Release Blitz + Giveaway: We, Kraken (Volcano Chronicles #2) by Eule Grey

 

Title:  We, Kraken

Series: Volcano Chronicles, Book Two

Author: Eule Grey

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/11/2022

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 53200

Genre: Fantasy, YA, alternate universe/fantasy, lesbian, intercultural, culture and inclusion, student, artist, wartime trauma, PTSD, anxiety, othering, child abuse/endangerment, human rights, equality, voice and representation, redemption, creativity as a vehicle of change, atonement, family, identity, folklore, sea creatures, restorative justice

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Description

Kraken monsters come from the sea. Don’t they?

Devora Kraken seems to have everything under control and all she could ask for. Like the neighbourhood tunnels, where she can hang out with monsters and mermaids both. If sometimes it’s not clear which is which, that’s only normal—right? Anyway, Devi has plenty else to keep her busy, including a good cop, bad cop set of family members. And if all of that isn’t enough, there’s even a cute girl at the new school across town trying to get Devi’s attention!

From the deep waters of the past, something wakes up and marches through Mainland. One terrible night, blood is spilt, and gangs gather in the woods. Devi’s cousin, Jon, leaves for the speak-and-listen trials, and nothing will be the same again.

Devi sets off on a journey of discovery that will take her from her home in Exer City across Mainland and into Craw. It won’t be easy—her brother Korl refuses to talk about the past, or why Jon left. He won’t speak of the gun under the bed or the pile of mermaid figurines. Korl refuses to talk about anything!

What’s a monster anyway? Who better than Devora Kraken to find out?

Excerpt

We, Kraken
Eule Grey © 2022
All Rights Reserved

The night I called my brother a murderer was the worst of my life. It was early summer, with heat bristling and people noising until dawn. Even the birds didn’t sleep. But I’d been sent to bed at ten, like always. Grumbling and defiant. Sick of the status quo. My brother was a stickler for rules. Although I was fifteen, he treated me as if I were a little kid.

School tomorrow, Devi!

Don’t forget to clean your teeth.

No wandering the flat during the night.

The usual Kraken rubbish. I went to bed and somehow nodded off. Just after midnight, I crashed awake to an unsettling dream about a stone bridge.

I called in vain for my cousin. “Jon?”

Then got up and padded into the kitchen, half asleep, with ultra-raw senses. A single light bulb stung my sensitive eyes. A high-pitched electrical scream emanated from our battered fridge.

It took a few minutes to make sense of the midnight scene. Except for my cousin, Jon, every member of the Kraken gang was present. Farlo, who paced the kitchen. Bersha and Tomi, scrubbing blood from their hands. My brother, Korl, and his girlfriend, Anees, talking in a corner.

A gun lay on the edge of the table. Black, metallic, and menacing.

A gun.

I should have asked where it came from and why it was in our kitchen. Rumours of guns and knives were rife throughout Exer City, but I’d never thought my family were involved. As far as I knew, the Kraken gang avoided trouble.

“What’s going on? Has anyone seen Jon? I did knock,” I said stupidly. Obliviously. Trying to avoid being told off. My brother was a rule dictator, and I didn’t want to be grounded again.

Korl stopped whispering. For a really long minute, he didn’t say anything, only looked across at me where I huddled in striped nightie and cat-print socks.

It was then I realised and acknowledged something was very wrong. Korl’s face was vacant, glassy-eyed, and lacking in expression. It upset me. I wanted him to shout the safety of our normal boundaries: Get back to bed! You don’t wander the flat at night alone.

But he didn’t. Nobody said a word. The only sounds were of frenzied scrubbing and the screaming electric wire. Minutes went by. I didn’t think of the significance of the gun.

Absent-mindedly, I picked up a cloth and started wiping the table. “Blood. Urgh.”

Anees leapt into action and shook my brother’s arm until he rattled. “Devi!” she hissed violently. “Put the gun down. Go to bed and lock the door. Now!”

The moments of excruciating weirdness came to an abrupt end when Korl thumped the fridge hard enough to break open the universe. “Get that thing out of here! Why have you people brought a gun into my home?”

His voice was strained and wild. I thought he was about to cry and considered going back to bed. Although I often ignored my brother, it was usually obvious when it was time to bolt.

He blinked, looked from Tomi to Anees, and then finally at me. His eyes went from glazed to heated. When he spoke, he’d regained control.

“Go to bed, Devi. Everyone get out except Anees.”

I finished cleaning the weapon but didn’t let it go.

Right then, Jon walked in and saw me holding the gun. I swear, every normal sound in the flat—screaming fridge wire, dripping tap, Korl’s alarm clock—stopped. My kind-hearted cousin disintegrated. His hands trembled and tears started in his eyes. Normally, I’d have run to help.

“Jon,” Korl said. “Mate! It’s not what you think. Nobody’s seriously hurt. It was just a scrape.”

A huge sob ripped through my cousin’s body, and he uttered a horrible sound of pain. It transported me from numbness into a different reality.

I hallucinated a soldier; lying in a heap on the ground. Our flat became a large hall, and somehow, I knew the visage was a memory.

“He’s dead!” I threw the gun. It skittered, rolled, and landed in a corner.

Next thing, I was locked in my bedroom with no memory of the journey there. I was resentful and angry, but not scared. Jon would be around in the morning to hug me and listen to my childish rants. He’d sort it out, like always—explain what was going on and make me feel better.

I fell asleep hugging my knees by the door and was woken sometime later by Korl.

“What are you doing down there?” he said. “Get into bed.”

I did as he demanded despite being stiff from cold. It didn’t matter Breen was hot during the day. Once the sun went down, the temperature plummeted. “At last! You can’t ignore me forever.” My voice shook from lack of sleep and delayed shock at the events from earlier.

He switched on the lamp. “You’re so dramatic. Who’s ignoring you?” He felt my ice-cold arm and groaned. “Devi Bee, you’re shivering.”

I didn’t feel well. What had happened in the kitchen didn’t seem real. Nothing made sense. It was as if the whole night had happened years before.

“Did you see the soldier, Korl? What—what happened? Where’s Jon? Is he all right?”

From the way my brother’s shoulders stiffened, it was obvious he’d heard and knew to what I referred. “You’re freezing.”

“What do you expect? You abandoned me like dirt.”

It was easy to be defiant. After all, Jon was in the next room and would stop anything bad from happening to me. In the morning, he’d make us hot chocolate and pancakes and laugh about what had happened; he would.

My thoughts led back to the gun. “Whose blood was it? What’s going on? I’m scared.”

Korl flinched. “No need to be. You could do with an extra layer. It’s sub-zero in here.”

He left and carelessly dragged back a blanket from Jon’s room. It was the blue one with pictures of horses, my cousin’s favourite. I bought it for him last winter when it seemed the snow would never stop falling. We’d talked about where we wanted to ride on horseback. Because we didn’t have much money, every gift was precious. My cousin wouldn’t like Korl taking the blanket or dragging it across the floor.

“Won’t Jon need that? Put it back,” I said.

“He won’t need it. He won’t mind.”

