Kim Fielding's Blog, page 52

Please welcome Lex Chase!

 Americana Fairy Tale 

(Fairy Tales of the Open Road #1)

by 

Lex Chase




Blurb:

Modern fairy-tale princess Taylor Hatfield has problems. One: He’s a guy. Two: His perfect brother Atticus is the reincarnation of Snow White. Three: Taylor has no idea which princess he is supposed to be. Four: Taylor just left his prince (a girl) at the altar. Despite his enchanted lineage, Taylor is desperate to find his Happily Ever After away from magic, witches, and stuffy traditions. Regrettably, destiny has other plans for him. Dammit.



When word reaches Taylor that Idi the Witchking has captured Atticus, Taylor is determined to save his brother. He enlists the help of rakish and insufferable Corentin Devereaux, likewise of enchanted lineage. A malicious spell sends Taylor and Corentin on a road trip through the kitschy nostalgia of roadside Americana. To save Atticus, they must solve the puzzles put forth by Idi the Witchking. As they struggle, Taylor and Corentin’s volatile partnership sparks a flash of something more. But princesses have many enemies, and Taylor must keep his wits about him because there’s nothing worse than losing your heart… or your head.











Available to purchase 

Excerpt

“I’m getting a shower,” Taylor said and quickly shuffled into the

bathroom. In the silence, Taylor pressed his back to the door and slid to the

floor. He clamped both hands around the crotch of his shorts and hissed through

clenched teeth, “Stop, stop, stop, please, stop.”

He had to stop thinking

about his dream. And thinking about Corentin in that way. Corentin wasn’t even

his type! And Corentin’s type was clearly

not a raging homo-sheckshual. By all of Taylor’s understanding, Corentin’s breed

of redneck was of the misogynistic racist variety. Taylor paused. Was he just

telling himself that? Taylor mentally felt around the edges of the dream. He

flinched with the dirty feeling.

Shower. He needed a shower. Now.

He picked himself up off the floor, then staggered to the tub. The

enamel had seen better days, with that lovely rusty ring around it. The shower

curtain seemed to be a repository for all assorted natures of DNA. Taylor

gingerly touched it in an effort to move it just out of the way enough to turn

the faucet. Scuffed up and mottled with rust, even the faucet made him wince.

He ripped off a sheaf of cheap toilet paper to use to turn the faucet on. First

the water belched into the tub, then after a few rude bubbling gurgles, ran in

a steady stream. It wasn’t particularly warm, however. Taylor surmised he

didn’t really need a hot shower anyway.

He disrobed, dropping his clothes in a heap on the floor. But on

second consideration, he didn’t have anything else to change into. What he had

on his back was it. Like his cum-stained cargo shorts. Yuck. He scooped his clothes off the floor and hung up his shirt on

the towel rack. He’d have to do something about his shorts, because they’d

smell and get uncomfortably crusty. He chuckled. He would never have predicted

how contentious he’d become about cleanliness until he only had one change of

clothes for the foreseeable future.

As the tub faucet ran to get some marginable level of lukewarm, he

cranked the faucet in the sink. He let the water run over the crotch of his new

shorts and scrubbed them as best he could with the questionable cracked soap

bar.

Corentin knocked once on the door. “Come on, man. Gotta pee.”

“Hold your horses,” Taylor huffed. “Let me get in the shower first.

Great Storyteller Almighty.”

Taylor hustled and wrung out his shorts. He hung them also on the

towel rack and finally hopped into the shower before poor pitiful Corentin

could have an accident on the floor. Some self-reliant huntsman he was.

Couldn’t he go out back and take a piss on a tree? Of course, there would

likely need to be some nature of tree on the premises.

Taylor jerked the curtain across the tub for privacy and instantly

regretted taking a fistful of it in such haste. “Okay! It’s safe.”

“I heard princesses were prissy, but I didn’t think it applied to

male princesses,” Corentin said as he walked in.

Taylor could see the outline of his body through the haze of the

shower curtain. He pushed himself back against the far wall to gain some

distance. A small gap remained between the curtain and the shower wall, and he

carefully peeked. With a familiar clanking of a belt buckle followed by a

zipper, Taylor instead sent his gaze upward to Corentin’s face and his bare

shoulders. Corentin had done away with his shirt, and Taylor’s face heated with

the view. Corentin was lean, like a panther, his tattooed skin pulled tight

over his biceps and hard abs. He finished, flushed, and turned away to zip his

pants. Taylor pressed his fingers to his lips at the sight of the rise of Corentin’s

tight rear as he shifted to the sink and washed his hands.

