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The Sex Coach by Garrett Leigh: Blog Tour, New Release Book Review and Giveaway

by

The teacher and the student. The stable hand and the single dad. First times and friendship turn to love.

Toby
There’s nothing attractive about a twenty-four year old virgin, especially not one who blushes every time a hot dude looks his way. But I can’t help the heat that ripples through me every time I see Cole Maguire. And the clench of my heart when I realise how unhappy he is. He’s a city boy with a baby on his hip—we have nothing in common—but if he can teach me how to own my sexuality, perhaps I can teach him he’s worth loving.

Cole
I don’t like horses. But I love my daughter, and there’s nothing I won’t do for her, including leaving the city for life on a farm. I’m ready for that, but I’m not ready for blushing stable hands who make my heart race and my blood run hot. Toby has no idea how beautiful he is. I can teach him that, if he can handle the heat, but after one night with him…damn.

Maybe it’s me that has a lot to learn.

The Sex Coach is an MM summer romance with first times, a virgin stable hand, a single dad pilates teacher, and guaranteed happy ending.

Cover Design: Black Jazz Design

Length: 61,000 words approx.

Amazon – Kindle Unlimited

Terrible title. Sorry, but it is.

One of the things I really liked about this book is that we are back on the farm where we met and fell in love with so many couples. Joe and Harry, Rhys and Jevon, Angelo and Dylan… But you also can completely read this book as a stand alone.

Toby is adorable. Being that he started at the farm as a teen, he is still viewed as a kid by most of the men. Which is kind of infuriating for him. And even though he held an inrequited torch for his boss Joe, he has only dated women.

Cole gets hired at the farm to take over/fill in/help out with Angelo’s pilates classes. A single father who has partial custody of his infant daughter, he is kind of at a cross roads in his life. But he notices Toby and Toby notices him. Toby who doesn’t know how to approach a man, let alone what to do, and Cole who feels like he will always be alone because he has a daughter.

Ahh but there are some sparks between the two. So Cole is acting as Toby’s “sex coach” (I still say it is a terrible title), which of course leads to FEELINGS by both that they both refuse to admit.

Toby is still adorable. With Cole, with the guys on the farm, with the animals, with Cole’s daughter. ADORABLE.

Cole, though. I don’t know. He definitely has some mental health issues. Depression, anxiety. And those problems are never addressed. They don’t just go away because you have a boyfriend. I was actually really disappointed that his major mood swings were written off as “that is just how Cole is. a cranky bastard” or similar. No, the guy is obviously depressed, and has anxiety that gives him insomnia, etc.

ESPECIALLY since he is written as this hippie kind of guy. Yoga, pilates, essential oils, barefoot toes in the grass kind of guy.

So I did really like them together, I just wish Cole got his act together more. Because Toby deserves it.

Because of Cole’s unresolved and completely ignored issues, I have to say that this was my least favorite of all of Garrett Leigh‘s books. Even so, it is worth a read, even if it is just to catch up with some of our favorite guys.

3.5 pieces of eye candy

Garrett Leigh is an award-winning British writer and book designer.

Garrett’s debut novel, Slide, won Best Bisexual Debut at the 2014 Rainbow Book Awards, and her polyamorous novel, Misfits was a finalist in the 2016 LAMBDA awards.

When not writing, Garrett can generally be found procrastinating on Twitter, cooking up a storm, or sitting on her behind doing as little as possible, all the while shouting at her menagerie of children and animals and attempting to tame her unruly and wonderful FOX.

Garrett is also an award winning cover artist, taking the silver medal at the Benjamin Franklin Book Awards in 2016. She designs for various publishing houses and independent authors at blackjazzdesign.com, and co-owns the specialist stock site moonstockphotography.com with renowned LGBTQA+ photographer Dan Burgess.

Website: http://www.garrettleigh.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/garrettleighauthor/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Garrett_Leigh

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Prince Ivan, A. Wolfe & A Firebird by Eric Alan Westfall: Blog Tour, Exclusive Excerpt, and Giveaway

by

Dear Reader,

What do you get when you combine a greedy Great Tsar, his two cheating, bullying older sons, his youngest esser (shh! no saying that aloud) son, stolen gold apples, a Firebird quest, A. Wolfe who has the power t’assume a pleasing shape, a magickal sandstorm, as well as two bands and a full Symphony of Gipsumies?

A rollicking, roisterous Russian Fairy Tale, with vigorous esser activities in tents, halls, bedrooms and alcoves, with and without the assistance of PSTs. Plus princely parades, a duel over Gus, new lyrics to an old drinking song, and the possibility of bits of blood, gobs of gore or moments of mayhem. As required by CORA (the Code of RFT Authors), should these occur, your author will give you timely warning.

Ah. Still not ready to part with your kopek-equivalent? Consider the fun you’ll have reading chapters like:

“To Kvetch, Or Not To Kvetch? A Reader’s Choice”

“Ivan Has A Close Encounter Of The F-Word Kind”

“Second Direction Questers vs. The Caliph’s Sayer Of Sooths”

“Will Sasha Succeed In Seducing Prince Ivan?”

“Bad Prince Ivan! No Touch Cage!”

“A Travel Pause For Gratuitous Sex In The Tent—Which Does Not Advance The Plot—At The Insistence Of The Characters”

“A Necessary Interlude To Consider The Age-Old Questing Question: What The [Expletive Of Your Choice, Dear Reader] Do We Do Next?”

