Giveaways, Rhys Ford

Guest Post and Giveaway: The Sloe Ride Blog Tour with Rhys Ford

electric guitar burning in fireSloe Ride.

Actually it’s been more of a long ride. Three years, three books, one novella and a lot of short stories, and we’ve come to the point where Quinn gets his story. And we get to really meet Rafe. This is definitely a shift in the band’s story, a lot more Morgan and, well, there’s Quinn, the family’s off-black sheep. It was a challenge and joy to write Quinn and Rafe. And I hope you enjoy it.

We’ve got two more outings in the Sinners series after Sloe Ride, but this book kind of pulls a lot of things together. Enough so we can go forward to a few other things. And I hope you enjoy the ride.

This blog tour captures a few scenes along the band’s journey, from Damien and Miki to the start of Sloe Ride. It’s called Shot Glass Sin, and I’m hoping you enjoy this too. Visit each blog stop to get the next part of the story, and when it’s all done, I’ll post the entire thing in a PDF.


Oh! And a GIVEAWAY! But not just any giveaway, because it’s time for a new tour shirt.

Because the guys are going on tour… in Absinthe of Malice, a Sinners novella set to be released in 2016. And they’re going to need clubs or bars to go to. ONE WINNER at each blog stop will name one of the places the band plays at on their tour. Nothing profane or lewd (These ARE going on the back of a t-shirt) but pretty much anything goes.

Leave a comment below by 11:59pm Pacific Time on Tuesday, September 8, 2015. One winner will be selected at random and notified by email on Wednesday, the 9th.

Good luck!


Shot Glass Sin

5 — After Whiskey and Wry

“You feel guilty about going on with a band without the other guys?” Kane rubbed at Miki’s legs, generating more than heat under his skin.

The last thing Miki wanted was to deal with a hard dick while he hashed out the crap in his brain but Kane probably had no clue about how much his touch tickled Miki’s senses. There’d been times when he’d struggled to keep his mind focused on the pleasures of sex before he met Kane but there were moments when all Miki could see or feel was the bleakness and pain of being trapped in a small little room with no hope of escaping.

He never had that with Kane. His cop never made him feel unsafe. And unfortunately, there were now little things Kane did, like rubbing Miki’s battered knee or quirking a wicked smile that brought Miki’s libido up to a roaring boil.

“If Connor and Quinn died, would you feel guilty if you liked new brothers your mom brought home?” Miki asked softly. He was unprepared for Kane’s shocked hiss and frowned when his lover’s hands stilled.

“Got to hand it to you, Mick, you’re never one to pull your punch.” Kane exhaled slowly. “I guess for you, that’d be what this feels like… like you’re replacing brothers with strangers. And yes, when Mum brought the twins home, it wasn’t exactly my most shining moment. I didn’t need any more siblings…and certainly not a girl.”

“Kiki can hand you your ass,” he reminded Kane. “Worst part about your dad and mom getting together. All of Donal’s bad-assedness and most of your mom’s fuck-the-rules in one package.”

“Yeah, I figured that out when she grabbed Con’s balls and twisted them around because he pulled her hair.” Kane chuckled, probably at Miki’s wince. “Thing is, I love Kiki and Riley because of who they are, not who I already had in my life. And unlike siblings, you and Damie are going to be choosing these guys, so it’s not like you’ve got to take what you get. You did that with Johnny and Dave, didn’t you? Or were they there before you?”

“Damie knew Dave but they weren’t in a band. Damie had some guys he was playing with but they fucked around too much.” Miki caught Kane’s slightly confused expression. “Not show up for gigs. Didn’t learn the music. Or when they did show up, they were too drunk to play.”

“So he just kicked them all to the curb and started over with you?” Kane asked, his fingers moving over Miki’s knee again. “Not stupid on his part.”

“Not stupid on mine. Got me a place to crash.” Damien’d struggled back then but to Miki, the one room apartment was a godsend. He’d never thought things were lean. There were always ways to get by, stolen toilet paper from gas stations, recycled fast food cups refilled on the sly and sharing a large fry after scraping up some change were how things were. The music…that had been life changing.

And probably would be again.

Kane was right. It was just another beginning. One of many. A new band changed nothing of the past and sure as hell wouldn’t take away anything he already had in the present. He had Kane, Damien, Dude and everyone else crowding in on him, within reach whenever the world got too dark. Adding two more to the mix would just be icing on the already filling cake.

“Yeah, you’re right. Not replacing anyone I’ve already got. Just making new,” Miki stole a kiss then lightly tapped Kane on the jaw with his fist. “And I think your chicken’s burning.”


!SloeRide_Cover_Rhys Ford_SmallSloe Ride: It isn’t easy being a Morgan.  Especially when dead bodies start piling up and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it.

Quinn Morgan never quite fit into the family mold. He dreamed of a life with books instead of badges and knowledge instead of law—and a life with Rafe Andrade, his older brothers’ bad boy friend and the man who broke his very young heart.

Rafe Andrade returned home to lick his wounds following his ejection from the band he helped form. A recovering drug addict, Rafe spends his time wallowing in guilt, until he finds himself faced with his original addiction, Quinn Morgan—the reason he fled the city in the first place.

When Rafe hears the Sinners are looking for a bassist, it’s a chance to redeem himself, but as a crazed murderer draws closer to Quinn, Rafe’s willing to sacrifice everything—including himself—to keep his quixotic Morgan safe and sound.