He studied himself in the mirror while Taylor stared through the

shower curtain.

Corentin swung open the door and called behind him, “Don’t use all

the hot water.”

“O-oh-okay,” Taylor croaked, his face hot from gawking.

The door shut with a click, and Taylor sighed with the relief. He looked down at himself in

disappointment. Taylor was filthy from dirt, sweat, and whatever else was

lurking in Corentin’s disgusting truck. He turned, reaching for the cracked

soap bar. The blacked grooves in the soap made him reconsider. He reached for

the mini Johnson & Johnson shampoo bottle and uncapped it. After a careful

sniff, he tried to make sure it wasn’t rancid and questioned if it was possible

for shampoo to go rancid. Figuring he would chance it, he scrubbed himself down

with the terrible No More Tears formula.

He breathed one more time, trying to cope with the lukewarm water,

and then decided it was time to face the reality of a nasty motel room with a

man he didn’t trust who made him blush. He shut off the water and carefully

maneuvered out of the shower without touching the petri dish that served as a

curtain.

Taylor considered his clothes. His shirt could use airing out, and

his shorts were a definite no. His only option was a towel around the waist. He

didn’t even like that option in high

school, let alone in the middle of nowhere with the current company. Ringo

was there, though. That made it better. Ringo would save him.

Covering himself, Taylor took a breath. On a mental count of three,

he turned the doorknob.

And the chill of the overworked window unit hit him square in the

bare chest.

“Fuck,” Taylor gasped and

scuttled to the bed. He immediately wrapped himself in the threadbare blanket,

which didn’t help at all. He had a string of curses on his tongue when he

finally glanced up and saw Corentin.

More specifically, saw Corentin’s tattooed torso.

Corentin, on the other hand, busied himself with making notes in

his monstrosity of a book. His brow would furrow every time he underlined

something with a determined gesture across the page. He seemed not to notice

Taylor’s open staring at the intricate black ink of an oak tree drawn in the

style of Gustave Doré. The trunk of the tree was a full sleeve with the roots

growing from Corentin’s left wrist, and at his shoulder, the branches twisted

in a windblown manner across his collarbone, shoulder blade, and a few branches

even curled at the base of his neck.

Taylor swallowed. At least it explained why Corentin was so covered

up for June weather. But something was strange about the tattoo. There were

seven boughs, but only one had leaves.

Corentin kept making notes and didn’t look up. His brow furrowed

into an even angrier contortion, and he wrote faster. When he apparently ran

out of space, he flipped his book to sit horizontally and wrote in tiny print

in the margins. He hesitated, tapping his pen on the paper.

Taylor pulled the blanket higher on his shoulders. The steam from

his body captured under the blanket helped in making the chill of the room

bearable.

Corentin scribbled again in his book. He frowned and scribbled in a

repeated gesture. He shook his pen with a flick of the wrist and tried again.

He grunted and threw the pen. “Fuck,” he said and went fishing in his messenger

bag. He feverishly reached around, looked in, and then reached around again. He

puffed a sigh and upturned the bag onto the carpet.

A palm sized bottle of liquid bounced across the floor and Corentin

scrambled to snatch it midtumble. He glanced at Taylor and offered a smile.

“Hand sanitizer. Can’t go anywhere without it.” He quickly shoved the bottle

into a side pocket of his bag.

Taylor said nothing, merely watching the bizarre display as

Corentin poked through the crumpled receipts, hair ties, old cracker wrappers,

and various unidentifiable crumbs and wadded-up trash. He also flipped through a

collection of condoms in shiny magenta wrappers and printed with hearts and

lips. Taylor tightened his grip on the comforter and his face heated. Well, at

least they were cherry flavored or something?

Corentin shook the bag again, and Taylor remained silent.

As a roll of duct tape tumbled out.

And then zip ties.

Taylor’s eyes snapped wide. Corentin had fucking huntsman death

tools on him at all times. He shivered and scooted back on the bed. He judged

the distance from the bed to the door in case he needed to run at a moment’s

notice. Obviously a naked guy running down the interstate would get some

attention. But he hadn’t seen any cars on the interstate since they ended up

here. He nibbled at his lip. Maybe if he stole Corentin’s truck? That seemed

like a good idea.

“Ah!” Corentin said, clearly relieved he apparently found a pen,

and ignored the zip ties and duct tape. He resumed his furious scribbling.

