Release Blitz + Giveaway: A Little More Trust (Hot Property #1) by Pauley J Ray

 

Title:  A Little More Trust

Series: Hot Property, Book One

Author: Pauley J Ray

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 09/06/2022

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 84600

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, alpha males, blue-collar, businessman, home repair

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Description

Ethan Scott has everything he could possibly want: an amazing career, great friends, and more money than he’s ever dreamed of. Oh, and men. So many men. Yep, life is perfect, and he doesn’t ever see it changing.

Nate Sullivan has sworn off men. They can’t be trusted. Simple as that. After years of being lied to by the man he thought he loved, the very married man with a wife and kids, he’s promised to never give his heart away or get emotionally attached to anyone again.

Ethan thinks it’ll be a sure thing to get Nate into his bed, but when the sexy and frustrating decorator rebuffs him at every turn, he comes up with a new plan to tempt the man he can’t stop thinking about. A sex agreement. For the duration of Nate’s work contract, with no strings attached and definitely no hearts and roses or emotional fallout.

It sounds like the perfect deal. Nate gets to have the man he’s been craving since they first met before walking away, his heart intact. Ethan gets to have Nate in his bed, finally satisfying the itch he’s constantly trying to scratch. Problem is, Ethan’s still trying to extricate himself from his disastrous marriage and if there’s one thing Nate won’t touch, it’s a married man. When Nate finds out what Ethan’s been hiding, the betrayal of trust leaves him devastated.

Nate leaves, but Ethan’s determined not to let him go. Will Nate give him the chance to explain, or will he risk losing the only man he’s ever truly loved?

Excerpt

A Little More Trust
Pauley J Ray © 2022
All Rights Reserved

Ethan

Pouring the steaming coffee into my usual mug, I let the rich aroma fill my senses. God, I needed this. Taking a large gulp, I savored the strong taste as it hit my tongue, the heat burning my mouth and throat as I swallowed, I hoped like hell the caffeine would kick start my body after the late night I’d had.

I plopped myself down at the kitchen table to take the weight off my aching thigh muscles from last night’s activities when the front doorbell rang loudly in the quiet space. Who the hell was that—I glanced at the clock on the wall—at a quarter to nine on a Saturday morning?

The bell rang again so I pushed my seat back and dragged my ass up the stairs and down the first-floor hallway. Yanking the front door open to get rid of whoever had ruined my peaceful morning, I was about to give them an earful, but then I looked into his face and the words died on my lips.

The man standing on my doorstep must have been mid-twenties at the most. A few inches shorter than my own six two, he wore a blue baggy t-shirt a good couple of sizes too big, almost drowning his slim frame, and a pair of loose-fitting gray jeans and black sneakers. His angular face gave him a Scandinavian look, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. Sandy blond hair shone golden in the morning sun, short on the sides and long on top, swept away from his forehead and held in place with some product. My fingers itched to slide through the strands to see if they were as soft as they looked and a sudden image of my hand gripping tightly in his hair as I tilted his head to lick up his neck flashed through my mind.

Despite the tempting package he presented, I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away from his lips. Pink and full, they were begging to be kissed, and I had to bite down hard on my tongue to refrain from licking my own in readiness.

Well, hello, Blondie.

“Mister Scott?” his smooth, quiet voice asked, giving me goosebumps and pulling me from the trance I’d fallen into. Lifting my gaze to the palest green eyes I’d ever seen, I nodded at his question, my mouth suddenly unable to voice a coherent response. He shifted on his feet, “I’m, err, here about the painting quote.”

Damn, was that today?

He extended his hand out in front of him, and, giving myself a mental shake to wake the hell up, I reached for his and clasped his palm, my own larger hand encasing his. A shock of electricity shot up my arm catching me by surprise. The guy obviously felt the effect too as his eyes widened and he took in a short, sharp breath.

Interesting.

“Please, call me Ethan.” I held onto his warm hand a little longer than necessary before reluctantly releasing it and giving him a friendly smile.

The guy stiffened slightly and inclined his head. “I’m Nate.”

“Nate.” I savored his name on my tongue, rolling it around. “Please, come on inside.”

I stepped aside to let him enter, unable to resist the urge to lean in slightly and inhale his scent as he passed by me. Light and citrusy with a hint of soap. As he moved into the hallway, I gave him the once over and was disappointed to see his t-shirt covered his ass, obscuring my view.

Jesus. I had to stop perving on the guy. I deliberately pushed my hands into my sweatpants pockets to try to hide my growing erection and to subtly press my fingers against the head of my cock to give me some degree of control and hopefully, relief.

It didn’t.

Nate had stopped a few feet into the hallway, glancing around, assessing his surroundings, but he didn’t say anything and waited silently for me to take the lead.

“Come on,” I offered. “I’ll give you the tour, and we can talk about what I want.”

He paused for a second but then walked past me into the hallway, my eyes once more running over the baggy t-shirt and shapeless jeans he wore. I almost cursed out loud wondering what the body hiding underneath might look like, which was weird as this guy wasn’t my type at all, so why Nate intrigued me was puzzling.

Maybe it was because he wasn’t all over me like guys usually were? I inwardly scoffed at the notion of my ego being so fragile I couldn’t handle not being wanted and had something to prove. Not surprising with my upbringing but hell, I hoped I wasn’t that shallow.

Though there was something attractive about the way his calm demeanor pulled me in. With my hectic social life and full-on work schedule, I barely had a second in which to relax, but though I’d only met the guy five minutes ago, Nate slowed everything down and being in his presence made me calmer.

Mentally shaking my head, I tried to focus on the reason why Nate was here. To give me a quote to paint my house. So, concentrating on that, I proceeded to give him the grand tour.

I’d moved into the four-story Victorian townhouse just over a month ago, so had hardly any furniture cluttering the place, which made things easier to see and for Nate to get a feel for what needed to be done. With an open and airy first floor letting the light flood in and four bedrooms spread over the upper two floors, the place was far bigger than I needed, but as soon as the realtor had shown me around, I had to have it.

Taking the stairs down to the lower floor I led him past the dining room and into the huge open plan kitchen at the rear of the house with the French doors leading onto the garden.

I’d been watching Nate carefully as I’d given my tour. He still hadn’t said much, and his lack of communication was beginning to get to me, as was my inability to get a read on him, something I was usually extremely good at. But as we progressed and each room had been revealed, he’d relaxed a bit more as his obvious delight at the house and the possibility of getting his hands on such a historic building to paint had emerged.

Which I liked. A lot.

“You have a beautiful home, Mister Scott,” he said, his gentle voice filling the quiet surrounding us.

The words were the most he’d spoken since we’d begun the tour. I was extremely pleased at his compliment but, for some reason, refrained from saying so. Instead, shoving my hands back in my pockets, I rocked back and forth on my heels. “I like it, and as I stated earlier, please, call me Ethan.”

The corner of his lips curled up in the barest hint of a smile, making my heart beat a bit faster in my chest.

