Release Blitz: Fighting Chance by Anni Lee #LGBTQ #contemporaryromance @ninestarpress @GoIndiMarketing @anniauthor

 

Title: Fighting Chance

Series: Fighting Chance, Book One

Author: Anni Lee

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 07/19/2021

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 50400

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, music industry, reality TV show, romantic comedy, rom-com, age gap, enemies to lovers, college, battle of the bands, billionaire

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Description

How can you write a love song before you’ve felt one?

Roland Finley is convinced he has what it takes to win the Battle of the Bands, a reality TV show where up and coming musicians compete for a record deal. But between college, work, and band practice, he hasn’t had time to experience any of the romance he sings about, and his amateur writing needs a lot of work. This is never more apparent than when a stranger in the park stumbles upon his notebook and tells it exactly like it is.

Jay McClintock wanted nothing to do with this silly reality show, but as the head writer for ALIVE Records, his boss had other plans. After being tasked with writing and coaching one of Roland’s biggest rivals behind the scenes, the only thing keeping him sane is teasing the strange (and low-key talented) young writer he encountered in the park.

Writing for the enemy should have been no big deal, but the more Jay accidentally (and not-so-accidentally) runs into Roland, the harder it is for him to come clean about his involvement with the show. Fortunately, there’s one medium through which they both know how to communicate: Song.

Excerpt

My heart was beating in perfect time with the crowd’s applause. Quick, loud, chaotic, completely out of control. A bead of sweat slid down my cheek, caught on my jawline, and dripped off my chin. I didn’t know if it was from my nerves or the heat of the blaring neon lights overhead. I can barely believe we’ve come this far. Would I be here if not for him?

No. Don’t think about him right now. I can’t. He doesn’t deserve a place on this stage with me. He never did. This is my one chance, and I’m not going to screw it up because of him.
I gripped the mic firmly and swallowed hard.
“I hope you’re ready to rock, Los Angeles!”

*

Three Months Ago

“Habanero Marmalade? What kind of a name is that?” Logan shoved another bite of garlic bread in his mouth, mumbling words between chewing.

“It’s the kind of name that people will remember. A little ridiculous, but also…deep. Poignant. Clever.” I leaned forward over the table, and I mentally deconstructed all the signs in the food court to spell our name. Using the Habanero from Habanero Juan’s and the Ma from Mama’s Pizza made for a fairly respectable logo.

“And fucking stupid.”

My guitarist had no class at all, clearly.

“Well, what do you want to call us then? If you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears.”

“How about Death Ringer or Dragon’s Fury or something badass like that?”

“What? No. We’re not a metal band. We’re supposed to sound edgy, not like we eat children.” I stole a piece of garlic bread out of his tray and crushed it between my teeth as a symbolic display of my disappointment. Also, as a less symbolic display of the fact that I couldn’t afford lunch that day. “Look, as the writer and lead singer, I think I know more about what sounds good to people than you do.”

“Whatever, Roland.” Logan waved a hand in the air as if to knock away my self-importance. “You can have all the say you want as soon as you come up with something better than Hot Orange Jelly.”

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes. “But we need to have this settled by Friday if we’re really going to audition for the Battle of the Bands.”

“That’s four whole days away. Plenty of time.” Logan crammed an impressively large spindle of spaghetti into his mouth before he stood to toss out his tray. “All right, back to work.” He ran a hand through his hair and retied his bun to make sure it was neat and kempt enough for the jewelry shop. He was so tall, lean, and good-looking. I could only imagine how many diamonds he sold with his smile alone. Or how many relationships he broke up with a well-placed wink.

He gave me one last grin before he headed back. “The girls’ volleyball team has a game today. Go walk on over and find something more inspiring than your grandma’s pantry.”

Right. Because a bunch of jocks knocking a ball around is so inspiring. But despite my protests, we were going to have to agree on something if we were going to enter this competition. The Battle of the Bands was more than just a silly reality show. It was a chance at a dream in a world convoluted with fellow dreamers. If we could stand out there, we could stand out anywhere. But I needed Logan to take it seriously first. And I needed to figure out a name.

We had been through a couple of names already: Cheese and Cracker (my idea), Log Rol (his idea), Raining Soup (my idea), Dos Vikings (his idea), PIE-tastophic (my idea. In hindsight, I should probably stop coming up with band names while I’m starving). Having had no success with building a fan base doing local gigs, we both agreed that it would be good to get a fresh start for our TV debut. But I swear to God, coming up with names was the hardest part of being an artist.

I shook my head and grabbed my notebook. He was right about one thing, anyway. A walk would do me some good.

