L.E. Franks's Blog, page 5
October 15, 2014
Fortune Cookie #5: “He was beautiful, and as far as I knew straight; and here I was standing at his feet with my hand slowly stroking my dick.”
LE FRANKS’ GRL FORTUNE COOKIE GAME
In celebration of my attendance at this year’s Gay Romance Literary Retreat outside of Chicago, IL -I’ve brought swag for everyone in the form of fortune cookies. Inside each cookie is a quote from one of my books. The trick is to identify which book of mine the quote belongs to. Once you have the answer you can come by my swag table, see me at the supporting author signing, or the Thursday edition of the author lounge and fill out your raffle ticket for a chance at walking away with an amazon gift card and some cool swag.
If you’d like to play along at home comment below and tell me what your favorite fortune cookie moment is. I’ll randomly select one person from all the entries left here. 8 Quotes, 8 chances to win from the comfort of your bunny slippers.
THE ANSWERS
I couldn’t bring myself to consider the one last scrap of terrycloth left to me: apparently I’d missed a washcloth, hanging stiff & dry from its perch on the tub faucet. Wrapping it around my member wasn’t going to bring me anything but grief and the clear shower curtain would be the last act of a desperate man – and a useless one, at that.
Throwing my shoulders back, sucking in a breath and running my hand down the skin of my torso in a soothing motion, I opened the door preparing to sneak out and sprint for cover.
“Hey there princess! I made ya coffee!”
The mocking voice had me seeing red. For some unfathomable reason I turned away from the sanctuary of my bedroom with its copious supply of clean boxer briefs; instead, stomping into the living room where Fat Boy was lounging, mug of coffee in hand, propping up his head on the arm of my Italian sofa. He’d moved into a slice of shadow bisecting the room so I could now see him clearly. My squinting glares were all his own.
“God dammit, Fat Boy! You’re the most fuckin’ annoying piece of shi….” My full-on rant, complete with hands on hips, legs splayed, cock swinging against my thigh, dribbled off to a halt as I finally took a good look at him.
He had dressed for comfort, long powerful legs covered in black track pants with the cuffs unzipped so I could see his felted grey socks had the head of Woody Woodpecker on the side. It might have been a different bird or maybe it was some other animal logo, it was hard to tell. His black Nikes lay abandoned, half tucked under the sofa. He wore a painted-on, orange, University of Tennessee “Vol for Life” t-shirt that stretched across his chest and arms, clinging to his flat abs. I had no idea why I’d been calling him Fat Boy.
I remember the first time he walked into the club – a badly cut black suit adding shapeless mass to him. He wore his sunglasses and it struck me that he looked more like a wanna-be white rapper thug, than anything else. When he opened his mouth and the drawl screaming good old boy came out of it, the moniker flashed, and I used it. Funny, he’d never objected to the nickname, just smiled and disappeared back into the shadows whenever I said it to his face.
Now, with him here in my home, lying stretched out in front of me… all those big muscles and the obviously silky skin of his upper arms… I wouldn’t be a gay man if I didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to catalog every inch of the man, from his wool covered feet and up those long, long legs and thighs, all the way to the top of his head of blond hair.
All I wanted now was to stroke my fingers along his strong jaw, cup his cheek. Bite his full lower lip, rub my nose along his; lose myself in those grey blue eyes… the ones now laughing at me…. Shit! He was beautiful, and as far as I knew straight; and here I was standing at his feet with my hand slowly stroking my dick!
Dammit! I wrapped my hand around the head, as if hiding it from shame.
“Well, there! With you caterwaulin’ I thought you weren’t happy to see me, but I can tell by lookin’ at you now, I’d be wrong.”
LE Franks. 6 Days To Valentine Wilde City Press
Fortune Cookie #4: “Kris whispered the words that rattled, this time around his heart–pressing his lips against Tyr’s chest he let them come…cherish, revere, tenderness, rapture, happiness, joy.”
LE FRANKS’ GRL FORTUNE COOKIE GAME
In celebration of my attendance at this year’s Gay Romance Literary Retreat outside of Chicago, IL -I’ve brought swag for everyone in the form of fortune cookies. Inside each cookie is a quote from one of my books. The trick is to identify which book of mine the quote belongs to. Once you have the answer you can come by my swag table, see me at the supporting author signing, or the Thursday edition of the author lounge and fill out your raffle ticket for a chance at walking away with an amazon gift card and some cool swag.
If you’d like to play along at home comment below and tell me what your favorite fortune cookie moment is. I’ll randomly select one person from all the entries left here. 8 Quotes, 8 chances to win from the comfort of your bunny slippers.
THE ANSWERS
They moved, in the night. Hours spent kissing and touching and learning, with only an ancient couch to bear them witness, until finally, aching and shivering from the effects of temperature and desire, they staggered into Tyr’s bed. The duvet pulled over their heads as they stripped away the last of the physical and emotional barriers between them.
