Apr 11

New Release Blitz: From the Universe to Me by Scott E. Garrison (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  From the Universe to Me

Author: Scott E. Garrison

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 04/11/2023

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 59500

Genre: Contemporary, age gap, coming of age, college, friends to lovers, in the closet, mental illness, teaching, family drama, new adult

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Description

Eighteen-year-old Tobias Gavin is struggling to come to terms with his sexuality. For many years, the what-ifs of coming out have swirled around his head, so he has chosen to live a lie to keep from disrupting the “normal” life he has created with his family and friends.

That is until he meets Gareth David the day he enrolls for his first semester as a college student. He feels an immediate connection with Gareth…a connection that pushes Tobias to question the way he has been living his life. When Gareth coincidentally becomes, Tobias’s History professor, Tobias is forced to confront his feelings and confront the universe.

Tobias must come to terms his depression, anxiety, heartbreak, and his sexuality before he can even begin to heal his wounds. He believes that everything happens for a reason, but he learns that some experiences are meant to teach even if they cause heartbreak. Once he comes to terms with himself, he might find his knight in shining armor.

Tobias must learn to trust himself and those around him if he wants to find happiness.

Excerpt

From the Universe to Me
Scott E. Garrison © 2023
All Rights Reserved

I only graduated high school two months ago, and I’m already excited to start Ashelford University as a history major.

I’m a huge nerd and love to learn, so college has been a goal of mine and of my parents since I could form sentences. When my parents and I sat down to discuss which university would be the best fit for me, I knew that the hometown university would be a no-brainer due to funds and the proximity.

I’ve spent countless hours on campus exploring every building and classroom, including the school’s black-box theater where I performed as a chorus member in the production of Once on This Island. I pretend I’m an explorer on a new adventure every time I visit. I like to think I’m a stealthy spy, looking for a secret passage that will lead to an exciting new discovery, which I’m sure makes me seem even more nerdy, but the cherry on top of my nerdiness sundae has to be the fact I showed up for my enrollment meeting with my advisor, Dr. Helena Richards, for my freshman year a few hours early.

With my adventures for the day complete, I make my way toward the Liberal Arts Building, which towers over me like a giant about to devour its prey. As I stand on the sidewalk, my eyes climb the red-bricked exterior that seems to grow infinitely the more I stare. I feel small in its shadow. I straighten my back and confidently make my way up the front entry stairs.

My mission—should I choose to accept it—is to put together a list of classes I want to take prior to my meeting, which rests clenched in my sweaty right hand. I’ve heard so many great things about Dr. Richards, but I’m still extremely nervous to meet her in person. We have emailed since I got accepted into the university, but I still worry she might not like me because I’m an immature freshman.

As I enter the main lobby, everything looks as I remember. Everything seems to have a purpose; a reason for being placed in its seemingly permanent location. I take a deep, calming breath. This is where I will learn new, exciting life lessons that will leave me a more educated student ready for graduate school; one step closer to becoming a professor.

I’m ready to make my dreams a reality, something my parents have always encouraged.

They have such high hopes for me. My parents have always told me I could never disappoint them, but there is still that hesitation I’m sure every child has when faced with big life decisions. In the back of my mind, I wonder where those limits end. I know deep down my mother and my father are my biggest fans, but my anxiety makes me overthink every decision before acting.

Over the years, I’ve struggled to be myself around my parents, never revealing too much of myself, hiding behind masks I’ve created. I know I’m attracted to men, but I do my best to convince myself that I’m straight. I fear being different and being rejected by the people in my life. These fears feed the energy-sucking parasite formerly known as my depression. I’ve had many opportunities to reveal myself to my loved ones, but as I have done many times before, I remain silent because my fears always win.

I walk up to the front desk in the history wing where a tired-looking girl with blonde hair, wearing a white and green Ashelford University T-shirt and a black skirt, sits staring at the computer. I might think she was dead if I didn’t hear the clicking noise made by the mouse in her hand.

She has a name tag that reads Anna Pasley pinned to her shirt. She doesn’t look up at me as I approach.

“Can I help you?” she says, forcing the words out with all her strength. She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. God, I know college is difficult, but do they force all students to stay up for hours studying and testing their academic prowess? Like the Hunger Games but centered on academia.

“Excuse me. My name is Tobias Gavin. I have an appointment with Dr. Richards to discuss my schedule for my first semester.” Anna flinches in her chair when she hears me speak.

Anna looks at me with bloodshot eyes. She looks like she has accomplished the horrifying skill of sleeping with her eyes open. She has tons of books open in front of her, but I can see the game of Solitaire open on the computer screen, which explains the mouse clicking away as I walked up to the desk.

“Do you have an appointment with Dr. Richards?” she asks.

“Um, yes, I have an appointment. She asked me to be here at 2:00 PM to discuss my schedule for my first semester.” I am baffled by her inability to register my previous statement.

“You realize it’s 1:15, right?” Her questioning expression makes me feel like I’m a small, insignificant freshman starting high school all over again.

I chuckle and sport a half-assed grin, so she doesn’t realize I’m embarrassed for arriving forty-five minutes early. This isn’t how cool college kids behave. They arrive fashionably late, acting like they have zero cares in the world. This isn’t me, so I blush in response.

I’m annoyingly early to everything. My family and friends hate and love me for this quality. My friends like the fact I will always arrive early to help set up parties but hate when I’m adamant about getting to the movies an hour early to find the best seats, which you select when you buy the tickets. I’m smart, but my anxiety runs my life more than my common sense.

I glance at the screen. “You can move the Queen of Hearts to the King of Clubs to free up another space.” Who knows, maybe we will become good friends?

“She is with another student so you will have to wait,” she responds, ignoring my tip. “She won’t finish with this student for another forty-five minutes. You can wait over there on those couches.” She says turning her attention to the Solitaire game. She waves her hand with a small amount of effort in a random direction. Her lack of acknowledgement of my statement assures this is where our relationship ends and dies.

I notice red couches in the room’s corner, so I shuffle over to them and sit down. I glance around the room, wondering how many people have sat on this same couch. Where are they now? Did they attain their goals or fail miserably?

Failure isn’t an option for me. I have too many dreams I want to accomplish. I want to become a history professor. Personally, I don’t care what college I end up teaching at as long as I can fill the minds of my students with illustrious, educational information about our world’s history.

I would never admit this in public, but I have secretly aspired to be like some of the teachers that have encouraged my goals of becoming a professor.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Scott E. Garrison is a debut author, who wants to share new, queer stories with the world. He currently lives in the Oklahoma City, OK area.

Alongside writing, he has a Masters in Library and Information Studies and works as a Librarian Manager for an Oklahoma-based library system. He spends his free time reading, baking, watching movies and TV shows with his husband, and cuddling with his dogs, Jarvis and F.R.I.D.A.Y.

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Apr 04

New Release Blitz: Hope for Spring by S.E. Smyth (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Hope for Spring

Author: S.E. Smyth

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 04/04/2023

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 82100

Genre: Historical, Coming-of-age, Coming out, Criminals, Dark, Friends-to-lovers, Homelessness, Hurt/comfort, Illness/disease, Mental illness, #ownvoices, Road trip, Soulmates, Tear-jerker

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Description

Alex struggles with purpose and loneliness. In an act of desperation, betting on fate, she goes out into the streets of California looking for her friend Bob and to get lost in the world herself.

Her journey gives insight into the emotional underbelly of transient life and the unforgiving pulse of mental illness. Both things are daunting, but they are especially lethal when combined.

Excerpt

Hope for Spring
S.E. Smyth © 2023
All Rights Reserved

I wish I had left last night. I rummaged for memories, buried screaming feelings, and collapsed sleepless with anger. I hadn’t yet said thank you enough. All I can think about is how I’m so late, and I’m such a horrible person for not leaving last night. I lay awake blank, lifeless. I could’ve alleviated my frustrations by getting up and out early. It’s six thirty in the morning, and I slam the door and drop the storm door, loose in its frame, on top of the hardwood slab. I am unaware of time owing to a lack of sleep. That dicey balance surfaces. I’m somewhere between tolerable, excused unawareness and anxiety ridden fear—someone will ask me if something is wrong. Up at five forty-five, I shake myself with anger.

Last night I went to bed perplexed, unsure how to explain what Uncle Mack means to me and what he signifies. Someone needed me, someone I should have paid back. I can feel death creeping over him miles away, and I am scared to touch him while he slips into darkness. He won’t know the sincerity. I’m afraid he won’t feel my emotion. It is everything I can do to rush to get to the hospital.

Uncle Mack, a close family friend, saved my life when I barely even knew him. His short, wiry hair is a dull pile of disorder. His head is finally fully gray. Close friends would often tease him; he had a few more gray hairs than the last time they saw him. Mostly, they were referring to his past, the days of drinking and addiction that led to his downfall. Years before I met him again, before he saved my life, Mack had problems. Problems that likely caused the predicament, his hospital stay.

Maybe, I shouldn’t go right away. Maybe, this scene, this event, this wake, isn’t for me. I would decide on the way. I grasp for Sue’s exact words, and I feel for my own pulse. I listen waiting for the words to resurface. All I remember is she beckoned me to come.

It’s a long three-hour drive drawn out by slow gazes at scenery and reflective observations that take eyes off the road. The distractions pull me irritatingly off purpose. I’m trying to avoid rush hour, but traffic piles up just as it crashes into Friday night dinner plans. I mutter to myself, Traffic sucks all the time, anywhere, severely. The congestion pauses me and exhaust from the car in front of me circles. Anger rises and dwells on itself. My thoughts stick, tacky, to those feelings. My mind goes nowhere else. Traffic does this to me. The madness assaults and breaks me.