Pulling out a chair, he sat down at the whitewashed kitchen table and hooked his hands underneath his legs. “So, if you let me know what you’d like, I can put a quote together for you.”

I tried to resist, but, for some reason, the quiet man in front of me made me determined to get some sort of reaction, so I lowered my voice an octave and replied, “You want to know what I like?”

My flirty question had the desired effect as a full-on blush formed on his cheeks and his mouth dropped open.

God, he’s so cute.

“F-for the house.” He fidgeted in his seat. “What you’d like for the house.”

“Ah, okay.” Moving away from the counter and pulling out my own chair, I sat down opposite him, needing to get closer to this man who predictably leaned as far away in his seat as he could. “This is where I’ll need your help.” I rested my hands on the table. “I’m not good at this type of thing.”

I wasn’t clueless at all. In fact, I was damn good at painting, as my business partners and I had built a successful construction company from our humble beginnings with house renovations. And because of our success and the crazy number of hours I worked, it left me no time to paint my own home. Hence, the need to hire someone to do it for me.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Pauley J Ray has been making up stories in his head for as long as he can remember, and now gets to write those stories down in his own gay romantic fiction, involving sexy, complicated, and flawed characters searching for their happily ever after.

When not writing, he loves meeting up with friends and can’t wait to get outdoors with his husband, hiking, camping and traveling to new and exciting places as often as they can.

He feels extremely lucky to be able to sit at his laptop, all day, every day, creating the heartfelt, angsty and passionate romance books he himself loves to read.

Website | Facebook | Twitter

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Release Blitz: French Kiss (Flying into Love #1) by C.F. White

Author C.F. White and Gay Book Promotions celebrate new release, French Kiss (Flying into Love #1)! Read more about the new series today!
 

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: French Kiss (Flying into Love #1)

Author and Publisher: C F White

Cover Artist: Kelly Martin KAM Design

Release Date: May 30, 2022

Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance

Tropes: Opposites Attract, Instalust, Age Gap, Forced Proximity 

Themes: Coming out, Found Family 

Heat Rating: 4 flames

Length: 58 000 words/232 pages

It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliffhanger.

This is the first in a new series of standalone novels. The second book is due out in June.

Goodreads

Buy Links - Available in Kindle Unlimited

Universal Link  |  Amazon US  |  Amazon UK 

Can a French kiss persuade an uptight Englishman to leave his city behind and start a new life in rural France?

Blurb

Clean-cut London businessman Dale Calverley doesn’t do relationships. 

Rugged French handyman Valentin Aubrey doesn’t do city men. 

When Dale hires Valentin to help him fix up his inherited farmhouse estate in rural France and sell to the highest bidder, sparks fly. 

Complete opposites, can they really expect their insta-lust to last beyond the storm that forces them together? 

But how can Dale walk away from a man so alluringly rogue as Valentin Aubrey? 

And how can Valentin expect a man so money-orientated to throw away his career and stay in the wilderness with him?

French Kiss (Flying into Love #1) is a Contemporary, Age-Gap, Hurt/Comfort, Forced Proximity MM Romance featuring an uptight English businessman with a preference for nameless hook ups and a rugged half-French handyman with a chequered past. 

Excerpt 

Stomach knotting, roiling, fluttering, Dale laid eyes on Valentin, axe held high over his head then swinging down to slice through chopped wood balancing on a tree stump. If that wasn’t the most spectacular thing Dale had ever seen in his entire life, he had no idea what was. He held his breath, lurking on the periphery and willing himself not to be seen. He wanted to watch. He wanted to gaze on that sight without fear. He wanted nothing more than to stare as though it was a show just for him. 

Valentin threw a chopped log onto a pile, wiping the sweat from brow with his plaid shirt sleeve and smearing mud across his face. He then set another on the stump and swung the axe. Voracious hunger surged through Dale as Valentin grunted, thrashing the blade down into the log. It was so barbaric. So feral. So wild Dale had to inhale a tantric breath. Flustered and ravenous, Dale lost all rational thought. He hadn’t seen anything like it before and his cock throbbed, unveiling his voyeuristic side and exposing him to his type.

He stared. 

And stared. 

And stared. 

Valentin stopped, then undid his shirt, wriggling it down his arms to drop to the ground, luscious, tanned torso now on display with those Angel-wing tattoos for Dale to feast upon. If Dale thought his heart had been pounding before, it then tripled pace. Valentin was so ripped. So defined. So masculine, and every outline of strength and sinew on his back, his chest, his stomach, his decorated arms as he lifted the axe and yielded it to cut through solid timber, had Dale’s pulse racing. 

Dale’s throat dried as animalistic desire raged through him, inflating both want and need. His dick stiff and rigid, demanding to see for itself, Dale could do nothing but stand and stare. 

Valentin glanced up, maybe sensing he was being watched. Was that a hunting instinct? He blinked, a cloudy rush of breath billowing from his lips as he exhaled into the mist. God, he was so savage. So rugged and raw. Dale should move. He should shake himself out and move. He should make up some utter bullshit of why he was standing there that wasn’t salivating over him chopping logs. He should pretend he’d heard something. He should, at the very least, stop staring. 

But what he wanted to do was take Valentin by the neck and kiss him. 

Valentin threw the axe to the ground, grabbing his shirt and sliding it on as he jogged toward him. “Dale,” he said, breath light and airy, so unlike the atmosphere between them, laden with desperation. 

Dale couldn’t speak. All words caught in his throat at the sight, at the scent, at the scorching skin exposed on Valentin’s chest that Dale wanted—needed—to touch. He’d never felt anything like this. Ever. It was so all-consuming. Mesmerising. Bewitching. It was so beyond any rationality and reason that Dale couldn’t comprehend what was happening to him. 

“Dale?” Valentin searched him. “Are you okay?” 

Dale forced himself to nod, breathing out a deep and rumbling, “Mmm, hmm.” 

“Sorry if I woke you. There’s a storm heading for us. Needed wood for the fire. It might pass us, but it’s worth stocking up the fuel while we can.”

Dale inhaled. All he could smell was Valentin. His sweat. His musk. His beard. Dale never wanted to breath in anything else again. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Valentin frowned, then without a hint of warning he placed a palm to Dale’s forehead, his touch sending shockwaves sparking through him. 

Dale gripped Valentin’s wrist, digging fingertips into him, holding his hand where it was. “Valentin.” 

Valentin held his gaze. “Dale,” he breathed out. “I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.”

Dale dropped his arm to his side but refused to let go of Valentin’s wrist.

“Don’t make me.” Valentin’s voice was soft, shaky, filled with fear and worry yet had an undeniable growl of want. As though he was struggling to control himself. He trembled, glancing to their locked hands as he uttered with caution, “Je te veux.” 

About the Author

Brought up in a relatively small town in Hertfordshire, C F White managed to do what most other residents try to do and fail—leave.

