Sep 13

New Release Blitz: To Catch a Fallen Leaf by Fearne Hill (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  To Catch a Fallen Leaf

Series: Rossingley, Book Two

Author: Fearne Hill

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/13/2021

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 78100

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, contemporary, gay, British, aristocracy, fashion model/celebrity, gardeners/gardening, ex-con, family drama, humorous, opposites attract, rich man/poor man, wedding

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Description

Take one shy French gardener, mix in a naughty aristocrat, add a splash of water, a dash of sunshine, and wait for love to grow.

If only it were that easy.

Reuben Costaud counts his blessings daily. His run-in with crime is firmly behind him. He has a wonderful job gardening on the Rossingley estate, a tiny cottage all to himself, an orphaned cat named Obélix, and a friendly bunch of workmates. The last thing he needs is a tall, blond aristocrat strolling across the manicured lawns towards him.

Falling in love is not part of his plan.

Viscount Aloysius Frederick Lloyd Duchamps-Avery, Freddie to his friends, is in big trouble with everyone, from his father and his modelling agency, to his controlling older boyfriend. Seeking solace and refuge, he escapes to Rossingley and his adored cousin Lucien, the sixteenth earl. To take his mind off his woes, Lucien finds him a job with the estate gardening team.

Mutual attraction blossoms amongst the gardening tools, and Freddie charms his way through Reuben’s defences. But as spring turns to summer and Freddie’s London life collides with their Rossingley idyll, Reuben’s trust in him is ruptured. Will their love flourish or is it destined for the compost bin?

To Catch a Fallen Leaf is a full-length MM contemporary romance, the second in the Rossingley trilogy.

Excerpt

To Catch a Fallen Leaf
Fearne Hill © 2021
All Rights Reserved

“Oh, baby doll, for goodness’ sake! Please, please, please. Could we ensure this be the last time I have to put up with all of your ridiculousness?”

Disappointment is the inevitable result of a mismatch between expectation and reality. Vincent expects me to never get drunk, never embarrass him in public, and never, ever, ever vomit over his shoes outside a smart London restaurant.

The reality, of course, is that I’m a twenty-five-year-old male model. I like booze, I like to occasionally snort coke, I say stupid things in front of people I shouldn’t, and sometimes, all of those combined, lead to unexpected chundering episodes outside smart London restaurants. So, I can’t be blamed if Vincent chooses to put his burgundy Lobb penny loafers in the path of the contents of my stomach.

I am fully cognisant of the reasons Vincent endures these occasional mishaps. Being a minor member of the aristocracy helps. In addition, my father, a well-known and respected politician, is perfectly placed to further Vincent’s own eventual political ambitions. But, most importantly, Vincent is a sucker for eye-catching arm candy. I’m not the first pretty piece of fluff he’s moved into his Belgravia apartment, but I’ve stayed the longest. While I’m definitely pretty, I also have financial independence and a first-class degree from Cambridge. Thus, he finds my company tolerable.

What’s in it for me is more complex. Despite occasional debauched one-night forgettables when I’m working abroad—to which Vincent turns a blind eye—I’m a sucker for a steady relationship. Unless I’m travelling for work, I prefer waking up in the same familiar bed each morning. I enjoy the finer things in life, such as sharing good food in decent restaurants and trips to the theatre with an educated partner.

My adorable cousin, Lucien, believes my predilection for older men comes from a deep-seated desire to be cared for, seeing as Father left that responsibility entirely to my boarding school after Mother died. According to his theory, my monogamous tendencies are an unconscious rebellion against Father’s complete lack of fidelity towards my mother. He’s probably right on both accounts, explaining how I muster a coquettish smile as I watch forty-something Vincent, in his pristine white Y-fronts and sock garters, select a double-breasted Hawes & Curtis suit from his walk-in wardrobe. Even though the zipping of his fly and the clack of one wooden coat hanger against another is enough to make my head reel and my guts threaten a repeat performance.

Rolling over in bed, I clamp a goose down pillow over my head in an attempt to shut out the morning sunlight.

“Sorry about last night, Vincent,” I mumble from underneath the pillow. “I possibly overcooked things a little. The end of a busy week, I guess, and I probably didn’t eat enough dinner with my wine. I’m not sure I ate at all yesterday, now I think about it—it was a long photo shoot.”

There’s a slithery sound as he selects a tie. Time stands still; I wish he’d bloody get on with it and clear off, so I can retch over the loo in peace.

“Yes. Well, whatever, baby doll. I have to dash; I’m chairing a meeting of investors at nine, and I can’t have that derailed by your foolish antics.”

He looms over me, all expensive sandalwood and minty freshness. In a bespoke suit, which hides the paunchy bit around his middle, Vincent is a good-looking guy. He still has a full head of dark hair; any flecks of grey only serve to accentuate his air of suave sophistication. Despite himself, he smiles as he pecks my cheek.

“You are going to be the death of me, young man,” he murmurs. “Try to stay out of trouble. Drink plenty of fluids and take an aspirin. You can make it up to me tonight.”

I recall that it’s Tuesday and manage to stifle my groan at least until the front door slams. Oh joy. Deep, deep joy. To say we have a regimented sex life would be affording the military a degree of precision they can only dream of emulating. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, at the stroke of twenty-two hundred hours, Vincent switches on the BBC News and swallows down 50 mg of Viagra with a small glass of San Pellegrino (one cube of ice). He doesn’t know that I know about the Viagra. The gravitas of the opening theme tune is my cue to go and “freshen up, baby doll,” which is Vincent doublespeak for reacquainting my arse with the nozzle of the shower hose. I am then expected to drape myself seductively across our enormous bed in the master suite, with a fresh towel under me, and await his presence.

I used to like my sex spontaneous and messy. I still do. Because, occasionally, smelly, sweaty, imprecise, surprising, and even disappointing sex can unexpectedly turn into joyous, forgiving, funny, and tender sex. Not loving sex. I haven’t experienced that yet, although I remain optimistic. I’ll take all of the above over predictable any day. And—not to put too fine a point on it—I quite like topping. Turn and turnabout is okay if the mood takes me, but really? Always bottoming? Not so much. Some guys love it; for some of my friends it’s a race to the bottom, but I’m prepared to share the love around. Unfortunately, Vincent’s arse only opens once a day, around 6:45 a.m., as part of his shit, shower, shave routine. After that, it’s locked tight as an oyster shell, whereas I’m expected to roll over and take it, and take it, and bloody take it. I usually manage to reach orgasm (ejaculating carefully onto the towel, naturally), but only because I’m young, horny, and excellent at conjuring up visions of myself ploughing into some raven-haired, faceless beauty, while Vincent happily labours above me.

The thing is, I could put up with being called baby doll. I could put up with the bad sex. I could even put up with being told what to wear and when to wear it. But there is one thing that really sticks in my craw: My boyfriend’s close friendship with my father. Around once a month, they share lunch at my father’s club, when I imagine, along with plotting world domination and very visible, showy acts of philanthropy, they enumerate my varied shortcomings, sighing wistfully at each other: “If only Aloysius could… If only he would…” etcetera, etcetera. (My real name is Aloysius; thank God, my second name is Frederick.) And then, after a manly handshake, they part ways; my father returns to pontificating in the House of Commons, and Vincent returns to whatever he does in that enormous office of his in Mayfair.

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Meet the Author

Fearne Hill lives deep in the southern British countryside with three untamed sons, varying numbers of hens, a few tortoises, and a beautiful cocker spaniel.

When she is not overseeing her small menagerie, she enjoys writing contemporary romantic fiction. And when she is not doing either of those things, she works as an anesthesiologist.

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Sep 13

New Release Blitz: Bookends by Brenda Murphy (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title: Bookends

Series: University Square, Book Three

Author: Brenda Murphy

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/13/2021

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 64600

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, Contemporary, romance, BDSM, interracial, plumber, blue-collar, autistic child, mother/daughter relationship

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Description

The life of university librarian, Amari Foster, life is neatly cataloged. Work, home, and securing a future for her daughter are her focus. Hard-edged and handsome, she manages her private life with ruthless precision, cutting ties, and maintaining distance to protect her battered heart.

Plumber Thalia Makris has given up her dream of long-term love after a series of bad relationships. Desperate to have her own business, Thalia fills her days working overtime and her nights with fantasy novels.