Korl thoughtfully tucked me in and made jokes. He was indifferent to the events of a few hours before and even sang a stupid song about how to bath a cow. It incensed me, but I wasn’t ready to broach the subject of the gun or why my cousin had been so upset when I held it.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Eule Grey has settled, for now, in the north UK. She’s worked in education, justice, youth work, and even tried her hand at butter-spreading in a sandwich factory. Sadly, she wasn’t much good at any of them! She writes novels, novellas, poetry, and a messy combination of all three. Nothing about Eule is tidy but she rocks a boogie on a Saturday night! For now, Eule is she/her or they/them. Eule has not yet arrived at a pronoun that feels right.

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Release Blitz + Giveaway: Music from Stone (University Square #4) by Brenda Murphy

 

Title: Music from Stone

Series: University Square, Book Four

Author: Brenda Murphy

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 07/05/2022

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 67900

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, Romance, contemporary, family-drama, BDSM, interracial, lesbian, stone mason, concert pianist, stalker, PTSD, over 40, performance arts, visual arts

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Description

Celebrated concert pianist Nüwa Zhou had it all. Until she didn’t. Forced out of the closet while testifying at the kidnapping and murder trial of her obsessive former assistant turned stalker, she retires from the high-pressure world of performing to recover at her parents’ estate.

Stone mason, and frustrated sculptor Julia Johnson, spends her days stone building walls and patios while dreaming of quitting her day job.

After a chance encounter with Julia leads to more, Nüwa imagines a life with Julia. When her stalker returns, determined to kidnap Nüwa and end anyone who stands in his way, Nüwa will do whatever it takes to keep Julia safe, but will it be enough?

Excerpt

Music from Stone
Brenda Murphy © 2022
All Rights Reserved

“Who is Father talking to?” Nüwa Zhou stared out of the sliding door at the woman standing on the terrace, her short auburn hair a mass of curls that brushed the tops of her broad shoulders. Her stance was confident. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt tight enough it drew Nüwa’s attention, she rested her hands on her hips across from Gerald Zhou. Her wide shoulders and sculpted arms tested the limits of the fabric of her shirt. Afforded the opportunity to stare openly, Nüwa savored the view, admiring the curves the woman’s loose jeans failed to conceal. Slightly taller than Nüwa’s father in her thick-soled work boots, the woman glanced back at the house. Nüwa held steady, confident the reflective window coating would hide her gawking.

“Former student. Inquiring about the cottage,” her mother called from the kitchen bar.

Nüwa tugged the belt of her robe tighter. “Early for a meeting.”

The not-so-subtle sound of her mother’s scoff drifted across the kitchen. Nüwa rested her chin on her chest. The unspoken scolding for sleeping late pricked Nüwa’s heart. A night owl born to a family of larks. Her sleep patterns had been her curse since childhood.

She lifted her gaze back to the scene outside.

Gerald Zhou stood close to the woman, occasionally gesturing to the yard and the firethorn maze covering the lower half of their estate. Wind pushed dark heavy clouds across the sky and a gust rattled the sliding door in its dull aluminum frame. He turned and pointed to the house. Nüwa stepped back and away from the glass into the shadows of the living room. She walked to the counter dividing the kitchen from the rest of the house.

“Have you eaten?” Her mother glanced up from her laptop screen.

Nüwa took a breath and blew it out. “Not hungry.”

A frown creased her mother’s sculpted eyebrows. “Don’t forget to eat.” Her gaze shifted to the window. “Your father needs to wrap it up. I don’t like the color of the sky.”

Nüwa perched on one of the stools at the counter and glanced at the sky. A green hue tinged the dark clouds. “It’s ugly.”

Fat drops of rain hit the glass as the peal of a weather warning spit out of her mother’s ever-present phone. Nüwa’s stomach twisted as adrenaline surged in her body. Storms were the worst. Lightning flashed. Nüwa placed her hands flat on the counter and started counting silently.

“Four. Not far away.”

The click of the computer keys increased. “I need to get these figures to Rowan.” Her mother continued to pound the keyboard as another flash of lightning lit up the kitchen with a sick yellow glare.

The skin on Nüwa’s arms prickled. The grate of the sliding door in its tracks sounded in the room a second before a crash of thunder rattled the house.

“Three.” Nüwa turned to the sliding door. “It’s moving toward us.”

“It’s crazy out there. Wait it out with us.” Gerald touched the arm of the woman from the terrace. “You remember my wife, Lian Tan? I don’t think you’ve met my daughter. Nüwa, this is Julia.”

“Hi Ms. Tan, nice to see you again. Nice to meet you, Nüwa.” Julia inclined her head to greet Nüwa’s mother before she turned and met Nüwa’s gaze.

Nüwa stared at Julia, the thin wet fabric of the T-shirt even more distracting now Julia was standing in front of her. “You’re wet.” Her face burned as soon as the words were out of her mouth. “I mean—” She scrambled around the end of the counter, snatched a clean dish towel from the basket next to the sink. “Here.” Nüwa held the towel out with both hands.

The tips of Julia’s fingers brushed the back of Nüwa’s hand as she took the towel from her. “Thank you.” She held Nüwa’s gaze for a moment, the hint of a smile twisting her lips before she dried her face.

Nüwa studied the tops of her house shoes and knotted her hands together as an awkward silence sucked the ease out of the moment. She crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself, knowing she was acting weird, helpless to stop it.

The faint sound of a tornado siren spared Nüwa further torment.

“Basement.” Lian stood, tucked her laptop and a thick folder under her arm, before she walked to the end of the counter. She pressed the series of buttons under the countertop. The end of the cabinet slid aside revealing a stairwell. Gerald followed Lian.

Nüwa slid off the stool and followed her parents down the stairs leading to the storm cellar. She ducked her head as she entered the stairway. “Watch your head,” Nüwa called over her shoulder.

Heavy tread on the stairs behind her and the faint scent of lavender and sunscreen tickled Nüwa’s nose as Julia followed her to the safe room. Halfway down the steps, the lights flickered out, plunging the stairwell and room below into blackness.

“Damn it. Gerald, where did you put the lantern?”

“Use your phone.”

“Left it on the counter, and didn’t we talk about this? Use your phone.”

Her parents shifted their bickering to Mandarin. Nüwa prayed Julia didn’t understand as they devolved into one of their ongoing arguments.

Nüwa extended her hand behind her, and her fingers bushed the soft denim of Julia’s jean. “Take my hand. Stay close. The stairs turn here.”

Julia clasped her hand. Her broad callused palm rested against Nüwa’s hand. Nüwa led Julia down the stairs and toward the sound of her parents arguing. As they reached the bottom of the stairs the harsh light of an electric lantern flared to life, throwing twisted shadows over the walls.

Gerald closed off the door leading to the rest of the basement, sealing them in the long narrow windowless room. “There. Nüwa, lock the door behind you.”

Nüwa threw the deadbolt and sealed the door leading up to the kitchen.

Lian stood at the far end of the room, the glower on her face matching the ferocity of the storm. Arms crossed, she lifted her chin as she observed Nüwa and Julia. Her gaze landed squarely on their clasped hands.

Julia squeezed Nüwa’s hand once, then released it. “Thank you.”