My 2004 Subaru chugs along, but ten times over, I am ready to get one off the lot. The color is Silver Stone Metallic. That’s what the internet says when I look up the practically antique model online. I bought the car used, but that doesn’t mean the hunk of junk isn’t beautiful. This car, more than a mode of transportation, retains some inherent character I get to embellish. I’m not sure the thing is worth more than five hundred dollars. The car has power windows and a leather capped shifter but only one good visor and missing back seat headrests.

The beast is the first car I bought on my own, paid for with dimes I found on the ground, hard earned paychecks, and a few dollars Mack once gave me over twenty years ago so I would get out of the house. I kept the money for several years. I feel comfortable in the car and smooth the arm rest with my hand. I realize I can’t remember a time in this car when I felt worse. My headache will not lift.

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel to a beat, even though the music isn’t on. I can’t place a copyrighted song that might fit. The radio is off because I demand concentration. For once, I’m not having an attack of consuming reflections about life with layers of loaded regret. I’m not making concrete conclusions, so I don’t remember these feelings forever. They shouldn’t appear unexpected when I’m brushing my teeth or answering the phone. That’s fine with me.

I breathe in, and there is still the issue, the reason I don’t appear alright. Uncle Mack is dying, and I don’t know how to say thank you. I need some words. TV captures death wrapped in poignancy. That’s what we come to know in absence of experience. Even though I realize this, I still want my fleeting time to be indelible. I want to capture the “in sum,” as much as the memories.

I survey coping mechanisms. I think about the wisdom of Hallmark cards, and I have nowhere to write them down. I recall traumatic death scenes like in The Hours when Richard throws himself out of the window. In my head, I search for what he might say and what I should say. Left without a perfect sentiment, I settle on revisiting our collective memories and our similar experiences. Remembering before I went to stay with him is too much. I won’t broach that time. I’m not sure how much time I’ll have with him. He’s asking for me that’s all that matters.

We had a conversation after the neighbor’s shed burned down. His “in sum,” was no one would help me be better at being a person. “You have to want to be a person among others and find fulfillment that gives you passion,” he said, as I remembered the words. “Your mind can work itself into the darkest corners, and only you can change its direction,” I heard him say. I felt like, “I’m here to talk when you need me. I’ll give you my opinion on anything and help you out, but you need to find patience in yourself to accept those things and drive yourself to be more than this.”

His collapsed face didn’t always move as expressively as mine. His skin worn by the sun and elements blushed with memories of winter sports and whipping winds. An outsider’s pain, fear, and sadness confused in equally confounding ways. The confusion grew in the skin that bent on my face. My mouth moved as I hoped for some bit of inflection to gauge his feeling.

Some pathways don’t close off. There were so many ways to lose oneself in the nooks and crannies of the mind. Those hidden spaces were familiar to me and the thoughts that occupied them festered. My rough nail ripped the scab off whole so the wound oozed and bled pooling where a band aid would not stick.

I decided that day, a long time ago, there were no more winding ways to see. There were better things for me, and I wanted those things. Alone in Uncle Mack’s spare bedroom, I waited for things to get better, and they did. True, I stared at the wall for about two hours, but I got up only to see the filtered light from the window screen dance on the pavement outside. I moved toward it and the outside.

I accepted the bipolar disorder, Type 1 diagnosis later when I heard words that made sense. They described how I felt. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t grasp to complain or explain the feelings correctly or walk the funk off. I declared myself unwell with broad boundaries. Naming the state supplied relief. Even though I’m stronger, recollection is like a poisoned apple. I jump through the mirror into unshakable relivable moments. I’m lucky the events, the incidents, are not every day.

My pace quickens as I move through the parking lot, leaving the specific bits and pieces of the past behind but holding imperative my timeliness. With intent, I step over white parking space lines, my stride stuttering or lengthening. The cold chill of the morning is appearing, pushing aside the bitter.

I poke the button on the elevator and send warm thoughts at a mother and child, holding a balloon. The inflatable bubble says, “Get Well Soon.” The kid laughs and asks for his book, with crumpling gimme-gimme fingers. With this, I know his father or the family’s friend likely lay in a hospital bed because of a broken leg or gallbladder surgery on the third floor. She fiddles with the bag, the young reader book, and the overaged child on her hip. She grins and nods acknowledgment; I am a witness. She’s happy for me to see the glowing child.

I get off, and they stay on. The woman pushes the close door button several times, realizing I’m a stranger, potentially untrustworthy, that she is behind schedule, or she wants to close the conversation of glances. It is one of these things, and I’ll never entirely know which. The giggly child turns a page in a book, waves bye-bye, and I glance harder to confirm I don’t know them from some farfetched incident.

Walking briskly, I skip checking in and ask a nurse what room he is in. “Straight down the hall on the left, room three sixteen,” she says. Nurses in this recently sanitized zone are all business. I pull in deep wafts of bleach and disinfectant looking for the line where the recent clean stopped. I imagine the nurses have no time to break the sad news or scold doctors for risky bedside manners in this close to death section of the hospital. They, doubtless, don’t let anyone in emotionally or express sympathy at feelings, so they don’t have to hold the damage for visitors while they are there. The nurses don’t want to take the frustrations with them when they go home to their own families. I thought of her like the rest, broken working on this floor, all behind cute cartoon scrubs.

Jason, an old friend from childhood, stands right by the door, a sentry. His hands are folded in front of him, and he bows his head. I hadn’t called him in over a year. It’s so sad that Uncle Mack’s death brought us together. Jason is my root, and I will never forget that.

“Hi, Alex,” Sue says. Dropping my coat on the door hook, I move in screeching my rubber soles as I slow myself down. Holding onto the door hook, I place my jacket on the U-shaped silver and steady my hands. There’s only one set of two hooks. Everyone else crosses their coats across their laps or sits on them in odd chairs temporarily assigned to this room. “He’s just sitting up. He’s taking meds for the pain. He will get distracted easily, but he knows everyone.”

Sue and Mack got married about six years ago, and they are the perfect couple as far as I know. They get along like milk and cake. Their lives seem absent of bickering, and they stare lingering into eyes, heads tilting up, when they are irritated. They duck away to whatever alcove or cubby if they disagree so as not to upset anyone, and this amazes me. I go over to him and perch on the raised vent. The big metal rectangular box collects air before entering the room. The breeze sticks in the corner of my eyes as I look at Mack. Whoever painted the box did a sloppy job, or the paint didn’t adhere smoothly to the particular surface. It’s hard to tell which. The air breathes at my back and pushes my shirt against and away from my skin.

I’m letting breaths out with him, inhaling deep with long exhales out. The air is a medication I am lucky enough to share. I see myself old with short gray hair, which is tight against my head. The style is short not because I’m old and don’t want to take care of my hair, but because I have grown into the appearance. With all the years cut off, I can finally be bound to one day. My skin gaps and gathers with splintering lines forming in all directions. The folds wrinkle at the kinks and work toward leather just as his. Family and friends are around me, as they’re around Uncle Mack, and I see so many friends care. I sigh in response to seeing myself old, somehow, in the rounded silver arch bedframe above his hospital bed, a casket, and I know it’s true. I will be old.

A small cat crosses the room, an orange tiger. Everyone is looking at the tiny creature and me with tight corner curling smiles. I don’t see the full extent of the humor right at this moment. Sue says the nurses let them bring their cat. Death is near. Mack grows a baby grin, and that is all anyone needs.

“Ah, hi.” I say, “Sue said you’re refusing treatment.” I’m glad I arrived soon enough; all the worrying made this moment so much more important. I don’t know what else to say. I gather his hand and hold it while bending at the waist, reaching in from my window seat. His skin is frail. I am afraid to rub. His hand doesn’t respond to my weight, and I am terrified to squeeze. If I leave the limp appendage there, the whole hand will inevitably fall off him and onto the floor, cold. Here I am, trying to push the emotions I always have into him, so he remembers the feeling of me. I want to embed the summary of it all like a tattoo. My mind plays a trick on me as a younger Uncle Mack appeared next to his favorite oversized chair, the gray in his hair and beard not quite as rampant as it is now. His face is still plump and full, unlike the sallow and shrunken visage that lay in his bed. That was where he was comfortable and was where he would be if he had a say in the matter. I try to give feeling to him, as I imagine his body in his favorite chair.

“Aww. You know. If I go home, I’ll be back the next day. And, if I have to come in here one more day to sit for five hours, I’m gonna shoot myself in the temple. I’m glad you came. I just wanted to see you…” he says. He gazes off and thinks. He has a weak smirk and weeps with the corner of his eyes, but there are no tears. “One other thing though. I’d ask Sue to do it, but I think the words are better coming from you. Sue will give you her address. I want you to go see my daughter. Just tell her I love her.”

Uncle Mack’s daughter left when he fell off the wagon, thirty feet straight down. I think it is unforgivable what happened, but I don’t pry much. He’s been sober over twenty years now. She isn’t here though, and I feel the room. The white walls are as cold, as sterile, and everyone is crying behind smiles. I’m stealing all the heat. I can explain how he’s been there for me or how he’s been there for so many friends. She needs to know he is one of the most generous and caring men I know. Yes, I’ll say that.

Uncle Mack is the person who helped me stand the way others do, overcompensating for a crooked spine, pacing in comfortable shoes. Every solitary being has a person, although I didn’t believe the quip at the time. There was a presence in his life who did the same for him. I know his daughter must also have a friend when she needs someone to talk to, picket fence, and the essential dependent family unit.

“Mack, if she knew you. If she even knew half of the matter. She’d be here. She’d be so proud of you. I’m so proud of you. I know what you’ve done for so many people,” I say. I didn’t need to give him a passionate farewell, only I would remember. I begged a mere response. I want to make his daughter feel guilty for abandoning him, but also share his love.

