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

SERIES TOUR – NACHO MAMA’S PATIO CAFE NOVELS

Friends, fags, & fun in a little college town  

Any Summer Sunday

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

Who Plugged the Dyke?

Elections are hard. This one is Murder

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

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

BOOK 1

Book Title: Any Summer Sunday at Nacho Mama’s Patio Cafe: Drag, Songs, Friends, Laughs, Lies, Danger & Redemption

Author: Steve Schatz

Publisher: Any Summer Sunday Books

Cover Artist: James at GoOnWrite

Length:  75 000 words/ 234 Pages

Release Date: June 21, 2019

Genre:  LGBT Humorous Fiction

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

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

It is a standalone story

Goodreads

Buy Links

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK

Bookshop  |  Any Summer Sunday

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

Blurb

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

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

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

Excerpt from Any Summer Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

BOOK 2

Book Title: Who Plugged the Dyke?

Author: Steve Schatz

Publisher: Any Summer Sunday Books

Cover Artist: James at GoOnWrite

Length: 218 pages 67,000 words

Release Date: July 2020

Genres: LBGT Mystery, LGBT Humor, LGBT Fiction

Trope: Reluctant hero

Themes: Friendship, small town gays, detection, politics

It is a standalone story.

Goodreads

Buy Links 

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK

Bookshop  |  Any Summer Sunday

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

Blurb

Some Elections are hard … This one is Murder!

Get ready for Excitement, Laughs, Thrills and Fun!

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

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

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

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

Excerpt from Who Plugged the Dyke?

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

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

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

About the Author

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

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

Author Links

Blog/Website  |   Twitter: @AnySummerSunday

Facebook  |   Newsletter sign-up

 Giveaway

Enter the Rafflecopter Giveaway for a chance to win 

one of three ebook copies of Any Summer Sunday,

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

or an audiobook of either book.

Total of 8 giveaways

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Hosted by Gay Book Promotions

New Release – My First by Sky McCoy #giveaway

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: My First

Author: Sky McCoy

Publisher: Sky McCoy

Cover Artist: Cate Ashwood

Release Date: May 17, 2021

Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance, Humor 

Trope: Fake Boyfriend, Age Gap, Friends to Lovers

Theme: Forgiveness 

Heat Rating:  5 flames

Length:  185 words/ pages 165

It is Book 1 of the Surrender Series

Add on Goodreads

Buy Links 

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK

A young man searching for his future, an older man living his life single. 

Can they both find the love they desire?  

Blurb 

Caden:

“Grayle Meadows was like no other man I’d ever met. He was tall, handsome, sophisticated, and sexy as hell. Eyes so blue you thought you were swimming in a seductive ocean, and you could lose yourself and never come up for air, and he was the first man I ever loved. I could have spent my life adoring and loving him, but for one thing, he said, ‘You’re too young.’ Twenty five wasn’t that young. I was just hitting my stride.”  

A young man searching for his future, an older man living his life single. Can they both find the love they desire?  

Submission series is an age gap (25/35) M/M Romance with HFN. The first book contains fake boyfriends and friends to lovers.    

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Caden

I’ve seen men, great-looking men. Some average, some tall, beautiful, handsome men, but I never thought much of it. However, when I laid eyes on Grayle Meadows for the first time, I knew I’d missed a lot in my life. 

The day I first caught sight of that man, I knew he was out of my league, but hey, foolishness and dreams are for young men, and I was going to dream until something, or someone woke me. However, it wasn’t happening today, because today my eyes were feasting on Grayle Meadows—hair perfect, eyes blue, face magnificent, suit perfect, wide muscular shoulders, thin waist, and he was stunning. 

All man, and I saw him first.    

I’d like to think I was the first to see Grayle. However, it was delusion on my part. I was sure there were many who laid eyes on this beautiful, handsome-looking man before I’d entered the picture called life. 