Lian turned away from Nüwa, picked up a yellow wireless radio, and shoved it into Gerald’s hands. “Get the weather radio working.”

The echo of hail pelting the house increased in volume and drowned out Gerald’s reply. A roaring sound filled Nüwa’s ears, a steady hum. The hairs on her arm stood on end. Pressure in her ears increased to the point of pain and she swallowed, trying to clear them.

The ceiling over their head creaked and groaned as the vibration intensified. The house shook, rattling the shelves holding the food and water they kept stored in the small room. Nüwa wrapped her arms around herself to stop her trembling. Cans of food vibrated off the shelves and crashed to the floor, wrenching a cry from her, and she covered her eyes.

A warm hand settled on the middle of her back. Nüwa jerked away from the touch and bit down on her lip to stifle her yelp. The roaring increased, as if a train was bearing down on them. Nüwa dropped to her knees, covered her head with her arms, and folded herself into the smallest ball possible. The thin carpet over the concrete did nothing to ease her knees and sharp pain lanced through her. Her breathing was rough in her ears as her fear turned in on itself and drove every other thought from her mind. In the space of seconds, the patter of the hail softened, and the roaring stopped, leaving a heavy silence behind.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

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

I hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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Release Blitz + Giveaway: Turtle Bay (Tides of Change #2) by John Patrick

 

Title: Turtle Bay

Series: Tides of Change, Book Two

Author: John Patrick

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 06/28/2022

Heat Level: 1 - No Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 85400

Genre: Historical, LGBTQIA+, gender-bending, cross-dressing, businessman, humor, law enforcement, political, PTSD, Postwar America, sexual discovery

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Description

It’s 1947, and New York City is awaiting the construction of the new United Nations building, the FBI is actively pursuing Communists and Soviet spies as the Cold War begins to build, and homosexual men have even more reasons to hide who they are.

Uptight FBI Agent Arthur Mason is so deep in the closet he doesn’t even realize he’s in one. Clueless about his own sexuality, he’s surprised at his reaction to both Hans Schmidt and his twin sister, Ada. Under pressure from work, Mason investigates Hans and his boarders, including the highly suspicious Hank Mannix, a known member of the Communist Party. Though Mason can’t seem to locate Ada, he can’t stop thinking about Hans and keeps going back to visit.

Hans Schmidt is a cross-dressing German immigrant running a boarding house for “a certain type of man,” and he wants nothing to do with Agent Mason and his ill-fitting suits and bad haircut. Until he begins to see Mason more as a man and less as a government official.

Hans enjoys dressing as a woman from time to time, and once his feelings for Arthur begin to change, he realizes he needs to share his Ada persona if they are to have a future together.

Secrets on both sides must be revealed and cherished beliefs challenged if these two men are to find the love and happiness they deserve.

This story can be read on its own; however, characters from book one, Dublin Bay, play a prominent role as secondary characters, so it’s recommended to read that first.

Excerpt

Turtle Bay
John Patrick © 2022
All Rights Reserved

Hans

Even after five years in America, Hans still startled every time the telephone rang—an abrupt, clanging sound insisting on attention. Why couldn’t a country capable of producing an atomic bomb be able to create a more discreet way of letting a person know about an incoming call? He vaguely remembered the phones in Ireland giving a soft chime first, before beginning to ring in earnest, but his time there had been short and chaotic, always one step ahead of capture, so he couldn’t be sure.

He didn’t remember the sound of telephones in Germany at all, even though he knew one hung on the wall in the university’s administration office. He pictured it there next to the corkboard but couldn’t reconstruct its sound.

He hoped the new dial telephone would have a more melodious tone. Assuming the phone company ever got around to swapping out his candlestick model for something more modern as they had been promising for months.

The telephone sat atop the counter in the small reception hallway. Hans swiveled his stool and picked up the entire device, bringing the mouthpiece forward and lifting the receiver close to his ear. He was surprised a call had even come through; most of the operators had gone out on strike.

“Schmidt’s Boarding House, Hans Schmidt speaking.”

“Hans, old boy! It’s Wally, up in Albany.”

“Oh, Wally, so good to hear from you. Is this business or pleasure?”

“Business, I’m afraid. I have a live one for you. And don’t forget I’m still on a party line here.”

That was code for anyone could be listening. Hans appreciated the reminder. The boarding house had its own private line, and he sometimes forgot most people outside the city still used party lines. As if to prove the point, Hans heard muffled soft breathing in the background.

He sighed and glanced at the wall clock, mentally rearranging his calendar for the afternoon. “Hold on.” He placed the transmitter back on the desk, switched the receiver to his left hand, and pulled a pad and pencil out of the drawer. He leaned closer to the mouthpiece so he could still be heard. “A day or two’s notice would make a nice change. But go on.”

“Sorry, there was no advance notice this time. He came right up to the counter and said, ‘One-way ticket to New York City, please, next available bus.’ You’ve got two more hours. I’m certain of this one, Hans. We served together.”

“Oh, were you…?”

“No. Nothing like that,” Wally responded. “But I knew, of course.”

“I understand. Greyhound?” Hans asked.

“Yes, arrives at three thirty.”

That was good news at least. The Greyhound terminal was next to Penn Station, which was only a half-hour walk if he hurried.

“Would you recommend Ada or Hans?”

“Oh, Ada for sure, dear boy. This one seems quite skittish. A direct approach won’t do. He needs to see what’s possible,” Wally replied. “He’s a good kid, Hans. Don’t let him get swallowed up by the Y.”

“Understood, and thanks for the tip. What will he be wearing?”

Wally laughed, and the connection broke up a bit. “Oh, not to worry. You can’t miss him.” Hans heard a click as someone hung up, or perhaps someone else picked up to check if the line was available.

“Will you be coming down yourself anytime soon?” Hans asked. “You absolutely must see David Brooks in Brigadoon. He’s in a kilt most of the time. We could make a weekend of it.”

“That sounds grand! Maybe next month.”

They exchanged a few additional pleasantries and ended the call.

Hans needed at least an hour to get Ada ready, and he was thankful he hadn’t yet put on cologne. He’d planned a shopping trip this afternoon to resupply a few staples—coffee, tea, and biscuits for the ladies’ reception parlor—but that could be rescheduled. But he couldn’t put it off for too long; the ladies did not like to run out of biscuits during their social hour.

As he descended the stairs to Ada’s room on the garden level—a New York euphemism for below ground—he was reminded how much easier things were for men. He wore a simple gray suit with a narrow navy tie, appropriate for all seasons and conservatively bland. Why, a fellow could disappear into any crowd wearing such an outfit.

Ada, though—she had a much tougher go of it. It was spring, technically, but still quite chilly. She’d need something…delightful. Yes, Hans thought, that was the right word. Not too frivolous, but sufficiently feminine to show the world there was still joy in beauty. But she’d also need to wear an outercoat and sensible enough shoes for a bit of a walk. She wouldn’t want to invite scrutiny, but she’d want people to see her and appreciate the effort she’d made.