Uncle Mack is the person you would say must be the best parent ever. That fact his daughter was estranged was inconsequent. His daughter did a military turn and marched away. She did not return. She is so confident in her stubbornness I don’t know if they even called her to come to the hospital. That was the first selfish thing, and it was what his close loved ones did for him.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

S.E. Smyth is a versatile author putting words into the world. The stories she tells are never exactly how they happened. Elusive as she proclaims she is, you can usually find her nose buried in primary sources plotting a story. Despite persisting historical references, she wholeheartedly believes she lives in the present.

She resides in a smaller sort of town in Pennsylvania, carries heavy things for her wife, rubs cat bellies, and can often be seen taking brisk walks. The household is certain there is something odd going on. She and her wife travel when the air is right looking for antique stores, bike trails, and the perfect beach. S.E. rises unnecessarily early and usually falls asleep by 9 p.m.

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Apr 04

New Release Blitz: Bad Crowd by Chloe B. Young (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Bad Crowd

Series: Bad Crowd, Book One

Author: Chloe B. Young

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 04/04/2023

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 80900

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, gay, romance, BDSM, clubs, new submissive/experienced Dom, age difference, sex toys, bondage, pain tolerance, family issues

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Description

Sometimes, safety and danger can be the same person.

Gideon Orchard has enough baggage to fill a cargo ship. Two years ago, he left his abusive family, but the urges he’s always tried to suppress won’t be ignored any longer. Desperate to submit, he stumbles into a notorious fetish club…and right into the lap of its captivating manager.

Mal Brannon can’t believe his luck when sweet, scared, and determined Gideon falls into his arms, completely uneducated in BDSM culture and begging for proper instruction. Their romance intensifies more quickly than either of them expects, but an unsavory figure from Mal’s past threatens their relationship and their lives.

Running from the past may be tough, but escaping with their future will be harder.

Excerpt

Bad Crowd
Chloe B. Young © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Pink light dripped over the speckled sidewalk like a tongue, alive and coiling with the flickering of the sign. Gideon Orchard’s eyes had the letters burned into them, but he couldn’t look away, despite having read them every day for the past year.

They were brighter on this side of the street. The lurid neon tubes were weeping. Salivating.

He shivered, his skin buzzing. And buzzing again. And again—

“Hello?” The phone was cold against his ear, soothing the strange evening heat of the desert. “Evan?”

“Yeah, hi, sorry. We can’t come. Beth got too drunk, and she yacked everywhere.”

“Oh. That’s fine. Is she okay?”

On the other end of the line, something rubbed over the microphone, and then Gideon heard a pitiful moan and a hacking cough.

“Yeeeeeah, she’ll be good. She just has to sleep it off. Have a good time, though!”

Terror ripped through him. “No, I can’t—”

“Bye!”

The beep in his ear signaled Evan’s exit, leaving Gideon alone on a street that wasn’t quite abandoned. At the traffic light, someone got off the bus Gideon took to and from work every day. They disappeared around the corner before he could think to hide in shame.

Gideon squeezed his eyes shut, his phone biting into his hand. That pain he could handle. It was familiar, useful for clearing his head. The ache in his chest was harder to shake.

Tonight was supposed to be fun. The culmination of weeks of teasing after he’d mentioned this place—Bad Co.—in passing in the lunchroom. His palms got sweaty when he remembered their mirth at his naivete.

“A bar,” Beth had crowed. “How cute are you?”

Beth and Evan were supposed to be here with him, laughing together like they always did, not letting Gideon in on the joke. He still wasn’t sure they’d ever intended to come here with him. He’d replay the sound of Beth’s retching in his head later, trying to discern if it was real or if they’d purposefully abandoned him outside a den of sin.

The light up at the intersection changed, and a little car with wings on the back buzzed past, buffeting Gideon with warm wind even as he reeled from the return of old habits.

There were no dens of sin. And if there were, they wouldn’t be located ten minutes from Gideon’s apartment, on a not-quite main street in Tucson.

Someone laughed, high-pitched and attention-seeking. Gideon turned around, stumbling over his feet in his haste not to be standing outside a place like that.

It was only when the laugh echoed away that Gideon stopped himself.

This couldn’t go on. The wondering. For months, it had built up in his gut every time he walked past, ever since Beth had told him it wasn’t a “normal” bar, but a place for freaks and perverts. On the way here, he’d stopped a dozen times and nearly turned around.

The sign was different in this light. Usually, it was off when he went by or dimmed by the morning light when he came home from the night shift.

He’d turned around to face it, he realized, without noticing. A moth to a lantern.

He couldn’t go on like this. Maybe—hopefully—it would be awful, and he wouldn’t get the release he worried he’d find, but at least he’d know.

The door swung open smoothly, then fell heavily behind him as he walked into a wall of sound. His eyes, sore from staring at the sign, watered at the change in light. There was none now that the haze of pink was gone, only a dim purple glow that grew brighter the longer he blinked.

“Good evening.”

A shape materialized from the darkness, and he almost went right back out the door he’d come in. But he stopped himself at the last moment, standing straight and unmoving except for the shaking of his tightly clenched fists.

Idle hands, his mother’s voice hissed in his ear. Two years out of her reach, and he still couldn’t break the habit of keeping them still. He’d considered trying, just to prove he could, but the risk was too great that he’d become addicted to the ridges of his scars passing under his fingertips. No. His hands would stay still at his sides as long as he could stand it.

“Hello,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

The bouncer’s voice rumbled through the blackness. “One?”

“Please.”

Their clothing matched. Gideon had to suppress a manic laugh as he yanked some bills out of his wallet. Their black T-shirts and jeans could have been purchased from the same store, if in very different sizes.

That was where the similarities ended.

Tall and short, dark skin and light, short-buzzed and stubbornly wavy hair, they were as different as they could be, but they’d both ended up here.

Probably for very different reasons.

“Through there,” the bouncer said, handing back a few bills.

Gideon would count them later when he could see the number and had time to worry about his budget. For now, he was too busy worrying about where there would lead him.

A curtain separated the dark-walled, boxy front area he’d been in, and the source of the purple light emanated from behind it.

Sumptuous was the word that first came to mind when he drew the drape back, revealing a foyer that belonged in a mansion, but an abandoned one without the warmth of a crackling fire in the next room.

Sinful was the next, but he swept it away, leaving it—and the person he’d been before this very moment—on the other side of the curtain.

The music was clearer here but still too loud and throbbing to be distinct.

Two women stood by a long, elegant bureau, a study in contrasts just like Gideon and the door man.

One was tall and rail thin, dressed for an office job. Splotches of blue and pink from the lights bounced off her dark, smooth cheekbones.

The other woman…

She was exactly what Gideon had pictured when Beth and Evan had described the place in detail, thinking to shock and educate the naive country boy. This woman was small, and she wore next to nothing except strips of black and so many spikes.

His tongue was thick in his mouth, and he nearly choked on it when those spikes glinted as she glided toward him.

“Hello,” she purred. “First time?”

Only the courtesy beaten into him allowed him to answer. “Yes.”

“Fun! What are you here for? It’s an open play night. No formal demos, just free reign on the floor equipment. The private rooms are all booked, but you can always hang around and see if someone wants to invite you in.”

Her lips glistened as if freshly moistened with something unspeakable, pursing as she waited for an answer he couldn’t give.

A clipboard appeared in her hand from somewhere, the edge flashing sharper than the shards of metal on her shoulders, and she tapped it with the daggers of her fingers. “So? It’s a bit of a maze back there, so I should really show you where you’re going. What are you looking for?”

“I need—”

His throat closed up, keeping the secrets inside. They were comfortable there, had made a home for themselves in a lonely, sunless part of his soul. Buried too deep, even here, where the promise of warmed skin and aching release was so close.

Need was too soft a word for how he yearned.

“I’ve got this one.”

It was the other woman, the tall one in a slim pencil skirt that wouldn’t look out of place at the old church. It fell obediently over her knees as she crossed the space.

“Whatever you say, Lenore.” The spiked woman went back to her clipboard.

“Welcome,” Lenore greeted him, coming to a stop milliseconds before Gideon would have backed up out of her reaching presence. From an invisible pocket in her blazer, she pulled three slim bands. “Which one do you want?”

He stared at them, draped over her hand innocuously. They all looked the same to him, except for their bright colors. He looked and looked, trying to interpret the right answer from her silent insistence, but had to admit, “I don’t know.”

She nodded as if he’d passed some kind of test he hadn’t studied for. “They let other people know what you’re looking for. Like a stoplight, see?” She flattened them out on her palm, pointing at each one. “Green, if you want to play. Yellow, if you’re not sure but wouldn’t mind being asked. Red, if you’re not interested in playing.”

He searched her face for humor, a joke he was missing to explain the repeated use of the word “play.” The spiky woman had used it too.

He’d seen pictures. He’d never been able to make himself read the words that went along with them—typing in keywords letter by letter had been hard enough with shaking hands—but nothing he’d ever seen was close to “playing.”

“Plaything,” maybe. A toy to be used and discarded. Not fun for anyone other than the capricious player. Something to be endured.

Dreadful want shuddered down his back, and he used its momentum to take the green bracelet from Lenore’s hand. He’d come this far. He wasn’t leaving until he’d been cleansed of the demons that kept him up at night.

Lenore watched him struggle with the piece of plastic for a few moments before seeming to take pity on him and fastening it around his wrist while he held still like a child.

“You can change your mind.”

Gideon’s fingers, already still and silent on the edge of the plastic, went tense. He looked to Lenore, who’d tilted her head, studying him.

“At any time, if you’d like a different wristband,” she said. “Just ask someone with a name tag.”