He appeared to be ten years my senior, therefore, to say others had seen him first had to be inadequate, and superfluous. In other words, unnecessary to say the least, because there was the likelihood that his mother and father saw him long before I did. Maybe a brother or sister or two could claim that trophy if they were giving them out for who spotted the handsome, sensuous, blue-eyed Grayle Meadows first. 

I’d throw in my medal for him being the sexiest, and most compelling man alive. I was sure he could have any woman, or man, if that was his choice, but I wanted him to pick me, and why not? I was young, gay, and available. Willing to go the distance if it called for that. He exuded sex in the way no other man could. He didn’t just walk, his steps measured, he sailed across the floor with no wind at his back, and when he spoke it was with a low raspy baritone voice.

I’d gladly hand over a medal, but no one could claim that they saw him the way I’d pictured him in my mind, then in my dreams, and how he’d invaded my senses when he first strolled into the shop where I’d worked every summer since my parents allowed me to have a summer job. 

I smelled his manly scent among all the customers standing at the counter waiting to be served. When I spotted him with his beautiful, strong face, deep intense eyes, I knew he was the man for me, and he’d be my first and only love.

 I dropped what I was doing and rushed over, elbowed one of my fellow workers, and my best friend Lane, took the scoop from his hand, and I stood waiting for my first and only to open those full lips, and tell me what he wanted—a blowjob from me, or a piece of my firm, hard, young ass.

Name it. I’m here to please, I thought, wearing a wide smile.   

I looked over at Lane. “Who is he? I saw him first.”

“His name is Grayle Meadows.” 

 I pushed Lane aside and stared at him, daring him to say a word, or take a step in Grayle’s direction, because he was mine, and I had dibs on him. 

Grayle leaned over, trying to decide on which vanilla flavor to order, and I couldn’t help but take in his scent on this hot false-spring day. Not even the heavenly smell of chocolate, strawberry ice cream, and lime sherbet could dull my senses, because his shaving lotion had overtaken me along with the flash of his big blue eyes, and his dark-auburn curly hair. It was a bad hair day for me, but not Grayle Meadows. I doubted he’d ever had a bad hair day or anything else, because there wasn’t enough heat and wind in the world to disturb and disrupt that full mane of beautiful shiny hair. 

I watched his large hands move to his hair, and his long fingers raked through it as he bent once more to look at all the flavors, and when he raised his head, his eyes locked with mine. He smiled and moved on. My heart lurched and my cock twitched. He was my first. Never had I had that feeling about anyone before where my dick involuntarily set off a firestorm that had gotten out of control. 

About the Author 

Hi, I’m Sky McCoy.

I write steamy M/M romance books, and I love to read hot M/M romance. Maybe steamy is too mild a term for my books. Maybe I should say that my gay romance books are hot, hot, hot. I enjoy writing about strong, flawed men who don’t mind saying they’re sorry when they hurt the ones they love.

I read and write across genres and what gives me pleasure, and there is nothing more pleasurable or satisfying to me than to write a happy ever after hot M/M romance with a kink or two.

My favorite books to read are anything M/M, vampires, werewolves, mystery, and steamy romance. I have been busy with reading and writing to bring you the best M/M romance books. Enjoy!

Social Media Links

Blog/Website  |   Newsletter Sign-up  |  BookBub

Giveaway 

Enter the Rafflecopter Giveaway for a chance to win

a $10 Gift Card

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Hosted by Gay Book Promotions

Audiobook Tour: Atonement Camp for Unrepentant Homophobes by Evan J. Corbin

AUDIOBOOK TOUR

Book Title: Atonement Camp for Unrepentant Homophobes

Author:  Evan J. Corbin

Publisher: Atonement Book, LLC

Narrator: Christopher Solon

Release Date: January 5, 2021

Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance, Speculative Fiction, Humour.

Trope/s: Closeted, homophobic protagonist who comes out of the closet

Themes:  Coming out, atonement to one’s self, cultural assimilation 

Heat Rating:  1 – 2 flames

Length:  6 hours and 46 minutes

Add on Goodreads

Buy Links 

Audible US  |  Audible UK  

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK

A homophobic preacher has a secret.  