After a chance encounter leaves both women wanting more than a one-night stand, they find themselves on the precipice of love. Will they take the plunge?

Excerpt

Bookends
Brenda Murphy © 2021
All Rights Reserved

“Mama, why do you wear this?” Brianna perched on the end of the bed and turned the scratched dull gold wedding band in her hands.

Amari adjusted her tie, tugging the knot in her bow tie into shape in the mirror. “Because it reminds me of your mommy.” She watched her daughter’s expression in the glass.

“It makes you sad.” Brianna held the ring up between her fingers and looked through it.

Amari turned to her daughter and held out her hand. “Sometimes.”

Brianna deposited the ring in her mother’s palm. “You should flush it.”

“What?” Amari pushed the ring over her knuckle before she slid her vest on.

“That’s what we did in my class when the fish died. I wasn’t as sad when I couldn’t see it anymore.” Her gaze settled on Amari. “If you didn’t see it, maybe you wouldn’t be so sad.”

Amari buttoned her vest from the bottom and held her daughter’s gaze. “I’m not sad.”

Brianna frowned. “You said to always tell the truth.”

“I am. And yes, sometimes it makes me sad. But other times it reminds me that your mommy and I were very much in love.” Amari lifted her suit coat from its hanger and folded it over her arm. She tilted her head at her daughter.

“I don’t remember her.” Brianna drew her hand over the comforter, tracing the pattern of the design with her fingers.

Amari swallowed on the dry ache in her throat and shifted her gaze to her shoes. “We need to go soon. We don’t want to come in after the bride.”

Brianna slid off the bed and spun in a slow circle. “Does my dress sparkle? Like Poppy in Trolls World Tour?”

Amari held the door open and nodded toward the hall. “It does.”

Brianna walked ahead of Amari. “Do you think they’ll have the spring rolls Ms. Mai makes?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure there’ll be something you want to eat at the reception.” Amari followed her daughter down the stairs to the living room.

“Don’t you look sharp. And, Brianna, you look so pretty in your new dress. Come here, let me fix your hair.” Cora Foster’s voice, filled with love, washed over Amari and pushed back her melancholy.

Brianna took a half step toward her grandmother and stopped. “I like it this way.” She squatted and rubbed her hand over their dog’s back. Lucy, their ever-patient Newfoundland, lifted her head and snuffled Brianna’s hand.

Amari lifted her chin at her mother. “Mom, please, let her be. She’s settled and we don’t have time for a meltdown.”

Cora pressed her mouth together in a thin line. “Fine.”

Amari plucked her keys from the hook by the door. “We won’t be late.”

Cora patted her lap. Lucy ambled over and rested her head on Cora’s knee. “We’ll be here.” She picked up the remote. “I’ve got a date with a Witcher.” She waggled her eyebrows.

Amari snort-laughed. “All right, Mom.”

Brianna crossed the floor, stopped short of her grandmother. She bent from the waist and leaned forward. “Hug?”

Cora scooted forward and pressed her forehead to Brianna’s brow. “Have fun. Bring Grandma a spring roll if they have them.”

“Okay.” Brianna straightened and walked to the door.

Cora’s gaze settled on Amari’s face. “You going to be okay?”

Amari looked away from her mother’s eyes. Her gaze settled on the faded photo of her wedding day on the wall behind the television. “Aren’t I always?”

Cora pursed her lips. “If you say so.”

Brianna shifted from one foot to the other by the door as she pulled her sweater on. “Mama, come on. The spring rolls will be gone.”

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Brenda Murphy (she/her) writes erotic romance. Her most recent novel, Double Six, is the 2020 Golden Crown Literary Society winner for Erotic Novels, and Knotted Legacy, the third book in the Rowan House series, made the 2018 The Lesbian Review’s Top 100 Vacation Reads list. You can catch her musings on writing, books, and living with wicked ADHD on her blog Writing While Distracted. She loves sideshows and tattoos and yes, those are her monkeys. When she is not loitering at her local library, she wrangles twins, one dog, and an unrepentant parrot

I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it. For a free short story, information on book signings, appearances, work in progress snippets, previews and sneak-peeks, sign up for my email list.

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Sep 13

New Release Blitz: Arbor’s Descent by J.L. Brown (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Arbor’s Descent

Series: The Witches of Arbor, Book Two

Author: J.L. Brown

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/13/2021

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female/Male (Female/Female interaction)

Length: 83900

Genre: Paranormal, LGBTQIA+, fantasy, urban fantasy, paranormal, bisexual, polyamory, witches, dark, magic, fae, druid, naiad

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Description

The burning of Arbor, and the hate that fueled it, stole much from Evangeline Clarion, but the fiery artist and powerful elemental witch survived the flames of fanaticism and opened the art gallery of her dreams with the help of her familiar and coven. As Eva wades into life as the director of the Manor Arts and high priestess of the Witches of Arbor coven, her conflicted heart struggles to choose between two loves—the dashing mercurial Alexander and the alluring ethereal beauty Celeste.

When Arbor’s affable new mayor hires an architecture firm run by a dangerously stunning mother-daughter duo with their own unique magic and an old score to settle to oversee the downtown’s reconstruction, chaos descends upon the vulnerable community, and the Witches of Arbor are once again called upon to protect those who spurn them. Yet jealousy, vengeance, and an unforeseen foe with a ravenous hunger for power brings Eva to her knees. With the aid of her familiar, coven, a few unexpected allies, and the magic within her, Eva must reconcile her heart and summon the power to rise again.

Excerpt

Arbor’s Descent
J.L. Brown © 2021
All Rights Reserved

SAMHAIN

Most women would have felt like a queen. All the trappings were there–the castle on a hill, the regal gown, the morbid curiosity of the general populace. Not to mention the dashing gentleman of the castle wrapped around one arm, and my ethereal companion curled around the other. But I wasn’t “most women,” and I was no queen. I was a witch, a witch who had triumphed despite my Arbor neighbors’ best efforts to kill me.

They said we were evil. They tried to burn me. They killed my friends. But I survived. And though I grieved for those who did not, I refused to defile their memories by enacting revenge, however tempting.

Because I’m not evil, despite the prevailing notion in Arbor. A little wicked, possibly. Naughty, most definitely. But not evil.

Instead of seeking vengeance, my coven and I chose a more diplomatic path and invited the residents of Arbor to the Samhain grand opening of the Manor Arts, our new gallery within Morgan Manor. This magnificent walled estate sat high atop Red Hill and overlooked the once bucolic village. I’d taken up residence due to my late nights in the gallery and the manor’s inordinate number of empty bedrooms. And of course, proximity to the master of the house. The estate belonged to Alexander Morgan, the man—the witch—whose fury and anguish had leveled half of downtown. Not that his involvement in the fire was common knowledge. The newspapers attributed the burning of Arbor to a severe summer lightning storm. They weren’t wrong.

Ignorant of Alexander’s guilt, and relentlessly nosy, the people of Arbor accepted our invitation. My small-town neighbors arrived in jewels and formalwear, costumes and masks, on the most magical of nights when the veil between worlds thinned and the spirits of the dead laced the breeze. The very people who tried to stop me from opening a gallery in their town, joined the avant-garde and the elite of the arts community to celebrate the Manor Arts grand opening. They gathered for an event hosted by a witch they’d strapped to an elder tree pyre and set aflame only four months before. The witch who lived through it. The witch who saved them from Alexander’s magical retribution.

Our newly enshrined coven, the Witches of Arbor, orchestrated every nuance of the evening to evoke wonder and trepidation. We had the perfect backdrop. The manor’s rough, gray stone battlements and turrets and bell tower loomed haunted and menacing. Torch-light and jack-o’-lanterns, carved with ancient Samhain symbols, cast the shadows of those assembled across the sprawling lawn.

No matter where the eye landed, it fell upon the frightening, the seductive, the wildly unique. An army of black-clad servers, each with raven hair and candy apple lips, wove through the crowd with hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Jugglers with ghoulishly painted faces launched onyx orbs and flaming swords into the air. A buxom steampunk illusionist levitated six inches from the ground, beckoning the curious and brave to witness her other-worldly feats. Tattooed and pierced contortionists twisted themselves into impossible positions. A lone violinist conjured an eerily enthralling melody; her instrument tuned in nature’s pristine pitch. Like the pied piper, she lured our awed visitors through the manor’s gaping entrance. With nervous steps, they shuffled toward the alabaster hearth blazing beyond the iron doors.

