Cole McCade's Blog, page 5

Seduce Me with Amanda K. Byrne: FRACTURE

FRACTURE

Amanda K. Byrne

Erotic Romance (I think? Amanda, want to chime in here?)

Contemporary Romance (thanks for the update, Amanda)

Excerpt

He tells me with his lips, his teeth, his wicked tongue that we’re doing this, and we’re doing it now, so I’d better hang on.

Preorder:

Rating:

 

5/5 stars: …aside from the fact that I love the lyric rhythm of this line, I don't think this one needs an explanation. I'm hanging on, wanting to see exactly what's happening right now, and it's killing me that this is a preorder that's not available until late April.

Are you hanging on?

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Read older entries here.

Cole McCade is that one guy you heard about somewhere. The human Grumpy Cat who writes sweet contemporary romance about starry-eyed girls and dirty erotica about the people who slip between the cracks of Crow City – including A Second Chance at Paris, Zero Day Exploit, and The Lost. He sometimes gives out decent advice from the perspective of a guy who just happens to be a romance author and a fiercely unapologetic feminist; he also invites other authors to seduce him (and his readers) with just one line from their books. Written a romance or erotica? Want to seduce Cole's readers? Send in one line plus your cover and buy links to cole@colemccade.com. Have a question on love, dating, relationships, romance, life in general…or just want to say Dammit, Cole?  Email  cole@colemccade.com with the subject line "Dammit, Cole."

BEFORE YOU COMMENT

You're welcome to share your own opinion of the lines posted to this segment, but try to remember these are real people, not just faceless authors. Critical commentary and points about why it didn't work for you are fine; ugliness and snark are not. Nasty comments abusing submitting authors or other commenters will be deleted.

SUBSCRIBE FOR WEEKLY UPDATES & HIGHLIGHTS FROM "DAMMIT, COLE" AND "SEDUCE ME"

Seduce Me with Sharon Black: GOING AGAINST TYPE

Hey, everyone. I know I've been almost eerily quiet lately; sometimes I just need to do that, especially when I'm in my writing cave and dealing with certain things. One-on-one conversation doesn't work; social media works even less. But the notes and little reminders people have been sending have been sweet; thank you for letting me know you're thinking of me, and that you care.  I

In the meantime, though, I'm bringing you a preview of two new features launching on my blog. I've been told I don't blog enough, so I'm opening two new columns both for authors and for readers. For authors, I'll be launching Seduce Me, in which authors try to seduce me (and my readers) with just their cover and one well-chosen line from their books; no blurbs, no taglines, nothing. Just one sentence, an image, and buy links. I'll rate the submissions and provide a quick line of positive feedback, and leave a poll open for readers to add their opinions; could be a fun way to discover new books. The other column will be, somewhat to my dismay, an advice column called Dammit, Cole in the vein of Dear Abby or Dear Prudence – for when you really wonder what the hell guys are thinking when it comes to life, relationships, or any other questions you might need advice on. (I thought the idea was insane. Yet everyone I've mentioned it to thinks it's awesome. This…is going to be amusing. And possibly a train wreck.)

I'll be putting up submission forms + FAQs for both, soon – but if you want to get in ahead of things and ask "Dammit, Cole, what's up with _____________?" you can send me an email at cole@colemccade.com with the subject line "Dammit, Cole."

And now, without further ado…

SEDUCE ME WITH SHARON BLACK

GOING AGAINST TYPE

Sharon Black

Adult Contemporary Romance

Excerpt

Charlotte had waited years for Donal to utter those magic words.

Buy:

Rating:

 

4/5 stars: Rating this 4/5 just because 1. I like the name Donal, and 2. this does make me quite curious about what those magic words might be. It doesn't give me much else to go on or hook me other than that curiosity, hence dropping one star. 

Are you hot for it?

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

Read older entries here.