When Pastor Rick Harris is sent to a camp run by drag queens for society’s most irredeemable homophoboes, he confronts his identity and finds authenticity—both for himself and his community.

Blurb 

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

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

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

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

CONTENT WARNINGThis novel addresses issues related to the infliction of emotional abuse by a homophobic parent who suspects his son to be a homosexual. Separately, while not the author’s intent, some readers may interpret the story’s attempt to confront issues of religious hypocrisy as an assault on religion itself. No such conclusion is intended. Lastly, the novel follows a protagonist who, at times, uses hateful slurs to refer to members of the LGBTQ community. Such language is intended to give authenticity to a self-hating, closed member of that same community. Readers may appreciate the protagonist’s growth as he embraces his sexuality and reconciles himself with his faith.

About the Author  

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

Social Media Links

Blog/Website  |   Instagram: @atonementbook  |  Facebook  |  Twitter: @evanjcorbin 

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

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

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: Good as Hell

Author: Clancy Nacht & Thursday Euclid

Publisher: Eine Kleine Press

Cover Artist: Clancy Nacht

Release Date: October 1, 2020

Genre/s: MM Romance Urban Fantasy, Humor

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

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

Heat Rating: 5 flames  

Length: 65 000 words/ 245 pages

It is a standalone story.

Goodreads


Buy Links

Amazon US  |    Amazon UK 


Sex magic, infernals and void cats, oh my!

Blurb

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


Excerpt 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was his first mattress migration.

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

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

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

Fuck. Why was Sebastien bringing that up?

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

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

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

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

The shrieking stopped, leaving behind portentous silence.

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

Weird being a relative term.

Then the ground began to shake.


About the Authors

Clancy Nacht

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

Thursday Euclid

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


Social Media Links

Blog/Website  |   Facebook  |   Twitter  |  Instagram



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

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

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: Atonement Camp for Unrepentant Homophobes

Author: Evan J. Corbin

Publisher: Atonement Book, LLC

Cover Artist: The Book Cover Whisperer

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

September 17, 2020 for the eBook.

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

Trope/s: Fish-out of water comedy

Themes: Coming out, cultural assimilation

Heat Rating:  2 flames     

Length:  70 600 words/ 283 pages

Goodreads


Buy Links – Available in Kindle Unlimited and Paperback

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK

Atonement Camp. Pastor Harris is only going to save his career. But while he doesn’t want to be there, a change of heart may be just what he needs…

Blurb

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

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

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

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


Excerpt 

Chapter 1

Northern Syria

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, exactly, was found?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


About the Author 

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


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

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: You. Always you.

Author: M.E. 

Publisher: Perin

Cover Artist: M.E.

Release Date: September 15, 2020

 Genre/s: Contemporary M/M Romance

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

Themes: Toxic relationship, manipulation, humor, 

erotic, heartache, Open (Happy) End

Heat Rating: 4 flames 

Length:  44 000 words/ 180 pages

It is a standalone story.

Goodreads


Buy Links – Available in Kindle Unlimited

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK 

A seductively toxic gay romance

Blurb

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

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

You hurt me to comfort me.

You break me to put me back together.

And I do the same to you.

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

You told me this would be a bad idea.

You warned me of the heartache.

And I did it anyway.

I like you; you like me.

When I see you, my sun rises.

When I see you, it is summer in Berlin.

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

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

I wonder if your heart aches when you see me.

I wonder if your sun rises when you see me.

I wonder if you smile …

And if you do, will you stay?

Or will I go?

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


Excerpt 

My little puppy

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

“I was waiting for you, Daddy.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“But—” 

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

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

“I said … Take. It. Off.”

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

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

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

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

“Fine,” you snap.

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

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

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

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

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

“But-but I confessed …”

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

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


About the Author

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

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

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

BOOK BLAST

Book Title: Sex and the City Plotholes

Author: Nicole Taylor

Cover Artist and Publisher: Nicole Taylor

Fiction or Non-Fiction: Non-Fiction

Genre/s: Humor

Trope/s: TV Plot and Character Flaws

Themes: TV Series Satire

Heat Rating:  No sexual content.