Hans stepped into Ada’s room and opened the closet. He considered his options. He’d have to use last spring’s coat; he hadn’t had the time or funds to completely reoutfit this season. But it would do the job. It was robin’s-egg blue with a fitted waist rather than a belt. Five oversized white buttons ran down its length. Sadly, American fashion houses continued to insist on outrageously padded shoulders even now, nearly two years after the war’s end.

A thrill ran through Hans as he stood in front of Ada’s closet. It always did, right before the transformation.

He eyed the spring dress he’d bought two weeks ago and knew it would be perfect. He took it out of the closet and laid it flat on the bed. It was a creamy off-white cotton, with a hint of pink. It dropped to midcalf and had a layer of tulle underneath the skirt—an extravagant use of material that would have been unthinkable only a year ago, when rationing and scarcity were just starting to give way. Large red cherries created a pattern, and a back zipper allowed for a smooth, uninterrupted front.

Hans removed his suit and his baggy, shapeless boxers, making a mental note to remember to take the clothes back to his own room, behind the kitchen. He spent the next half hour on underclothing and shapewear, then makeup, and finally a softly curling blonde wig that matched his natural hair color.

Hans was more comfortable dressed as a woman than he was dressed as a man. He always had been; it’s what got him in trouble back in Germany.

Dressed as a woman, Hans absolutely sparkled. His slight frame and delicate features fit Ada better than they fit Hans, and more than once he wondered what it would have been like to have been born as Ada. He’d met men who claimed to actually be women, deep inside, but he didn’t fully grasp that. At the heart of it, Hans liked being a man and being attracted to other men. He just liked dressing and acting like a woman sometimes.

It was enough for him.

The dress itself—the item everyone saw—was the easiest part but for the back zipper, which he managed eventually.

He slipped on square-heeled navy shoes, tied a gauzy pink scarf around his hair as protection against the breeze, and then headed out the door.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Author John Patrick is a Lambda Literary Award finalist living in the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts, where he is supported in his writing by his husband and their terrier, who is convinced he could do battle with the bears that come through the woods on occasion (the terrier, that is, not the husband). An introvert, John can often be found doing introverted things like reading or writing, cooking, and thinking deep, contemplative thoughts (his husband might call this napping). He loves to spend time in nature—“forest bathing” is the Japanese term for it—feeling connected with the universe. But he also loathes heat and humidity, bugs of any sort, and unsteady footing in the form of rocks, mud, tree roots, snow, or ice. So his love of nature is tempered—he’s complicated that way. 

John and his husband enjoy traveling and have visited over a dozen countries, meeting new people, exploring new cultures, and—most importantly—discovering new foods.

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Release Blitz + Giveaway: Crazy Little Thing Cold Love by Colette Davison

 

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: Crazy Little Thing Cold Love

Author and Publisher: Colette Davison

Cover Artist: Colette Davison

Photographer: Eric McKinney

Model: Patrick H

Release Date: June 24, 2022

Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance

Tropes: Daddy kink, age gap (12 years), hurt/comfort, ex-military 

Themes: Self-care

Heat Rating:  4 flames 

Length: 69 000 words

It is a standalone story, but Jude appeared in His Boy to Cherish as a side character

The book does not end on a cliffhanger.

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Buy Links - Available in Kindle Unlimited

Universal link  |  Amazon US  |  Amazon UK 

Can two very different men turn an intense holiday romance into lasting love?

Blurb

Jude

I shoot my mouth off and hide behind my smile as I try—and fail—to fill the void inside. Nothing has felt right since I was medically discharged from the army. Can there be more to life than a dead-end job and meaningless hook-ups?

Kasper

I didn’t expect to win a Cuffd Destinations holiday, let alone meet a sexy guy who’s fun to be around. Jude doesn’t think he’s a Daddy, but I’m going to prove him wrong. Who knows what we might discover along the way?

Crazy Little Thing Cold Love is part of the Destination Daddies Season Two multi-author series. It features an emotionally scarred army veteran, a bubbly boy who sees the world in a unique way, summer snow, lots of steam, and a happy ending. Each book can be read as a standalone, but there are so many destinations and Daddies to discover, why not grab them all?

Trigger warning for mentions of PTSD, flashbacks, and nightmares.

Excerpt 

I found a spare stool at the bar and ordered a drink. It took me about thirty seconds to notice I was sitting next to a muscly guy with blond hair and bright blue eyes. He had his back to the wall while nursing a tumbler of scotch on the rocks as he surveyed the room. He was Hollywood’s definition of gorgeous. Not that it would matter if he didn’t have a personality to match his roguish good looks and body builder-scale muscles. I hadn’t talked to him yet, which meant another twizzle stick was about to be mine.

“Hi,” I said, gesturing towards his lanyard. “I’m mint leaves, and you are…?”

“Light rum.”

Flashes of hot pink ignited at the edges of my vision, dominating the other colours already dancing there. The colour of his voice was beautiful, which was a good start.

“Really? That means that together, we’re a mojito.”

The man laughed. “I think we’re missing a few ingredients.” Vibrant pink swirled and undulated with the rhythm of his words.

“Maybe a mojito in potential?”

He laughed louder while I motioned to the barman.

“Light rum and mint leaves,” I told him.

He nodded, checked off our combination on a list, and gave us a twizzle stick. Twenty-four. I had more than hot-pink guy.

“How come you’re not mixing?” I asked.

“I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

It was my turn to laugh. “Now you are, but you were alone when I came over.”

“I needed a breather.”

“Yeah, me too.” I turned around to face away from the bar and leant against it. I’m Kasper, by the way.” I held my hand out.

“Jude.”

About the Author

Colette’s personal love story began at university, where she met her future husband. An evening of flirting, in the shadow of Lancaster castle, eventually led to a fairytale wedding. She’s enjoying her own ‘happy ever after’ in the north of England with her husband, two beautiful children and her writing.

Social Media Links

Blog/Website  |   Facebook Page   |  Facebook Group: Colette’s Cosy Corner

BookBub   |   Twitter  |   Goodreads  |  Instagram: @colettedavison

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Release Blitz + Giveaway: Turnabout by Laury A. Egan

Welcome author Laury A. Egan and IndiGo Marketing as they promote historical coming of age romance, Turnabout! Read more and enter in the NineStar Press credit giveaway!

Title: Turnabout

Author: Laury A. Egan

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 11/30/2021

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 78500

Genre: Historical (20th Century), LGBTQIA+, teenage romance, lesbian, lesbian love, sailing, PTSD, Vietnam War, 1960s, first love, mother-daughter relationships, young writers, class differences, New Jersey, coming-of-age

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Description

The summer of 1964. Four teenage lives intertwine as each searches for love, identity, and a passage through painful family conflicts, social isolation, and the confusion of sexual orientation.

During a sailing class, four teenagers meet.

Jessie Schaffer is fourteen, an intelligent and solitary girl, who dreams of becoming a writer. When she sees nineteen-year-old Lindsay Ames, the instructor, standing on a dock, sunlight illuminating her blond hair and blue eyes, Jessie falls in love but is too afraid of her feelings and what they mean.

In an attempt to reassure herself she is “normal,” Jessie becomes involved with two boys in the class: Kenny Crenshaw, also fourteen, a darkly handsome and flirtatious guy, and Calvin Brayburn, a year younger, who will be in their freshman class because he’s academically brilliant.

