Canary In the Coal Mine by Charles Salzberg Book Tour and Giveaway!

 

Canary In the Coal Mine

by Charles Salzberg

April 18 - May 13, 2022 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

PI Pete Fortunato, half-Italian, half-Jewish, who suffers from anger management issues and insomnia, wakes up one morning with a bad taste in his mouth. This is never a good sign. Working out of a friend’s downtown real estate office, Fortunato, who spent a mysteriously short, forgettable stint as a cop in a small upstate New York town, lives from paycheck to paycheck. So, when a beautiful woman wants to hire him to find her husband, he doesn’t hesitate to say yes. Within a day, Fortunato finds the husband in the apartment of his client’s young, stud lover. He’s been shot once in the head. Case closed. But when his client’s check bounces, and a couple of Albanian gangsters show up outside his building and kidnap him, hoping he’ll lead them to a large sum of money supposedly stolen by the dead man, he begins to realize there’s a good chance he’s been set up to take the fall for the murder and the theft of the money.

In an attempt to get himself out of a jam, Fortunato winds up on a wild ride that takes him down to Texas where he searches for his client’s lover who he suspects has the money and holds the key to solving the murder.

Praise for Canary In the Coal Mine:

“Salzberg has hit it out of the park. Love the writing style, and the story really draws you in. As with Salzberg’s prior works, he has a knack for making his heroes real, which makes their jeopardy real, too. So, say hello to Pete Fortunato, a modern PI who thinks on his feet and has moves that read like the noir version of Midnight Run.”
—Tom Straw, author of the Richard Castle series (from the ABC show) and Buzz Killer

“Salzberg writes hardboiled prose from a gritty stream of conscious. Peter Fortunato is an old school PI to be reckoned with.”
—Sam Wiebe, award-winning author of Invisible Dead and Never Going Back

“Charles Salzberg’s Canary in the Coal Mine is everything a reader wants in a great crime novel, and then some. The rat-a-tat cadence of the noir masters, seamlessly blended with the contemporary sensibilities of an author thoroughly in control of his craft. I liked this book so much I read it twice. No kidding. It’s that good.”
—Baron R. Birtcher, multi-award winning and Los Angeles Times bestselling author

“Charles Salzberg has created a fantastic literary PI: Pete Fortunato. Rash, blunt and prone to violence, you can’t help but turn the page to see what Fortunato will do next. Canary in the Coal Mine is great!” —James O. Born, New York Times bestselling author

Book Details:

Genre: Crime/Noir
Published by: Down & Out Books
Publication Date: April 18, 2022
Number of Pages: 276
ISBN: ISBN-13: 978-1-64396-251-1
Purchase Links: Amazon | Down & Out Books

Read an excerpt:

Part One

New York City

“Doubt, of whatever kind, can be ended by action alone.”
—Thomas Carlyle, Past and Present

1

This Could Be the Start of Something Big

I wake up with a bad taste in my mouth.

It’s not the first time this has happened and it won’t be the last. I like to think of it as my personal canary in the coal mine. That taste usually means trouble on the horizon. Sometimes it’s someone else’s trouble. Sometimes it’s mine. Sometimes it’s both. Those are the times I have to watch out for.

Once I rouse myself from bed—it’s never easy when I’ve had a rough night—I launch into my usual routine. Shower, shave, brush my teeth, my pride and joy, especially the two phony teeth implanted on the upper left side replacing those knocked out in a particularly vicious fight I didn’t start, at least that’s the way I see it. The way I usually see it. It was a pickup softball game. A guy came into second hard and late and spiked my shortstop in the leg. It was bad. So bad, it took eleven stitches to close the wound. Someone had to do something and as usual I was the first one out there and the one who threw the first punch. That’s the drill for most of my fights. I never start them, well, hardly ever because being provoked doesn’t count. But when I do throw a punch I always have good reason. The fights usually end with me bloodied but unbowed. You might say I have a temper but I prefer to think of it as a short fuse and an obsession with justice. No one gets away with anything on my watch. I win a few. I lose a few. There’s always a price to pay and I always make my point. But let’s face it there are no real winners when it comes to violence. Everyone, even the winner, loses something. That’s just the way it goes.