Purchase Sloe Ride at Dreamspinner Press

Or Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and ARe.


Shot Glass Sin Blog Tour Dates:

Aug 31              The Blogger Girls

Sept 1              It’s About the Book

Sept 2              Love Bytes

Sept 3              Prism Book Alliance

Sept 4              The Novel Approach

Sept 5              Fiction Vixen

Sept 6              Sinfully Sexy

Sept 7              Joyfully Jay

Sept 8              Boy Meets Boy

Dividers!rhys_ford_headshotRhys Ford: Rhys Ford was born and raised in Hawai’i then wandered off to see the world. After chewing through a pile of books, a lot of odd food, and a stray boyfriend or two, Rhys eventually landed in San Diego, which is a very nice place but seriously needs more rain.

Rhys  admits to sharing the house with three cats of varying degrees of black fur, and a ginger cairn terrorist. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep a 1979 Pontiac Firebird, a Toshiba laptop, and a red Hamilton Beach coffee maker.

My Blog || Facebook || Twitter

If you’ve actually read this, yay! I need coffee. We should have coffee.

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



HAHAT Blog Tour, Rhys Ford

Rotgut Gin: A Sinner’s Gin Ficlet by Rhys Ford for the Hop Against Homophobia, Bi- and Transphobia


Support for the LGBT community and the HAHBAT tour continues today with a special look back at Miki, Damie, and the Sinner’s Gin boys. I’m so honored to be able to share this with you, so enjoy! And then be sure to check out the giveaway below.


Rotgut Gin by Rhys Ford

Four damned sinners went into the rain
Strings bleeding red, soaking up their pain.
Sky fell apart, piercing their souls,
Night closed down, shadows filling the holes.
One woke up, And then there were two
Sun came back out, the sky black and blue
Too bright to be warm, too sharp to be kind,
Missing twin shadows, by the two left behind.

— Four Sinners Gone Walking


“Get the fuck in, Damie!” Johnny screamed out of the driver’s window, tapping the brakes of their van to slow the vehicle down enough for Damien to jump in through the open back doors.

Miki lost his grip on an amp, catching it before it skidded out of the back. Damie was a foot behind the van, his jeans down low on his hips, a peek of hair caught on the scrunched elastic of his underwear. He nearly lost his jeans, letting one hand go to grab at Miki’s fingers. His undone fly flapped back and Damie stumbled.

The alley was tight, jogging left suddenly, and Damien nearly hit the wall with the turn. Screaming at Johnny, Damie looked over his shoulder, ducking to avoid a dumpster lid. “Don’t stop! I’ll catch up!”

“Brake!” Miki shouted back at Johnny. “Fucking stop the damned van for a fucking minute.”

Johnny chanced a look over his shoulder. “Don’t got a fucking minute, Sinjun!”

Dave pounded at the back of the front passenger seat, urging Damie on. Something boomed from the alley behind them and one of the back doors lost a window, scattering glass in Damie’s path.

“Shit!” Johnny’s New York accent broke, going guttural and hot. “Hold on!”

Johnny hit the brakes, smoking up the van’s tires. Caught off guard, Damie slammed into the back deck, cutting him across his stomach. Grabbing Damie’s shirt, Miki hauled him in, reaching down to snag at Damie’s falling jeans and giving a good yank.

“Go! Go!” Miki screamed towards the front of the van. Johnny hit the gas and the van doors slammed shut, narrowly missing Damie’s bare feet. Panting in the cramped space behind their equipment, Damie heaved a sigh of relief and shot Miki a cocky grin.

“Fuck, that’s what being a rock star is.” He crowed between gasps. Miki guessed he would have said more if the next shotgun blast hadn’t taken out the other rear window, deafening them all for a moment.

They were all panting, frightened down to their core. Damie’d disappeared for what felt like only a minute after they’d finished packing the van up, then the shouting began—the oh-so-familiar-yelling of Damien being caught with his pants down and screwing with someone else’s lover.

And as they usually did, Johnny started the van up and gunned the engine, ready to leave another town in their dust.

“Do we have to go back?” Dave shoved at his long hair, trying to get his silken mane under control. His sloe-dark eyes were narrowed, concern beetling his eyebrows in.

“Why the fuck would we want to go back to that?” Johnny gave their drummer a filthy look. “Are you trying to get us killed?”

“We got Damie. But if he was with a guy… then he’s going to be in trouble. We just can’t leave him there.” Dave turned around, leaning between the two front chairs. “Was it about you being with a guy? Did we leave someone back there to deal with this by himself? Do we have to go back, Damie?”

Damien’s cocky grin faded, swept away by a bit of remorse and guilt. “Shit. Yeah. Yeah, we do.”


They found the young man—barely out of boyhood—lying in a puddle of his own blood. His face’d been worked over, his ribs pounded on but thankfully, he wasn’t riddled with holes. He’d run his shoes off, or perhaps one of his attackers took them. Either way, his feet were bare and muddy.

Johnny’d circled the van around, back to where Damie’d been with the slender blond, cutting the headlights when they spotted a group of large guys, laughing and slapping one another on the back. The van grew very quiet, and Miki’s stomach churned from fear. He spotted the young man first, curled up into a ball against a dumpster. Damie was out of the van before Johnny could throw it into park, and Miki followed hot on his heels, unsure about what to do.

