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Series Tour and Author Interview – Any Summer Sunday and Who Plugged the Dyke? by Steve Schatz #giveaway

SERIES TOUR – NACHO MAMA’S PATIO CAFE NOVELS

Friends, fags, & fun in a little college town  

Any Summer Sunday

 Boys in the Band meets Le Cage in an Indiana drag bar

Who Plugged the Dyke?

 Elections are hard. This one is Murder

 

 

The two books stand alone and can be read in either order, although Any Summer Sunday was written first and contains more background information. It is a more character driven story. Who Plugged the Dyke is a mystery.

Overall Heat Rating: 2 flames. Tawdry, but not dirty. Sex is described as part of a story, but not in detail. No sex scenes. Not romance. Not erotica. Think of gay friends in a bar who might describe a conquest (but not the specifics).

 

INTERVIEW WITH STEVE SCHATZ

The film you can watch time and time again…

There are two that I watch on a regular basis – Were the World Mine, which is a gay retelling of Midsummer’s Night Dream, and Wristcutters: A Love Story. Both are pretty obscure, but are wonderful.

 

The poem that touches your soul…

Two by Maya Angelou – On the Pulse of Morning, which she wrote for and read during Clinton’s inauguration, which was a time of great hope … the end of (we thought) a dark, right wing chapter in US politics. Of course, we have since found that there was more darkness in the wings. But that day was a moment of light and hope.

The second poem is called Love Arrives. She wrote it for a really sappy TV show called Touched by an Angel. One wonderful phrase after another. “In the flush of love’s light, we dare be brave.”

Finally, a contemporary writer – Andrea Gibson is amazing. She uses music and the music of her words and visuals to weave gasping loveliness. Go to youtube and watch Your Life (“you’re pronouns haven’t even been invented yet”) and Living Proof.

At my best, I hope to approach that level of reach right in and grab your heart and make you cry and laugh at the same time.

 

The event that altered the course of your life…

We were living in Hartford, CT and drove up to Western Massachusetts, where a friend of my husband was visiting. She was a well know Yaqui dreaming woman (if you remember the Carlos Castaneda books, his teacher was a Yaqui shaman. A dreaming woman is one who has lucid dreams) who read cards and did horoscopes. I was skeptical, but willing to indulge my husband. The reading was interesting, but no big changes. We headed home.

On the way home, I was struck by a vision, a very clear vision – like I was there. I had to pull over and let the scene play out. It involved a village in high mountains and the people had appointed someone to be in charge of “talking” to the spirits. They had given up their personal duty to create and celebrate the sacred. . 

This person walked through the village, leading an assistant and they went to the top of high place – maybe a pyramid, maybe a mountain and were doing a service and something went wrong and the assistant was killed and the “priest” was frightened, so he declared it was the will of the god. Just because he made a mistake and was frightened.

And I knew that this was how divine sacrifice, an inexcusable act, came into this world.

I cried. It was so real.

And that image guided the creation of my first novel Adima Rising, published by a small publishing house in Texas. I started that trip as a college professor. I came home several hours later on the path to being an author.

 

The pet hate that makes your hackles rise…

People who feel entitled or, even worse, duty bound, to tell others how to live their life when their actions do not hurt others. I’m amazed that being gay is an issue in many places. A guy was recently beheaded in an “honor” killing by his family for being gay. What kind of twisted mind thinks there is greater honor in killing than in being gay? In the US, school systems are forbidden from mentioning gays as regular human beings. Dives me nuts.

 

The figure from history you would most like to buy a pie and a pint…

I’d like to meet Mark Twain. I’d like to attend a Billie Holiday show and perhaps give her a hug. For a pie and a pint, I’d pick Douglas Adams. Anyone who can write with that combination of wit and imagination would be fun to chat with, although I suspect we would both be quiet.

 

The piece of wisdom you would pass onto a child…

Try not to hurt anyone, especially yourself. Look for what makes you happy, not what you think you ought to do. Each of us decides to come here for an adventure, to learn something from the experience. If it feels right, try it. You can nearly always change your mind.

 

The treasured item you lost and wish you could have again…

We were tearing apart our kitchen. My husband is a designer – the difference between designer and decorator is that a design rips down walls. We had stripped the kitchen down to the studs – everything out and I was spending a lot of time working on it because living in a construction zone doesn’t really bother him, but it makes me all twitchy.

I’m also prone to demonstrate a skill for impressive clumsiness. I somehow banged my hand. Of course, I did what you have to do, even though it does no good. I held my hand up and shook it vigorously.

My wedding ring flew off and promptly disappeared. We pulled out the cabinets. We pulled up the floor. No ring. It was gone.

Thankfully, my husband did not take this as a sign. We are still together.

 

The philosophy that underpins your life…

We are here to experience, learn, and share. The best way to spend my time is intentional, creative, action. Be driven more by I want to than I ought to. And try not to be a dick.

 

The character you enjoyed writing the most

Aunt May, a tiny, old Southern lady who looks ever so proper, drinks ever so much, and was moved out of Honeysuckle Springs when her public reminisces of past lovers became an embarrassment for now respectable and married men of the community, is an exception. I absolutely love her when she sets down her drink, pats her lips with a lace hanky, and lets loose a truly tawdry tale. She is not based on anyone. She popped into the story one day. I don’t know where she came from unless the spirits of Jessica Tandy and Divine happened to be floating by that day.

I love her because I get to channel a sweet, old lady who is absolutely filthy and has grabbed life by the lips and yanked. She’s seen and done it all and has deep knowledge of what lurks in the minds of men, but very little judgement. I have friends who are already insisting that they be the one to play her if the books ever go to film.

 

The book you enjoyed planning/writing the most…

Any Summer Sunday continues to be my favorite. It took nine years because I was doing lots of other things and I never even was sure it would come together. It is a series of vignettes and character studies loosely draped over a plot. I love the characters and how the story resolves. Most of all, I love how the words and music work together to compose an effect. When I’m feeling doubtful, I read chapter 17 and know I have done something good.

 

And the promo

The Nacho Mama’s Patio Café series has two books, with a third on the way, featuring a group of middle-aged homos in a small, college town in Indiana. Many years ago when I was traveling the country doing software training, I would end up in small towns. I’d always go out to the gay bar, if I could find it. In these small towns, the bars were usually pretty well hidden – down an alley and plain fronts with little or no signage. Once inside, it would open up and be a much different place. I was coming from San Francisco and realized these people often had to hide their proclivities. The bar was their real home and the only place they could safely relax and be themselves. I wanted to capture that feeling of the bar being the social center, but turn the clock up, so the boys are now older and more settled and the world is a bit less hateful. The bar, Hoosier Daddy, is still the center of social life and the characters who inhabit the bar and the patio café come on a regular basis to bitch, lie, laugh, and enjoy the comfort of long-time friends.

Any Summer Sunday takes place over a single evening. TiaRa del Fuego, drag diva extraordinaire and dear friend has fallen for a thug and is going to run away to join him in Florida, a certain mistake. The friends must decide how far they will go to rescue a dear friend from her own desires.

The language dances with the music of the performances as the friends explore old loves, jobs, and the meaning of life with great dollops of funny and nasty.

Who Plugged the Dyke is a mystery with the same characters as Any Summer Sunday. It has the same mix of action and fun, actually a bit more action. There are 10 days before the first lesbian judge in Indiana will be elected, but someone is trying to kill her and the friends have to figure out who is spinning the web and how to stop him. I love the characters from Any Summer Sunday and wanted to try to put them into a new situation, to see if there was a potential for a series and if I had the writing chops to do it. It worked.

 

Thank you, Steve.

 

 

BOOK 1

Book Title: Any Summer Sunday at Nacho Mama’s Patio Cafe:

Drag, Songs, Friends, Laughs, Lies, Danger & Redemption

Author: Steve Schatz

Publisher: Any Summer Sunday Books

Cover Artist: James at GoOnWrite

Length:  75 000 words/ 234 Pages

Release Date: June 21, 2019

Genre:  LGBT Humorous Fiction

Trope/s: Reluctant hero, power of friendship, metonymy (Drag – the entire life around performance in a gay bar & Nacho Mama’s represents a safe place where friends gather, gossip, and support each other) 

Themes: Friends, Small town gay, Drag and Performance, Lookin’ for love

It is a standalone story

Goodreads

 

Buy Links

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK

Bookshop  |  Any Summer Sunday

 

How far should you go to save a friend from her own desires?

 

Blurb

TiaRa del Fuego is in love and that means trouble for her friends. Every Sunday evening we meet in Hoosier Daddy, our small college town’s only gay bar gather to watch TiaRa del Fuego’s Parade of Gowns drag show. Performance, love, betrayal, spies, and friendship fight to the fore every Summer Sunday.

However, this Sunday, dear TiaRa, thin enough to hate, yet broken enough to love, announces she has found love…yet again…and is leaving after that evening’s show to be with her new man. We know she is making a huge mistake…again. What can we do?

Any Summer Sunday is a celebration of friends, drag, and life. Come and join in the fun.

 

Excerpt from Any Summer Sunday

With few exceptions, the same group of reprobates gathered every week. We are no longer young, but all have spent our years wisely or wildly enough to hold one’s place when the conversation turns a bit too bitchy. We enjoyed our youth, are enjoying the years beyond youth without regret, and occasionally enjoy youths—when the opportunity arises, as it were.

All societies celebrate the young, but in gay circles, this celebration borders on idolatry. Twenty-somethings and now even teeny-somethings who celebrate their coming out are welcomed into a glorious disco summer camp with every conceivable need provided. For those of us who are years past the realization and/or announcement, being out offers far fewer invitations. We often find ourselves between worlds—not certain of a welcome in either gay or straight society.

In “normal” society, it is tiresome to yet again face the “ . . . and your wife?” questions in every new group and to worry if it is going to be an issue. If I have an urge to explore square dancing, must I find a gay square—hmmm . . . Mr. Lynde springs to mind. Sometimes it’s easier not to bother. Then there are those moments when it suddenly pisses you off that you are supposed to feel gratitude merely for being accepted or endured by the dominant pairing paradigm.

 In the gay community, the adulation of youth and horror of aging can make one feel diseased. Even previously enjoyable activities can be snatched away. Take window shopping. I enjoy looking at a pretty pair of pants when it walks by, even if I know it will never fit, I can’t afford it, and the style is all wrong for a man of my years and shape. I look because it is pretty, and I enjoy looking at pretty things. But, if every time I go looking, the trousers, upon noticing my gaze, gasp in horror, turn away with a look of sardonic pity, and begin to whisper with their fellow couture, I eventually will give up looking.

 So, when we find a group and an enjoyable activity where we can simply be, without the need to prove or explain ourselves, then it is something to be cherished. Not misty-eyed, bosom clutching cherished, but those people and enjoyments are simply too dear to give up without a care. Sunday afternoons were like that. That is why, when one Sunday, TiaRa del Fuego—dear, sweet, damaged TiaRa—announced that she had found love, yet again—this time on a dating site and was leaving town to be with her new man who was driving up that very day to help her move—well, we knew something had to be done and quickly.