About the Author












Lex Chase once heard Stephen King say in a commercial, “We’re all going to die, I’m just trying to make it a little more interesting.” She knew then she wanted to make the world a little more interesting too. 




Weaving tales of cinematic, sweeping adventure and epic love—and depending on how she feels that day—Lex sprinkles in high-speed chases, shower scenes, and more explosions than a Hollywood blockbuster. She loves tales of men who kiss as much as they kick ass. She believes if you’re going to going to march into the depths of hell, it better be beside the one you love. 




Lex is a pop culture diva and her DVR is constantly backlogged. She wouldn’t last five minutes without technology in the event of the apocalypse and has nightmares about refusing to leave her cats behind. She is incredibly sentimental, to the point that she gets choked up at holiday commercials. But like the lovers driven to extreme measures to get home for the holidays, Lex believes everyone deserves a happy ending. 




Lex also has a knack for sarcasm, never takes herself seriously, and has been nicknamed “The Next Alan Moore” by her friends for all the pain and suffering she inflicts on her characters. She is a Damned Yankee hailing from the frozen backwoods of Maine now residing in the burbs of Northwest Florida, where it could be 80F and she’d still be a popsicle. 




She is grateful for and humbled by all the readers. She knows very well she wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them and welcomes feedback.

You can find Lex at

                   

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I got the blues….

I don’t really. But I was doing some cleanup in my study the other day, which means I was sifting through geological layers of magazines, children’s artwork and report cards, papers that seemed vitally important six years ago, etc. And I found these lyrics my husband and I wrote a while back.

Suburban Middle-Class Blues

My Lexus done broke down

Cleaning the pool is a chore

Starbucks is crowded and

My iPhone don’t work no more

Chorus:

I got the blues

I got suburban, middle-class blues

I got a 401k

Don’t mean I can’t have the blues

I just stepped on a Lego

Scraped up dried-up fruit snack

Today’s my turn to drive carpool and

One kid puked in the back

Telemarketers callin’

‘Bout lower interest rates

Tween daughter is textin’ boys and

Pretty soon she’ll want dates

Got five appointments this week

Dentists, doctors, et al

And if I want a new pair of walking shoes

I’ll have to go to the mall

Pizza boy can’t get here

In thirty minutes or less

So I keep goin’ by drive-through and

My waistline is a mess

Feel free to add your own stanzas in the comments….

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Exercise. Really.

I can’t believe it’s come to this. I’m blogging about exercise.

When it comes to exercise, I’m generally against it. I blame my junior high PE teachers, sadists who took all the fun out of of the subject. I had to take 3 semesters of PE in college, and that was actually sort of fun–I did bowling, racquetball, and self-defense. But that was centuries ago, and since then I’ve avoided most exercise.

Except walking. I love walking–but only when I travel. My favorite way to tour is on foot, and I’m apt to walk many miles (or kilometers, as the case may be) when I’m away from home.

But walking around my neighborhood is hot and dead boring. I have a choice between beige stucco houses or, if I walk the canal, dairy cows, orchards, and cornfields. And lizards and ants. Not exactly the streets of Paris.

So I avoided walking at home. I drove. That’s what Californians do, after all.

But a couple months ago I bought a Fitbit. And because I’m somewhat, ahem, compulsive, having all those goals and charts totally did it for me. I now walk 3 or more miles almost every evening. Sometimes my husband or my teenage daughter walks with me, which is fun. When I walk alone, I listen to audiobooks, which is also fun. I’ve been known to take an extra spin around the block if I’m in the middle of a good part. I’ve worn through one pair of walking shoes already.

I’ve also found that walking is an excellent way to sublimate the frustrations of my day job. And I get plot ideas! Today a terrific plot bunny hopped into my path at about the 2 mile mark.

One of my colleagues sometimes wears a T-shirt from some 20K “fun run”. Running 20K would not ever, under any circumstances, be fun to me. I doubt I’ll ever go the extra step (figuratively speaking) and take up running instead. But for once I’m actually enjoying exercise. Who could have predicted that?

 

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Knights Ferry

I live in California’s Central Valley. It’s a long way–culturally, at least–from the hipness of the San Francisco Bay Area or the palm-trees-and-movie-stars vibe of Southern California. This area is hot and dry and conservative and poor. The bulk of the economy is agriculture-based. It’s not a part of the state most people think about much. And sometimes I whine about living here.