Studying at a West London university, she realised there was a whole city out there waiting to be discovered, so, much like Dick Whittington before her, she never made it back home and still endlessly search for the streets paved with gold, slowly coming to the realisation they’re mostly paved with chewing gum. And the odd bit of graffiti. And those little circles of yellow spray paint where the council point out the pot holes to someone who is supposedly meant to fix them instead of staring at them vacantly whilst holding a polystyrene cup of watered-down coffee.

Eventually she moved West to East along that vast District Line and settled for pie and mash, cockles and winkles and a bit of Knees Up Mother Brown to live in the East End of London; securing a job and creating a life, a home and a family.

After her second son was born with a rare disability, C F White’s life changed and it brought pen back to and paper after having written stories as a child but never had the confidence to show them to the world. Now, having embarked on this writing journey, C F White can’t stop. 

So strap in, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.  

Author Links

Twitter @CFWhiteUK  |  Facebook  |  Blog

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Release Blitz + Giveaway: Any Day by Brian Lancaster

Check out author Brian Lancaster and Pride Publishing's release blitz for Any Day! Learn more about the mystery and enter in the giveaway for a chance to win a $50.00 First for Romance Gift Card!

 

Any Day by Brian Lancaster

General Release Date: 5th October 2021

Word Count: 101,106
Book Length: SUPER PLUS NOVEL
Pages: 381

Genres:

CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI
MYSTERY

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Book Description

For some, it takes a lifetime and a mystery to find each other.

Successful businessman Leonard Day’s life revolves around his work until a call from his mother summons him back to his family home in Drayton, Norwich. His father has died.

With a past he would rather forget, builder Adrian Lamperton prefers to live alone. But when Lenny Day arrives in town, feelings of attraction resurface.

Leonard learns he has inherited a Welsh farmhouse, something nobody knew about, and employs Adrian to help inspect the property. But tragedy and mystery surround the house and very soon they start to unearth things that others would prefer remain buried.

Reader advisory: This book contains references to suicide, attempted murder and religious bigotry. There are mentions of drug use, prostitution, child abuse and abandonment, and homophobia.

Excerpt

Sunday morning, Leonard Day lowered himself into the plush black leather chair at his sixteenth-floor office desk. Still wearing his warm grey tracksuit and saffron Bluetooth headphones, he sank back into the soft padding, pressed a button to boot up his laptop, then placed his phone and car keys alongside the mouse mat designed to resemble a Persian rug.

Issuing a bark of laughter only he could hear, he ripped off the two fluorescent-pink Post-it notes, one stuck in the middle of each of his monitors. Both carried warnings in vivid purple felt-penmanship—one to ‘Go Home!’ and the other to ‘Get @ Life!’ Shaking his head but still grinning at being caught out again, he dropped the notes into his wire wastebasket as his gaze trailed to the day outside the room.

Framed by the tinted office windows, a beautiful spring morning had woken to life. Sunlight glistened off the rain-slick roofs of regimented rows of South London terraced houses. From a music app playlist on his smartphone, the opening strains of Vaughan Williams’ Symphony No. 5 in D major provided the perfect soundtrack to the tranquil morn.

Naive perhaps, but he used to think none of his staff knew about his habit of slipping into the office on Sunday mornings. He went there not so much to check figures and plan the week, but to avoid being at home on what had once been his favourite day of the week. The easiest way to change a habit is to create a new and better one, his late Qigong teacher had once advised. So after performing a regular morning routine of gentle moves and stretching exercises in the back garden and after locking up the house, Leonard escaped to his office, the perfect distraction and a familiar sanctuary in his otherwise solitary world. And his team were none the wiser.

Until the day Kieran had rumbled him.

His young, energetic marketing manager, who had impeccable attention to detail, had caught Leonard out a few months ago. Kieran—dropped off at the office each weekday morning before anyone else arrived—had noticed reports on Leonard’s desk on Monday morning, ones that hadn’t been there the previous Friday because Leonard had been travelling. Confronted, Leonard had confessed but had tried to fob off the action as a one-off urgent business need. Kieran hadn’t bought the excuse, and, like the Post-it warnings this morning, he often booby-trapped Leonard’s desk. ‘If you insist on everyone having a work–life balance,’ Kieran had stated aloud at a staff meeting, ‘then you should set an example and live by your words.’

Had Leonard listened to the office designer’s recommendations, he would now have a lockable corner office. But ever since taking the floor space, Leonard had insisted on open-plan for everyone, the only enclosed spaces being a fish tank—glass conference room—at either end of the office. Leonard’s desk sat in the middle of the open space, the same size as everyone else’s, surrounded by a team he considered his surrogate family. And he loved being in the thick of things. None of his team just worked for him. They contributed, not one of them complaining about extra effort when business ramped up, not one having anything but positive things to say about their working environment. Leonard preached work–life balance—even if he didn’t exactly live by his own ethos—and made sure nobody stayed beyond five-thirty every day unless absolutely necessary. And every Friday, to show his gratitude, he either prearranged snacks and drinks in the office from four-thirty if he happened to be away or took them to a local wine bar. In the office, at least, Leonard found smiling effortless.

But Kieran didn’t miss a trick. On his day off, he’d brought his Cockapoo canine rescue called Ed into the office—a fiery red bundle of havoc—and had tried to persuade an amused Leonard to get a pet dog himself. Leonard blamed his schedule, which meant him being regularly away from home, travelling to various parts of the country for a week or more, assessing listed buildings or attending antique shows or car auctions. Kieran hadn’t bought the excuse.

‘Sorry, Len,’ he’d said one Friday evening as the whole team had gathered around a wine bar table for drinks. ‘But I’m calling bullshit for three very distinct reasons. First off, you can employ a dog sitter for when you’re travelling. I can even provide names. Second, did you or did you not employ Izzy here as your assistant director for the sole purpose of reducing your workload?’

Only Kieran dared challenge him publicly this way, always in a light-hearted, tongue-in-cheek manner. He’d wanted intelligent, creative, personable Kieran as his number two. But when Kieran and his husband Kennedy had added twin boys to their family unit, many of their priorities had changed.

‘You already know the answer to that.’

‘Then let her. She’s more than capable of hunting out grubby antiques around the country, or looking over run-down, borderline derelict properties.’

Isabelle had sat smiling down at her glass of Merlot and said nothing.

‘Remind Kieran again what they’re called, will you please, Isabelle?’

‘Listed buildings,’ Isabelle had said, laughing along with the rest of the team.

‘We call them listed buildings, Kieran. But thank you for your advice. Your point has been made and will be taken into consideration.’

‘Then I rest my case,’ said Kieran, folding his arms and sitting back.

‘Hang on, you said three reasons.’

‘Ah, yes. Thirdly—and most importantly—Ed needs a playmate.’

‘Of course he does. Let me think about it.’