 

 

BOOK 2

Book Title: Who Plugged the Dyke?

Author: Steve Schatz

Publisher: Any Summer Sunday Books

Cover Artist: James at GoOnWrite

Length: 218 pages 67,000 words

Release Date: July 2020

Genres: LBGT Mystery, LGBT Humor, LGBT Fiction

Trope: Reluctant hero

Themes: Friendship, small town gays, detection, politics

It is a standalone story.

Goodreads

 

Buy Links 

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK

Bookshop  |  Any Summer Sunday

 

 A gay mystery full to the tits with action and wit.

Blurb

Some Elections are hard … This one is Murder!

Get ready for Excitement, Laughs, Thrills and Fun!

In 10 days she’ll be the 1st in your face lesbian judge elected in homo-hating Indiana. But someone wants to kill her and her little dog too.

The friends from Nacho Mama’s Patio Cafe must put on their big boy panties, get out of Hoosier Daddy, the only gay bar in town, onto the streets and go hunting for the culprit.

Thrills, drag shows, danger, laughs and a kick line of drag queens in judicial robes as the anti-heroes dodge explosions, fire, guns, knives and terror, seek out the hidden mastermind and sashay to the rescue.

You loved Any Summer Sunday at Nacho Mama’s Patio Cafe. Now, the merry band from the small Indiana college town’s drag bar return. It’s an Indiana Election Mystery. Who Plugged the Dyke?

 

Excerpt from Who Plugged the Dyke?

I noticed that the big, bearded Tooth Fairy had moved nearly in front of me. There is something wonderfully wrong about a big ol’ hunka hunka in a pink tutu. I grinned at him. He didn’t grin back. His attention was fixed on Deb. However, he was not smiling. He was just staring. Something in the back of my mind tickled. I started watching him more carefully. He was playing with his magic wand. It was about three feet long and trailed stars and strands of glitter. But he was pulling off the covering and it was looking less and less like a wand and more and more like a weapon. Recalling what I had been told, I looked for Roger or Petunia or one of Nacho’s Twinks. I couldn’t see Roger. Petunia was at the back of the stage, guarding the way in. I saw a couple of cute Twinks, but didn’t know if they were Nacho’s boys or not. I started to raise my hand and kind of gesture toward the Tooth Fairy. I was trying to be cool and not alert him that I had noticed anything untoward. He continued to pull away the spangles. He was looking down at the wand and then up at Deb, and I could see a look of menace grow across his features.

I waved my hands over my head and then pointed down at him. Some in the crowd saw what I was doing and waved, too. They thought it was a celebratory gesture. I began to wave my hands and point more emphatically. I nearly lost my balance, but no one seemed to get the message. No one was heading in that direction. I looked at  he man, who was no longer looking fairy-like at all. He had finished pulling all the detritus off his wand and while I was not a  weapons guy, even I could recognize that what was once a wand  was now, very obviously, a weapon. A blow gun.

He reached into his bag and pulled out, not a handful of glitter, but a rather large  dart with a very large and very sharp point. By this time, subtle was no longer on the table. I waved my hands wildly above my  head, then pointed at the guy. I did not care if he saw. I had to  stop him, and no one seemed to be coming to do anything about it. Deb was talking. The girls were dancing. And the Tooth Fairy  dropped the dart into his blow gun.

 

About the Author

Steve Schatz writes with a crazy mashup of laughs and excitement and humor. Readers can’t stop reading, but don’t want the story to end. Each book is an adventure where endearing anti-heroes struggle against this crazy world and triumph using the twin forces of intentional, creative action and friends helping friends.  Schatz draws on a lifetime of varied and fascinating experiences, from instructional designer and college prof to party clown and nightclub owner.

His series of adult fiction highlights a group of middle-aged gay friends who gather every week in a small, Indiana college town. Mixing drinks, snappy repartee, and the humor and joy of long-time friends, in one book they rescue the fair drag queen from an obvious miscreant. In another, they ride to the protection of a lesbian candidate for judge who is being targeted by mysterious evil-doers. The excitement reveals itself against a backdrop of drag performance and efforts by anti-heroes. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You’ll beg for more. Steve Schatz offers a new voice and a smile for the LGBT community and their friends.

 

Author Links

Blog/Website  |   Twitter: @AnySummerSunday

Facebook  |   Newsletter sign-up

 

 Giveaway

Enter the Rafflecopter Giveaway for a chance to win

one of three ebook copies of Any Summer Sunday,

one of three ebook copies of Who Plugged the Dyke?,

or an audiobook of either book.

Total of 8 giveaways

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

Hosted by Gay Book Promotions

 

New Release – This is Not a Horror Movie by Sara Dobie Bauer #KindleUnlimited

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: This is Not a Horror Movie

Author: Sara Dobie Bauer

Publisher: Self-published

Cover Artist: Natasha Snow Designs

Release Date: May 13, 2021

Genres: m/m new adult, gay paranormal romance, LGBTQ, romantic comedy

Trope: Friends to lovers

Themes: non-explicit, humorous, teens, Florida, summer vacation, hauntings, evil spirits

Heat Rating:  2 flames

Warnings: Scenes of graphic violence, death of minor characters, mentions of bullying, alcohol use

Length:  78 000 words

It is a standalone story.

Add on Goodreads

 

Buy Links – Available in Kindle Unlimited

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK 

 

 

Blurb

Emory Jones loves two things: horror movies and Connor Nichols. 

For the past four years, Emory, Connor, and their families have vacationed side by side on Longboat Key, Florida. Eighteen-year-old Emory has pined for his neighbor from behind the covers of Stephen King books, but college boy Connor has never noticed him. Probably because Emory looks like Jack Skellington with good hair.

Emory anticipates another predictable summer of sunburn and disappointment. Instead, he ends up with a mystery on his hands when a beloved beach bum goes missing, and Connor volunteers to help with the search. Turns out it’s not just scary movie cops who are worthless, so the boys start an investigation of their own—leading them straight to an abandoned beach resort.

Despite the danger, Emory and Connor grow closer, but as Emory’s gay dreams start coming true, so do the horror movie tropes he so loves. Even though he knows that sex equals death in slasher flicks, Emory can’t keep his hands off the guy of his teenage dreams.

 

 Excerpt 

I’m about to follow a mysterious rat into the darkness when a hand lands on my shoulder. I suck a panicked gasp in through my lips as Connor says, “Sorry! Sorry.”

I put my hands on my knees and relearn breathing.

He stands there, backlit like some kind of hot angel, and shrugs. “Maybe you should be thanking me.”

“What?”

“You like to be scared,” he says.

He’s right. Haunted house in the neighborhood? I’m first. Spooky cemetery? Coming through. Maybe that’s part of the reason I always let Liz drag me to parties at the Outpost. It feels like being in a scary movie. I’m waiting for Leatherface to show up and murder the morally reprehensible youth. Of course, if horror movie rules are true, I’m totally dead. I lost my virginity at sixteen and more often than not spend “happy hour” sharing malt liquor with Longboat’s famous homeless dude, Leland.

“What are you doing over here?” Connor asks.

“Befriending local wildlife.” I glance over my shoulder into the dark. I shove hair out of my face—a nervous tic I’ve acquired since growing it out. Because I needed another nervous tic. “What are you doing over here?”

“Talking to you.” He grins, but I can feel a disconnect. 

Connor and I have always had a mutually agreed upon rhythm. He’s the big, gorgeous straight dude who puts up with me, the skinny, little gay kid. 

Well. 

No one knows I’m gay down here. Florida is for family, not fu— Anyway.

In summers past, Connor wrestled me and tickled me, and I pretended not to like it. We talked about some things, mostly scary movies, but kept an emotional distance. He accepts me being a drama queen, and I never let him know I would climb Everest for his kiss. 

Staring at me with a dumb look on his face is not our rhythm.

I finally lose my shit. “Jesus, am I bleeding from my eyes?”

He coughs out a laugh. “What?”

“You’re looking at me funny.”

He looks away. “Oh.”

I cross my arms. I have, in fact, filled out a lot since last summer—and the lifeguarding helps—but I’m still self-conscious about my small frame and will probably never forget the jocks calling me “Tinker Bell” from seventh to tenth grade. I press my lips together and side-eye the kids dancing to some club beat on Liz’s phone. “Everyone’s looking at me funny, actually.”

Connor clears his throat and plucks at the front of his tight, white T-shirt. He looks like he wants to dive headfirst into the empty pool at his back.

“You don’t have to talk to me, you know.”

His blue eyes flit back my way. Even in the dark, I know they’re blue. He says, “But I like talking to you.”

I hug myself tighter and lift a shoulder. “Seen any good horror movies lately?”

His smile is back. “Tons. I saw this French one called Raw.”

I bounce up on my toes. “Cannibals! Oh my God, that movie was so good! The writing.” I tear at my hair in euphoric bliss.

He nods. “And the scene with the roommate.”

“And the ending!” I poke him in the chest. “Dude, I tried to get Liz to watch it. She’s all vegetarian now because she dated this hippie dude senior year. She said she gave up meat for her health, but I think it’s because he said he tasted death in her mouth.”

Connor does the silent open-mouth laugh thing that happens when my storytelling reaches peak levels of absurd. 

“She made it thirty minutes into the movie before she had to leave the room and vomit. Meanwhile, I was sitting there eating, like, spaghetti.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder as he keeps laughing. I smell his deodorant: sporty man stuff. “I can’t believe I almost didn’t come this year.”

That steals the air from my lungs. Sure, I should be avoiding the guy, looking forward to the future, but all of a sudden, I can’t imagine a summer without Connor Nichols making me blush.

 

 

About the Author 

Sara Dobie Bauer is a bestselling romance author and mental health / LGBTQ advocate with a creative writing degree from Ohio University. She lives with her hottie husband and precious pup in Northeast Ohio, although she’d really like to live in a Tim Burton film.

 

Author Links

Blog/Website  |  Facebook  |  Private Facebook Group

Twitter  |  Instagram  |  Newsletter Sign-up  |  Freebies  

Hosted by Gay Book Promotions

 


Follow the tour and check out the other blog posts and reviews here

New Release – Good as Hell by Clancy Nacht & Thursday Euclid

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: Good as Hell

Author: Clancy Nacht & Thursday Euclid

Publisher: Eine Kleine Press

Cover Artist: Clancy Nacht

Release Date: October 1, 2020

Genre/s: MM Romance Urban Fantasy, Humor

Trope/s: Stuck together, Unlikely soul mates, the Chosen One

Themes: Power corrupts, good v evil, silly and sexy but with feels

Heat Rating: 5 flames  

Length: 65 000 words/ 245 pages

It is a standalone story.

Goodreads

 

Buy Links

Amazon US  |    Amazon UK 

    

Sex magic, infernals and void cats, oh my!