Many of our guests, particularly the artists and their ilk, appreciated our theatrical welcome. It was Halloween, after all. But the Arbor residents were terrified. Their anxious hearts beat against their chests as if they were passing through the gates of hell itself.

Their dread swelled like static on my skin, and despite my repudiations of evil, I reveled in their fear.

The entire town would have burnt if I hadn’t stepped in. Calling down the rain hadn’t been enough to extinguish Alexander’s flames. I drew water from the fucking Ausable River to put out the fire. These lemmings would have been scorched to the earth if I hadn’t summoned the water. I saved them, even after they tried to kill me. Even after they stoned Celeste and burned Adelaide. They should fall to their knees, thank me for sparing them, and beg my forgiveness!

A strong, calming hand settled on my shoulder and halted my mental rant. I gazed up into dark eyes veiled by cascading chestnut waves. Clad in an impeccably cut tuxedo, Alexander towered over my left side, a mischievous twinge of humor playing on his lips.

He leaned down close to my ear. “You’re right, streghetta mia—high priestess. The Arbor mundane should bow before you. You saved them from me, and in the process, you saved me from myself. I, too, bow before you. Evangeline Clarion, you are my queen.” He winked before bending deeply at the waist.

Celeste, my elegant companion entwined around my right arm, snorted, and rolled her eyes.

“Don’t tease me.” I pinched Alexander’s arm. Hard. “And stay out of my head, you ass. If I want you to know something, I’ll tell you myself.” I glared up at him.

“I’ll tell you this,” I continued indignantly. “I wouldn’t want to be a queen. Being a queen isn’t any better than being a witch. We both have power and can influence matters great and small. Sure, queens bask in riches, but witches have ways of obtaining wealth too, and we aren’t bound to conform to society’s stringent rules. We’re free.”

Celeste gave my arm an encouraging squeeze.

“Queens get beheaded, but witches get burned,” Alexander countered, his jaw clenched tight.

“Only the naughty ones.” A memory of the wise and brazen Adelaide Good, my late high priestess and mentor, passed through my mind. “And thanks to the Goddess, I don’t have to worry about their fire. While I may not be evil, I am the wickedest witch in town.”

Celeste clapped her hand over her mouth to check her mirth. “Like you said, Alexander, she is the high priestess.”

Ignoring Celeste, Alexander lifted himself up to his full height, pulled back his shoulders, and glowered down at me. “You’re not getting too big for those tiny britches, are you, Your Highness?” He couldn’t fully hide the smile that threatened his stern face.

“Look who’s talking, Zeus,” I needled. “Or is it Hades?”

“You’re hilarious, Persephone.” He teased me with his words, but there was nothing playful in the look he gave me as he brushed a stray lock of hair away from my cheek. “But are you sure you’re okay? I know crowds make you anxious. It’s understandable, especially after…” He averted his eyes.

“You mean, especially after a mob of my neighbors cheered for my death and set me and Adelaide on fire?” I snorted. “Yeh, I’m ok.”

Alexander growled low in his throat and ran his thumb along my cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you ever again.”

“Oh, please.” I waved the notion aside. “If you don’t let anything happen, nothing will ever happen. And that is fucking boring.”

“I think I heard that in Finding Dory,” Celeste noted dryly.

“I’m just saying I can cover for you if you want to duck out. Hell, I’ll shut the whole thing down. Say the word.”

I shook my head with an indulgent smile and sighed.

“Alexander, I’m fine. Great, actually.” I raised my hand and ran it along his stubbled jaw. I locked my eyes with his. “This is the biggest night of my life. This is all I’ve ever wanted, and it’s more spectacular than anything I ever imagined. I worked my ass off for this. We all have. And I’m glad Arbor is here to see it. I want them to know they didn’t stop me. I have no intention of hiding.”

“Damn right.” Celeste nodded emphatically.

“Then I’ll be right here to make sure you’re safe.” Alexander dropped a kiss on my head, then turned his attention to the festivities and their looming dangers.

He still hadn’t learned. He didn’t have to be my great protector. I didn’t need that. I didn’t want it.

What do I want? I asked myself the question for the millionth time. I turned instinctively to the other-worldly vision curled at my right side, the evening’s Mistress of Ceremonies, Celeste Galehorn.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

I’ve always been a lover of words – reading them, writing them, singing them. And I’m known as a talker – especially about politics, usually at an abnormally loud volume. I was the kid who always got into trouble for staying up too late to read, and that habit has followed me into adulthood. Edgar Allen Poe, Anne Rice, J.K. Rowling, and Jane Austen are my greatest literary influences. Family is important to me, and I cherish the large Italian Catholic family that raised me. I’ve been married over 18 years. I’m a momma of two incredible boys. I have a small home in New Jersey, and enjoy listening to my husband’s music, camping, kayaking, and getting lost in the woods. I’m a coffee and wine drinker, and I believe chocolate can cure most ills.

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Sep 09

Book Blitz: Ruby’s Price: An M/M Paranormal Western Romance by Giovanna Reaves

Title:  Ruby’s Price: An M/M Paranormal Western Romance

Series: Tin Star Witches: Beyond Ruby Gulch

Author: Giovanna Reaves

Publisher: GiaReaves Romance Books

Release Date: September 9th

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 80K+

Genre: Romance, Western, Historical, Paranormal

Synopsis

Top-notch witch taker Sebastian “Bass” Wright is a lawman with a keen sense of justice. Outlaws shudder in fear when they hear his name. Bass is very dedicated to his job which leaves no time for relationships. When a series of murders take place in Fort Creek, Texas, Bass is sent to investigate and capture the killer. During his first day in town, he meets the brothel owner who sparks more than his suspicion.

Love has never been Ryota Ostrel’s goal. He lives by a set of rules that help him balance his personal and professional life and sidestep romance. As a bordello owner, Ryota will use his powers to stop anyone from finding out who and what he is. He is taken by surprise when a handsome witch taker walks into his brothel. Ryota is thrown off balance and is captivated by Bass Wright’s powerful aura, but feels the witch taker is hiding secrets behind his charming smile.

With murder cases and mistrust swirling between them, neither man can fight their mutual attraction. Bass and Ryota concoct plans to get the information they need from one another. They soon find out there’s more to the case than meets the eye.

Bass and Ryota’s passion burns instantly, making them question their morals and rules.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not historically factual. This book contains scenes of violence, prostitution, deception, death, and sexual content.

Excerpt

Ryota Ostrel gazed at the tall and handsome man in front of him. He shoved his hands back in his pockets and looked at the man in front of him. A few minutes earlier he’d been standing by the one-way window in his office looking down in the ballroom and noticed when the guest walked in. Ryota was instantly drawn to the man’s handsome physique.

Standing next to Baker, he could tell the other man was a witch but wasn’t sure what kind. Not only could he feel a suspicious aura surrounding Baker that intrigued him, making him wonder what Baker was doing in their town and what was his relationship with Malcolm Grover, the town’s deputy mayor.

“So, Mr. Baker, what are you doing in Fort Creek?” Ryota sat down and Baker followed suit.

Ryota ignored Malcolm Grover, letting his annoyance show. Ryota and Grover were business partners as well as contracted lovers, and had a deal that the deputy mayor would never show up at the brothel unannounced. However, Grover knew how busy Ryota was, which was why they always scheduled their meetings.

Why bother getting upset now? I plan on breaking the pleasure contract off with him anyway.

“I’m looking for new investments,” Baker responded.

Ryota nodded. “Investments are always a good thing. And how did you hear about our little town?”

Baker smiled. “From my good buddy Malcolm, of course.”

Ryota smiled, casting a glance in Malcolm’s direction, who lowered his eyes as if he found something interesting on the table. In all the time he knew Malcolm, he’d never mentioned he had a friend named Baker. Other than Ruby, he didn’t think Malcolm had any other friends.

“Ah…so you two know each other?” Ryota asked speculatively.

Baker slung an arm around Grover, who flinched but played it off quickly by readjusting his posture. “We met at university.”

“Oh.” Ryota didn’t question the association any longer. His association with Grover had only started six years ago, the intimate part of their relationship came years later. “Tell me, what do you plan on investing in?”

“I’ve suddenly become interested in brothels.” Baker placed his elbow on the chair handle, rubbing lazily on his chiseled jaw, staring at him flirtatiously.