Leonard raised his gaze to Kieran’s haphazard workspace and smirked. The monitor had been plastered randomly with an assortment of colourful Post-it reminders in his distinctive handwriting while trade magazines lay open across the keyboard. Pride of place on his desk sat a large, framed photo of him, his husband and their kids. Another showed their cheeky-faced mutt with what looked like a television remote control in his mouth. Thirty-two years old and Kieran had surrounded himself with so much love. The quiet young man Leonard had first encountered on a cruise ship had blossomed into a doting husband and father. Leonard turned forty-seven in May, and what did he have? A handful of successful businesses, but there it ended. At home? Not even a goldfish. Then again, perhaps he’d already had his time in the light.

The real reason Leonard had not followed through on the dog plan was because he didn’t share Kieran’s affinity for pets. During his childhood he’d broached the subject once only—he must have been seven or eight at the time—and both parents had stated their disgust at domestic animals, dismissing them as unruly and unhygienic. There the conversation had ended. Both accomplished scientists—microbiologists—they’d lived in a simple semi-detached a few miles away from the university campus. Work had been their lives. His father specialised in mycology, the study of mushrooms, toadstools and other fungi, and particularly how various species can kill or cure. At the same time, his mother, more interested in classification, had concentrated her efforts on microbial taxonomy—the naming and classification of micro-organisms. As couples went, they could not have been a more perfect match.

For a few seconds, he stared at his Cisco desk phone, toying with the idea of ringing them. Usually the call entailed dull generalities and awkward silences, neither party having much of any interest to share. Both parents had retired from university life. Heaven only knew what they talked about at home.

Being an only child, Leonard wondered if he had been an experiment rather than a child born of intimacy. Neither parent had demonstrated the kind of tactile warmth or fondness he had witnessed in other families. Not that his were uncaring or cruel in any way. Nutrition and learning had been equally valued in their house. As academics, they had encouraged his studies, praising him for good grades while trying hard to mask their disappointment when he failed at any subject related to the pure sciences. Their frustration had been mitigated when he’d excelled at mathematics, social sciences and, in particular, business studies.

After a quick check of message headings in his inbox, most of which he had already opened and drafted replies to—he never sent his team emails over the weekend—he returned to the one containing attachments sent by his finance officer. Spreadsheets often proved too long and detailed to open on his home laptop but displayed adequately on his two monitors. End-of-month figures popped up on his screens, much as Leonard had expected except for the incredible numbers on their latest venture, the online auction. Between the two of them, Isabelle and Kieran had come up with the idea as an extension of their antiques and artisans site. Traffic had increased tenfold, but more importantly, sales in both had skyrocketed. He folded his arms, sat back in his chair and allowed himself a private moment to gloat.

Fortunately for him, a single-minded determination to focus in the field of business management had allowed him to study for his undergraduate degree in Bournemouth, far enough away that his parents only deemed the occasional visit home necessary. When the time had come to leave at the age of nineteen, he had been able to fend for himself, had learnt to appreciate his own company. A more challenging lesson had been in realising he had developed a singular attractiveness in his late teens. One female college student had referred to him as the sexy lone wolf, but despite getting plenty of offers from girls, his heart hungered only for other boys.

After scanning other columns of figures, and satisfied all of them headed in the right direction, he checked the time on his phone—ten o’clock. An hour before he needed to set off for the hotel in York to spend two days in business meetings and viewing potential properties around the area. Far enough from home he might even try for a random hook-up using the app he had recently discovered and downloaded. Kieran had been right about one thing. At some point, he needed to get himself a life.

Although made in jest, a quip about him by a male friend on a cruise holiday still stung. Thinking Leonard to be out of earshot, someone had asked this friend why he’d nicknamed Leonard ‘Any Day’. He had replied, ‘Because any day is better than Lenny Day. The man is a walking misery.’ Overhearing this, he had been shocked to the core. When had he changed from being a sexy lone wolf to a ‘walking misery’? Naturally Kennedy had stepped in to defend him even though, in fairness, the friend had less-than-respectful names for all of their acquaintances. The main problem? Leonard had sensed the truth behind the quip. Maybe he needed to make more of an effort to be cheerful outside of his day-to-day.

As he closed down programs on his laptop and pulled off his earphones, he raised his head and froze, his attention drawn to a distant sound.

Barely audible beyond the building’s thick glazing, somewhere out there in the suburbs, cutting through the constant hum of traffic, came the peal of church bells. For as long as comfortably possible, he held his breath, squeezing his eyes shut and absorbing the simple melody.

Church bells, like Sunday mornings at home, reminded him of Kris. And without warning or witness, he was overcome by the kind of immobilising grief that he had hoped would have receded after the death of his lover ten years ago. He rarely allowed himself to wallow in thoughts of their time together, but the memory blindsided him and filled him with such warmth and love and togetherness. And when those tender recollections inevitably melted away they would leave him emotionally desolate, standing alone in the stark coldness of reality. But for now he would allow himself to listen to the bells, and wallow and remember…

Until the shrill ring of his desk phone drowned out everything.

For a moment, he sat there, appalled at the intrusion, glaring at the device, deciding whether or not to answer. Eventually, after several rings, he relented.

“Days-Gone-By Enterprises,” he answered gruffly, ripping a tissue from a box on his desk and dabbing at his eyes.

“Leonard,” came his mother’s stern voice. Although no explanation had been forthcoming, she no longer called his mobile phone. “I tried you at your house but you weren’t answering. You need to come home. Your father passed this morning, and I need your help arranging things. When can you be here?”

“What?” said Leonard, caught off guard. “Oh, God, Mum. Dad died? I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“Not now. When can you be home?”

“I—I can come now.” He had a case in his car for the business trip. By some stroke of fate he had even packed his black Hugo Boss suit for meetings. With a few clicks of his phone he could cancel the York trip. “I suppose I could be there around three or four. Traffic willing.”

“I’ll get your room ready.”

“Mum, what—?”

Before he had a chance to probe any further, she ended the call.

Annoyance bubbled in him. Most of the time he accepted his mother’s natural candour, and admired her ability to view and deal with the world dispassionately. Right now, he wished he had a parent who could be sensitive to the emotions a son might be feeling at the passing of the only father he would ever have. Perhaps she knew without asking that he considered grief an old friend.

As he left the office, he did something he hated and called Isabelle on her day off to hand over the reins for the week ahead. At home, his own house, everything would be fine.

Striding across the empty car park, Kieran’s words came back to him and cemented inside. He needed to find a life. At the moment, he seemed to be surrounded by too much death.

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About the Author

Brian Lancaster

Brian Lancaster is an author of gay romantic fiction in multiple genres, including contemporary romance, paranormal, fantasy, crime, mystery, and anything else that tickles his muse’s fancy. Born in the sleepy South of England where most of his stories are set, he moved to Southeast Asia in 1998, where he now shares a home with his husband and two of the laziest cats on the planet.

Find out more about Brian at his website.

Giveaway

Enter for the chance to win a $50.00 First for Romance Gift Card! 

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Notice: This competition ends on 2^nd November 2021 at 12am EST. Competition hosted by Totally Entwined Group. 