It was a shitty eighteenth birthday for Miki, but he’d woken that morning knowing he was free. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder for Vega anymore, and it’d been months since he’d last run from the law. The state of California no longer owned his ass, could no longer pimp it out to some asshole with a kink for little boys and the money to satiate it.

Miki St. John was finally fucking free.

It’d been a day spent hauling around equipment and singing his throat raw for three sets. Their celebration backstage had been shots of Jack and a Hostess cupcake with a candle in it. There’d been other cupcakes, but that one with the candle had a layer of frosting on it and rainbow sprinkles. He’d sucked out the crème inside and left the cake and frosting for Damien, chasing the sweet down with a burn of whiskey.

The young man lying on the alley’s cement ground didn’t look much older than Miki.

“Shit, I’ve taken worse,” Miki muttered under his breath.

The other three didn’t understand—no, Damie understood—but Johnny and Dave were brought up in a land of white picket fences, backyard BBQs and Sunday dinners. They’d swam in pools in the summer and went begging for candy in the fall when they were still young, cute and fit into store-bought superhero costumes.

“Let’s get him in the van,” Dave said, unbuckling his seat belt. “We need to get him some help.”

“He’s not dead.” Miki pointed out. The other two merely looked at him, twin blank stares he didn’t want to counter with his brand of common sense. “Good thing, right? Let me get some towels. Rug back here’s fucked up enough without getting blood on it.”

There was an argument, mostly from the young man about going to the hospital. He didn’t want to. Damie, Johnny and Dave insisted. He shoved at them, shouting for them to mind their own business. Told them to fuck off and die, to leave him alone, but the three packed him up carefully and laid him into the van’s rear seats.

If there was one thing Sinner’s Gin was good at, it was packing stuff up and carting it off.

Even if the it was a young man who fought them all the way in.

The hospital stank of dead skin and alcohol, a taint of fake lemon added in for extra zest. An ER nurse gave them the hairy eyeball when they came in, asking if the blond guy slung over Johnny and Damie’s shoulders was impaired in any way.

His missing front teeth and a burbling moan of pain pushed her into action, and the blond was gone before Miki could blink. He’d slunk outside to wait, thinking the others would stay. They didn’t. Instead, they shadowed Miki’s steps, lurking outside of the ER, a murder of crows waiting to see if their victim of circumstance survived.

“How much money do we have?” Damien asked Dave, lighting a clove he’d stolen from Miki. They all hunkered around the van, pulled up as close to the smoking area as possible and stared at the emergency room doors. “I don’t know shit about him. Suppose he needs help?”

“For his bill?” Dave made a face. “I don’t know if we have that much.”

“You’re asking us to fork over hotel room money for a kid you fucked and left?” Johnny stepped away from the canister of sand he’d just stubbed a Chesterfield into. The three of them sat silent, staring at their bassist. Johnny sighed, flinging his hands up in the air to surrender. “Seriously, you’re bi. Can’t you fuck women when we’re in places like this? Bad enough we’ve got to worry about jealous boyfriends. You fuck a guy? And we’re sitting there running from assholes who want to kill you because you like to suck dick.”

“Do we got the money or not?” Damien ignored Johnny, pressing in on Dave.

“I don’t know.” Their drummer was the smartest with cash. Miki knew he couldn’t do it, manage their finances. He was barely useful grabbing snacks when they gassed up. “Maybe. Depends on how much.”

“And don’t get on my case, Johnny. Those fucking assholes back there came at us screaming about faggots and homos. Don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know they wanted to bash some heads in. I went one way, he went the other. I told him to follow me.” Damie turned and Miki caught the glitter in his blue eyes. His brother was either going to cry or lose his temper. It was fifty-fifty. Tears won and he blinked furiously, thinning his lips out as he met Miki’s gaze. “It’ll be okay, Sinjun. He wasn’t that bad. Not like…”

“Yeah, I’ve seen worse.” Miki’d been worse. Lost teeth were nothing. The guy’s chest wasn’t whistling every time he breathed, and he hadn’t choked on his own tongue or blood. As beatings went, it was one he’d walk away from. “Fucking crappy, though. Shouldn’t have to bleed just because you’re—”

“It’s a shitty part of town. You’re going to get the shit kicked out of you just for being there,” Damien spat. “They could have fucked with anyone. They just happened to choose us.”

They were in a shitty part of town. But then, they were always in shitty parts of every town they found gigs. They’d come a long way from playing at street gigs and sidestages. They were headlining at small clubs, building up their name, and selling CDs out of a cardboard box. Motel rooms were a luxury at times, sometimes eating a meal sitting down was a celebration.

Gas was their first priority, followed by strings and the occasional roll of duct tape. What none of them was saying out loud was they couldn’t afford to pay for the blond’s medical bills. Not if they were going to make it to their next gig.

Sitting in the van’s side door well, Miki shook out a kretek from his dwindling pack. Damien’d practically chain smoked the black cigarettes since they’d parked the van, waiting for something—someone—to show up for the young man they’d brought in.

He didn’t like hospitals. There were too many questions and too little sympathy. It would have been better if one of them were actually inside, but Miki knew if he brought it up, it was as good as volunteering to go in.