These phony teeth of mine match the others perfectly. A dentist who owed me a favor—I provided him with all the information he needed to divorce his cheating wife and avoid being taken to the cleaners—planted them and swore no one could tell the difference. So far, he’s been right. I like to think those are the only phony things about me. Everything else, for better or worse, is me, all me. I don’t apologize for it. Take me or leave me. I don’t care.

Lately, I’ve had to curb the physical stuff. Now that I’m well into my forties, things are starting to fall apart. They say it’s the legs that go first, but in my case, it’s my shoulder. I displaced it throwing a punch at someone who deserved it, someone who’d had a little too much to drink and insulted a woman I was with. The embarrassing thing is I missed. Turns out that’s what did the damage. Missing my target. I had my arm in a sling for almost a month. It’s pretty much healed now though I sometimes feel it in damp weather. The doc warned me it could go out again any time. “Try to stay out of fights, Pete,” he said, then added, “though knowing you that’s not very likely.”

He was right. I’m combative. It’s my nature. I’ve never run away from a fight and I probably never will. If you don’t stand up for yourself, who will? I just have to be a little more careful now, which means choosing my battles more wisely.

I stop at the local diner for my usual breakfast: two cups of black coffee—neither of which take that bad taste out of my mouth—then head downtown to my office in Greenwich Village. Well, let’s be honest here. It’s not really my office. It’s the office of a friend who runs a small real estate firm here in the city. He has an extra desk he rents me for only a couple hundred bucks a month, which includes phone service and a receptionist, if you call the person who takes up space at a desk up front a receptionist. I mean, shouldn’t a receptionist be able to take a proper message? Shouldn’t they be able to direct someone to your desk, even if it’s in back, half hidden behind a pillar? But there’s a hitch—there always is. When business picks up and they have to hire another broker, it’s arrivederci, Pete. Fortunately, in the two years I’ve been here that’s only happened once, and then just for a couple months.

New York City real estate is like having a license to print money, but the competition for listings is fierce and how anyone but the crème de la crème makes a living is beyond me. But I can’t say being without an office puts much of a dent in my business, since it’s always been pretty much touch and go. Thank goodness for that bank overdraft protection thing which has kept the wolves from my door more times than I’d like to admit.

I’m a PI. I have a license that says so. I take it out and look at it every so often, just to remind myself I actually have a profession. Profession. I say the word aloud. It’s a strange word. It makes me think of the “world’s oldest.” I’ve done pretty much everything in my life except for that, though some might not make much of a distinction between what I do and what they do. They do it on their back. I do it on my feet. That’s pretty much what sets us apart. It’s like that Sinatra song. You know the one. Puppet, pauper, pirate, poet, pawn and king. Only with me substitute menial jobs like shoe salesman, night watchman, doorman—one summer the year after I graduated college—hot dog vendor, dog walker, even a short stint as a waiter. I was the world’s worst. Half my salary went for broken glassware and plates. Once, I actually had to pay for a guy’s meal out of my own pocket to keep him from ratting me out to the owner and getting me fired. Turned out it wasn’t a very good investment. The next day I got canned anyway. I also spent a short time as a cop. More on that later.

This job as a PI stuck by process of elimination. The only real talent I have for anything was as a ballplayer, and after I washed out of the game because of injuries that pretty much made it impossible to throw or swing a bat, then trashed my way through that bunch of other jobs, I realized I was suited to do little else. My new profession meets a laundry list of criteria.