On the first day of sailing, Cal is smitten with Jessie, though he is hindered by shyness. As the romantic relationships take unexpected twists, Jessie, Lindsay, Calvin, and Kenny relate their individual stories, their hopes, fears, and longings, all the while being buffeted by intense pressures.

Set in coastal New Jersey, the plot roams from its beautiful rivers to lush scenes in St. Thomas and Vietnam’s jungles during the war.

Excerpt

Turnabout
Laury A. Egan © 2021
All Rights Reserved

Jessie
“I’m not going!” I state this as a firm fact; my mother hears acquiescence.

“And wear your new clam diggers and that boat-neck shirt I bought you.”

“No! I feel like an idiot in those clothes!”

My mother, who dresses perfectly for every occasion, arches an eyebrow, one that took hours to sculpt. “You are attending sailing class, and I want you to look nice. We will hear no more about it, Jessie.”

When the singular “I” migrates into the royal “we,” my goose is cooked.

“I will see you in the car. Ten minutes,” she says.

After she leaves the room, I go to the closet, slip the fake nautical clothes off hangers, and throw them on the bed where I slump beside them. “I’ll look like a fool,” I mutter as I stare at the blue-and-white-striped shirt and the white clam diggers decorated with red piping and baby sailboats. I shut my eyes in frustration and follow imperial orders.

«

I’m standing by the entrance to the Lenape Sailing and Yacht Club, hoping my mother will reconsider and take me home. I turn to plead with her, but she’s already backing the big black T-Bird out of the drive, its whitewalls spitting sand four feet past its chugging tailpipe. For a minute, I picture the car getting stuck but no luck. It’s me who’s stuck.

I scan the sky and beach. The morning sun has taken a hike, leaving a mash of clouds in its wake. The breeze sucks the tops off the cattails and raises goosebumps on my arms and the whitecaps on the river. With no real alternative, I walk through the clubhouse’s double doors, wishing I could fly out the other side, shoot off the dock, and do a Superman back home.

Inside, it smells like salt air, tired sun, and dried old wood. About ten kids—probably my class—are milling around looking self-conscious. Even though they appear nervous, my years of experience tell me they’ll do just fine, once the preliminary jitters smooth off, while I will not. Oh, sure, I can pick up the sailing stuff, but the rest? I stand by the window, thinking I don’t like groups because groups don’t like me.

“Hi.”

I turn. A boy with thick glasses is staring at me with a curious expression. His hazel eyes, magnified by the lenses, appear intelligent. He has small cuppy ears, an epidemic of brown freckles across his face and arms, and bright-red hair cut in straight bangs and parted unevenly on the left side of his square head. The boy is a little hunched, as if he’s already apologizing for future tallness. Despite his neat green shirt and navy cotton shorts, he doesn’t wear his body comfortably. The kid looks as ill at ease as I feel.

“Hi,” I reply, though I’m lukewarm in interest. I look over the group, hoping there is someone better to hitch up with. Most of the kids are about my age. Next week, on July 5, I’m turning fourteen.

“My name’s Calvin Brayburn.”

Calvin seems younger. Perhaps twelve nudging thirteen and oblivious to the huge barrier a year’s difference makes.

“Mine’s Jessie.”

“Jessie what?” He tilts his head and squints a little, as if his poor eyesight dulls his hearing.

“Jessie Schaffer.” I’m not a chatty type, particularly with strangers, which includes just about everyone I’ve ever met. How can I lose this kid? Should I play it high and mighty or chilly-neutral? Then, the teacher enters from a side room, saving me the decision.

“Hello, everyone. I’m Lindsay Ames, your sailing instructor.”

Lindsay is tall, or at least she is from my five-foot-four perspective. Short blond curly hair. Blue eyes. Long arms and legs already tan from being outside. Can’t tell if she is a senior going to be a freshman or a freshman home from college. Probably four or five years older than I am. I breathe easier. I’m more comfortable around adults.

Lindsay hands out mimeographed papers. “The parts of a sailboat and two pages of nautical knots,” she explains. “Don’t worry—we’ll go over them, but you’ll have to memorize the parts and how to tie a bowline and a cleat hitch by next week.”

One of the girls giggles and nudges her neighbor. I don’t see anything funny about knots, but maybe that’s because I’ve already taught myself a few—Dad said this would be expected.

“It’s too windy to go out today,” Lindsay continues, “so we’ll get acquainted and learn some of the basics.”

She takes a seat in a wooden armchair, and everyone sprawls onto couches and chairs around her as if she’s going to tell us a story. I sit on the floor opposite and stare at the blue Keds’ stamps on the back of my white sneakers.

“Let’s go around the room.” She nods to a girl with a ponytail. “What’s your name?”

When the kid smiles, silver braces glint like chrome on a Chrysler grille. “Melinda Whitmore,” Ponytail replies. “Hi!” She jerks her hand in the air and gives half a wave. She’s growing boobs that overwhelmed her training bra a long while ago.

“Hi, Melinda,” Lindsay replies. “Welcome aboard.”

I’m not positive I like this sailor heartiness, but so far, Lindsay seems okay. She then points to a guy with black, wavy hair and dark Romeo eyes.

“Hey,” he says in a false sheepish tone. “I’m Kenny Crenshaw.”

Melinda and the other girls exchange blushing glances. Kenny is instantly crowned “king” without any contest. I’m no slouch at rating pecking orders in social gatherings. Of course, none of the girls look at me for confirmation, a fact I also file away in my mental account ledger.

As if he senses his royal anointment, Kenny squares up his shoulders and drops his voice. “I already know how to sail,” he explains. “My dad has a boat.”

“Oh? What kind?” Lindsay asks.

Kenny Crenshaw smiles, confidence spreading across his face. “It’s a thirty-two-foot O’Day.”

“Nice boat,” the instructor says, smiling. “So, you must be quite accomplished.”

He stares at his feet and shrugs, as if he’s embarrassed. In that moment, my dislike of him rushes in like a squall.

“Yes, I am,” he answers. “Sort of.”

The “sort of” is another attempt to appear modest, though it doesn’t wash with me. His smug perfection stings like a pissed-off wasp. We’ll see who the better sailor is. I don’t have a clue why I’m feeling so competitive.

Melinda’s friends are Janey and Gretchen. The three of them are jump-rope types. That’s how I used to classify the popular girls in elementary school. I never mastered their games—skipping rope or their other activity—flirting—and still nourish a fine disdain for both. Sure, back then, the girls let me play sometimes, so I wasn’t on the outer orbit of Pluto, but I wasn’t really accepted, which is typical of the flip-flop nature of my life. Graduation from eighth grade didn’t improve my standing with boys either, and neither did the spring dance, a perfect ten on the misery scale. My mother tortured me into going solo and wearing an itchy chiffon dress and patent leather shoes that pinched. I was the weed amid the wallflowers and didn’t dance once. I’m glad we just moved to Bingham, where I’ll attend high school and hopefully make some friends.