I left the mall and strolled back toward campus, cutting through the park on the way. I always liked this park. Birds chirped and whistled in the trees, creating the perfect ambience for deep thinking. Birds were what inspired me to sing in the first place. All those days sitting in my mother’s garden, listening to their high-pitched calls, watching them fly wherever they wanted to go. Their voices were the battle cry of freedom. Singing was freedom.

I glanced at the trees and whistled my best mockingbird call. Almost on cue, a mockingbird took to the sky. It flapped its wings to the music. Beautiful. I whistled again, and it came toward me. Closer. Closer.

Wait a second—too close! The bird swooped down and knocked into me with its wings. My notebook flew from my hands as I instinctively swatted it away. I always forgot that mockingbirds were assholes.

Once the bird flew off, I collected myself and looked for my notebook. A man stood before me, tall, poised, and sophisticated. He had frameless rectangular glasses that sat on a perfect nose, framed with light-brown hair that fell stylishly unkempt around his face. One of his black leather dress shoes sat pointedly atop my open notebook.

He reached down and picked it up. I watched on, dumbfounded, as his sharp blue eyes moved back and forth over the pages.

“Don’t read that—that’s private!” I heard my voice ringing entirely too loudly in the air, causing the remaining nearby birds to scatter. Something about the sky full of fleeing sparrows, surrounding this dark figure, felt like an image out of horror movie. Like he was an evil sorcerer learning all my secrets before promptly taking over the world.

“I can see why.” His voice was deep and smooth. “I wouldn’t want to share this drivel with anyone either.”

“It’s not…” I was too shocked to figure out how to respond. There was months of work in that notebook. My prized lyrics. My potential band names. Hand-scrawled sheet music. Everything that made up my hopes and dreams.

“I’ll shoot right past the goalie of your love. My puck in your net. Points on the headboard… Are you fucking serious?” He shut my notebook and tossed it over his shoulder, shaking his head in disgust all the while. Hearing my lyrics recited out loud was triggering all my fears and insecurities. Who the hell does this guy think he is?

“It’s supposed to be provocative…” I mumbled under my breath, averting my gaze so he couldn’t read the hurt in my eyes. “Th-that’s just the first draft. It was going to get way better before the competition.” I didn’t know why he was being so harsh anyway. Any words would sound like garbage if you said them like that. Any words… Right?

He walked past me with his hands in his pockets, his eyes hidden by the glare of the sun on his lenses.

“Find another hobby. You’re wasting your time.” He gave me one last kick in the heart before he stepped out of earshot. I watched as he walked away.

Purchase at NineStar Press

Meet the Author

Whether she’s racing motorcycles faster than a RomCom lead’s beating heart, or scuba diving deeper than the pit of love they fall into, Anni Lee is always down for an adventure. She was born and raised in Los Angeles with four siblings and a single mother, which is probably why she has such a penchant for writing big city love and tenacious (albeit dysfunctional) heroes. 

When she’s not typing away behind her laptop, she’s living out of a tent off the back of her motorcycle on her quest to ride around the world. The wilderness is the best place to catch up on reading, after all!

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NEW at Changeling Press: Building a Family by M.L. Uberti #contemporaryromance #agegap @mluberti_writer

 

Jamie knows to Daniel she’s just the babysitter for his brother’s children. She’s too young, too inexperienced, too shy for him. But she feels safe when she’s with him, and she wishes they could have more.

Daniel knows he’s too old, too rough, and far too wary for a beautiful young woman like Jamie. She should run away from him and what he wants and needs from her.

Unless they’re both wrong.

GET IT HERE

EXCERPT

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2021 ML Uberti

First time I met her, I hadn’t been here a full week. My brother had convinced me to leave my gig for one with better pay -- closer to family. I made a shitload already but Brandon was itching to have me stateside again after I’d been gone half a decade in the army, then another twelve years working for Shell Oil, deep in ocean waters away from civilization. I think he was afraid I was going insane or becoming antisocial or something.

First time I saw her was Sunday dinner. I’d arrived on Monday, when I’d thrown the few bags I had down on the floor of the rental Brandon got for me and passed out, then done nothing but work the next six days. My first day off I wanted to get some furniture, maybe buy some shit for my fridge that wasn’t half-empty takeout containers. But Brandon insisted I come over and have dinner with him and Taylor, his wife, and his three kids, Austin and Becca, five-year-old twins, and two-year-old daughter Sierra. My brother had managed to knock up his wife again and she was due in four months with another boy.

A Lucas family trait was that none of us could keep it in our pants. If my brothers and I had anything in common it was as soon as we all hit fifteen, we couldn’t get enough pussy. Girls in school, from the town up the road, college chicks hitting the bars in Modesto where we grew up -- they were all fair game. And we played to fucking win.