Ryota ignored the man’s flirtatious manner, waving a hand around. “As you can see, brothels are quite lucrative.”

Ten years ago, when he’d taken over Ruby’s, it was in a terrible state. It was a saloon that looked more like a shack with a few shakers—also known as painted ladies or prostitutes—who were working for pennies on their backs while the madam reaped all the benefits and mistreated the workers. As a high-level nine-tail-fox demon, Ryota had the money and power to make things happen, which included approving or disapproving new business in town.

“I can tell it’s quite lucrative,” Baker said. “Maybe I need to take lessons from you on how to turn a shack into a mansion.”

“I’m not certain you’d be able to grasp the syllabus, Mr. Baker.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Ry. I’ve been told I’m a fast learner.”

“Madam Ruby,” Ryota corrected. After taking over the brothel, he had made a lot of changes, except for the name of the place and the moniker Madam Ruby.

It was against the rules for demons of his stature to give dominion over others if they were to know his real name.

“Excuse me?” Baker confusedly looked at him.

“Please, call me Madam Ruby.”

Baker stared at him for a second. Ryota didn’t miss the slight smile that hung on the corner of his lips. “Very well, Madam Ruby. I’m sure there’s something you can teach me.”

Ryota moved his gaze up and down the man, looking at his finely tailored clothes and perfectly styled curly hair. He gave off an aura of a rich philanderer who didn’t care about how much money he spent or wasted. Ryota could only imagine how many hearts the man had broken with that sexy smile. However, he could tell there was something mysterious under those hazel eyes.

“Pick something else to invest in,” Ryota said. “Or better yet, a different town.”

Since setting foot in Fort Creek, Ryota had claimed the town as his and did not plan on sharing its wealth with others. Blame his possessiveness on being a demon.

“Why should I find another town?”

“Do I need to answer that question?” Ryota huffed.

Why is this man trying to irritate me? And we just met, how bothersome.

“No, I suppose you don’t,” Baker responded. “But I don’t see anything wrong with a town having two brothels. Or are you afraid of a little competition?”

Ryota chuckled. “If you stick around long enough, Mr. Baker, you’ll find out I’m not afraid of anything.”

With that, Ryota stood and cast an irritated glance at Grover, who was trying to disappear but failing terribly. Without so much as a by your leave, Ryota turned and walked away, not missing Baker’s provocative smile.

How irritating. You made me think you could be interesting.

Ryota tried putting their interaction out of his thoughts as he spoke with other customers. But his irritation grew the longer he stayed in the ballroom.

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Meet the Author

Giovanna (Gia) Reaves is the alter ego for a dreamer. A dreamer who spends her days and nights creating worlds from her imagination. Being an avid reader, allowed Gia’s imagination to take hold. With the encouragement of her loved ones, Gia has given into the voices in her head, putting their words and words to paper. Gia is also a mother, wife, and veteran. Gia is also a serious chocoholic and loves to read MM Romance just as much as she loves writing them. The sweeter the better, especially, on a snowy or rainy day is how she likes to fill her days when she is not writing.

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Sep 07

New Release Blitz ~ The Depths of Time by Lori Fayre (Excerpt & Giveaway)

The Depths of Time by Lori Fayre

General Release Date: 7th September 2021

Word Count: 44,191
Book Length: SHORT NOVEL
Pages: 172

Genres:

EROTIC ROMANCE
FANTASY
GAY
GLBTQI
HISTORICAL
THRILLERS AND SUSPENSE
TIMETRAVEL

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Book Description

An obsession with the past becomes his love story.

Obsessed with RMS Titanic from a young age, Lucas Thompson has spent his life studying the shipwreck and turning his passion into a career in marine archeology. But, on the one-hundred-year anniversary of the voyage, he’s drawn to the ship’s resting place by a strange sonar ripple that hurtles him back in time. Luke wakes in the year 1912 as a passenger on the grandest ship in the world.

It’s there that he meets Quinton Hawthorne, the man who sacrificed himself to save passengers during the sinking, including Luke’s great-grandmother. He also comes face-to-face with Lucinda Hughes, the very woman who raised him on her stories of the ship. With his inside knowledge of the impending disaster, Luke feels a responsibility to change history and develops a plan to save the doomed ship and its passengers.

Things quickly fall apart as Luke begins to fall for Quinton, knowing that it can only end in heartbreak. Though he’s determined to save Quinton, he’s also faced with a dilemma. Should he save the ship or allow destiny to play out?

Excerpt

April 11, 2012 4:27 pm

Lucas Thompson took a deep breath, allowing the salty sea air to penetrate every inch of his being. As the ship bobbed gently along the waves, Luke knew that this was where he was meant to be. He closed his eyes and stretched out his arms to let the fine spray mist over his face and soak into his dark gray T-shirt.

“Reliving a movie moment, are we?” a voice said behind him. He turned to see Kyle Stanton, Master of the Vessel, standing there with his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. Kyle was an average-looking man, with his dark-brown beard and constantly mussed hair. He wasn’t very tall, but he was strong and seemed to take every opportunity he could to prove so.

“Just taking in the air,” Luke replied. Kyle raised an eyebrow at him.

“Do you mean the nearly forty-degree air?” He began shrugging off his thick jacket. “Come on, Luke. You know better. I can’t have the head man getting sick on me.” Luke rolled his eyes but welcomed the warmth when Kyle placed his coat over Luke’s shoulders. The amount of cologne lingering in the fabric nearly choked him, but he endured it, if only to save Kyle’s feelings.

“Being out here clears my mind. Besides, there’s a whole team of people, and any one of them could take my place on Alice if they needed to. They’ve all been properly trained.” Kyle wrapped an arm around Luke and began to lead him down into the ship. He stopped at the base of the steps and turned to look at Luke.

“This is your expedition,” he said sincerely. He reached up, almost as if he wanted to touch Luke, but stopped himself. “You’re the heart and soul of this trip. You and this crew have been good to me over the past couple of years, you know. I’d follow you anywhere.”

“And what better opportunity to prove that than this wild goose chase?” Luke laughed and handed Kyle his jacket. “Thank you. I’m really glad the gang’s with me on this.” He turned to go to his room, the grin never leaving his face.

Luke pushed the door to his quarters open, shoving at it with his shoulder to widen the entrance. He’d been having to slip in and out of the narrow opening due to the stacks of boxes piled all around the room. Scrolls of maps and schematics littered every surface and boxes of records were stacked so high that Luke feared a paper avalanche might happen at any minute. Even the bed was buried somewhere under the journals and books. As much as he would like to excuse the mess as part of the expedition, both he and his friends knew better.

This was Luke’s collection, formed over the last eighteen years. It was his life’s work, which had started when he was only eight years old. Luke crossed the room and looked over his belongings, eventually coming to stand in front of the culmination of it all—his maritime archeology degree. He smiled sadly.

“This one’s for you, Gam.” Next to the degree hung an old black-and-white photograph of his great-grandmother, Lucinda Hughes. It had been taken back in the thirties and showed Lucinda posing on the beach, a soft breeze lifting her curls and a dazzling smile lighting up the camera. Luke touched the frame, then backed away. He had a lot of work to do before they reached the site.

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About the Author

Lori Fayre

Lori Fayre was born and raised in a small South Georgia town. Her debut novel, “The Devil’s Maverick”, was a novel nearly six years in the making. An obsessive consumer of romance, Lori knew it was the only genre for her. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, drawing, or binging Hulu with her husband and Yorkie.

You can find Lori on Twitter and at her website here.

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Sep 07

New Release Blitz ~ Challenge Accepted by Jaqueline Snowe (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Challenge Accepted by Jaqueline Snowe

Book 1 in the Cleat Chasers series

General Release Date: 7th September 2021

Word Count: 85,147
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 329

Genres:

CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
FRIENDS TO LOVERS
SPORTS

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Book Description


College is all about learning, right?

Most college girls ‘swipe right’ to meet the right guy—Callie meets All-Star pitcher Zade while he’s buying tampons. College is all about learning, right?

How often do you meet your dream guy buying tampons at Target? Never, right? For Callie, a baseball-loving, hardworking college student, it happened just once. The magic was too real, too fast and too much, so she left the store without exchanging names.

But fate works in wonderful ways, right?