 

Blurb

It’s a mysteriously charmed life for orphan Sebastien Harris, but it’s still a shock to be offered a full ride to attend grad school at the obscure but prestigious Bosch University in upstate New York. Trouble starts as he attempts to reach the campus for his interview: first the train is cancelled, then a swarm of migratory air mattresses block the streets. When he finally arrives, he’s too exhausted to question why a remarkably handsome man named Gem is waiting for him, nor does he have time. A demon horde demolishes the university, and the pair run for their lives—at which point Sebastien realizes Gem is not, strictly speaking, human. Their adventure exposes Sebastien’s heritage…and reveals the prophecy he is destined to fulfill. Gem is infernal, a human-demon hybrid, and meant to be Sebastien’s servitor, a magical well from which Sebastien, a warlock by birth, will draw the power to remake the world. If he survives.

 

Excerpt 

“You’re late.” The tall man’s tone was so nonchalant it bordered on melodic, carrying the cadence of a world-weary sigh. “That is, you’re late if you’re Sebastien Harris.” He paused, eyeing Sebastien from his lofty vantage. His aquiline features formed an exceedingly dubious expression. “Are you Sebastien Harris? The gates opened for you, so I’m making an assumption here, but honestly.”

He pulled languidly at his pipe and made no comment about the cacophonic blue jays or the Hello Kitty helmet.

Sebastien wanted to reply, but he was still having a hard time breathing. Instead, he pulled off the helmet and let it roll away as he stared up at the man and nodded.

With the visor out of the way, Sebastien could admire the stranger properly. Even breathless and flat on his ass, Sebastien had to admit he was interested.

The tall man flowed smoothly into a crouch beside Sebastien, his long legs moving like well-oiled hinges, too graceful by far. His monochromatic ensemble was shades of gray, black, and white from dark curled hair down to his pointy-toed, iridescent black boots. It wasn’t exactly cool out—although it seemed far crisper here than it had on the road—but the man wore what looked like five or six layers on top, most of them silk or velvet or some other expensive material.

Sebastien had met lots of fashionable boys living in New York City, but this man seemed like another species entirely.

“Sebastien,” the man repeated with a little more enthusiasm this time, holding Sebastien’s gaze in a way that suggested he’d caught him looking. “You’re very late. Get your shit together, fresh meat.”

He smiled just a little, but it transformed his striking countenance into one far more accommodating, though still edged with intriguing cruelty.

After another puff from his pipe, the stranger passed it to his off hand and extended the other to shake.

“You can call me Gem, if you please,” he rasped as he exhaled richly scented pipe smoke to one side.

Sebastien took Gem’s hand and shook it even as Gem helped him to his feet. Sebastien’s legs trembled as he rose; the day’s activities were really catching up with him.

“I was delayed!” Sebastien shouted it, gesturing at the shrieking party of blue jays swarming around the gazebo. “I mean, I knew the birds were bad in the city, but I had no idea how intense they got this far out. How does anyone get here on time?”

This was, of course, leaving out the frolicking flock of mattresses and the subway being shut down, both of which were… Well, he had planned for the subway to possibly fail.

But it was his first mattress migration.

“Are you talking about the birds?” Gem looked momentarily puzzled as he gestured with his pipe toward the flock. “I’m uncertain how to break this news to you, Sebastien, but… Those are your birds. They’re here for you. They are not Bosch birds.”

He smiled, just a little, and this time it was distinctly unsettling. “You’ll know it when you see Bosch birds.”

“I don’t have birds. I was thinking about getting a cat, but—”

Fuck. Why was Sebastien bringing that up?

He was late, probably a mess, and there were angry birds.

Sebastien tried to smooth hair that had mostly parted ways with the little bun on the back of his head. Some stuck to his face, and he brushed it away as he looked down at what had once been a tidy, if imperfect, tie. The dress shirt was all but soaked through with sweat under the knit sweater he’d thought made him look quite smart. Now it just made him feel… damp.

Wincing as he peeled the sweaty fabric away from his skin, Sebastien mulled over the Bosch birds. That notion rang a bell, but he couldn’t quite place it. He couldn’t fucking think. The noise was inhuman.

“If they’re my birds, I’d really appreciate it if they shut up,” Sebastien muttered off-hand.

The shrieking stopped, leaving behind portentous silence.

He stared at Gem. Gem stared at him. Sebastien opened his mouth, thought, closed it again, and then blurted, “Um. That was weird.”

Weird being a relative term.

Then the ground began to shake.

 

About the Authors

Clancy Nacht

Clancy Nacht is a bisexual genderqueer person who lives in Austin. Many of her books have been honored with Rainbow Awards; Le Jazz Hot won for Best Bisexual/Transgender Romance & Erotic Romance. In 2013, Black Gold: Double Black was a runner-up for a Rainbow Award. In 2015, Gemini won an Honorable Mention for Gay Erotic Romance and in 2016, Strange Times won an Honorable Mention for Science Fiction. Wyatt’s Recipes for Wooing Rock Stars was a finalist in the highly competitive William Neale Award for Best Gay Contemporary Romance. The Phisher King won second place in the Rainbow Award for Romantic Suspense.

Thursday Euclid

The Thursday Euclid is a strange and elusive creature dwelling in the Texas Gulf Coast region. Frequently mistaken for Bigfoot, Chupacabra, or the monster of the week, he is, in fact, a 30-something black sheep with a penchant for K-pop, geekery, and hot and sour soup. When he’s not playing Dragon Age or World of Warcraft, he’s probably watching B-movies or talking to his best friend and frequent collaborator Clancy Nacht. You can find him on Facebook, Twitter, or email him at thursdayeuclid at gmail dot com.

 

Social Media Links

Blog/Website  |   Facebook  |   Twitter  |  Instagram

 

 

Hosted by Gay Book Promotions

 

Follow the tour and check out the other blog posts and reviews here

New Release – Atonement Camp for Unrepentant Homophobes by Evan J. Corbin #KindleUnlimited

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: Atonement Camp for Unrepentant Homophobes

Author: Evan J. Corbin

Publisher: Atonement Book, LLC

Cover Artist: The Book Cover Whisperer

Release Date: September 3, 2020 for the print book and September 17, 2020 for the eBook.

Genre/s: Contemporary LGBTQ Fiction; Speculative Fiction; Humour

Trope/s: Fish-out of water comedy

Themes: Coming out, cultural assimilation

Heat Rating:  2 flames     

Length:  70 600 words/ 283 pages

Goodreads

 

Buy Links – Available in Kindle Unlimited and Paperback

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Atonement Camp.

Pastor Harris is only going to save his career.

But while he doesn’t want to be there, a change of heart may be just what he needs…

 

Blurb

The oldest translation of a Gospel is returned to the world by a secret society long dedicated to its preservation.  In it, Jesus explicitly condemns bigotry and homophobia. In a new world in which LGBTQ passengers receive preferential boarding for flights and the United States has elected its first lesbian President, Pastor Rick Harris is stalwart, closeted preacher who doggedly holds onto his increasingly unpopular convictions.

When an incendiary sermon goes too far and offends an influential family, Rick makes a painful choice to keep his job:  He attends an atonement camp run by drag queens for society’s most unrepentant and terminally incurable homophobes.

Atonement Camp is immersion therapy for Pastor Harris, and it might be working. An open bar with pedicures, a devastatingly attractive roommate and an endless supply of glitter help him manage to make new friends. Soon, Rick and his cohorts learn the camp may hold its own secrets.  Amid the smiling faces and scantily clad pool boys who staff the camp, a clandestine group plots to discredit the New Revelation and everything it stands for.

If Rick has the conviction to confront his own hypocrisy, he might be able to uncover the conspirators with help from his adopted flock—and find new truths within himself.

 

Excerpt 

Chapter 1

Northern Syria

It was just after sunrise. The call to prayer from the nearby city’s rooftop loudspeakers receded as Dr. Michael Donahue’s driver left a familiar road for the makeshift trails that led deep into the desert. One faith bridged to the next, he thought. Before long, he wouldn’t need the light jacket, but he wore it anyway. It was a mysterious quest, and he tugged the jacket tight around his chest.

The jeep bounced over the rough terrain as Dr. Donahue carefully poured hot water from his thermos over his yerba mate leaves. His second mate would be less bitter than the first. Each time he made a fresh tea, the leaves lost more of their bitterness to the boiling water. The same leaves could be used again and again any given morning. It reminded him of his profession. Archeology was the sober study of the forgotten—people who lived, laughed, suffered, and died, their history diluted by each passing year. Dr. Donahue was determined to learn as much as he needed to reanimate their past with subtle detail, adding context to what would otherwise be merely more than a list of dates and details for his undergraduates to memorize before a test.

As promised, a man stood by the still-empty dig site. He was dressed in a Western style—no keffiyeh or other head dressing. With short sleeves and rugged boots, his attire was more practical than fashionable. Dr. Donahue always appreciated utility and function above much else. He acknowledged that his estimation of the man’s credibility was thus-far unearned, but he nonetheless felt more comfortable in the company of the familiar. 

The site had been Dr. Donahue’s home for most of the past year. His team would return after Ramadan. Dr. Donahue’s research specialization centered almost primarily around the early Christian era. He took a certain guilty pleasure in casually admitting his atheism each semester to the newest crop of freshman at his university in Washington, D.C. Like all things, he saw it as a learning opportunity. One is not excused from understanding something just because they don’t agree with it, he’d remind them. The site itself was an early Christian refuge under the Roman Empire. Forgotten by time, but now rediscovered. Painstakingly, he and his team would uncover artifacts and consider what stories they told about the people who made them. Dust from the jeep’s tires made a gritty fog that enveloped the air. Dr. Donahue squinted, his eyes already dry. He coughed and plodded through the sand to the man silently awaiting his arrival.

“Dr. Donahue.” The professor extended his hand to the stranger.

The man took his hand and smiled. “Thank you for coming. Your research associate mentioned your name last year when he worked with us, and we immediately knew we needed to meet with you.”

Dr. Donahue fanned the remaining traces of the sand from his face. “We?”

The man flashed a half smile. “Consider us like yourself, Professor. Archeologists.”

“I would assume, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

The man chuckled. “By the end of the day, I expect that to change. Come. Follow me,” he beckoned.

Still confused, the professor followed the man down the makeshift stairs to the dig site.

“We’re not certain where it was found,” the man said, waving his arm over the site, “but this is likely close and as good a spot as any.”

“What, exactly, was found?”

The man frowned. “Technically, it was never lost. Let me be more precise. This is where it will be rediscovered.”

The professor felt his frustration growing. “What, and by whom?”

The man turned to face the professor, still smiling. “The oldest copy of the Gospel of Mark ever discovered. I’m what we refer to as a Custodiana group of people committed to protecting this draft as we have done for more generations than our history may account for.”

The professor’s jaw dropped. He looked for answers in the man’s eyes to questions he could not manage to formulate.