But with pussy came chains. They wanted to lock you down, bleed you dry and make you fucking miserable. Didn’t want or need that shit so at thirty-eight years old, I knew I’d never settle down. Until I saw the babysitter.

“Jamie! Austin can’t find his jersey!” Taylor practically shouted in my ear from right outside the back door while my brother and I were both leaning against the counter of his kitchen, beer in hand.

“I think it’s in the laundry basket in the basement! I’ll grab it!” a soft, feminine voice called back.

“Thanks, hon!” Taylor let the door slam and joining my brother and I in the kitchen. “I swear to God this house would fall down around our ears without Jamie.”

Taylor worked with us at Valiant Drilling as the office manager. That’s how she’d met my brother. After six months of him asking her every damn day to go out with him, he finally wore her down and she said yes. They were married less than a year later, and two after that, Austin and Becca were born. Brandon told me as soon as he saw her, he knew. “Like a boner to the heart,” he stated eloquently.

I thought he was crazy. Taylor was cute, sure. Sexy in a way, with curvy hips and a little bit of sass. But tying himself down with one woman then having three-soon-to-be-four kids with her? Sounded like hell on fucking earth.

Then the door opened and swear to God, it felt like time froze.

I saw a flash of a slight frame, with my stare traveling from a pair of white sneakers, up a pair of slim, long legs that went on for miles, to an ass clad in a pair of black cotton leggings, a slight flare of hips, a flat stomach, a hell of rack, and then a face that was show-stopping. Her eyes were honey-colored, her hair dark, pulled up off her neck in a messy bun, and as I took in her full mouth, classic features and thick lashes, my dick went to steel.

She turned and faced me, the corners of her mouth tipping up as her golden brown eyes met mine. “Hi! I’m Jamie. You must be Daniel. Brandon talks about you all the time.” She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and I felt that in my dick.

I swallowed a mouthful of beer so I didn’t have to respond and tipped my head up in a nod, meeting her gaze for just a second, then uncrossing my legs to try to get some room for my throbbing cock.

Didn’t work. She just kept smiling at me, then bounced away to the steps, and I got a good, long look at that ass. I swear to God my dick started to leak into my jeans.

“I’ll help. It’s the least I can do since you do everything else,” Taylor told the angel, setting down her bowl and trotting after the babysitter, as Jamie’s twinkling laugh drifted up the steps.

I watched them go, my body stiff in more ways than one, and after a few seconds, Brandon burst out laughing.

My gaze went to him, bent over and losing it. “Oh shit, man. Haven’t seen that look on your face in a long time. Since you were fourteen and had Miss Harrison for geometry. You had to hide your hard-on behind your textbook for a whole semester. Classic!”

My brother was still laughing at me as I finished off the beer I had in my hand and grabbed another one, not saying a word.

He wasn’t wrong.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Starbucks aficionado, lover of throw blankets and betrayer of all things kale, ML Uberti is a Wayne State University graduate and Metro Detroit author with a predilection for oddities and happy endings. She is mom to three autistic kids, 2 ridiculously stupid dogs and wife of a teacher and musician who has endless patience for her impeccably bad taste in Netflix shows and murder documentaries. She is thrilled to dip her toe into scifi romance from contemporary and hopes you enjoy her big, brooding alien alphas and resilient fairy tale queens.

Now Available - Ranger (Reckless Kings MC) by Harley Wylde #bikerromance #agegap @HarleyW_Writer @changelingpress

 

Ranger (Reckless Kings MC) by Harley Wylde

Published by Changeling Press

Cover Artist: Bryan Keller

Release Date: July 16, 2021

Genres/Themes: Contemporary Romance, Bikers, Action Adventure, Age-Gap (older man)

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ABOUT THE BOOK

Danica -- I followed in my dad’s footsteps, chasing the rodeo. It’s been my life, other than friends and family with the Dixie Reapers. Until now, no one’s really noticed me. I’ve barely dated, and at twenty-three, I’m still a virgin. Then he walks in. Ranger. A Reckless King, and so far out of my league. But one kiss, and I know I’ll remember him forever… even after he walks away.

I didn’t think we had a future. Thought he’d forget I exist. But I was wrong. He wants me, every bit as much as I want him.

Ranger -- I saw her ride in a rodeo a year ago, and she held me spellbound. Running into her again at the Dixie Reapers, I’m not sure I can keep my hands to myself. She’s Cowboy’s daughter, and I should keep my distance. Too bad I’ve never been all that great at following the rules.