If you buy it and try it, you’ll like it, or so says your most talen…er…humble author.

p.s. If Karrie Jax and I have covered you and blurbed you to buy, look for “Dear Reader, Along The Way, Did You Happen To See The Allusion To Olivier?” in the TOC. It’s a spot-the-allusions chance at gift cards of $25, $15, or $10.

166,000 words of story fun and frolic, plus a 2160-word teaser from another MM fairytale: The Tinderbox

Author Name: Eric Alan Westfall

Publisher: Eric Alan Westfall

Release Date: Monday, September 7 2020

Cover Artist: Karrie Jax

Genres: fairy tale, fantasy, MM(M), Russian fairy tale

LGBTQ+ Identities: Gay

Keywords/Categories: Russian fairy tale, fantasy, magic, magick, shifter, fairy tale, gay, queer, LGBTQ, fairy tale, new release, announcement, giveaway

Amazon

Smashwords

Soldiers Watching, Watching, All Through The Night

The finest soldiers in the Imperial Army—or at least, the finest of those in and about Moscow and unfortunately readily available by nightfall—stood guard around the tree. The first-finest stood shoulder-to-shoulder around the outside edge of the grass circle, facing the tree. The second-finest were facing outward, shoulder to shoulder, and butt to butt with the inner group. No thief would get through their lines. The apples were safe.

The soldiers stayed awake the whole night, those on the inward side of the circle watching the tree, those on the outward side watching…everything outward.

Very well, if the truth must be told, and it should be, when one advertises a tale as a true tale, not every soldier stayed awake. There were a surprising number whose years of service had led to the development of the skill of sleeping while standing up. A lesser number within that group could sleep with their eyes wide open. Soldiers with those skills were envied, and deserved emulation, rather than being poked and prodded into wakefulness—which only annoyed them and made them vengeful at a later date, time and place of their selection.

The others employed a variety of methods for staying awake, including several piss-challenges, the primary one being, for those who have never engaged in them—whether from a physical inability or other reason for not—hauling out your prick and seeing if you could piss farther, or perhaps further, than your competing comrades in pissery. The grammatical distinction was not something Imperial soldiers were ever taught. While the stars and a sliver of moon produced enough light to decide the piss-distance winner, or leave room for reasonable wrangling over who’d won, there wasn’t enough light for reading any piss-writing.

One particularly creative group of soldiers, carefully on the side of the circle opposite the side leading in the direction of the Palace, had another use for their pricks while staying awake. They pulled them out, stroked them hard or fast or slow, with a variety of twists, and swirls, and knob or slit thumbing, bringing themselves off in various challenging ways, such as greatest and least volume, greatest and least distance of the furthermost spurt—or fartherest, as the strokers weren’t any better educated than their pissing colleagues in another part of the circle—greatest and least length and girth, et cetera.

Both pissers and strokers were confident the traditional morning dew would, if not wash away, at least obscure the offerings they gave to the grass.

With the exceptions noted above, the circled soldiers were reasonably alert, fairly wakeful and watching as well as they could. Not one of them noted the brief, bright flash of red-gold-white above the branches and then in the branches, nor heard any fluttering or flapping.

Being the astute reader you are, especially with the stonking great clue in the title, you’ve already figured out who the apple-thief is. For the sake of readers less erudite than yourself, when leaving a review, or telling your friends what a great read you just had, do as audiences did when being fortunate enough to see that brilliant play, The Persecution’s Witness. The Tsarevich who penned the play commanded, more than suggested, in the playbills and large signs in the lobby: “On penalty of possible participation in a spectacle, don’t disclose the ending.” Or, as here, the identity of the thief.

Just a thought. A simple expression of authorial concern for reader health, safety, and heads-on well-being.

The rings of finest and second-finest soldiers were justifiably proud of themselves. They’d stood there, absolutely still, not budging—well, for the most part—until dawn crept over what would have been a window sill if they’d been back in the barracks. The apples were safe.

Except…when the Great Tsar and a gaggle of Greater and Lesser Generals made their way to the tree as dawn did its creeping thing, and the circles of the finest (inner) and next finest (outer) soldiers opened to let the Great Tsar, his magickal platform, and the generals through, the count disclosed another apple was gone.

True, only a golden apple. But still…[see above].

The soldiers, frightened by their failure, faced the Great Tsar’s renewed fury with something less than equanimity, as visions of Axemen comething all over the place danced in their heads. The Great Tsar was ready, willing, and might well have reverted to a faithful, down to the last stroke, swish and fall, imitation of his ancestress, the famous—no one quite dared to put the “in” in the front of the word—Red Tsarina, known throughout All The Russias, et cetera, for her famous phrase, having the same word issue—“Off with his head!”

But a more mathematical head prevailed, allowing the soldiers to keep theirs. Well-acquainted with the Great Tsar’s skills at both counting apples and calculating value for both varieties, Lesser General Andrei Levovich Tolstoy pushed his superiors aside, not quite begging a pardon per push, and asked the Great Tsar to assist him with a mathematical problem. An apple-related mathematical problem. One which could not wait until later for resolution.

The Great Tsar could not resist the lure of numbers, especially numbers closely connected to past and possible future apple losses.

General Tolstoy pointed out the tree numbers. The magnificent tree, the largest apple tree of all the apple trees in all the, et cetera, et cetera, with its forty-foot height and crown diameter. The twenty-foot width of the glorious green sward circling the tree. An eighty-foot diameter. A circumference of three thousand sixteen inches.

