Coastal Magic Convention, K.C. Burn

Countdown to Coastal Magic With KC Burn – A Sneak Peek at “North on Drummond”

Coastal Magic ConI’m KC Burn and I’m so looking forward to being at Coastal Magic in February! I wasn’t able to go this year, as I ended up moving from Florida to California, but the previous year, in St. Augustine, was such a fantastic time. I discovered that, despite being horribly uncomfortable speaking in public, panels were a lot of fun. I ended up on several panels with some fantastic authors, and talking about world building and writing with other authors, and getting input from the audience was so incredible and inspiring. Being in such a small, intimate environment with readers and other authors… I don’t think there’s anything better.

So, here’s a little blurb and excerpt from… well, I can’t exactly call it an upcoming release, but with any luck, it will be available for Coastal Magic. Here’s a sneak peek at North on Drummond. Continue reading

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Carina Press, Cover Reveal, Eileen Griffin, Nikka Michaels

Exclusive Cover Reveal and Excerpt: “In the Fire” by Eileen Griffin and Nikka Michaels

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Title: In the Fire

Authors: Eileen Griffin and Nikka Michaels

Genre: M/M, Foodie Romance

Length: 93,000 Words

Series: In the Kitchen

Release Date: November 3, 2014

Publisher: Carina Press

BLURB: Because the way to a man’s heart…

Eight years ago, the world was their oyster. Until, that is, competing chefs Ethan Martin and James Lassiter’s hot and heavy relationship fizzled after Jamie left for an internship in Paris. Even though Jamie’s career has taken off since his return to the States, with his own television show and a lot of fame, his feelings for Ethan have never quite gone away. Continue reading

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Dreamspinner Press, Rhys Ford

Exclusive Excerpt: “Duck Duck Ghost” by Rhys Ford

BLURB: Paranormal investigator Wolf Kincaid knows what his foot tastes like.

Mostly because he stuck it firmly in his mouth when his lover, Tristan Pryce, accidentally drugged him with a batch of psychotropic baklava. Needing to patch things up between them, Wolf drags Tristan to San Luis Obispo, hoping Tristan’s medium ability can help evict a troublesome spirit haunting an old farmhouse.

With Wolf’s sister handling Hoxne Grange’s spectral visitors, Tristan finds himself in the unique position of being able to leave home for the first time in forever, but Wolf’s roughshod treatment is the least of his worries. Tristan’s ad-hoc portal for passing spirits seems to be getting fewer and fewer guests, and despite his concern he’s broken his home, Tristan agrees to help Wolf’s cousin, Sey, kick her poltergeist to the proverbial curb. Continue reading

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Cover Reveal, Dreamspinner Press, Rhys Ford

Cover Reveal: “Down and Dirty” by Rhys Ford

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A funny thing happened on the way to the end of the Dirty Series…

I introduced Ichiro Tokugawa, Cole’s half-brother and, well, things went to shit in a handbasket where Bobby Dawson was concerned.

I in no way planned for Bobby to have his own book. Never even crossed my mind. I’d sooner write Claudia a book instead of Bobby but… things went Jabberwocky real quick.

Suddenly, I was shipping a goddamned couple in my own book. What. The. Hell. Continue reading

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Carina Press, Cover Reveal, Eileen Griffin, Nikka Michaels

Exclusive: Cover Reveal and Excerpt – “In the Raw” by Eileen Griffin and Nikka Michaels

In the Raw

In the Raw

By Eileen Griffin and Nikka Michaels

Genre: M/M, Foodie Romance

Length: 85,000 Words

Series: In the Kitchen

Release Date: October 6, 2014

Publisher: Carina Press

Goodreads Page

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Cover Reveal, S.A. McAuley, Self-Published

Cover Reveal And Excerpt: S.A. McAuley’s “Damaged Package”


Cover Art By G.D. Leigh

Cover Art By G.D. Leigh


Title: Damaged Package

Tag: If your past came with a warning label, what would it say?