Only one thing is standing in my way. There’s someone stalking her. A man who thinks she’s his. He’s wrong. Danica will be mine, one way or another. Anyone who stands in the way will wish they’d never heard of me.

WARNING: Ranger is recommended for adult readers. It has coarse language, adult situations, and discusses events, like stalking and assault, that may trigger some readers. There is no cheating, a guaranteed happily-ever-after, and no cliffhanger!

 

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Amazon US: https://amzn.to/3wN8grl

Amazon UK: https://amzn.to/3wWroDz

Amazon AU: https://amzn.to/3gM4vvF

Amazon CA: https://amzn.to/3xFtBDh

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Apple Books: https://apple.co/3j8glmE

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Changeling Press: https://bit.ly/3zCZ2jg

 

☆ ARC REVIEWS ☆

 

“An exquisitely captivating, sweet, endearing and thrilling ride to go on…This story had so many great scenes that made me tear up, laugh, swoon, fan myself, and gasp.” – BookBub Review by DreaFernandez

“Oh Ranger!!! I absolutely loved Ranger and Danica!! … by far one of my favorites!” – BookBub Review by TeamlittleMama

“Ranger and Danica are absolutely amazing together!” – BookBub Review, lstaffey

“Ranger is a yummy little age gap read and positively perfect… This is a really great read.” – BookBub Review by Gpowe

 

 

ABOUT HARLEY WYLDE

Harley Wylde is the International Bestselling Author of the Dixie Reapers MC, Devil's Boneyard MC, and Hades Abyss MC series.

When Harley's writing, her motto is the hotter the better -- off the charts sex, commanding men, and the women who can't deny them. If you want men who talk dirty, are sexy as hell, and take what they want, then you've come to the right place. She doesn't shy away from the dangers and nastiness in the world, bringing those realities to the pages of her books, but always gives her characters a happily-ever-after and makes sure the bad guys get what they deserve.

The times Harley isn't writing, she's thinking up naughty things to do to her husband, drinking copious amounts of Starbucks, and reading. She loves to read and devours a book a day, sometimes more. She's also fond of TV shows and movies from the 1980's, as well as paranormal shows from the 1990's to today, even though she'd much rather be reading or writing. 

You can find out more about Harley or enter her monthly giveaway on her website. Be sure to join her newsletter while you're there to learn more about discounts, signing events, and other goodies!

 

"Her characters are phenomenal and have a lot of depth to them. She is absolutely fantastic at writing an engaging sexy story. Harley Wylde keeps the words flowing so that you have to turn the page to see what happens next." -- All Author

Find Harley Online: Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | BookBub

 

 

 

 

Release Blitz: The Mayor of Oak Street by Vincent Traughber Meis #contemporaryromance #LGBTQ @convince415 @ninestarpress @GoIndiMarketing

 

Title: The Mayor of Oak Street

Author: Vincent Traughber Meis

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 06/14/2021

Heat Level: 2 - Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 88400

Genre: Contemporary, LGBTQIA+, age-gap, coming-of-age, coming out, college, political, friends to lovers, period piece, reunited

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Description

In the 1960s, Midwestern boy and Boy Scout, Nathan delivers newspapers and mows lawns. Nathan uses his cover to move about yards and sneak into the homes of his neighbors, uncovering their secrets.

In high school, one of the local misfits introduces him to diet pills, which help him overcome his shyness. In an amphetamine high, he meets Cindy, who he hopes will steer him along the “morally straight” path of the Boy Scout Oath he swore to.

Nathan is infatuated with a young doctor down the street, Nicholas (Dr. B), who embodies all the things his mother would love him to be. On one of his secret forays in Dr. B’s house, he hides in a closet and witnesses his idol having sex with man while the wife is out of town. Dr. B’s affair leads to tragedy, forcing the doctor to leave town.
At college in New Orleans, Nathan meets a group of rebels and expands his drug use. Marc, a bisexual Cajun charmer becomes Nathan’s first male sexual experience, but promptly leaves town.

Nathan has a chance encounter with Dr. B, who has moved to New Orleans. Dr. B is in a relationship, but still closeted. Frustrated by Dr. B’s cool reaction, Nathan goes on a six-month binge of amphetamines and anonymous sex. On one night of debauchery, he overdoses and ends up in the emergency ward.

Nathan’s near death rallies Dr. B and Nathan’s other friends to force him into rehab. On the way home from work, Nathan witnesses the gruesome aftermath of the 1973 Up Stairs Lounge fire that devastated the gay population of New Orleans. As a result of the fire, Dr. B’s live-in boyfriend leaves town, freeing Dr. B to explore his feelings for Nathan.