The General pointed out the soldier numbers. The Imperial Army’s finest (available) soldiers, with the best muscles and broadest shoulders in All The…et cetera, had an average shoulder width of sixteen inches. It had taken one hundred eighty-eight soldiers rubbing against one another—in a most manly, soldierly, shoulderly manner—to form the inner circle. Using six inches as the average soldier’s depth, from the back of his butt to the front of whatever might protrude the most (not considering prick-protrusions in the calculations), added another foot to the diameter. It took one hundred ninety-one soldiers to form the outer butt-to-butt ring.

Three hundred seventy-nine of the Imperial Army’s finest/second-finest soldiers gone, if the Great Tsar in his infinite wisdom and fairness—and he was more infinitely wise and fair than any other ruler in All The…et cetera—should decide to have a gloriously bloody Axeman Cometh spectacle.

Consider the cost of cleaning up all that blood, all those bodies. Consider the cost—all that gold gone from the Imperial Treasury—for replacing them.

It was a dilemma.

Eric is an American Midwesterner, and as Lady Glenhaven might say, “He’s old enough to have sailed with Noah.” In the real world he writes for a living, with those who would claim what he writes is fiction. His partner of thirty years—who died unexpectedly in 1995—enthusiastically encouraged him to try to get his writing published (mostly poetry back then, plus some short stories), but he didn’t have the guts to do so until 2013. At this point he’s not sure which was officially first, The Song, or Like a Mountain, Waiting.

Starting then, he’s published 13 novels and novellas, 1 poetry collection, 2 short story collections, and 3 short stories. God willin’ and the crick don’t rise, 2020 will also see The Tinderbox out and about. But since real life is, as we all know, a pain in the (anatomical site of your choice)…no guarantees.

Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/Eric-Alan-Westfall-1045476662268838/

Author Twitter: https://twitter.com/eawestfall43

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Hide to Seek (London Lies 2) by C F White: RDB, Excerpt, New Release Review and Giveaway

by

Jackson Young has gone into hiding. Fighting to get his name cleared and his truth heard, he’s followed Fletcher Doherty to Ireland for a safe haven from those who want to silence his story.

As they work on Jackson’s biography, their growing attraction gets harder resist. Fletcher’s made it clear though—their professional boundary isn’t to be crossed, especially with so many loose threads from each of their pasts left hanging.

But as he learns more about the once coveted celebrity’s rise to fame, and the manipulation and control that came with it, Fletcher finds it increasingly difficult to distance himself from their intimate moments. Lust fuelled attraction is easy to ignore, but an emotional connection is harder to deny.

Surrounded by Fletcher’s meddling family, and ex boyfriends who still harbour feelings of being jilted, Jackson has to play the part of his lifetime. Can he prove that he does have talent and win Fletcher’s heart as well as his trust?

And can he do it all before their idyllic hideaway is compromised?

Hide to Seek is the second book in the London Lies trilogy and is a slow burn, hurt/comfort, romantic suspense series.

Book Title: Hide to Seek (London Lies 2)

Author and Publisher: C F White

Cover Artist: Ethereal Designs

Release Date: September 30, 2020

Genre/s: Contemporary M/M Romantic Suspense

Trope/s: Enemies to lovers, slow burn

Themes: Hurt/Comfort

Heat Rating: 4 flames

Length: 76 000 words/ 318 pages

It is not a standalone story.

Goodreads 

Amazon US – Kindle Unlimited

Amazon UK – Kindle Unlimited

Jackson joined him at the edge of the boat as the land disappeared into the murky water that sloshed up against the stern. He didn’t say anything. Neither did Fletcher. Their silence wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t comfortable either. It was a shared moment of reflection. Of knowing this could be the only peace they might have in a long while. A three-hour ferry ride from Holyhead to Dublin on international waters meant they couldn’t be found yet. They’d managed to get through ID control without any real problems. For how many times Fletcher had done this journey, he knew the ferry border control wasn’t as meticulous in checking details as the airlines would be. It was why across water was the only way. And they needed to breathe in this sanctuary while they still could. Fletcher wasn’t sure what awaited them in Ireland. He had apprehensions about going home, about bringing Jackson Young and all that came with him, to his family. But where else could they go?

So they shared a silent agreement to just stand, stare and be.

Until Jackson broke it with an intrepid inhale and a twist of his body to face him. “We should talk,” he said through the gust of howling wind.

“Should we?” Fletcher kept his gaze forward. Or backward as it were.

“This thing.” Jackson flapped a hand between them, his fingertips brushing Fletcher’s arm. “Us. We should probably acknowledge it.”

Fletcher breathed in, his chest rising, and slapped the railing to stand straighter. He closed his eyes, then opened them but kept his gaze on the distant horizon and not on the man beside him who was conjuring up feelings he didn’t want to concede to. Not then. Not when there was so much else left to learn between them.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Jackson slid his hand onto Fletcher’s cheek, demanding he look at him. A hand that stayed there a moment too long, with blue eyes delving into his soul and a soft thumb brushing along his yearning lips.

“You do, do ye?”

Jackson removed his hand and Fletcher’s cheek tinged with the heat left behind, but the flecks of ice cold seawater carried up by fierce winds slapped his skin and soon wiped the warmth away.

“You think this is too complicated to deal with now. That we need to focus on the book. On ourselves. On hiding. That’s why you left me down there, isn’t it? You can’t face me.”

“What did you think? This would be a romantic mini break?”

“I think we need to acknowledge there’s something going on. We can’t ignore it. I spent my life ignoring what was in front of me and look what happened.” Jackson threw his hands in the air, indicating their current situation.

“I’m not ignoring you, Jax. There’s no time for us. You want this truth out, then we’re gonna have to prioritise.”