“What the fuck are we doing here, D?” Johnny reached past Miki to get to the cooler they stashed behind the rear seats. “We should be gone already. We got him here.”

Everything else in the van’d been pulled out to make room for their equipment, and the Econoline was barely big enough to hold everything, but they’d made room for a small rolling ice chest, packing it with cheap soda and water bottles. An ice slurry dripped off of a bottle Johnny pulled out, a cold wet dribble finding the back of Miki’s neck.

“Hey, fucking watch it. Shit, that’s cold.” He shoved at Johnny, a light reproach. The lean bassist retaliated, shoving the bottle against Miki’s throat before dancing away. “Fucker.”

“Close the lid,” Dave drawled. “But yeah, Damie, what do you want us to do here? It’s nearly morning and—”

A sleek, champagne gold sedan pulled into the parking lot, finding a space near the entrance. Its brake lights were still on, but the car’s passenger, a middle-aged blonde woman, hurriedly got out, leaving the door open. She rushed across the crosswalk and was through the ER’s sliding doors before the driver, a tall man with silvering brown hair, got out. He checked out the band, dismissing them with a turn of his shoulder before closing the passenger side door. Following the woman slowly, he didn’t glance back as he set the car’s alarm.

“Betcha that’s for the guy. He’s the only one in ER, right?” Johnny cracked open his water, playing with the lid.

“You should go check, D,” Miki said softly. Damien shot him a look and Miki glared right back. “It could have been you in there. Or worse. And then we’d be scrambling for the money for sure. Go the fuck in and take care of it.”

“In a little bit,” Damien muttered, pacing across the van. “Fuck. This is… so screwed up.”

“Here’s my question. The two of you are gay. You love him. Shit, you two always share the same bed in the hotel room, leaving me with this Cajun asshole.” Johnny jerked at Dave.

“I’m not Cajun. That’s like my saying you’re from Jersey,” Dave interjected.

“Yeah, whatever. Somewhere down there with sweet tea and bugs the size of our fucking van. The thing is, you’ve got Miki. Why the hell don’t the two of you just become fuck buddies, and we don’t have to worry about this kind of shit anymore?”

A part of Miki’s brain threw up, spreading its sour bile through his body. Gagging at the thought of putting his mouth anywhere near Damien’s cock, Miki scraped at his tongue with his teeth. Reaching into the still open cooler, Miki scooped out a handful of ice and flung it at Johnny, pelting his face and chest.

“Hey!” He couldn’t dodge the second handful, catching most of it down the front of his neck. “Cut it out!”

“You do know we’re brothers, right?” Damien leaned against a light post, taking another drag from his clove. “It’d be like me fucking you just ‘cause you’ve got a dick and asshole. Not going to happen.”

“I’m not gay.” Johnny muttered, warding Miki off with a spread of his hands in front of him. “And you’re damned fucking right that’s not going to happen. You’d stick your dick into a dead possum if you thought you’d get off.”

“I’m not attracted to you either. You don’t make my dick hard, Johnny. Sinjun doesn’t either. And that’s not how we are.” Damie took one last draw on his cigarette, then tossed it into the butt canister. “I’m going to go in and see if they came for… shit, I don’t even know his name. I’ll be right back.”

Dave tsked at Johnny as Damie jogged across the parking lot and into the ER. “I love you, man, but sometimes you’re really fucking stupid.”

“It was a fucking good question.” Johnny shook out his t-shirt, partially melted ice cubes dropping out of its depths. “Shit, Sinjun. I’m soaked here.”

“Should be glad I didn’t pitch a fucking can at your head.” Miki leaned back on his hands, his bony shoulder blades pressed into the back seat’s side. “People aren’t just holes, J. Not like you screw every chick you see just because she’s there.”

“Not that they’d have him,” Dave pointed out, his honey smooth baritone hot with sarcasm.

“It just would be… Jesus, fucking guys after the show doesn’t always end too good. How many fucking times are we going to be shoving gig money in our pockets and hauling ass out of town because Damie’s got his dick sucked behind the club? One day someone bigger and faster’s going to get a hold of him, and we’re going to be missing our lead fucking guitarist.”

“Won’t always be like that.” The Southerner pulled an elastic tie off of his bony wrist. Scraping his hair back into a ponytail, he secured it tight against his scalp. “Maybe one day we’ll even see Sinjun here hooked up with someone.”

“Not bloody fucking likely,” Miki snorted. “That kind of shit? Not going to happen for me. Can you imagine the loser who’d have to put up with my shit? Damie barely does and he fucking loves me like a brother. That’s brother, J. Siblings. Whatever other fucking seven-dollar word you can come up with, that’ll be it.”

“It just… I get scared sometimes, you know?” Johnny’s voice dropped, a raspy whisper painted with skyscrapers and big apples. “You guys are like… pieces of me. It’d fucking kill me if we lost one. You know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Miki murmured. He was the youngest of their band, the baby in a pack of kick-ass musicians. There was never going to be a time when he didn’t wake up astonished he was a part of them—that he fit into their pieces and parts as if they’d been made for him. Even in the middle of their arguing, it was a comfort. He knew he could say anything, do anything and they’d be right there with him.

No matter what.