Surprise made his eyebrows furrow. It sounded so…clinical. He hadn’t expected the shadowy world he was entering to have name tags. It didn’t matter. They could dress it up, but this was still a place of sordid pleasure and pain inflicted on those who couldn’t stop craving it.

Lenore’s heels clicked as she stepped away, leaving room for her next question. “Are you ready?”

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Writing is just one of the many ways Chloe gets her storytelling fix. In her other life, she sings and acts to fulfil the urge, and is never far from a stage.

When not writing, Chloe cooks with too much garlic, sharpens her eyeliner to a deadly point, and tries to accept that she’s turning into one of those people who only wears one color. (Pink.)

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Apr 03

Audio Release Blitz ~ Out In The Surf by Lane Hayes (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Out in the Surf

Series: Out in College, Book 10

Author: Lane Hayes

Narrator: Michael Dean

Publisher: Lane Hayes

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 4 hrs and 8 mins

Genre: Romance, Contemporary MM Romance, Sports Romance, Bisexual, College Romance

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Synopsis

The hockey player, the surfer, and a lesson neither can forget…

Luca-

I love the beach, and I’m a good athlete. Learning how to surf should be a breeze, right?

Wrong.

In a twist, hockey is nothing like surfing. That’s okay—I just need a diversion to round out my new life in So Cal while I figure out what comes next. As long as I keep my head above water, this could be fun.

Bonus…my instructor is hot.

Cal-

Teaching newbies to surf is easy money. Usually. My newest student is a wild card who seems to think his jock status should make him a natural at everything he tries, and I can see why. Luca is…special. He’s dynamic, energetic, and fun. It’s hard not to like him. But I like him a little too much.

This could be trouble.

Out in the Surf is a low-angst MM romance, bisexual-awakening story. When the teacher becomes the student, it may be time to come out in the surf.

Excerpt

I held out my hand, smirking when he stared at it suspiciously.

“Thanks.”

He pressed his palm against mine, shook my hand, and released it. No big deal, right?

Wrong.

My fingers tingled and my heart rate soared to the stratosphere. I played it cool, though. I hooked my thumbs in my belt loops, casually glanced up at the street sign before asking, “So…when do you want to schedule your next lesson?”

Luca barked a laugh. “I’m not doing that again. That was single-handedly the most traumatic thing that’s happened to me since I moved to Cali. A clear sign I should stay closer to shore and away from surfboards.”

“No, no, no. You’ve got that wrong,” I cajoled. “It’s like I tried to tell you…you’ve got to get back on that horse. Or surfboard. Don’t let fear win.”

“I’m not afraid of surfing. It’s more a matter of returning to the scene of the crime.”

“What crime?”

“The kissing crime!” He threw his hands in the air and paced a few feet away.

I pursed my lips to keep my smile in check when he came to a stop in front of me. “Are you going to do it again?”

Luca shrugged. “I didn’t intend to do it the first time around. But what if I accidentally stick my tongue down your throat? Don’t look at me like that. It could happen.”

“I’m willing to take a chance.” I chuckled. “How about Monday?”

He screwed his features into wide-eyed disbelief. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I can’t. School started last week and I can’t be late…yet.”

“Wise choice.” I stepped away from the crosswalk to lean against the building’s façade. “Okay, if you have any open mornings, we’ll make it work. Otherwise, I’ll make time for you on the weekend. Early.”

Luca furrowed his brow. “If I hypothetically agreed, what is ‘early’ to you?”

“Seven a.m.”

“Fuck that.” He snorted with a laugh. “I need my beauty sleep.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to assure him that he didn’t, but that was a strange sentiment coming from another guy. Wasn’t it?

“Early bird gets the worm and all that,” I singsonged.

“Hmph. I’ll think about it…someday.”

“Sounds fair. Gimme your phone number.” I handed over my cell and let him add his contact info. “I’m free tomorrow morning…just sayin’.”

I was teasing. I was more interested in coaxing an incredulous reaction than anything. And Luca didn’t disappoint. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head in mock consternation.

“You’re nuts. Certifiable. I wouldn’t want to hang out with hungover me if I were you.”

“I’ve seen you barf. Does it get worse?”

He opened his mouth and closed it. “Wow, I really was a mess that day.”

“You weren’t that bad,” I chided playfully.

“Liar,” Luca scoffed. “All right. Call me or text me. We’ll have a redo and next time, I promise not to kiss you.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” I replied, unthinking.

We both froze.

I wasn’t sure who was more surprised. My jaw unhinged while he cocked his head and really looked at me for the first time that night, his eyes roaming my face as if searching for clues.

“So kissing might be okay,” he hummed, narrowing his eyes.

I felt his gaze like a physical touch. It had never occurred to me to wonder how another man saw me, but I had to admit, the flash of naked desire in his expression did something for me.

This was a new one. Luca was gay, or maybe bi. Either way, he was plainly interested in me…and I didn’t hate it. In fact, my jeans hugged my crotch a little too tightly, which meant my body appreciated his interest and maybe shared it. And that was pretty…gay.

Was I okay with that?

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Meet the Author

Lane Hayes loves a good romance! An avid reader from an early age, she has always been drawn to well-told love story with beautifully written characters. Her debut novel was a 2013 Rainbow Award finalist and subsequent books have received Honorable Mentions, and were winners in the 2016, 2017, 2018-2019, 2020-2021 Rainbow Awards. She loves wine, chocolate and travel (in no particular order). Lane lives in Southern California with her amazing husband and her fabulous pup, George.

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Mar 28

New Release Blitz: Killing Nightmares by Reis Asher (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Killing Nightmares

Series: Killing Games, Book Two

Author: Reis Asher

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 03/28/2023

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: M/NB

Length: 51700

Genre: Science Fiction, horror, alternate universe, dystopia, action/adventure, bisexual, transmasculine, nonbinary, civil war

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Description

It’s been four years since the Killing Game turned Reis and Edgar’s lives upside-down. Believing the past to be behind them, they’ve tried to move on with their lives. Edgar has returned to freelance computer programming, while Reis is training to become a Bureau agent. Emily is about to marry, and Reis’s biggest concern is what to wear to the wedding as they navigate the rocky seas of their gender identity.

The peace they won is soon cast into doubt as Tony Anvas is released from prison. Shortly after, Edgar and Reis are thrust into a conspiracy more deadly and dangerous than the Killing Game when Anvas stages a coup d’etat, forcibly severing the Twin City-States in a bloody and brutal attack.

It’s once again up to Reis and Edgar to save the day, but Edgar is still suffering the after-effects of trauma and Reis is trying to determine whether to go ahead with medical transition. Can they outwit Anvas’s machinations once again and emerge whole—and if so, what will it cost them?

Excerpt

Killing Nightmares
Reis Asher © 2023
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
EDGAR

Edgar jolted awake, gasping for breath. It took him too long to realize he was at home, in the safety of his bed. Reis slept on beside him, their breathing shallow and even despite the stifling summer humidity.

He threw the sheets off and set his feet down on the floor, putting his weight on them slowly so he didn’t jolt the mattress. He knew where every floorboard in their home creaked and measured his steps carefully, tiptoeing around the problem spots like a ballet dancer. The ritual set his mind at ease a little as he cleared the bedroom without Reis so much as stirring. From there, it was a simple matter of padding across the hallway to the bathroom, where the cold tile floor against his feet helped him to shake off sleep as he emptied his bladder into the toilet and flushed.

He peeked out from the bathroom and heard a gentle snore from the direction of the bedroom. Reis slept on, oblivious to the fact that Edgar was awake at two in the morning again, having been torn from a fitful sleep by the nightmares that haunted him.

The terrors of his subconscious along with lack of sleep had come close to driving Edgar over the edge. He wiped the sweat from his brow and started the long journey down the stairs, grateful for the thick carpet they’d installed as it muffled his footfalls. The open-plan living room gave way to a massive kitchen they rarely seemed to use any more. Reis could cook, but they seemed less inclined since they’d started working at the Bureau. Reis often came home late and rose early. Sometimes he and Edgar would go without seeing each other for days. It was a far cry from the way they’d met, stuck with each other for weeks as they fled the people who wanted Edgar dead.

Edgar poured himself a glass of water. He thought about coffee; he could get some work done on the computer if he started early. The best thing about running a freelance business was he could work whenever he felt like it, sociable hours be damned. It was surprising how many clients seemed to respond at odd hours, and Edgar wondered if they couldn’t sleep either.

Maybe he should go back to his therapist. Reis would support him; they’d both spent a good amount of time in therapy, both together and individually, after the Killing Game they’d suffered through four years ago. Edgar had talked at length about everything bothering him—how he didn’t feel safe leaving the house, how he was becoming a hermit, the nightmares and night terrors. But there was one thing he’d never opened up about because he feared the repercussions, and the suppressed secret slowly crushed him now, bearing down on him like the weight of a skyscraper.

Every night he pulled the trigger on Ash. He watched Ash’s chest explode in a shower of blood and bones, and that was something he could never talk about. Not even to Reis. Especially not to Reis. Reis was a natural born killer—a soldier at heart, even if they’d chosen to use that talent to protect others. Edgar was a lover. Reis could separate and cut that part of themself off, but Edgar couldn’t. His brain traced patterns in moments of downtime, wondering how the world’s destiny had been irrevocably altered without Ash in its timeline. Like a line of code that had been deleted, Ash was gone, forever. He’d ceased to exist.

Ash was viral code, Edgar tried to reassure himself. He’d been involved in a terrorist attack that had cost a dozen or more lives. Ash had tried to kill him, in addition to burning down Reis’s apartment, destroying the last connection they had to their mother—the piano she’d bought for them. Ash had been about to murder Reis—and he wouldn’t have hesitated like they had. Edgar had been left with no choice but to pull the trigger and do what Reis had been unable to.