Jackson hung his head, the disappointment and hurt seeping off his deflating body. But Fletcher couldn’t do this. He couldn’t rebound so quickly again. Time after time he’d done that, and each time had hurt worse than before to the point he couldn’t trust his feelings anymore. Nor could he trust that Jackson wasn’t clinging onto anything that would save him. How could this be real? How could either of them think that this could be something?

“I can be friends.” Fletcher made a concerted effort to keep his voice low, neutral, soothing. “Neither of us are ready for romance.”

Jackson breathed through a smile. “Are you an old romantic, Mr Doherty?”

“Aye. I am.” Fletcher wrapped his jacket around him, arms folding. It was to stave off the blustering wind chill but also, maybe, to act as the physical barrier to coincide with the one he built up with every wretched word he spoke. “I don’t jump into bed at the first sign of attraction. So when I said, let’s see what happens, I meant it.” He sniffed as the ferry dipped and swayed, aiming for the open arms of Dublin port. “But first things first, we have to get you off this ferry as Cameron Dale.”

This is a new to me author. Book 2 was up for review, but they sent book 1 as well because it is absolutely necessary. It is a continuing story.

Book 1, Fade to Blank, sets up the relationshp between Jackson and Fletcher.

Jackson, Jax to his fans, was half of a super popular celebrity personality couple. Not a couple as in love, a couple like Regis and Kelly. Until his live in girlfriend is murdered and he is in jail awaiting trial.

Fletcher is a celebrity gossip columnist. He doesn’t particularly like his job, he wants to be a real writer, but this helps pay the bills. He did review opening night of a play that Jackson was in- and totally panned it. Jackson never forgot.

Jackson is released after 6 months because the prosecutor can’t come up with enough evidence. He wants to clear his name, so he tracks down Fletcher to do it. To do what, exactly? Write Jackson’s autobiography.

One of many head scratching moments.

Jackson is in hiding though because he is hated. People think he killed his girlfriend. It LOOKS like he killed his girlfriend. And no one is standing by his side. Especially not his former co-star.

Book 1 is spent with Jackson hiding, Fletcher trailing behind him trying to keep up while carrying his laptop waiting for Jackson to start telling his story. Which he keeps putting off. Or avoiding things. Uh, if you want your biography written, perhaps you should start telling the story?

There is also a bit of a side story with Fletcher and his live in, older, actor boyfriend. Seems to me that Fletcher is obviously arm candy, but he doesn’t get it.

Book 2: Hide to Seek

Jackson and Fletcher flee to Fletcher’s family’s farm in Ireland. Having been found out, it seemed the safest place to hide. So we have some new players- Fletcher’s parents, sisters, a brother in law and nephews and most importantly, Fletcher’s childhood best friend and teenage lover.

So besides still trying to drag Jackson’s story out of him (I still don’t see the purpose of this), he is also dealing with his family’s financial issues, a former flame who wants him back and powerful people looking for Jackson. Because now there is speculation of a human/child trafficking ring. WHAT???

More than once Fletcher says “forget it, I am not doing this book”. But sticks around. Apparently sparks were flying between them. I didn’t see it. Because they have ZERO chemistry. Both Jackson and Fletcher are wet noodles. And my god Fletcher says “feck” a lot.

Book 3 is out in December to conclude this story. I honestly don’t know if I will read it. Maybe if my schedule isn’t too full. I just don’t care about them. The human trafficking thing is completely convoluted, who really killed Jackson’s girlfriend is kind of on the backburner and now they are sleeping together and nearly in love? Sorry, nah.

3 pieces of eye candy

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

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

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

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

 

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Cat’s Got Your Heart by Jem Zero: RDB, Excerpt and Giveaway

by

A Fluffy Feline Isn’t the Only Thing They’re Fighting For

Adopting a cat doesn’t sound hard. Then Jericho Adams meets Harinder Mangal, the surly pet store employee who loves animals and hates customers. Their first encounter inspires more than simple loathing—it puts the ball in motion for an absurd game of deceit that boasts a fluffy cat named Dumpling as the prize.

Harinder hates Jericho’s attitude, especially when it comes to owning a pet. He attempts to chase the other man from his store and is shocked when Jericho overcomes every obstacle, no matter how bizarre. Not only that, but he generates some of his own wild inconveniences that leave Harinder seething in his ugly sweater and mom jeans.

Before either man can get the other to crack, Harinder finds himself unexpectedly homeless. Despite their mutual antagonism, Jericho invites Harinder to crash at his place. The increased proximity makes it difficult for Harinder and Jericho to maintain their respective ruses, not to mention stopping themselves from actually caring about their pet-parenting rival.

Title:  Cat’s Got Your Heart

Author: Jem Zero

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: October 5, 2020

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 75100

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, contemporary, gay, trans, new adult, enemies-to-lovers, interracial, pet store, pets, snark, nerds, bullying, grief/grieving, hurt-comfort, romantic comedy/comedy of errors

Goodreads

Amazon

NineStar Press

Jericho Is Not Prepared

There’s a Petco another half hour down the bus line, but it’s snowing and Jericho doesn’t have that kind of time. Well, he does. But his phone is only at thirty-seven percent battery, and he’s not patient enough to go that long without entertainment. Fortunately, there’s a small hole-in-the-wall ten minutes from his apartment.

Aquariums & More doesn’t have a website, but according to Yelp, the “more” includes live pets. Half the Yelp reviews complain about hostile and unwelcoming employees, but that’s none of his business.