Excerpt

The Mayor of Oak Street
Vincent Traughber Meis © 2021
All Rights Reserved

The Sangamon flows muddy and rank through the corn and soybean fields of central Illinois, giving its name to my city and the lake it fills on the south side before continuing its meander west. One of its tributaries, the even lazier and muddier Harold’s Creek, ran practically up to my back door in its own journey through the woods behind the homes on Oak Street.

The afternoon sun filtered through the tall trees, warming my shoulders as I walked along the creek, imagining building a raft like I had seen my brother and his friends do a few years before. I would ride it down the creek to the Sangamon and into the Illinois, eventually reaching the Mississippi. The Mississippi would take me to New Orleans, a city memorialized in song, literature, and film as a place of wonder. It wasn’t that I needed to run away like Huckleberry Finn. I hadn’t yet learned to hate everything the Sangamon gave its name to. It was a boy’s fantasy brought on by the heat of summer and the mesmerizingly sluggish flow of water.

I heard a branch snap deep in the woods. I often saw hobos from the nearby Wabash Line wandering in the woods, and my mother told me I needed to avoid them, but I sometimes watched them from behind a clump of bushes. My eyes darted around the area and saw nothing. I glanced at my watch. Time to go. For most kids, these were the carefree days of summer, but I had things to do. From the creek, I walked up the hill, through our backyard, and out to the street.

Mrs. Sloan’s heavy oak door hung wide open while a screen kept the swarms of late summer flies and mosquitoes at bay. I put my face to the mesh in what felt like an invasion of her privacy, causing me to tingle from the top of my head down to my big toes.

“Hello? Mrs. Sloan?” I shouted into the dim interior of the hall.

No answer.

I opened the screen door haltingly and stepped inside. The door creaked shut, sounding painful in the silence of the house. I took a step, and then another. My legs shook. I peered to the right into the living room and left into the dining room. A force had taken control of me and pushed me on, my sneakers barely touching the carpet.

I went as far as the kitchen, passing two empty bedrooms on the way. Her purse sat on the yellow chrome Formica kitchen table, the keys to her Oldsmobile right next to it. Out the kitchen window, I searched for her floppy straw hat in the sunny backyard. She was neither in the garden where she often tended her vegetables nor in the lawn chair where she sometimes sat, large sunglasses on her nose and a cocktail in hand. I took note the lawn needed mowing.

Nylons hung over the bathroom shower curtain rod, hypnotically swaying in the breeze from the open window. Though we called her Mrs. Sloan, I had never heard of a Mr. Sloan. My father once complained about entering the bathroom and finding my mother’s nylons drying in plain sight. I wondered if Mrs. Sloan was sad living alone or happy she had the freedom to do what she wanted.

I should have been scared of her coming home and finding me lurking in her house, but a stronger force blocked the fear, a compelling energy moving my mind and body, making me feel impervious to danger. I continued down the hall to the living room, stopping to gaze at each of three framed needlepoint messages: “There’s nothing to fear but fear itself,” “A cheery smile makes life worthwhile,” and “You belong among the wildflowers.”

I had come to Mrs. Sloan’s door in my rounds, collecting for my paper route. She was a month behind in her payments. And I rationalized my invasion of her home out of concern for her welfare. My mother once said she wouldn’t be surprised to find her passed out drunk on the front lawn one day. My brother in high school sometimes came home from a night of drinking with his buddies and would collapse face down on his bed in our shared room without removing his clothes or shoes. One time, he ended up on the floor. Perhaps Mrs. Sloan had fallen like my brother. Perhaps she had fallen asleep in the bath and was at risk of drowning like I had seen on a television program.

I spent a few more minutes in the house before exiting through the front door into the calm and quiet on Oak Street. I continued up the block to do the rest of the collections. That night I drew a floor plan of her home, noting doors and windows. My brother called me a weirdo when the first thing I looked at in the Sunday paper was the page with the floor plan of a new house on the market while he went for the sports section, my father the news, and my mother the book reviews. I also scribbled notes about Mrs. Sloan’s house: the color and shape of her purse, the black-and-white photo of a somber older couple in the living room, the buff-colored nylons, the approximately twelve-inch cross hanging over her bed, and the needlepoint messages.

Before I entered my teenage years, I would know my way in and out of most every house on the block without being discovered. It was the Midwest. It was the ‘60s. Crime happened elsewhere. In addition to delivering papers, I mowed lawns. I could cross barriers, move within fences, and befriend dogs. Access. Getting inside the house was usually the easy part.

