancing at the red, red blood on its fingertips.

Curiosity was strange on things that looked like people.

She jolted forward, grabbed the clone by its jaw, and twisted until she heard the vertebrae on the base of its neck snap. The clone fell to the side; its body a long-limbed heap against the wall. Brooklyn took quick steps out of the open door and into the hallway.

On the right, a line of black-armored guards stood with their guns drawn, pointed at her chest. On the left, there was a narrow white hall lined with doors. Her gaze swept sideways, fixed on the guards. She heaved in even breaths, watching them watch her, and wondered if they were afraid.

They should be.

A nurse slid around a bulky guard. Her face was obscured by a mask, but she held a clipboard to her chest and her platinum hair was fastened into a bun. She blinked, unbothered. “Hello Miss Harper. You’re awake.”

“Where are my friends?” Brooklyn buckled her fingers into fists. The clone’s blood soured the sterile air.

“Juneau thought stress tests would be a good start to their training. Same as you. Now—” She paused to retrieve a long, thin syringe from her pocket. “—I’d rather not have to sedate you.”

A guard stepped forward. Brooklyn stood her ground. He reached for her. She grabbed his wrist and twisted, bending until bone broke. Another guard rushed toward her. She slammed her bare foot into his kneecap. Her legs seized. Brooklyn yelped and toppled to the ground. A thin black wire coiled around her ankles. The armored soldier who had thrown it walked toward her, and Brooklyn growled, snapping her teeth like a dog. The other guard held his wounded arm and stumbled to his feet.

“Do not resist,” one of them said, voice distorted behind a black shield.

The nurse cleared her throat. “Careful, gentlemen. I’d tie her wrists if I were you.” She tilted her head, sighing as she flicked her bored gaze from Brooklyn’s legs to her face, assessing her. “This would be much easier if you’d comply, Miss Harper. There’s nowhere to go. This facility was designed specifically for the Omen Operation. The quicker you come with us, the quicker you’ll see the other assets you arrived with.”

Brooklyn stared at the guard. His gun was mean and sleek, barrel pointed at her chest. He gestured to the wire around her ankles.

“He’ll remove that, and you’ll be free to walk,” the nurse added. “But if you decide to break any more bones, I’m afraid we’ll have to tranquilize you. Either way, you’ll be taken to the holding room.”

She snarled when the guard reached for her. “And that’s where my friends are?”

“I’ll give you ten seconds,” the nurse said.

Fine, she thought. I might as well walk. She nodded to the guard and he cautiously removed the wire from around her ankles. She could strangle him with it. She could take it, sweep his legs out from under him, and snatch his gun. But all it would get her was a needle in the neck.

She needed to find everyone first. Whoever was left, at least.

The nurse nodded and swept her arm out, gesturing for Brooklyn to walk down the hall. “This way.”

They led her through a set of steel doors, down another white hallway. Doors lined each wall. The ceiling was paneled with lights. Her reflection muddied the glossy floor. When they came to the second to last door on the right, the nurse stopped. A gun prodded Brooklyn’s ribs. Another brushed her shoulder. She straightened her back and waited, trying to calm her jittery hands and too-tight lungs. Breathe. The nurse flipped open a security panel, punched in a code, and Brooklyn watched a red light wave from left to right across the nurse’s eye. Retina scans. The lock clicked. Breathe.

“We’ll be back shortly,” the nurse said.

One of the guards prodded her hard with his gun and shoved her through the door.

Soft arms cushioned her. She’d fallen right into someone’s chest and she gasped, squirming against them. They held on tighter. She knew Dawson’s skin. His breath. His broad shoulders. But she squirmed anyway, thrashing in his grip.

You might not be you.

She pulled back and clawed at his neck. “Prove it,” she snapped. “Prove you’re you.”

“Fuck you, seriously?” Dawson snapped, and ripped away from her fingernails. “It’s me, Brooklyn. It’s me, same guy you punched in the warehouse—what do you want me to say?”

“Good enough,” she blurted, and wrapped her arms around him.

“I get it, they sent one into my room too, but c’mon,” he growled. “We’re here. I’m okay. You’re okay.” His mouth was warm on her throat, face buried in the crook of her shoulder. “It’s you, right? You’re okay?”

Brooklyn let him hold her. She touched his arms and his shoulder blades and cradled the back of his neck in her palm. “Yeah, it’s me, and…” Nothing was okay. “I’m fine. Are you?”