Blurb: Forced into early retirement from his career as a SWAT officer for the city of Detroit, James Deacon knew that when he failed it would be a fall of epic proportions. He’s been living life by the tips of his fingers for over twenty years, and his new gig organizing a group of misfit military types into a functioning team—including his reluctant ex-fiancée—won’t return him to stable ground anytime soon.

Trevor Barrow has been on the move for the last seven years—hitting the road when relationships became too real or too much work. He’s home now, working in the hazardous world of bike messengers in the Motor City, and the only one of his eight siblings who knows he’s returned is his sister Cat. It’s not as if reconnecting with them matters anyway, because it’s likely he’ll be gone again soon.

Both men are lugging some heavy baggage, but when they chance upon each other in a dive bar it’s hard to deny their flaws are more like symbiotic quirks. Trevor’s backpedaling instincts and Deacon’s dance-dance party past may just be intersecting at a time when things are about to get explosive in Detroit.

Release Date: July 14, 2014

Available for pre-order June 30, 2014 at: samcauley.com

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Excerpt:

Deacon paid for their last-round of drinks and they stood at the bar as the lights clicked on. He reached out and swept back a lock of Trav’s fringe, letting his fingers linger against Trav’s sweat-slick skin.

“You gotta let me take you home,” Deacon said.

Trav scoffed and took a drink of his beer. “Worst pick up line ever.”

“I thought the worst was saying that I’d never seen you at Honest John’s before?”

“Yeah. You’re pretty bad all around.”

But instead of feeding Trav another line, Deacon made the conscious decision to give an honest reply. “Dating’s just not my scene.”

Trav tipped his head and studied him. “You know what? I don’t know if I’m supposed to believe you and be reeled in by how unconventional you are, or if this is all a game for you.”

He shrugged. Already he knew there was little he could do to sway Trav either way—Trav was perceptive. “I’ll give you time to decide that for yourself. In the mean time, though, I’m serious. Let me at least ride with you in the cab back to your place. I don’t live far from you and it will make me feel better to know you’re safe.”

“I ride a bike in downtown Detroit for a living, James. Pretty sure I can handle myself.”

Deacon’s lips curled into a smile at both Trav’s use of his first name and his brash confidence. “I’m positive you can.”

“Well, then… What? That doesn’t…” Trav pursed his lips together in a thin line and left the remains of his trailing thoughts unsaid. Trav took another swig from his beer, emptying the cup and setting it on the bar. “Whatever. Yeah, you can take me home. But I’m not inviting you up. Got it?”

Deacon would take it. He held out his hand and waited for Trav to decide it was okay to take this one small step. When Trav’s fingers curled around his after only a heartbeat of hesitation, Deacon worked through the lingering crowd to the front door, unable to wipe the triumphant smile from his face.

The ride back into the city didn’t take as long as it had to get out to Ferndale. The city became a ghost town after a certain time of night. And they’d passed that threshold hours ago. They rode in silence, with hands still touching if not intertwined, and when they pulled up to the Park Shelton, Deacon paid the cabbie and got out with Trav.

It took a moment for Trav to realize what had just happened. He watched the cab drive away, glared at Deacon, back down the road, then put his hands on his hips. “Whoa. Whatcha doing getting out of the cab? I distinctly remember not inviting you up.”

“Huh,” was all Deacon said as he pointed at the cab disappearing around a corner. “But there goes my ride.”

“I’m not a first date slut.”

Deacon groaned playfully, but his heart skipped a happy beat to hear Trav considered this a date, too. “You’re not going to make me count out dates or something like that, are you?”

Trav’s fingers drummed against hips as he seemed to be considering his options. Yet barely restraining a smile at the same time. “Just for that response? Maybe.”