The slide of skin against skin, electrified their senses, drawing them together and pulling them apart like the tide at full moon, inexorable in its purpose and drive; panting and moaning they fell together, painting each other with their promise.
Kris whispered the words that rattled, this time around his heart–pressing his lips against Tyr’s chest he let them come…cherish, revere, tenderness, rapture, happiness, joy…
LE Franks. Snow Globe Dreamspinner Press
Fortune Cookie #3: “As far as New York is concerned, you my friend, are toxic waste, and this place is a dump.”
LE FRANKS’ GRL FORTUNE COOKIE GAME
In celebration of my attendance at this year’s Gay Romance Literary Retreat outside of Chicago, IL -I’ve brought swag for everyone in the form of fortune cookies. Inside each cookie is a quote from one of my books. The trick is to identify which book of mine the quote belongs to. Once you have the answer you can come by my swag table, see me at the supporting author signing, or the Thursday edition of the author lounge and fill out your raffle ticket for a chance at walking away with an amazon gift card and some cool swag.
If you’d like to play along at home comment below and tell me what your favorite fortune cookie moment is. I’ll randomly select one person from all the entries left here. 8 Quotes, 8 chances to win from the comfort of your bunny slippers.
THE ANSWERS
The man that held open the door to apartment 506-B looked more vampire than executive chef. It didn’t take much imagination to count the days since Chris’s world had imploded. Ignoring the lack of welcome and Chris’s fugue as evidenced by the dark beard crusting his usually fair cheeks, dark purple circles under red-rimmed eyes and unwashed clothes, Zack pushed by the man still leaning in the doorway and assessed the damage.
If his friend’s physical deterioration wasn’t enough of a tell, the reek of stale Chinese food from half-empty to-go containers abandoned within eye line of the front door would do it for anyone who knew him. Chris was fastidious when it came to the food he’d eat. To him, “fast food” was a meal that took less than an hour to prepare.
“You need a keeper.” Zack couldn’t help the disapproval flattening his tone. He’d told himself a thousand times on the redeye from Oregon that he wasn’t going to overreact and judge. Fuck it. Judging was exactly what Chris needed.
“I’m fine.”
Zack could feel his eyebrow trying to scrabble further into his hairline. A quick glance around told a different story. The living room was a minefield of wadded up newspapers and cardboard pizza boxes, but it was Chris’s kitchen, usually his pride and joy, that was the last straw.
The sink overflowed with unwashed dishes. Even worse there was a pot encrusted with what looked to be week-old mac and cheese from a box, sitting in the middle of the floor, a spoon cemented upright in the hardened noodles, and empty beer bottles lolling next to the neon orange mess. Zack could only guess that Chris had sat leaning against the refrigerator to eat but instead finished off what looked like a six-pack of porter, understandable given a choice between the two.
It took him just a minute to finish the tour. Chris’s apartment was typical of Manhattan where space was at a premium. What was billed as a one bedroom here would be laughed out of Portland. Maybe you’d call it a studio plus. The “bedroom” was just big enough for Chris’s double bed with about a foot of clearance to move around it. The closet doors had been removed by necessity, freeing up space for the small dresser inside and leaving just enough room to hang a few suits and a handful of shirts. It was such a tight squeeze that Zack imagined Chris could get dressed without actually getting out of bed first.
“At least it won’t take long to pack you.”
“What?”
Zack could hear the fatigue heavy in Chris’s voice as it floated in from the front of the apartment.
“As far as New York is concerned, you, my friend, are toxic waste, and this place is a dump. One more week and you’d be living on Red Bull and Slim Jims and ordering cable which you can no longer afford. You have a job waiting in Portland.”
“I don’t wanna go to Portland. I live here.” Chris leaned into the bedroom.
“This isn’t living. Where’s the rest of your stuff?” Most of the dirty laundry piled on the mattress was jeans and T-shirts, unwashed socks and boxers, not the wardrobe of a successful executive chef.
“Jordan’s.” All the weariness was instantly gone from Chris’s voice, replaced by hard, flat pain. Zack moved then, grabbing Chris and folding him into an embrace.
“Leave Jordan to me. You have things to do—I made a list on the plane.”
“Oh, you did, did you?” Chris muttered into Zack’s neck.
“Yup. You always were such a drama queen. I knew you’d be a wreck. You need me.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Yup. You do. You also need constant supervision. You’ll get both those things on the West coast.”
“Portland? Really? Couldn’t you find me a job in L.A. or San Francisco? Someplace where they don’t make you wear plaid flannel and know the difference between steak tartar and hamburger?”
“Seriously, Chris, people outside of Manhattan do eat and Portland is one of the hot spots for culinary genius and innovation.”
“Since when?” “Since I moved back. Now hop to, if you plan on playing the food diva you’re going to have to smell a whole hellava lot better than you do now and I’ve only got two days before I have to fly home. It may take that long to scrape all the crud off you.”
LE Franks. Can This Be Real (Kindle Locations 102-120). MLR Press LLC.