“I’m alive,” he said. He pulled back and his nose touched her temple. “Porter?” She shook her head. His blue eyes were an angry sea, crashing into her. He bit down on a wince to keep it at bay. “Julian?” She shook her head again. Dawson looked different now, harsher in this light. His hair was gone, buzzed close to his skin, paler, body more compact.

“I was alone,” she said. “I don’t… I don’t know where they are.”

He let her go and she wished he hadn’t. “I’m sure they’re fine,” he said.

Brooklyn knew a lie when she heard one.

Purchase

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

Meet the Author

Taylor Brooke (she/they) worked as a special effects makeup artist for many years before she wrote her first book. When she’s not writing, she’s exploring the Pacific Northwest, backpacking, or reading. She is the author of The Camellia Clock Cycle and writes #ownvoices Queer books about love, secrets and magic.

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Aug 06

Release Blitz: 2230: The Perfect Year by CM Corett (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  2230: The Perfect Year

Author: CM Corett

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: August 6, 2018

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 30600

Genre: Science Fiction, time travel, research lab, scientist, aliens, fated mates

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Synopsis

Alex Coulson spends his days as a lowly laboratory assistant. At night, he watches movies in his lonely apartment and dreams of exciting adventures and handsome leading men.

When an electrical fire breaks out in the lab, an experimental machine malfunctions and Alex is caught in the explosion. He awakens, injured and confused, to learn he has traveled two hundred years into the future—to the year 2230. Under the care of the gorgeous Doctor Baylin Davies (a definite contender for a leading man) Alex recovers quickly, and his feelings for Baylin deepen each day. Baylin is handsome, sexy, caring, and a verified genius—everything Alex could ever dream of. Add in the whole concept of living in the future, and Alex soon decides the year 2230 is the perfect year to begin his new life.

But then there’s the major…

Whenever the intimidating military man, Major Marcais, is near, a strange power overcomes Alex’s senses, clouding his mind and weakening his desire to be with Baylin.

When the major reveals he is an alien and declares Alex to be his life mate, Alex must find the strength to resist him. And while fighting for the man he truly desires, Alex just might discover he’s the leading man in his own adventure.

Excerpt

2230: The Perfect Year
CM Corett © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Alex Coulson’s sports shoes made a loud squawk on the polished floor. His step faltered. Had anyone heard? He scanned the cavernous office foyer. With gray marble floors and clusters of expensive couches, it looked nothing like a scientific research center and more like an exclusive hotel. An empty hotel. Of course it was empty; only the truly dedicated work on Sunday. Actually, the dedicated and people like him—sad, pathetic losers without a life. He shook his head.

Okay, Alex, quit the self-pity party. No one likes a whiner.

After another quick glance around the foyer, he strode forward and headed down the long corridor lined with identical doors. The small panes of glass in each one allowed him a glimpse inside the research labs—all empty. He appeared to be the sole, sad, pathetic person here today. At the end of the corridor, he stopped in front of the door labeled “Authorized Personnel Only.”

One wave of his security pass over the sensor and the lab door slid open. The sharp smell of smoke and plastic invaded his senses. His nose twitched. Crap! Electrical fire! No doubt about it. As the wire’s plastic coating melted, it gave off a distinct smell. He scanned the room, searching for the source, but everything appeared normal. He dashed through the main room and into the smaller lab.

Like an early morning fog, a veil of smoke hovered near the far wall, centered over the control panel. In seconds, his heart rate hit full throttle. “Crap! Crap! Crap!” The Accelerator control panel! His focus flicked to the partition wall protecting the experimental machine from prying eyes. Good. No sign of smoke there. That would be bad. Very bad. He dashed into the thickening cloud of smoke and headed toward its source.

With short, gasping breaths, he swallowed and choked on the thick acrid air. What about the fire alarm? Why hadn’t it triggered yet? He slammed his hand onto the control-panel power button and then stepped back. No shutdown. Nothing. Like ocean buoy lights viewed through the fog, the faint glow of backlit buttons and switches remained. He blinked rapidly as his tear ducts reacted to the invasive smoke, creating a torrent of tears. From beneath the watery veil, he focused on the computer screen embedded in the wall. What the hell? Why was the program running? Had he forgotten to close it the previous night? His boss would have his—

A flame erupted behind the control panel.

“Oh, God!” Coughing, he stumbled backward. What should he do? Brave the flames and try to turn off the program? Call the fire department? Fire extinguisher?

Yes! Fire extinguisher.