Guest Review: Hold Safe (Safe Biker Daddy Bodyguards #3) by Sue Brown

Mo is content with the quiet life. Once upon a time he had his happy ever after, but that ended. Now he’s being asked to guard an ego-driven businessman who has no idea how much danger he’s in. He should say no.

A successful CEO, Joseph is used to most people saying yes. He’s not convinced ‘yes’ is in this bodyguard’s vocabulary. Every decision he makes, Mo vetoes. Joseph is furious. He’s the one in charge. Isn’t he?

They are dealing with escalating danger and increasing tension between them. Joseph is convinced he’s a Daddy. Mo knows Joseph is a boy. Will Mo keep Joseph safe and show him his true place?

Reviewer: Shee Reader

Our first meeting with Joseph and Mo is in a noisy boardroom and Joseph is not very likeable. His bratty and superior behaviour is due to his fear though, and the inability to trust most people around him. Mo has been drafted in to keep Joseph alive. Mo is good at what he does, and can spot from a mile away that Joseph is a boy who needs a daddy in the worst way! Unfortunately for Joseph, Mo had his own special boy in the past, but he left Mo broken hearted, and Mo is no longer looking.

The security team does not know where the threats towards Joseph are coming from, or why, and there have been one too many close calls. Enter Mo. A hard-assed biker bodyguard who only works one-way: his own. Consequently the sparks fly from the outset and the story has many twists and turns before the shocking revelation about who is trying to kill Joseph. Will Mo be able to keep Joseph safe, and make him happy? The daddy kink aspect is rather beautiful as Joseph endeavours to goad Mo into being his daddy temporarily, and the fact that Mo has a ‘little space’ playroom is romance book perfection.

The story is nicely written, exciting and funny, with an exploration of daddy kink to boot. Mo has his work cut out with Joseph, but the men sharing their softer sides to each other is a joy. The happy ending is lovely and I grew to care about both the main characters, although it took me a little while!

I was given a free copy of the book in exchange for an honest review.

Guest Review: Dark Mire (Kildevil Cove Murder Mysteries #2) by J.S. Cook

You never know what trouble will rise from the bog.

When the body of an unidentified woman is found in a Newfoundland bog, Inspector Danny Quirke must scramble his team of investigators to find her killer. But what initially seems like a straightforward case soon becomes mired in a tangled web of lies and deliberate obfuscation.

With the strange mutilation of the body—one eye gouged out completely—evidence seems to lead to a fringe religious group with bizarre beliefs. But while the pathologist indicates mushroom poisoning as the cause of death, Danny thinks circumstances point to something more sinister—especially when he begins to receive anonymous messages with links to horrific pictures of damaged human eyes.

Three more bodies join the first, with seemingly nothing to link them but a little girl in a yellow party dress who flits in and out of the mystery like a creature from the old legends. Then an old friend from his childhood reappears, and Danny is forced to confront uncomfortable truths about his own nearest and dearest.

On an island, everyone is a suspect…

Reviewer: Annery

J.S. Cook firmly brings us back to the world of Kildevil Cove, amplifying it and its inhabitants. I think reading Dark Water first will aid in your enjoyment of this as would be properly aligning your expectations. What I mean by this is that this isn’t really romance, M/M or otherwise, even though three same sex couples feature to one degree or another in the story. It’s just set in the XXI century.

Deiniol Quirke is now permanently back in Kildevil Cove as an Inspector for the newly established local constabulary. And not a moment too soon. Kildevil Cove may be an outback community steeped in its own peculiar culture and social mores but it’s not isolated from the modern world and it’s attendant evils. A series of disappearances and later deaths land on Quirke’s lap. Are they connected? Is it one killer? Are they even murders?

As in the previous book the author, through beautifully evocative language, the author immerses us in this world, with its characters and local mythology. As a mystery the story works very well and the author does a good job of presenting the story through the eyes of the participants and not via an omniscient narrator. We know what the characters know. I also liked that though the story is set in modern times the past isn’t far behind and it’s grip on local life is palpable. This part worked very well for me. What didn’t work for me were the personal relationships.

A good portion of the first book was dedicated, albeit in a roundabout way, to establishing the relationship between Danny and Tadhg, former adolescent friends who reconnect as adults. However in this outing Tadhg’s participation is almost like a cameo and to my mind whenever they are together they seem more adversarial than not. Danny’s quick to snap at Tadhg and think badly of him and vice versa. It’s all washed over by the requisite “I love you” and I know that relationships between grownups, with adult problems and preoccupations, are vastly different (rightfully so) than those of younger couples but even so I had issues with these two as a couple. Don’t know if their longevity (a given in romance) will be more due to practicality than to all consuming love.

Some interesting new characters were introduced and others filtered in from the previous book but their stories are left … open? I can only surmise that they’ll play a role in future stories set in this world. We’ll see.

Recommended with the aforementioned caveats.

I received a free copy of the book in exchange for an honest review.

Guest Review: Dark Water (Kildevil Cove Murder Mysteries #1) by J.S. Cook

They say trouble comes in threes. Detective Danny Quirke is already mourning his wife and mired in an internal investigation that will likely spell the end of his career. Now he must return to the Newfoundland fishing village of his youth to bury his abusive grandfather. At least his three are up. Right?

Then the bones of local boy Llewellyn Single, drowned thirty years before, wash up on the beach, and secrets Danny thought were buried forever rise violently to the surface. Only two people know what really happened: Danny Quirke and his former best friend, millionaire Tadhg Heaney.

Danny and Tadhg have been bitter enemies for years. But when Danny is accused of Llewellyn’s murder, he needs Tadhg’s help exposing the truth—before those who believe he is responsible get their revenge.

After all, on an island, nothing stays secret forever…

Previously published by Dreamspinner Press as Wind and Dark Water, March 2020.

Reviewer: Annery

The blurb for this book needs to be rewritten. It sets up expectations that are not met by the narrative thus turning off some readers. That would be a shame because this is a very well written and engaging story about adults reckoning with the past that shaped them and isn’t quite past.

Deiniol Quirke returns to his hometown of Kildevil Cove in Newfoundland to bury his grandfather and dispose of his earthly goods. His plate is full. He’s dealing with recent events in his professional life, the still painful loss of his beloved wife, and a fraught relationship with Tadhg Heaney.

Danny and Tadhg were bosom buddies for a few years as teenagers. A misunderstanding/secret changed that and for thirty years each went in different directions living lives full of both satisfaction and disappointment. Danny pursued a career in law enforcement which has given him great highs and disheartening lows. Tadgh is a businessman, mostly a real estate developer, not well loved by the community.

I really liked this story, I liked the writing which had the flow & ebb of a good literary novel. Flashes of memories are seamlessly integrated without jarring you out of the present story but more than anything I loved how beautifully and atmospherically the culture of Newfoundland is limned. I went on deep dives, learned a whole bunch of stuff, and was overall delighted.