Zade Willows, the All-Star pitcher rumored to be drafted his senior year, gets what he wants. He has a fan club who follow his every move, but when he meets Callie, the game changes. She knows all his plays and that the game always ends—in heartbreak. But Zade doesn’t back down and is willing to try anything.

He’ll eventually get the girl, right?

Reader advisory: This book was previously released by Finch Books.

Excerpt

“Get your gorgeous ass in here and give me a hug.” Greta slammed the door open with her foot and jumped into my arms. She smelled the same as she had done in high school—floral and sweet. God, I had missed the hell out of my girl. She’d always been a violent hugger and the tradition continued. My lungs were gasping for air by the time she let go.

“Sorry I’m late.” I lugged the suitcase into the apartment and grinned at her motherly expression.

“Unless the reason is some hot guy or some awesome story, then I’ll remained pissed at you for another two minutes. I got afraid—”

“That I backed out? Me?” I held up my hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t back out of our pact from ten years ago. I wouldn’t dare.”

“Glad you learned something from your year off,” she mumbled loud enough for me to hear. We both had a mutual hatred of the deal my parents had forced me to accept and I understood her anger disguised the worry about this not happening. We’d dreamed about living together since we’d become best friends in fifth grade—when two kids get caught cheating on a math test, it forms a bond that’s hard to break.

“I learned, like, two things,” I replied to her comment and she skipped to my bedroom for the next year. “This is my room?”

“Yes!” she cheered. I’d expected the room to be small and I gasped when I saw a dresser, a built-in desk and a twin bed. “Wait here, I have a present for you.”

I obeyed her command and set my cases on the floor. I could fit every piece of clothing I owned in the closet, and maybe a little more. It could even serve as an extra bedroom if needed. I’d lived in my childhood home my entire life. The last year…it had been hell taking a year off to prove to my dad I could make it on my own. Pure hell. But I’d made it and it pleased me to be on my own for the first time.

“Here. I bought it for you.” She waltzed back into the bedroom with a package wrapped in sparkly paper. Greta would buy sparkly paper. “It’s nothing big, just a welcome present.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything, Greta. Come on.” I frowned at the gift, damn well knowing her kindness knew no bounds. She shoved it into my hands, despite my reluctance. “Fine.”

I opened it up to find the very first picture of the two of us, taken when we’d been in our band in high school. I met her eyes and we shared a smile. “Good lord. Why did we name ourselves the Crazy Gals again?”

“Because our names start with C and G. Obviously that made sense when we were fourteen.”

“I regret the name choice, but still dig the outfits.” Closing my eyes in shame, I swallowed down the memory of gaucho pants, clogs and popped-collared shirts.

She shuddered. “Oh, lord. Not me. I regret the outfit, not the name.” Greta’s legs had more style than I had in my entire body. She’d won best dressed in high school. Even now, she wore a trendy sundress with a hat while I was wearing ripped jean shorts and a vintage band tank top. “I have another gift for you, but you cannot get mad.”

“That’s a great opener. No promises, G.”

“It’s kind of small.” She bit her lip and pulled out something from her pocket. What the hell? Sundresses have pockets? A shadow of apprehension crossed her face and I worried what the fuck she’d gotten me.

I took the sticker from her hand, already planning where to put it. “I freaking love it.”

“I know you really don’t play in bands anymore, but you still have the same case.” She motioned her head to the guitar case I’d set down earlier.

“Of course I do.” I collected stickers from everywhere I went or from any large moment in my life. I peeled back the paper and placed the new college sticker on the front of the case, right in the center. Big. Freaking. Deal. “Thanks, Greta.”

“Phew. I’m super happy you love it. I’d been nervous, like, what if you hated it and used your guitar to beat me senseless? Or, what if you assumed we were getting back in business?”

“Greta. Am I crazy?”

“I’ve seen you punch two girls in the face. At the same time, I might add.” She bit back a grin and pointed down the narrow hallway. “Kitchen is down the hall to the right. I already know your first question.”

“Obviously.” I eyed the tile and large counters, sighing in pleasure. They were perfect. “Those girls deserved it, though. Sure, we were in a mosh pit, but they pushed a girl in a cast.” I smiled at the memory.

“Your smile alone is why you’re crazy.”

I flipped her off and she closed the distance between us with open arms. “I’m damn glad you’re going to be my roomie. I’m proud of you. You beat your dad at his own game and I love you more because of that.”

“Love you, too. Now, that’s enough affection. I need to paint my room black or something.” I blinked away the emotions that bubbled up. Those words, coming from her, meant much more than she might ever realize.

“This is going to be hella fun!” she squealed and squished me for another hug.

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First For Romance

About the Author

Jaqueline Snowe

Jaqueline Snowe lives in Arizona where the ‘dry heat’ really isn’t that bad. She enjoys making lists with colorful Post-it notes and sipping coffee all day. She has been a custodian, a waitress, a landscaper, a coach and a teacher. Her life revolves around binge-watching Netflix, her two dogs who don’t realize they aren’t humans and her wonderful baseball-loving husband.

You can take a look at Jaqueline’s Website and Blog and you can also follow her on Facebook and Twitter.

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Sep 06

New Release Blitz: The Acquisition by Rachel Ford (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  The Acquisition

Author: Rachel Ford

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/06/2021

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 94600

Genre: Contemporary Thriller, LGBTQIA+, contemporary, lesbian, action/adventure, reverse hero’s journey, suspense, humorous, revenge, workplace drama/office workers, tech secret espionage, pets, cruise ship, violence with guns, family drama

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Description

When Sutherland Bio buys up the little bio research firm Human Resources specialist Angela McCormack works for, she tries to adapt. Even though her shady new boss’s smarminess and sexism makes her stomach turn. She sticks it out through the verbal abuse, and through the benefit cuts and layoffs.

But when her boss, George Sutherland Jr., tasks her to recruit replacements for the people he laid off—and lets it slip that the layoffs were just part of a regime change strategy—she’s ready to throw in the towel. As much as she hates the idea of shoveling manure again, she’d rather return to her family’s farm and petting zoo than stay with Sutherland Bio.

Then George Jr. takes a particularly bad day out on her. And Angela decides she’s tired of the humiliation. She’s going to fight fire with fire. She makes it her mission to fill George Jr.’s team with the worst possible candidates she can find.

But she didn’t take into account falling for one of the new hires. All of a sudden, she’s not sure she wants to leave. Not yet.

And that’s just the first chicken to come home to roost. Little does she know, George has plenty of secrets of his own. And when one of them turns deadly, Angela will have to rely on her handpicked sabotage crew for survival. She might just wish she was back home shoveling manure after all.

Excerpt

The Acquisition
Rachel Ford © 2021
All Rights Reserved

You don’t piss off the person making your food. You don’t piss off the woman who gave birth to you. And you don’t piss off the HR lady. Everyone knows that.

Everyone, it seemed, except George Maxwell Sutherland, Jr. As with most memos, George Maxwell Sutherland, Jr. had missed that one. Along with the one about manners. And treating employees with respect. And showering every day instead of wearing a bucket of cologne to work.

Angela McCormack wrinkled her nose and stared at her boss’s feet. They were at eye level since he had them propped up on his desk. The sight made her stomach turn a little. It wasn’t so much the untrimmed talons on the ends of his toes, or the hobbit-like growth of untamed hair. It was the fact that she could see them at all. And the no-feet-on-the-furniture and don’t wear flipflops into work when you’re the CEO memos.

Yes, there were quite a few memos George Maxwell Sutherland, Jr. had missed. But at the moment, it was the one about not downsizing people out of their jobs just to recreate the same position two months later that weighed the heaviest on her mind. Because, unless she’d misunderstood everything he had just said, that’s what he was doing here. And despite George’s propensity to torture a simple sentence into a longwinded monologue for the sole pleasure of hearing himself talk, she was pretty sure she hadn’t got it wrong.

“Excuse me, Mr. Sutherland,” she said, “just to clarify, we’re refilling the positions we just downsized?”

He cocked an eyebrow up at her. “No, not at all. These are different positions, Angie.”

God, she hated when he called her Angie. “Yes sir, I heard you say that. But if I’m understanding you, the titles will be different, but the positions will fill the same basic function as before. We’re looking for an IT team lead to replace Dawn. You need a Director of Business Services to pick up where Mark left off, and so on?”