He spun around and grabbed the red cylinder hanging on the wall. Maybe he could put the fire out before it caused too much damage. Maybe it wouldn’t even come to the attention of management. He ripped off the safety guard thingy, pointed, and pulled the trigger. The white substance spewed out toward the flames, dousing them in a cozy blanket of white powder. “Ahhh, yes. Against all expectations, Alex Coulson saves the day!”

His boss would be pleased with him. Okay, not pleased exactly because he had most likely left the Accelerator program running, but pleased because a major fire would have brought their unauthorized work to the attention of management. “And that would be bad.”

With a few short blasts of the fire extinguisher, he completed the blanket of white over the control board. He frowned and contemplated the scene. A little more wouldn’t hurt. Better to be safe than sorry. Crouching down, he directed the nozzle under the desk and pulled the trigger. Just in case.

He stood up and surveyed the room. Okay, it could have been worse. The whole lab could have gone up in flames, destroying countless hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment. Not to mention the oh-so-secret data his boss guarded as if it held the answers to the universe. Yes, it could have been much worse.

He drew in a deep breath…and doubled over with the force of a violent coughing fit.

Crap. Smoke. Not a good idea to take deep breaths.

Fire extinguisher still in hand, he stumbled back to the main lab. His breath rasped in his throat, forcing its way past raw, inflamed flesh. At least the air in the main lab remained relatively smoke-free. In a few minutes, he would re-enter the inner lab and clean up the mess. With a bit of luck, the damage would be minimal. Maybe he could fix it himself. Clean up the fire retardant, replace a few wires, and—hey presto! Good as new with no evidence of the program he left running—no cause to fire him.

The shrieking of an alarm pierced the air, assaulting his eardrums with shrill vibrations. He closed his eyes and mouth, scrunching and squeezing his face as if trying to block the sound from entering any other orifice. A millisecond later, a deluge of water erupted from the ceiling sprinklers like an unexpected shower of summer rain. The muscles in his jaw slackened, and his mouth fell open.

Oh, crap!

Water drummed on his head and shoulders, seeping under the collar of his jacket. Mini rivers flowed across computers and desks before cascading to the shallow lake forming on the floor. The fire extinguisher hit the ground beside his foot with a waterlogged clunk.

I’m a dead man. Not to mention fired!

His shoulders slumped. Could his life get any worse?

The floor shook, sending vibrations up his legs and into his queasy stomach. Oh shit. Rule number one: never ask if it could get any worse. What the hell? An earthquake? Light exploded from the inner lab, propelling bright sparks through the doorway like tiny shooting stars. Water sloshed around his feet as he stumbled backward. The Accelerator! “Oh, shit, shit, shit!”

So. Not. Good.

A loud humming joined the vibrations. It pulsed through his body, loud enough to be heard over the sprinklers and fire alarm, shaking him to the core. Paralyzed, he stood transfixed. The inner lab glowed with a pulsating green light, matching its beat in harmony with the tremors running through the building and his body.

The vibrations were so intense he couldn’t move his legs. His head hurt and numbness crept over his face. He clutched his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Vibrating, pulsating, and humming. Could his brain explode? Would they find his gray matter splattered all over the lab and floating in the newly formed lake?

As he opened his eyes, a fresh shower of sparks shot toward him. Burning! His arm burned, stinging like the devil at a precise spot on his forearm. He slapped the sleeve of his jacket like a maniac until the pain receded to a dull ache.

Okay, time to run.

In his mind, he stumbled toward the door, but his body refused to cooperate. He looked down. His legs were—

What the hell? His body appeared pixelated and a few sections were…missing? Whoa! There was some weird, scary shit happening.

The humming intensified, sending a wave of nausea through his stomach. He couldn’t feel his legs. Were they still attached to his body? The world tipped and then faded around the edges. No, no, no! He’d seen the experiments, and he had no way to stop the Accelerator from frying him—like those rats.

So. Not. Pretty.

At least no one would miss him.

Oh, God, that’s a sad and pathetic fact.

Searing hot pain exploded in his head like a—

“Ahhhhh!”

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

Meet the Author

CM Corett is an Australian author of M/M romance who has given up on trying to limit herself to one sub-genre. She writes contemporary, historical, sci-fi, and time travel… and she may have a few paranormal drafts hidden under the bed! An avid writer and reader of love between men, she has lived in the USA and traveled the world gathering inspiration for her stories. She loves movies, superheroes, and video games with awesome graphics. She hates housework and anyone who expects her to notice (or care about) the dust on top of the fridge.

Website | Facebook | Twitter

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Aug 06

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

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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NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Kobo

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)

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

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

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.

Website | Facebook | Twitter |  Instagram | YouTube

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Aug 06

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

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…

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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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