There are four more students who introduce themselves: Steve, Cathy, Mary Lou, and Gene. The girls all cross their arms over their chests, protecting their budding growths, and the boys look careless and bored, like they’d just as soon be throwing rocks at beach rats. Everyone is sort of average looking compared to Kenny and Melinda, who, despite her dental work and giggles, has drawn the longest glances from the boys. Calvin is saving me from last place on the unpopularity register. When it’s my turn to say hello, I’m tempted to tell everyone my father has a sixty-nine-foot sailboat, just to see how it goes down. But one of my rules is that I only lie when I’m sure no one will catch on. Because I don’t know who makes boats that size, the last thing I want is King Kenny announcing there is no such thing. So, after giving my name, I clam up, ceding round one to him. At least Lindsay gives me a warm smile, but she smiles at all the kids.

After that, we go outside and investigate a Turnabout, a little ten-foot catboat we’re using for our lessons. Lindsay gives us the port/starboard/stern/bow info, shows us how to tell which way the wind is blowing by the little pink ribbon fluttering near the top of the mast, and demonstrates how to attach and hoist the single sail. The whole time she does this, my new friend Calvin sticks to my side tighter than a tick. Whenever I look at him, he grins like we’re already buddies. Melinda and Kenny aren’t listening to Lindsay because they’re whispering and digging elbows into each other.

Two hours later, when my mother arrives, I announce I don’t want to take sailing lessons anymore. She doesn’t listen.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

Laury A. Egan is the author of the YA novel, The Outcast Oracle; three suspense novels, Jenny Kidd, A Bittersweet Tale, and The Ungodly Hour; a comedy, Fabulous! An Opera Buffa; a collection, Fog and Other Stories; and a literary work, The Swimmer. Four limited-edition poetry volumes have been published: Snow, Shadows, a Stranger; Beneath the Lion’s Paw; The Sea & Beyond; and Presence & Absence. She lives on the northern coast of New Jersey where she sailed Turnabouts during her teenage years.

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Release Blitz + Giveaway: Shiloh's Secret (Out in Austin #2) by KD Ellis

Author KD Ellis and Pride Publishing share new release information on romantic suspense, Shiloh's Secret (Out in Austin #2)! Read more about the bodyguard romance and enter in the First Romance gift card giveaway!

Shiloh's Secret by KD Ellis

Book 2 in the Out in Austin series

General Release Date: 16th November 2021

Word Count:  92,026
Book Length: SUPER NOVEL
Pages: 367
Genres:

ACTION AND ADVENTURE
CONTEMPORARY
CRIME
EROTIC ROMANCE
GAY
GLBTQI
MEN IN UNIFORM
THRILLERS AND SUSPENSE

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Book Description

Shiloh Beckett has a trust fund, a stalker and a secret. He doesn’t trust easily, but his new bodyguard might just break the cycle.

Shiloh Beckett might be the sole heir to Beckett Industries, one of the leading tech companies in the world, but the last thing he wants is to become another suit-and-tie. He’s learned the hard way that money can’t buy happiness, just a better brand of misery.

Gage Tucker lives by the motto Protect and Serve. Raised by a cop who failed his family, Gage chose to serve his country the only way he knew how—with boots on the ground and a gun in his hand. After a mission gone wrong, Gage came home with a broken body but the same drive to protect. Months of rehab later, he joined Eagle Security as a Personal Protection Officer and he’s been a bodyguard ever since. Protecting a trust-fund brat from the paparazzi isn’t what he signed up for.

Soon he learns that there’s more than just the media after Shiloh, and the secrets the boy is hiding will change everything. If he can’t convince Shiloh to trust him, how can he keep him safe?

Reader advisory: This book contains scenes of violence, rape, reference to past child abuse, self-harm and suicidal ideation, and PTSD,. There are references to drug use, sex work, elements of BDSM—Daddy kink and power play—and parental neglect.

Excerpt

Shiloh hiked the hem of his baby-doll dress higher as he leaned his knee against the back of the chaise. He knew the drape of silk pooling in the hollow of his thighs barely left more than a teasing shadow to keep him modest.

Not that anyone in the frat house cared. He’d seen each of the Sigma boys naked at one point or another, while either on his knees or his back. In fact, the only man here he hadn’t seen naked yet was his bodyguard, a man who bought his muscles in a bottle of methyl-testosterone.

Brad sat in the armchair across from him. He was scanning the crowd of drunk college students stumbling from room to room, supposedly keeping an eye out for cameras. In reality, though, Shiloh caught the subtle glances toward the chaise, the way his gaze lingered on Shiloh’s exposed skin and the even-less-subtle looks into the corner, where a couple was doing lines on the glass side table.

Shiloh propped himself up on an elbow so he could see them. “Hey, Jorgie.” Shiloh feigned a slur. He’d been nursing the same glass of cheap whiskey since he’d arrived over an hour ago, though he’d skipped to the kitchen for a half-dozen refills for the sake of appearance. “Kiss you for a line.”

Jorgie, nearly as fabulous as Shiloh in a glittery pink tank and tight jeans, wiped his nose before grabbing the baggie. He stumbled over, his cheeks flushed, blue eyes nearly black as he leaned down. His lips were hot when they pressed against Shiloh’s.

Jorgie lost interest quickly, dropping the baggie on Shiloh’s lap as a girl Shiloh vaguely recognized stumbled past. Jorgie trailed after her, calling “Evie, those shoes!”

Shiloh popped the seal on the bag and turned it gently, letting the coke fall against the side. He shook out a crooked line on his thigh. By now, his bodyguard had given up all pretense of watching the room. Brad’s gaze locked on the powder.

Slowly, Shiloh ran a teasing finger over his skin to straighten the line. He admired the way it looked, even paler than his sun-starved flesh.

“I don’t mind sharing,” Shiloh said suddenly into the silence between them, and Brad dragged his gaze up to Shiloh’s. He wet his lips. He wanted it. That was obvious—wanted it even more than he wanted Shiloh. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

And that was all it took.

Shiloh was almost disappointed at how easy it was. Brad pushed his way to standing, stalking closer. Shiloh held himself still. Brad only loomed for a second before dropping heavily to his knees. There was the briefest hesitation then his bodyguard hunched over his thigh. He pressed one large finger against his left nostril, then the sound of sniffing made Shiloh wrinkle his nose in disgust.

He expected the man to sit back but Brad lingered, skimming his thumb over Shiloh’s thigh. It would be sexual in another circumstance—foreplay, a tease—but Shiloh knew he was just grabbing the last of the powder. Brad lifted his thumb to his mouth, rubbing it over his gums.

Brad’s brown eyes grew darker as the drug tightened its grip on him. Shiloh was on the clock now. He would be lucky if the drug stuck in the man’s system for a half-hour, with everything else in his veins.

Shiloh pushed Brad back then slid off the chaise and into the larger man’s lap in a single move. The thin lace of his panties was barely a barrier between them. He could feel the coarseness of his bodyguard’s jeans and, beneath them, the rigid hardness of his cock. Shiloh felt nothing as he rutted against it.

“I see how you watch me,” Shiloh mused, teasing one of the black buttons on the other man’s shirt between his fingers. “Are you finally going to do something about it?”