Length: 65 000 words/ 206 pages

It is a standalone book.

Goodreads

 

Buy Links

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

 Universal Link

 

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

 

Blurb 

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

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

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

 

Excerpt 

Season 5

8 “I Love a Charade”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

About the Author 

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

 

 

Author Link

Facebook Group

 

Giveaway 

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

a Rafflecopter giveaway

 

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Review Tour – A Bit of Me by Kent Lowe

REVIEW TOUR

Book Title: A Bit of Me

Author: Kent Lowe

Publisher: Self Published

Cover Artist: Hocking Design Solutions Ltd

Release Date: March 27, 2020

Genre/s: Contemporary, LGBT Fiction, Coming of age, Bisexual, Humour, Own voices

Trope/s: Enemies to friends to lovers

Themes: Coming out, bisexual awakening, friendship, young love, gay for you.

Heat Rating: 3 flames 

Length: 88 000 words/316 pages

It is a standalone story.

Add on Goodreads

 

Buy Links

Universal Link  |   Amazon US  |   Amazon UK 

 

 

Excerpt

From Chapter 1

Wiping the sweat from his top lip, he tried to breathe in something other than stranger’s body heat. It was thick. Solid. Like the air had been stuck in the carriage for years. And he knew as the doors beeped shut behind him, the five-fifty-two to London was going to be one bastard of a journey.

‘Close one, Georgie boy.’

‘I know.’ Wheezing, George slipped into the seat next to Alfie and sucked in mouthfuls of the staleness. ‘Got held up at work.’

Truth was, it had nothing to do with his job. Being late wasn’t something George Taylor was good at. He was the fucking champion. Tell him where and when to meet and he’d be there. Twenty minutes after everybody else.

Dripping with sweat, he dragged the back of his wrist over his brow then yanked the neck of his T-shirt in an attempt to cool his clammy skin.

Sitting on the chav wagon for an hour was hell for him. The thought of being sat amongst thirty-odd strangers, most of whom had no idea of personal space, gave him full on anxiety. Actually doing it, made him want to vomit. But it was worth it. Nothing could bring him down. Not even a soap dodger with an allergy to antiperspirant. He was on his way to see Ellie. And that was all that mattered.

‘Babes, please tell me you’re not wearing that tonight.’ Aimee momentarily glanced away from her phone and winced at his muddy top. ‘Ells will actually kill you if you turn up in that.’

‘Course not. I’ve got my going out gear in here.’ George unzipped his torn rucksack to prove he’d packed a fresh set of clothes that morning. He hadn’t needed the reminder that Ellie would disapprove of his work gear. ‘I didn’t have time to change.’

‘Or wash by the smell of you.’ Aimee turned her nose away. ‘You look like you’re covered in-’

‘Shit!’ Alfie jabbed his elbow into George’s side. He was gawping at a blonde who had just boarded the train in a tight figure-hugging blue dress. ‘Look at the bounce on those things.’

Never one to encourage Alfie’s ogling of anyone with breasts, George made a point of rolling his eyes. He couldn’t help but notice the impressive chest on the blonde himself though.

‘She is hot.’ Alfie whistled, manspreading into George’s space.

Aimee peered up from her phone to give the woman the once-over. Possibly the twice-over by her look of disdain. She was one of the nicest, sweetest girls on the planet but other attractive females brought out the monster in her. ‘What? No way. She’s so basic.’

‘I don’t care if she’s basic, I’d motorboat the fuck out of those things,’ Alfie beamed, following it up with a wink George’s way.

‘The way you objectify women is gross.’ Aimee huffed, pulling at her neckline to show off her own bronzed and perky assets. ‘Besides, you can tell she’s a total bitch, just look at her eyebrows.’