Maybe it would have been easier if Reis had hated Edgar for it, but their attitude seemed to have been largely one of resignation, despite Ash being their former lover. Their relationship had been abusive, Reis had admitted, seeming more relieved than heartbroken at his death. Ash had chosen his dark path not because of belief in a cause, but as an agent of chaos, determined to cause harm to a world that had hurt him so. All of that was true, but still—

Edgar had put the bullet that had ended him in Ash’s chest. He’d taken a life, even if it was for the purpose of saving one.

He decided against coffee, noting the tremor in his hands as he placed his empty water glass in the sink. He browsed the fridge for a snack to distract him, but it was a buffet of out-of-date salad vegetables and moldy leftovers. Reis never touched the fridge since they’d been introduced to the joys of Bureau catering. Edgar contemplated emptying it all into the trash, but a shard of resentment lodged itself in his heart and he closed the door, wondering why it was his job and not Reis’s. He worked full-time too, even if his career didn’t take him out of the house. He took on the lion’s share of the chores as it was. No, Reis could clean the damn fridge. He was sick of doing everything, damn it.

He slumped into his computer chair and let out a long sigh. No, his frustration wasn’t about the fridge. None of their little spats lately had been about the minor nuisances they purported to be. They were the manifestation of Edgar’s festering agony vented out into their shared living space, poison leaving his body by the fastest available route. He hated that this unresolved fragment of history had lodged itself in his heart and was ruining his present. He wanted to spill the beans and tell Reis what was bothering him, but something held him back. What if Reis dismissed his nightmares as irrational? Reis had killed more than once: they’d slaughtered a squad of highly trained mercenaries trying to protect him. What did Edgar have to complain about, really? If Reis could handle that, why couldn’t Edgar handle putting one bullet in one of the most despicable human beings he’d ever come across?

Edgar eyed the gun cabinet where Reis’s sniper rifle sat, locked away. He would have sold the gun if he’d had the option, but it wasn’t his to dispose of. It was Elias Torell’s rifle, the gun that had ended a war and started Unification. It was Reis’s last link to their father, and despite the fact his reputation had become rather tarnished in Reis’s eyes, they weren’t likely to get rid of it to silence Edgar’s demons.

Besides, without that gun, Reis would be dead. Edgar knew it and reminded himself of it daily. He’d done what he needed to do. He’d taken the shot to save Reis’s life, and he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, even as he tormented himself with it. Reis was safe and alive. Working toward their dreams, instead of lying in a coffin six feet under the earth. Given the choice between Reis and Ash, of course he chose Reis, every single time. But he was still a killer, and it was something he couldn’t reconcile with, even now, four years after the fact. His fathers had been singers. He was a programmer. He came from a long history of makers and lovers, of creative people who brought wonders into the world, not took them away. He glanced over at the mirror set into the back of the living room door and wondered if his eyes gave away the fact he’d destroyed a life.

He opened the locked drawer in his computer desk and took out a tiny box. He opened it. A flat, silver band with the sigils of Anver and Kasyova—the snake and the braid—entwined upon its surface sat cushioned against blue velvet. The engagement ring had sat in his drawer for a year now, waiting for the right time, but that time seemed further away than ever, now. They were becoming strangers, torn apart by the tides. Edgar had to fight the urge to wake Reis right now and get down on one knee.

No, he wasn’t fool enough to think marriage would make all their woes go away. They were enduring a test and cheating on it would only come back to bite them in the long run. He’d hoped Emily Vos’s upcoming wedding would give him the moment he needed, but the timing was all wrong with Ash’s specter looming over his shoulder.

Edgar closed the box, put it away, and locked the drawer. Part of him wanted to lose the key, to give up, to stop coming down here in the early hours and tormenting himself with things that had already happened and things that might never come to pass.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Reis Asher (he/him) is a transmasculine author living in rural Pennsylvania with his husband and four cats. He loves video games, reading, technology, and of course, writing.

He enjoys shining a spotlight on queer characters and their adventures in a diverse range of worlds, from the fantastical to the everyday.

Catch him on Twitter where he’s happy to interact. You can find Reis on Twitter.

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Mar 25

Book Blitz: Second Chance Omegas by Will Okati (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Second Chance Omegas

Author: Will Okati

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: March 24

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 394 pages

Genre: Romance, New Adult, Action Adventure, Paranormal Romance, Urban Fantasy, Gay, Second Chances, Sex/Gender Shifters & MPreg

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Synopsis

Second Chance — a small town where anything can happen — and it usually does.

Only You: Once upon a time a teenaged Alpha fell in love with a pretty Omega from the wrong side of the tracks. Zachary was everything Alex wanted — sweet, sassy, and sexy as hell. Alex would have married that boy if Zachary hadn’t run. When the secrets they’ve been keeping come to light, will they shatter their bond for keeps, or bring them together in a forever kind of love?

Yes, You Are: Everyone assumed petite Darian would be an Omega, and big, athletic Coby would be an Alpha. When they met as teenagers, they had no reason to doubt that was who they’d be. But everyone was wrong. Opposites attract like lightning and steel rods when they meet again in Second Chance, but do they have what it takes to overcome the unexpected for the long haul?

Come for You: Gabriel, a dreamer and a librarian, is so shy and introverted that he’s still a virgin Omega at twenty-five — but he can’t help wishing for a fairy-tale Prince Charming. Meet captivating quarryman Alpha Wynn. For them, it’s love at first sight. But the happy ending is harder to come by. Who will rescue who?

Take You There: Ethan teaches music at the university. He’s not looking for Mr. Right, just Mr. Right Now. A quick, dirty alley encounter should have satisfied him. But now Ethan can’t get Blue out of his mind. The smoldering musician who caught Blue’s eye and what they did in the alley, should have been enough. Until Ethan finds him. And then, everything changes. Again.

Excerpt

Copyright ©2023 Will Okati
Excerpt from Only You

“Coffee, sir?”

“As much of it as you can fit in a cup. No cream but double the sugar. Please.”

The train attendant shook his head, but with a smile and a finger briefly pressed to his lips as he passed over not one but two Styrofoam cups filled to the brim. He was an Omega too, in his mid-thirties by the look of him, and he wore a black jet widower’s ring instead of a wedding band. Things weren’t much easier for the widowed than the unmated or separated. He understood.

Zach took a grateful gulp, not caring that the coffee was hot enough to scald his throat, and asked, “How far behind schedule are we?” Stretching his legs at the next station would do him good; they ached when he stayed still for too long.

“About half an hour, at this point.”

Wishing wouldn’t make the wheels turn faster, but with nothing to look at outside in the dark, Zach adjusted his position so he could get a better view of the passengers in his car. Like most Omegas, he wasn’t very tall. Some new folks had gotten on and others disembarked while he’d dozed, and he liked wondering what their stories were. Two young Alphas who acted like frat bros; interesting, they weren’t the usual size for Alphas, but small and compact and they weren’t at each other’s throats but laughed and joked like best friends. A couple that had to be recently married from the way they could barely resist climbing all over each other; an Omega with a contented smile, probably on his way back home, and —

Oh.

Oh, God.

Zach’s heart jumped into his throat and wedged stuck there even around the burn of his beverage. Three rows ahead, dark wheat-blond hair and a profile almost as familiar as his own turned to smile at the attendant as he refused their offer of coffee. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t be, he hadn’t seen that profile since he was eighteen, but —
He’d changed — well, he’d grown up, the way everyone did, the bones of his face maturing from soft boyish cuteness to strong, masculine definition. A short beard, trimmed and shaped, that suited his strong, stubborn jaw. The kind of casual suit that would have cost the equivalent of a month’s rent in Manhattan. Elegant hands with sturdy knuckles and deft fingers, and a smile that lit up the train.

He did and didn’t look a thing like the boy Zach remembered but it was, it was, it was him.

Alex.

Zach would have known him anywhere, even if he’d shaved his head and started scowling instead of smiling. If he closed his eyes, he could feel those hands on the bare skin of memory. After all, you never forgot your first.

“I love you. And I know you love me too.”

He should stop staring. Alex would sense it any second now, and he might look around, and —

His gaze drifted back up, drawn like a moth to a flame.

Alex. Oh, Alex.

Zach’s body twitched with the first pangs of arousal, wanting what he’d had once upon a time. He remembered it all, and he remembered it perfectly. He dreamed about it, when he slept. The taste of Alex’s skin, the softness and hardness of his mouth and how his eagerness had nearly rubbed the insides of Zach’s thighs raw. The fullness, almost too much and too tight, when he slid inside Zach.

“I love you. And I know you love me too.”

Anger slowly took alarm and unhappiness’s place – anger, and frustration with himself. Zach should have sensed this train was to be avoided. Dodged. Something! And Alex, sitting there as if he didn’t have a care in the world – it was everything Zach had wanted for him, the entire reason he’d left Alex in the first place, but seeing it in the flesh opened all those old wounds back up and made them bleed afresh. The pain from that moment of saying no to what Alex had offered with all his big, warm heart cut sharper than any knife – but he’d had to. You didn’t do that to your first boyfriend, did you? Take him up on a marriage proprosal and tie him down to a shitty life based on a few promises made in the afterglow?

He’d done the right thing by saying no, leaving, and giving Alex his freedom. Zach knew that. Was sure of it. Even if none of that had ever made him feel any better about it.

They must have been traveling farther and faster than Zach had realized, or he was more out of it than he’d known. Between one blink and the next the train’s PA system crackled to far-too-loud life again, announcing they’d reach their next station at Second Chance in ten minutes. Second Chance? What kind of name was that for a town?

Alex looked up at the speaker, nodded in an absent sort of way, and stood to open the overhead compartment. He took out a bulging messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder and stuffed a pair of thick gloves and a warm knit hat in the pockets of his coat. This would be his stop.