• I do not have to wear a suit and tie.
• I do not have anyone telling me what to do, where to be, and when to be there.
• It gives me an opportunity to use my brain, brawn (not that I’m brawny, but even now I’m still pretty solid, topping out at 170 pounds on my five-foot-ten-inch frame, but I’ve always been a physical guy willing to use what muscle I had), and ingenuity. But not too much of any of the three.
• It doesn’t take too much concentration since like half the population of the world, I’ve got ADHD issues. In other words, I lose interest very quickly.
• I make my own hours.
• I mind someone else’s business while I can ignore my own.
• The job fits my cynical, paranoid personality which makes me suspicious of everyone and supports a strong belief in Clare Boothe Luce’s claim that no good deed goes unpunished. I believe there is evil lurking in everyone’s soul, especially mine, though I do my best to fight against those darker urges. Other traits I own up to include being lazy, combative, argumentative, and stubborn. I love getting up in everyone else’s business, which gives me the perfect excuse to avoid mine.

I didn’t grow up watching cops and robber shows. My drug of choice was sports, especially baseball. I loved the game not only because I was good at it but because although it appears that for long stretches of time nothing is happening there’s always something going on. Even if it isn’t discernible to the eye. Baseball is not just a game of physical skill. It’s a game of thought, analysis, contemplation, and anticipation. Unlike other team sports, there is no time limit. It takes as long as it takes, and in this sense, it mimics life. No one knows when it’s going to end. Theoretically, a game can go on forever, ending only when one team has scored more runs than the other. It is a game of nuance. It is a game that can be won with power, or speed, or defense, or a combination of these attributes. It can be won on the mound, at the plate, or in the field. It can be won by a score of one nothing or twelve to eleven. It can end as a result of a timely hit or an untimely error. It is a game of ebb and flow. It is unpredictable. Just like life.

I’ll take a thinking player over a naturally talented one any day of the week. Baseball is a game like chess. The best ballplayers are always several steps ahead of the game. They’re thinking about what they’ll do long before they actually do it. “If it’s hit to me I’ll fake the runner back to second then go to first.” That sort of thing does not show up on the TV screen nor does it appear in the box score. But that’s what wins and loses games.

Baseball imitates life: Long stretches of nothingness, then short bursts of action, which comes as a logical conclusion of those stretches of nothingness. This is much how our lives unfold. At least it’s the way mine does.

I thought I’d make it as a major league ballplayer, but I never got the chance to prove it. I was a pretty good high school pitcher and when I wasn’t pitching, I played shortstop with middling range, a good arm, and a better than average bat, although I lacked power. I told myself I’d grow into it, though I never did. I threw the ball in the mid-eighties, not very fast by today’s standards, when young players can now flirt with a hundred on the gun. But I had a decent curve and was working on what I hoped would be a better than average changeup. I figured by the time I got to the minors I’d ramp it up, adding a few miles per hour to the fastball. I was good enough to earn a partial scholarship to a small upstate New York college.

But before I got halfway through my first college season, I developed arm trouble. In those days, more than a quarter century ago, Tommy John surgery wasn’t what it is today and it certainly wasn’t for college kids without a buck to their name. Even if I wanted it, who was going to pay for it? My father was lucky to make the rent each month and if it hadn’t been for that athletic scholarship, I would have wound up working some soul-sucking civil service job.

Once I accepted the fact I’d never pitch again, I had to shift gears, away from the idea of becoming a professional athlete. They let me keep the scholarship so long as I maintained my grade point average. I was certainly no A student, but when I put my mind to it, I can do almost anything, no matter how unlikely. I sure as hell wasn’t the best student in the world, but I wasn’t the worst either, and somehow, I made it through to graduation. The first to do so in the Fortunato line. My mother’s family was a bunch of brainiacs. She went to college and might have gone further if she hadn’t met my father. That was the first thing he screwed up in her life. It wouldn’t be the last.

I’d like to say I’m choosey about the kinds of cases I take, but that would be a lie. It’s not that I don’t lie, by the way, it’s just that I don’t lie frivolously, which makes it difficult to know whether what comes out of my mouth is the truth or a lie. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, in my business it probably qualifies as a plus.