Fortune Cookie #2: “He was a metronome of elegant seduction, and were it not for those hard, damning eyes drilling into me, I could lose myself in his motion.”
LE FRANKS’ GRL FORTUNE COOKIE GAME
In celebration of my attendance at this year’s Gay Romance Literary Retreat outside of Chicago, IL -I’ve brought swag for everyone in the form of fortune cookies. Inside each cookie is a quote from one of my books. The trick is to identify which book of mine the quote belongs to. Once you have the answer you can come by my swag table, see me at the supporting author signing, or the Thursday edition of the author lounge and fill out your raffle ticket for a chance at walking away with an amazon gift card and some cool swag.
If you’d like to play along at home comment below and tell me what your favorite fortune cookie moment is. I’ll randomly select one person from all the entries left here. 8 Quotes, 8 chances to win from the comfort of your bunny slippers.
THE ANSWERS
The man glowering at me as I exited the tunnel was probably Ford, and he looked nothing like I imagined.
He was tall and thin, with a rigid spine, like a piece of rebar had been fused with the bone. His features were vulpine, sharp instead of broad, the nose long and aristocratic rather than flat. His eyes a piercing jade under thick sable locks that brushed the collar of his dark shirt—hair I found myself wanting to touch.
I swallowed my tongue as I tried not to drool in front of this dark angel. He was as beautiful as a renaissance painting—his skin glowed a pearl-white, almost translucent in the low light. And not unlike the avenging angels depicted in paintings of the era, he was a man without humor.
There were no smile lines at either the corners of his mouth or eyes, and his skin, reaping the benefit of his serious nature, was unblemished and smooth. He could pass for any age within a forty-year span, though I guessed it to be on the shortside of thirty rather than close to forty, if pressed.
He had a controlled energy flowing off him that gave him a gravitas which was written into every movement he made and every look he shared, and when he turned that force in my direction, I almost burst into flames.
Softly, he condemned me. “You walk like an elephant. You will not last.” He snatched the clipboard from my hand and spun lightly, like a dancer, disappearing up the stairs.
I followed, not wanting to risk finding my own way out, not wanting to leave that first impression on his lips. Already I wanted to please him, and the fact that I didn’t weighed heavily on my heart. So I kept him in sight, kept watching the slim hips, kept following the flex of his buttocks as he climbed higher. He was a metronome of elegant seduction, and were it not for those hard, damning eyes drilling into me, I could lose myself in his motion.
Watching him, I regretted my lack of experience.
To be gay and living in New York and still a virgin at nineteen felt shameful, wasteful, juvenile.
I hated to think about the handful of “almost runs” I’d had so far, but living with my overprotective grandfather had done nothing for my love life.
He was my only family left, and until I was sure of what I wanted—or who I wanted—I wasn’t prepared to bring home a casual boyfriend and ruin his dreams for our family’s future. But I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t wish I was the kind of person who could say yes to an offer implicit in a glance or a sway of the hips, or that I hadn’t dreamed of catching the attention of a beautiful man like Ford and seeing the desire for me in his eyes.
Ford cast a single, stern, look over his shoulder.
My cheeks burned.
“We are now backstage. No words. No sounds…” Ford narrowed his eyes. “Don’t even breathe.”
With that, I followed him into the magical chaos of his world and found breathing wasn’t going to be an issue. If I thought Ford was the angel of darkness, then what I saw before me—suspended twenty feet above the stage from a single red ribbon—was the angel of light.
Fortune Cookie #1: “We were naked, spent. I’d stopped kidding myself that this was only grief sex, two orgasms ago.”
LE FRANKS’ GRL FORTUNE COOKIE GAME
In celebration of my attendance at this year’s Gay Romance Literary Retreat outside of Chicago, IL -I’ve brought swag for everyone in the form of fortune cookies. Inside each cookie is a quote from one of my books. The trick is to identify which book of mine the quote belongs to. Once you have the answer you can come by my swag table, see me at the supporting author signing, or the Thursday edition of the author lounge and fill out your raffle ticket for a chance at walking away with an amazon gift card and some cool swag.
If you’d like to play along at home comment below and tell me what your favorite fortune cookie moment is. I’ll randomly select one person from all the entries left here. 8 Quotes, 8 chances to win from the comfort of your bunny slippers.
THE ANSWERS
Quote No. 1 – Last First KissWe lay pressed together in the last fading hour before dawn, Henry holding me within the frame of his arms. We were naked, spent. I’d stopped kidding myself that this was only grief sex two orgasms ago. Having Henry spread across my bed as I moved slowly in him was burned into every fiber of my being. Having Henry do the same to me made the etching permanent.
We hadn’t spoken words. Not really, not once since he landed on my floor. Certainly there were the bare minimums required by necessity, but we hadn’t laid Danny’s ghost to rest yet, and I could feel him hovering over us. I couldn’t decide if he was a vengeful spirit or if he was granting us sanctity over this union—no matter how brief it was doomed to be. In another eight hours, I would be on a flight heading back to Seattle.