Deacon dropped to his knees on the sidewalk, and raised his clasped hands to the heavens, pleading to Trav in an overly loud voice, “Please, Trevor Barrow! What do I have to do for you to let me up to your apartment, Trevor Barrow? I just want to watch the History Channel or maybe So You Think You Can Dance, Trevor Barrow. I promise I have nothing lewd or lascivious—”

A group of female college students walking by giggled at his display, providing a running commentary as they eyed the scene unfolding on the sidewalk. “Dude, Trevor Barrow, you should let him up.” Then, “He’s cute. He can come back to my place.”

Deacon couldn’t have planned his public begging session better.

Trav blushed and laughed out loud. “Alright. Off your knees.”

“At least for now!” one of the girls yelled as they turned the corner.

Trav sighed, offered his hand and pulled Deacon up toward the front entrance of his apartment building. “You’re going to give me a reputation, Deacon.”

“I earn every reputation I give.” Deacon smirked and held the door open for Trav once he’d swiped his key card.

“Where did the tears suddenly disappear to? The histrionics?”

He shrugged. “I got my way.”

Trav stopped in the doorway and looked up at Deacon wide-eyed. “Holy shit. You really are certifiable.”

Deacon ran his finger along Trav’s jawline, wanting nothing more than to kiss Trav. But whether Trav wanted to believe it or not, what happened between them next was up to Trav. “Cat’s completely right. She just should have waited for you to find that out on your own.”

Trav shook his head, his voice laden with sarcasm, but his stunning eyes crinkled at the corners in silent laughter, “Yeah, like that would’ve taken me long.”

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About Sam: I sleep little, read a lot. Happiest in a foreign country. Twitchy when not mentally in motion. My name is Sam, not Sammy, definitely not Samantha. I’m a pretty dark/cynical/jaded person, but I hide that darkness well behind my obsession(s) for shiny objects. I’m the macabre wrapped in irresistible bubble wrap and a glittery pink bow, I suppose.

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Cover Reveal, Dreamspinner Press, J.P. Barnaby

Cover Reveal And Excerpt: JP Barnaby’s “A Heart for Robbie”


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BLURB: Waiting for someone else’s child to die so yours can live is the worst kind of Hell.

Celebrated Young Adult author Julian Holmes pits the heroic characters in his Black Heart series against all different kinds of monsters. But when a critical heart defect threatens his son’s life, he finds he has no champion. No amount of books, classes, or practice can prepare Julian for the fight to save his beautiful son’s life

Suddenly there are hospitals, transplant lists, and the nightmare of insurance red tape to navigate. In the midst of his trouble, Julian meets Simon Phelps, the insurance coordinator for Robbie’s case. Simon lives so deep in the closet he might never find his way out, but he dreams of exactly what Julian has. Then one night, drunken need and desperation brings them together, and a new fight begins.

BUY LINKS – DREAMSPINNER PRESS:
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Dreamspinner Press, Rhys Ford

Exclusive: Cover Reveal And The Prologue Of Rhys Ford’s “Tequila Mockingbird”!


And now, ladies and gentlemen, do not lick your computer screens as it’s highly unsanitary. Coming from Dreamspinner Press in June 2014, Tequila Mockingbird (Sinners: Book Three), in which the Morgan men just keep getting sexier, and Forest Ackerman is the luckiest dude in fiction. :-D

Enjoy!

Tequila Mockingbird Cover_Rhys Ford_final


Prologue

You cracked me open

Sucked out my filthy core

Held my heart in your hands

And gave in when I begged for more

—Begging Again

“Fucking hell,” Forest spat as he fell back into the garbage again. The damned dumpster’s sides were too tall. Or he was too short. Either way, he couldn’t get the hell out of the thing and his arms were now shaking from the numerous times he tried.

The last thing he wanted was to be there in the morning. Someone would find him and that someone would bring down the cops on his head. Cops meant Social Services and that meant he’d be spending a good amount of time fighting to get out plastered walls and plastic suburbia.

He’d rather die in the dumpster.

He just didn’t know if he could try to get out again.

He hurt so damned much.