Brad groaned, clamping his hands down on Shiloh’s hips hard enough to bruise as he yanked Shiloh closer. He was grateful that years of ballet had left him with a flexibility most gymnasts would envy, because otherwise his hips would be screaming against the stretch.

Brad tangled his fingers painfully in Shiloh’s pink hair and yanked his head back. Shiloh turned his wince to a grin, then had to struggle to hold back a laugh as Brad growled—actually growled, like a wild animal instead of a man.

“C’mon, big guy,” Shiloh teased, grabbing Brad’s hand and yanking it free from his scalp, ignoring the painful way several strands of hair separated with it. “I’ll go find us a room. You go clean up, yeah?”

Brad blinked then shoved Shiloh off his lap in his haste to find a bathroom.

Shiloh smirked at his back. He hadn’t expected it to be difficult—seducing his bodyguards never was—but he’d thought it would be harder than that. Victor had lasted two months, and before him, Harry had made it almost four. Brad had only worked with him for one.

The cocaine helped, he supposed.

Shiloh slipped out of the party before Brad could come searching, not bothering to say his goodbyes to anyone else. Nobody there would notice he’d left until it was too late to stop him.

Shiloh dropped into the driver’s seat of his Bugatti and double-checked the backseat for his bag. Then he pulled off the manicured lawn and onto the street, leaving the townhouse behind him. He’d lived in Austin his whole life, except for brief vacations with his father as a child, so it wasn’t hard to find his way to one of the most exclusive clubs in the city.

He didn’t bother finding a parking spot. He grabbed his handbag and left his car on the street, throwing his keys to a man in a red velvet jacket standing on the sidewalk who, he realized as he strolled up the carpet toward the bouncer, had better have been a valet and not a man with poor fashion sense. At least Dad has good insurance.

The bouncer was moving the velvet rope for him before he reached it. “Mr. Beckett,” he rumbled, “always a pleasure.”

Shiloh fluttered his fingers in acknowledgment, paused for a handful of photos for the paparazzi loitering nearby, then sauntered into the club.

He headed straight to the dance floor. There was a VIP lounge on the second floor, but he didn’t come here to drink and schmooze. The strobing lights painted rainbows on his skin as he danced, his arms thrown carelessly into the air, rolling his hips, regardless of rhythm. He was a good dancer—more than good, great—but this wasn’t ballet, and he wasn’t performing. This was his attempt to briefly forget the real world and all the shit that came with it.

Three songs were all he allowed himself—three songs to be careless, three songs to lose himself in the bass and dance for nobody but him. Men groped his hips, ran teasing hands down his chest, even cupped his groin with grabby hands, but he didn’t care. He danced with a single-minded lack of focus.

And when his three songs were up, he dropped back into his body like an automobile crash, peeled himself away from the grabby hands and crossed the dance floor with the ease of practice. He’d been coming here for years before he was legal, and he knew the tricks like the back of his hand—the dip and sway to avoid getting tangled with dancers.

He took the stairs down to the lower bathrooms. The hallway was dimly lit, bodies little more than silhouettes shifting from shadow to shadow. More than one couple was pressed against the wall, their pants lowered to their knees as they copulated.

In these halls, he could be anyone, just another faceless stranger in a crowd. He ducked into one of the bathrooms—no one here cared about gender—and closed himself in a stall.

He stripped out of his couture dress, swapping it for a pair of knock-off jeans so tight that he might as well have not been wearing them and a white lace camisole with a stain near the hem. He replaced his Miu booties with pink All-Stars. Finally, he pulled out a pink wig and held it between his knees to keep it off the floor while he filled the bag with his discarded clothes. He spent a few seconds pulling his real hair up under a skull cap before he tugged on the wig. He couldn’t do much about his handbag. Hopefully people would assume it was a fake.

He stepped out of the stall and spent a few moments at the mirror readjusting the wig and touching up his makeup. He swapped his diamond eyebrow stud for sterling silver then stepped back, eyeing his reflection critically. He looked like himself, but…not. He looked like a knock-off of himself, which was exactly what he wanted.

He plastered on a grin and left the bathroom. The dance floor was even more crowded now. He merged into the sea of bodies, noticing several other wigs just like his. He grinned, enjoying the feel of anonymity as he started dancing again. Unlike earlier, though, this was a performance, every move just slightly off but geared to attract attention. He danced until sweat soaked his skin and thirst burned his throat.

He slid free of his current partner’s grip, ignoring the man’s groan as he headed for the bar. He pressed in tight between two men who were already waiting there, each brush of his body made to look accidental.

“Oops,” he yelled over the music as he bumped the man to his left with his hand. With the gold watch on his wrist, he looked like he could easily afford to buy Shiloh a drink—then an hour of his time as well.

“I’m Shiloh,” he introduced himself as the suited man looked down on him.

“Sure you are, and I’m Hugh Jackman.” The man laughed. It wasn’t cruel, but Shiloh feigned a pout. “What are you drinking, ‘Shiloh’?”

“Do they got an appletini?” Shiloh asked, playing up the wide-eyed, innocent look and poor grammar that a man like this would go for.

“Sure, sweetheart.” The man gestured to the bartender. Seconds later, a martini glass filled with the green cocktail appeared in front of Shiloh, complete with an umbrella.

“What’s your name?” Shiloh asked, stepping closer to be heard over the music, using it as an excuse to brush his hand over the other man’s hips. It was partly a tease, but also a subtle check. No gun or badge, at least not that he felt. He supposed a badge could be in the man’s wallet, but, short of pocketing that, he had no way to check.

Even a whore had to draw the lines somewhere—and he wasn’t a thief.

“Beckham.” The man leaned against the bar but didn’t try to escape Shiloh’s fingers. Shiloh removed them long enough to take a sip of his appletini. It was an indulgence he couldn’t allow himself often if he wanted to keep his figure. Then, he reached out and fiddled with a button on Beckham’s jacket.

“Just get off work?” he asked, peering up through his lashes.

“What gave it away?” Beckham drained the last of what looked like Scotch before abandoning the empty glass on the bar to give Shiloh his full attention.

“The suit. Are you a lawyer? You are, aren’t you?” Shiloh could tell a bespoke suit in one glance, and if Beckham’s didn’t cost at least a grand, he’d wear a pair of sweatpants out in public. Beckham lifted an eyebrow and Shiloh grinned. “I knew it. I knew you were a lawyer. Are you the kind that puts bad guys away? Or the kind that frees poor innocent people from behind bars?”

Beckham laughed. “Neither. I’m the kind who spends seventy hours a week cutting loopholes out of contracts—though I’ve been known to pick up a case or two to free up jail cells for the right price.”

Shiloh scrunched up his nose. “Gross. Well, you must be stressed after spending that many hours reading.” Shiloh shuddered like the thought made him physically ill. “How about we go back to your place and do something more fun? Tell you what… For a sexy man like you, I won’t even charge you full price.”

If the lawyer was surprised Shiloh was a professional, he didn’t show it. He just slid a handful of bills across to the bartender before putting his hand on Shiloh’s lower back, guiding him out of the club. A few paparazzi lifted their cameras as he exited, likely spotting the pink hair, before lowering them with a frown and a shake of their heads. He smothered his smile with a duck of his head, adding an extra sway to his hips for the hell of it.