It’s that time in New York when the city isn’t quite sure what season it wants to be. A few days before Halloween, people are already gearing up for Thanksgiving, then Christmas. Always one, sometimes two holidays ahead of itself. One day in late August, I was shocked to see plastic pumpkins lined up on display in a CVS pharmacy. As if life isn’t disorienting enough.

The weather doesn’t help. Today, when I look out my window, the sky is cloudless and that shade of deep blue so beautiful it makes you want to cry. But it’s deceiving because when I get outside the temperature is hovering in the low forties. But like the city itself, the weather can break your heart by promising something it just can’t seem to deliver. Tomorrow it’s supposed to be pushing seventy, at least that’s what the weather people are forecasting. And as if that isn’t disorienting enough, the next day it’s supposed to drop back to the fifties with overcast skies and intermittent showers. It’s that schizo time of year when you never quite know what to wear. As a result, I always seem to be dressed one or two days ahead or behind the weather.

I usually roll into my office around ten, which I think is a pretty decent time considering the erratic hours I keep. Sometimes it’s because I’m on a job, sometimes it’s because I suffer from debilitating bouts of insomnia. When that strikes either I lie in bed thinking about all the things I could have done different in my life, and there are plenty, or I get up, get dressed, and roam the streets. In this city, there’s always plenty to keep things interesting. So yeah, New York really is the city that never sleeps. At least that’s true for some of its citizens. No matter how late or early it is I’m never the only one walking the streets. But I’m probably the only one who has no idea where he’s going.

Obviously, not everyone is in agreement about arriving at a decent hour thing, because half a dozen other desks in the office are already filled with folks either working the phones or staring blankly into their computer. I park myself at my desk way in the back, near the bathroom, and as soon as I do, Philly, my friend and boss man of the real estate firm, appears in front of me.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming in today, Petey,” he cracks. He flashes a goofy grin after the words tumble out of his mouth like a waterfall. He’s a born and bred New Yorker so he talks as if he’s in a race to finish a sentence so he can move on to the next one. Sometimes, he speaks so quick the words stick to each other and he is this close to being unintelligible. Unlike others who have to ask him to slow the fuck down, I, being a born and bred New Yorker, too, can understand him without much effort.

When he speaks, he bares his teeth, which are a dull yellow and seem to be in a life-or-death struggle for room in his mouth. But his nose, well, that’s another story. Unlike mine, which has been broken too many times to count, his is straight and in perfect harmony with the rest of his face. You might suspect he’s had work done on it, but no, Philly was born this way. He is, no doubt about it, a handsome man—except for those teeth, which I keep advising him he ought to get fixed—and he knows it. He’s been married three times, each one of them a stunner, and if he ever gets divorced from his present wife, Marnie, I have no doubt there’ll be a fourth waiting in the wings. He can afford it, though.

“What are you talking about?” I say, tapping my watch for emphasis. “This is fucking early for me.”

“I’ve been here since eight, my friend. That’s early.”

“You’re not going to tell me about the damn bird, are you?”

“What bird?”

“The one who gets the worm.”

“I don’t need any bird to tell me when to get to work, Petey.”

“What can I say, Philly, other than you’re a better man than me.”

“Damn straight. You’d give everything in your bank account to change places with me, Petey, and you know it.”

“That wouldn’t be much, Philly, and you know it.”

He shrugs. “Maybe that’ll change. There was a broad in here earlier looking for you.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s right.”

“She actually asked for me?”

“Yeah. By name, not the usual ‘where’s that scumbag owes me money?’”

“What’d she look like?”

“That’s the first thing you ask?”

“I yam who I yam.”

He smiles. There are those teeth again. I want to give him the name of my dentist but I know it won’t do any good, so why bother?

“You and Popeye. She looks like you’d want to get to know her and spend a lot of time with her. If I weren’t so blissfully married, she’d be at the top of my list for number four.”

I resist asking, how long’s that gonna be for? and say instead, “That good, huh?”