Zach caught his lip between his teeth, torn between – it was pure foolishness, the idea of going to him — and sanity, staying right where he was.

Let it go.

Zach would have, really he would. But as Alex walked past him – always so eager to do things, that one; he would start heading for the exits before the train had even come to a halt — he only made it two steps past Zach’s seat before he stopped. As Zach’s heart sank down past the pit of his stomach he saw Alex pause, then turn to look back.

He stopped, just like Zach had, blank with surprise. “Do I know you?”

Zach held his breath. Could he lie? Yes, but this new, matured Alex would have the life experience not to believe him, and he hadn’t changed nearly as much as Alex had. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“I do know you. I know your face,” Alex said. His voice had matured with the rest of him as he aged, going from sweet to firm with a raspy vocal fry on the edges. “Zach?”

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Changeling Press | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | iTunes

Meet the Author

Will Okati (formerly known as Willa) has lived through a few Interesting Times, but come out the other side a little grayer, a little wiser, and ready to get writing. Still as passionate about coffee, cats, and crafts as ever, but knowing that to your own self you must be true. Also still one of the quiet ones to watch out for, but life — like storytelling — is always a work in progress.

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Mar 21

New Release Blitz ~ The Substitute Bride by Samantha Cayto (Excerpt & Giveaway)

The Substitute Bride by Samantha Cayto

Book 4 in the Treaty Brides series

General Release Date: 21st Mar 2022

Word Count: 50,438
Book Length: NOVEL
Pages: 182

Genres:

EROTIC ROMANCE
FANTASY
GAY
GLBTQI
MULTICULTURAL
ROYALS

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Book Description


Being a bride is a state of mind, not of body.

Lord Carwyn has come to the royal palace of Moorcondia to support his beloved cousin, Nora. The princess has been promised in marriage to bind a treaty between her country and the archipelago nation called The Southern Chain. Carwyn’s efforts to help her turn into a daring plan when he catches his first sight of Nora’s intended. The foreigner captivates him in a way no other man ever has.

Kai Aleki feels the fate of his people on his shoulders. As his nation’s military leader, he understands how duty always comes first and that a strong alliance is crucial to fight the vicious marauders known only as the Swarm. He has no interest in marrying a woman, but the delectable and attentive Carwyn captures his attention.

Carwyn has a solution that will satisfy everyone. He secretly takes Nora’s place and marries Aleki himself. A delighted Aleki sets off, determined to protect the known world from the Swarm after safely delivering Carwyn to his new home. Their imperative journey holds hidden dangers, forcing Aleki and his bride to join forces to defeat a common enemy.

Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of violence, death and ordered suicide.

Excerpt

“This is so unfair!”

Carwyn watched helplessly as his dear cousin Nora, Duchess of Windham and Countess of Kenworth, raged against her fate while pacing her private garden.

“How can the king and my father do this to me? After all they promised, I’m to be traded away like a prize cow to a foreign prince now that I’m of legal age to wed.”

Carwyn had given up trying to keep pace with the furious girl. Her longer legs, fueled by anger, gave her an advantage. The best he could do was catch her attention with each turn leading back to his spot by the fountain. “They’re scared, Nora. This alliance with the Southern Chain is critical to bolstering a defensive line against the Swarm, as well as to find their source and defeat them.”

Nora turned furious eyes at him. “Ridiculous! The king is afraid of no one—and neither is my father.”

Carwyn knew better than to argue the point, but he could vividly recall the time when his cousin had come down with the pox and nearly died from it. The look in her father’s eyes was one of pure terror. No one was above being frightened—no one sane, anyway. And the Swarm was an enemy unlike any other. The mysterious people came from the gods knew where, completely destroying the places they attacked, killing, looting and burning everything and dragging those still alive away to an unknown fate—slavery probably, which was bad enough, but there were rumors of strange rituals and blood-drinking. He shivered at the mere thought of it, although his wiser self told him those were likely tall tales. At least he hoped so.

He chased after Nora’s back and taking her arm, pulled her up short. “Please, Nora, calm yourself.” When she turned her blazing gaze on him, he reminded himself that this was his liege lady as well as his kinswoman and friend. Swallowing back his urge to apologize, he pressed forward with telling her of the decision he’d come to only that morning. “I understand how hard it’s going to be for you to make your home in a distant land. That’s why I’m coming with you. If you’ll have me, of course.”

Letting go, he took a step back and braced for her response. Nora didn’t like being ‘handled’, and what he was suggesting had to be embraced as her idea more than his. He ignored the unease manifesting in his queasy stomach. He’d only just arrived at the Moorcondian capital, a life-long dream of his. Kenworth was beautiful, quiet and…boring. His eighteenth birthday had given him the courage to press his parents once more to let him come visit the king’s court and hopefully find a useful role there. They hadn’t wanted to let their youngest child go so far away. Although they hadn’t said as much, he knew his family worried that he was too delicate of mind and emotions to navigate court life. How much worse would they feel finding out that he’d sailed away to a distant land to live among strangers they knew little about?

Nora’s high dudgeon eased, leaving a sheen of tears in her eyes. “You’d do that? Oh Carwyn, you know nothing of these Chainers. You don’t understand how much your life would be different from what you’re used to.”

Carwyn swallowed his trepidation. “Neither do you. The traders who’ve been there say it’s spectacular and the people are friendly.” They also said the ‘Chainers’ were a fierce tribe of near savages. There was no point in bringing up that information, however. He took Nora’s hands in his own. “And we’ll have each other. If our childhoods taught us nothing else, together we are nearly invincible.”

Nora surprised him with a tight embrace. “Oh Carwyn, your parents will be grief-stricken at the idea. They will never allow it. It’s bad enough that Cariad is out to sea mapping those treacherous waters.”

“That’s different. What he’s doing is inherently dangerous.” Carwyn nevertheless took a moment to worry about his older brother. The bookish boy was ill-suited for such an adventure, but he was a wizard in memorizing topography and an excellent draftsman to boot. “And it’s not for my parents to say. If the king decides I should go, then the matter is settled. If you ask him, I’m sure he will agree, if only because your father will advocate it. He wouldn’t want you to be alone in this, Nora, and a whole army of maids at your side will never match the benefit of having a family member with you.”

Nora let go and stepped away from him. She twisted her fingers as she spoke. “I shouldn’t be so selfish, but I lack the courage to refuse your kind offer.”

Carwyn put on a bright smile. “It’s a plan, then. And who knows? Perhaps I’ll find a lover of my own. It’s past time I do so, and I have heard the Chainer men are gorgeous.” He fluttered his eyelashes.

Nora chuckled as he’d intended. “Remember how we used to dream of what our first lover would be like? I never thought I’d go to my marriage bed a virgin. What if he’s not kind to me?” As powerful as she was, Nora had the same worries and desires as anyone else of their age.

Carwyn clasped her arms and peered into her still-moist eyes. “Then we’ll find a way to castrate the bastard and toss his genitals into the sea.”

Nora rolled her eyes. “Well, if anyone can pull that off, it’s you, Carwyn.”

Before he could further soothe her fears, the heralds blared loudly. They both looked in the direction of the main entrance to the city. The Southern Chain prince had arrived. Kai Aleki. The Chainers had different titles. Once they were wed, Nora would be known as a kailisa as well as a princess, a duchess and a countess. He understood how important it was to her to have her own titles. The Chainers might not care about her independent positions. Becoming known only as an extension of her husband would grate on her. As a mere lord and not his father’s heir, he could only relate to her feelings on the matter academically. In his more wistful moments, he wished he could become like Prince Ronan—the adored wife of a powerful man. If he went with Nora, his dream could never be, probably. The Chainers customs were not well known. It was possible that his attraction to men would be frowned upon…or even illegal. If he thought about it too much, he might go back on his offer. Never. Sacrificing for the royal family had been bred into him, and being Nora’s champion had been his role in life for as long as he could remember.

Nora took in a shuddering breath. “He’s arrived.”

“Yes, and we must both get ready for the welcome banquet. Come… I’ll walk you to your apartment.” He took his cousin’s hand and tugged her along. Whether she knew it or not, Nora was literally dragging her feet.

He deposited her with her maids, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving. “Make yourself as stunning as always, and Kai Aleki’s eyes will pop out right in front of the court. You can do this,” he added in a voice only for her ears.

Having done his duty, Carwyn hurried to his less luxurious accommodations in the palace. As a minor member of the king’s extended family, he was entitled to be housed there, although he had to share. As he entered the room, two of his three roommates were entwined on a bed, flushed and puffing from their recent exertions. He paid them no mind. Those two were always going at it. He couldn’t understand why they were so enthralled with one another. Boys his own age didn’t interest him in the least. He wanted a man, someone strong enough to take charge and carry him off to bed. There was nothing arousing about holding on to a body as slender as his own. Carwyn craved muscle that could both mount him vigorously and be careful of him, too. Is there such a man even out there for me?

Heading for his own bed, he contemplated how he might style his hair. It was long enough to produce a decent braid and it would be a more formal look than leaving it down. He did love the feel of it swinging against his cheeks, but he wasn’t in Kenworth anymore. He needed to blend into palace life and represent his family well. His small chest of drawers held fewer outfits than he would have liked, and there was really only one that would do for such an occasion. The green velvet tunic and trousers with gold thread trim brought out the green in his hazel eyes and complemented his yellow hair. He laid them carefully on top of his bed and stripped off what he was wearing. The other boys started making noises that indicated they weren’t done with each other.

Carwyn tsked. “You’d best move your pretty asses. Princess Eleanora’s betrothed has arrived.” That news got them moving. They nearly tumbled onto the floor in their haste to leave the bed. Carwyn shook his head. At the same time, he admired how they’d been so engrossed in each other that they hadn’t heard the heralds. Such devotion was enviable. Still, there was no time to dwell on such matters. “And I need someone to braid my hair, please.”

