Archive for the 'Friends' Category
What would you do with 72 HOURS?
September 24, 2010 | Friends
Clare London’s signature line says it all; Writing… Man to Man, and no one does it better. Like so few female authors in this genre, Clare writes male emotions with an honesty and depth that weave you into her stories. Her latest release, 72 HOURS, proves it.
Here’s a glimpse of this compelling story.
72 HOURS
Clare London
Dreamspinner Press
BLURB:
Tanner Mackay and Niall Sutherland were once far more than just fellow intelligence agents. But then a mission went horribly wrong and everything fell apart, sending Tanner into hiding and splitting the team and their affair wide apart.
Now an unknown traitor is threatening the team, and their ex-boss is determined to reunite them before it’s too late. She finds Tanner in a run-down trailer park, bringing with her a most unwelcome refugee, in need of temporary sanctuary: Niall, the man he thought he’d never have to face again. The man he’s sure feels exactly the same in return.
Trapped in a situation that’s both claustrophobic and highly dangerous, Tanner and Niall will have to revisit their past and reconsider their perceptions, their loyalties—and their desires—in order to survive, let alone forge a future together.
EXCERPT:
Niall kissed like a demon, but a very sweet, very sincere demon. His tongue was hot and fast and fucking gorgeous. He tasted of the wine, the pasta sauce and the mints that came with the check. He pressed fiercely against me, like he’d been holding himself back for the last hour but was now released from whatever inhibitions he’d had, and his hands twisted sharply into my hair at the back of my neck. I could feel strands working loose from the tie and his fingertips pressing on the thin skin at the nape. His eyes were open, watching my reactions, and his hands never strayed past my shoulders. He was waiting, I think, to double check I was okay with it all.
I may have been an acting coach at work, but no one had ever accused me of being difficult to read when it came to sex, whether kissing or something far more intimate. I slid both my arms around his waist and pulled him closer, tight against my body. My lips pressed back hard against his and I gasped my willingness into his mouth. I felt his body tighten and the muscles slide against my own, all the way from torso to knee. The door eased open behind us and we half-fell into the hallway, laughing, groaning, still nipping at each other’s lips.
“Which floor?” he gasped.
“Fifth.” I’d never cursed the broken elevator as soundly as I did that night. We stumbled up all five flights, bumping our bones on the banister, scuffing our shoes against the wall. From the way we clung to each other, we were like a single, melded body with two sets of limbs. I nudged him around each landing, taking every chance to run my hands inside his jacket and down his sides, his ribs and torso tantalizing me from underneath the thin shirt material. As I groped for the keys to my apartment, he seemed to be the only thing holding me upright, clutching my shoulders and gasping into my neck, his fingertips tracing the pulse in my throat, caressing my skin with the damp heat of his palms.
We tumbled again through a doorway, panting from our exertions and from a barely contained passion. But this time when I kicked the door closed behind us, I knew it was just us now; just the two of us, blessed privacy, and a mounting excitement that had consumed any shred of sense left in my brain.
The music playing in my apartment? It was pure soul… a low, slow beat and a voice rich with sensuous humor in every syllable and tone. I barely registered, except to feel the familiar comfort of it around me. Kind of my favorite music, coincidence or not.
And all those worries I had about the state of my place? Thankfully, we never went anywhere near the kitchen to check up on my housekeeping abilities. We also bypassed the lounge where, in fact, there were several piles of laundry on the couch, some clean and some embarrassingly crumpled. As we staggered down my narrow hallway, he shrugged off his jacket and I dropped my keys someplace I didn’t see and, frankly, didn’t care. I toed off my boots and socks in a trail of laughter and hot breathy kisses. When I mumbled something about the coffee I’d promised him, he laughed directly into my face and kissed me again, so soundly that my eyes closed and I felt his taste seep into my very veins. I felt him kicking off his own shoes and fumbling at my buttons. I’d wanted to take some time, to savor the suspense of peeling his clothes off of him – to tease him, perhaps, with my own unwrapping. Then his hands came up underneath the cool fabric of my shirt, running fingertips across my exposed nipples, and suddenly instantaneous nakedness would have been way too slow for me.
The bedroom wasn’t hard to find, mainly because I pushed him bodily through the door, and we fell onto the bed, entwined again as that four-limbed beast. By now, my shirt was hanging from my body by nothing more than a single sleeve, but in return I’d managed to open his without ripping off any buttons in my impatience, and also tug down the zip of his pants. He palmed my groin, molding his hand around the swollen excitement under my jeans, but I had a hand inside the cloth of his underwear and I had a hold of flesh – damp, hot, amongst curls of hair already sticky with excitement – and I was making him groan aloud in a very satisfying way.
He felt exquisite. Precious. I couldn’t understand my reverence, but there was no mistaking it. I’d never felt like that before – nor since, for that matter.
I took the advantage then. I rolled myself around and scrambled up to kneel beside him, tugging at the fabric of his pants and pulling them down from his hips. His soft black jersey briefs were a fabulous contrast against his dark, flushed skin, and they peeled off just as easily under my determined touch. I wanted him naked, and I wanted it now!
He lay on his back underneath me, with none of that coyness that some guys have when you strip them. No, he lay there with his shirt wide open and his chest heaving, his long, bare legs stretched out along the length of my bed. He looked both confident and comfortable, like a wet dream come to reality. His eager eyes glittered like flints, and they were locked on me. His arms lay by his side, and his fists clenched gently. When I reached down to pull his shirt off properly, he shifted his upper body to help me. Then he reached up for my hand and drew it down to his mouth. I watched, fascinated, as his tongue slipped out and licked the valleys between my fingers.
“Tanner.” It was just a breath; just a murmur. No instruction, no demand.
I gazed at him, drinking in the sight of his body laid out on my bed, the sheet creased under his hip, shadows playing along the white cotton folds as he clenched the muscles of his slim ass. The front of his thighs curved sweetly. Soft hairs on his skin, dark curls around his groin. He sucked softly on my fingers and shifted a little more. The movement made his cock bob gently against his belly, the flesh thick and swollen. It made the skin of his balls crinkle and the globes inside roll against the base of his groin…
Learn more about Clare on her website and her blog. Of course you can catch up with her on facebook, too.
Have a wonderful weekend. I’ll be back Monday. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Dorien Grey – Man or Myth
September 22, 2010 | Friends
It is with great pleasure we feature Dorien Grey, an author who weaves a mystery with such cunning you become a major player in his stories.
Here’s a little about how Dorien arrived on the publishing scene:
If it is possible to have a split personality without being schizophrenic, Dorien Grey qualifies. When long-time book and magazine editor Roger Margason chose the pseudonym “Dorien Grey” for his first book, it set off a chain of circumstances which has led to the comfortable division of labor and responsibility. Roger has charge of day-to-day existence, freeing Dorien—with the help of Roger’s fingers—to write. It has reached the point where Roger merely sits back and reads the stories Dorien brings forth on the computer screen.
It’s not as though Roger has not had an uninteresting life of his own. Two years into college, he left to join the Naval Aviation Cadet program. Washing out after a year, he spent the rest of his brief military career on an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean at the height of the cold war. The journal he kept of his time in the military, in the form of letters home, honed his writing skills and provided him with a wealth of experiences to draw from in his future writing. These letters will be appearing in book form shortly.
Returning to Northern Illinois University after service, he graduated with a B.A. in English, and embarked on a series of jobs which worked him into the editing field. While working for a Los Angeles publishing house, he was instrumental in establishing a division exclusively for the publication of gay paperbacks and magazines, of which he became editor. He moved on to edit a leading L.A. based international gay men’s magazine.
Tiring of earthquakes, brush fires, mud slides, and riots, he returned to the Midwest, where Dorien emerged, full-blown, like Venus from the sea. They’ve been inseparable (and interchangeable) ever since.