“Yeah. That good.”

“I hope you didn’t try to sell her an apartment.”

“She didn’t look like she needed one.”

“Did she tell you why she wanted to see me?”

“Nope. But she did give me this.” He pulls a business card out of his pocket and tosses it on my desk. “Said you should call her. If I were you, I’d do it ASAP. She reeked of money and folks with money don’t like to be made to wait.”

I look at the card then bring it up close to my nose. It smells like lemons. The name on it is Lila Alston. I like the sound of that. And the smell of lemons. Her name reminds me of those in one of those pulp crime novels. Like Velma. Or Bubbles.

As soon as Philly dismisses himself, I dial the number. A woman’s voice answers. I take a shot.

“I believe you were looking for me, Ms. Alston.”

“If you’re Peter Fortunato that would be correct. But it’s Mrs. Not Ms. At least for the moment.”

“Then I’ll take a wild guess and say this has something to do with your husband.”

She laughs. It’s short and it’s raspy and it’s sexy. Very sexy. “That’s correct. And it appears I may have found the right man…for a change.”

“Would you like to meet in person or continue this over the phone, Lila?”

“I liked it better when you were more formal, Mr. Fortunato. At least until we get to know each other a little better.”

I can’t wait. I’m already getting the beginnings of a hard-on.

“Got it. So, phone or meet up, Mrs. Alston?” I’m hoping she’ll agree to the latter. I have to see for myself what this chick looks like because Philly is only prone to exaggeration when it comes to real estate.

“I suppose a face-to-face meeting would be more advantageous. This is a rather…odd situation and it might take some explaining.”

“I specialize in odd situations, Mrs. Alston.”

“I suspected as much.”

“By the way, how did you come to get in touch with me?”

“I went down a list of private investigators until I found a name I liked. It happened to be yours. Fortunato. It has a rather nice ring to it.”

“Yeah, just like the sound of a cash register. So, you know nothing else about me?”

“I didn’t say that, Mr. Fortunato. I didn’t say that at all.”

***

Excerpt from Canary In the Coal Mine by Charles Salzberg. Copyright 2022 by Charles Salzberg. Reproduced with permission from Charles Salzberg. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Charles Salzberg is a former magazine journalist and nonfiction book writer. His novels Swann's Last Song (the first of the five Henry Swann novels) and Second Story Man were nominated for Shamus Awards and the latter was the winner of the Beverly Hills Book Award. Devil in the Hole was named one of the best crime novels of 2013 by Suspense Magazine. His work has also appeared in several anthologies as well as Mystery Tribune. He is a former professor of magazine at S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communication at Syracuse University, and he teaches writing in New York City. He is one of the Founding Members of New York Writers Workshop, and is a member of the Board of PrisonWrites and formerly a board member for MWA-NY.

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The Missionary By Rowena Kinread #Blogtour!@RowenaKinread @mar yanneyarde @rowenakinread @coffeepotbookclub #HistoricalFiction

 

 Book Title: The Missionary

Author: Rowena Kinread

Publication Date: 28th April 2021

Publisher: Pegasus Elliot Mackenzie Publishers

Page Length: 357 Pages

Genre: Historical Fiction

Patricius, a young man of Britannia, is taken from his home and family when Gaelic pirates attack his village. On his arrival in Ireland, he is sold as a slave to the cruel underking of the Dalriada tribe in the north. Six years later, Patricius manages to escape. His journey takes him through France to Ravenna in Italy. His subsequent plans to return to Britannia are side-tracked when he finds himself accompanying several monks to the island monastery on Lerinus. His devotion to his faith, honed during his captivity, grows as he studies with the monks.Haunted by visions of the Gaels begging him to return to Ireland and share the word of God with them, Patricius gains support from Rome and his friends to return to the land of his captivity. His arrival is bitterly opposed by the druids, who have held power over the Irish kings for many years, and he and his companions must combat the druids to succeed in their God-given mission.