George and Alfie shrugged in unison as Aimee continued to glare at the woman. Like she was sizing her up for a coffin. George had no idea what the woman’s eyebrows had to do with her being a bitch, but by the grimace plastered on her face, Aimee seemed adamant about it. She always insisted that she had a way of knowing those sorts of things, but George had yet to see any proof.

 

About the Author 

“My English teacher in Year 11 once said that I’d either be a rent boy or a writer. I wasn’t successful at the first so thought I’d try the latter.”

Kent Lowe grew up in East London, spending most of his youth in Dagenham, before moving to Essex.

Being a daydreamer and somewhat of a loner, he found art and literature to be the perfect medium for his endless imagination. After finishing college, Kent went on to study a Fine Art degree where he moved from canvas to installation which reared his love for both visual and literary storytelling.

Kent has always had an affinity with animals, and growing up with a menagerie of creatures, he now has fish, an orange cat and four adorable dogs that make his chaotic world just that little more harmonic.

As an artist and writer, all of Kent’s works delve into humour, love and friendship.

 

Social Media Links

Website |  Facebook: @kentloweauthor  |  Twitter: @KLJLowe  |   Instagram

 

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New Release – Ted of the d’Urbervilles by Rob Rosen

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: Ted of the d’Urbervilles

Author: Rob Rosen

Publisher: JMS Books

Release Date: January 18, 2020

Genre/s: Contemporary M/M Romance, Comedy/Humour, Erotic Romance, Dark Comedy, Gay/Straight romance

Themes: e.g. Personal growth, poor to rich

Heat Rating: 4 flames   

Length:  63 600 / 195 pages

It is a standalone story.

Add on Goodreads

Buy Links

Amazon US  |  Amazon UK  |  JMS Books  |  GooglePlay

Love is Love—though who they will find it with remains a mystery until the very end!

Blurb

Ted is an orphan, a young gay man living on the streets following the death of both his parents. Hope seems futile, though hope is exactly what he finds when a surprising email informs him that an unknown wealthy relative has died, that a reading of a will is soon to occur clear across the country. Ted will inherit something, but what that something is remains to be seen. 

Benny is a young, homeless drug addict, straight except for when cash is involved. Benny has never had a reason to be hopeful about anything until a chance encounter with Ted. 

Both men are soon traveling together from state to state, making ends meet however they can, rushing to the reading of the will that may or may not change both their lives forever. An unexpected friendship quickly forms, and then just as unexpectedly blossoms into something more as their adventure ultimately leads them to their fates. 

At turns darkly funny and tragic, deeply erotic and poignant, Ted of the d’Urbervilles uniquely shines a light on the phrase Love is Love—though who they will find it with remains a mystery until the very end. 

 

 Excerpt 

I found myself in a tangle of trains. Not passenger trains, but the kind that carries stuff. Coal, lumber, crates. No train cars. Nothing I could hop into so much as on. I wasn’t counting on this. I thought I’d slide open a door and bum a ride. But a ride to where? Even if I could hop on, where would I wind up? I clearly hadn’t given it enough thought. To be fair, my head was full of Chuck at the time, a peg missing its hole. It was, as analogies went, a fine one.

I needed to travel east. East I could figure out. East was away from the Rockies. But all the trains were parked. Which way were they headed once they left? And what if I hopped on and the train never stopped until its destination? What if we started east and then headed south?

I sat on the track. My salvation was somewhere in front of me. Eeny, meeny, miny, which one would the mo choose?

“Where you headed?”

I jumped. I fell backward. I stared up, shielding my face with my hand. A guy stood there staring down at me. He was on the dirty side, young, like me, gaunt, shorter by a foot. I’d seen men like this around San Francisco. I avoided men like this. You wound up homeless for a lot of reasons. You also stayed homeless for a lot of reasons. This guy either started or wound up that way because of drugs. His hand twitched. His right eye did the same. Manic would’ve been a good word for it. Or a bad one.

“Just looking,” I said as I righted my butt back on the tracks. “I like trains.”

I turned away from him. I hoped he’d take the hint. Sadly, he sat down next to me instead.