“Someday, no one’s going to give a shit about Damie or anyone else sticking their dick into whomever they want to. Or… whatever there is to stick or suck.” Dave ruffled Miki’s hair, then snagged himself a Coke, closing the lid afterwards. “Someday people are going to start minding their own shit, caring for the person next to them instead of trying to tear them down. And yeah, Sinjun, one day you’re going to find someone who’ll want to wake up next to you—hopefully without Damien in the same bed—and that guy’s going to love you. Just you. You’ll see.”

“Right,” Miki sneered.

“I’ll bet you a shot of rotgut moonshine on it,” Dave said, saluting Miki. “Hell, I’d bet both of you on it. One day, when you wake up and find yourself in the middle of a family situation, you come by my place with some bathtub gin, and we’ll get drunk off the ‘shine. All of us.”


It was cold and wet in Cypress Park. Miki shivered despite the thick wool of his black peacoat, stepping out of the GTO as Damien angled the car’s tires against the grade. Retrieving a small package from the back, Miki met his brother’s gaze across the seats.

“You ready?” Damien’s question held too much weight, too many barbs sharp enough to hook down into Miki’s soul. “Took you this long to do this. We can come back when it’s warmer if you want.”

“No, I owe him, you know?” The paper bag crinkled loudly as he adjusted it over the glass jar inside. “Let’s do this.”

The walk was a long one for Miki and his knee, especially in the cold. They climbed up a rise to where a pair of angels stretched their wings and arms up to Heaven, their breath misting around their heads. The statues were elegant, sweet-faced and barefooted, marble twins seeking serenity under San Francisco’s stormy grey skies. Flowers, teddy bears and other tokens were strewn about the memorial’s large circular base and the bronze plaque set into the front was worn around the edges from rubbings.

Miki didn’t need to read the names written there. The memorial had been his idea, and he’d been thankful for the families’ gift of two handfuls of ashes so a piece of the men he’d loved could be where they’d all become one. He needed something to anchor them to him, needed a place to go to when he wanted to talk out his misery. From the scatter of things around the base of the statue, a lot of other people felt the exact same way.

“Notice there’s not one for me.” Damien teased. “Only two angels. But then, of the three of us? I’m the furthest thing from an angel we’ve got.”

“I wasn’t ready for you to be dead,” Miki replied softly. “And apparently, you weren’t fucking ready for it either. So shut the fuck up and help me do this.”

The mason jar lid was hard to get off but Miki got it loose. The liquid inside was mostly clear, but a bit of vanilla bean they’d tossed in there for good measure floated at the bottom, sienna specks clinging to the edges. Despite the fragrant addition, the gin stank of regret and sin.

“You got them?” Miki held the bottle carefully.

“Yeah, but pretty sure you could just dump out a bit. Careful, though. That shit’s going to eat right through the fucking marble.” Damien dug four shot glasses out of his jacket pockets. Holding them upright, he hissed when Miki sloshed a bit of the liquid on his fingers. “I’m…meeeelting. Seriously, this shit smells like jet fuel.”

“Fucker. Stop that.” Miki took two of the shot glasses and set them at the angels’ feet, patting at the base before pulling back. Grasping the one Damien passed him, he lifted it up towards the plaque. “This took too damned long, Dave, but I had to learn how to fucking make moonshine. And then it had to be good enough to at least choke down.

“You were right. About a guy. About Kane. You were always fucking right, and I hope right now you’re out there laughing your fucking ass off because of it.” Miki blinked away his tears. “But maybe, one day…soon… we won’t have to worry about two boys kissing or two girls holding hands. Maybe soon. Kiss Johnny for us. Because that’ll piss him off.”

“Amen.” Raising his glass, Damien muttered.“To the two who left us behind.”

“Fuckers.” Miki grinned, then downed his shot, choking as he swallowed. “Fucking hell, bastard knew this was going to burn going down. That’s why he did it, I’m sure.”

“Eating crow hurts, Sinjun. Hurts like hell.” Damien pulled his brother into a tight hug, and Miki clung just as tightly back, cut open from the bet he’d made. “Just like this fucking gin you’ve made.”


!rhys_ford_headshotAbout the Author: Rhys Ford was born and raised in Hawai’i then wandered off to see the world. After chewing through a pile of books, a lot of odd food, and a stray boyfriend or two, Rhys eventually landed in San Diego, which is a very nice place but seriously needs more rain.

Rhys admits to sharing the house with three cats of varying degrees of black fur and a ginger cairn terrorist. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep a 1979 Pontiac Firebird, a Toshiba laptop, and an overworked red coffee maker.

My Blog | Facebook | Twitter

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.



As a special thanks to all of you for following along on the Hop Against Homophobia, Bi- and Transphobia, The Novel Approach is offering the chance at a couple of ways to win some great prizes. In case you missed the first giveaway, you can find that HERE.

For today’s giveaway, The Novel Approach is offering one reader the chance to win an e-title from Rhys Ford’s Backlist (Winner’s Choice), or an e-copy of her June 5, 2015 release Murder and Mayhem (to be delivered upon release), as well as a $25 Gift Card at Dreamspinner Press. Just click the Rafflecopter Widget to enter.

Good luck!

Rafflecopter Giveaway



A Sneak Peek At The Coming Week

Here’s a Sneak Peek at the Coming Week

Sneak Peek

Cheers, everyone, and welcome back for a look at what we have in store for the week ahead.

Among the guest posts, giveaways, and reviews, we’ll also be bringing you a very special Hop Against Homophobia, Bi- and Transphobia story that I’m excited to share with you.