This didn’t rate higher for me for a few reasons. A number of narrative avenues really weren’t anything, they were misleading or didn’t go anywhere. Maybe in the next book? It seemed to me that in thirty years Danny and his sister (who happen to be twins) would’ve found time for some much needed conversations. Danny tends to fly off the handle pretty easily, jump to unwarranted conclusions, which is at odds with his reputation as a keen detective. I didn’t see the purpose of some characters or rather the time spent on them. Also for those interested this is neither really an M/M nor a murder mystery procedural. Two men do find happiness together (more of the HFN variety) but the drive of the story isn’t about that and they don’t begin to move in that direction until about the 80% mark. Neither of these were a problem for me but as I said at the beginning, expectations matter.

I’ll happily read the next book in the series hoping the author keeps up the same level of writing and that the dangling threads of this story are dealt with and resolved.

I received a free copy of the book in exchange for an honest review.

Release Blitz + Giveaway: The Boss (Under Red Sky #1) by J. Calamy

Author J. Calamy and IndiGo Marketing celebrate the release of The Boss (Under Red Sky #1)! Read more about the first in the action series and enter in the $10 NineStar Press credit giveaway!

Title: The Boss

Series: Under Red Sky, Book One

Author: J. Calamy

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 01/25/2021

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 87500

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, action/adventure, age-gap, bisexual, businessmen, criminals, disabilities, illness/disease, interracial, Mafia, over 40, #ownvoices, political, PTSD/post traumatic stress, slow burn/UST, secret agents, sexual discovery, spies, tattoos

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Description

Nicholas Erickson is happy to be the smallest cog at the US Embassy in Singapore, a big step up from prison. Nick lives with a terrible secret: he killed a family of three in a traffic accident, for which he was imprisoned and became a pariah back home. The only threat to his second chance is the truth—and Nelson Graves.

Shipping Magnate Lord Nelson Graves is secretly the head of crime syndicate Red Sky, making him the biggest arms dealer and drug boss in Southeast Asia. Graves is tired, lonely, addicted to opium, and trying to get his imploding crime syndicate back to business. There is a traitor in his organization and an old enemy is back on his tail.

A romance builds between hot-headed, reckless Nick and unhappy, ruthless Graves. But nothing is that easy. Shoot-outs, bombings, and vindictive exes prove Nick’s past and Graves’s present may be a lethal combination.

Excerpt

The Boss
J. Calamy © 2021
All Rights Reserved

Singapore

Nicholas Erickson kept his gaze on the butterflies over Peterson’s desk. The chief of staff had a whole case of them, each stabbed through the thorax and pinned to a board. Nick knew exactly how they felt.

He focused on breathing, trying to slow his stuttering heart, only taking in the gist of what Peterson was saying. Nick forced his hands to loosen, fighting the need to wipe them on his trousers. His eyes felt hot; he blinked to make the blurring stop. The last thing he needed was to have a flashback now. He tried his exercises. I’m here. I’m safe. I’m here. I’m safe. I’m—

“And now I know you got this job because Reverend Bob is friends with that prison chaplain of yours. You got in here on a technicality, a damn loophole. None of us dug too deep for a chaplain’s assistant with no clearance. Goddamn it!” He slapped his hand on the desk. “If I had known, I would never have approved it.”

Peterson’s round face was pink with anger. The pink even showed through the white hair on his scalp. His blue eyes, lighter than Nick’s own, were glittering behind his glasses.

His hands were splayed flat on his desk, covering the folder with Nick’s name on it. It was like Peterson was covering the news articles inside, hiding them from view—as if they were too obscene to look at.

He was silhouetted by wide windows, looking down the green hill to Napier Avenue. Singapore’s heat was just starting to crank, the roiling clouds doing nothing to cut it.

“This is the most important post in Asia this week,” he continued. “We have VIPs coming from everywhere for this ceremony. I don’t have the bandwidth to deal with you now.”

“Sir,” Nick tried. “I really hope—”

“Don’t talk to me, Erickson,” Peterson snapped, his voice cracking with anger. “I don’t want to hear a word out of your damn mouth.”

“Yes sir.”

“Transferring you now would raise too many questions. Not right after Reverend Bob leaving. I don’t want anyone to even know you were here. Right now, I’m the only one who knows about this, thank God.” He glanced down at the folder again. His eyes were full of loathing.

“You are going to lay low, do whatever Morris tells you, and then next week we’ll see how far away I can send you. Now get the hell out of here.”

Nick felt numb, his body cold and far away. He gave a stiff nod and walked out. Nick ducked in to the nearest men’s room, glad to see it was empty.

He splashed water onto his face with shaking hands. He gripped the sides of the sink, noted how haggard he looked, closer to fifty than twenty-eight. His red hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his usually pale face flushed red from humiliation.

Well what did you think would happen? Did you think you could just leave it all behind you?

He went back to his office and sat at Reverend Bob’s empty desk. The room was small, practically in the basement. There was one narrow window, vertical against a corner. He could just see the flowerbeds beyond, tropical flowers showing their faces to the broiling sun. Working on autopilot, he took his badge off its lanyard and tucked it into the computer’s card reader so he could turn it on. No new emails—of course not. His calendar was equally empty. That had been on purpose at first. But now it seemed like an indictment. Not like Reverend Bob could give you a real job. He could trust you to sort prayer cards from the Tallahassee Christian Mothers’ Union but not any actual duties.

He pushed that thought away. He knew it wasn’t true. Reverend Bob had given him time. Time to heal, time to reinvent himself. And while the new Nick was less prone to panicked outbursts, he also did very little. He kept a low profile out of habit, avoiding meeting people’s eyes until he realized absolutely no one knew who he was. He could relax a little and nod to people who smiled at him in the halls. He and Lena had lunch in the garden sometimes. It felt like slowly waking from a nightmare.

Until today. Until Peterson found out. And like everyone else who knew the truth, Peterson wanted Nick away from him and everything he cared about. Nick had barely made his mark on the room. There wasn’t much. A plant Lena gave him. A sweatshirt for when the A/C went haywire and they all froze. A picture of Reverend Bob and Nick at Leon’s Bar. The mug Morris had lent him. No pictures of family of course.

Suddenly, Nick couldn’t stand sitting there anymore. He grabbed his badge and left the building, barely nodding to the Marine at the gate. Forcing himself to slow down, he walked along the embassy’s drive, following the line of the fence and turning left toward the botanical gardens. That was a good place to think. A quiet place, shady in the blazing heat, and free. Nick walked with nothing but the white noise in his head and the roar of cars coming down the main road. He didn’t want to think yet.

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Meet the Author

J Calamy is a disabled vet and foreign service wonk who spends a good part of the year bouncing down dirt roads in the back of Range Rovers with men with guns. Coffee, romance novels, and embassy scuttlebutt are her last remaining vices.