And feeling Henry’s fingertips slowly rake furrows through my brown hair, I wondered how I’d be able to take a single step away from him, even knowing he was probably counting the ticking seconds from the grandfather clock, waiting for the right moment to slip away along with the night. I closed my eyes and stepped once more into the abyss.
Grand Adventures a Dreamspinner Press anthology
Description:
On September 1, 2011, TJ Klune wrote, “…it’s not about the ending, it’s about the journey…” in a review of Eric Arvin’s Woke Up in a Strange Place.
With those words, two men began a journey of love and invited us to ride along. TJ and Eric have shared so much with us: their wonderful books, their smiles, their humor, their lives, and their inspiring devotion to each other. In December of 2013, their journey took a detour when Eric was taken to the emergency room. He survived the surgery to remove a cavernous hemangioma from his brain stem, but the challenges TJ and Eric face are far from over.
The authors in this anthology donated their talent as a way to support Eric’s continued recovery, to help bring strength to TJ, and to show both of them just how much love surrounds them. Grand Adventures is a diverse range of stories about the journey of love. We’re going on some grand adventures for a great cause. Thank you for joining us.
One hundred percent of the income from this volume goes directly to TJ and Eric.
October 7, 2014
Guest Post: What Does GRL Mean To Me? by LE Franks
Originally posted on The Novel Approach:
Actually, it means quite a lot. Thank you.
I’ve had that “Dark Night of the Soul” moment that writers get sometimes.
That moment when we question our abilities—our very right to call ourselves writers—when we catch a review, read it the wrong (or right!) way and are sent spinning down the rabbit hole of self-loathing and insecurity, only to find ourselves stuck there.
I think it’s one of those hazards of a job that keeps us locked in our heads if we’re doing it right.
And unless you’re one of the lucky ones, most of us lack the gift of true perspective to keep us out of trouble when it comes to our own work. It’s the most difficult attribute to develop as a writer, and the most critical one to have. For me, it takes approximately six months before I can read anything I’ve written and not immediately want…
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October 3, 2014
An Honorable Mention – Can This Be Real and the Rainbow Awards
So this morning was a surprise. An honorable mention for this preliminary stage of judging at the Rainbow Awards. That in and of itself is fantastic – there are so many excellent books being considered that knowing I made the cut is enough. But then I read the judge’s comments..
.
…they gave me such a thoughtful analysis of my story and kind review of my work that I’m left humbled, grateful, and even a little teary.
Here is my entry for this year’s Rainbow Awards, and their kind words. Thank you from the bottom of my heart – whoever you are. LE
Can This Be Real
“Needless to say, I found this book to be a very charming surprise. The standard initial attraction (and understated, witty interactions) between the two main characters set up the story for a thoughtful, but not heavy-handed, exploration of love. These men, who seem incompatible on an essential level, who stand on opposite ends of an issue that is very important to each – for very different reasons – learn how to reach a middle ground for the sake of the love they bear each other. Christian’s cooking for Andy in a way that would get him “kicked out of the CIA” (as his sous chef remarks) and Andy’s learning to cook for Christian seemed very poignant illustrations of love to me. I found the source of the conflict to be original and the execution to be perfect – had it been handled in a more heavy handed way, it would have made me roll my eyes, but the characters reactions were spot on for me. This story was not long, but it was very well-crafted, complete with eccentric but vividly drawn secondary characters and a villain who, in the end, turned out to be flawed but still human. A perfect read.”
September 25, 2014
When Writers Roam – Sue Brown Guest Post
I’m actually pretty thrilled any time I find myself in a room with Sue Brown – crashing waves or not, it’s lovely she’s paying a virtual visit to my writing space… let’s all pretend it’s exotic and not surrounded by dust bunnies. Take it away Sue!Over the last few months I have been introduced to other authors’ writing rooms and frankly… I’m jealous.
I’m currently sitting in the Beach Shack in Steephill Cove, writing furiously across the table from K.C. Wells, with the accompaniment of waves crashing against the rocks. My co-author of the With A Kick series, Clare London, writes in her garden and we have writing days, usually a Friday, typing away at another instalment of the series. It’s so much nicer than the usual place, my old sofa with Faith snoring next to me.
One of my favourite places to write is in the members’ bar of the Royal Festival Hall, with the Thames rolling past outside and inside a world of creativity; from writing to music, people making deals, to heated discussions. If I could afford the trip to London every day, that’s where I’d be.
Inspiration, on the other hand, comes in many places. Sometimes it’s being fed a little taste of heaven in the form of alcohol over ice cream, sometimes it’s sitting on an old train and talking to a gay couple about their cockerpoo. A writer never knows what sets off an idea. I love the fact that ideas pop into my head although I could do with it one at a time. Did you hear that, Muse? One. At. A. Time!