He flashed her a toothy grin that, she supposed, he assumed was charming. It wasn’t. It was the kind of smile she’d expect from someone selling a car that probably wouldn’t make it out of the lot. “Now you’re getting it. You know how it goes. New era, new regime. If I’m going to do this right, well, I need people I can trust.”

He studied her for a long moment with keen blue eyes. “That’s why I kept you on. I had a good feeling about you. And you know what I say—I’m a man who goes with his gut.”

Angela McCormack forced a smile and lied through her teeth. “Of course, sir. You can always trust me.”

“Don’t call me sir. Call me George.” He smiled again. He smiled too much for her liking. Grinning CEO’s, smiling politicians, and gas station sushi: she reserved the same measure of trust for each of them. “Now, I’d like these listings up by Friday. Is that something we can do?”

We. As if he’d lift a finger to help.

“I’ll get the drafts to you by the end of the day tomorrow. If the revision process goes smoothly, I don’t see why not.”

He nodded. “Excellent. Excellent. Well, that was all I had, then. Oh, my dry cleaning’s not back yet, is it?”

“No sir. I mean, no, George.”

He winked and clicked his tongue as a kind of sound effect to match the finger guns he aimed her way. “That’s better. I don’t like a formal workplace. I’m all about casual. I think it builds better morale. Don’t you?”

Angela smiled and lied again. “Oh, absolutely.”

She had nothing against casual, as long as it wasn’t the kind of casual that involved dirty hobbit feet on the desk. But George had come into Fenwood Bio like a whirlwind, laying off staff, axing benefits, and implementing draconian cost reduction programs within his first two weeks. The turnover rate was already higher than the layoffs. Which was one of several reasons why she was currently filling the role of the entire HR department, as well as admin, IT department, and supply requisitions. All for the same salary as before, of course, but with a much slimmer retirement package, and no life insurance benefits.

No, Angela McCormack didn’t want to hear the word “morale” pass his lips. He’d personally shredded every last bit of it and flushed it down the toilet.

“Me too. You might say, it’s one of my core philosophies.” He nodded, to himself it seemed, then added, “Well, I’ll let you get to work, then.”

She didn’t mind the dismissal. Hell, it couldn’t come soon enough as far as she was concerned. “Right.”

Retreating to her office and closing the door after her, Angela breathed out a long sigh of relief. She hadn’t been afraid he’d called her in to lay her off. He’d gotten that out of his system within the first few weeks. Still, she’d seen so many come and go, she would have been lying if she said the thought hadn’t occurred to her.

Mostly, she detested him. And she had the kind of face that didn’t know how to use its inside voice. When someone tripped her BS trigger, well, her face broadcast it loud and clear before she even realized it.

George Maxwell Sutherland, Jr. lived in the BS zone. And Angela McCormack needed her job. She had a mortgage and a house she loved. Sure, she could have found a job elsewhere that would have paid as well, or maybe a little better. But she didn’t want to give up her house. Not after all the years she’d spent restoring it, a room at a time.

Nor did she want to leave Fenwood. She’d grown up here, and she planned to grow old here. Older, she thought with a sour glance at the calendar. She’d be thirty-five in two days. She didn’t want to have to start over at thirty-five.

And that’s exactly what finding a new job in human resources would be. Fenwood Bio—now Sutherland Bio Research—was the biggest employer in the area, and those companies that did have HR departments weren’t hiring.

She knew because she’d checked. So, if she was going to find another job, it would mean leaving the area. It would mean moving a hundred miles south, or seventy-five miles north, or even farther east and west.

Fenwood was one of those smack-in-the-middle-of-nowhere towns, with more cows and horses than people. You either loved it or hated it.

Angela loved it, and she didn’t want to leave.

So, she pulled open her archaic software suite and started filling in the job listings they’d talked about. Did it make her a modern-day Judas Iscariot, helping this son of a bitch after he’d fired so many of her friends on the pretense that their jobs were redundant, now that Sutherland Bio Research had acquired them?

Maybe. Then again, Judas didn’t have a mortgage. Angela stared at the screen, trying to focus on the work. But the work didn’t—couldn’t—make up for the feeling in the pit of her stomach. The feeling of betrayal that left her a little sick. God, I hate this job.

She started as her messenger application dinged. Glancing at the clock on her desktop, she frowned. Somehow, half an hour had already passed.

Angela brought up the messenger window and groaned. It was George, and he’d flagged the chat as a high priority.

Can you come to my office?

Grimacing, she typed, On my way.

Angela practiced her fake smile on the way. It probably wouldn’t have convinced anyone who wasn’t as obtuse as George, but at least it wouldn’t be scary. Or, so she hoped anyway.

She knocked on his closed door and immediately heard, “Come in.” She did, and Sutherland smiled at her. “Ah, Angie. Thank goodness. We’ve got a situation.”

Oh no. “Oh?”

“I forgot I had an appointment this morning.”

“Really? I didn’t see anything in your schedule.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you about it. I would have had you add it to the calendar. But that’s not the issue. Point is, we don’t have anything for them to eat.”

Now, she did grimace. So far this month, he’d sent her on eighty-some dollars’ worth of coffee runs, lunch pickups, and pastry runs. For a millionaire, Mr. Sutherland was chronically short of cash. It had all gone on “the tab.”

The tab didn’t exist, except as a figment of his imagination. Angela had her doubts that it would ever be settled. He’d pay off ten or twenty bucks here and there. But it always seemed larger than whatever cash he happened to have on hand.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Whatever you can find.”

“When are they going to be here?”

“Nine-thirtyish. Maybe ten. I’m not really sure. They were going to be here when they could. They’re flying in from Philly. Shit.” He shook his head. “I need to have something here for them. They probably haven’t eaten yet.”

Despite herself, Angela felt his tension get to work on her mind. “Well, I can put a call into Tealeaves & Coffeecake. I’m sure we can get a breakfast tray.”

He nodded. “Good. Good, their stuff is good. For Fenwood food anyway. See if you can get one of those breakfast quiches, and pastries.”

“Will do.”

“Nothing with mushrooms though. I can’t stand them.”

“Got it.”

“Oh, and what are we going to do about coffee?”

“I’ll make sure we have a pot freshly brewed by nine-thirty.” It wasn’t her job, but if it quelled a panic? Well, Angela would do it.

But George wrinkled his nose. “I’m not going to force them to drink that crap.”

She blinked. “You mean, the office coffee?”

He nodded as if she was agreeing with him somehow. “You’ll have to get one of those jugs of coffee. French roast. You know how I like it.”

“All right,” she said, then added, “I’ll let you know how much it costs.”

He nodded absently. “Sounds good. Thanks, Angie, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Anytime,” she said, leaving his office before the scowl set in.

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Meet the Author

Award-winning author Rachel Ford is a software engineer by day, and a writer most of the rest of the time. She is a Trekkie, a video gamer, and a dog parent, owned by a Great Pyrenees named Elim Garak and a mutt of many kinds named Fox (for the inspired reason that he looks like a fox).

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Sep 06

New Release Blitz: Punk Disco Bohemian by Arya F. Jenkins (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Punk Disco Bohemian

Author: Arya F. Jenkins

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/06/2021

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 41300

Genre: Historical 1970s, LGBTQIA+, coming of age, Provincetown, 1970s, historical, memoir, multicultural, jazz, disco, women, queer, lesfic

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Description

It’s the 1973 and seventeen-year old, multicultural Ali is on the run from suburbia, since her best friend has left for college and home has turned into a nightmare—a druggy brother and a mother who has hooked up with another man since Ali’s father disappeared.

Ali wants to let loose, find herself sexually, experience real freedom, and she hopes to do this in the one place she remembers being happy as a kid, when her family spent summer vacations on Cape Cod.

Provincetown has always represented freedom with a capital F to Ali. In the 1970s, Provincetown is a queer mecca, afire with gay people and a burgeoning disco scene. Ali quickly gets sucked into a partying lifestyle and starts sleeping around to gain experience. For Ali, it’s a time of growth and unraveling, of coming to terms with truth while letting go of the past. But Ali’s search could come at a price. Will she find herself? Love? Freedom? And is she willing to pay the price for them?

Excerpt

Punk Disco Bohemian
Arya F. Jenkins © 2021
All Rights Reserved

When it came time to fly, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” accompanied me on the radio. I turned up the volume and beat the wheel of the Rabbit with the heel of my palm. I was going to the Garden of Life. I rolled down the window and let the November wind whip my hair. Next came “Dazed and Confused.” I heard go, go, go, go in my head while the fuzzy image of a cat on my windshield, probably no more than a mirage of cigarette smoke, impelled me on.