He, and Dorien of course, moved back to Chicago in 2006, where they now devote full time to writing. After having published thirteen books in the popular Dick Hardesty Mystery series, the western/romance/adventure novel, Calico, and the imminent publication of the third book in his new Elliott Smith Mystery series, he is busily at work on yet another Dick Hardesty mystery.
For a greater insight into the “real person” behind Dorien Grey, the curious are invited to check out his website and his various blogs: Dorien Grey and Me and A Life in Photos among them. You can also catch up with Dorien at the Author’s Den.
Now, “The Butcher’s Son”, a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award:
THE BUTCHER’S SON
Book 1 of the Dick Hardesty Mystery Series
DORIEN GREY
ISBN 978-1-879194-86-1
GLB Publishing
Buy Link: Available, as are all of Dorien’s books, at any bookstore or on-line bookseller.
BLURB:
It’s not bad enough that Dick Hardesty has a job he hates and a boss from hell. He’s suddenly put in the untenable position of helping the wildly homophobic chief of police in a run for governor. Throw the chief’s twin sons–one of whom may or may not be dead–, a series of bar fires, and a crumbling 5-year relationship, and you have the ingredients for the tale of The Butcher’s Son.
EXCERPT:
It had turned rather cool by the time we reached the street. We made a circle around to the car to drop off the plastic grapes and then turned toward the Dog Collar. I didn’t much care for the place. It was a big, cavernous dump that boasted 4 pool tables and a downstairs “dungeon” for those into group sex. Like a lot of older buildings, it had very high ceilings, which the management had recently tried to make appear lower by stretching some sort of black mesh fabric from wall to wall.
The clientele, as the bar’s name might indicate, was supposedly ultra-butch. I’ve got nothing at all against being butch, mind you—if it’s authentic. But the Dog Collar crowd was plastic grapes butch. Still, it always drew a good crowd, and was obviously packed tonight.
We were about two doors from the entrance, when we heard a muffled “Whoomp”which sounded like it came from the alley behind the bar, and a moment or two later, the double front doors burst open and a tidal wave of men washed out into the street, running. Shouts of…“Fire!” could be heard from inside and from those in the river of men gushing through the door. Chris and I stood frozen in mid step, then moved away from the buildings with the crowd and into the street. A wide, flat ribbon of smoke unfurled slowly out the top of the door, over the heads of those scrambling to get out.
No dictionary could ever have described the word “chaos” more vividly. Men were running, pushing, tripping over one another as they emerged, turning around to shout for friends still inside. Two or three guys fought against the tide, trying to go back in, but they couldn’t buck the crowd coming out, and the smoke was getting heavy now.
The single fact of that outward-opening, double-door entrance was all that prevented a human logjam forming there, and blessedly anyone who made it as far as the door was able to escape.
In the far distance, the sound of sirens could already be heard. The street was a milling mass of men; leathermen, pseudo leathermen, male strippers in g-strings and loincloths, college types, hunks, average Joes, older, younger; a cross section of the male gay community. Ironically, music still blared from inside the bar.
Small clusters of guys gathered together, some holding each other, some holding others back. Others pushed their way back and forth through the crowd, trying to locate friends. There were obviously many people hurt—most were coughing uncontrollably as they ran out, and others collapsed just outside the door and were dragged away from the entrance and carried across the street to be laid out on the sidewalk, where others huddled over them, doing what they could to help. Some just stood staring wide-eyed at the door as a few snake-tongues of orange fire began to lick out over the top of the doorway, as if tasting the air. The cacophony of sounds, however, could not hide what were too obviously screams from inside. The music had stopped.
Chris and I were totally walled in by the crowd, many still coughing and smelling of smoke, on one side of the semi-circle of onlookers. We weren’t close enough to the front to be able to do anything, and we were sick with the feeling of helplessness. Still they kept coming out—guys at the front of the crowd, which was being driven back by the increasing heat and billowing smoke, would rush forward to grab anyone who made it through the doors and lead or drag them to safety, or run interference to prevent others from trying to reenter the building to save friends or lovers.
We stood there, pressed against those crowded around us, and looked around to see if there was anyone we knew. Chris stood on tip-toe, trying to see over the heads of those directly around us. Fewer were coming out, now. One guy—probably one of the strippers—stumbled through the doorway, totally naked, obviously badly burned, his hair smoldering. He appeared slowly, back-lit by an angry pulsating orange, and leaned against the door frame as though it were a part of his number. Then he pushed himself forward, made it just outside the door, and toppled like a fallen tree onto the sidewalk before those dashing in to help him could reach him. They picked him up and carried across the street, the crowd parting to allow them through. And an instant later, a form appeared, from the other side of the doorway, crawling on all fours, his shirt on fire. He was grabbed and pulled forward by several guys who slapped at his shirt with their hands to put out the fire. They got him to his feet, but he looked frantically around at the crowd, then broke away and ran back toward the door, from which no one else was emerging. Two of those who’d helped him ran after him and grabbed him just before he reached the door, which was by this time engulfed in flame. They dragged him backward as he fought to break free, straining forward and yelling something we could not make out over the incredible din. There were no more screams coming from inside the bar; just crashing sounds and the triumphant roar of the flames.
The first squad car came racing down the street, siren wailing, lights flashing, horn blasting, followed by no fewer than three fire trucks, with the lights of others closing in from both directions. The crowd scattered before them.
And over all the sirens, and the yells, and the dull thrum of the fire, which was now pouring out of the door and had broken through the roof, I heard a voice:
“Dick! Dick!” I looked around and Chris pointed to the guy whose shirt had been on fire, still being held by his rescuers. It was Bob Allen.
Ambulances were beginning to arrive as the firemen rolled out their hoses and the police…several squads of them by this time, began moving the crowd back to allow the arriving ambulances to get through.
We shouldered our way through the mass of guys to Bob. He had blood running down his left temple from a gash somewhere just above the hairline. But his face! I hope I never see another expression on anyone’s face like I saw on Bob’s. The two guys holding him, seeing that we knew him, reluctantly released him. He grabbed us both, one with each hand, and his knees started to buckle. We grabbed him and held him up between us.
He tightened his grip on our arms. “You’ve got to help me go back in!” he pleaded, and suddenly my head jerked up to meet Chris’s eyes, which mirrored my own shock in realizing why.
“Ramón!” Bob said, pointing to the inferno. “Ramón’s still in there!”
There is nothing Dorien loves more than hearing from a reader. Feel free to drop him a note.
I’ll be back Friday. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
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Forest of Corpses
September 20, 2010 | Friends
P.A. Brown is back with us today, showcasing her latest hot book FOREST OF CORPSES which is the sequel to THE GEOGRAPHY OF MURDER. Both books are gripping suspense with just the right amount of romance. You’re sure to enjoy them.
Check out more of P.A. Brown’s exciting work on her website.
FOREST OF CORPSES
P.A. Brown
ISBN 978-1-60820-163-1 Print
ISBN 978-1-60820-164-8 E-book
MLR Press
BLURB
Welcome to the Los Padres National Forest. A vacation from hell.
EXCERPT
Spider
Nobody died today.
That’s a good day in my books, but I knew it wouldn’t last.
Westside had a major hard on for Eastside. War was brewing. Fideo and his WS crew shot up the East Beach, then a week later, on Memorial Day, did the same at a market on Anacapa Street. That time their aim had improved. They dropped two Eastside bangers and a ten-year-old boy out buying milk for his grandmother. Both OGs made it. The kid didn’t. Chalk it up to collateral damage from the drug war.