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Samantha Cayto

Samantha Cayto is a Boston-area native who practices as a business lawyer by day while writing erotic romance at night—the steamier the better. She likes to push the envelope when it comes to writing about passion and is delighted other women agree that guy-on-guy sex is the hottest ever.

She lives a typical suburban life with her husband, three kids and four dogs. Her children don’t understand why they can’t read what she writes, but her husband is always willing to lend her a hand—and anything else—when she needs to choreograph a scene.

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Mar 21

New Release Blitz: Friends without Benefits by Evelyn Fenn (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Friends without Benefits

Author: Evelyn Fenn

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 03/21/2023

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: No Romance

Length: 93300

Genre: Contemporary, ace, aro, non-binary, coming out, in the closet, over 40

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Description

Academic Clare is in a rut. She is in her forties, her job is stressful, and she feels worn down by the personalities and politics in the university department where she works. She has also just broken up with her latest boyfriend.

During one of their regular get-togethers, Clare’s oldest friend shows Clare a newspaper article, pushing her into an exploration of what it means to be asexual.

As Clare figures things out, she meets homoromantic couple, Tristan and Matt, nonbinary Ollie, student Jack, aromantic Janice, and Matt’s cousin, Natalia.

Follow Clare and her new friends through a series of misadventures as they road trip, take part in Pride, suffer a series of misunderstandings, and forge new relationships.

Excerpt

Friends without Benefits
Evelyn Fenn © 2023
All Rights Reserved

I bagged a table. U get the drinks LOL!!!!

Clare keyed a quick ok, pressed Send, and dropped her phone into her bag. No matter how much she liked Louisa and how much she usually enjoyed their Tuesday evening get-togethers, Clare wasn’t looking forward to tonight. Only three days before, Clare had broken up with her long-term, long-distance boyfriend, and Louisa was sure to want details.

Clare took a fortifying breath and jogged up the steps that led to the pub’s front door.

The Quill and Scholar, a favourite hangout of postgraduates and lecturers, buzzed with the after-work crowd. Although the pub appeared older than the university, it had opened less than thirty years before when it had capitalised on a fashion for bottled lagers. Since then, the Quill had moved with the times, catering for fashions for real ales and craft beers and, most recently, craft gins.

When she had been a student, Clare had eschewed the Quill’s designer labels in favour of happy hours, Boddington’s, and flavoured schnapps served in test tubes by the chain pubs a couple of hundred yards down the road. Although Clare had never developed a taste for bottled beer and she hated gin, she liked the Quill’s ambience and décor. Plus, nobody could go wrong with the house Chardonnay. Besides, these days, the kinds of places marketed to undergraduates made her feel old.

Clare loosened her scarf, shoved her hat and wrist warmers into her jacket’s pockets, and fought her way through the crowd towards the bar. The room was full of people, many of whom she knew by sight and some by name.

Mikey, an astrophysics postgraduate who moonlighted as a barman, greeted Clare, and said, “The usual?”

“Please.”

He sighed theatrically. “One of these days I’ll get you to branch out. Some of our botanicals are amazing.”

Clare nodded and, not meaning it, said, “One day. Not today.”

While she waited for her drinks, she waved at Sam, an occasional drinking buddy, who was in the throes of writing up her doctoral thesis.

Clare exchanged notes for drinks and change, and then, holding her glasses aloft, she set out to find Louisa.

Clare and Louisa had nothing in common beyond a host of shared memories from their undergraduate days and a friendship that had endured across the years. Clare’s dad had once described Louisa as having more neck than a giraffe. On another occasion, he’d said, “That lass has got more front than the esplanade at Blackpool!” Given that Louisa had, when eight and a half months pregnant, worn a white dress as she headed down the aisle for her second marriage, seeking a blessing in the church of a god she didn’t believe in, Clare supposed Dad might have had a point.

Clare had taken an excessively long time to realise that Dad had a crush on her best friend. Mum thought it was hilarious. She had tried to explain it more than once, but Clare still didn’t get it.

Even though he’d only met her a dozen times over the years, Dad often asked after Louisa. Clare would say that she was fine, and Mum would laugh, kiss the top of Dad’s balding head, and say, “You can dream so long as you don’t trade me in for a younger model or buy a motorcycle!” Then Dad would colour slightly and answer that he was only being polite and that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with the mother of his children.

Clare slalomed her way through the crowd and up the wide, wooden staircase that led to the first floor, where the rooms of the converted Victorian villa were smaller, quieter, and cosier. Her favourite, a former bedroom with a large bay window that offered good views along the busy street and thus afforded great opportunities for people watching, was at the front of the building.

Today, Louisa hadn’t been able to bag seats at the window and, instead, had parked herself at a table pressed against a wall, where she was now frantically working the screen of her smartphone.

In her business suit and heavy bling, her overcoat and accessories neatly arranged on a neighbouring chair, Louisa stuck out like a gemstone among pebbles. She had allowed her knee-length skirt to ride up slightly, thus emphasising her long, slender legs, and revealing kneecaps along with a hint of thigh. Thanks to genetics, a lot of self-discipline, soft lighting, and hair dye, Louisa passed for a good decade younger than her forty-and-a-few years. Louisa also dyed her eyebrows and eyelashes; Clare hadn’t known people did such things until they’d shared a flat in their second year at uni.

Even this late in the day, Louisa’s makeup appeared flawless. She wore matching vermillion lipstick and nail polish, the latter almost certainly the result of a mani-pedi, and her eye shadow and eyeliner looked as though they had been applied by a draughtsman.

Clare slid Louisa’s usual in front of her. Louisa glanced up and gave her the barest of acknowledgements as she continued working her phone.

The immaculate nail polish glittered with reflected light as she finished typing and sent a message. “There. Done. I’m all yours.”

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, yes.” Louisa brushed Clare’s concern away. “Just a teensy crisis at work. All sorted now.”

Knowing Louisa and the general nature of her job, Clare was certain that, whatever the crisis had been, there would have been nothing teensy about it. Only major crises got escalated as far as Louisa, who had always been able to make light of the most catastrophic emergencies. Clare envied her insouciant self-confidence.

There was a pattern to their evenings together. Glass one would carry them through an exchange of war stories and a sympathetic hearing of each other’s colleague-related character assassinations. Sometime during drink two, having got all their work angst out of their systems, they would move onto subjects of greater mutual interest. Glass three was when they got to the difficult topics, the ones that laid souls bare. Today was going to be at least a three-glass evening. They wouldn’t get to—let alone through—the interrogation otherwise.

Sure enough, when there was barely an eighth of an inch of liquid at the bottom of Clare’s second glass, and Clare’s perception was blurring around the edges, Louisa asked, “How were the in-laws?”

“The…what?”

“You know. Gavin’s parents. The people you went to visit at the weekend? The parents of your SO?”

SO. Significant other.

“My insignificant other, you mean,” said Clare, doing her best to copy Louisa’s style of banter. “We split up.”

“Oh.”

There was something in the way Louisa said, “Oh,” that made Clare bristle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well. You and Gavin. You’ve always struck me as a couple more in word than deed.” Clare tried to hide her shock at Louisa’s astute observation by gulping the dregs of her drink. “Did you even do it with Gavin? Ever?”

Clare’s silence spoke volumes.

“What was wrong with him?”

“With…him?” Clare asked. “You tell me. You set us up.”

“I don’t know him that well. So, tell me. What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing, as far as I know. We went out a few times. We didn’t click.” She stood up. “I’ll get the next round.” If they were going to have this conversation, she was going to need that third glass, and maybe another after that.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

I lived in five different cities, spanning two continents, before leaving crowds and commuting behind and settling somewhere that official statistics describe as “Very Remote Rural”.

I have made up stories for as long as I can remember, and I have been writing them down for almost as long. I cut my creative writing teeth on fan fiction in the days of paper fanzines and, later, online. I had fun but eventually grew tired of playing in other people’s sandpits. Turns out, it’s more fun to create sandpits of my own.

I have worked in the public, private, and voluntary sectors, with roles ranging from number crunching and lecturing to mucking out cowsheds and toilet cleaning. I currently hold down a day job while daydreaming of writing full time.  Find Evelyn on Twitter.

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Mar 21

Book Blitz: Out in the Surf by Lane Hayes (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Out in the Surf

Series: Out in College, Book 10

Author: Lane Hayes

Publisher: Lane Hayes

Release Date: March 21

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 41000

Genre: Romance, Contemporary MM Romance, Sports Romance, Bisexual, College Romance

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Synopsis

The hockey player, the surfer, and a lesson neither can forget…

Luca-

I love the beach, and I’m a good athlete. Learning how to surf should be a breeze, right?

Wrong.

In a twist, hockey is nothing like surfing. That’s okay—I just need a diversion to round out my new life in So Cal while I figure out what comes next. As long as I keep my head above water, this could be fun.

Bonus…my instructor is hot.

Cal-

Teaching newbies to surf is easy money. Usually. My newest student is a wild card who seems to think his jock status should make him a natural at everything he tries, and I can see why. Luca is…special. He’s dynamic, energetic, and fun. It’s hard not to like him. But I like him a little too much.

This could be trouble.

Out in the Surf is a low-angst MM romance, bisexual-awakening story. When the teacher becomes the student, it may be time to come out in the surf.

Excerpt

I held out my hand, smirking when he stared at it suspiciously.

“Thanks.”

He pressed his palm against mine, shook my hand, and released it. No big deal, right?

Wrong.

My fingers tingled and my heart rate soared to the stratosphere. I played it cool, though. I hooked my thumbs in my belt loops, casually glanced up at the street sign before asking, “So…when do you want to schedule your next lesson?”