“You can’t hop them,” he said. “They check. They’re watching you right now even.” He pointed up to a lamppost. I could see the camera. It didn’t matter; there was nothing to hop into. And even if I could make it on top of a car, it would be crazy dangerous. And windy. And cold. Not an adventure so much as an ordeal. “Benny,” he said, holding out a hand. He had long nails. Dirty nails. His current state had always been a possible future for me. I seemed to always be running from it. But in which direction, away or towards?

I didn’t shake his hand. I nodded his way instead. “Ted.”

He put his hand by his side. He frowned. I felt bad. I was homeless. He was homeless. It wasn’t a bond so much as a prison sentence we shared. “Where you headed?” he repeated.

“New York.”

“That’s where I started.”

My heart pulsed. If he started from there, he knew which way to head. I pointed in front of me. “Which one goes that way?”

His grin returned. His teeth were in need of a brushing. He looked like a scrawny, shorter, pimplier Justin Bieber—if Justin Bieber hadn’t showered in a week or had a haircut or shave in ten. I felt bad for Benny. I felt scared of Benny. Were people scared of me when they saw me? I was judging a book by its cover, but covers are a pretty good indication of what’s inside. I sensed Benny was rotting from the inside out, that all he had left was a tattered cover. I didn’t want to be a part of Benny’s story, but our plotlines had intersected just the same.

In any case, he shrugged. “Been in Denver a month. My train has long come and gone.” Again, he pointed. “That one goes east.”

“How do you know?”

The shrug hadn’t moved. “That terminal is a dead end. Trains enter that way and go back the way they came. That train came from the east. Do you have any drugs on you?”

It was an unsettling segue. Benny was unsettling. You could turn a bend and wind up like Benny. Benny had no hope. You could see it in his eyes. That is to say, you couldn’t see it. “I don’t do drugs.”

“Smart.”

“You shouldn’t do drugs.”

He rested his head on his knee. “Yep.”

“It’s not that easy though, right?”

He turned his face my way. He’d been cute once. You could see it if you tried. How many people still tried? “Nope. Any money for drugs? I could trade you.”

I knew what he had to trade. I had the same thing to trade. “I have less than six dollars on me.”

He sighed. He turned his face back to the starting position. “Figures.” We sat there in silence. The trains didn’t budge. Maybe this was a graveyard of sorts. Maybe trains came here to die. Maybe Benny came here to die. Me, I had other plans.

 

About the Author 

Multi-award-winning and best-selling author/editor/anthologist Rob Rosen is the author of Sparkle: The Queerest Book You’ll Ever Love, Divas Las Vegas, Hot Lava, Southern Fried, Queerwolf, Vamp, Queens of the Apocalypse, Creature Comfort, Fate, Midlife Crisis, Fierce, And God Belched,  Mary, Queen of Scotch, and Ted of the d’Urbervilles. His short stories have appeared in more than 200 anthologies. You can find 20 of them in his erotic romance anthology Good & Hot. He is also the editor of Lust in Time: Erotic Romance Through the Ages, Men of the Manor, Best Gay Erotica 2015 and Best Gay Erotica of the Year, Volumes 1, 2, 3 and 4.

Please visit him at 

Blog/Website  |  Facebook

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

RELEASE BLITZ

Book Title: The Duke & The Dandy Highwayman Trilogy

Author: Zakarrie Clarke

Publisher: Self-published

Release Date: May 6, 2019

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

Trope/s: Forbidden Love, Highwayman/Duke

ThemesDuty, Expectations of Society, Redemption Tale

Heat Rating:  4 flames

Length: approx. 100,000 words

It is a standalone story

Add on Goodreads

 

Buy Links – Available on Kindle Unlimited

AVAILABLE FREE FOR A LIMITED TIME

FROM MON – FRI THIS WEEK

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Blurb

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

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

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

 

 

Excerpt

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Strand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Bluff. ’Night.”

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

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

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

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

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

 

About the Author

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

 

 

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