Here’s what’s on tap!


Monday – Kicking off our week, we have a cover reveal for Indra Vaughn’s new novel Fragmented, book two in her Shadow Mountain series

Also joining us is author VJ Summers on the Light a Candle blog tour

TuesdayTeegan Loy will be with us today on the Love Complicated blog tour

And we’ll also be revealing a very special and exclusive Sinner’s Gin ficlet from Rhys Ford, starring Miki, Damie and the boys, in honor of the Hop Against Homophobia, Bi- and Transphobia

Wednesday – Author Jude Sierra joins us on the Hush blog  tour

We’ll also welcome Lavinia Lewis today on the Blood Ties blog tour

ThursdayInes Johnson is our guest today to chat a bit about her new novel The Loyal Steed

We’ll also welcome back guest author and honorary TNA family member Brita Addams

Friday – Today marks author Astrid Amara’s first visit to TNA, as she joins us to talk about her upcoming novel Song of the Navigator

Saturday – And closing out our week, we’ll have author Joel Skelton here to talk about his newest novel Beneath the Palisade: Justice


And that does it for another fun-filled week. Until next time, happy reading!

Cover Reveal, Dreamspinner Press, Rhys Ford

News, More News, And A Cover Reveal From Rhys Ford

Hello! And wow, Lisa sure cleaned this place up. Stuff’s off the floor and is that a chocolate fountain? Damn. Hot and cold running coffee even.

Grab a cup and let’s sit down to chat.

There’s a lot going on right now. Some good. Some… oddly sad but good. So, I thought I would come here and share with you all in the quiet comfort of The Novel Approach’s den because, well, this is kind of where it all started.

Let’s talk about the State of Rhys Ford…because times, they are a changin’. Let me do an update on each series and we can go from there.

The Cole McGinnis Series

I have made the very hard decision of ending the series after the next Cole book. So melodramatic but oh, I thought it would be fairly easy to arrive at that decision. It was like pulling up in a hearse. Cole! And Jae! Because… Cole! And Jae!

But you see, all good things must come to an end and I feel in my gut, the story is about to be told. The final book will be called Dirty Heart and it was an honour to have Mary Calmes herself name it for me. Mary’s been instrumental (fanatical) about this series since she first picked it up to read, and I wanted to have a part of her in its final incarnation.

Now, please keep in mind, I am putting them on hiatus. If I do revisit the boys—and I will—it will be as a one-off mystery here or there and not a long standing arc. But I do think it’s time for us to find out why Ben did what he did.

Greg Tremblay is currently working on Dirty Laundry right now so that audio will be out when he’s done talking to Cole about his stupid life choices.

The Sinners Series

As many of you know, Tequila Mockingbird will be released in twenty-(one) days (9 pm on June 26th if you live in SoCal like I do). Sloe Ride and a yet unnamed book will complete out the series. Sloe Ride will be the final band book with the Unnamed Drink being about Miki’s journey to get a bit of his head on straight. Tristan James has been contracted to do The Devil’s Brew, so yay!

The Hellsinger Series

Wooooot! A cover reveal! Duck Duck Ghost, second in the series!


This is the cover for Duck Duck Ghost and yay! I found a Tristan I liked. Not that there was anything wrong with the other guy, but I broke with canon on covers and went with a different look. I needed… more oomph. And I’m happy with this oomph. This will be out in September.

This is the tentative blurb for Duck Duck Ghost. I really broke my brain writing this one and heh… so much fun.

Paranormal investigator Wolf Kincaid knows what his foot tastes like.

Mostly because he stuck it firmly into 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 less and less 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.

San Luis Obispo brings its own bushel of troubles. Tristan’s ghost whispering skill is challenged not only by a terrorizing haunting but also by Wolf’s skeptical older cousin, Cin. Bookended by a pair of aggressive Kincaids, Tristan soon finds himself in a spectral battle where not only is his sanity threatened but also his relationship with Wolf, the first man he’s ever loved.

Creature Feature 2

The lovely Poppy Dennison and I co-wrote a book… about hunters. Paranormal boo-wigglie hunters. Watch this space and others for the blurb and cover… and oh god, I adored every second of doing this with Poppy. She rocks. This will be released in October 2014

Black Dog Blues and The Four

I am happy to announce that Black Dog Blues (Kai Gracen Series) and The Four (Horsemen of the Apocalypse) have been picked up by Dreamspinner Press Publishing for release next year. These are two urban fantasies and while Black Dog Blues was previously published, I’m looking forward to going back in and adding a few scenes *grins*.

Anything else I’ve forgotten? Oh yes, the new series…. Because there is a new series coming out. But oh, that’ll be later. *grins*

Right now, I’m working on Down and Dirty, Bobby and Ichi’s book. And well, waiting for Tequila Mockingbird to finish cooking and fly off into the interwebs. I do hope you enjoy both of them *hugs*.