Hissed as a Newt (#2 in the With A Kick series)
A drunk clown rolling around in the gutter is not what David Wright expects to find as he walks to With A Kick, his favourite ice-cream shop. David has had a lousy day. A literary agent has crushed his dreams and all he wants is the consolation of alcoholic ice-cream. He’s about to walk away when he realises the clown has been dumped by his boyfriend. On a whim, David takes the clown into With A Kick before he gets arrested. Underneath the smeared make-up, he meets Stan, who has just discovered his boyfriend and best friend getting more than friendly. Over ice-cream, David and Stan discuss their problems and discover maybe they can help each other.
Excerpt
As he turned the corner into Covent Garden he noticed a small crowd had gathered, obstructing his path to alcoholic heaven. He huffed as he negotiated the kids and parents, and the tourists with their cameras snapping incessant shots. A large crowd had gathered in one corner and he expected to see a street performer juggling or miming—or whatever crap they called art. It was indeed a street performer but the bloke was rolling around in the road, flailing his arms and mumbling to himself. David’s lip curled as he realised the clown was drunk; absolutely paralytic in fact. Lucky bugger!
“It’s a strange show, Vera,” an old man standing next to David commented to his wife.
She sniffed in agreement. “Nothing like our day, Bert. They were true artistes.”
The couple moved away, the woman still complaining.
The man in the road rolled over and vomited. A groan of disgust rippled over the crowd and they moved away en masse.
David was about to do the same when he caught the man’s words.
“I loved you, you fucking bastard. I loved you and you cheated on me.”
Bastard, not bitch. Huh.
Cursing his impulsive nature, David knelt by the man, careful to avoid the puke. “Are you all right?”
The man mumbled incoherently. His makeup was smeared, and David realised he’d been crying. At the moment he looked more like an Allison Schulnik painting than a clown.
“You really need to get out of the road, man.”
“Leave me in the gutter.”
Oh Jesus, a drama queen. “Listen mate, you can stay here if you want but you’re liable to be nicked. Why don’t you get up and come with me? I want to drown my sorrows. We can cry on each other’s shoulder.”
The clown opened one eye. It would have been a pretty blue eye if it hadn’t been so bloodshot. “A drink?”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“Probably.” With David’s help the clown sat up and clutched his stomach. “Definitely. I’m going to puke.”
Make sure you catch up with the first book in the series: A Twist and Two Balls by Clare London.
Eduardo Mancini is going to be a star of the London stage and screen. Or that was the plan. His alter ego Eddy March hasn’t got further than the chorus and a bit part in a TV series. His parents aren’t supportive, his agent can’t place his particular skills, and he’s finding it hard to hang onto his young dreams. Things go from bad to worse when he’s late for an important audition, hasn’t got enough money to pay the taxi fare, and is chased across the streets of Soho by the irate driver.
Eddy reaches what he believes is sanctuary – With A Kick, a store where ice creams are blended with alcohol and imagination, and where his friends can help him. But Nuri the taxi driver is persistent in his steady pursuit, above and beyond the money he’s owed. Despite their very different characters and background, Eddy and Nuri’s relationship goes from a complete unknown to a wary balancing act. There are still mistakes to be made, and hurdles to clear. And both of them have to admit that their life so far hasn’t gone the way they planned.
But maybe being caught by Nuri was just what Eddy’s career needed – both for his job and his heart.
About the Author
Sue Brown is owned by her dog and two children. When she isn’t following their orders, she can be found plotting at her laptop. In fact she hides so she can plot, and has become at ignoring the orders.
Sue discovered M/M erotica at the time she woke up to find two men kissing on her favorite television series. The series was boring; the kissing was not. She may be late to the party, but she’s made up for it since, writing fan fiction until she was brave enough to venture out into the world of original fiction.
Come over and talk to Sue at suebrown.stories@gmail.com.
Her website can be found at http://www.suebrownstories.com/
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/suebrownstories
Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/suebrownstories
Blog: http://suebrownsstories.blogspot.com/
Email: suebrown.stories@gmail.com
September 12, 2014
GRL Dirty Dozen Blog Tour: JC Wallace Guest Post
Hi, everyone! Welcome to the GRL Dirty Dozen Blog Tour. I want to thank LE for hosting me! Each author came up with a questions for a total of 12 in all. Here are my answers. Don’t forget to enter the giveaway!
In addition, I’ve included an excerpt from my new novel, Diventando: The Vessel as well as a link to enter my blog tour giveaway!
Dirty Dozen Qquestions & Giveaway Items…
TM ~ What inspires you most when you are writing?
JC: The unknown. I like to have an idea of where my story is going but I find those ideas that pop up in the moment of writing to be the most inspiring.
Tempeste ~ What brought you to write m/m? What keeps you writing in this genre?
JC: I started reading M/M about three years ago. Once I read my first M/M story, I never looked back. I have written on and off during my life but put it away during my school years (I went to school forever!). When I went back to writing, I tried M/M. Loved it and definitely want to keep writing it.