“Every truth has its season, professor,” the man said, lowering himself to sit next on an empty crate near an assortment of digging tools. “This region has been plagued with war. We fear that if the artifact is not returned to the world now, it may never be.”

If his research associate hadn’t already vouched so strongly for the meeting, the professor was certain he would have already left the madman in another cloud of obscuring sand. Instead he asked: “Why have you kept it in the first place?”

“It contains a passage not found in any modern text. What’s the American expression? ‘One man’s waste is another man’s treasure’? That’s how our forefathers saw it. They saw something worthy of protection until the world was ready for the message. That time is now.”

Dr. Donahue smiled. His birthday was the following week, and the realization that his research associate might have set this up as an elaborate practical joke began to seem like the most likely explanation. It wouldn’t be out of character for him, he thought.

“So, where is it?” he asked, playing along.

The man pointed to a black chest. Taking the bait, Dr. Donahue carefully lifted the lid, expecting some puppet to pop out and exclaim “Happy Birthday!” Instead, the heavy lid creaked open to reveal a scroll bound in plastic and wound over on itself. His smile faded. Even without the aid of his radiocarbon dating equipment, he could tell the document was old. Very, very old.

 

About the Author 

Evan is a member of the LGBTQ community who fancies himself as a playboy socialite, living in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.  Between work and lucid moments of sobriety, he writes a little.  His debut novel is a light-hearted work that still manages to confront religious hypocrisy and contemporary LGBTQ struggles to balance their loss of culture with new-found civil rights.  His friends say the book is great!  Hopefully, you will as well.

 

Social Media Links

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New Release – You. Always You. by M.E. #KindleUnlimited #giveaway

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: You. Always you.

Author: M.E. 

Publisher: Perin

Cover Artist: M.E.

Release Date: September 15, 2020

 Genre/s: Contemporary M/M Romance

Trope/s: Mild age play, Daddy Kink, Power play, hurt/comfort

Themes: Toxic relationship, manipulation, humor,

erotic, heartache, open (happy) end

Heat Rating: 4 flames     

Length:  44 000 words/ 180 pages

It is a standalone story.

Goodreads

 

Buy Links – Available in Kindle Unlimited

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK 

 

A seductively toxic gay romance

 

Blurb

Whatever happened in your past, did not happen. And I am your only future.

I am obsessed with you; you’re obsessed with me.

 

You hurt me to comfort me.

You break me to put me back together.

And I do the same to you.

 

I am addicted to you; you’re addicted to me.

 

You told me this would be a bad idea.

You warned me of the heartache.

And I did it anyway.

 

I like you; you like me.

 

When I see you, my sun rises.

When I see you, it is summer in Berlin.

When I see you, I can still hear us laugh.

But I wasn’t gonna go, and you weren’t gonna stay.

I wonder if your heart aches when you see me.

I wonder if your sun rises when you see me.

I wonder if you smile …

And if you do, will you stay?

Or will I go?

 

You. Always You. is a steamy 44k vignette about a toxic love story between two men. It features elements of romance, humor, hurt/comfort, a dash of violence, mild age play, and Daddy play. Approach with caution. You’ve been warned.

 

Excerpt 

My little puppy

I frown down at you while you stare up at me with your big, dark puppy eyes. “What are you still doing up? It’s past eleven.”

“I was waiting for you, Daddy.” 

I smirk, like I’d fall for that. “You know the rules.”

“No, really!” Suddenly, your voice sounds almost childish. You’ve turned little right in front of me. You push your laptop carelessly off to the side and blink up at me. “I was waiting for you, Daddy.” You jump up to stand, hands going for my shirt.

I shake my head, “Uh-uh.” I know your games, your excuses. You’ve been watching something on your laptop and lost track of time. It’s always the same … the longer you stay up, the longer you’ll sleep in. Or not sleep at all. It’s not good for you, which is why we have the 10 p.m. bedtime rule.

“Daddy,” you whine, fingers curling in my shirt to pull at me. You can tell that I’m disappointed, yet you lie once more, “I was waiting for you. I cannot sleep without my Daddy …”

I stand still, watch your well-practiced innocent act play across your face and then reach down to unclasp your fingers from my shirt. “Take off my sweater.” Your eyes grow wide as I say that. I usually love seeing my clothes on you. Especially when we’re around other people. “Take it off.”

“But—” 

“Now,” I growl, snapping my fingers as if that would make you move faster. It doesn’t. 

Instead, you keep arguing. “I’ll be cold!”

“I said … Take. It. Off.”

“Why …?” you mumble as you finger the seam of the long sweater; it’s black and warm.

“You don’t deserve it.” I can hear the whine emanate from your throat, spilling past your lips. I could spank you. I could forbid you to watch any movies next weekend, but instead, I choose this. It’s a greater punishment for you to shed something that so clearly marks you as mine. “I’m taking it back.”

“No, no, you cannot do that!” You lunge forward again, tugging at my shirt while I stand above you like a statue. Tall and imposing. “You gave it to me, Daddy. It was a gift.”

“I take it back.” A pained sound escapes your lips, unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. Your bottom lip quivers and your eyes turn glossy. It pains you, deeply. But it also angers you, I can feel it simmer below the surface.

“Fine,” you snap.

“Fine what?” I probe as you take a step back, still not taking off my sweater. In fact, you cross your arms like a petulant child. 

“I watched something on Netflix because I didn’t want to go to sleep,” you admit, mumbling every word; it’s almost adorable. But mostly amusing. 

“There you go,” I say and sit down on the couch while you still stand beside it. You turn back to look at me over your shoulder, arms still crossed.

“I am keeping the sweater,” you announce; it makes me chuckle. I am already thinking about how I can punish you. This is always the best part. Punishing my little puppy.

“You lied to me. Liars must be punished.” Shuffling on your feet, you move to face me completely, the sleeves of my sweater covering your hands because you pulled them all the way down.

“But-but I confessed …”

I arch an eyebrow and shake my head at you, “Not good enough.” A few moments tick by before I tell you to kneel. You kneel. I order you to take off my shoes, you do that too.

I always enjoy watching you down there, between my feet, placing my shoes neatly below the coffee table. Like I’ve trained you to do. The first time you’d just tossed them aside. Bad little puppy. No more sloppiness.

 

 

 About the Author

M.E. are the initials of the two men who’ve created this story. One being the writer, the other being the muse.

Their story is brought to you by Perin from Quin & Perin

 

 

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Giveaway 

Enter the Rafflecopter Giveaway for a chance to win

the entire Quin & Perin catalogue plus You. Always you. in ebook format

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

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New Release – Abstract Love by Sara Dobie Bauer #KindleUnlimited

BLOG TOUR

Book Title: Abstract Love

Author: Sara Dobie Bauer

Publisher: Self-published

Cover Artist: Natasha Snow

Release Date: September 4, 2020

Genre/s: Contemporary MM romance

Trope/s: enemies-to-lovers, age gap, co-workers, office romance,

bisexuality, businessmen, artists, bondage, comedy

Themes: sexual awakening

Possible triggers: depression, suicidal ideations, biphobia

Heat Rating: 4 flames    

Length:  71 000 words

It is a standalone book.

Goodreads

 

Buy Links – Available on Kindle Unlimited

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I hate Sam Shelby. So why do I want to kiss him?

Blurb 

Sam never expected to move back to Cleveland.
Donovan never expected to be attracted to a man.
Well, shit happens.

After high school, Sam Shelby moved to New York. Eight years later, he returns to Cleveland and lands a job at the best ad firm in town. It would be the perfect gig, if his boss weren’t such an ass.

After his wife leaves, Donovan Cooper questions everything. The arrival of a young, arrogant, gifted graphic designer at Donovan’s firm is the last straw.

Tempers flare over office gossip, and following a nasty argument and scathing kiss, Donovan flails away from heterosexuality while Sam struggles to keep his “no relationship” rule intact.

Despite ugly socks, fiery fights, and their best intentions to not fall in love, these bullheaded coworkers can’t deny their chemistry. Donovan seeks happiness while Sam seeks success, but is there room for more?

 

Excerpt 

Donovan sifted through a few hand-drawn logos on the desk and froze when he found a crudely drawn sketch of himself. Sam must have done it during a meeting at some point, capturing Donovan’s faux hawk, wide jaw, and severe expression.

Jesus, was this what other people saw when they looked at him? Did he really look so miserable?

“Make yourself at home?”

Donovan dropped the picture and stood straight at the sound of Sam’s voice. 

He leaned against the doorframe, with one ankle crossed over the other.

“It’s really bullshit when people say that, you know?” Sam said. “Make yourself at home. No one actually wants their friends to take off their pants, drink all their beer, and binge The Great British Bake Off.” He paused. “What are you doing in my office?”

“I didn’t mean to snoop.”

The office door closed as he stepped inside. “Sure you did, or you wouldn’t be in here, so what’s up?”

Sam circled the desk, so Donovan circled the other way, although he noticed it was true what coworkers said: Sam did smell good—like clean laundry and cedar. “I think we started off on the wrong foot.”

Sam snort laughed and flipped through some files on his desk. “More like wrong continent, man.” When he found what he was looking for, he tapped the file’s corner against his palm. “I can handle guys like you, you know.”

Donovan shifted back on his heels. “Guys like me?”

“Hmm. Corporate assholes. All you see are dollar signs. You take no pleasure in your work. Advertising is money to you, not art, but without the artists, there wouldn’t be advertising, so…” He sucked his cheeks into his mouth, a momentary fish face. 

Donovan wanted to tell him it wasn’t true. Donovan loved art. 

He used to love art.

Sam continued, “I know I look like a six-foot-two Disney princess, but you’re not gonna rattle me.” To prove his point, Sam got right up in Donovan’s personal space until Donovan took a step back. Again, he was not used to dealing with someone his own height. “And I’m right about the Great Lakes ad campaign. If you’d pull your head out of your ass, maybe you’d notice.” He turned away abruptly.

“Sam.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.” Ouch, that hurt coming out.

Sam’s rebuttal: “Prove it.”

“Excuse me?”

He rested a hand on the desk and cocked his hip out—the very picture of young attitude. “Listen to me in meetings.”

“I was listening.”

“Nope.” He shook his head and ran a hand through his unkempt, unprofessional hair. “No, you were hearing. I need you to listen. There’s a difference. And I know I’m just some fucking kid to you, but I ruled the New York City advertising scene. I know what I’m doing, Donovan, so let me do it.”

“Fine.” He’d had enough. He’d apologized, okay, so he’d done his Monica-enforced duty. He didn’t owe Sam anything else. 

He didn’t run for the door, but he definitely moved with speed. 

 

 

About the Author

Sara Dobie Bauer is a bestselling author, model, and mental health / LGBTQ advocate with a creative writing degree from Ohio University. She lives with her hottie husband and two precious pups in Northeast Ohio, although she’d really like to live in a Tim Burton film.