Cole McCade is that one guy you heard about somewhere. The human Grumpy Cat who writes sweet contemporary romance about starry-eyed girls and dirty erotica about the people who slip between the cracks of Crow City – including A Second Chance at Paris, Zero Day Exploit, and The Lost. He sometimes gives out decent advice from the perspective of a guy who just happens to be a romance author and a fiercely unapologetic feminist; he also invites other authors to seduce him (and his readers) with just one line from their books. Written a romance or erotica? Want to seduce Cole's readers? Send in one line plus your cover and buy links to cole@colemccade.com. Have a question on love, dating, relationships, romance, life in general…or just want to say Dammit, Cole?  Email  cole@colemccade.com with the subject line "Dammit, Cole."

BEFORE YOU COMMENT

You're welcome to share your own opinion of the lines posted to this segment, but try to remember these are real people, not just faceless authors. Critical commentary and points about why it didn't work for you are fine; ugliness and snark are not. Nasty comments abusing submitting authors or other commenters will be deleted.

SUBSCRIBE FOR WEEKLY UPDATES & HIGHLIGHTS FROM "DAMMIT, COLE" AND "SEDUCE ME"

I wasn't ready.

Tybalt passed away today.

My little brat of a pixie-cat is gone. Nothing left but a collar and tag on the nightstand, and all the little things of his around the house, waiting for him to use them when he never will again.

It was a seizure. Massive, lasting hours. A couple of weeks ago Tybalt randomly cropped up with a case of Feline Vestibular Disorder, reeling around everywhere with no balance or coordination. FVS/FVD is considered one of those "no cause, no cure" things that leaves as quickly as it comes and with guesses about what caused it, but nothing particularly concrete and almost never fatal.

"Almost."

In this case, the vet who saw him today during his last moments guessed that he had a small seizure back then, unnoticed, and it started off the FVS/FVD when it turned things a little sideways in his brain. He was improving every day, but last night…last night something went very wrong, beginning when he woke us with strange yowls we'd never heard before while he lost control of his bowels – and over the course of hours he deteriorated in our arms while we called every emergency vet we could find and nearly lost our minds when no one picked up until we finally got in during the early morning.

By then he was almost gone. Breathing white foam, rasping, laboring, coughing. Laying on his side, drooling in a puddle on the floor, unable to get up, occasionally pawing like he was frantically trying to run laying down. Eyes unblinking, dilated. I'm not sure he knew we were there. I'd like to think he did, because otherwise it will rip me to pieces knowing he spent his last moments without any form of comfort, in a strange and frightening place. We stayed with him while the vet checked him out. But while we were waiting on blood tests, he went oddly still, and his breaths grew strange. I picked him up and felt it when his heart beat one last time, and then he was gone.

I'm not an ugly crier. I'm not a crier, period. Sometimes you'll get a few glimmers or a lone dramatic trickle. But I can promise you when his eyes blanked out and he stopped breathing, I ugly cried. I ugly cried until I couldn't see. I nearly screamed. I don't know why I was so angry, but I was fucking angry. I still am. I think because I felt so helpless staring at those open blank eyes that were just so fucking wrong, so empty, and I fucking hate feeling helpless. I need to be able to fix things, but I couldn't fucking fix my friend of nearly fifteen years. All I could do was sit there and sob while Uber choked on tears and we held each other, and the vet tried to be diplomatic about bringing up "disposal" options. Disposal. Like he was just a piece of shite to be thrown away. He might've been a little shite, maybe, but he was my fucking little shite and I loved him and I couldn't stand hearing that namby-pamby "disposal" like using veiled terms for it would make it any better.

I was still crying when I got home, with nothing but his carrier and his collar and the knowledge that all I'd have left of him would be a pile of dust in a courtesy urn that I could pick up on Thursday. I hadn't slept more than 2 hours. Hadn't eaten a bite. And honestly? Didn't really care.

I just sat here and stared. All this things are here. All his things are here, but he's not. This house doesn't feel like home anymore, because he was a part of it and now he's gone. I'm sure to some people he was just a cat. Cats die. Pets die. But I haven't had a pet die on me in over 20 years. Tybalt was the first who was mine and only mine, who was 100% my responsibility to care for, and I feel like if I'd just done a little more, if I'd just known some magic trick, if if if…I'd have had a few more years with him.