Mostly—this time—it was his face. It definitely was his jaw. Or maybe his cheek. Whichever. He just knew he hurt. He tried to remember who told him to always trust guys in a minivan but Forest couldn’t recall where he’d gotten that information. Whoever it’d been, he’d kick the guy’s ass whenever he found him again.

Because apparently guys in minivans with those happy little sticker children on the back glass really didn’t want to pay for their hand jobs ahead of time.

Now, Forest was in a dumpster because mini-van guy thought it would be fun to toss him in there when he was done beating the shit out of him and he still didn’t have more than fifty cents on him.

Fifty cents did not go a long way when someone needed food. Even dogfood tacos cost two for a dollar and tax ate up a nice piece of the money pie all on its own.

“Yeah, Mrs. Whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is, tell the principal I’m stupid,” Forest muttered as he glared at the dumpster’s too-high edge. “Go hungry for a bit, bitch and you learn math real fucking quick.”

He heard a door slamming—a heavy thick sounding door—and he froze, hating himself for holding his breath because it was stupid and doing so made his chest hurt. There were bruises there too, Forest was sure of it and his back wasn’t doing too good either. From the familiar throbbing along his spine, he was going to be pissing blood as soon as he had to take a pee.

Something slippery under him gave and Forest went down, biting his tongue when he hit the hard floor. He tasted blood—for the third or fourth time that night—and the light from the street lamps spun, leaving trails of stars on his eyes.

Swallowing at the salty taste in his mouth, he sighed, “Fuck me.”

About the Author: I’m Rhys Ford. I am an author and also a reader. You can find me at the following places:

My Blog | Facebook | Twitter: @Rhys_Ford

And at the Starbucks down the street. No really, they’re 24/7. And a drive-thru. It’s like heaven.

My books can be purchased, folded and first chapters read at Dreamspinner Press.

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T. Strange, Torquere Press

A Cover Reveal And Exclusive Excerpt From T. Strange’s “Amber”


Amber – Coming January 15, 2014 From Torquere Press


Blurb: Anthony was a painter until he lost the ability to see color. Worse than color blindness, the edges of objects and people blur together, making it almost impossible for Anthony to interact with anyone or anything. After retreating from the world for decades, he sees a glimpse of yellow that leads him to a musician, Teague. At first Anthony is frightened and overwhelmed by the color, but he can’t stay away from Teague for long. He finds the courage to confront Teague and explain his unusual problem and Teague’s role in helping him. To Anthony’s relief, Teague believes him. Very quickly, they both suspect that getting the colors back is more important to Anthony than his relationship with Teague. If Anthony pushes too hard, he’ll lose Teague, and possibly the colors, forever.

Excerpt: The next day, the colors started to blur.

I hardly noticed at first. Just the odd purple or green, up to their usual mischief. I would frown at them, and they would pop back. They were usually a bit prone to frivolity and playfulness, so I paid them no mind. I didn’t connect what was happening to the fortuneteller’s words. Not yet.

Then a blue, usually so solid and dependable, would start to shift while I was in the middle of a brush stroke. Or worse, before I had even gotten it out of its tube and onto my palate. It would just be gone, going from cobalt or aquamarine to a nonsense color, like pajamas or garbage. And all the scowling in the world wouldn’t bring those blues back.

I kept painting, stubbornly ignoring the fact that I was becoming deaf to color. It was worse than being blind. It was a catastrophe.

But this painting was a commission. I had to finish it.

I watched as, one by one, every shade vanished from my eyes, leaving me with a soggy mess of random hues that clashed and jarred and upset me badly. By the end of the day, they were gone.

I wish I could tell you that I now saw in black and white. What I wouldn’t give for a glimpse of clean black or pure white. My malady was far worse. I saw only muddy, indescribable, jarring concoctions of brownish-grayish-primordial-muckish tones.

When the painting was finished, or at least the canvas was covered in paint, I called my patron. He said that he would send someone to pick it up. The man, when he arrived, looked down his long, aristocratic nose at the painting and gave me a look like I was something nasty and squelchy he had found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. He began efficiently packing the painting into a box. He was so offended by the painting that he could hardly bring himself to touch it.