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Release Blitz + Giveaway: Stranded with Desire by Rick R. Reed and Vivien Dean

Authors Rick R. Reed and Vivien Dean, along with IndiGo Marketing, host today's release blitz for Stranded with Desire! Read more about the slow burn/ stranded romance and enter in the $10 NineStar Press credit giveaway!

 

Title: Stranded with Desire

Author: Rick R. Reed, Vivien Dean

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: November 30, 2020

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 55400

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, businessmen, friends to lovers, plane crash, wilderness survival, slow burn, m/m romance

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Synopsis

CEO Maine Braxton and his invaluable assistant, Colby, don’t realize they share a deep secret: they’re in love—with each other. That secret may have never come to light but for a terrifying plane crash in the Cascade Mountains that changes everything.

In a struggle for survival, they brave bears, storms, and a life-threatening flood to make it out of the wilderness alive. The proximity to death makes them realize the importance of love over propriety. Confessions emerge. Passions ignite. They escape the wilds renewed and openly in love.

When they return to civilization, though, forces are already plotting to snuff out their short-lived romance and ruin everything both have worked so hard to achieve.

Excerpt

Stranded by Desire
Rick R Reed and Vivien Dean © 2020
All Rights Reserved

Prologue
Colby LaSalle never dreamed his life would end in a plane crash over the Cascade Mountains in Washington State. But here he was, whispering fevered petitions to the Lord as the plane screamed, plunging downward…faster, faster.

Out the windows, all he could see was white. And the only outcome he could imagine was that once that white cleared, the last thing he’d take in would be towering pine trees and the cold side of a mountain hurtling toward him. It was almost too horrific to comprehend.

In those few moments, as Colby braced himself in his seat, head down near his knees, he found himself thinking what a loss this was. The man across from him, his boss, Maine Braxton, would never know the most important thing about Colby. And that thing was not his proficiency as an administrative assistant, keeping Maine on track and on schedule in all his business affairs, but that Colby was passionately—and secretly—in love with him. With all his heart and soul.

That fact, and the unspoken words that hid it, seemed tragic to Colby, maybe even more tragic than the life he was about to lose. What kind of life, Colby wondered, did you really have if you’d never truly loved and been loved in return?

Colby, at twenty-eight, had never been in love before. And now it looked as though he would never have the chance to act on his desire, on that feeling that made his heart flutter whenever Maine walked by his desk. Was love like a tree falling in the forest? If the object of that love never knew of it, did it really exist?

Colby looked up for a moment, maybe to have a final look at Maine, but was distracted by the view through the cockpit window of the six-seater plane they were traveling in—a Beechcraft Bonanza. The opaque fog of white cleared for a moment, and Colby could see, to his horror, that his imagination was correct.

They were hurtling toward the side of a mountain. The view was surreal. Shock kept him from thinking it was anything other than a very vivid nightmare.

He then looked over at Maine and saw he had slid from his seat to the floor. The strong, powerful man cowered there, hands over his head. His lips moved in what Colby could only assume was silent prayer.

Colby longed to slide over, to cover Maine with his own body and shield him from the impact, but he was paralyzed, a butterfly pinned to a board, and could only add his own whispered prayers to those of his boss.

“Please, God, help us get out of this alive. Let Maine know how very much I love him. Give me that chance.”

The private pilot, a blustery, gruff man named Gus Pangborn but whom everyone just called Rooster, shouted, “We’re gonna try and go up! We’re gonna try and go up!”

Colby didn’t know if he was talking to him, Maine, or himself, but the desperation in the pilot’s gravelly voice was clear. The despair in Rooster’s words communicated one thing to Colby and one thing only—he had no hope.

Colby squeezed his eyes shut tight and placed his head back down toward his knees again, covering it with his hands, although he wondered how much good it would do once the plane crashed, once it was consumed by a giant fireball.

What Colby LaSalle didn’t realize, though, was that the plane crash would signal not the end of his life, but the beginning.

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Also available in Audio at Audible

Meet the Author

Real Men. True Love. 

Rick R. Reed is an award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction. He is a Lambda Literary Award finalist. Entertainment Weekly has described his work as “heartrending and sensitive.” Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…” Find him at www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com. Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA, with his husband, Bruce, and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix, Kodi.

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Vivien Dean has had a lifetime love affair with stories. A multi-published author, her books have been EPPIE finalists, Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Nominees, and readers favorites. After spending her twenties and early thirties traveling, she has finally settled down and currently resides in northern California with her British husband and two children.

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Guest Review: One Cup of Daddy and a Dash of Love (Unexpected Daddies #1) by Victoria Sue

Can an accidental Daddy love a boy for real?

Jensen Cartwright managed to get to forty-seven years old thinking he would never meet a man that wanted the sort of relationship he craved until Dashael literally fell into his arms.

Homeless, and convinced adulthood is some cruel joke forced on him to make him lonely, Dash is overawed by the sexy older man who seems to offer him everything he's ever wanted including story time, bath time, and special play time.

One Cup of Daddy contains an overworked businessman who finds out that cuddling a sweet boy and keeping him safe might be the best thing he's ever done, and a scared boy who discovers that finding a Daddy and holding on tight might just be the best recipe for love ever written.

Reviewer: Shee Reader

Dashael has had a tough life so far. His beloved grandmother has died leaving him all alone, save for the father that doesn’t really want him except to abuse him. He’s hiding above the cafe shop his grandmother had lovingly run for years, as the realtor shows round a wealthy businessman who wishes to buy the place to add to his portfolio. When Jensen spots Dashael, he doesn’t want to frighten the younger man who raises up a fierce need in Jensen to care and protect.

The story unfolds as Jensen discovers he is perhaps the daddy who needs a little, just as Dashael is a man who needs the care and protection of the perfect daddy. It is such a shocking discovery for Jensen that ‘this’ special kind of caring relationship is in fact what he has always longed for, as he is guided by his sister and his friend who both have their own littles into the lifestyle that can give him exactly the joy and love connection he needs. Dashael is tired of being frightened but doesn’t want to push Jensen away when he is everything Dash longs for.

This sweet and sexy kinky tale is a real feel-good read that provides an HEA where everyone gets just what they need.

Highly recommended.

I received a free copy of the book in exchange for an honest review.

Release Blitz + Giveaway: Eye of the Beholder by Thomas Grant Bruso

Author Thomas Grant Bruso and IndiGo Marketing celebrate the release of paranormal tale, Eye of the Beholder! Read more about the horror and enter in the $10 NineStar Press credit giveaway! 

 

Title: Eye of the Beholder

Author: Thomas Grant Bruso

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: November 16, 2020

Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 41900

Genre: Paranormal, LGBTQIA+, established couple, evil spirits, businessman, law enforcement, mental illness, horror

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Synopsis

In the middle of a psychic session with Madame Petri, David hears a ghostly voice calling his name. But he is not sure if it’s the elderly fortuneteller exaggerating the reading or bizarre grumblings coming from a mysterious old man in a painting hanging in the psychic’s foyer.