“You begin the moment you believe you can fly,” I had written in my diary, unsure of what I meant, liking the sound of the words, enthralled with the idea of flying and beginnings.

Behind me I had my Spanish guitar and small stereo system, both gifts from Dad, red ski jacket, lamb’s wool vest, rolled-up sleeping bag, pillow, knapsack with a couple of changes of clothes and, ridiculously, a pair of white tennis culottes I’d worn months before as if I was heading into summer, toothbrush, comb, journal, pens, Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying, and a cardboard box in which were albums by Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck, and John Coltrane that had belonged to Dad, as well as my own eclectic collection by Santana, Richie Havens, Nina Simone, Deodato, Elton John, James Taylor, Cream, Joni Mitchell, and Led Zeppelin, each thing precious, a memento.

I’d taken off in the car meant to be my brother’s and mine and imagined Buddy peeved as hell, realizing he would have to mooch rides now that his wheels were gone. It was his fault for ripping me off, taking money I’d stashed inside a book from my job at a gift shop to save up for now. Who else would have done it?

When it came time to gas up, I went to the nearest phone booth to do the one thing I did not want to do that day, call home.

“Yes, operator. Collect. Mrs. Baines, from Ali. The number is 2-0-3-9-6-6-5-3-7-3.” A few rings beat slow time to my racing heart, and then someone picked up.

“Hey, Maman, Ali here.” I tried to be casual. “I want you to know I’m not coming home.”

“Ali, where are you?” Mom’s voice sounded remote. I gave no answer. Then she said, “Are you sure?”

“Nowhere. I’m not coming home. That’s all you need to know. Bye, Mom.”

The words “I hope you and Buddy will be okay” came to me, but why would I say them? Sentimentality would derail me from my goal. Buddy, Mom, and Dad were all part of the past now.

Three years before, at fourteen, I’d run off to Greenwich Village. My dress rehearsal, I think now. I felt pulled in a hundred directions at home and school, and I had nightmares from which I awoke in a sweat. In one, I saw myself crucified on a cross while being split in two. In another, I ran through woods only to come upon an empty box through which wind whistled. Why did that scare me so? The songs of the day, Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Goin’ On” and others by The Temptations, Edwin Starr, Simon and Garfunkel, and James Taylor, all spoke to feelings I tried to hide. Angst and despair were roiling the country too.

Whose hand did you reach out to, to pull you out of the darkness? I didn’t know. I listened to songs, hoping to learn. All I got was turmoil and my body telling me to run. One day, instead of going to school, I turned in the opposite direction from the bus and just kept going.

To myself I was something strange, cut out of myriad boxes, unfit to be part of anything. In first or second grade, a kid at school asked me, “Are you a savage?” I had the distinction of being the only brown kid in my class and the entire school. Maman had a dark complexion too. It would be years before I would see a Black person or anyone of color in New Canaan. Its main street glimmered white, its people were white, its clubs white, its ethos white. In this cold, subtly and blatantly exclusionary world, white middle-class women who had been abandoned, divorced, or widowed were at the bottom of the white tier, and suffered too. I got to see that close up.

As a kid I was the odd one out. My exotic, buxom Argentinean and French mother might have been in movies. My eyes were dark and fierce; my hair, black with reddish highlights, like Gra-mere’s. I have never known anyone besides us with hair naturally like that. My fluency in three languages, all of which I went in and out of easily with my parents and grandparents, added to my feeling different, like a nerd. In a family with a beautiful mother and a brother who resembled our handsome blond American dad, I was the alien.

My first time taking off, I hitchhiked toward New York City and spent my first night in a gas station bathroom. The next day I hit the West Village, where I hung with hippies, druggies, and other runaways, all of us following the same trail of dope and free music in St. Mark’s Place and Washington Square Park. I spent most of the time panhandling, my hand out, head down, leaning against buildings or standing on corners. Hardly anyone gave me a dime. Passersby glimpsed a skinny kid with hair in front of her face, wearing a tie-dyed top, jeans, and filthy Converse high-tops, a cigarette dangling from her fingers or mouth, every parent’s worst nightmare—maybe every kid’s too.

I tried going with the flow to survive. If what I went through at home was bad, this too was a kind of hell. One time, two bikers fought over me when I hadn’t said a word to either, not even given them a look. I tried not to look at people, afraid my stares set fires. One of the guys, a Vietnam vet, said whenever he rode his bike, he hallucinated trails from his acid-taking days. The burly one with a beard and leather vest called him full of shit. Somehow, I became a subject, and their fistfight drew a crowd, which allowed me to escape! Another time, a greasy-haired hippie with stained front teeth peered into my eyes and, cocking his head, inquired, “Do you know where it is? Tell me where it is, baby.” Those weird times spooked me.

On the streets, Blacks and whites commingled freely in a diverse scene, a world in which to be different was an emblem rather than mark against you. You were looked up to for it. I no longer felt isolated like at home, no longer imprisoned by false, stifling selves. Only as a runaway did I begin talking about myself and my life. There were so many stories on the street, and they interlaced like multicolored threads, a quipu of history.

“Your gra-mere must have been some crazy babe,” Leroy said after I told him how my mother’s mother, someone I loved madly, would do backbends while balancing a full champagne glass on her forehead.

“Yeah, like the Jimi Hendrix of grandmas, a surprise around every corner.”

“I love it. I love it,” he said.

Leroy was tall, slim with beautiful, expressive hands, and made me think of Hendrix, save for the mole high on his right cheek and his moss-green eyes. He had lost two older brothers, Jamal and Tyrone, in prison gang fights. After his mama died, Leroy turned to the streets, making enough to get by sewing people’s clothes, patching them up in exchange for money and stuff. He always had a basket at his side of discarded materials people had given him, along with his sewing needles and threads, and wore patchwork jeans like a colorful trip.

Ingenious and talented, he took a white silk sash and made a turban around my head. “You look like a swami”—then wrapped it around my body—“Now you are Artemis.” He scrunched up his nose, putting one closed hand under his chin. “Actually, you look more like Audrey Hepburn in the party scene of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” We laughed. I wore the sash as a belt, then as a scarf for days.

All Leroy wanted, he said, was to live free and avoid prison. In ’63, as a boy, with his brother Tyrone already behind bars for dealing dope, he and his mother marched in DC and attended Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech.

“Air was electric, man. I never saw so many Black folks and white folks together in my life. Like heaven. After that, we got the rights.” He shook his head, full of irony. “People of color ain’t ever gonna be free long as white people run the world.”

I closed my eyes to mull his words, adding to myself, white men, as long as white men rule.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Arya F. Jenkins’s fiction has been published in many journals and zines. Her short stories have received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize. She is the author of three poetry chapbooks and a short story collection, Blue Songs in an Open Key (Fomite, 2018). Another collection, Angel in Paris & Other Stories, is forthcoming through NineStar Press in 2022.

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Sep 06

New Release Blitz: Breaking the Shackles by Mell Eight (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Breaking the Shackles

Series: Dragon’s Hoard, Book Two

Author: Mell Eight

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/06/2021

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 23600

Genre: Paranormal, LGBTQIA+, bonded mates, royalty, interspecies, mythical creatures, shifters

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Description

Separated and abused by the magi, twins Laine and Baine each swore to do whatever it took to break free and save the other. But when Baine arrives at the werewolf village prepared to rescue Laine and return home triumphant, he soon learns that any plan involving a dragon and a werewolf is bound to go awry.

Excerpt

Breaking the Shackles
Mell Eight © 2021
All Rights Reserved

The haze covering Laine’s mind faded. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings and flinched at that realization. Awareness equaled pain: pain from the knowledge of those who had been so violently lost and pain as his own flesh writhed from the cruel ministrations of the creatures that had taken control of him.

The magi, his mind hissed. The magi had taken him captive with five others of his clan. Only he remained alive. The return of memories that came with his first moments free of the haze was one of the reasons Laine so hated each return to consciousness.

As the haze further retreated, Laine expected to feel a whip on his back or an excruciating pull as his magic was forcibly drained from his body. His magic gave him life eternal, brought breath to his body, and made his heart pump. Without it, the other five of his clan had perished, gasping for air they could no longer breathe for hearts that could no longer beat. The magi stole the magic that gave them life, and they died.