 

 

Author Links

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Book Blast – Sex and the City Plotholes by Nicole Taylor #giveaway

BOOK BLAST

Book Title: Sex and the City Plotholes

Author: Nicole Taylor

Cover Artist and Publisher: Nicole Taylor

Fiction or Non-Fiction: Non-Fiction

Genre/s: Humor

Trope/s: TV Plot and Character Flaws

Themes: TV Series Satire

Heat Rating:  No sexual content.

Length: 65 000 words/ 206 pages

It is a standalone book.

Goodreads

 

Buy Links

Amazon US  | Amazon UK  |  Amazon AU  | booktopia |  fishpond

 Universal Link

 

“SATC is my religion, so I’m offended by this book. But fuck, it’s funny.” – Dario Holley, Gay Icon 

 

Blurb 

“I couldn’t help but wonder….”. If you cringed while watching Sex and the City but still can’t get enough of it, this is the book for you. A modern recap of this iconic television series, for diehard Sex and the City addicts.

“Sex and the City Plotholes” is a dryly hilarious summary of each of the ninety-four episodes and two movies of Sex and The City, an enormously popular American romantic comedy-drama which ran from 1998 to 2004. The show was ground-breaking in many ways. It introduced many plot features which had never been seen so openly on mainstream television, including sexual promiscuity, non-standard relationships, coarse language, fetishes, and homosexuality, to name a few. Enjoy discovering the multitude of flaws in the plotlines and characters, explored through the more politically correct 21st century lens.

Included are several “top ten” lists covering such subjects as “Ten Worst Dates” and “Ten Unresolved Plotlines”. You’ll also find Inane Dialogue, Miranda Moments and Best Quotes throughout.

 

Excerpt 

Season 5

8 “I Love a Charade”

Carrie wears a terrible dress and worse hairstyle to a Hamptons wedding. We are assailed with mentions of “zsa zsa zsu”, a made-up term of speech that thankfully only lasts one episode. Berger shows up again, now single but no more likeable. Charlotte realises she has fallen for Harry, but is dismayed when he tells her it can never be because she’s not Jewish (which explains why he was OK with being a fuck buddy). Samantha demands Smarmy Richard, who she dumped a while ago, allow her to use his Hamptons house for a huge party. The SATC girls crack continual jokes about Bitsy von Muffling marrying the gayest man in New York.

The girls are off to a wedding, amidst their disbelief and amusement that Bobby Fine, a cabaret piano entertainer who tells his audience he wears pink caftans and a Peggy Lee wig in the privacy of his own home, is marrying Bitsy Von Muffling, a thin middle aged socialite with platinum hair. There is much consternation among the SATC girls about why they are getting married at all, but the general agreement is that it must be for companionship. Carrie bleats on about the zsa zsa zsu – the butterflies in your stomach you get when you’re in love – and how it couldn’t possibly exist in a gay/straight union. I’m already wishing zsa zsa zsu didn’t exist as vocabulary in the script.

In ongoing coincidences, Harry handled Bitsy’s divorce, so he’s invited to the wedding. He wants Charlotte to go with him, and as they are slowly progressing away from fuck buddies to something more, Charlotte agrees to go; but only if he waxes his back. He must have it done at the same place that butchered Samantha’s face peel, because after the wax his back looks as though it’s been grilled on a Broil King. We’ve all waxed our legs, haven’t we ladies? There should be no ongoing redness or welting, and certainly no pain after the procedure. Charlotte is horrified to see Harry’s back looking like breakfast bacon, but at least it’s hairless. She finds other things to complain about though: Harry’s shirt, his use of the word “tits” and his tendency to eat without caring about food on his face. Harry is characteristically good natured about it all. He’s slowly becoming my second favourite SATC lead cast member (after Miranda). Except for the teabag thing, but we’ll get to that.

On their way to the huge party that Samantha has decided to host at Richard’s house in the Hamptons, Jack Berger makes another appearance, just in time to create some drama in season 6. He rides badly on a motorcycle to the very same fast food joint where the SATC girls minus Charlotte are having lunch. It’s quite the coincidence. The motorcycle is an impulse purchase Berger made to get him through a breakup with the girlfriend Carrie was hopeful he would break up with. However, he’s not very confident in riding it, which makes me wonder how he got his license, and if he should really be riding it up to the Hamptons. Carrie invites him to Samantha’s party, and he knows the house because Berger has a Hamptons house as well. (So does Harry; have you noticed how many people have Hamptons houses on SATC?)

At the party, Carrie and Berger sit outside the house together on the grass and Carrie delivers a one-woman monologue about her last breakup and breakups in general, crapping on well long enough to make her seem a dozen kinds of crazy. Berger can’t get away fast enough, even pulling his jacket out from under Carrie so suddenly she tips sideways. Carrie, in her characteristic narcissistic way, has scared him off. I’m still waiting for someone to quote Lisa Kirk to Carrie:

“A gossip is one who talks to you about others; a bore is one who talks to you about himself; and a brilliant conversationalist is one who talks to you about yourself.”

It may have helped Carrie a little in life. Anyway, moving on to the actual wedding reception. Harry professes to Charlotte that he’s falling for her, but then follows up that he can never marry her because she’s not Jewish. They decide to just dance and figure it all out in season 6. Miranda is ruminating over her recent accidental sex with Steve (again!) and realises she may be falling for him too. Berger shows up yet again, invited that very day by the groom (because when you pay $500 a head for a lavish Hamptons wedding, it’s ok to ask random people on the street to attend on seven hours’ notice). Carrie keeps her mouth firmly shut, embarrassed by her earlier verbal haemorrhage, and they decide to date properly before their (spoiler) rocky relationship and spectacular breakup in season 6. Samantha isn’t falling in love with anyone, I’m relieved to say, because that’s enough love (or simulation thereof) for one episode.

Style note: I can’t even say how much I hate the dress and hair combo Carrie wears to the wedding. The other girls somehow always put it together for events, but Carrie is generally relied upon to wear unflattering frocks, like this one that is just a strapless gathered piece that looks like the towel you wear under your arms when you’re stripped off and about to get a massage. Don’t get me started on the hair.

 

 

About the Author 

Nicole Taylor writes from Sydney, Australia, where Sex and the City reruns are a constant on Foxtel. In addition to her SATC addiction she has a Seinfeld addiction, a pole addiction (the kind you dance on) and two adorable cats who helpfully sit on her keyboard while she types. She has released an album of pop music called “Ambiguosexual” and is writing her next novel.

 

 

Author Link

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Giveaway 

Enter the Rafflecopter Giveaway for a chance to win

one of 10 ebook copies of Sex and the City Plotholes.

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Book Blast – Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon by Andy V. Ambrose

BOOK BLAST

Book Title: Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon

Author: Andy V. Ambrose

Publisher: Nine Star Press 

Cover Artist: Natasha Snow

Release Date: September 2, 2019

Genres: Contemporary,  Literary/Genre Fiction

Theme: Older gay man searching for love

Heat Rating: 4 flames

Length: 62 100 words/292 pages

It is a standalone story.

Warning: references to non-consensual situations, no HEA or HFN

Add on Goodreads

 

Buy Links

Nine Star Press

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK 

 

 

Blurb 

Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon recounts the adventures of Viktor, a fifty-year-old gay man in New York City trying to get back into the land of the living after the breakup of a twelve-year relationship. The novel examines the lives of a group of middle-aged gay men, exploring new facets of their sexuality while dealing with all the changes middle age brings.

 

Excerpt

SATURDAY AFTERNOON—FLOUNDERING

My erections aren’t what they used to be.

Well, Dr. S told me to write about the first thing that comes into my mind, so it’s what I’m doing. “Don’t think. Just write,” he said. “Stop censoring yourself, Viktor. This will help you in your therapy too, Viktor.”

Okay, okay. If that’s what the shrink ordered, let’s see if this works. We’re supposed to listen to our shrinks, right? That’s their job, right? They know how to get us out of whatever fucking funk we’re in, right?

So here we go. I’m writing about the first thing that comes to my mind and it’s my erections. Here it is, a lovely Saturday afternoon, sun shining, snow melting, spring a’coming, a perfect time to enjoy life. And what am I doing? Sulking in my apartment obsessing about my cock.

Hell of a problem to have on a day like today, isn’t it? Shit, be honest, Viktor. You’re supposed to be honest with this writing thing, aren’t you? That was Dr. S’s other directive, wasn’t it? Honesty. He was full of directives last session, wasn’t he? Oh well, maybe I need some directives.

So where was I? Oh yes. Gorgeous day, shitty mood, focusing on my cock when I should be enjoying life.

Oh, come on. It’s not just about my cock. I know that. After all, I did my share of screwing around when I was younger. Not that I was the biggest stud around in my heyday, but during those few glorious weeks my sex life got going, I learned how to have a good time. Yes, I did! But then I met Gio and fell in love. And he fell in love with me. And we had twelve years of bliss—more or less—until he left me last year.

“And I’ve been floundering ever since. Floundering? Ha! Flopping around is more like it. So I’ve been seeing Dr. S—ahem, Dr. Singsirinavin—I’ve been seeing him to help me out of this predicament. Seems like a nice enough guy, serious, quiet, with a scrawny body and a bit of an accent, though I’ll be damned if I know from where exactly. These shrinks never tell you anything about themselves, do they? I’ve been seeing Dr. S for a year already, and you would think by now I’d have an idea, but I don’t. To tell the truth, I don’t have much of an idea about anything, including whether he’s helping me.
But I’m trying. Goddamn it, I’m trying, you’ve got to give me that. Didn’t put all my eggs in one basket, either. Went to my primary-care guy too, to complain about my cock. Dr. Agnostulopolini. Different accent, different mystery country. Had to change doctors when my cheapo company switched insurances and I had to find someone new.

“And I’ve been floundering ever since. Floundering? Ha! Flopping around is more like it. So I’ve been seeing Dr. S—ahem, Dr. Singsirinavin—I’ve been seeing him to help me out of this predicament. Seems like a nice enough guy, serious, quiet, with a scrawny body and a bit of an accent, though I’ll be damned if I know from where exactly. These shrinks never tell you anything about themselves, do they? I’ve been seeing Dr. S for a year already, and you would think by now I’d have an idea, but I don’t. To tell the truth, I don’t have much of an idea about anything, including whether he’s helping me.