Everybody told me my paper route and lawn-mowing jobs would be good experience though I had no idea how much I would learn about myself, about others, about life, the good and the bad. I could assume the face of the upstanding neighborhood boy, appearing at their doors to collect subscription payments, smiling and making small talk while below the surface I was another person, motivated by desires they would never understand.

The second time I entered a home was as spontaneous as the first. It was the Pruitts’. While mowing the front lawn, I noticed Mrs. Pruitt lock the front door, take her two identically dressed little girls by the hand, jump into their Ford station wagon, and drive off. When I got around to the back of the house, I spotted the kitchen door standing open, beckoning me. I turned off the mower so I would hear if the car returned. I went into the kitchen. My mother would die rather than let our kitchen fall into such disorder; the sink filled with dirty dishes, and the kitchen table covered with open schoolbooks and scattered papers.

A half-full milk carton sat on the counter. I opened the fridge and saw a whole shelf of soda pop. I took an orange Crush and drank it as I did a quick tour of the house. Not much interesting. The rest of the house was as messy as the kitchen. I finished the soda outside, threw the bottle in the trashcan, and finished mowing the lawn. Before I went to bed that night, I drew a floor plan of their three-bedroom and put it in a folder with Mrs. Sloan’s.

I thought of these intrusions as accidents, isolated incidents that wouldn’t be repeated. But images of those escapades kept dancing through my head, enticing me to do it again. The rush of danger, the real possibility I might be caught, was like a drug. At the time I was still ignorant about drugs and addictions, but my body clearly knew sensations it wanted to revisit. I managed to stave off my urges for a few months. I turned twelve over the summer, and several of my customers who had heard it was my birthday tacked on a bit extra to their payments.

Lawn-mowing season came to an end as the weather turned cold, and we had our first snowfall. Soon after, I started receiving calls about paper holds for the Thanksgiving holidays. To me, they might as well have been invitations. I prayed it didn’t snow as the soft whiteness would show the hard dirty prints of my boots, a trail of my activities. I had to start thinking about such things: tracks I might leave, who in the neighborhood tended to snoop out their windows, or how often people left doors unlocked, windows open.

I made a point of being friendly with the dogs on my street as I knew my extracurricular activities at houses with animals could be a problem. The Jackmans had a golden retriever. I’d received notice to put their paper on hold for five days, making me guess they weren’t going to leave the dog in the house for that length of time.

When I did my collections the week before Thanksgiving, I casually mentioned to Mrs. Jackman that I had received the hold notice. People loved to give out information they didn’t have to. She revealed they were going to their lake house in Arkansas. Butch was curled up at her feet. He raised his head as she took a ten out of her wallet and gave it to me. She told me to keep the change, and I thanked her profusely while I tore off her receipt.

I reached down to pet the dog. “I guess Butch is going to get a vacation too.”

“Oh, yeah. He loves it down there.”

Bingo, I was in. After our Thanksgiving meal, Dad and my brother watched the football game on TV while Mom cleaned up. I went to my room, saying I was going to read. Nobody thought it was odd. In my family, everybody did pretty much what he or she wanted. Normally, after a Thanksgiving meal, Dad and my brother passed out in front of the TV, and Mom curled up in a chair to read after cleaning up the kitchen. They had all had a lot of wine at dinner, including David, who my parents allowed to drink though he was only sixteen, something about him learning to drink responsibly at home keeping him from being irresponsible when he went out. I wasn’t sure that was working.

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Meet the Author

Vincent Traughber Meis started writing plays as a child in the Midwest and cajoled his sisters to act in performing them for neighbors. In high school, one of his short stories won a local contest sponsored by the newspaper. After graduating from college, he worked on a number of short stories and began his first novel. In the 1980’s and 90’s he published a number of pieces, mostly travel articles in publications such as, The Advocate, LA Weekly, In Style, and Our World. His travels have inspired his five novels, all set at least partially in foreign countries: Eddie’s Desert Rose (2011), Tio Jorge (2012), and Down in Cuba (2013), Deluge (2016) and Four Calling Burds (2019). Tio Jorge received a Rainbow Award in the category of Bisexual Fiction in 2012. Down in Cuba received two Rainbow Awards in 2013. Recently stories have been published in three collections: WITH:New Gay Fiction, Best Gay Erotica Vol 1 and Best Gay Erotica Vol 4. He lives in San Leandro, CA with his husband.

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Rooster (Devil's Boneyard MC) by Harley Wylde #agegap #RomCom @HarleyW_Writer

 Alora – I’ve prided myself on being a strong, independent woman and not needing anyone. I didn’t become a bestselling author by the age of twenty out of pure dumb luck. I worked my tail off to get as far as I have. But there are few perks to having a man in my life. Laughter, romance, and companionship. Battery operated boyfriends can only do so much. Too bad the guy who sets me on fire is a bossy biker who wants to claim me. No way I’m letting him label me as property. Nope. Not happening. Doesn’t matter if he does make my knees weak and my heart race. I’m not giving in!