The pet store looks even shittier in person than it did in the picture. Multiple neon signs have been added since the pixelated, overexposed image was captured—probably somewhere in the early 1800s. Combined, they shine so brightly they distract from the puke-green awning, torn from years of weather, with faded navy font that looks like it’s trying to be Comic Sans but isn’t quite.

The visual assault is such that Jericho briefly overlooks the grime on the windows and how there seems to be something alive inside the trash can.

Any animal bought from this place is guaranteed to have three kinds of rabies and possibly congestive heart failure in addition to being intellectually dishonest and a kleptomaniac. It’s perfect for his sister, Shiloh, so Jericho spits a wad of tasteless gum into the cigarette disposal (he isn’t going near that trash can) and steps inside.

The bell on the door jingles merrily, but upon passing the threshold, there’s no one in sight: no customers, no pimply teenage employees, not even a grizzled old man to regale him with stories of putting live mice in freezers.

Alrighty then.

Along the entire front wall is what must be a six-foot-long, gargantuan tank full of…sand and wood? Jericho looks closer, blinking when he sees some small things skittering through the thick foliage. Oh, hermit crabs.

“They’re not for sale,” a rough voice says behind him.

He startles, but not enough to make a fool out of himself. Instead of swinging around to face whoever came up behind him, Jericho casually rolls his back. See? He isn’t bothered in the least.

“There’s a sign right there.” He points down at the far corner of the tank where Hermit Crabs $5 per ea. is written in Sharpie on an off-white piece of cardstock. It’s placed away from the reach of the fluorescent tank lighting as if someone doesn’t want it to be noticed.

A dark hand reaches into his line of sight and unceremoniously rips the sign off the tank. “That was a prank,” the other person says. “Feel free to ignore it.”

“Okay,” Jericho says—because sure, whatever—and turns toward the speaker. The voice made him expect someone at least moderately intimidating, but the fluffy hair, round cheeks, and full lips are suspiciously cherubic despite the rather genuine scowl. Also, this guy is, like, five feet tall, give or take a few inches. “Do you work here?” He’s dubious about whether or not this is customer service or an attempt at stealing his lunch money.

The guy rolls his eyes—which makes Jericho think the answer is no, and he’s about to be held at gunpoint in a pet store—and then he grabs the front of his mustard-yellow sweater and tugs the wrinkles straight to reveal a worn laminated tag that reads: Hello, my name is Harinder. The first thing Jericho notices is that his nails are painted black, although heavily chipped. The second thing he notices is the bottom of the nametag where the phrase How may I assist you? has been cut off at the bottom and heavily frayed.

Harinder drops the sweater and reaches up to brush his overgrown bangs out of his eyes, then folds his arms over his chest. It turns him into a puffball of rumpled wool and flyaway hair, which Jericho fails to find either professional or impressive. A hissing alley cat, at best.

Speaking of. “Do you have any kittens?”

If Harinder’s face looked offended before, now it looks straight-up murderous. “If you want a kitten, I invite you to look into one of the mills of inbred, abused, unloved, soon-to-be-abandoned, backyard-bred animals. Might I suggest Craigslist, or some cushy chain pet shop balanced on the rusty, beloved seesaw of quality photography and appalling ethics? There’re at least three of them downtown.

“If you want to pay five hundred dollars for an animal you’ll only care about until it stops being small and inoffensive, be my guest, but I’m afraid I can’t fff— I can’t help you.”

Jericho blinks very, very slowly. He didn’t miss that aborted f-bomb, but as with the Yelp reviews, that isn’t Jericho’s problem. He tries again. “Do you have any…cats?”

Hunching his shoulders around his ears, Harinder jabs a thumb at the wall behind him. “Cat kennels are through that door.”

“Thanks.”

There are, in fact, no kittens. However, the eight kennels filling in one side of the room give him enough to choose from. The moment he catches the attention of the room’s inhabitants, there’s a chorus of noise as all the cats come to the doors of their steel prisons to bat fluffy paws through the bars in a sordid appeal for pets.

Jericho obliges the nearest one, threading his fingers through a gap and allowing the animal to smash its head into them, purring enticingly. He wiggles his hand as best he can to facilitate a more effective petting motion. This one is a skinny tabby, and the note on the front of its—his—cage says he’s two years old and calls him Princeton.

It’s such an obnoxious yuppy name that Jericho can’t help but snort. What a terrible name for a cat. He shakes his head and moves to inspect the next prisoner.

In total, there are nine cats. Two green-eyed, gray longhairs inhabit one of the lower cages. They remain curled around each other, staring dispassionately at Jericho from the back of the kennel.

“Fuck y’all too,” Jericho comments, leaving both “Lacey” and “Casey” to their own shitty devices.

A ten-year-old Abyssinian boy going by the name of Sir Charles immediately becomes his favorite. Jericho loses about five minutes trying to cram his whole hand through the tight bars so he can stroke his sleek honey-colored fur.

He doesn’t think giving Shiloh a pet that might die soon is the best idea, and he isn’t prepared to take on his own cat, so he moves on.

He ends up two cages to the left, shoulder pressed against the wall, studying a creamy Siamese point. She has a shaggy medium-length coat, faint textured stripes, and piercing blue eyes, with which she regards him coolly before padding over to give his extended fingers an inquisitive sniff.

Her body is long and lanky. Regal, Jericho thinks for all of thirty seconds before he looks at her infocard and discovers that her name is Dumpling.