There's something to be said for a pet who outlasts your marriage and most of your jobs.

Uber and I have reminded each other to take care of ourselves, since then. To eat, to sleep. After a long nap, we've woken up with that quiet "what now?" feeling because the world hasn't changed, life goes on, and just because we're grieving a cat doesn't mean people will stop to wait for us or even particularly understand why nothing's hit me this hard since my grandmother died. But he was a part of my world, a part of me, and now that part of me is missing. I can't get it back.

Uber and I have both read the kind messages everyone left on Twitter and Facebook. I wanted to say thank you to everyone, and apologize that I haven't been responding. That I don't think I can respond. Grief for me is a quiet and private thing that requires withdrawal, because I don't know what to say to people who offer such kindness and yet it falls into this numb hole inside me. Right now I'm grateful even if I don't know how to express it and can't handle one-on-one interaction. I know tomorrow it'll be better. The day after I'll feel like talking again. Then I'll remember that I have book deadlines, and blog things I wanted to do, and Uber's suggestions of kittens will make me smile instead of feeling like a betrayal.

But for tonight, I just need to hurt.

Everything in my house still smells like his soft clean fur, and I just wasn't ready to say goodbye.

That Guy.

Some days I look at my Twitter and Facebook and Tumblr and Tsu and all these social media accounts where everyone's waiting for me to be The Guy. You know. That Guy. The one I am every day. The irreverent feminist growly snarky fuck-your-racism fuck-your-bigotry fuck-your-sexism fuck-your-gender-binaries guy who writes sexy dirty filthy things and gives good hugs and shares his music and makes fun of himself and always teases just on the edge of going too far. And I sit there and feel like I'm going to burst out of my skin, and think, "I don't want to be Cole tonight. I want to be myself. You don't even know me. You don't know all the wild and beautiful things under my skin, the madness and the desperation, the sweetness and the fire."

But that's so wrong.

That's so very wrong.

Because you read the things I write. You read what I write, and it's made up of that madness and desperation. It's all the wildness and beauty turned into lyrics and poured into prose. It's sweetness. It's fire. It's breathlessness. It's hate and despair. It's love and need and pure raw chaos that twists through me every day and makes me feel like god, oh god, I must be a little bit crazy but I want to be because you can't feel this much and be completely sane. It's fury that the world can't be the way I hear it in my mind, in this music that makes up everything and everyone, words that write the ugly things as beautiful and terrible and trembling and wonderful.

Because you read those things, you know me better than anyone ever could. You know the casual truth that is Cole, the everyday easiness, the lazy smile and the simple details.

But at the same time, you know the nameless and burning soul that I keep confined to the pages, and let out only for you in the hopes that deep down, you'll feel the flickering spark of recognition.

And then, I'll know you too.

#AskIon – Thursday, January 22nd!

"I like my private life to stay private."

Infamous last words from Ion Blackwell, the hero of A Second Chance at Paris – and we're going to make him eat those words on Thursday. From 4pm to 8pm Central U.S. Time on January 22nd, Poor Ion will be compelled to answer any question you ask…primarily because Cole's making him. There will be snarling. There may even be blushing, if you can push that arrogant charmer far enough. But more than anything there'll be raw, unfettered honesty, and a peek into whatever dirty details about Ion that you want to know.

Just tweet @IonBlackwell with the hashtag #AskIon, and at the end of the chat Cole McCade will pick a winner at random to receive a signed paperback copy of A Second Chance at Paris.

So…just how deep do you want to get with Ion?

Saying "thank you."

I'm going to admit something right now that most authors won't say out loud. It's bad form, when you're supposed to keep a positive face on everything and always be bright, be chipper, be happy, and sweep people up in your enthusiasm.

I?

I fucking hate self-promotion.