Trigger Warnings:

Sex, violence, swearing

Available on #KindleUnlimited.

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/u/bwKZLZ

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Missionary-Rowena-Kinread-ebook/dp/B094C7HNJG

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/Missionary-Rowena-Kinread-ebook/dp/B094C7HNJG

Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/Missionary-Rowena-Kinread-ebook/dp/B094C7HNJG

Amazon AU: https://www.amazon.com.au/Missionary-Rowena-Kinread-ebook/dp/B094C7HNJG

Waterstones: https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-missionary/rowena-kinread/9781800160262

Book Depository: https://www.bookdepository.com/The-Missionary-Rowena-Kinread/9781800160262

Excerpt from ‘The Missionary’ by Rowena Kinread

The prisoners were herded together like animals in a cage. More and more captives kept being pushed into the enclosure. Antia was laid down and the women fussed around her. She had a fever and was delirious. Her face was covered in sweat and she was tossing her head back and forth and moaning. Patricius watched the older men examine the wooden posts knocked into the ground. They were solid and firm. Willow brush was weaved between the posts. They were about five feet high but there was no roof. Theoretically, one could scramble over the fencing, but there were hundreds of barbarians present against maybe sixty captives. Anyway, where could they go? They had sailed in a north-westerly direction all the time. They must truly be in Hibernia, and Hibernia was an island. Without a ship, they couldn’t escape.

At that moment Patricius recognised a head of floppy red hair being pushed through the entrance. “Pliny!” He jumped up and down waving his hands in the air. “Pliny, PLINY…” 

Finally Pliny saw him and pushed his way through to him. Pliny was always smiling. He was invariably in good humour, good-natured, with never a nasty comment about anyone. His aptitude for getting into mischief and enjoying fun made him popular with the boys. The girls loved him for his cheeky, lop-sided grin and his blue eyes, long eyelashes and smooth skin. But for the moment all fun had left him.

“Patricius, you too!” They hugged briefly and eyed each other’s wounds.

“What happened to you?” Patricius looked at Pliny’s bruised body with deep gashes on his arms.

“We were asleep when the raiders came bursting into our house. We were taken completely by surprise and had no time to defend ourselves.” Tears started streaming down his face and his body shook. Patricius gave him time to compose himself. “They’re all dead, Patricius. They murdered my whole family, even my little brothers and sisters.” He sobbed again. “They were so small.” Patricius put his hand gently on Pliny’s shoulders. No words could ever be adequate.

“Patricius,” Pliny continued. “I’m sorry. I saw your father murdered, and Cato. Cato was killed too.” 

Patricius couldn’t speak. He tried to blink back the tears welling up in his eyes. Finally he said, “Antia is here. She was with child and it came early. She lost it. She’s very ill. Don’t tell her about Cato, not yet. What about my mother and sister? Did they manage to escape?”

“I don’t know. But Magnus is all right, I think. His father was on our boat and told me he’d sent him up to the garrison with his mother and younger siblings. He had wanted to fight, his father said, but his mother needed help.”

Both lads sat on the ground silently, lost in their own sadness. Outside their prison, the Gaels were setting up camp. A huge fire was lit and several sucklings were put on the spit to roast. The Gaels were getting drunk and raucous. At one stage a Gael came over and motioned to Sextus. They discussed something together. Sextus looked over to the boys and called out, “Patricius, come here! The cows need milking.” Patricius stood up and went over to Sextus. The pirate let them out of the enclosure and accompanied them to the animal corral. There were at least twenty cows but also bullocks, sheep and goats grazing on the grass. Hens, geese and ducks were in wicker cages, stacked on top of one another. The pirate gave them some rope to fasten the cows to the fencing and terracotta pots for the milk. Then he stood outside the corral and watched them.

Sextus knelt beside a cow with his back to Patricius, who started milking. “The Gael will get bored soon,” Sextus whispered. “Wait till he looks away, then drink some milk yourself. When you’ve finished, trip in the cow muck and cover yourself in it.” 