“And I’ve been floundering ever since. Floundering? Ha! Flopping around is more like it. So I’ve been seeing Dr. S—ahem, Dr. Singsirinavin—I’ve been seeing him to help me out of this predicament. Seems like a nice enough guy, serious, quiet, with a scrawny body and a bit of an accent, though I’ll be damned if I know from where exactly. These shrinks never tell you anything about themselves, do they? I’ve been seeing Dr. S for a year already, and you would think by now I’d have an idea, but I don’t. To tell the truth, I don’t have much of an idea about anything, including whether he’s helping me.
“But I’m trying. Goddamn it, I’m trying, you’ve got to give me that. Didn’t put all my eggs in one basket, either. Went to my primary-care guy too, to complain about my cock. Dr. Agnostulopolini. Different accent, different mystery country. Had to change doctors when my cheapo company switched insurances and I had to find someone new. He doesn’t know anything about me and doesn’t seem to care, either. Every time I ask a question, the side of his face twitches like he’s having a stroke. “Doctor,” I said last time, “my libido seems to have disappeared.”
“You know, it does fall off with age,” he says. Translation: you’re getting old.
“But not this suddenly, Doctor. Could it be the new blood pressure medicine you prescribed?” Translation: Fuck you. Don’t give me that you’re-getting-old shit. I’m fifty. That’s not old.”

 

 

About the Author 

Andy V Ambrose grew up in the Boston area and moved to New York City after college. He worked in book publishing for many years, wearing many hats: Editorial, Copyediting, Proofreading, and Production. This is his first novel featuring Viktor, a fifty-year-old gay man trying to get back into the world of the living after the end of a twelve-year relationship. To relax, Andy loves to ride his bike, read, watch foreign and independent movies, and travel. He’s only made it to three continents so far but hopes to visit the rest soon. He lives in New York City.

 

Social Media Links

Website  |  Instagram

 

 

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A Series of Fates by C.C. Dado

SERIES REVIEW TOUR

A Series of Fates 

Easter Valley is a place for shifters to thrive, protect each other, and be themselves. It’s also a place for friendships, laughs… and love. From the Alpha, to the shyest of pack members, these mates find their way into each other’s arms in this trio of romantic comedy tales, and while the path to love can be bumpy when fate is involved, the endings are always happy.

The stories should preferably read in order but can be read individually as they have their own main characters and HEA.

Author: C.C. Dado

Publisher:  Dreamspinner Press

Cover Artist: Brooke Albrecht

Genre/s: Paranormal Comedy,  M/M Romance

Trope/s: Fated Mates

Themes: Shifters

Overall Heat Rating: 2 flames (my stories are intended to be more comedy romance, bordering on young adult)

Add on Goodreads

 

BOOK 1

Book Title:  Denying Fate

Length: 23 500 words/ 83 pages

Release Date: August 31, 2018

Blurb

A Series of Fates: Book One

Fate is a funny thing. Some try to cut its threads, while others wrap themselves in it like a blanket.

Young wolf shifter Max is cocky and crass. Unlike others his age, he has yet to discover a talent that will serve his pack. Since childhood, he’s been convinced the pack alpha is his mate, but Alpha Christian cannot envision unfiltered and directionless Max taking the place of his elegant mother at the head of the pack. As Max begins to build a life with his best friend, he also begins to see that maybe what he thought was inevitable was all in his head, and it’s time to move on.

Or are they both denying fate?

Buy Links

Dreamspinner Press  |  Amazon US  | Amazon UK

 

BOOK 2

Book Title: Embracing Fate

Length: 27 222 words/ 91 pages

Release Date: October 26,  2018

Blurb

A Series of Fates: Book Two

Sometimes you just have to embrace your fate.

Seth has a secret: he has a crush on the human next door. His brilliant plan to meet Jack, the man of his dreams who happens to be an animal trainer? Take wolf form and ask his best friend, Max, to take him next door for training. Seth is the only one surprised when things go horribly awry.

Still, can this shy wolf and a human meet their fate as mates?

Buy Links

Dreamspinner Press  |  Amazon US  | Amazon UK

 

BOOK 3

Book Title: Fearing Fates

Length: 21 250 words/ 71 pages

Release Date: December 14, 2018

Blurb

He is a fearless protector by nature and in his heart. But nothing’s ever simple with love… or fate.

At nearly seven feet tall, Zeus’s role had always been to protect the pack—but his newest charges need him more than most. Kimber and Kron are transplants from another pack, and they have a dangerous stranger on their tails. Zeus is determined to do his duty and drive the human out of town. But when he confronts Toren, his wolf has other ideas….

Something isn’t right, but should a huge, tattooed wolf with a secret soft heart fear his fate—to love a man with secrets of his own?

Buy Links

Dreamspinner Press  |  Amazon US  | Amazon UK

 

 

Excerpt from Embracing Fate

Seth walked down to the bakery to get the ovens warming and opened the window behind the sink so it didn’t get too hot. It was still early morning, but it was already at least seventy degrees out. He could smell the morning dew burning off under the sun. He spent the next few hours preparing the backup set of baked goods for the display cases. Max had come in a little while ago to get the front ready for another busy Saturday. Seth was really glad they had high school kids helping out in the afternoons now, so they didn’t have to put in such a long day. Seth was on his last batch of cupcakes. He’d grabbed the muffin tin off the cooling rack and started filling the paper cups with batter when he heard a commanding voice pierce through the window.

“Sit.”

Seth was unable to control his response as he dropped his spatula and sat his butt hard onto the floor. What the hell was that? Not even his alpha had that type of control over him. His premonition of undecidedly awful things coming ran through his mind—this is it. He barely registered the squeak of the swinging half doors as Max walked into the kitchen from the front.

“Whatcha doing there?” Max asked, leaning across the kitchen island.

Seth stared up at Max, his eyes blown wide. “I have no idea,” he said, the cupcake tin he had somehow managed not to drop still held awkwardly in the air.

“Lie down.” The voice came through the window again.

Max looked at Seth questioningly as Seth instantly fell onto his back.

“Okay…,” Max said, obviously trying to stay calm. “That was weird, right? Did you just lie down because someone outside said to?”

Seth whined, lying on the floor of the bakery in shock, scared eyes staring toward the ceiling.

Max came around the island, rushing to help Seth up.

“Okay, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m calling Christian.” Max pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Wait,” Seth said, needing a moment to process.

“Umm, no. We should call Christian.” Max leaned over the sink to see out the window into the backyard. “There’s a guy out back at the house next door. I think it’s the new neighbor. Maybe he’s an evil wizard or something. Is that a real thing? Oh….” He paused. “He’s pretty hot, but like not really my type. I like them with a little more muscle, to the point where their shirts stretch just a bit across their chest and shoulders, like Christian’s do. But he’s not bad, lanky, brunet too,” he said, sounding disappointed. “I prefer blonds, and he has on glasses. Can’t say I’ve ever been a fan of a man in glasses, but they fit on him.”

“Are you seriously checking out my neighbor right now?” Seth demanded, his anxiety starting to lower from DEFCON 3 as he took calming breaths.

“No, I mean yes, but not for me. Sorry, okay. Focus. Let’s get you up off the floor. We’ll call Christian and Zeus.”

Seth let Max help him up off the ground, and he peeked out the window. “Wait,” he said again, stopping Max’s hand as he reached for the phone in his pocket. “I’m not scared anymore.”

“What do you mean, you’re not scared anymore? You just laid down on the ground because someone told you to.”

“I know. And it scared me at first too. Normally I’d still be having a full-blown panic attack in the corner, probably crying a little, but I’m not.”

“Okay, so, you don’t want me to call Christian because you’re not freaking out anymore that someone is controlling your mind?” Max sarcastically summarized.

Seth shook his head at his friend. “I meant, I’m not panicking. The voice, it makes me feel different, like in a good way, peaceful almost.”

“I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re obviously not thinking clearly. You’ve lost the ability to make your own choices. I’ll have Christian’s lawyer draw up papers. I’ll be your legal guardian from now on.”

“If you’re ever the rational one out of the two of us, we’re both screwed, and I’m not insane, just curious, I guess. I don’t want to tell them yet.” Seth looked out at the stranger again. He was tall, his dark brown, wavy hair fell just past his shoulders, his nose was a little too big for his face, and Seth thought it was perfect. “Handsome but not too perfect.” His earlier words to Max about his preferences played back through his mind, making him take a deep breath.

Max leaned in next to him a bit to get a better look. “What is he doing out there?” Max attempted to whisper, watching intently out of the window.

“Zeus said he was a trainer.”

“Oh, Seth,” Max said, pausing to choke back a laugh with his fist. “He’s a dog trainer.” He snorted, apparently unable to hold it in any longer, “And you’re… you’re obeying his commands.”

Seth could barely make out what Max was saying past his laughter.

“Shit, I think I may die,” Max said, bent over the counter, holding his side. “This might be the best thing that has ever happened in my life.”

“I hate you,” Seth said, focusing his attention back out the window. Recalling his conversation with Zeus, the new neighbor was a dog trainer. Seth watched as the man knelt down in the grass and patted his leg for the dog to come. The chocolate lab bounced his way across the yard, ramming into the man.

“That’s a good boy.” The man’s purr sent chills over Seth’s body. His wolf was definitely awake, pulling at him to get closer.

 

About the Author

I write about painfully awkward, usually embarrassing, romance because long confident gazes followed by sexy dancing NEVER happens to me. I am a native of the Pacific Northwest, and will probably never leave. I’m like a hypochondriac sundae, with claustrophobic sprinkles, and a big cherry of anxiety on top, so I don’t travel much. I read to relax my mind, so I love getting lost in someone else’s story, even if it is only for a little while.

 

Author Links

Twitter: @C_C_Dado

 

Giveaway

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New Release – The Duke & The Dandy Highwayman Trilogy by Zakarrie Clarke #freeread #giveaway

 RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: The Duke & The Dandy Highwayman Trilogy

Author: Zakarrie Clarke

Publisher: Self-published

Release Date: May 6, 2019

Genre/sHistorical M/M Romance (Regency), Comedy/Humour

Trope/s: Forbidden Love, Highwayman/Duke

ThemesDuty, Expectations of Society, Redemption Tale

Heat Rating:  4 flames

Length: approx. 100,000 words

It is a standalone story

Add on Goodreads

 

Buy Links – Available on Kindle Unlimited

AVAILABLE FREE FOR A LIMITED TIME

FROM MON – FRI THIS WEEK

Amazon US

Amazon UK

 

 

Blurb

‘The Most High, Noble and Potent Prince, His Grace Padraic, Duke of Waterford.’

After enduring the Ducal Grand Entrance, one might be forgiven for thinking that an evening could only improve. One would be wrong. Padraic was then duty bound to find an amiable miss to romance and dance attendance upon. In truth, the Duke was rather more partial to establishments that promised charms he would ne’er find in the arms of a Lady. Such dalliances did add a dash of decadence to his life of ducal drudgery, but time was tick-tocking and a blue-stocking bride must be wooed, and wed…

Raff of the Rookeries. The most afeared rake-hell to have haunted the highways since Darkin denied them the pleasure at the gallows…by stepping off the ladder before they could whip it from under his feet. Raff had fought his way up to rule the roost with instincts as razor-sharp as his dirk. His sword skills, fists, and wily wits had stood him in good stead, but none had proved as invaluable as the weapon he’d ne’er needed to tend. His fury. A rage every bit as lethal as arsenic—deadlier than brawn, brains, or bravado—Raphael had carried it like a toxic plague. Until, he became Raff of the Rookeries. Unleashed upon the underworld, it was the most formidable foe in London. Two men from two different worlds…a mere few miles apart. That is, until the fateful night when The Duke was halted in his tracks by a very Dandy Highwayman…

 

 

Excerpt

Mayhaps twenty minutes later, the air turned decidedly rank; a stench that came accompanied by random street sounds and the odd drunken shout. They were, beyond any shadow o’doubt, heading for some godforsaken part of town. A logical assumption, further embellished by the aroma of decaying cabbage and other, far less salubrious odors.