We canvassed the market and caught a couple of witnesses who saw the whole thing. So we nailed Fideo along with two members of his posse, and tossed their cholo butts in jail. Fideo lawyered up with a good uptown legal beagle, but still sat in lockup, no bail. Then another drive-by took out witness one. Suddenly our only remaining witness “made a mistake.” The paperwork wasn’t dry before the scrotes were back in the hood and the witness was in hiding. Fideo rode with his ese through his hood, crowing how he beat 5-0. His street creds firmly embellished by his latest exploits, he was back, and he was stronger.
And took up his business of dealing drugs, death and taxes without losing a night’s sleep.
Miguel, my new partner, snapped his frustration. “How can we stop these people if no one will testify against them?”
I shrugged. “It bites, I agree. But look at it from their side. Hard to testify from a pine box.”
“God will take care of them.”
“Right.” I rolled my eyes, making sure he couldn’t see the gesture. “I’m sure Mr. Gillespie’s family feel the same way.” Gillespie had been witness number one, a businessman leaving a wife and two young kids behind. He told me when I interviewed him the first time he had to talk. That it wasn’t right that these men could terrorize a neighborhood and get away with it. What kind of example did that set for his kids? Well, I guess his kids learned a valuable lesson there. But probably not the one their old man wanted to give. We had gone to Gillespie’s funeral yesterday, per department regulations. Not surprising, no one from Westside showed or sent their condolences. Not that there was much we could have done if they had. As usual, we had no proof that put any Westside banger anywhere near the vicinity of Gillespie’s untimely death. What we had were two bullets from a 9 mil that couldn’t be tied to any other crimes. A clean gun for a clean hit.
There was a time when my frustration level would have surpassed Miguel’s. Those days are long gone. First thing you learn on the job, leave it at the station. Taking it home with you is the surest way to give yourself high blood pressure and a date with your own duty weapon, or your cardiologist.
There was a time I used to share my world with dead people. The homicides I couldn’t solve would follow me home and make me hold them in my memory. The more brutal they were, the more they clung to me, needing closure I couldn’t give them.
Then Jason burst into my life, unasked and unlooked for. I hooked him up and tossed his ass in jail for the murder of a man it turned out he’d never met. A lot of people would have flipped me the bird for what I did, but Jason wasn’t like that. There wasn’t a vengeful bone in his perfect body. Instead, once he was released from jail, we’d gone out to dinner, ended up back at my place with my dick up his ass, and my heart in his hands. I realized then I never wanted to let this guy go. It took me months to be able to admit my feelings to myself, let alone to Jason. Then, I damn near fucked what we had up permanently when my petty jealousy turned me into a dangerous fool. It probably would have served me right if Jay had told me to fuck off when I got up the nerve to follow him to Los Angeles. He didn’t, and here we are, two months later, sharing a bed and a bath, and hopefully, a future.
Sometimes my dead people still come around to stalk my dreams, but now there’s an anchor to hold onto when I wake up in a cold sweat, with my heart pounding and my mouth dry with unspoken fear; there to whisper soothing words, not press me for explanations I was loathe to give anyone. Even for Jason I didn’t show weakness.
He gave me back my life. So why can’t I give him the one thing he wants? Because I’m a fucking coward who’s afraid of losing control again? Afraid? Fuck that. Alexander Spider isn’t afraid of anything. Or anyone.
The morning after Gillespie’s funeral I got up before Jason. Dressing after my shower, I stood over our bed, studying him while I buttoned my shirt. Sometime during the night he had kicked his covers off exposing his delicious butt, and all I had to do was reach out and stroke the peach soft skin. I knew my touch would instantly wake him up, and I had no trouble imagining those sleepy eyes falling on me and that slow, sexy smile he only gave to me. We’d both been too tired last night to do anything but fall into bed. There was nothing sleepy about my body now. My dick pressed painfully against my briefs and I shifted, trying to ease the sudden constriction.
I’ll be back Wednesday with more suspense by the uber talented Dorien Grey. Be sure to stop by. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Comments are off
Devon Falls Sweeps You Away
September 15, 2010 | Friends
through the creative writing style of talented Raine Delight.
If you aren’t familiar with our guest author, allow me to share a bit of her life. Raine Delight is a pseudonym of a self professed book lover. After one too many TSTL characters, she decided to test herself and write something a little better. Many drafts later, Devon Falls came together. It was originally to be one book, but somehow ended up to 4 with a 5th and 6th releasing sometime in 2010.
Raine writes Devon Falls, a paranormal contemporary series, for Aspen Mountain Press and is also branching out to other genres as she continues to listen to the voices in her head.
Check out her book pages to see what’s happening in her life. Her muse is a male nut who likes to leave her foundering for words while he sips mai tais on the beach; though eventually he takes pity and gets her words flowing and her characters settled down.
Personal notes from Raine: I live with my own boytoy and two kids. I love Johnny Depp movies and enjoy hiking, reading and watching movies with my family.
Below is a teaser from her latest creation which recieved a Recommended Read from Dark Divas Reviews.
HAUNTING MAGIC
Devon Falls Series Book Four
Raine Delight
ISBN: 978-1-60168-250-5
Aspen Mountain Press
BLURB:
Rodrick Dracon is the twin heir to the Dragon Inn. When he finds himself longing for a mate after being footloose and fancy free, he finds himself drawn to the most obnoxious, brassy woman he has ever met: Jaxon Sinclair. She is the one woman who doesn’t melt when he goes by or hangs on his every word. She is just aggravating and down right sexy as sin!
Soon the sparks fly, passion goes into boiling as Halloween approaches. Can a wolf shifter get this woman to heel before the full moon? Or can Jax turn the tables on this ladies man and tame the wolf?
EXCERPT PG-13:
Rodrick Dracon felt like a Mack truck had slammed into him the next day. He had definitely downed one too many beers last night. The pounding in his head worsened when he pried open his eyes. He closed them again and tried to remember what caused him to bring home three women. His inner wolf must have been especially randy. He tried to gather his thoughts and the energy to get a shower but the thought of moving had him determined to stay right where he was.
BANG! BANG!
“What the hell is wrong with you, Rod?” Damien said, as the door flew open and slammed into the frame. “You were due to help Dad out with the barn set up for the Halloween dance an hour ago. He has been looking for you.”
“Stop it already, my head feels like it’s ready to explode here. I’ll call Dad in a few minutes once I’m able to function and apologize, then meet him out at the barn. Isn’t Halloween a few weeks away anyways?” Rod asked as he made it to the edge of the bed and whimpered as the pain caused spots to form in front of his eyes.
“Rod, Halloween is only couple of days away and Dad is trying to get the dance floor finished before the festivities. I am helping Alicia bring the refreshments over and setting up. You were to pick up the slack so Dad doesn’t have a heart attack doing the work you said you’d help him with.” Damien shook his head and looked at his disheveled brother. ”Do you even remember the ladies you came home with, Rod?”
Rod tried to remember, but all he kept getting were lots of black places
“Nope.”
Damien sighed and sat on his bed. “Rod, this has got to stop. You need your mate and the faster you run from it, the more you are going to hurt as the wolf tries to run free. You know that but you are so hell bent on not getting shackled, as you say, that the wolf inside you wants…no, he needs his mate or he will die trying to find her.”
“Well what do you want me to do…audition every woman on the planet, Damien?” Rod retorted as he looked bleary-eyed at his brother. “This whole mate thing is getting on my nerves and, frankly, I am going to have a complex if this keeps up. What is it with happy couples who want others to be just as happy? Are you drinking happy juice or something?”
“No, not audition but not try to sleep with every female that offers herself to you might be a good place to start.” Damien said. “Why not trying to court a woman or find one that interests you for more than sex? What about falling in love instead of lust?”