Carter ~ Of all the characters you’ve written, who is your favorite and why?
JC: Probably Shaney in Curiosity Killed Shaney. He’s me to the extreme. He’s distracted and creative and curious and fun.
LE ~ Many of us have pen names that we use and there are an infinite number of ways and reasons behind them, but I doubt many of them reflect the names we wish we’d been born with. If you could micro-manage the ultimate do-over, what birth name do you want? What nickname?
JC: Actually, my pen name is the name I would want so I will go with Jake and the nickname “JC”.
Morticia ~ Name one unusual fact about yourself that you think your readers would be surprised to learn.
JC: I am a transgendered person.
Rafe Haze: “What do you do that most injures the progress of your writing, and why do you do it?”
JC: Procrastination. I am a chronic procrastinator. It’s a curse. I am constantly doing things at the last minute. For writing, I hate deadlines. It makes writing a chore instead of fun for me.
Jeff ~ If you had to trade writing for another creative pursuit, what would it be?
JC: I have had many creative pursuits in my life. I have gone through periods of painting, textile works, wood working, landscaping, computer graphics, etc. I guess if I had to choose one, it would be computer graphics.
Max ~ In one sentence, write the beginning of a sex scene using some kind of food. Think of it as your hook.
JC: Slowly, the heated chocolate sauce was drizzled over his chest. He sucked in a breath at the heated sting when the sauce covered his nipples. Arching his back off the bed, he groaned with pleasure.
Wade ~ Name one of your favorite characters of all time that someone else wrote. Can be M/M or any genre.
JC: Sam Kage from Matter of Time by Mary Calmes. Commanding, Alpha Male. I think he works so well in the stories because he’s exactly what Jory wants and needs him to be.
JC ~ If you could be one of your characters, who would you be and why?
JC: I probably would choose to be Lincoln from Dare to Love Forever. Commander in the New Vampire Justice, strong, smart, caring and a bad-ass fighter.
Diana ~ How many versions of a book do you usually write before you arrive at ‘the one’, and how does your editor impact that?
JC: By the time my story hits my editor, there are generally only very minor changes needed. I rarely have more than one version.
Ethan ~ If you came with a warning label, what would it be?
JC: Caution: Timid on the outside, tiger on the inside.
Giveaway:
TM ~ ebook copy, winners choice and a signed rack card.
Tempeste ~ ebook copy, winners choice
Ethan ~ ebook copy, winners choice
Morticia ~ ebook copy, winners choice
Jeff ~ ebook copy of Hat Trick
Wade ~ ebook copy, winners choice
JC ~ 1 winner ebook copies of 3 JCW books
Carter ~ ebook copy, winners choice
Max ~ ebook copy, winners choice
Enter the Dirty Dozen Blog Tour Giveaway!
Blog Tour Dates and Locations
Date ~ Author is Hosting Author
Sept 1 ~ Max.Vos Carter Quinn
Sept 4 ~ diana.copland TM Smith
Sept 7 ~ JC Wallace Max Vos
Sept 10 ~ Jeff Adams Diana Copland
Sept 12 ~ le.franks JC Wallace
Sept 15 ~ Ethanstone Jeff Adams
Sept 18 ~ writerwadekelly LE Franks
Sept 21 ~ Morticia Knight Ethan Stone
Sept 23 ~ tempeste.oriley Wade Kelly
Sept 25 ~ rafehaze Morticia Knight
Sept 28 ~ Carter Quinn Tempeste O’Riley
Sept 30 ~ TM Smith Rafe Haze
Diventando: The Vessel
Owen McIntyre is no stranger to the Grim Reaper. Diagnosed with leukemia at the age of fifteen, he’s spent the last ten years slowly dying. With only two weeks until his next checkup, Owen’s body is already warning him that he is no longer in remission. Tired of the countless meds and chemo, not to mention the way his family coddles him, he decides to live and die on his own terms and forgo treatment. When he meets a lively college professor named Turk, conquering the man becomes part of Owen’s bucket list. But as Owen gets to know Turk, he starts to see him as more than a fling, a luxury that a dying man doesn’t have.
But what if, suddenly, everything Owen knew to be true turned out to be a web of lies and deceit—even his diagnosis of cancer? Taken hostage, tied to a bed and subjected to painful experimentation, Owen’s nightmare of leukemia is a far cry from the horrors he will face. No longer able to trust anyone in his life, including Turk, Owen is alone and cut off from the world. He has to make the hard decision to trust those who have betrayed him, including Turk (who he cares for deeply), or die a lonely death. With time running out, he’ll not only fight to live, but fight to want to live again, and even that might not be enough to save him from the evil that lurks inside.