If the Devil himself intended to demoralize the poor, he could not find a means more agreeable to his plans, than the London slums.

“Nearly there, Yer Grace,” The scoundrel called over his shoulder as they slowed to a trot.

“Where is ‘there’?” Padraic dared to wonder.

“My humble abode. It’s where you’ll be staying awhile; leastways until someone coughs up for yer safe return.” The highwayman’s voice sounded harsher, colder while imparting this, as if his words were poisoned by the rancid air as they fell from his lips.

“Whereabouts are we?” Padraic asked, curious as to whether his rogue would answer.

“The Strand.”

It was as he’d expected. They were in the warren of narrow, filthy streets and alleyways in the densely populated slums. Home to one of London’s most notorious Rookeries. An utterly lawless labyrinth of squalid living, gin dens, bawdy houses, and brothels. Popular legend told of a traveller who had entered Portugal Street on his way to The Strand and never emerged. His ghost was, apparently, still searching for a way back to civilization. Padraic would just have to hope to fare rather better than he.

The Duke had e’er been horrified that people were forced to live this way, right under the refined noses of the ton. Poles apart, but virtually overlapping in proximity. Padraic had poured thousands into funding an orphanage and school for foundlings, when he came into his inheritance. He visited them oft, choosing the staff himself to ensure that no child was ill-treated, but there was only so much he could do. With all the will in the world, there wasn’t a great deal to be done, as long as those in power turned a blind eye to the suffering of others.

“Whoa…” When Demon clattered to a halt on the cobblestones, the Duke reluctantly relinquished his grip about his captor’s person. The scoundrel shifted in the saddle and with one sharp tug, the kerchief was gone, alongside a fair few strands of hair that were tangled into its knot. The Duke scarce felt the sting as his hungry gaze guzzled the sight it had been denied for the duration of the ride. ’Twas with a devilish wink that the highwayman threw a leg over the horse’s head, before lightly dismounting.

“Billy, m’lad!” He hailed a youth seated on the front steps of a large dilapidated townhouse, holding a lantern aloft. An endearing grin lit up his grimy face as he sprang to his feet.

“Yer all right, Raff?” he chirped, in very genuine cockney tones.

“Too right I am. We ’ave ourselves a guest m’friend. Yer Grace, this is Billy—he ain’t got another name—so I can’t tell yer that. Billy, this ’ere is His Grace, The Duke of Waterford, so yer better mind your p’s ’n’ q’s, like I taught yer.”

“Hello Billy, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Padriac greeted him.

“Lawks! I can’t fink why, Yer…Grace?” Billy glanced at the man he’d called Raff, seeking reassurance for his form of address, and received an approving nod.

“I can’t think why ’twould not be.” Padraic smiled. Billy looked puzzled for a moment—as if trying to make sense of something he’d patently understood—then just beamed instead and reached for Demon’s halter.

“See that he’s rubbed down and well-fed, won’t you, Billy? I need to get our guest settled in.”

“Righto. C’mon Demon, let’s be ’avin yer, there’s oats awaiting and some fresh hay.”

“After you, Yer Grace…” The rascal sketched a bow, waving his hand with a flourish as he bent extravagantly low, before straightening up to push open the front door. It was painted black; blistered, peeling and desperately in need of a fresh coat. A large, dimly lit hallway lay beyond it, with a wide staircase ascending on the left.

“Raff! I’d almost given up ’ope on ya. Thought you’d gone a-whoring,” announced a stocky, bow-legged man, with close-cropped hair and forearms like lamb shanks. His broad grin revealed several missing teeth, the remaining ones having seen better days. Several decades ago.

Despite having tugged his kerchief down when they entered, Padraic was still unable to drink his fill of Raff’s face, for much of it was cast into shadow and the rest, obscured by a tangled fall of hair.

“Not tonight Bluff, I was off procuring us a guest,” he smirked.

“Crikey, you’ve nabbed a right nob. Who the ’ell is he?”

“This ’ere’s The Duke of Waterford.” Raff declared, inclining his head with divine insolence.

“Lawks! A Duke? Couldn’t yer find a Prince ’anging about then?” Bluff gaped.

“’Fraid not, we’ll just ’ave to slum it…” Raff tutted, with a fulsome sigh.

“I hope yer don’t expect me t’curtsy. I ain’t got the legs for it.”

“You ain’t got the legs for owt except sitting on ’orseback,” Raff retorted, about a breath before his tone darkened to a deadly rasp. “Bluff. See to it that no one. But no one. Lays a finger on him.” He added nary a dire threat, nor had he raised his voice. Raff had, in fact, lowered it to a lethal lash of sound that sliced the air like a whip—but it was the glint of green he levelled at Bluff that made the man swallow visibly while nodding several times.

“Will do, Raff. He’ll fetch a pretty price, won’t he?”

“Too bloody right, he will. I’ll have to keep him up top with me—Duke he might be—but he ain’t above being too ripe and ready by ’alf.”

“A dark ’orse is he? I ain’t at all surprised, now you mention it. Beggin’ yer pardon, Yer Dukeness. Right, I’ll just wait for Billy an’ lock up then.”

“Thanks, Bluff. ’Night.”

“’Night Raff…’night yer Dukeness.” Bluff doffed an imaginary cap at Padraic, who inclined his head with ducal gravity, so as not to disappoint him. The amiable miscreant was chuckling away to himself as he took his leave of them, before disappearing through a door further down the hallway.

“Right then, Yer Grace, up yer go. Right to the top,” Raff instructed, gesturing towards the staircase with a regal sweep of his hand.

“Are you locking me in the attic?” Padraic asked, as he clasped the bannister.

“I am, indeed. Yer can’t get up to any mischief up there.”

The Duke thought it might be wise to hold his tongue and make his way upstairs, afore the scoundrel decided to shove him in the coal cellar instead. Padraic’s brain was abuzz with demon steeds, daft monikers, and bandy-legged blackguards. A boy with only one name and a heart of gold.

 

About the Author

After moving to London at eighteen and flitting about for far too long, Zakarrie settled, as blissy as can be, by the sea. ’Twas here that her castaway dreams resurfaced and she began to write; stories that are, in truth, better at being her than she’s ever been. Her one hope now is that someone, somewhere, will enjoy the misadventures of her miscreants as much as she loves writing them.

 

 

Social Media Links

Blog/Website

Facebook

Twitter

Pinterest

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Blog Tour – Darkness Dawns by Zakarrie Clarke

BLOG TOUR

Book Title: Darkness Dawns

Author: Zakarrie Clarke

Publisher: MLR Press

Genre/s: Contemporary/Humour/MM/Disability (Blindness)

Length: 65 000 words/150 PDF pages

Release Date: February 1, 2019

It’s a novel with a sequel. The first 43 chapters form Darkness Dawns; it concludes on a HFN and the sequel completes the novel.

I’ve written both, but thought it best to split it, or it would be over 140 000 words long.

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Blurb

Darkness Dawns is a love story. It also tells the tale of one man’s war with himself, brought onto the battlefield of his blindness. Leo Ferrar suffers from diabetic retinopathy and lost his sight two years ago. Unable to bear the scrutiny of strangers or the impact of his blindness on those he loves, Leo has determined on shutting the world out ever since. This is the man Ben meets on his first day at work as Mr Ferrar’s care assistant.

A former heroin addict, Ben was sentenced to six months community service as punishment for his crimes by a judge entitled to condemn him to a seven-year stretch. Far too charming for his own welfare, Ben proves unaccountably brilliant at ‘bulldozing the blind’.

When fate sees fit to dispatch Ben to the home of the man he has dubbed Mr Ferrarcious; it is with the words of the last five unfortunates who’d dared darken Leo’s doorway ringing in his ears.  A door that is opened by a man who might be Lord Byron himself. Drop dead gorgeous and as hot as hell, Leo Ferrar has the most beautiful eyes Ben has ever seen.

Never has an irony seemed so cruel. Nor fate so fortuitous.

 

 

Buy Links

Publisher – MLR 

Smashwords

Amazon US 

Amazon UK

 

 

Excerpt

Leo knew he should have opted to use the cane, instead of the arm Ben offered him for their unexpected walk. Should. Every time that word left someone’s lips, Leo wanted to scream; fists clenched in a screech of hopeless, helpless rage. The fact that everything he should do was For-His-Own-Benefit, made it so much worse, which was as ludicrous as it was true. Independence was the only thing he had left to aspire to. So, why the fuck did should rub Leo so raw it obliterated any inclination he may have had to do whatever it prefaced? He ought to want to do the things he should. But what if he tried…and failed? What if Leo couldn’t master any of them? Then he would lose even the hope that he might, one day, be able to. Even more galling, that loss would be down to him, because he was so bloody useless. He did want to show Ben that he was quite capable of managing…didn’t he? Very much, although why that mattered, Leo had no idea.

Why care what this latest in a long line of functioning eyeballs thought of him? It was probably more politic to say, ‘visually unimpaired’. Visually Impaired. Leo had to stifle the urge to punch people who described him thus. Impaired? Adj: weakened or damaged. Weak. Weakened. F’fucksakes. He was still chewing that particular wasp when Ben asked for his wrist.

Does he intend to lead me by it, as if I’m a toddler?

Leo found himself holding it out anyway. Christ knows why he was going along with all this. It was just that…being in Ben’s company was rather like sitting in the passenger seat of a snow plough driven by a drunk. Far preferable to standing in its path…and yet, somehow more appealing than staying behind, wherever the hell it was off to.

Nevertheless, he was still relieved when Ben clasped the proffered wrist—not to cart Leo off as he’d feared—but to plant his hand on top of Ben’s head. The fact that Leo could have changed the lightbulb without stretching a whole lot further, did seem to suggest he’d been addressing Ben’s nipples for the last half hour.

Quite how Ben then contrived to claim fault for something that was Leo’s mistake was less clear, but this was pulled off with such disarming charm, it would’ve been churlish to argue otherwise. Why the hell did the notion of calling Ben’s bluff feel as brutal a prospect as drowning his cat? If he had one, of course. Cat? More to the point…nipples?

“Thank you,” Leo managed to mumble, which was something of a result itself. Half an hour with Ben and he’d started to feel several sandwiches short of the proverbial picnic. He’d also begun to suspect that Violet had been a sweet little old lady—and quite sane—when she’d met Ben.

So off they went. The blindingly daft leading the blind off on a stroll around Camden.