But the truth is that there are some great things about living here. No snow and ice, but I can easily visit wintry weather in the mountains. I can grow nearly everything, and there are abundant produce stands very close by. Our oven-hot summer days are also very dry, and in the evening the Delta breeze usually comes through, cooling us down by 30 to 40 degrees. And there are about a million interesting places to visit within about a 2-hour drive.

The other day we took a short drive–less than 45 minutes–to the tiny town of Knights Ferry. It was founded in 1848. Named after William Knight, who–obviously–ran a ferry across the Stanislaus River, at least until he was killed in a gunfight.

Knights Ferry has the longest covered bridge west of the Mississippi. It also has the oldest still-operating general store in the state. There are the ruins of a flour mill along the river, and the old jail still stands.

I love exploring old cemeteries, and the one in Knights Ferry didn’t disappoint. I love the “no horses” sign at the gate. My older daughter spied the 141-year-old typo on one stone, while I admired the lichens on another. It’s very difficult to read the lichen-covered one, even when you’re there, but I did make out that the man was killed while mining his claim.

.

The area around Knights Ferry is cowboy country–horses and cattle–but at least one local rancher has chosen slightly more exotic stock.

I know of at least one other person not far from me who has a camel, but this may be the only zedonk in the region.

Knights Ferry may be tiny, but it’s colorful. And I love how places like this give me ideas for my stories. It’s a good reminder that we don’t always have to travel far to find inspiration.

Do you have quirky places near where you live? Please share in the comments.

 

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Fabulous 5 Blog Hop

The always-wonderful Charlie Cochet tagged me for the Fabulous Five Blog Hop.

1. What am I working on?

I always have lots of things going in different stages! I’m just beginning to write an urban fantasy novel based on raven mythology. If all goes well, it’ll be the first in a series. I’ve also begun a partnership with the talented Venona Keyes on a contemporary novel about a runner. I just submitted a contemporary novella called “Grown-Up” about a guy who realizes it’s finally time to grow up. I’m in edits for a short story called “Standby,” which will release October 10 in the Stranded anthology from Wayward Ink Press. I’m just about finished on edits for my novella “The Dance,” which will be in the second Gothika anthology, Bones. It has a voodoo theme and I’m joined by 3 wonderful authors. It’ll be available October 27. I just finished the galley proofs for my third Bones book, Bone Dry. It comes out October 10. And… I will soon be in edits for my holiday short story, “Saint Martin’s Day,” a part of Dreamspinner Press’s Advent Calendar package.

Yes, I use a spreadsheet to keep track.

2. How does my work differ from others in its genre?

When you read my previous answer, did you notice the stories spanned several genres? Contemporary, paranormal and urban fantasy. I’ve also written lots of fantasy and even a historical. I think my inability to stick to a single genre is one thing that sets me apart. I blame my muse. But I figure love is love, wherever, whenever, and whatever, and good writing should be enjoyable no matter what the genre.

My heroes tend to be untraditional. They’re introverts. They may have disabilities. They are not necessarily breathtakingly handsome. But still they find love.

Also, I have a teeny tiny tendency to torture my poor guys before finding them a happy ending.

3. Why do I write what I do?

I have to. Seriously, I’d write even if I knew nobody else would ever read a word of it.

I fell into m/m romance accidentally. I took a deep breath and wrote my first novel, Stasis, for NaNoWriMo. And the story that came to me just happened to involve a gay man (who’s also a wizard of sorts and who has several major issues!) who rescues another man from a terrible punishment.

And then a lot of other stories followed!

4. How does my writing process work?

I keep a (long) file of story ideas. I generally write only one thing at a time (although there are exceptions). I write a story all the way through (usually on my laptop at my kitchen table) and don’t allow myself to edit until the first draft is done. Then I go back, reread, and fiddle with it. I send it to my lovely beta for a couple rounds of editing, and voila!

5. What’s next on the blog hop? Some of my favorite authors, that’s who:  Eli Easton, Jamie Fessenden, Andrew Q. Gordon, and Tali Spencer. (Yes, that’s only 4. So sue me.)

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Please welcome Louise Lyons! (includes giveaway)

Two competing gangs of car and drag racing enthusiasts with a shared history of pain and rivalry leading to outright hatred. Two men from opposite sides of the tracks, yet more in common than they’d like to admit.

Paul Appleton is a troubled man who has never been in a relationship, having lost everyone he cared for in his life. His mother died when he was very young and subsequently, he lost his brother and his best friend. Now Paul is convinced love will always end in tears.