Already, I would have given almost anything to see what he saw in the painting. Even the most brutal, discordant visual cacophony, the most lurid, vibrant, glorious mess of color would have been a relief.

Even the tiniest hint of crimson. An echo of violet.

Not an hour later, my phone rang.

It startled me half out of my wits. I had been sorting and resorting my paints in every conceivable order, with increasing desperation, hoping that something, anything, would jar loose whatever was clouding my vision.

I picked up the receiver with an odd sense of faith, as though it would be God on the other end, and He would give me some arcane ceremony, some act of penance. It would be hopelessly complicated, but once I had performed it to His satisfaction, He would restore my sense of color.

It was, of course, my patron. I managed to tune out the individual words he said, but his meaning was clear. What is this shit you’ve given me? If you think I’m paying you, you’re mental. By the way, you owe me money. Click.

That was nearly a relief. If other people could see what a mess I had made, what a mess I was in, then I wasn’t just crazy. I had a genuine Problem. I wasn’t simply having some sort of temperamental, artistic breakdown. Problems could be solved.

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Jeffery Self, Riverdale Avenue Books

And Now For Something Completely Different… 50 Shades Of Excerpt

Chapter One

“Can you do me a huge favor?” Matty asks,
poking his head into my bedroom and looking paler
than La Toya Jackson with a stomach virus.

Matty has never been shy about asking for favors.
That’s the territory that comes with being roommates
and best friends for four years, the expectation of
favors. Like having a boyfriend you can depend on,
but without the sex, intimate connection, or expensive
birthday gifts. My favors for Matty have run the gamut
from 4 a.m. airport drop offs to plucking some really
unfortunately placed back hairs before we went to Gay
Days at Disney World, which led to even more favors.
The weirdest of which involved my driving Matty and
the eerily youthful-looking thirty-five-year-old man
who played Peter Pan to what would later become the
worst date in Matty’s dating history. So I’d learned
years ago to brace myself when those words came out
of Matty’s mouth: “Can you do me a huge favor?”

I pause the episode of The Real Housewives of I-don’t-
even-know-where, and answer a tentative
“Sure.”

“It’s a work thing, so I’ll throw you forty bucks.”

This is a relief to hear, and not just because it
involves forty bucks—although I could certainly use
that, as I am currently living off of cater waiter gigs
I’ve found on Craigslist. More importantly, however,
Matty works as a reporter for a very popular
entertainment show called The Star Report. They’re
sorta like Entertainment Tonight, except more popular
and without Billy Bush’s uncomfortable energy.

I’m an aspiring writer myself, and this wouldn’t
be the first time I’ve covered something for Matty. I
wrote a really positive review for the movie New Years
Eve, which went kind of viral because it was literally
the only positive review for New Years Eve. What can
I say? I’ve got a soft spot for movies about the
holidays and Robert De Niro in hospital beds. Besides
that, my professional writing experience has, up until
now, been limited to a Live Journal I kept during my
first year living here in Los Angeles that as of today
still has only twenty views. One of these days,
however, I’m going to write a book.

“Sure. What is it?” I ask, hoping he’ll say the two
words I’m basically always waiting to hear: Meryl
Streep.

“I’m scheduled to go to the press junket for this
new Taylor Grayson movie. It’s called The Last…” He
continues, but I’ve stopped listening. Taylor Grayson
is one of the most beautiful movie stars in the history
of beautiful movie stars. In fact, People magazine has
ranked him “Sexiest Man Alive” every year since I
was a freshmen in college and he was playing one on
TV. Matty continues explaining the favor, but I’m lost
in thought, remembering that scene from The Yard, a
movie where he played a talented college football
player who did something important that I can’t
remember. What I can remember is that I spent the
whole movie replaying his four minute shower scene,
where steamy close ups show tiny beads of hot water
dripping down a perfectly tanned six pack
Michelangelo couldn’t have carved if he’d tried, and a
thirty second shot of his gorgeous round butt that may
or may not have been paused on my DVD player for
most of 2009.