A short, surprised laugh bursts from his chest; Dumpling’s ears flick backward in disapproval. She’s perfect. At a solid four years, she’s old enough to know how to use a litter box and, hopefully, a scratching post, but isn’t quite aged enough that he has to worry about being strong-armed into frequent vet-related errands.

The adoption fee is sixty-five dollars. A little steep, but manageable. Before he can do anything about it, the door to the kennel room bursts open and Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony Performed Entirely by Cats nearly deafens him.

Harinder snarls. “What the f—” His teeth settle for a moment on his bottom lip. “—are you doing?”

“Just looking,” Jericho says, pulling his hand away from the cages and shoving it in his pocket as if he was doing something wrong, although he’s pretty damn sure petting cats in a pet shop is not actually illegal.

“I’ve heard people use their eyes to do that,” is the surly reply. Of course this jackass would go there.

“Gonna call the cops?” he asks, rolling his eyes. Jericho is used to threats of police intervention in his simple existence. No innocence when you’re Black. Even being albino doesn’t change that.

Harinder’s face clouds. “I wouldn’t.” Then he wraps his whole fist around a cable lying against the room’s back wall and gives it an unnecessarily forceful yank. A thick brown curtain rolls up to the ceiling, exposing a greasy window. Harinder doesn’t say anything more, but the message of “I can see you and will rain unholy hellfire down on anything that displeases me about your conduct” is clear.

Jericho doesn’t respond. He only finds his voice when Harinder turns toward the exit. “Hey, wait. I want to buy a cat.”

Harinder stops dead, spine stiffening. Again, Jericho imagines some kind of small, furry creature raising its hackles in a misinformed attempt to look threatening.

“We don’t sell cats,” Harinder says, voice gravelly.

“Uh, what?”

He turns around, jaw clearly set. “I. Said. We don’t sell cats, you—” He clamps his mouth shut.

“What are these here for, then?”

Harinder’s eyes flick to the kennels, then back to Jericho. “They’re up for adoption.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Jericho rolls his eyes again. “Fine. How do I ‘adopt’ a cat?”

Jem Zero is a disabled lesbian who lives in a house built by zir great-grandfather with zir family and two rescue greyhounds. Zir work is unapologetically queer and strives to communicate the frustration of being limited by one’s meatsack & brainjuice.

While arguing zir way through an Accounting Certificate, Jem makes a living as a portrait artist and, similar to most tortured creators, is attempting to establish zirself in creative writing.

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http://www.jemzero.com/

https://www.facebook.com/jemzero.art

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Feinted Love (Crimes of the Hearth) by Elle Keaton: Blog Tour, Exclusive Excerpt, New Release Review and Giveaway

by

A gambit for love and a half-baked revenge plot; one hot Seattle summer…

Arnie

One minute I’m minding my own business enjoying the sunshine, next I’m wearing my iced coffee.

I’m going to teach Tobias Barrington a thing or two; the first: you don’t always get what you want. I have no idea what the second is, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Falling in love with Tobias is not on my list of lessons.

Tobias

I’ve never forgotten Arnie Ferguson, or the night we had together. When I find him again, I want to get to know him—as more than a friend.

I may come from a wealthy family; but I know better than most that money can’t buy happiness. But brash, socially awkward Arnie Ferguson makes me think happiness is possible when you let your heart chose.

Feinted Love is a first person, dual POV, following Arnie Ferguson and Tobias Barrington as they do their best to awkwardly fall in love. No cliff hanger, HEA guaranteed. Heat level, 3+.

Crimes of the Heart, Book 1

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Arnie’s POV

Side by side, holding hands again because the Broadway neighborhood is awesome like that, we begin to walk north. I’m trying to sort out how to casually invite Tobias to my apartment while I also try to focus on what he’s telling me about Down by Law and the director, Jim Jarmusch. I figure I’m just going to have to watch the movie again on my own.

“He’s the main reason I got interested in writing screenplays. But I also like Wim Wenders, Christopher Guest, the Coen brothers—there’s a ton more who are incredible.”

“That’s cool.” I want to know everything about Tobias. The real Tobias is so different from the imaginary one I built up in my head over the years. “What about your job now?”

“I hate working for my dad,” Tobias answers. “But… I don’t want to ruin the evening talking about the job or him. Want to stop here for a drink?”

I need to tell Tobias about my new job, but I don’t want to ruin our evening either. Here is the De Luxe, a place I’ve never been to even though it’s been in business since before I was born, the outside canopy declaring to everyone who passes by, “Since 1962.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t sound too excited.”

We stop walking. I’m trying to figure out how to ask him over without sounding totally pathetic.

I’m not cool. I’m not suave or polished, and I don’t have any idea what I’m doing (both tonight and in general). But I want Tobias to come home with me. You’re supposed to be getting revenge, the little voice in my head reminds me. I shove the thought aside. Revenge is the last thing on my mind right now. That ship has sailed. Being with Tobias isn’t about getting revenge or cosmic justice anymore—if it ever was.

“A drink sounds nice, but…” I’m fumbling my words, but I keep going. “I… do you want to come back to my place? Duff’s not home tonight. I made sure.”

I know I’m blushing a bright, hot red as I force the words out, but if I don’t ask, I will never forgive myself. Never, never, never. Ever.

With a grin, Tobias tugs me out of the way of the foot traffic. “I’d love to come over. Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes. I am very, very, sure.” My cheeks are still burning, but I return his grin.

There’s no stopping me now; I might as well humiliate myself completely. I’ve had a partial erection for hours. I’ve told Tobias the story about Hank the band kid. There’s not much lower I can go. Well, I’m sure Duff could think of an event I’ve forgotten about, but luckily, I’ve made sure he won’t be home.