Greg was living on the streets after his parents died and was stabbed by a junkie, ending up in hospital. The Buchanans took Greg under their wing while doing charity work, and Greg joined their loving family when he was adopted. He and his siblings are also car enthusiasts with much more money and therefore better cars than Paul Appleton’s gang.

When they eventually find a connection, Paul fights his feelings and tries to convince himself his lover is only a temporary bit of fun, but Greg has other ideas.

Excerpt:

Greg went to the bar to get a beer and was just handing over the money when he noticed the very man he had been hoping to avoid was right next to him, nursing his own bottle of Budweiser.

“I thought you went to a bar in Stevenage,” Paul commented without looking at Greg.

“I couldn’t be bothered driving over there tonight,” Greg said and gulped some of his beer. He leaned against the bar and glanced at Paul. His gray T-shirt looked about three sizes too small and only emphasized the size of his shoulders and broad back. Intentional, no doubt. His faded jeans were even tighter, and clung to his muscular thighs and firm ass as if they were painted on. Damn, he was hot, and Greg wanted to kick himself for thinking that.

“Not even in the new car?” Paul turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow. His eyes were deep brown and piercing, as if he were looking into Greg rather than at him.

“Not tonight.”

“Nice, by the way. Shame we don’t all have rich parents to shower us with toys like that.”

It was just what Greg expected – a brief compliment quickly crushed by an insult. He was immediately pissed.

“You know nothing about it,” he growled.

Paul shrugged. “I can’t blame you. I wouldn’t have said no either.”

“Listen, Appleton, I won’t pretend I’m not smug as hell driving around in an R34, but I didn’t ask for it and to be honest, I would rather have bought a car I can afford with my own money, which I do earn, by the way. I don’t just live off of them like a fucking leech!”

“Alright, chill, I’m sorry,” Paul said.

“Yeah, well, it gets up my nose that people think I’m rich and spoiled when I work hard like anybody else. I can’t help the fact that I got adopted by the Buchanans. I came from an ordinary family, same as most people, even you.”

“My family was anything but ordinary,” Paul grumbled. “So how come you were adopted anyway?”

“You actually want to know?” Greg asked in surprise.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Okay, we might as well get a seat, then.” Greg turned away from the bar and headed for a corner away from the main bustle, leaving Paul to follow if he felt like it. Greg wasn’t particularly delighted by the prospect of spending more time with him, but since he was here, there wasn’t much else Greg could do. Annoyingly, his pulse sped up as he made his way to an unoccupied corner bench and sat down. He chewed his lip. Paul was still at the bar, speaking to someone he apparently knew, but a moment later, he moved away and walked toward Greg. Fuck, those jeans were tight, and Greg would have bet Paul had no underwear on either.

Jesus, don’t stare. He shifted his eyes up – to bulging pecs. Heat rushed to his groin, and he tried to think about something else. The last thing he wanted was a hard-on, but too long with no fun except for his own hands, and now the company of the hottest guy in the pub, had him stiffening regardless. Greg wondered what the chances were. Would Paul be up for it? Greg knew nothing about him, but he couldn’t imagine him being shy. Greg would bet Paul would shag anything that looked twice at him – or certainly play around with them.

“So? You were going to tell me where you came from,” Paul prompted, dropping onto the seat a little distance away, facing Greg.

“Uh…um…yeah, well, my parents were just ordinary – my dad was a builder and my mum was a waitress. They died in a car crash when I was sixteen.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Paul said with a frown. “Did they treat you okay?”

“My parents? Of course, why wouldn’t they?” That comment puzzled Greg, but he carried on talking. Anything to stop himself imagining Paul’s hand, which was gripping his beer bottle, wrapped around Greg’s cock instead. “They had a huge mortgage, the house got repossessed after they died, and the system didn’t want to know. I lived on the streets for a year, then ended up in hospital, and Agnes Buchanan, who was there doing charity work, took pity on me. And the rest is history.”

“That was lucky.” Paul nodded. “What put you in hospital?”

“A bloke with a knife.”

“Shit.”

“So, how did you end up living with…Stewart Sanders, is it?” Greg asked.

“It’s a long story,” Paul grunted. “I left home when I was sixteen, and he and Abby took me in.”

“Why did you leave?”

Paul scowled and drained the rest of his beer before answering. “It’s not important.”

“Humor me,” Greg said, genuinely interested.

“I’m not here to entertain you!” Paul snapped and got to his feet.

“Hey…” Greg protested. Hell, the guy had a chip on his shoulder. A huge chip. And he was about to walk away from Greg just when he was beginning to convince himself that they were getting along, and that he might possibly get his hand inside those tight jeans later. But Paul was already walking to the bar.