I do. And I'm not the only author who does, but I doubt you'll get many to admit it. Fuck me for being honest, I guess. Being human. I hate standing up there shouting "buy my shite!" like a snake oil hawker at a fair. I hate how false it feels. How mercenary. Because here's the thing:

You always hear that as an author, the money is in making connections via social media. In building your platform, your audience, your network. But the problem is, when I come on social media it doesn't feel like that. It feels like meeting people. It feels like making friends. It feels like learning things about them and having fun in-jokes and little snafus and those whispers behind the curtain in DM. It feels like being happy to see someone who always makes me laugh; like enjoying making other people laugh even when I'm being Mr. Grumpy Cat; like feeling like a total dork when Facebook tells me it's their birthday and I feel daft posting on their timeline but I do it anyway because those things matter. It feels like connecting with actual individuals, valuable and unique human beings, instead of just amassing numbers.

So when I turn around and start promoting myself, it feels like I'm commoditizing those friendships, using them, taking advantage. And it feels cheap. And I don't fucking like it, because the last thing I'd ever want to do is make the friendships I've made over the last year feel like less than what they are.

Well, that, and it's just buggering embarrassing making a dancing monkey out of myself. And you know how I feel about those fucking exclamation points.

If you're reading this, I'd say you know that I released a book today. My first, technically, if you don't count giving away ZDE or the short story in Winter Rain. A Second Chance at Paris. It's been a long year with many ups and downs, some hard decisions, one terrifying choice to jump off the cliff of self-publishing and hope the book was strong enough to catch me on my way down. And all those people that I've met over the past year were there today, as I celebrated release day. And even when I was posting quotes and teaser images, excerpts from reviews, links…I didn't feel like I was self-promoting. I didn't feel like I was shouting from a mountaintop into empty air. I felt like I was among friends at a party. Friends who were just as excited as I was; friends who caught me up in their own enthusiasm to help me get past my sheer nerves and nail-biting to just enjoy the day.

Friends who made this day special, instead of just one author selling snake oil at the top of his lungs and trying not to feel like he was naked on stage.

It's meant a lot to me, seeing this through to final publication and bringing a book I love to life. Every little milestone has brought a flush of contentment and satisfaction, from finishing stages of edits to designing the cover to seeing this book packaged up and ready to go to retailers in its final form. And with every step that I've celebrated, those friends have been there with me, celebrating with me, encouraging me. And that's touched me. Deeply.

…don't go there, you pervs. Just don't.

You have never been commodities to me. You've never been a platform for me to stand on to lift myself up. You're more than just numbers.

You turned this day into something amazing. You're amazing.

And for that, I thank you from the bottom of my fucked-up, grouchy little heart.

RELEASE WEEK GIVEAWAY: A SECOND CHANCE AT PARIS

From 1/18 to 1/25, I'm giving away Celeste's keychain–the same keychain her father gave her in A Second Chance at Paris–plus a $25 Amazon or B&N gift card (your choice). To be entered to win, all you have to do is enter the Rafflecopter below, then send me proof of purchase for A Second Chance at Paris from any of the retailers where it's available. Proof of purchase can include:

A screenshot of the order confirmation page where you bought it, taken on either a PC or in your phone or e-reader app.
A screenshot of the email confirming your order.
A forward of the email confirming your order.
If you preordered and no longer have those things available, a screenshot of the book in your ebook library.
A photograph of your ereader with the book in your library, or open on the screen.

Screenshots or forwards should be sent to cole@colemccade.com. You must enter your email address in the Rafflecopter field so I can check to make sure you've submitted proof of purchase if you win.Your email address will not be visible to anyone but me and will not be shared or used for any other purpose.

One week in Paris. One chance with her childhood crush. And one lie that could ruin it all.