Rod looked up at his brother like he was nuts. “Love? What the hell do I know about love with a woman? Lust, yes. Plenty of that, but love?” Scoffing, Rod tried to remember when he ever felt like being in love. “If it means getting all moony over a woman like I see around here, then kill me now because I swear I will never act like that.” With a sigh, Rod implored, “Who am I to fall in love with Damien? Hmmm…with Jax, Dixie, or some nameless woman I’ve never met? “
Damien shook his head. “It is not so bad, Rod. Love will smack you when you least expect it but stop trying to out run the wolf. You will never win and, truthfully, are you not tired the endless parade of women that seems to go through your revolving door of a bedroom? I am going to start charging admission soon if this keeps up.”
“That is all fine for you, Damien. You found your mate again,” Rod grumbled and loneliness clawing at his stomach. “I have never been in love; don’t believe in destiny or any of that crap either but I have seen love around me so I know it is there. I just don’t think it will happen to me.”
You can keep pace with Raine Delight in a variety of locations. Here are her links:
Website
Raine’s Book Nook Blog
Twitter
Author/Reader Loop
Raine also enjoys hearing from people. Feel free to email her.
Her books are sold at all the popular sites. Here’s a list of locations:
Aspen Mountain Press
Fictionwise
All Romance E-books
1Romance E-books
Amazon Kindle
Not only is Raine Delight an excellent writer, she’s a whiz in the kitchen. Come back to my site next month for her easy and tasty recipes. On the header bar, click Fun Stuff, then in the drop down What’s Cooking. You’ll be glad you did!
I’ll be back Monday. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
P.A. Brown Front and Center
September 13, 2010 | Friends
Born in Canada, P. A. Brown’s approach to life was tempered in the forges of Los Angeles. After eight years in the City of Angels, she was endowed with a fascination for the darker side of life and the professionals who patrol those mean streets.
P.A. considers those years a lifetime’s worth of experience that she mines regularly in her novels. She is not afraid to explore the darker sides of her characters and the streets they inhabit, including the ones most people are afraid to walk down alone at night.
Here’s an excellent example of her terrific books.
FALL INTO THE NIGHT
P.A. Brown
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-713-7 (Electronic)
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-777-9 (Paperback)
Amber Quill Press – Amber Allure
BLURB
The death of his father catapults Terik u Selhdun into the position of Ogema of Tiamat, the planet of his birth. It was a position he rejected years before when he and his autocratic father clashed over Selhdun’s homosexuality. Instead, Selhdun became a linked pilot and owner of his own ship, the Necromancer. Linked pilots are the only ones who can take a ship through Jump, a form of hypserspace travel that allows the empire of man, known as the Autarch, to thrive.
War drove the humans off their home world of Terra (Earth). In the subsequent years, the coordinates of the Terran Jumpoint were lost. When they eventually resurface, Selhdun and the Necromancer are hired to transport a group of scientists back to Terra in order to ascertain whether humans can safely return to the planet of their origin.
But numerous forces in and out of government don’t want Selhdun to succeed. Troubles plague the expedition, including an assassination attempt and brutal enemies hell-bent on stopping Selhdun and the ship, even as he and his crew make strides in their mission. Yet in Terran space, a new lethal menace awaits, and soon everyone on board the Necromancer discovers the battle to stay alive has only just begun…
EXCERPT
A hard, driving snow scudded out of a sky as bleak and depressing as the fallow fields around them. Selhdun didn’t need to consult Ship to know the weather was going to turn even nastier and soon. He had too many memories of such storms closing in on them.
“Get us inside,” he said to the driver when their vehicle paused at the first Enclave gate for HouseComp to verify his identity.
Selhdun knew at that moment a battery of unseen lasguns was trained on them. He barely felt the actual scan, which read the schematics of his embedded ID and verified his identity against HC’s database.
The lights of a distant village shone through the mounting storm. He tried to think of the village name; had he ever been there? He seemed to remember a harvest festival. The fireworks to honor the Ogema and his children had impressed a seven-year-old Selhdun for years afterward. Kanahchi-Wahnung, that was it. A tiny village full of brightly painted houses like so many other villages that made up the local farming co-ops.
A gust of wind rocked the groundcar. The icy-fingered wind whined as it sought to reach the warm bodies inside. Selhdun huddled within the folds of his coat and waited.
“Trust him to save his dying until the end of the season,” Selhdun said to Pakal. “I could do without weather. I think I deliberately forgot how miserable climate is. Don’t tell me—on Xua this would be a balmy spring day.”
“On Xua the elements are legendary.” Pakal made a pretense of peering out into the growing blizzard. A spray of ice crystals rattled against the car windows. “We rarely had such pleasant weather, in spring or any other season.”
Selhdun shivered and not just from the cold. His muscle already shook from over-exertion. He regretted the impetuousness that had brought him here.
Pakal was right. Selhdun should have turned up the gravity or spent time in the gym. If he had, his heart wouldn’t seem like it was trying to climb out of his chest. Even sitting, it felt like hot spikes were being driven into his calves.
The groundcar crossed the open inner courtyard. The main house loomed out of the gathering gloom, all rough-cut stone and windows shuttered like closed eyes, hiding secrets. His ancestral home looked no different than it had the night he had fled fifty-nine years earlier. He realized now the place never changed, only the people inside came and went. It had been built three-and-a-half centuries ago by the then current Ogema who reputedly had wanted a place away from the government seat in Outuais for his wives and sons.
Outside the open front doors a waiting throng gathered. Composed of at least a half a dozen castes, cloned and programmed to fill specific functions, Selhdun couldn’t remember what half of them did. Not that it mattered. They were there to serve him in any way he wanted.
“My mother wastes no opportunity to play the grand dame,” Selhdun said.
“Already I feel her knives at our back.” Pakal turned to stare out at the crowd. “I do not like the look of this.”
“Even my mother wouldn’t dare anything too obvious.” Selhdun glimpsed glittering spy-eyes within the craggy stone walls and the barest glint of a lasgun mounted under a window arch and wished they made him feel safer. The blue-flame funeral torches on the stone walls cast shadows on the few tendrils of snow that lay in every corner. It lent exposed human skin a ghoulish cast.
“Stupid ritual.” Selhdun glared at the funeral torches that were only lit when a male member of the ruling Ogema died. The last time he had seen them he had been four. His grandfather had died, making his father Ogema. He had thought them pretty then. Now he knew better. How many people here wished the flames burned for him? “Barbaric and pointless.”
Pakal shrugged. “They but seek to find comfort in custom. Hardly pointless.”
“Don’t fool yourself. No one here regrets his passing.”
The snow thickened, and the wind died in the walled-in courtyard. Fat snowflakes descended leisurely, and Selhdun watched them settle everywhere. Unbidden, an image came. The image of another time and another world. Another companion.
Another love.
He shivered and tried to shake off the memories, but they persisted. God, he hadn’t thought of Rauli in years. His eyes closed against remembered pain. Beside him Pakal moved, and the cushioned seat crackled under him.
“What is it, Terik?”
“Nothing,” he lied hoarsely. “Ghosts. That’s all.”
To learn more about P.A. Brown, check out her website. You’ll be glad you did.
I’ll be back Wednesday with Raine Delight, a creative author you’re sure to enjoy. Unitl then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Comments are off
Ready to Travel Open Roads?
September 8, 2010 | Friends
Today we have KC Kendricks, the masterful author of contemporary gay romance. KC writes from the heart with a passion that submerges you into her stories.
KC is a 2008 Amber Heat Wave Winner, and a 2008 CAPA who celebrates love and hope for mature readers.
She lives in Maryland with her partner of almost twenty years. Weekdays are spent working as an Administrative Assistant to the Board, and as the Office Manager of a mid-size corporation.
KC has written more traditional romance under a pseudonym, with one contemporary title a #1 bestseller, several other top-ten list titles, and a few more recommended reads. She is established as a storyteller that delivers rich, satisfying romantic tales that feature strong themes of love, hope, and redemption with positive, upbeat endings.
Here’s a little from her latest release I think you’ll enjoy.