“Shit!” Greg growled under his breath. He was annoyed that Paul walked away and more annoyed still that he was disappointed. It had seemed like they might be starting to move past what happened at Octane, and Greg hoped the stupid feud might have been forgotten too.

Paul hadn’t gone far. He had wedged himself between two men at the bar and was waiting to be served another drink. Greg stared at his ass until he turned around again and then quickly dropped his eyes and pretended interest in the last mouthful of beer in his bottle.

“Sorry.” Paul appeared at the other side of the table, placed a fresh bottle of Bud in front of Greg, and then stepped over his legs and took up his original seat, maybe a foot closer to Greg than before.

“No, I’m sorry. I suppose I come across as if I’m prying, but really, I’m just interested.”

The corner of Paul’s mouth twitched up slightly into a hint of a smile. “Just don’t ask me about family.”

“Okay. So can I ask about your job at the club? Don’t they need you on a Friday night?”

“They rotate the weekend days off. It’s my first in the month I’ve been there. It’s a good job – decent pay too, better than the shitty warehouse I was in before.”

“Yeah, I imagine bouncers get paid pretty well.” Greg nodded. “Do you have to use your fists much?” Damn, Greg, what the hell did you say that for? He cursed himself.

Paul grinned. “Not really. You get more trouble with drunken girls trying to slobber all over you.” He pulled a face. “If there’s real trouble, you diffuse it rather than add to it. I do kickboxing and jujitsu to help with that.”

“Cool,” Greg said. It was something they had in common. “I did kickboxing for a few years. I’ve been thinking about taking up something else too.”

Paul nodded and took another drink. Greg watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed and imagined his lips were wrapped around his cock instead of the bottle. He shifted awkwardly and rested his arm across his lap, hoping not to draw attention to the fact that he was getting uncomfortably hard. Paul lowered the bottle, and his eyes slid from Greg’s face, down his chest, and fixed on exactly what he was hoping Paul wouldn’t look at. He grinned and trapped the tip of his tongue between his teeth. Oh fuck. He was checking Greg out and way more obviously than Greg was checking him.

Should Greg ignore it, or go with it? Did he seriously want to get off with Paul? How difficult would that make things if they ran into each other at shows or something in the future? What the hell would the family say if they found out? What on earth was Greg thinking when he considered taking a chance with a person who went out of his way to make trouble for himself and others?

Greg thought for another minute and realized that it was going to be the only chance he had, at least for that evening. Besides, who was going to know? Paul didn’t want anyone finding out about him anymore than Greg did.

“What are you looking at?” Greg grunted as a way of starting a sort of flirting interaction.

“Isn’t it obvious? Like my company, do you?” Paul responded.

“It seems like it, doesn’t it?”

Paul arched an eyebrow and leaned back. He shifted his ass forward on the seat and drew attention to the fact that the ridiculously tight jeans were virtually crushing him. Greg could make out the head of his cock pushing against the fabric. He wondered if it was his imagination or if he was more turned on than he’d ever been in his life.

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Louise Lyons comes from a family of writers. Her mother has a number of poems published in poetry anthologies, her aunt wrote poems for the church, and her grandmother sparked her inspiration with tales of fantasy. Louise first ventured into writing short stories at the grand old age of eight, mostly about little girls and ponies. She branched into romance in her teens, and MM romance a few years later, but none of her work saw the light of day until she discovered FanFiction in her late twenties.

Posting stories based on some of her favorite movies, provoked a surprisingly positive response from readers. This gave Louise the confidence to submit some of her work to publishers, and made her take her writing “hobby” more seriously.

Louise lives in the UK, about an hour north of London, with a mad Dobermann, and a collection of tropical fish and tarantulas. She works in the insurance industry by day, and spends every spare minute writing. She is a keen horse-rider, and loves to run long-distance. Some of her best writing inspiration comes to her, when her feet are pounding the open road. She often races into the house afterward, and grabs pen and paper to make notes.

Louise has always been a bit of a tomboy, and one of her other great loves is cars and motorcycles. Her car and bike are her pride and joy, and she loves to exhibit the car at shows, and take off for long days out on the bike, with no one for company but herself.

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Wasting away in Procrastinationville

It’s Saturday afternoon. I have a looooong to-do list, but I’ve found myself stuck in Procrastinationville. It’s a pretty town, full of sparkly, shiny things.