Before she was Dr. Celeste London, Astrophysicist, she was Mary Celeste Haverford: dork, loser, the geek formerly known as Hairy Mary. But she’d left all that behind–and left Ion Blackwell behind, nothing but an unrequited crush and the memory of a high school field trip, a night in Paris, and the words Celeste never had the courage to say. She’d never expected to see him again…until a surprise encounter on a Parisian riverboat tour brings him back into her life, and gives her the opportunity to start over as someone new. Someone Ion doesn’t recognize, transformed from a social outcast into a polished, professional woman that Ion doesn’t realize is the girl he’s been longing for since childhood, the ideal he’s dreamed of his entire life.

Suddenly this vivacious (if charmingly awkward) “new” woman is teaching him that real love is better than any dream–but Celeste is hiding more than her identity. Hiding something that makes it hard to trust her increasingly erratic behavior, and her frequent secretive phone calls. When the truth comes out, the deception could shatter them both…unless they can give each other a second chance, and take a risk on love.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

If you have any questions or want to suggest an alternate method to send proof of purchase, just leave a comment below.

LIMITED TIME: Bayou's End #1.5, ZERO DAY EXPLOIT, free for download until 01.18.15

For a little bit of a late Christmas present… In this side story to the Bayou's End series, Ion Blackwell's (A Second Chance at Paris) younger sister Zoraya gets a rude wake-up call about her life, her career, and her love when a one-night stand turns out to be more than she can stand. Download for a sneak peek into the Blackwell family, and teaser hints into the story of Ion and Celeste.

Read the first chapter

Download the full book free until 01.18.15

.mobi (Kindle) | .epub (pretty much everything else) | .PDF (in case nothing else works)

zero day exploit (noun):

1. An attack that penetrates a previously unknown vulnerability in a computer or system.

2. The kind of infuriating, manipulative man who gets under your skin and refuses to get out. And now, a one-night stand may turn out to be the biggest mistake of Zoraya Blackwell's career.

And thank you so much to everyone on the McCade's Marauders street team for helping me test device compatibility and formatting. I'd have been a wreck without you, and you have no idea how much I appreciate your help.

Just a little over two weeks until A Second Chance at Paris. I am in this bizarre zen place that I think comes from hyperventilating until oxygen deprivation makes everything go cloudy. I'm allowed to stop being Grumpy Cat long enough to be excited, right? Especially when I have lovely things to give away. Like Celeste's keychain. And her necklace. And other fun little bookish things, too. I'll be posting pics soon.

It probably seems a little weird that ZDE is #1.5 and not #2 when it's a full-length novel…or #1 when it's coming out ahead of Paris. There's a method to my madness, promise. The series centers around these families that are united by having grown up in or connected to the fictional Louisiana town of Bayou's End, hence the name of the series. But ZDE never actually takes place in Bayou's End at any point; it's just mentioned briefly, but the whole story is set in New York. It's also set sequentially after Paris, and when Paris comes out will be included as a bonus feature at the end of the novel. So. I do know how to count and I'm not crazy, promise.

…okay. I'm crazy. But not for those reasons.

Cover Reveal: A SECOND CHANCE AT PARIS

A SECOND CHANCE AT PARIS

Bayou's End #1

One week in Paris. One chance with her childhood crush. And one lie that could ruin it all.

Before she was Dr. Celeste London, Astrophysicist, she was Mary Celeste Haverford: dork, loser, the geek formerly known as Hairy Mary. But she’d left all that behind–and left Ion Blackwell behind, nothing but an unrequited crush and the memory of a high school field trip, a night in Paris, and the words Celeste never had the courage to say. She’d never expected to see him again…until a surprise encounter on a Parisian riverboat tour brings him back into her life, and gives her the opportunity to start over as someone new. Someone Ion doesn’t recognize, transformed from a social outcast into a polished, professional woman that Ion doesn’t realize is the girl he’s been longing for since childhood, the ideal he’s dreamed of his entire life.

Suddenly this vivacious (if charmingly awkward) “new” woman is teaching him that real love is better than any dream–but Celeste is hiding more than her identity. Hiding something that makes it hard to trust her increasingly erratic behavior, and her frequent secretive phone calls. When the truth comes out, the deception could shatter them both…unless they can give each other a second chance, and take a risk on love.