Luca barked a laugh. “I’m not doing that again. That was single-handedly the most traumatic thing that’s happened to me since I moved to Cali. A clear sign I should stay closer to shore and away from surfboards.”

“No, no, no. You’ve got that wrong,” I cajoled. “It’s like I tried to tell you…you’ve got to get back on that horse. Or surfboard. Don’t let fear win.”

“I’m not afraid of surfing. It’s more a matter of returning to the scene of the crime.”

“What crime?”

“The kissing crime!” He threw his hands in the air and paced a few feet away.

I pursed my lips to keep my smile in check when he came to a stop in front of me. “Are you going to do it again?”

Luca shrugged. “I didn’t intend to do it the first time around. But what if I accidentally stick my tongue down your throat? Don’t look at me like that. It could happen.”

“I’m willing to take a chance.” I chuckled. “How about Monday?”

He screwed his features into wide-eyed disbelief. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I can’t. School started last week and I can’t be late…yet.”

“Wise choice.” I stepped away from the crosswalk to lean against the building’s façade. “Okay, if you have any open mornings, we’ll make it work. Otherwise, I’ll make time for you on the weekend. Early.”

Luca furrowed his brow. “If I hypothetically agreed, what is ‘early’ to you?”

“Seven a.m.”

“Fuck that.” He snorted with a laugh. “I need my beauty sleep.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to assure him that he didn’t, but that was a strange sentiment coming from another guy. Wasn’t it?

“Early bird gets the worm and all that,” I singsonged.

“Hmph. I’ll think about it…someday.”

“Sounds fair. Gimme your phone number.” I handed over my cell and let him add his contact info. “I’m free tomorrow morning…just sayin’.”

I was teasing. I was more interested in coaxing an incredulous reaction than anything. And Luca didn’t disappoint. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head in mock consternation.

“You’re nuts. Certifiable. I wouldn’t want to hang out with hungover me if I were you.”

“I’ve seen you barf. Does it get worse?”

He opened his mouth and closed it. “Wow, I really was a mess that day.”

“You weren’t that bad,” I chided playfully.

“Liar,” Luca scoffed. “All right. Call me or text me. We’ll have a redo and next time, I promise not to kiss you.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” I replied, unthinking.

We both froze.

I wasn’t sure who was more surprised. My jaw unhinged while he cocked his head and really looked at me for the first time that night, his eyes roaming my face as if searching for clues.

“So kissing might be okay,” he hummed, narrowing his eyes.

I felt his gaze like a physical touch. It had never occurred to me to wonder how another man saw me, but I had to admit, the flash of naked desire in his expression did something for me.

This was a new one. Luca was gay, or maybe bi. Either way, he was plainly interested in me…and I didn’t hate it. In fact, my jeans hugged my crotch a little too tightly, which meant my body appreciated his interest and maybe shared it. And that was pretty…gay.

Was I okay with that?

Purchase at Amazon

Meet the Author

Lane Hayes loves a good romance! An avid reader from an early age, she has always been drawn to well-told love story with beautifully written characters. Her debut novel was a 2013 Rainbow Award finalist and subsequent books have received Honorable Mentions, and were winners in the 2016, 2017, 2018-2019, 2020-2021 Rainbow Awards. She loves wine, chocolate and travel (in no particular order). Lane lives in Southern California with her amazing husband and her fabulous pup, George.

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Mar 17

Book Blitz: Rhyme of Loss by Emily Carrington (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Rhyme of Loss

Series: Jack and Gil 2

Author: Emily Carrington

Publisher: Changeling Press

Release Date: March 17

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 121 pages

Genre: Romance, Thriller/Suspense, Action Adventure, Paranormal, Dark Fantasy, Gay, Multicultural & Interracial, Shapeshifters , Elves, Dragons & Magical Creatures

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Synopsis

Jack is falling apart, but no one seems to notice. He’s transforming into an animal with the ability to rend flesh and kill with little thought, and there’s no one but Gil who can save him. But as Jack withdraws into himself, the tide of war rises. Jack must find a way to regain his strength and determination or SearchLight will fall. And he is convinced he must do it alone.

Gil has resolved never to leave Jack, but that’s hard when his beloved smells of another man and he keeps pulling away. Convinced he’s been replaced, Gil tries to play mean games, but his love for Jack trumps pettiness. Will change destroy them?

Excerpt

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2023 Emily Carrington

Gil sat in the business-class airplane seat and fidgeted. He’d put his bag up. His suitcase was under the aircraft. And now the Great Herd would enter the confined space and make him feel common and —

And do I really feel common? After being told I’m loved by such a man as Jack Sowerby?

No. What he felt was heartsore. Homesick for a place he’d never lived. Because where Jack was, there Gil’s soul and mind were also. He acknowledged he was putting on a front for himself, pretending to feel the arrogance that he’d worn as a shield for years. Which Jack had wiped away with three words.

I love you.

The first person Gil had ever bedded more than once, although three times wasn’t such a high number — he wished for three hundred or three thousand. He wished, in short, that either he wasn’t leaving the United States for South Africa or that Jack was with him.

He glanced to his right as someone human took the seat beside him. Here in business class, there were two wider seats to each row instead of three, but it still meant he had to share his personal space. He didn’t want to do that with anyone but Jack. Gil had purposely taken the aisle seat, hoping to feel less restricted.

The man was large and had a flushed visage. Gil smiled gamely at him, but the man totally ignored him and turned his face to the window. There was something in the man’s profile that looked familiar to Gil. He couldn’t place him, except that he was human, he wore an expensive suit, and he looked oddly slovenly in his finery.

I’m just being uncharitable again.

Maybe that was true. It was also true that the man’s appearance still struck Gil as familiar. He opened his eyes, gazed at the man for a moment, then closed his lids again. The chin was weak, the cheeks fleshy, and the hair was an odd shade.

In surprise, Gil realized where he knew the man from. Human television. The gent was some sort of politician, wasn’t he?

Huh, Gil thought. Well, I’ll just ignore him as he seems bent on doing to me, and we’ll pass this ungodly long flight in uncompanionable silence.

Someone made a startled noise up near the front door of the plane. Gil didn’t pay much attention. He tended to live by the adage “not my circus, not my monkeys.” It had served him well over the last two centuries. Probably the humans were jostling each other or grumbling over the rows and letters they’d been assigned.

There was another noise, louder than the first, which had been more like a gasp. This was a grunt. Mildly curious, Gil focused his hearing in that direction without opening his eyes.

“Go on. Open it.”

The snarled order had Gil looking toward the cockpit. There were a couple of humans directly in his path, but there seemed to be some sort of disturbance up in front.

Not my circus, he thought, not my —

There was a soft pop.

And the humans were shoving each other, trying to get either farther into the plane or back out of it. There seemed to be two currents, one pushing in each direction.

Gil was out of his seat and forcing his way through the straining crowd. He didn’t know that sound, but he felt the press of panic all around him. He ducked under one man’s arm and slipped sideways by a woman with terror in her deep brown eyes.

Now he was standing beyond the crush of people. Despite their struggles, none had quite dared to come close to the cockpit door. A flight attendant, identifiable by the uniform she wore, lay crumpled on the floor. Gil couldn’t see any reason for her to be down until he saw the small hole up near her hairline. She’d been shot.

There was another flight attendant between the person with the weapon and the sealed cockpit door. She was talking very fast, trying to calm the gunman down, Gil supposed. The hostile man waved the gun in her face, but she didn’t stop talking.

Gil launched himself on the man from behind. Just before his hands would have closed over the man’s wrists, the flight attendant’s eyes widened. By such a little warning was the man able to turn with what seemed to be speed only possible by magical creatures. He collided with Gil and tried to bring up his weapon.

Gil broke the man’s wrist with a quick movement born more of fear and instinct than training. The gun thudded to the floor. Gil waited for it to go off, but it didn’t. A small blessing.

But he didn’t have a firm enough grip on the assailant’s wrist. Proving that he had a magical creature’s strength as well as swiftness, the man seized Gil’s arm and tried to break it. The pain in Gil’s elbow was excruciating. He screamed and, again acting on impulse, slammed his free palm into the man’s nose, rocking his head back and spurting blood everywhere within a three-foot radius.

He took advantage of the man’s surprise to wrench his arm free. Then he was shoving his opponent backward, slamming him into the cockpit door.

Panting, he risked a glance at the flight attendant. “Call security.”

She had taken charge of the gun. Competent. She put it into a locker of some sort and stood guard with her back against the closed compartment hatch. “I already have. Plus, the captain will have radioed from the cockpit.”

Gil wasn’t looking at her anymore. In his grip, the assailant gave a tremendous jerk. Gil grunted in amazement at the other’s strength and shoved him harder. He recognized this was a difficult position to maintain and, risking losing his grip entirely, spun the struggling man around and smashed him face-first into the door. Then he seized both of the man’s wrists and pinioned them behind his back.

The right wrist, which had been broken mere moments ago, felt solid in Gil’s grip. He inhaled, trying to distinguish what kind of magical creature this was. And all he could smell was human. He inhaled again, caught a brief whiff of clay, and then all that was in his nose was the press of too many panicked humans in a small space.

As he set his feet in a wider stance, hoping to hold the — well, the whatever-he-was until security got here, Gil began to worry that two, three, or even ten guards wouldn’t be able to subdue this creature. Because Gil, a basilisk, strong and powerful, was having difficulty holding the man still. “Get the” — he swallowed the word “herd” — ”people to give me a little more space. I’m going to try and get him off the plane.”

Purchase

Changeling Press | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | iTunes

Meet the Author

Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender erotica. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires.

Fantasy creatures not your thing? Emily has also created a contemporary romance world, called Sticks and Stones, where she explores being “different” in a small town.

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