OPEN ROADS
KC Kendriks
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-731-1 (Electronic)
Amber Quill – Amber Allure
BLURB:
Tyler Phillips enjoys his small town life. He’ll never get rich working the family business, but he knows there’s more to a man than the size of his bank account. Easing into mid-life, Tyler’s restless for something he can’t find in the little borough of Easton – male companionship.
Noel Springs got caught up in the economic downturn. His job gone, and retirement a lot of years in the future, Noel decides to take a long drive and see some of the country before dedicating himself to finding new employment. The open road is just what he needs right now.
When his car overheats outside the little town of Easton, Noel discovers the local mechanic is hotter than his radiator, and just as eager to blow off some steam.
INTRO: (from Tyler’s point of view)
“Nice car. How far back did the trouble start?”
He leaned inside and pulled the release lever. Little lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. “About forty-one years.”
I grinned at him, already liking his sense of humor as I lifted the hood. A wave of steam engulfed us. I hastily closed my eyes and stepped back to keep the antifreeze-laden vapor from leaving a film on my contact lenses. “Come inside. We’ll let that cool down so I can take a look at her.”
“You’re going to tell me it’s the radiator, aren’t you?” His clear tenor held just a trace of the west as he followed me into what passed as a reception area and office combined. I opened the soft drink case.
“What would you like, on the house? And don’t panic yet.” Based on the way the steam smelled, I suspected his radiator would be fine, but what was inside it was not.
“Too late. I panicked about five miles ago when the temperature gauge shot up.
You can’t imagine how relieved I was to see your sign. I’ll take coffee, if you have it.”
I popped the cap and handed him a cola. “Sorry. It’s a little late in the day for any to be left in the pot.” I grinned at him. “And I hear that a lot about my strategically placed sign out there on the Interstate.”
His grey gaze held my hazel one captive as I held out my hand to him. “Tyler Phillips, owner-operator.”
Strong fingers closed around mine, holding my hand a moment too long for politeness. “Noel Springs, stranded motorist.”
EXCERPT:
Our bodies brushed, hip against hip, as I leaned past him. I heard the sharp intake of breath as he jumped, and felt his heat when he seized the moment and pressed the long length of his muscled thigh to mine. My mouth went dry, but I didn’t need to speak.
Hidden from public view by our bodies and the car, Noel’s hand stroked across my ribs and came to a stop as his strong fingers gripped my waist. I had my hands full, carefully securing the pie for the ride home. His pelvis bumped my ass, a quick thrust that almost knocked my head against the doorframe. My cock hardened in a rush, straining within its denim prison.
“That’s what you get for bending over in front of me, you little tease.”
I wiggled my butt, and he smacked it, hard. I straightened and turned around, grinning at him.
I looked down. He looked down. Noel returned my grin. His grey eyes gleamed in the sunlight as his pink tongue licked his full, rosy lips.
“Seven-and-a-half, cut.”
“Eight. Cut”
Noel narrowed his eyes. “Top or bottom?”
I grasped his hips, not caring if the whole town buzzed it up on the gossip chain by sundown. “You’re too eager.”
He glanced down at my bulging zipper a second time. “That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
“You know, Noel, I don’t want to get all stupid with you. I don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage of your misfortune on the highway.”
“I know, Tyler. And I don’t want you to think I ever planned to abuse your hospitality. This is just one night. Maybe a little friendly companionship, provided…”
He moved to kiss me, and I jerked away. He looked surprised.
“Sorry, Noel.” Kissing on Main Street might be a bit too much for the neighbors whose good will supported my standard of living. “I keep my private life low profile.”
“Of course. I’m out, and I guess I thought you were, too.”
“Hey, it’s okay. I’m in sort of a limbo. I don’t care if people know, but this is a small town. I don’t flaunt it in public, but in truth, around here, neither do straight lovers.”
“Got it. When in Rome.” He backed away, his expression unreadable as he climbed into the car.
Maybe I’d tripped some trigger of his, or not, but I’d figure it out when we got to my place. Insides quivering with anticipation, I headed out of town.
Noel remained silent for the remainder of the drive to my home, at least until
I turned onto the long gravel lane that led to the two-story frame farmhouse. He shifted in his seat and fixed that clear grey gaze on me in an incredulous stare.
“Excuse me for asking, but what the hell is a good looking stud like you doing out here in bum-fuck middle America, working as a grease monkey, and living on a farm, for God’s sake!”
The answer that filled my being came out of the still darkness of countless solitary nights.
Waiting for you.
To learn more about the talented KC Kendricks, visit her website and follow her on Twitter. Of course, she has MySpace and Facebook. KC also has a great personal blog. Be sure to join her mailing list for the latest information.
I’ll be back Friday. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Spice Up Your Life With Ginger
September 1, 2010 | Friends
No, we’re not talking recipes. Today’s blog is to introduce you to the marvelous author Ginger Simpson who has a penchant for words and weaving them into stories you won’t want to miss.
Ginger currently resides in Tennessee with her husband and biggest fan, Kelly. He believes he’s the inspiration for all her romantic scenes, but she won’t verify his claim.
A while back, she retired to devote more time to writing, but her promotional efforts, blogging, tweeting, and interacting with new friends on author’s and reader’s loops have stymied her efforts.
She watches her grandson, Spencer, in the afternoons, and besides seeing one of her books in a real “brick and mortar” store some day, her main goal is to help her little darling overcome his developmental delays caused by Autism.
Since the publication of her first book in May 2003, she has remained avid about adding to her accomplishments. Her favorite genre is western historical, but she has been known to dabble in other areas.
Ginger’s got that “million dollar” book in the works, and one day hopes to haul someone into Wal-Mart, point to her novel and say, “That’s me.” She proclaims that Grandma Moses didn’t make it big until her “golden” years, so why not be a believer that good things come to those who wait…and wait…and wait.
A 2009 EPIC Nominee, Ginger recently won the 2009 Best Historical Novel from Love Romances Cafe. To learn more about Ginger and her terrific books click here or read her interesting blog.
SISTERS IN TIME
Ginger Simpson
ISBN: 9781926704005
Eternal Press
BLURB:
Two eras collide when a modern day attorney and a pioneer wife find themselves locked in a time not their own.
Mariah Cassidy awakens in the twentieth century. Confined in a pristine environment, hooked to tubes and beeping machines, she’s scared, confused and wondering why everyone keeps calling her Mrs. Morgan. Who is the strange man who keeps massaging her forehead and telling her everything is going to be alright?
Taylor Morgan tries to focus on her surroundings through a blinding headache. The patchwork quilt, the water basin, and the archaic room don’t strike a familiar chord. Her mouth gapes when a handsome man waltzes into the room, calls her darling, and expresses his delight that she’s on the road to recovery.
Clearly something is amiss.
EXCERPT:
Colorado Territory–1872
Taylor’s head pounded with pain. Trying to focus, she opened her eyes and blinked a few times, then propped herself up on her elbows. Everything looked strange. The room seemed bright and cheery, but things appeared very old fashioned. She fingered the patchwork quilt covering the bed, and puzzled over the antique mirror hanging above an old-time washbowl and pitcher across the room. An incessant ache throbbed in her temple.
Where was she? What’d happened to her? A zillion questions raced through her mind.
“David,” she called for her husband. Her voice painfully resonated in her head. “David, where are you?”
She slid off the bed. Her legs wavered beneath her and she clung to the bedpost. Slowly, as she regained her equilibrium, she weaved across the room and peered into the mirror. A massive bandage covered the top her head; black circles ringed her swollen eyes. She didn’t recognize herself.
“Boy, I look like hell,” she muttered.
As she raised her hand to touch the bandage, the door behind her opened, and she spied the reflection of a strange man.
“Mariah, sweetheart. You’re finally awake.” He crossed the room with open arms.