Thank you and smooches,

Rhys Ford

5 Stars, Dreamspinner Press, Reviewed by Jackie, Rhys Ford

Miki St. John And Valentine’s Day Mix It Up In Rhys Ford’s “The Devil’s Brew”

“We’re guys, we don’t do this romantic shit.” – Rhys Ford

Title: The Devil’s Brew (Sinner Series: Book 2.5)

Author: Rhys Ford

Publisher: Dreamspinner Press

Pages/Word Count: 66 Pages

Rating: 5 Stars

Blurb: Miki St. John’s life has been turned upside down, but it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
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Dreamspinner Press, GayRomLit, Rhys Ford

“The Devil’s Brew”, Rhys Ford, GayRomLit And A Giveaway Is The Recipe For Good Times

2014GRL_BlogTour_sq200x200Suspicion greeted me. It was heartfelt. Nearly palatable in its intensity. Probably because I’d just spoken to the Sinner’s Gin singer a month ago, and he more than likely hadn’t expected me to crop back up so soon.

Personally, I looked upon the interview as revenge for being nibbled on by an irate mallard.

A coffee shop was our chosen dueling field, a recently renovated San Francisco landmark called Marshall’s Amp. Done in a faux Sixties feel with honey oak accents, the place was a riot of soft pinks, lime greens and murmuring conversation.
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Dreamspinner Press, Rhys Ford

Miki St. John Stops In To Talk Ducks, Dude, And Then There’s Brigid – And A Giveaway

Miki St. John is not someone a fan could easily find at rock venues listening to other musicians or even down at the corner market picking over organic champagne grapes hand-picked by one-legged monks undergoing a vow of silence to protest the deforestation of New York City’s avenues. Instead, someone like St. John is found sitting on the park bench with a loaf of stale bread, with a legion of ducks who looked more like survivors of a zombie apocalypse than a bucolic gathering of water fowl bent on teaching him conjunctions.

It’s easy to forget St. John’s mixed heritage, especially since we’d spoken on the phone. While it wasn’t a surprise to see a long-legged somewhat Asian young man waiting for me, the contrast between the street-rough rocker and the laughing, hip young Asians coming from nearby shops was startling.

He’s dressed too casually for the weather. There is a bite in the air. Spring hasn’t quite gotten a good grip on San Francisco, but St. John hasn’t seemed to notice. He sits on the back of the bench, his worn black Converse set on the seat as he tears off small bits of bread to toss onto the ground where his minions are gathered.

The ducks must be devoted followers, or St. John is there a lot because other than a few dirty looks from one particularly nasty looking drake, I work through the feathered crowd to sit on the bench.

“Yeah, you might wanna get up here.” His husky roll of words is a rough velvet slid over skin. It’s not hard to hear Sinner’s Gin’s growling, sensual darkness in St. John’s rasp. He spices each sound, a dash of heat here or a trickle of arousal woven underneath. The drake and I share another exchange of hissing and looks—savage on his end, alarm on mine—and I climb up onto the bench to balance my seat on the steel back rail.

“They bite?” I ask, leaning over to nudge away my mottle-feathered foe.

“No, they shit on the chair part,” Miki replies, tossing another few bits of bread to the back of his impromptu avian mosh pit. “You can’t really get duck shit out of your jeans. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

It’s like yawning. Someone mentions duck shit stains on jeans, and everyone looks. The ones he’s wearing look like they’ve been through a mandolin alongside a sweet Maui onion. The tears along his thighs and knees are from wear, a bit uneven, definitely not the artful rents of a manufactured aging. Spots of paint—green and yellow—dot one shin and through the rip along his leg, I can see the purple anger of scar tissue curdling his pale, hairless skin.

He catches me looking and quirks a sardonic smile. “Yeah, good times. I’m like the fucking Tin Man.” Miki snorts briefly. “Guess that makes Kane Dorothy.”

More bread hits the lawn and the wind picks up, cutting through the park and chasing away a pair of mothers with their brood on a swing set nearby. He cocks his head, listening to the feminine chatter as the women push and cajole their reluctant children from the playground. Miki’s face is unreadable—or at least to me. Perhaps someone who knows him better could make out subtle changes in his eyes and mouth, but it was easier to read the ducks than the man sitting next to me.

He shifts and turns his attention back to me. Most people would smile, making social niceties, but not this young man. He is raw and honest, bare-faced in his emotions when he chooses to show them. There is now curiosity in his light brown gaze, especially when he spots the small notebook I’ve written a few questions in.

“What? Stopped at Inquisitions ‘R Us before you came here?” he teases.

“Just a few questions. One of your fans sends her love,” I say, crossing off a line of scribbles.

“Heh, that’s cool,” he chuckles. “Thanks. So we’re done, then?”

“Not even close,” I reply, wiggling the book at him. “Let’s start off with the easy. Why Dude?”

“Why did he move in, or why do I call him Dude?” A glimmer of sharp intelligence cuts past the icy wall and he smiles warmly. “I dunno. Habit? Seemed kind of rude to call him Dog. He started off as Dog, but Dude just sort of slipped out after a while. He didn’t seem to mind.

“He was company,” he continued, a bit more serious. “I had—have this small stuffed animal I got at a State Fair. Kinda looks like a panda and a dog had a baby. I named it Dude back then. Guess it was my only company when I was a kid, so I think I just…transferred the name over. He answers to it, so it’s all good.”

I consult my notes. “Are you feeling more comfortable around Brigid?”

The look I get is priceless in its combination of horror and a crackling uneasiness. Sighing heavily, he shakes his head and mumbles, “Dude, you have no fucking idea how much she…Fuck.”

“Can you pinpoint what it is about her that you feel uncomfortable with?”