EXCERPT

With a smile, Celeste leaned on the rail. She’d been a silly girl, heart on her sleeve, but she kind of missed that. Falling in love was never the same—never as light, as sweet, as guileless, the emotion not as raw or real when it became about work schedules and who paid for dinner and whether it was too soon to have sex. Mundane things took the romance out of it, when at sixteen it had been about wishing for that one perfect, breathless, magical kiss with that special someone who didn’t even know she was alive.

Now she just had a half-dozen ex-special someones who said she was an amazing friend, but a lousy girlfriend.

Her eyes stung. She should be standing here with…someone. People did that; they fell in love and took romantic trips to Paris, and cuddled on dreamy moonlit boat tours. But even then she’d have been worrying over her presentation for tomorrow, wondering if Ophelia gave their father his meds, pondering wind speed for Kelvin-Helmholtz instability in Jupiter’s Red Spot, picking out constellations…and never quite here with the imaginary boyfriend.

She really wasn’t cut out for relationships.

She lifted her gaze to the sky and picked out Venus. It hurt, when she smiled. “Guess I wasted a wish,” she whispered. “Do I get a do-over?”

The soft scuff of a sole against the deck warned when someone approached. She straightened, rubbed her eyes, and pulled her hoodie tighter around herself. Last thing she wanted was to ruin some happy couple’s romantic Parisian night when they stumbled on a single woman on the verge of a nostalgic crying jag. They’d probably think she was pulling a Rose, about to fling herself dramatically over the rail of the mini-Titanic.

The footsteps stopped at her side, barely a foot away. She caught a sense of height, masculine body heat, a quietly commanding presence. A low voice rolled over her, husky baritone like whiskey and silk.

“Belle nuit, n’est-ce pas?” he asked, softly accented inflections agonizingly familiar. Celeste looked up, her heart tumbling to the very bottom of her chest and constricting painfully tight.

Fathomless blue eyes looked over the water, set in an elegantly sculpted face: ten years older, more weathered, tanned complexion darkened by the shadow of stubble—but so distinctive she’d know him anywhere. She clutched the railing with fingers almost numb to the cool metal, blood draining to leave them rubbery. She knew him. She knew him, but there was no way it could be him. It was impossible. It was incredible. It was absolutely unbelievable, and she had to be hallucinating.

It was Ion Blackwell.

RELEASING JANUARY 2015

…I am completely failing at being in any way stoic and manly about this, you guys. I've been working so hard on this with cover design and editing and everything, and it's all coming together and I'm just torn between this sense of utter satisfaction………..and totally freaking out.

WINTER RAIN is here!

…and only 99 cents for a limited time.

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PPC8F8M

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00PPC8F8M

iBooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id941882008

Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/winter-rain-delp…/1120788608

kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/winter-rain-1

I've been reading through the other authors' stories this morning and I'm stunned by the talent, and so happy to be a part of something so amazing – and for such a worthy cause. I'm grateful to Audra North for inviting me to participate, and to Sarah Frantz for being an awesome editor.

My story in this anthology, Sometimes It Storms, was not easy to write. I won't even pretend it was. It discusses something I don't talk about publicly very often. Something men are told never to talk about; something we're often told can never really happen to us; something that happens to far too many women and more men than we'll ever admit; something many men perpetuate in the most horrible of ways, against women and men alike. It tore a lot out of me to reach down into these memories I'd suppressed and dredge them up as a foundation for my hero, Ethan, and for Aurelie – the woman who gives him hope that maybe he isn't as broken as he'd thought.

I hope you take more pleasure reading Sometimes It Storms than I took in writing it. I'm not sorry I wrote it. But it hurt like hell, ripped me to pieces, and the most satisfying part was typing "The End" and feeling some sense of closure and relief when it was finally over. In some ways it was cathartic.

But I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried, putting those words on the page.

I hope they make a difference for someone.