“Should we grab a bite to eat first? Or was popcorn and Mike and Ikes enough for now?” Tobias asks.

I grab Tobias’s hand and drag him down the street and away from the De Luxe. “Next time.”

Tobias laughs, trailing after me down the sidewalk.

I announce, “You know, you ruined Dick’s for me for years.” I am hungry, after all, and we passed the famous hamburger stand a few blocks back.

“Excuse me?”

I look over my shoulder just as Tobias nearly trips over a crack in the sidewalk. “I ruined dicks for you? Somehow I don’t think so.”

I stare at him, dramatically widening my eyes as far as they will go. “Dick’s, not dicks. You’re as bad as Duff. I mean the burger place, not, you know.” I grab my package to demonstrate exactly what I mean, just as a couple of guys turn the corner heading toward us. They stare at Tobias and me. As they pass by, one of them mutters, “I’d say a four.”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I did that,” I say to Tobias. At their retreating backs, I yell, “What do you mean ‘a four’? These skinny jeans make me look awesome!”

Tobias snickers and grabs my hand again, drawing me close to his side. “Okay, so tell me more about your problem with Dick’s.”

I love books with nerdy characters. Having them find love despite their odd tendencies is my favorite. And this book had Arnie, huge nerd, and Tobias who was a nerd hiding behind money and his jerk of a father. Two perfect nerds together. 🙂

Having read one or two books from Elle Keaton, I knew this one would be fun, and it was. These two were pretty hilarious together. I don’t often highlight books, it’s usually when I find funny lines, but this one has many highlights. Arnie’s mental musings made me laugh every time. Here are just a few of the things that made me lol:

Role play is not something you do with your mother. Wait. Is there…mommy kink?

“Are you worried about the dinner?” Tobias asks. No, I’m worried about arriving to the dinner alive.

These two tried so hard to create a plan how to be together/not be together, but just had to let nature take its course.

This was just a fun, enjoyable read. No angst, (other than Tobias’ father) and I would absolutely recommend it. Looking forward to the next book in this series.

4 pieces of eye candy

Elle hails from the northwest corner of the US known for, rain, rain, and more rain. She pens the Accidental Roots series, the Never Too Late series, and the soon be published Hamarsson and Dempsey series, all set here in the Pacific Northwest. All Elle’s books feature hot mm romance with the guarantee of an HEA. The men start out broken, and maybe they end up that way too, but they always find the other half of their hearts.

Elle began publishing March 2017, now she has ten books out. Fall 2019 Elle is adding a third series, Hamarsson and Dempsey, also set in the Pacific Northwest. H&D will focus on a single couple as they navigate the treacherous waters of romance and police work.

Elle loves both cats and dogs, Star Wars and Star Trek, pineapple on pizza, and is known to start crossword puzzles with ballpoint pen.

Connect with Elle:
Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/ElleKeatonWrites
Facebook Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/HighwayToElle/
BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/profile/elle-keaton
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ellekeatonauthor/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/PirateQueenRdz1
MeWe: https://mewe.com/profile/5ac2766f310a7853d4ce8ad4
Website: https://www.ellekeaton.com/
Amazon: https://amzn.to/3ng0XUK
Goodreads: https://bit.ly/ek-gr-profile

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Rocking the Boat by C. Koehler: Tour, Excerpt, New Release Review and Giveaway

by

Nick Bedford coaches the men’s rowing team at California Pacific College, a small liberal arts school in Sacramento. He’s quiet, dedicated—and closeted. He struggles with professional ethics and NCAA rules as he denies his attraction for Morgan Estrada, one of his rowers. While they may not be far apart in age, the difference between coach and athlete leads Nick to worry about exploitation.

But Morgan has desires and a mind of his own, and what he wants is his coach. As the spring racing season advances, Morgan feels his coach’s eyes on him. Morgan may be gay, and while he’s not out to team, he hasn’t hidden it, either. It may be a coach’s job to check out an athlete’s form, but Morgan hopes Nick’s interested in more than his technique.

Morgan corners Nick in the boathouse, and Nick admits that while he wants Morgan he can’t have him. Morgan laughingly points out that he’s not bound by any of those rules and he wants Nick. Nick and Morgan start a relationship, but Nick worries whenever they’re in public: what if someone sees? An anonymous complaint from a rower to the athletics director sends Nick’s worries into overdrive just as the crew prepares for the make-or-break race of the year.

Title:  Rocking the Boat

Series: CalPac Crew, Book One

Author: C. Koehler

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: September 28, 2020

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 68500

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA, Contemporary, romance, gay, new adult, sports, rowing team, multiple partners, in the closet, outed, coach/athlete, university

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Coach Nick Bedford watched the eight men—his athletes, sweaty and pushed to the edge, their sides heaving like thoroughbreds—do their best to beat each other on the boathouse ergometers. The ergs, specialized rowing machines that duplicated the rowing stroke almost exactly, were his rowers’ best friends and worst enemies, building their conditioning and strength but also devouring everything they had to give and demanding more. He often shared their workouts, but not today. Today he walked around each athlete’s erg, looking for flaws in his technique. The crew’s coxswain helped him, but he was still the coach. It was his job to get them in shape.