In a bid to distract himself from well, pretty much everything he’d thought for the last five minutes, Leo decided to ask Ben to describe himself. For some reason he was intrigued, not only to know what Ben looked like, but to hear the picture he drew. Leo had an inkling this would prove more unmissable than an aural tour around the National Portrait Gallery. Unmissable? It was a bloody masterpiece. There most definitely were not any renderings of Steptoe’s six-four daughter there. The last two years might have felt a damn sight less soul-destroying if Ben had voiced Leo’s DVD visual descriptions.

Walking outside had lost all its appeal when the world became a giant landmine lying in wait to blow up in Leo’s face; every step into the unknown, a potential public humiliation. Despite this, and Ben’s partiality to lamp posts, they somehow arrived in Gloucester Crescent, alive and well. Even more shocking, was that Leo hadn’t fretted about…anything really, along the way. He’d just drifted along, listening to Ben weave words too beguiling to question where embellishment waved farewell to the truth. But who the fuck would want to, when that would feel as blasphemous as punching a fist through a Picasso?

 

About the Author

When Zakarrie was little and dreamed big, she wanted to be a writer. Just like Enid Blyton. Or p’raps not…having been most remiss on the lashings of ginger beer front. After moving to London at eighteen and flitting about for far too long, she finally settled, as blissy as can be, by the sea. When her castaway dreams resurfaced, they were believed into being by the warm words of friends who breathed life into her own. Her one wish now is that someone, somewhere, might enjoy the misadventures of her miscreants as much as she adores writing them.

 

Author Links

Website

Blog

Facebook

Twitter

Pinterest

 

Giveaway

Enter the Rafflecopter giveaway for a chance to win

a £10 Amazon gift card and a choice of ebook from Zakarrie’s backlist.

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Re-Release ~ Screwing the System

Happy Re-Release Day to Josephine Myles.

I first read Screwing the System several years ago and thoroughly enjoyed Jo’s writing and her characters.

I’m definitely planning a re-read of this 5* story in the near future.

 



Buy Links: Amazon US | Amazon UK 


Length: 228 pages


Cover Design: Harper By Design



When Boss meets brat…

Forced to apply for a job he doesn’t want, Cosmo Rawlins has only one aim in mind: fail the interview and get back to making music. But his attempt to shock the sexy, sharp-suited Alasdair Grant has a very different result.

Instead of getting thrown out of the office for flaunting an interest in BDSM, Cosmo finds himself on his knees, apologizing to the most dominant man he’s ever met.

Alasdair has more important things on his mind than training a novice sub, especially a rebellious bad boy like Cosmo. But there’s something beneath the youngster’s bratty attitude that fascinates him.

As Alasdair takes Cosmo in hand—and for a wild ride on his Harley—he becomes obsessed with bending the young rocker to his will, both in and out of bed. But while Cosmo might enjoy the kink, he’s not up for becoming Alasdair’s household slave.

When Alasdair goes one demand too far, Cosmo is gone in a cloud of dust. Forcing Alasdair to admit that earning Cosmo’s loyalty—and love—will involve the toughest challenge he’s ever faced.

Warning: This title contains an overbearing Top with a less than glamorous job, a rebellious brat who refuses to call him sir, and a total lack of high-end BDSM clubs or playrooms. Expect floggings over the kitchen table instead. Written in Jo’s usual exceedingly “English” English.

N.B. This book is a re-release.

Cosmo crossed his ankle over his knee and began humming. It wasn’t deliberately to annoy the blonde chick behind the reception desk. No, he’d had this tune buzzing around in his head ever since waking, but what with having to come along to this interview for a piece-of-shit job, he hadn’t had a chance to get it down yet. That was why he couldn’t hold down regular employment, see? It wasn’t laziness or stupidity, no matter what his old teachers might have said. Nah, he was just one of those creative types. He’d told that to Irene—she was his advisor at the Jobcentre. He’d told her he was looking for jobs that would utilize his musical skills. She’d said, “In High Wycombe? Dream on, Cosmo,” and told him he had to put down a wider range of acceptable jobs or she’d bloody well do it for him.

In the end, she had started to arrange interviews for him, which explained why he was sitting here, waiting to be interrogated about his suitability as a “sanitary disposal operative”—in other words, the poor sod who had to go around emptying bins in ladies’ toilets.

Fuck that.

The skinny bloke who’d gone in before him loped out of the shuttered office and hightailed it across the lobby to freedom. Cosmo sighed and popped a stick of gum into his mouth. Fresh breath, see? It looked like he was making an effort so he’d get brownie points, but chewing gum during an interview was guaranteed to piss off pretty much every manager out there. As was asking how many cigarette breaks you got per hour.

“Mr. Rawlins?” the blonde chick called. “Mr. Grant will see you now.”

Cosmo stood and smoothed down his black drainpipe trousers. He even had a well-ironed shirt and tie on. Thing was, he’d discovered that on him, the smart clothes and grade-two haircut made him look less like a good little worker and more like a thug. He’d probably get a job as a bouncer if that was what he was going for—not that he had the intimidating build or anything, but he looked well hard, what with the couple of scars on his chin and the one across his eyebrow from fighting off angry closet cases, plus he could do a mean stare if he felt the need.

But he had other tricks up his sleeve too. Quite literally. Cosmo massaged his sore wrists and headed on into the boss man’s office, giving Blondie a huge grin on the way. She smiled back, all coy-like. Barking up the wrong tree there, love.

Mr. Grant, on the other hand… There was a tree he wouldn’t mind barking up. Or climbing up, more like. He was huge and had to be old enough to be his dad, which wasn’t actually all that old, seeing as how his dad was only fifteen when he got his fourteen-year-old excuse for a mother up the duff. But this wasn’t some fat old geezer with white hair bristling out of his nostrils. Mr. Grant wasn’t big like that. He was built like a bricklayer, all broad chest and shoulders bunched with powerful muscles. It was obvious, even with his body covered up by the fancy suit, he spent time down the gym.

“Cosmo Rawlins,” the boss-man said, holding out a huge hand, which swallowed up Cosmo’s in a warm and firm handshake. What a grip. Cosmo had all kinds of naughty thoughts about where else he’d like to feel a hand like that and wondered whether getting a boner in the interview would be something this Mr. Grant would report back to Irene. Best not take the chance. “I’m Alasdair Grant. Please take a seat.”

Usually these things were done across a desk, but Mr. Grant didn’t seem to need the prop to boost his ego and had a load of comfy chairs arranged around a giant coffee table at one end of his office. The man was clearly doing all right for himself. Cosmo could have fit the entire ground floor of his shared house in there and still had room to swing a cat in. Not that he believed in cruelty to animals or anything.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Cosmo said as he settled into the chair indicated.

“Thanks. It’s taken me a decade to build this company up, but we’re now the largest sanitary services operation in the South East.”

Cosmo tried not to look too impressed, but it was bloody difficult not to when faced with the sight of Alasdair Grant seated across from him, like a stern George Clooney with that handsome face, cropped salt-and-pepper hair and designer stubble so thick it was bordering on beard territory. He had these sharp grey eyes fixed on Cosmo. It was unnerving, sitting there with the bloke looking at him like that.

Was Boss-man checking him out? Yes, definitely, but Cosmo was buggered if he could tell if it was purely a professional assessment or if there was a more salacious interest lurking in his gaze. Alasdair Grant didn’t have a wedding band, but Cosmo wasn’t going to read too much into that.

“So, Cosmo, has your advisor at the Jobcentre let you know exactly what the job entails?”

“Emptying rag bins in the ladies’ lavs, as I understand it.”

Boss-man gave this pained smile and leaned forward a little. Shit, it felt like he was looming over Cosmo, despite him being the other side of the coffee table. “That’s certainly an element of the work, but it’s a more responsible position than that. We provide a full replenishment service for all disposables, like paper towels and hand soap. We also empty and top-up the vending machines, so there’s a cash-handling element. You’d be in charge of one of our vehicles and acting as a frontline representative of Sanco Solutions at all times.”

Cosmo tuned out the words Boss-man was saying and just enjoyed the sound of his voice. There was this deep bass rumble to it that made him think those lungs must be huge, but that was overlaid with a melodic timbre not all that many speakers had, and there was a smooth, easy rhythm to his speech. Shit, he could listen to him for hours. Cosmo found himself tapping his foot and drumming his fingers along with his words. Gave him ideas for inserting a rap in the middle of the new song. Some UK Garage or Grime stylings, maybe. Would that work? The rest of the band would hate it. Rizzo especially, which made it doubly appealing.

“Mr. Rawlins. Am I boring you?”

That made him snap his head up. “What?”

“You looked like you were lost in music.” Boss-man stared pointedly down at his fingers.

“Oh, that. Sorry, it’s just habit. I’m a musician, see, and I can’t help it. I find inspiration everywhere.” Actually, this was good. Playing the flaky-musician card put off most employers, but he didn’t normally get a chance to until the bit at the end when they asked him if he had any questions.

“A musician? What do you play?”

“Guitar, and I sing too. I’m in a band. ScarDue, we’re called.” How much longer he’d be a member, he didn’t know. They were currently experiencing a bout of creative conflict. In other words, the rest of them were content playing cover versions of alt-metal hits in local pubs, whereas he wanted to experiment with crossing genres, come up with a completely original set and go places.

“Should I have heard of you?” he asked.

“I doubt it. Not unless you make a habit of hanging out down the White Horse on open-mic night.”

“Can’t say I do. The White Horse… Is that still a bikers’ pub?”

“Kind of. More emo and goth kids these days, but there’s a few bikers still hanging around. Freddie’s mates.”

“Freddie Henderson? Is he still the landlord?”

“Yeah, you know him?” Cosmo couldn’t imagine the two of them moving in the same social circles. For a start, Freddie had a shaved head, handlebar moustache, and the rest of his body was pretty much covered in tattoos and black leather. Alasdair Grant, on the other hand, was corporate establishment through and through.

Boss-man got this weird expression on his face. Fond? Yeah, it was that, but there was something more. Something kind of hot, like he was remembering sexy good times.


 

English through and through, Josephine Myles is addicted to tea and busy cultivating a reputation for eccentricity. She writes gay erotica and romance, but finds the erotica keeps cuddling up to the romance, and the romance keeps corrupting the erotica. Jo blames her rebellious muse but he never listens to her anyway, no matter how much she threatens him with a big stick. She’s beginning to suspect he enjoys it.

Jo’s novel Stuff won the 2014 Rainbow Award for Best Bisexual Romance, and her novella Merry Gentlemen won the 2014 Rainbow Award for Best Gay Romantic Comedy. She loves to be busy, and is currently having fun trying to work out how she is going to fit in her love of writing, dressmaking and attending cabaret shows in fabulous clothing around the demands of a preteen with special needs and an incessantly curious toddler.

 

Website and blog: josephinemyles.com/
Facebook: facebook.com/josephine.myles.author
Twitter: @JosephineMyles
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