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About the Author

KD Ellis

 KD Ellis is a professional cat wrangler by day, and an author by night. She moved from a small town to an even smaller village to live with her husband and wife and their two children. She loves reading—anything with men loving men. She writes queer romance in between working her two jobs and cuddling her pets—all six of them, which confuses the turtle.

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Notice: This competition ends on 30th November 2021 at 12am EST. Competition hosted by Totally Entwined Group. 

Release Blitz + Giveaway: Love's Gamble (City of Fountains #2) by Hayden West

Pride Publishing and author Hayden West host a new release blitz for, Love's Gamble (City of Fountains #2)! Learn more about the latest and enter in the $50 First Romance gift card giveaway!

Love's Gamble by Hayden West

Book 2 in the City of Fountains series

General Release Date: 12th October 2021

Word Count: 15,774 Book Length: NOVELLA Pages: 68

Genres:

CONTEMPORARY EROTIC ROMANCE GAY GLBTQI MYSTERY

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Book Description

Moving home can be worth the gamble…

What begins as one anonymous night with a stranger swiftly becomes more to retired parajumper Deacon “Lobo” Williams. Back home, he has an intimate and powerful encounter with a man he doesn’t even stop to learn the name of. Unable to keep it just one night, he comes back for more.

Blackjack dealer Joe Chavez is far more comfortable with his sexuality than the man he has begun seeing. There are plenty of demons for them both, but if they want to make this work, they will have to decide if love’s gamble is enough.

Reader advisory: This book contains mentions of PTSD, violence, attempted rape and reference to suicidal thoughts.

 

Excerpt

“Yes! Come on, Ben. You got this!”

Deacon “Lobo” Williams cut his gaze to his sister as she jumped up and down, screaming as her blonde hair bounced. The last thing he’d expected to be doing on his first night home was hanging out with Debra at a National Rodeo event in their town.

Smiling at her, he shook his head. “Know him, do you?” He turned his gaze to one of the few black men who was participating in this event. Ben Mooney was a steer wrestler and was the favorite to win this event.

“I do. His sister and I have been friends for years. She wasn’t able to come tonight so wanted to make sure he had some support.” She turned her baby blues to him. “Are you mad I made you come?”

He wasn’t mad, but he had been hoping for a quieter venue. He was edgy and knew it was from the lack of sleep he’d been getting. Nightmares and PTSD were shit and since he’d ditched his therapist, it was something he was wading through on his own.

I don’t need help.

Or so he continued to tell himself.

The crowd roared and she whipped back to the arena and screamed even louder. Pumping her fist in the air, she chanted, “Ben! Ben! Ben!” She put her fingers in her mouth and whistled.

He’d taught her that when she’d been in middle school, how to put two fingers in her mouth and release a piercing whistle. He had been so proud of her for that and, damn it, he still was. Her joy was contagious and he cheered along with her, not quite with as much enthusiasm, but loudly.

The moment the score populated on the marquee sign, the crowd got louder. When they settled down, the event continued. “Nope, not mad.” He never wanted her to feel like crap because his life had fallen into the shitter. “When did you meet his sister and where?”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “I met her in college and like I said, years ago.” Debra yanked his drink from him and indulged. “We worked the same late shift at a shitty gas station and grew close. I met Ben the first holiday I went to her house.”

He remembered the year she spoke about, one where he hadn’t been able to come home. As it was just the two of them now, having lost their parents three years apart after he’d reupped with the Air Force, he’d felt horrible.

“Is she coming here this year?”

“I don’t know, we typically head to Vegas together to watch him in the finals. I can ask her. Are you sure you’re going to be home this year?” She applauded the latest competitor before looking at him once more. “It would be pointless for me to invite her to meet you if aren’t going to be there.”

He pushed back the bitterness and forced lightness into his tone. “I’m sure I’ll be home.”

There must have been something in his tone, for she angled her body toward him. “Deacon? What aren’t you telling me?”

How he’d hoped to have this conversation over a tumbler of scotch or a few beers. More like both. Not here at a rodeo. And he needed it to be his version. He opened his mouth and closed it the second she shook her head.

“Don’t lie to me, Deacon. I’m your sister. I, of all people, deserve to know the truth.”

He brushed his hand along her face, allowing himself to remember it was okay to be soft and gentle. If there was one person in the world who could bring that out in him, it was his baby sister. His only sister. “I know. But can you wait until after we get home? It’s not really a discussion I relish having here.” And it would give him time to get his lie straight in his head so it fell from his lips in a plausible fashion.

She didn’t speak for a bit, just stared at him. Holding still, he waited until she found what she sought. If she insisted on doing this here, he would, he just didn’t want to. The truth wasn’t coming out. That was going to be his own private hell. The bad landing, the surgeries, the loss of his career. Nightmares and more. Yeah, no thanks, he wasn’t about to open up that can of worms because someone wanted to share.

“Okay.”

That was it. Debra faced the arena once more. He loved her. After everything had finished and people filed out, she put her arm through his and together they headed down from their seats. He watched her interact with people as they made their way to wherever she wanted to take him.

There were cameras and people milling around. She pushed up on her toes, waved and called out, “Ben!”

The lanky but fit black man walked up, an inherent swagger in his step that wasn’t something anyone could have taught him. It was natural.

Ben’s smile grew as he looked at Debra. “Debbie-girl.”

Deacon cocked an eyebrow at that. His sister had always told him how much she hated nicknames. But this one seemed to make her glow.

He watched his sister launched herself into Ben’s arms. Brotherly instincts flared at the thought of a grown man holding her like that. It didn’t get better when he kissed her cheek.

When Debra stepped back, she retained hold of his hand. Deacon noticed how her entire being sparkled.

“Ben, this is my big brother, Deacon. Deacon, Ben Mooney.”

His smile never slipped, nor did his hold on Debra’s hand. Ben offered his other hand. Deacon shook it, pleased with the grip.

“Nice to meet you.”

A brilliant smile showed off a slightly crooked smile. “And you. Your sister mentions you a lot.”

Debra blushed. Behind them, other women looked at Ben and his sister with a mixture of expressions. He ignored them, focusing on the two before him.

“She’s a good sister, I guess.”

Ben laughed, full-bodied and true. “I get that. God do I. I have one too. But this one has joined in all the trouble my sister causes. I look at her as my own sister now. Hope that doesn’t bother you.”

“Not at all. She can always use more eyes on her.”

“Hey,” she protested.

“We were going to grab some dinner. Do you have plans or would you like to join us?” The affection between his sister and Ben was blatant. They could talk later if she wanted, but right now, he was enjoying the sparkle in her eyes.

“If you’re sure it’s not an imposition, I would love to. Kind of a thing we do, but I know you just got back.” Deacon raised an eyebrow. Ben shrugged. “My sister, the other one, told me. I think she and Debra talk daily.”

“Sometimes more than once,” she snarked.

“Let’s go then.” Deacon liked him already and looked forward to getting to know him better.

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About the Author

Hayden West

Hayden West lives in the Pacific Northwest, enjoys being outdoors, and hanging out with friends when not working on the next novella to be released. Find Hayden at their website and blog.

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