They were a small crew, and California Pacific College was a small school. A former college rower himself, Nick was a graduate student working on his master’s degree in exercise physiology at a not-too-distant state university, and around the boathouse, he did it all. He was the resident expert on bodies in motion, guiding each athlete through workouts on land and water, each designed to make the boat go faster. He was the dietician, trying to keep a group whose natural prey was pizza and beer on the nutritional straight and narrow to build muscle and fuel recovery. He was their sport psychologist, helping them through losses and guiding the young men through the shoals of school, rowing, and life. He spent his free time immersed in exercise science literature, reading, reading, reading—anything to give his men that extra edge.

He even rigged the boats, adjusting the hardware and making minor repairs.

Eight varsity athletes, eight seats in the varsity boat. Nick was lucky they were so competitive, even with each other. Posting their erg scores meant someone would be pulling harder next time. He also had a standing offer to the junior varsity rowers: any JV athlete who beat a varsity rower on the ergs could challenge him for a seat in the boat. He’d only had to make good once. Each of his eight rowers put the “I” in team, each determined to beat the others. For a small program, it was ideal. For eye candy, it was unbeatable.

“What’d you think, Coach?” his coxswain asked, coming to stand next to him.

Nick was lucky. Stuart Cochrane had coxed in high school, and the junior premed major was as skilled as they came. “There’s room to improve,” Nick said, never taking his eyes off his athletes. “Look at Sundstrom. He’s hunching his shoulders. On the ergs, it’ll hurt, but on the water, it’ll strain his muscles and make it hard for him to stay in synch.”

“He’s never going to catch Morgan without fixing his technique, either. I’m on it,” Stuart said. He walked over and knelt next to the large rower, watching intently for a few strokes before correcting him. Stuart returned, his coxswain’s strut even more pronounced.

Nick had to smile. The best coxswains were small and light, so they didn’t slow the boat with weight that wasn’t pulling an oar, and they had Napoleon complexes. Stuart fitted the bill: short and cocky and determined to win. “That worked.”

“Of course, it did.” Stuart smirked. “Keep your eye on Estrada. Have you noticed how he speeds up just a bit during the last two k? That’s part of how he keeps beating Brad.”

“I like a nice, friendly rivalry.” Nick grinned. “It keeps the erg times fast.”

“I’m not sure how friendly it is. Brad was the fastest until Morgan joined the team and hasn’t taken kindly to being beaten,” Stuart added quietly, his voice just loud enough to reach Nick’s ears over the sounds of the ergs. “And some of the other guys are beating him too.”

“Then Brad needs to up his game.” Nick didn’t want to know about rivalries like that. He’d seen crews torn apart by such distractions. So long as his rowers left their differences on the dock when they rowed, he didn’t care. As he’d told Stuart, a rivalry on the ergs would move the boat faster.

Nick returned his focus to the ergs. He’d kept an eye on Morgan Estrada, all right. It was hard not to. Collegiate rowers were in fantastic shape, but something about Morgan drew his eye. He was tall, taller than Nick (who, at six feet, wasn’t short), but then, rowing selected for tall men and turned them into muscular ones. Sweat dripped from one wavy brown lock, running down his cheek, but Morgan ignored it.

Nick noticed it, however. It defined Morgan’s cheek, flushed red with effort, but normally very fair. There was more conquistador than conquered in Morgan Estrada’s background. All Nick’s men were good looking in one way or another, but something about Morgan pulled him in, something that threatened to swallow him whole.

Eye candy was a perk of his job, but Nick tried not to stare too much. They were his boys; he was their coach. There was a trust there, and he took that trust very seriously.

Still, watching Morgan strain, sweaty and grunting and red, made Nick think of crossing that line.

I definitely was looking forward to reading this one, as I hadn’t read anything before on rowing. And I absolutely loved that we got a fairly in depth view of what rowing in college was like. For instance, I had no idea that a coxswain was apparently generally like (at least I thought of it this way) a horse jockey. Small but packed full of fire! (BTW, seriously want to hear Stuart’s story, but that’s for another day…).

Nick and Morgan definitely did a lot of eye f*cking for the first half of the book or so. However, once they let that go, they did not waste any time. lol. But what I loved is that they both knew what they wanted for themselves, and in a relationship. They were not afraid to get serious quickly, rather than pretending it would be just a one or two time thing. Nick couldn’t afford to have that kind of relationship with one of his rowers.

I definitely was confused at the climax of the book. Why things were done as they were, and not revealed fully. It was hard for me to grasp the need to do it, and then immediately regret it, and do whatever you could to undo it. For the story’s sake, it was a bit difficult for me to fully grasp. But as I’ve said before, sometimes you don’t get all the answers. And I definitely would like to see the story that comes out of all that.

However, all in all, I enjoyed the book, and would like to see a bit more of all these characters again.

4 pieces of eye candy

Christopher Koehler always wanted to write, but it wasn’t until his grad school years that he realized writing was how he wanted to spend his life. Long something of a hothouse flower, he’s been lucky to be surrounded by people who encouraged that, especially his long-suffering husband of twenty-nine years and counting.

He loves many genres of fiction and nonfiction, but he’s especially fond of romances, because it’s in them that human emotions and relations, at least most of the ones fit to be discussed publicly, are laid bare.

While writing is his passion and his life, when he’s not doing that, he’s a househusband, at-home dad, and oarsman with a slightly disturbing interest in manners and the other ways people behave badly.

Christopher is approaching the tenth anniversary of publication and has been fortunate to be recognized for his writing, including by the American Library Association, which named Poz a 2016 Recommended Title, and an Honorable Mention for “Transformation,” in Innovation, Volume 6 of Queer Sci Fi’s Flash Fiction Anthology.

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http://www.twitter.com/christopherink

christoarpher@gmail.com


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