“So will you do it?” Matty asks, his story
apparently finished. I look up at him, having not heard
a word he said, and reply, “Sure.”

Matty looks at me closely, the way he always
looks at me when he knows I’ve not been listening.
It’s almost as if he’s trying to look into my soul, but in
actuality I know he’s really just thinking “Why doesn’t
this asshole ever listen to a word I say?”

“Okay, cool. So you’ll need rubber rain boots, a
machete, and about three and a half feet of knitting
yarn.” Matty says, nonchalantly.

“Sorry. I wasn’t listening. I got distracted.”

Matty rolls his eyes and explains the situation.
The Star Report is scheduled to interview Taylor
Grayson about his new movie The Last Hero at a press
junket at the Beverly Hills Hotel. It’s a standard junket
interview: reporter comes in, has four minutes to ask a
series of approved vague questions, then leaves. Matty
is supposed to go, but because he’s come down with a
stomach flu, he needs a replacement, and no one else
from the blog is available.

I remind Matty that I’ve never done on camera
interviewing before, or anything on camera for that
matter…unless you count the video tape of my
exceedingly underwhelming performance as Tevye in
my high school production of Fiddler on the Roof—
which, for the record, I do not.

As usual, Matty’s perception of my ability is a lot
better than my own. Matty has a way of being so
confident in people that it almost seems offensive, like
“How dare you think I am that smart? Haven’t you
listened to a word I’ve ever said? Don’t you know me
at all?!”

“You’ll be great. All you have to do is be excited
to talk to the star and excited to talk about the movie.
Both of which you can handle. Need I remind you, it is
Taylor Grayson? I’m sure you can muster up some
enthusiasm for him.”

Matty has a point. It wouldn’t be hard to get
excited over Taylor Grayson. For one, he would be the
most famous person I’ve ever met, and two, I’m
already getting aroused just thinking about him.

“What would I ask?” is the next question I direct
to Matty, attempting to steer the subject away from
anything having to do with the way Taylor Grayson’s
biceps seem to stretch out every shirt sleeve he wears
to what must be the verge of ripping out completely.

“Standard press junket questions… What was the
hardest part of making the movie? Why did you take
this role? Who was your inspiration for the
character…he plays a firefighter, by the way.”

I nod, as if I’m hearing about this for the first
time. It isn’t that I’m some psycho Taylor Grayson
stalker by any means, far from it…but I’d be lying if I
claimed I hadn’t masturbated, on multiple occasions,
to the moment in his new movie trailer where he does
something like forty pull ups without taking a break.
Taylor Grayson is a lot of things to America—
internationally beloved movie star, magazine cover
model, tabloid favorite—but most of all he’s a member
of just about every gay man and straight woman’s
“spank bank.”

“So will you do it?” Matty asks me, with a look
that combines the eyes of a sad puppy and the face of
someone wanting you to do their job for them.

How often, I think to myself, does one come face
to face with one of his ultimate sexual fantasies? Sure,
I live in Los Angeles, but it’s still not every day. I saw
Brad Pitt in a Trader Joe’s once, and I still talk about it
at dinner parties…and, to be honest, I’m not even
100% sure it was Brad Pitt. At the very least, this face
to face, this one on one with Taylor Grayson could be
just that—wonderful dinner party conversation. Like
the latest Pink album or whatever crazy thing Sherri
Shepherd has recently said on The View.

I worry, for a moment, about the age old advice:
“Never meet your idols.” But Taylor Grayson isn’t my
idol, he’s just someone I find very hot. Very, very,
insanely, drop dead, getting hard even thinking about
him…hot. Without a second thought, or a single doubt
in my head, I answer an immediate and eager: “Yes.”

*Excerpt posted with permission from Riverdale Avenue Books*

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