Shackles surrounded Laine’s upper arms, but pain did not wrack his body. His magic felt strong and hale, as if the magi had not drawn from him in hours. Strange, and worrying. What twisted plan did the magi have in store for him now?

Laine’s surroundings came further into focus. He felt like he was riding on something. His body was lifting and lowering in the air as whatever he was tied to bounded forward. His fingers were clenched in what felt like fur.

Laine did not open his eyes. That would alert the magi that he was awake and aware, which would lead to more pain. Instead, Laine enjoyed the soothing feeling of the fur below him. His mind drifted away into a dream—one in which he watched the magi die.

Wolves howled in the woods. One of the magi tugging Laine along the tangled forest path swore. The wolves were truly wondrous creatures. They broke cover and appeared in the clearing. One wolf with a white muzzle, as if he had dipped his nose in a bottle of milk and hadn’t yet licked himself clean, stood out. That wolf killed the magi who liked to giggle when he drew power from Laine.

Two more wolves appeared, the first a female of russet color and the second a light-brown male with large black splotches on his back. Together they ripped apart the magi’s second-in-command, a man with long brown hair and light-blond stripes growing from his temples. Laine found it strange that the magi bled the same color as Laine’s back did whenever the man gleefully used his whip.

And then a beautiful dark-brown wolf with the deepest, most wonderful brown eyes appeared in front of Laine and dove directly at the magi holding him captive. The connection between them snapped as the magi used both hands to defend himself against the wolf. Laine fell to the ground, released from the magi’s clutches. Claws slashed wickedly as the wolf backed the magi into a tree. Every time the magi opened his mouth to lay a coercion spell, the wolf increased the fervor of his attacks until all the magi could do was gasp and bleed. The wolf ripped the leader of the magi’s throat out soon after. Laine glimpsed the long black hair with two white stripes growing from the temples before a spray of blood disfigured the leader’s face forever.

The dream ended with Laine sitting on the forest floor while blood and wolves surrounded him. Even in the dream he returned to the haze. Laine wished it were possible for such things to come true. For the magi to be dead and Laine to be free. Well, it was a nice dream, but reality abhorred dreams.

Laine drifted. Hours, days…he couldn’t keep track of time. He didn’t want to keep track of time.

When he came to again, the situation had grown stranger. His side was warm and he heard crackling. Was he lying in front of a fire? He lay on a real bed with feathers and a pillow. A blanket was even tucked around his body. How many years had it been since Laine had felt the comfort of a simple blanket? He didn’t keep track of time for a reason.

He knew it would alert the enemy if he moved, but Laine couldn’t help it. He curled deeper into the warmth of the mattress and pulled the blanket over his shoulders. Laine ignored the shocked whispers behind him. Surrounded by unfamiliar comfort, his body fell into a real sleep—the first in a very, very long time.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

When Mell Eight was in high school, she discovered dragons. Beautiful, wondrous creatures that took her on epic adventures both to faraway lands and on journeys of the heart. Mell wanted to create dragons of her own, so she put pen to paper. Mell Eight is now known for her own soaring dragons, as well as for other wonderful characters dancing across the pages of her books. While she mostly writes paranormal or fantasy stories, she has been seen exploring the real world once or twice.

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Sep 03

Book Blitz: Siren’s Love Song by Alexa Piper (Excerpt & Giveaway)

Title:  Siren’s Love Song

Series: Elvenswood Tales 4

Author: Alexa Piper

Publisher: Changeling Press LLC

Release Date: September 3, 2021

Heat Level: 4 – Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 124

Genre: Romance, Elves, Dragons & Magical Creatures, Gay, Magic, Vampires, Zombies, Action Adventure, Paranormal, Urban Fantasy

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Synopsis

As a siren, Mike has a voice to sway a human heart. But he is a lawyer first, and when he meets a cute librarian, it’s Mike who is being swayed. Before the siren knows it, a chance meeting is turning into passionate love.

Corvin loves books and is passionate about being a librarian. When a tall, dark, and extremely handsome lawyer walks into his life, he is over the moon and in love. Yes, Mike likes humming and singing, and Mike’s boss is a little odd, but Corvin knows Mike loves him, and that is all that counts.

Mike has been keeping his siren nature a secret from Corvin, and with each passing day, with each step they take toward each other, telling the human he loves what Mike truly is becomes more difficult for Mike. Yet, when they are about to leave the city and take a beach vacation so Mike can work up the nerve to tell Corvin, a jealous necromancer ex shows up and tells Mike he wants him back. Now, Corvin needs to know what Mike really is. All Mike can do is hope that their love will be enough to make Corvin accept him as worlds and desires clash.

Excerpt

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2021 Alexa Piper

Mike had always thought that the background music the supermarket near New Elvenswood’s university campus spouted from the hidden speakers was about as cultured as a day-old piece of gum stuck to the sole of a smelly running shoe, yet here he was. Granted, he hadn’t come for the music, but for the almost ridiculously wide selection of spices on offer. Specifically the cayenne pepper was the best and Mike’s reason for enduring the music. Two baggies of the stuff were already in Mike’s shopping basket.

Mike let his eyes wander over the various salts the market had in stock. They had anything from pink to black, from coarse to fine, and a part of Mike was wondering why he was even bothering with the fancy ones when he really just needed salt for cooking, for pasta water essentially. He sighed, scratched the back of his head, and picked out a pink variety, which went into his shopping basket to keep the cayenne pepper company.

I think pink salt from some mine somewhere on another continent just became the highlight of today.  Mike thought back to the rest of the day, which he’d spent reviewing contracts for a selkie client.

Mike left the spice aisle behind and headed to the produce section. He enjoyed cooking, even after a long day, because something about preparing the food without hurry just made him relax. He liked cooking for friends as well but had never minded just doing it for himself. As he picked out bell peppers, Mike began to hum a low melody, which barely drowned out the ugly background music the store used to torture all shoppers.

Turning to the ginger root, Mike caught sight of another shopper, though he actually looked at the shopper only after he saw the man’s T-shirt.  I am a DRAGON, look how I boar, it read, displaying a grumpy cartoon boar, half hidden by a pink dragon costume. That T-shirt was wonderfully ridiculous, and Mike found himself smiling.

The man who wore it under a neat black denim jacket didn’t notice. He was too engrossed with the pineapples, picking one up and giving it a critical look, then putting it down again and subjecting its neighbor to the same scrutiny. The whole thing looked, for lack of a better word, cute.

Mike cleared his throat, and the man looked from his pineapple to Mike. Dragon T-shirt had brilliant green eyes. “You want them just slightly soft when you squeeze the shell. Definitely not hard,” Mike told the other man.

“My mother told me not to trust men who have such strong opinions about pineapples,” Dragon T-shirt said. His blond hair fell over his eyebrows and almost tangled in his dark lashes, and Mike felt the sudden urge to brush those soft curls out of the way. Dragon T-shirt had a bubbly voice, a bit higher than Mike’s own, and with an excitable, bright echo to it.

Mike nodded thoughtfully. “I assure you, that was no opinion, just an observation.” He leaned over the pile of ginger root in front of him. “But if you care for my opinion, it’s the dragon fruit lovers who are all kinds of trouble.” He tilted his head. “Nice T-shirt, by the way.”

To Dragon T-shirt’s credit, he never looked down to his own T-shirt. “Thank you. I like a man who knows soaring fashion when he sees it.” He blinked, then held out the pineapple to Mike. “Check this for me.”

Mike took the offered fruit. It felt fine to him, but he still walked around the aisle until he stood next to Dragon T-shirt. Mike put the pineapple he’d been handed back down and picked out another, made a small show of examining it, and then handed that to Dragon T-shirt. “Here. This’ll be sweet.”

And Dragon T-shirt actually licked his bottom lip before he took the fruit from Mike. Their fingers brushed against each other’s, and Mike wanted to launch into a low hum at the contact, but he didn’t. Few supernaturals would willingly stick out like Dragon T-shirt, and so Mike had to assume this cute man with a hankering for pineapple was all human.

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

Meet the Author

Alexa Piper writes steamy romance that ranges from light to dark, from straight to queer. She’s also a coffee addict. Alexa loves writing stories that make her readers laugh and fall in love with the characters in them. Connect with Alexa on Facebook or Instagram, follow her on Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter!

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