Taylor spun and faced him. Feeling disoriented, she shook her head. “You have the wrong room, sir.”
His brows arched. “Mariah, what are you talking about? What wrong room?”
“Look fella, I’m not Mariah. Evidently you’re in the wrong place if you are looking for someone by that name.”
The stranger rushed over and took her in his arms. “Oh my sweet angel, the bump on your head is worse than Doc Samuels thought.”
Taylor shoved him away. “Take your hands off me. Who is Doc Samuels, and who in the hell are you?”
Suddenly, the room spun. Her stomach turned queasy. Needing to sit, she staggered back to the bed, her gaze still assessing the stranger.
“I’m Frank… your husband.” He followed her, his head cocked, his eyes clouded in confusion.
She swallowed. “Excuse me? My husband’s name is David… David Morgan. I don’t know who you are, mister, but you must be the one who bumped your head if you think I’m your wife.”
“Well, if you aren’t, then just who might you be?”
“Taylor Morgan. I live in Denver. Can you please tell me where I am?”
“You’re in Colorado, about two hours from Denver City. Don’t you remember?”
“Two hours? How in the hell did I get here?”
Frank’s eyes widened. “When did you start cussing?”
“Don’t worry about it, just answer me. How did I get here?” Her last nerve frayed, and he plucked at it.
“Don’t you recall? We were going to town in the wagon—”
“Wagon? What the hell would I be doing in a wagon? A station wagon?”
Frank took a deep breath. “We were going to town, and Jacob needed to pee. I think he disturbed some rattlesnakes and they spooked the horses… Sound familiar?”
Taylor’s mind raced. Who was this loony? Before he spoke again, she assaulted him with a barrage of questions. “Who is Jacob? Wagon? What horses? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Frank… is it? Look, Frank, I have an idea. Why don’t you just call me a cab and I’ll get out of your way.”
She looked down at the tacky nightgown she wore and wondered who had removed her clothing. Tugging at the sack-like shift, she let out an exasperated huff. “If you’ll just retrieve my things, I’ll get dressed and be ready to go when the taxi gets here.”
I’ll be back later this week. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
On the Edge with Rick R. Reed
July 30, 2010 | Friends
I’m excited to have Rick R. Reed back with us, discussing his newest print release ON THE EDGE. This collection of strong stories is filled with an emotional depth a reader rarely experiences. It’s a rewarding read and one you won’t want to miss.
Now, a little from Rick;
This book is especially for you if you’re one of those people who just doesn’t cotton to the idea of an e-book and prefers the look, smell, and experience of a real print book. ON THE EDGE collects eight of my stories that were previously only available in electronic format before. Check out the descriptions of each story below (titles are hyperlinked so you can go to their original publisher page, where you can read excerpts, see reviews, and a more detailed synopsis).
ON THE EDGE
Rick R. Reed
ISBN-13: 978-1-60272-779-3 (Paperback)
Amber Quill Press – Amber Allure
Amazon Buy Link
Synopsis
In Rick R. Reed’s haunting, mesmerizing, suspenseful, and romantic world, his gay male characters live on the edge, often literally as well as figuratively. In this new collection, you’ll take a wild ride with some of literature’s most unforgettable characters. Along the way, you’ll be moved—to tears, to laughter, to uneasiness, and sometimes, to arousal. As Bette Davis once said, “Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.”
Previously available only in electronic format, these eight stories of Gay Erotica and Romance have now been combined for a paperback edition! Included are the tales…
SUPERSTAR A story about promises made, promises broken, and dreams unfulfilled. Yet ultimately, it’s about realizing that love can come along when one least expects it—and in the unlikeliest of places.
THROUGH THE CLOSET DOOR A tale that brings to painful life the consequences of coming out of the closet when you’re married. Gregory’s mask is slipping, pulled down by the allure of a handsome neighbor and the demands of a desire that only gets louder the more he tries to quiet it.
RIDING THE EL AT MIDNIGHT When the gorgeous and twisted Mark boards a northbound el train, he is looking for love in all the wrong places. Finding Julio aboard that same train, Mark thinks, is the answer to his dreams. But are his dreams nightmares?
FUGUE SLIP into the dungeon playroom of a master and his boy. But in the boy’s mind, a dream state takes him places the master could not imagine…places where the established order turns upside down.
INCUBUS Two men, one predator, and a violent crime equal a journey into hellish nightmare territory. This tale merges horror with a tragic love story and the result is…chilling.
MAN-AMORPHOSIS I awoke one morning from uneasy dreams to find my penis had transformed itself into a vagina… Thus begins the story of a very unusual day…
NO PLACE LIKE HOME Trannies and Psychos and Bears…oh my! Burl discovers—in a hilariously bizarre quest—that there really is no place like home.
POTTERY PETE One long hot summer. Three gorgeous men. And a burning triangle set down in the middle of a factory filled with sweaty men with bulging biceps.
Thank you, Rick, for sharing your wonderful books. As always, it’s a pleasure to have you visit us. 🙂
I’ll be back next week. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Do You Have Demons?
July 29, 2010 | Friends
Today we have the uber-talented Rick R. Reed with us. Rick’s writing talent is unsurpassed, and his books are filled with love, horror and suspense. I think you’ll enjoy his step away from the everyday.
Here’s a little from Rick:
Well, it’s finally here and available both in e-book and paperback editions: my fifteenth book (and fourth with MLR Press), A DEMON INSIDE.
This book continues my goal of combining both the horror and the romance genre into one compelling read. A Demon Inside is as much a romance as it is a chilling horror novel. I believe it will satisfy readers of both genres equally.
So here’s a little bit about the book, along with an excerpt.
A DEMON INSIDE
Rick R. Reed
ISBN 978-1-60820-165-5 (print) $14.99
ISBN 978-1-60820-166-2 (ebook) $6.99
BLURB:
Hunter Beaumont doesn’t understand his grandmother’s deathbed wish: “Destroy Beaumont House.” He’d never even heard of the place. But after his grandmother passes and his first love betrays him, the family house in the Wisconsin woods looks like a tempting refuge. Going against his grandmother’s wishes, Hunter flees to Beaumont House.
But will the house be the sanctuary he had hoped for? Soon after moving in, Hunter realizes he may not be alone. And who—or what—he shares the house may plunge him into a nightmare from which he may never escape. Sparks fly when he meets his handsome neighbor, a caretaker for the estate next door, but is the man salvation…or is he the source of Hunter’s terror?
EXCERPT:
Hunter Beaumont awakened drenched in sweat, striped sheets twisted around him. His heart pounded and an irrational fear coursed through him, disproportionate to the calmness of the dark bedroom surrounding him.
He sat up, rubbing his hand over his slick face, and reassured himself with the same words countless nightmare sufferers have told themselves since the dawn of time: “It was only a dream; it was only a dream.” But it was that same dream again. The one that was part memory, part horror movie. The one where he was camping with his parents and he can see the glow of the campfire flickering on their faces. It’s a lovely scene, at first, romantic and warm. His parents’ voices are hushed, his mother’s laugh tinkling, as the two of them huddle together, the fire keeping the darkness of the woods at bay. But then a shadow falls over his mother and father’s faces and their eyes turn in an instant from contented and adoring to terrified. Then come the screams…and the blood, all the blood. That was when Hunter always awakened.
But this time something more than the nightmare had awakened him. Was someone knocking on his bedroom door? Yes, there it was again, an almost tentative tapping. In his post nightmare state, Hunter imagined the worst—that a monster lurked outside, something needing to be invited in. And once inside, it would rip him limb from limb, gorging on his flesh and drinking his blood.
Hunter allowed himself an embarrassed laugh and attempted to pull himself together. He sat up straighter against the headboard and used a corner of the top sheet to dab at the beads of sweat still gathering on his forehead. “Yes?” he called out.