Excerpt:
Owen McIntyre sighed heavily, trailing behind his cousin, Wayne, as he perused the vast rows of testosterone-ridden muscle cars. How Owen had come to be at the Classic Car Show in the largest parking lot of Middlebury College was beyond him. Wayne, a mechanic and a lover of anything remotely resembling a car, had nixed Owen’s plans to rework the problematic gaming code he’d been contracted to fix, and, unceremoniously, demanded Owen get his “pasty white, glow-in-the-dark ass” out into the sunshine. There had even been threats of cutting off the power to his room. This came from his cousin, who was miles of fair, white skin and had freckles from his father’s side. He was a sunburn waiting to happen. Owen was now at the last place on earth he wanted to be on a Saturday. He was too tired and achy for this. He needed to get the code done. Life was too short to spend time on activities that didn’t matter.
Owen weaved through the crowd of hundreds of people all perusing cars in the bright, autumn sunshine. So many classic cars, lined up ceremoniously to show off their restorations, hoods open so car enthusiasts could drool over their powerful, gleaming engines. Proud owners spouted off facts and told stories of woe and heartache, which all ended with the triumph of a restored classic. Owen shook his head. He just didn’t get it. They were cars, ways to get from point A to point B. Now show him a high-end gaming system with three different types of graphics cards and the ability to run six different applications and a virtual reality game at the same time without lagging and then he’d be impressed.
Wayne stopped in front of a shiny, red car with gleaming chrome bumpers and four round headlights. Attached to the black grill was a chrome horse. A large sign next to the car said, 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 428 Cobra Jet. Whatever that was. Below was a list of awards. Mustang Club of America Best in Show. Muscle Week Best Classic. Classic Car Troubleshooting Award. And a dozen or so more. Lined up next the sign were trophies of all sizes, most topped off with shiny, die-cast versions of cars, which probably matched the awards on the sign. Owen was mildly impressed given that he didn’t know their importance.
Cars weren’t anywhere on the list of what Owen cared about or understood. He didn’t even have a driver’s license. At sixteen, more pressing matters had stolen his attention. Confessing to others, that at twenty-five, he still lacked a license tended to garner looks ranging from comical to horrified. When he was eighteen, Wayne had tried to teach him to drive. But after only once with Owen behind the wheel, Wayne had adamantly refused to ever be his passenger again. Owen was sure Wayne had overreacted, if only a little.
He turned his attention to the crowd, which interested him more than the cars, and wondered how long he’d have to endure this particular level of hell. His throat was scratchy and a cold sweat had broken out over his skin. He tried to focus on not being miserable, but between how he felt physically and being at a car show, that was getting harder by the second.
Behind Owen, Wayne spoke with a man about his car.
“Turk, she’s looking better than ever.” Owen heard the slap of hands. Probably doing the straight man’s hug. Apparently, they knew each other.
“Yeah, she is. Got Best in Show last week, again. The hard work is paying off.”
“Nice. Hey, I want you to meet my cousin, Owen.”
Owen turned to meet the man so they could move on and swore his jaw dropped. Tall was an understatement. He probably had a good five inches on Owen’s five foot seven, and he was wide. His crystal blue eyes–almost clear in the sunlight–reached out and held Owen. The slight crook of his nose attested to being broken at one point. A bright flash of white teeth and his smile brought out two deep dimples in his cheeks. His hair was a wavy mass of shiny brownish-black in the sunlight. Owen swallowed hard. Why did he always drool over the bears?
Turk held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, Owen.”
Owen extended his hand in return. Damn, how did his cousin know someone so freakin’ hot! “You too, Turk.” Owen quickly averted his gaze, as heat crept up his neck.
“So what do you think of the car? Pretty sweet, right? It has a 428/335 HP Cobra Jet Ram Air engine, three-speed automatic transmission, which is the–“
“Turk,” Wayne interrupted with a mocking scowl. “Unless it has a computer in it, you’re wasting your breath with this one.” Wayne was forever frowning on Owen’s lack of appreciation for anything on wheels.
Owen saw a look of disappointment on Turk’s face. Why did it bother Owen that he’d disappointed the man when they’d just met? “You’re into newer metal. Nothing wrong with that.”
Wayne shook his head and laughed. “No, man. A real computer. Owen doesn’t even have a driver’s license.”
The heat crept into Owen’s face, turning from lust to embarrassment. Damn Wayne and his mouth.
Turk’s eyebrows rose. “Really. Is there a reason you don’t drive?”
“No. I just never learned.”
Turk’s tongue came out and Owen’s eyes followed as it journeyed around those red lips. Turk gave him a lopsided grin. “I could teach you.”
It was Owen’s turn to raise his eyebrows and his breath caught at the thought of learning to drive Turk. Lean the muscle car fanatic over the hood of his prized car and drive in deep and hard.
Fuck.
“Um, I don’t really need a license. No car.”
Turk grinned. “Well, come and sit in my girl. See what you think.”
His girl?