Rooster – Of all the women to capture my interest, it had to be the most stubborn, sexy, adorable woman on the planet. I love her mind, her sense of humor, and the way she fills out a pair of shorts. I don’t even mind that she’s an exhibitionist, as long as no one touches. Doesn’t matter to me her uncles were both rotten to the core. The Devil’s Fury may think she belongs to them, but I have other plans. Alora will be mine -- no matter the cost.

WARNING: Rooster is part of the Devil’s Boneyard MC series. There are adult situations and bad language. No cliffhanger. Happily-ever-after and laughter guaranteed!

Preorder at online booksellers

EXCERPT

Copyright ©2021 Harley Wylde

The front door nearly rattled off the hinges when someone started pounding on it. If I hadn’t known King Kong was a fictional character, I’d think he was on my porch. What the hell?

I narrowed my eyes in the direction of the front entry and went to answer it. It wasn’t like I knew anyone in town. I’d only been here a month, which made it doubtful I’d pissed anyone off -- yet. I yanked it open, ready to tear into whoever was on the other side, but stopped and stared.

The man arched his eyebrows and tipped his sunglasses down enough to peer over the top of them. God, why did I find that so sexy? He’d braced an arm against the doorframe and his muscles bulged. I licked my lips and tried to remember how to speak. As my gaze skimmed over him, it snagged on the black leather over his shoulders. Fuck. It was one of the bikers.

Rooster – Devil’s Boneyard MC.

“You going to let me in, a ghrá?”

His voice sent chills down my spine and my nipples hardened against my thin tank. He smirked, clearly knowing the effect he had on me. Asshole.

“I don’t let strangers into my home,” I said. I peered over his shoulder and saw another man on a motorcycle at the curb. It seemed only one of them wanted to come into the house. Thank goodness for small favors.

He leaned in, the scent of cinnamon and cloves making me want to breathe in deep. “But we’re not strangers. You’re Twister’s niece, which makes you Devil’s Fury property. Since we consider them family, that makes you mine.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Harley Wylde is the International Bestselling Author of the Dixie Reapers MC, Devil's Boneyard MC, and Hades Abyss MC series.

When Harley's writing, her motto is the hotter the better -- off the charts sex, commanding men, and the women who can't deny them. If you want men who talk dirty, are sexy as hell, and take what they want, then you've come to the right place. She doesn't shy away from the dangers and nastiness in the world, bringing those realities to the pages of her books, but always gives her characters a happily-ever-after and makes sure the bad guys get what they deserve. 

The times Harley isn't writing, she's thinking up naughty things to do to her husband, drinking copious amounts of Starbucks, and reading. She loves to read and devours a book a day, sometimes more. She's also fond of TV shows and movies from the 1980's, as well as paranormal shows from the 1990's to today, even though she'd much rather be reading or writing.  You can find out more about Harley or enter her monthly giveaway on her website. Be sure to join her newsletter while you're there to learn more about discounts, signing events, and other goodies!

Checkmate by Treva Harte #actionadventure @HarteTreva

 

King in Check: On the run, Rey is forced to depend on Mosquito, the mysterious young boss of his old home. When they search for help, they have to discover who who they can trust, or they’ll end up dead.

King’s Gambit: When Mosca chose Calle to be his personal guard Calle should have suspected something was off. But this time is different. Very different. Living one step away from betrayal and falling in love with the man he’s charged to protect changes both of their lives. For good.

Now available at Changeling Press

Preorder for May 28th at online booksellers





EXCERPT

All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2021 Treva Harte
Excerpt from King in Check

“Need anything? I’m going to town.” I looked up at the big man on the kitchen porch, trying not to show how urgently I wanted to leave. It would have been even more obvious if I’d left without asking, since trips to town were rare.

I kept myself from shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I was trying to stay casual, trying to avoid the inevitable.

“What for?” Calle asked the question anyhow.

“To pick someone up.” I made it sound routine, but of course a trip to Medianoche never was. If you weren’t caught by the Feds or robbed, and if you got what you were willing to barter for -- hell, that made it an extraordinary trip. And if we returned, we never took new people past the portal.

“Rey?” Calle’s face lit up. “Is it today?”

Calle was a big man who didn’t talk much and never smiled. None of the men ever complained about his cooking, and it wasn’t just because they wanted to be fed regularly. Despite his injury, his muscles were impressive, and his arms could reach wide enough to grab and knock someone against the wall before the other person could move. He’d proved that more than once… and all without changing his dour expression.