With a creak, the door opened a crack and Lori Schmidbauer, his grandmother’s nurse, peered in. Even backlit, Hunter could see the kindness in the woman’s dark brown eyes and the concern and sadness on her face. She glanced down the hall and then back toward him, gave him a tentative smile.
“Hunter? Honey, I’m so sorry to wake you. Can I come in?”
Hunter pulled the sheet up further, covering his chest. A new kind of alarm began inside, the dread beginning to churn like something alive in his guts. “Is everything okay?”
Lori didn’t respond. She simply tiptoed into the room and sat down gingerly on the edge of his bed. Hunter leaned over and switched on the nightstand lamp. Lori still wore her scrubs and her curly brown hair was pulled loosely into a ponytail. She looked tired. Hunter repeated his question and added to it. “Is everything okay? Is Nana all right?”
Lori clutched his hand, squeezed it, and let it go. “I don’t think so, dear.” She stared off at a point over Hunter’s head and he could see her eyes glistened with tears.
It felt like his stomach dropped a couple of feet. He bit his lip. “Is it time?”
Lori drew in a quivering breath before responding. “Yeah. I think it is.” She stood. “You better come now if you want to say goodbye.”
“Okay,” Hunter whispered, barely able to find breath to put behind the single word. For his whole twenty-two year life, his grandmother had been his savior, protector, shield, comforter, mother, father, playmate, and teacher. There actually was a monster outside his door, and its name was cancer. That monster was about to rip all he held dear away from him.
Lori waited on the bed, watching him. He could tell she was trying to gauge his reaction, to see if perhaps he would need a hug. Lori was the kind of nurse that was free with her hugs. A good woman. But right now, Hunter needed a moment to himself and he told her.
“Sure, sweetheart. Just don’t be too long.” She got up and paused at the door. “I don’t know how much time we have.” Sorrowfully, she nodded, her lips coming together in a line indicating sympathy. She took her time leaving his room, then he heard her quickened pace as she hurried down the long hallway to his nana’s bedroom.
Hunter didn’t know if he could do this. Part of him thought if he just stayed here in bed, he could delay or prevent the inevitable. If he could only freeze time at this moment, he would never have to face a world without Nana in it. He shook his head and chastised himself for being weak.
Feeling numb, Hunter roused himself from bed. He slid into the jeans and sweater he had left on the rocker by the window. He looked outside, where the inky darkness revealed nothing, a void. He knew Lake Michigan was out there and in the morning it would reveal itself in aqua or gray, depending on the quality of light, but right now it seemed as though the huge body of water had vanished. The night’s darkness pressed against his windows like something palpable, aching to get inside.
Barefoot, he padded down the hall to his grandmother’s bedroom. Ever since he had lost his parents at the age of five, this had been his home, and suddenly the big old house seemed strange and unfamiliar, as if he were seeing it for the first time. Here was the portrait of his father, painted when Daddy was sixteen, looking young and vibrant, and not that much different from Hunter: the same smile and auburn hair. And there was the old Oriental rug, its pinks, blues, and grays faded, leading the way to the door to his grandmother’s bedroom, which yawned open. Hunter stood for a long while, staring at that doorway and breathing in the smell of sickness that emanated from the room. “Go,” he whispered.
He ducked into the room. Nana lay propped up on her old four-poster bed, the one she had had since marrying Hunter’s grandfather about six decades ago. She looked small and shriveled, vulnerable and nearly lost among the pillows, blankets, and quilts that never could keep her quite warm. Her hair looked like gray straw and parts of her scalp peeked through. A few days ago, they had taken her off the IVs and oxygen, knowing there was no hope. The medical detritus stood in a corner of the room, looking like defeated soldiers.
Lori stood near the bed. When she saw Hunter, she leaned down and whispered to Nana, whose eyes fluttered open at the sound of the nurse’s voice. Although she had not been completely coherent for the past couple of weeks, a combination of the morphine she took to manage her pain and her own failing memory, her eyes brightened when she saw her grandson. She even managed a weak smile, which vanished almost as soon as it arrived, as if the effort to maintain it was just too much for the old woman.
It probably was.
Lori stepped away from the bed and donned a fleece she had left on a chair nearby. She hugged herself and then said, “I’ll leave you two alone. I’m going to run downstairs and call Dr. Blackstock.” She squeezed Hunter’s shoulder as she left the room.
Hunter sat down beside his grandmother on her bed. “Nana?”
“Hunter,” Nana croaked, her voice only an echo of the vibrancy it once had. She tried to lift her hand to his face but it appeared she didn’t have the strength, letting it drop back down to the bedding. She closed her eyes and swallowed; the latter action looked painful and Nana winced.
“Don’t talk, Nana. If it hurts, don’t talk.” He picked up one of her withered hands and covered it with both of his own, trying to impart some of his own warmth to the frail appendage, feeling now as if it had been made of parchment and bird bones. She nodded, staring up at him. She licked her lips. “I just want to go to sleep now. I’m ready. Can you tell the nurse?”
“Sure.” Hunter smoothed her hair away from her forehead and leaned in close. He bit his lips, not wanting to cry in front of the old woman. What if she didn’t know this was the end? He couldn’t be so cruel as to reveal that to her. And even as he thought these things, he knew—deep in his heart—that Nana knew perfectly well what was happening.
“Sleep. That sounds good.” Nana’s eyelids fluttered and closed. Hunter thought she had fallen asleep and simply sat with her for several minutes, holding her hand. Finally, he thought maybe he should creep away, hoping against hope that this was not the final moment. Lori could have been wrong after all.
But then Nana opened her eyes, and Hunter thought he needed to speak while there was still time and before he gave in to the tears and sobs that were clamoring inside. He gathered the old woman up in his arms and pulled her close. Placing his lips close to her ears, he thought for a moment, grasping for something profound to say, but finally decided on only:
“I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” Nana whispered. She slumped back against the pillows.
Hunter covered his mouth. Was she gone? But her eyes opened once more, about half-mast, seeking him out even though his face was only inches from her own.
“Beaumont House,” she croaked.
“What?”
“Beaumont House. Promise me you’ll burn it.”
Want more Rick Reed? You can find him on the internet at his website, blog, Facebook and Twitter. Be sure to check Rick out and learn more about this ingenious author.
I’ll be back tomorrow. Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
Murder and Sex – Oh Yeah!
July 21, 2010 | Friends
Today’s guest author is the amazing Clare London who writes Man to Man, and no one does it better. Clare has a new release, BLINDED BY OUR EYES. This is a well-crafted mystery that has received stellar reviews and a book you’ll definitely want to read.
For those of you who aren’t familiar with Clare, here’s a brief bio:
Clare took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with the weekly wash, waiting for the far distant day when she can afford to give up her day job as an accountant.
She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with novels and short stories published both online and in print. Clare likes variety in her writing, while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters.
Find details of her publications and plenty of free fiction at her website, as well as an invitation to her mailing list. You can also catch up with Clare on her blog. Visit her today and say hello!
BLINDED BY OUR EYES
Clare London
ISBN: 9781426890406
Carina Press
BLURB:
London art dealer Charles Garrett has devoted his life to appreciating and acquiring beauty, both in art and in his companions. His fashionable life is rocked to the core when he discovers the body of a young artist, Paolo Valero, in a pool of blood in his gallery.
As Paolo’s mentor, Charles is haunted by the horror of his violent death. Seeking closure, he investigates Paolo’s past and soon discovers a tangled web of motives and potential suspects, some closer to home than he ever imagined. He’s drawn to Antony Walker, an aggressive, handsome sculptor with unsavory ties to Paolo. Charles is unsettled by Antony’s forceful nature but irresistibly attracted to his passion and his art.
When the evidence points toward Antony’s guilt, Charles is thrown into emotional turmoil. Has he lost his heart to a killer?