When Madame Petri disappears in a ball of flames, David rushes home, terrified. From that moment on, David and his policeman boyfriend, Zane, find themselves trying to solve the series of murders and mayhem that begin to haunt David.

Excerpt

Eye of the Beholder
Thomas Grant Bruso © 2020
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
“What do you see?” I asked.

I was sitting across from Madame Petri at the oval-shaped table in the dimly lit backroom of her business, Spiritual Crossings.

The devil-white glow in the medium’s iron-gray eyes pierced through me. “A dead body,” she said. Her bloodred nails were sharp and pointy like talons and wrapped around the cloudy white edges of the crystal ball.

I bit back the sour taste of Cote Rotie from an art exhibit event I had hosted earlier in the evening. All I wanted was a reading of my future, I had told myself after closing the gallery and walking three blocks to Madame Petri’s Spiritual Crossings. Now, I turned to the neighborhood medium and shuddered, my gut clutching.

Some of my art friends had recommended her to me.

“You’ll like her,” one of them had said. “She’s colorful and full of spirit.”

“Go in with an open mind,” somebody else had told me.

Maybe I need new friends.

Clenching the border of the velvet-soft tablecloth, I leaned forward to see if I could glimpse what she had seen in her crystal ball.

There was a bright light in her gaze when she noticed me rising off my seat a few inches to get a better look at the dead body in the cloudy glass ball. But I was drawn back to my chair with a hand clutching my shoulder from behind and pushing me back into my seat.

Blackness swallowed the light in her eyes as if a switch had been turned off inside her, and her gaze fell back to the crystal ball, which was dimming like the low lights in the room.

A steely silence engulfed us.

Balls of sleet smacked against the front glass window in the outer foyer, and the soft sound of thunder rumbled around us. Lights flickered overhead, and a cold draft snuffed out some of the burning incense candles in the dark alcove behind me. A murmur of fear climbed the back of my throat, and I let out a mousy squeal.

When I looked up at Madame Petri’s waxy face, her expression froze.

I clenched my teeth, biting down hard on the cloying taste of cigarettes in my mouth.

Over Madame Petri’s shoulders, I noticed shadowy movements in the other room, and beyond the half-open velvet curtains, the drifting clouds of smoky incense danced like ghosts in the pallid light.

A pale, narrow face stared back at me from the inky blackness: decrepit, deathly white.

I shouted and rose from my chair, breaking the medium’s stern concentration.

Madame Petri stared up at me, her firm grip on the white glass ball unmoving. Her eyes were wide and frightened.

I sucked in short, tight breaths, glancing behind Madame Petri to the outer room, to the far wall where an abstract painting of a haunted face of an old man glared back at me.

David.

I heard my name and froze. Looked around. Let out a deep, shaky breath.

Nothing there.

A trick of the light, that’s all it was, I thought. I adjusted my eyes to the dense grayness and took my seat across from Madame Petri.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping my clammy palms on my jeans. “I thought I saw something.”

“You saw it too,” Madame Petri said. The lights in the room dimmed and died and came back.

My mouth was cotton dry, and I shook my head, staring into the still deadness of the medium’s eighty-year-old eyes, thick and hazy with cataracts.

“Saw what?” I stared over her shoulder again at the dark slashes of color in the evocative painting hanging askew in the foyer. It looked like one of the paintings hanging on the walls of my art gallery.

“Death,” Madame Petri said, a crackle in her voice. She raised a jewel-encrusted finger and pointed at me. “Somebody is going to die.”

I rubbed my arms to ward off a chill and heard the harsh warnings of my partner in the corridors of my mind, ridiculing me for shelling out a day’s worth of work to talk to a psychic. How much did it cost you this time to have your future predicted by that phony would-be clairvoyant?

Then the sound of somebody whispering evoked a troubling memory of dead voices. Their small screams floated in the dark like distressed spirits.

“What was that?” I asked, clenching the arm of the chair.

Madame Petri looked around the room and then over at me, a web of wrinkles bracketing the edge of her small mouth. Her tangerine-orange lips stretched into a wide, clownish smile. “The spirits, dear. They’re coming.”

I rose to leave. As I pulled out two twenties from my wallet, Madame Petri reached across the table for my hand. Her fingers were dead cold, and I felt a tremor of electricity when she touched me. “Be careful,” she said, flipping over the Death card from the pile of her tarot cards and tapping it with a black, pointy fingernail. “He who opens the gate must shut it.”

I jerked my hand away and tucked my wallet back into my pants pocket.

The lights flickered again and went out.

Panicking, I stayed still in the dark, calling out for Madame Petri, and hearing movement ten feet from where I stood behind my chair.

“Madame Petri,” I said. “Are you there?”

The heightened smell of decay and burnt flesh and cigarettes aggravated my senses, and a spark of strong pain ignited in the back of my mind.

David.

I heard movement at the other end of the room, somebody bumping into something, and a vase falling and crashing to the floor. Glass shattered.

When I called out Madame Petri’s name again, there was no answer.

I navigated in the dark to the foyer, staying close to the edge of the room and reaching out for the wall to help guide me to the front door.

At the opening to the velvet curtains, lights flashed and turned on in the adjoining rooms. My heart was pounding, my breath short and raspy.

I went to the rain-smattered front door and pushed it open, turning around once at the sound of a door creaking open behind me down the hall, its hinges squawking in protest. I called out Madame Petri’s name, but there was no response. I couldn’t see her anywhere in the semidark hallway through the hazy tendrils of smoke from the blown-out incense candles, but my gaze drifted to the far wall where the painting of the decrepit face of an old man was mounted.

“Madame Petri,” I called out. I reached into my back pocket for my half-smoked pack of Salem’s and my Bic lighter. Flicked it a few times, my hand shaking hard, my heart pounding.

Nothing.

A cold, wet rain blasted me on the back of the neck, and I shivered from the early evening chill.

I lit the end of my cigarette, barely managing to work the lighter, and inhaled a lungful of smoke before shoving the pack of smokes and the cigarette lighter back in my pants pocket.

Then quickly, as if a bolt of lightning flashed through my jumbled thoughts and illuminated my worst nightmares, I glimpsed the haunted painting again to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. The man in the painting was gone, the canvas blank.

Animalistic, ghostly murmurings in throaty growls awakened down the hall.

I ran.

Purchase

NineStar Press | Books2Read Universal Link

Meet the Author

Thomas Grant Bruso knew at an early age he wanted to be a writer. He has been a voracious reader of genre fiction since he was a kid.

His literary inspirations are Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Ellen Hart, Jim Grimsley, Karin Fossum, Sam J. Miller, Joyce Carol Oates, and John Connolly.

Bruso loves animals, book-reading, writing fiction, prefers Sudoku to crossword puzzles.

In another life, he was a freelance writer and wrote for magazines and newspapers. In college, he was a winner for the Hermon H. Doh Sonnet Competition. Now, he writes book reviews for his hometown newspaper, The Press Republican.

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