My family is stuck here with me: My older daughter, who’s supposed to be doing chemistry homework and studying for the PSAT. My younger daughter, who has an essay to write and yard work to do. And my husband, who still hasn’t quite finished the master bathroom remodel he began when I was in Europe last November.

We’re comfy here.

Also, I recently finished writing a novella and I’m not allowing myself to begin the next story until I accomplish some of the other items on that list. I’m being very strict with myself. But I am excited about the novella, a contemporary in the vein of Housekeeping. It’s called Grown-Up.

My daughters got these fortunes the other day. Perfect!

Have you read The Pillar yet? The reviews have been excellent, which makes me very happy. Even if you don’t usually like historicals, give it a try.

Also, did you know you can preorder my holiday story “The Festivus Miracle“? It releases November 1, and I’m donating 100% of my royalties to Doctors Without Borders.

Speaking of which, Stasis, my very first novel, is now available in the Kindle Unlimited program. If you subscribe, you can borrow the book for free. I get paid when you read it–and I donate that money too. And you can also borrow the sequels.

Will you be attending GRL in October? I will, and I’ll have over 100 of these guys to give away, plus a free story.

Older daughter has cracked the PSAT book, and I’m going to venture out of Procrastinationville… at least into the charming suburb of Thinkingofdoingwork Town.

What are you up to this weekend?

 

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Please welcome Jamie Fessenden!

Day Two of the Murder on the Mountain Blog Tour!

In Murder on the Mountain, when Kyle and Wesley are being transported to the summit of Mount Washington on a cold, foggy October night to investigate the murder of Stuart Warren, the train passes by the memorial to Lizzie Bourne. It’s mentioned in passing, but let me take this opportunity to tell you why that memorial is there.

On September 14, 1885, a 23-year-old woman named Lizzie C. Bourne attempted to climb Mount Washington with her cousin, Lucy Bourne, and her uncle, George Bourne. They followed the Carriage Road. However, that was only half constructed at the time, so the second leg of the trip would have been grueling. It’s now believed Lizzie had an undiagnosed heart condition, as well.

They began the climb at 2pm, and by 4pm they were halfway up the mountain. In those days, there was a hotel at the summit called the Tip-Top House, so if they’d been able to make it that far, they would have had a warm bed for the night. Unfortunately, they were hit by a sudden gale, and clouds descended, making it impossible to see the way to the summit. As night descended, the temperature dropped below freezing.

The girls became too exhausted to continue, so they lay down and George busied himself building a rock wall to shield them from the winds. He labored at this until late into the night, at which point he lay down beside the girls. But when he took Lizzie’s hand to comfort her, he found that it was cold. She’d died quietly in her sleep.

In the morning, the sun rose, revealing that George and the girls were within sight of Tip-Top House, where they could have spent the night, warm and safe.

Lizzie Bourne was not the first person to die on Mount Washington, but a young woman dying so close to safe haven struck a chord with people. A rough stone monument was built to commemorate her, and later replaced with a more permanent structure. Her portrait now hangs in Tip-Top House, which is now a museum.

For the next four weeks, Murder on the Mountain will be touring the blogs of several MM Romance authors, providing . If you leave an email address in the comments or email me at jamesfessenden@hotmail.com, you’ll be entered into a drawing for either a free copy of Murder on the Mountain or a $40 gift certificate to Dreamspinner Press!

To visit more blogs on the blog tour, go to: http://jamiefessenden.com/2014/08/22/murder-on-the-mountain-blog-tour/

When Jesse Morales, a recent college grad who aspires to be a mystery writer, volunteers to work on the summit of Mt. Washington for a week, he expects to work hard. What he doesn’t expect is to find a corpse in the fog, lying among the rocks, his head crushed. The dead man turns out to be a young tourist named Stuart Warren, who strayed from his friends while visiting the mountain.

Kyle Dubois, a widowed state police detective, is called to the scene in the middle of the night, along with his partner, Wesley Roberts. Kyle and Jesse are instantly drawn to one another, except Jesse’s fascination with murder mysteries makes it difficult for Kyle to take the young man seriously. But Jesse finds a way to make himself invaluable to the detective by checking into the hotel where the victim’s friends and family are staying and infiltrating their circle. Soon, he is learning things that could very well solve the case—or get him killed.

BUY LINK: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=5335

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Pillar flash fiction contest winner

There were some really fantastic entries in the flash fiction contest. Look in the comments here to see them. All the authors should be congratulated, because it’s hard to write a story in 140 characters!