EXCERPT (PG):
The sound of a man crying was the first shock. Deep, racking sobs echoing off the smooth walls of my showroom. The whole gallery was usually deserted and cool at this late hour, despite the urban truth that London never slept. Yet tonight something in the air resonated with tension. And huddled in the far corner was a slender, pale young man. Arms clenched around his drawn-up knees, his eyes hot and wet, staring at me through a fringe of bedraggled dark curls. He looked angry and scared, and for the first few seconds it was all directed at me.
Without thinking, I dropped my bag. I heard the thump as it hit the floor.
I’d never seen anyone who wasn’t a woman cry like this. The sound was strange, astonishingly loud and ugly, his breath rasping with each hiccup of anguish. His shoulders rose and fell awkwardly, the bones a shadowy silhouette under the thin fabric of his shirt, his knuckles white against the black fabric of his jeans.
How beautiful he still looked, how miserable yet how utterly fascinating. My thoughts disgusted me, yet at the same time I couldn’t deny them. As I stared back at him, the aggression in his eyes started to fade. Hope glinted there in its place.
Then I registered the blood on the floor around him. How the hell could I miss it? So much blood. It ran along the base of the far wall and pooled out over the floor, a shocking, plum-red stain on the pale wood. It was thick and unnaturally still, an occasional patch of it glistening under the dimmed overhead lights. Coagulated; no longer flowing. I had no idea how long ago it’d been fresh. The residue puddled around his bare feet and under his legs and arse, then slithered along the edge of the wall again, diverting around the base of a display case. I barely glanced at the case. It stood upright, but crooked as if broken, and the objects inside had been knocked over.
I just stared at the blood. Funny how these things strike you when you’re in shock; it was only after I noticed the mess that the smell hit me. Thick and putrid, seeping into my throat, daring me to gag. Why didn’t blood smell like this domestically? When I cut my hand, when I sliced meat? This was human blood in quantity, human life as it spilled. It had its own unique horror. Some of it had oozed between the young man’s toes—the dark crimson colour stark against the pale skin of his feet, a gruesome parody of piano keys. He sat like an island amongst a grisly sea, a pale shadow within the dark, viscous surround. When he put a hand out to the wall and started to ease himself up, I wanted to cry out, to tell him to stay still. I wanted to stop him spoiling the perfect, limpid surface around him, breaking the seal.
It was the shock made me think that way. Of course it was.
“Charles?” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been shouting. “God, I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life.” He took a couple of shaky steps toward me. His shoes and socks lay in a discarded pile against the wall, soaked red with the blood. I couldn’t take my eyes off the print left by his foot, a dark smudge on the area of clean floor behind him.
“Charles…?”
There were other footprints—messy, scattered marks on the floor beyond the display case. They weren’t all his. A large huddled object lay against the right-hand wall, half hidden behind the furniture. That area, too, was covered in blood. It wasn’t an object, of course it wasn’t. I was ashamed to have thought of it like one of my exhibits.
It was a body. The body of another young man, even paler, even more disturbed. Even more still.
EXCERPT TWO:
Walker laughed again, but more softly. He’d made his coffee while still doing something with the tools on the table, gathering them up, putting them away in the wooden box. I couldn’t see around his torso, couldn’t see what his hands were doing in front of his body. I heard the bolt snap shut on the box and he turned back around.
“What are you doing there?” I said, too loudly. I didn’t seem to have full control of my voice. “Why are you bothering with that now? I just want to talk to you.” What are you hiding from me?
He just glared at me, his eyes dark and unwelcoming.
I glanced over at his work in progress. “What kind of themes do you work with, Walker? Did you work with Paolo? He’s…he was a very talented sculptor.” Is that why you were together—as artists? Or was your relationship something else? Something fierce…
“He was a shit,” Walker growled, shaking his head.
His bluntness shocked me. “That’s—what the hell do you mean?”
His eyes narrowed. “You think people shouldn’t speak ill of the dead? Paolo Valero leeched off people. He was pretty and he was talented, but for all the time I knew him, he was a liar and a thief.”
I was stunned. “Money?”
“He stole money, yeah. And materials. And ideas.” Walker sighed. “But he stole time and attention, too. From me—probably from you, too.”
“Why are you saying this? Why are you slandering him like this?”
For the first time I saw uncertainty in Walker’s expression. “You have no fucking idea, do you? It doesn’t mean I wasn’t his friend. Though plenty of people in this business will tell you he got everything he deserved.”
“What do you mean?” I nearly shouted.
Walker shook his head. His frown got deeper. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“Is that what happened with you and Paolo?” I persisted. “What did he steal from you? How much?” Maybe too much?
Walker gazed steadily back at me. “You look at everyone like that, Garrett?”
“What do you mean?”
He took a step toward me, threateningly, yet I didn’t move away. I couldn’t identify the expression in his eyes, but it chilled me. “I know guys like you, right? Dealers.” He made it sound like a disease. “You watch other people create, you give your critique, then you pimp the goods. Always on the outside, never really involved. You look around this room with cold eyes. You see a block of stone, you see banknotes, where I see breath and beauty.”
I was furious—suddenly, blindingly furious. “Who do you think you are? You arrogant shit.”
He didn’t even flinch. “And that’s the same look you’re turning on me now. Appraising me.”
I couldn’t speak, my throat was closing tight with the anger. He was right, I couldn’t tear my eyes from him, but it was from anger, not admiration, wasn’t it? Nothing to do with the fierce, sensual attraction that emanated from him, the way his dark eyes caught and fascinated my attention.
“You’re looking at me the same way you look at the stone.” He stepped even closer. A trickle of sweat ran from his throat down the middle of his bare torso. I imagined it pooling above his navel, glistening and bobbing as his belly clenched.
“I’m not.” That’s not me.
“No?” he murmured. He peered at me, sounding puzzled. “Then it’s something else…” His chest was heaving, as if he had the same difficulty breathing as I did. Behind him, the point chisel was still on the edge of the table. He hadn’t locked it away with the other tools. Its handle was a foot from his grasp.
“Get away from me,” I whispered.
He frowned. “Say that again. And this time like you mean it.” He was still searching my face, but now his expression was confused, as if he’d lost whatever he was seeking. And then his eyes slid away from my face to my chest and down the whole of my body, slowly and carefully. When his gaze came back up, lingering for too long on my groin, I blanched. The sexual intent was never in any doubt.
And my body shuddered in response.
He looked back up at me and his hand lifted from his side as if he meant to reach out and touch something.
I stepped back. “Get away,” I repeated, sharply.
His eyebrows rose. He looked both startled and disappointed. “Yeah, just like I said. “Cold. You’re never going to melt that, Garrett, fucking men like pretty, passive Joseph. He’s never going to give you what you need.” He laughed without humour.
I lurched back another few steps, finally released from my strange paralysis. My escape from this room was only a few feet away, in seconds I could be out of the door and back down the stairs to the street.
“I can’t believe all this about Paolo.” I stared into Walker’s eyes, the pupils dilated. I could feel the door frame at my back now, I was brave in the face of my retreat. “Why do you talk about him like that? You want me to be as angry with him as you are. Were. Why?”
“Get out.”
“Were you fucking him?” I cried, and he recoiled. Had I struck a nerve? “Did you want revenge for whatever he’d done to you? Did he make you angry enough to want to hurt him?”
“None of that is your goddamn business,” he snarled. “I said, get the fuck out or else I—”
I dodged back before he could follow up his threat, away from him, my hand reaching blindly for the door handle. I stumbled out onto the landing. Not bothering with dignity or pride, I just dashed down the stairs two at a time. I felt an idiot, and a ridiculously scared one, too.
I’ll be back tomorrow with information on a wonderful celebration. 🙂 Until then…
Happy Writing!
Sloane Taylor
Sweet as Honey…Hotter than Hell