Owen sputtered as Turk grasped his elbow and led him to the driver’s door. The firm grip went far to solidify Owen’s erection. Before he could protest, Owen was in the driver’s seat. Turk came around and settled into the passenger side, that wide grin still splitting his face. Even with the windows partially down, the scent of the leather seats mingled with something musky, something that smelled too good. Turk explained aspects of the interior and his restoration, but Owen’s focus was on the brush of their shoulders and Turk’s closeness as he reached across Owen to point out different things of interest. Closing his eyes, Owen prayed for the strength to stop himself from reaching out, grabbing Turk and having his wicked ways with the bear.
That tickle in Owen’s throat crept up again and the resulting spasms of coughs racking his chest cut all fantasies short. Damn, his cough sounded wet. A hand settled on his arm.
“You need some water?” Turk asked. The concern in his voice and the gentle touch unsettled Owen, who managed to shake his head. His eyes watered as he struggled to stop the onslaught before–shit. Too late. Through the windshield, Owen saw Wayne’s head snap around, and his wide, brown eyes filled with concern. He came around the car and wrenched Owen’s door open. “Come on. We’ve got to go.”
Owen stepped out of the car and shook his head. “I’m fine, Wayne,” he whispered, already knowing what Wayne thought.
Wayne ignored him and looked over at Turk, who’d exited the car as well. “Sorry, man, we need to go.”
Turk grimaced and seemed to contemplate something, and then, with a partial smile, he came around the car and approached Owen. “It was really nice to meet you.” Again, Turk extended his hand and Owen slid their palms together. Turk’s thumb brushed over the back of Owen’s hand and the man’s coy smile flipped his stomach. “Will I be seeing you around?”
Owen nodded, distracted by Turk’s caressing thumb. If his thumb felt this good, what would the rest of Turk, plastered to Owen’s body, feel like? Probably like heaven.
“Hope to see you again real soon.” Turk released his hand and Owen nodded again, any words he should say stuck in his chest as he mourned the loss of Turk’s touch.
“Let’s go.” Wayne waved to Turk and then moved off into the crowd. Owen caught up and Wayne gave him a sideways glance. “What the hell was that all about?”
That’s exactly what Owen wanted to know. Glancing over his shoulder, a heated gaze from Turk hit Owen hard. He’d definitely be seeing the large bear again very soon. Damn, if he wasn’t starting to like muscle cars.
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About JC Wallace
JC Wallace started writing from a young age, but took a break for marriage, kids, and college (in that order). He recently rediscovered his passion and ventured out into the brave new world of publishing with his short, Waiting for Snow, and his first novel, Curiosity Killed Shaney. At night and on the weekends, JC writes about all things men, believing there is nothing hotter than two men finding and loving one another, whether for a night or forever. An avid reader of M/M romance, JC loves a good twist of a plot, HEA, HFN, or tragic ending. He also writes what his bestie calls HUNK (Happy Until the Next Kidnapping).
In his daytime hours, JC works with individuals with autism and behavior problems. He is owned by a beautiful partner, three kids, two grandchildren, two dogs and one cat. He lives in the beautiful Adirondack Mountains in Northern NY.
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July 22, 2014
The Cutting Room Floor
Some things never make it past the first draft when you write.
Sometimes a favorite idea, a favorite passage, a turn of phrase, must be sacrificed to the Gods of Writing. This was the case with my original opening for my upcoming story The Fourth Act. I wanted to use a beloved bedtime story to act as a moral compass for my protagonist, so I began to craft a fairytale about angels living in the Ural Mountians of Russia. There was a point to my fable that would bring the story I planned full circle—that is until a friend read the first chapter and talked me into making it suspenseful rather than mystical—and the fairy tale was cut.
I still have the fairy tale rattling around in my head, unlikely to ever see the light of day, but not everything was scrapped—the following is a scene between Michael (Misha) and his beloved Grandfather—a relationship that influences Michael’s choices later in life…and one that did make the final cut:
“Tell me a story.” I pleaded, plucking at his frayed cuff. My grandfather pretended to glower at me, his brows meeting over a nose too crooked for his face.
“It is late Misha. No story.” He peeled back the comforter on my bed, drawing back the navy blue field of yellow stars and white comets and I slid between the red sheets and tried again.
“Deda. Please!”
This time he patted my head, gently urging me down onto my pillow. Lips bristly with hairs the color and texture of broom straw poked me as he kissed my cheek. His breath tickled my nose carrying with it an echo of tobacco smoke from an ancient elk horn and burl pipe—the pipe as gnarled and carved as the lines on my grandfather’s face.
“What is it you want Misha? It’s late…”
I could see the pretended impatience. He always made time for me, always trying to fill the empty space left vacant by the absence of my parents—both now a vague memory, just faint imprints on my juvenile heart.I knew he was mine for as long as I wanted him…for as long as I could keep my eyes open.
I shifted on the pillow trying to find the uncomfortable spot.
“Please, deda…tell me the one about the angels!”
Brows furrowed again and he grunted, settling onto the hard wooden chair pulled up next to my bed.
Abandoned Prologue to The Fourth Act By LE Franks