After a tough decision, the judges have chosen this beauty by Suki Fleet as the winner:

Sometimes he whispers “I love you, I adore you” down the phone before I sleep but most of the time we sleep together—his arms around my chest, his lips to my ear.

Congratulations, Suki! And thank you to everyone who entered. I hope you enjoyed playing.

Special thanks to Andrea Speed, Charley Descoteaux, and Bru Baker, our wonderful judges!

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Please welcome Lily G. Blunt!

Paint the Sky

by

Lily G. Blunt

 

Genre: M/M, Contemporary Romance and Erotica

Length: 65,000 Words/230 pages

Release Date: August 30, 2014

ASIN: B00MSYA1JQ

 

 

 

BLURB:

 

A love of art…

A mutual interest in art draws two shy university students together. Ben admires Vinnie’s painting of the university building, so Vinnie invites him to an exhibition of his artwork. From a wealthy family, Ben purchases some of Vinnie’s art and arranges for the artist to personally hang the paintings in his apartment.

Starry, starry night…

Ben commissions Vinnie to paint his portrait, in order to spend more time with the artist. On the night of the sitting, Vinnie fingerpaints the starry night on Ben’s chest… and they kiss. They begin a relationship beneath the night sky, God’s own canvas.

But every relationship has its ups and downs and so it is with theirs. When Ben thinks Vinnie spends too much time with a fellow artist, his jealousy drives a wedge between them and forces Vinnie into the very thing Ben dreads.

Hold tight to your dreams…

Ben and Vinnie will have to walk through fire before they can find one another again. But if they believe, and if they keep their faith in the night sky and each other, just maybe they can make their dreams of love come true.

 

EXCERPT:

 

Vinnie led me across the room, pulling me by the shirt. “Lie back on the sofa for me and I’ll paint you.”

As if in a dream, I settled my head against one arm of the sofa, my legs dangling over the other end, scarcely breathing now. Vinnie knelt on the floor beside me with an open pot of paint in his hand.

Teasingly, he dipped his index finger into the dark blue paint as if it were cream he would lick off. His finger connected with my skin and he made short strokes across my chest, the coldness of the paint making me shiver.

Mesmerised by the closeness of his beautiful face, the view of the night sky through the window, and the picture forming upon my chest, I watched as dab after dab and stroke after stroke he built up a mix of shades, until a dark night sky with the moon and stars were there to be seen—a masterpiece, drying on the warmth of my blazing skin, a transient thing of beauty. His fingers skimmed my skin causing gooseflesh to ripple in waves down my arms and thighs. My nipples pebbled in response to his touch.

And when he was done, his lips met mine in a languid kiss; how our first kiss should have been—sweet, innocent, and full of promise. He pulled away, smiling down at me.

This was the beginning of something special.

 

BUY/PRE-ORDER LINKS:

 

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Paint-Sky-Bob...

 

Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MSYA1JQ

 

 

LILY G. BLUNT’S BIO:

 

Lily G. Blunt writes contemporary gay romance and erotica. She loves to explore the relationship between two men and the intensity of their physical and emotional attraction. Angst often features in her stories as she feels this demonstrates the depth of the men’s feelings for each other. Lily is forever writing imaginary scenes and plots in her head, but only a few ever make it to the page—there never seems to be enough hours in the day despite having left the teaching profession to concentrate on her writing!

Lily discovered the wonderful world of m/m romance novels four years ago via fan fiction and went on to write stories in her spare time. With the encouragement of her friends and readers she decided to publish some of her work.

Lily has several self-published stories available on Amazon. She is also published with Torquere Press and Wayward Ink Publishing.

Easily distracted from her writing, Lily makes videos using clips from gay-themed movies and posts gorgeous pictures of men kissing or making out on her tumblr and Facebook pages. Lily is also an avid supporter of GLBTQ rights and advocates equality for all.

Lily lives in central England with her rather bemused husband, two twenty-something children, and a ‘mad as a bag of frogs’ Shetland Sheepdog.

 

 

LILY G. BLUNT’S SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS:

WordPress: http://lilygblunt.wordpress.com

Blog: http://lilygblunt.blogspot.co.uk/

FB Page: http://www.facebook.com/LilyGBlunt

FB Profile: http://www.facebook.com/lily.blunt.75

Tumblr: http://bobloving.tumblr.com/

Tumblr: http://lilygblunt.tumblr.com

YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/user/BoyonBoyLoving?feature=mhee

Twitter: https://twitter.com/BoyonBoyLoving

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6586037.Lily_G_Blunt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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