“Breathing?” He shoots back. Leaning back, he takes in a deep breath and stares up at the tree branches above us. “Fuck. Brigid. Okay, shit. Um, let’s see. Brigid’s…it’s like she wants inside of me. Under my skin. In my brain. I know she doesn’t—it’s just that she envelopes everyone she’s with. Her kids—fuck, her kids are used to her, but it’s like all of a sudden you’re in the middle of this huge fucking tsunami, and everyone’s all; isn’t this great weather? And I’m the one looking for shelter. She wants so much of me. I’m not ready for that. Fuck, I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for that.”

“But it’s okay with Kane?”

“Mostly,” Miki admits slowly. “Sometimes it’s hard because I kind of look at him and think, fuck, why is that guy with me when he can have anyone he wants—like someone who isn’t fucked in the head or shit, but every damned morning he’s there with me. So, I guess it’s me…trusting that. He’s comfortable wrapped around me. I can breathe. I can’t breathe around Brigid.”

I let him have a moment before asking the next question, “What would be your dream opening act? Meaning, who would you either want to open for or have open for you. And why?”

“Hell, I don’t know. Damn.” He picks a bit at the bread, his gaze unfocused as he thinks on what I’ve asked. “Fuck, I don’t want to open for them. That’s—if you’re playing, you don’t really have time to listen because you’re either fuck-tired from just playing or you’re amping up to hit the stage with everything in you ready to pour out. But… dream concert? Janis Joplin and Queen with Freddie Mercury. That would be awesome. I’d die happy. If you’ve got to ask why on that, I don’t know you, man.”

“Fair enough.” I nod in agreement. “Okay, when you write your lyrics do you have specific faces in your head that you speak to, or is it emotion only that you write?”

“Just cut me to the bone here.” His laugh is a brief, bitter spit of sound. “Sometimes, it is emotion. Other times—some songs—I know who I’m talking to. Some of the shit I’ve written is…personal. Well, nothing’s really personal with me anymore, right? I mean, my shit’s out there for everyone to swim in, so hell, guess my singing about it isn’t all that private either. Some of it’s about Vega—that asshole. Sometimes I get something in my head about my mom—shit like what happened? I get angry sometimes because it feels like she just tossed me out like I was shit, and then sometimes I wonder if something happened to her.

“Other times, it’s about stuff that happened when we were on the road or…” he stops, taking a deep breath. “A lot of the songs I wrote when I was alone—with Dude—that shit was about Damie. It hurt so fucking much—not having him. There was so much noise in my head, and I couldn’t make sense of it. Everything from missing him to being angry because he left me. And then a couple of times, I just—wanted to join him, you know? Because it felt like everything around me was made out of broken glass and razor blades. I couldn’t breathe without cutting myself open.”

He shrugged off the emotion in his voice and motioned to the notebook for me to continue, the ducks squeaking and squawking for his attention while he doled out more crumbs.

“Change of pace. Have you considered taking cooking classes?”

“Yeah, no. Ain’t happening. It’s safer for mankind if I’m not well-versed in chemical warfare,” Miki teases. “Really, ramen’s as far as I’m going to get to cooking.”

“Last question,” I say, noticing the heavy SUV parking against a curb nearby. I recognize the black-haired Irishman stepping out of its cab and once Kane joined us, I had the feeling Miki would step back and let his lover handle any conversation. “If you had to take a road trip alone with one of the Morgan men—and it can’t be Kane or Donal—who would it be, and why?”

“What the—hell, I don’t know,” he mutters, spotting Kane. Nodding a hello at his lover walking towards us, Miki frowns. “One of the Morgans? Sionn doesn’t count, I guess. Let’s see—probably Quinn. He’s pretty cool. Different from the rest of them. Kind of weird but in a good way. He’d be someone who’d want to wander—Quinn’s a let’s see what’s over that hill kind of guy. He’d be interesting. Pretty easy going and he’ll eat anything. So yeah, I think Quinn.”

“Quinn what?” Kane asks, sliding his arm around Miki’s waist then leaning into to kiss the singer’s mouth.

“Who I’d be on a road trip with if it wasn’t you or your dad.” Miki tugged at Kane’s shirt. “So I said Quinn.”

“So long as you didn’t have a set schedule, you’d be fine.” Kane smiled a hello at me. “But if he’s got to be someplace, then God fucking help you if you’re a minute late. Tweaks his brain. You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Miki nods and tosses me the loaf of bread. “Here, feed them the rest.”

“Thanks for answering my questions.” I am talking to their backs, but Miki turns around, walking backwards to shout back at me.

“Thanks for feeding those bastards!” He grins wickedly. “Just when you get down to the last piece, throw it on the ground and run, or they’ll bite the fuck out of you!”


Coming May 21, 2014 From Dreamspinner Press

Dreamspinner Press, Rhys Ford

It’s The Rhys Ford World Tour! Or The Sinner’s Gin World Tour! Okay, It’s The “Whiskey and Wry” Blog Tour! And Dang It, There’s A Giveaway!

Maybe you’ve heard that Rhys Ford has a new book coming out today? Yep, it’s the long-anticipated sequel to Sinner’s Gin, Whiskey and Wry, and to kick off the release day celebration, Rhys would lurve to offer one lucky reader the chance to win a Sinner’s Gin Coffee Mug or Mouse Pad, in your choice of Tour Design!