But now Calle was beaming like I’d told him I’d found a miracle cure for his crushed leg. Damn it. Where was the stolid cook I’d come to know when I wanted him?

“If he shows.”

“If he said today, he’ll show.” Calle’s smile left. He seemed to be thinking deeply. Then that smile came back full force, unable to be restrained. “Yeah. I need something. Bring sugar. We’ll do something special for the meal tonight.”

Shit. The man was going to bake a cake or something. The cook who always cooked chili on Monday, eggs on Tuesday, and so on through the week, following his routine without fail.

I already hated Rey. I’d spent three months busting my ass to manage the compound, and all I got was “Rey wouldn’t do things that way.” I was the freakin’ boss’s kid, but it didn’t matter. No one took orders from me unless I got in their face and proved I could enforce or buy what I demanded. Otherwise, the men just did what Rey had told them to do back when he was still around to give orders. After all, in their minds, he was still the foreman.

He’d been gone for years. While he’d been gone, the compound had withered. The campesino women and children had left first. Then the strongest and boldest of their men had vanished. I’d been sent to save the compound before the hands deserted us and everything fell apart. I’d arrived before the last of the campesinos left. I’d promised the hands double pay if they kept the remaining sharecroppers on our land without killing them. I didn’t ask how they managed it, but the campesinos stayed. Just that was almost enough to make the compound sustainable if we ever needed to close the portal against the Federistas.

“Maybe Dog should go instead.” Calle frowned. “He’s strong.”

“I’m touched that you worry so about my safety,” I said. “But I’ll do it.”

I knew damn well what Calle was worried about, and it wasn’t me. His concern was that I was too short, too weak, too city to pull off bringing Rey home.

I’d managed a miracle to get the compound back to life so quickly. I’d not just ridden but walked the entire compound to work it with the men. I’d done more than my share and never whined. But all I got as a reward was the short end of the Rey stick.

Those hands who stayed made it clear they did because Rey would be back someday. The campesinos didn’t look at me or speak when I gave them orders. But they would sing at night about El Rey -- and they didn’t mean their primitive god. Unless, of course, they thought the man was their god. I wouldn’t be surprised.

“But, Boss, if you let someone else go --”

“Don’t argue with me.” I stalked out.

* * *

My mood hadn’t improved after waiting almost two hours at the station. No one from outside Medianoche stayed in one place that long once they reached town. And waiting at the station, a place officially sanctioned, was even more dangerous when you weren’t sanctioned yourself.

The fans that provided some relief from the heat moved sluggishly, raising my temperature and temper by the minute. When was the coach going to arrive?

I wiped my face. Sweat had already stained my shirt through. Maybe I should leave. Probably he wasn’t going to show. There were all kinds of dangers traveling by coach -- from retired-soldiers-turned-thugs to interfering officials, all of whom required either a bribe or a beating before you were sent on your way.

I wasn’t sure the new Rey would be able to manage either feat if he were stopped. From what I could gather in the brief message sent to me before the reception was jammed, Rey was returning because he was of no more use to our side. I didn’t know what that meant exactly, but no one gave us back healthy, whole men once they became part of the endless fighting in the cities.

That thought sent a sudden chill through me. Maybe he’d been sent back to die. God, how would I manage the hands if that happened? Especially if it happened when he was my charge.

And then I heard the noise in the distance. No one else around me looked up, but I fumbled with my locator and caught the faintest blip of something foreign on the screen.

The coach.

I stood up and pushed my hands into my pockets to keep them from shaking.

The same dilapidated coach that had spit me out here into my new world three months ago stopped again. The horses slumped under the shade, and the driver leaped down, more concerned about them than any of the passengers. The coach door opened, and I braced myself.

One passenger leaped down, apparently healthy, his face hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. Then he looked up.

Jesus God.

Blue eyes in a tanned face. Blue eyes that looked right into you and almost made you miss that the rest of the man was equally beautiful. Almost. Perfection like that was hard to miss for long.

And hard was the word for that body.

I’d had no one since I arrived at the compound. But that wasn’t why my body was leaning toward him.

It was him. He did it with one look at me.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Treva Harte has always been an overachiever. She also collects things. First it was degrees. First a B.A. in English, then she decided to go back for a Master's degree. Not content with that, she added a J.D. Since then she's added a husband, also an attorney, and two children to her collection. She's continuing her ways as an overachiever, writing her wonderfully offbeat tales of passion and possibilities -- in her spare time.

Visit her website at www.trevaharte.com.