“WHAT!?”

“Sssh. Do as I tell you. Trust me.” 

Rowena Kinread grew up in Ripon, Yorkshire. After leaving school she started working for Lufthansa in Stuttgart. There she met her future husband whom she married in Ripon. After raising 3 children, she began working as a secretary in a private physiotherapy practice. At the same time, she started writing non-fiction books and magazine articles. Retirement finally brought the financial security to start writing full length fiction. A keen interest in history and her own family ancestry inspired her debut novel “The Missionary”, the dramatic story about the life of St.Patrick.  A second book “The Scots of Dalriada” will be published this year. Ms. Kinread says that she welcomed retirement and all its wonderful opportunities to launch a third career.

Website: rowena-kinread.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/RowenaKinread

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/rowena.strittmatter

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/rowena-kinread-6b054b228/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rowenakinread/

BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/rowena-kinread

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com.au/Rowena-Kinread/e/B09JXTK626

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21379391.Rowena_Kinread

Tour Schedule Page: https://maryanneyarde.blogspot.com/2022/03/blog-tour-missionary-by-rowena-kinread.html

First and Forever @evedangerfield Book Blitz and Giveaway! #XpressoTours @XpressoTours

First and Forever
Eve Dangerfield

(Rebirth, #3)
Publication date: May 4th 2022
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

They’ll fake it ‘til they make it and then some…

Football player Sloan ‘Willow’ Williams has been looking for The One for years. He’s checked all the right places—and some of the wrong ones—and found sh*t all. But the moment he sees Eden Jade Cartwright, he knows she’s the girl for him.

Unfortunately, her entourage won’t let him anywhere near her…

Eden doesn’t want anything, aside from an international music career. She does, however, enjoy being worshipped, which the giant redhead seems inclined to do. But with a world tour beckoning, now isn’t the time for a boyfriend…

Willow has the perfect solution; a short, fake relationship that will boost Eden’s clout and scratch both their itches. Only he’s hoping the beautiful blonde will keep him around. And Eden’s praying she’ll be able to let him go…

First and Forever is a standalone romance by the critically acclaimed author Eve Dangerfield.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo

—

EXCERPT:

The thought reverberated around Willow’s head alongside the trance beat. Her trance beat. Eden Jade—better known by her DJ name, Bunny Descent, stood behind the decks on stage, one hand raised. The lights turned her white-blonde hair to pink and her ripped wedding dress was spattered neon by the leaking glow-sticks her fans were waving.

Her perfect face was screwed in concentration as she fiddled with something on the decks. The music transitioned from a hard, pulsing beat to something Willow recognised—‘Self Care’ by Mac Miller. The crowd cheered, more people rushing toward the stage, hands raised. It was three in the morning and the tiny dance floor was thrumming.

Willow had expected the crowd to thin as the night wore on, but the opposite happened. Bunny Descent was the seventh DJ of the night, and the audience was more hyped for her than anyone else. Watching the crowd dance, he felt a surge of pride. From what he’d read in interviews, Eden was scared of not breaking through, worried her sound was too erratic for main stages. But there was no way the woman in front of him wasn’t making it big. She oozed glamour and with each and every song, he grew more amazed she wasn’t famous.

“She is a goddess,” a guy slurred in his ear. “I, like, actually fuckin’ love her.”

Willow turned and saw the guy was talking to his equally fucked up mate, but that didn’t change the fact he was vocalising his own thoughts about Eden.

I’m different, he told himself.

Why?

I just am.

That had always been the only reason he needed. People called him overconfident, but that implied he tried to be confident. He didn’t. He was just lucky. He got what he wanted.

As the music surged higher, Willow danced along with the crowd, working his weight from foot to foot. A few girls smiled, looking for someone to kiss—or maybe because they recognised him, but he only had eyes for Eden. On stage she leant forward, touching the hands of the people dancing in front of her. The second she made contact, the crowd screamed fit to burst the roof. Willow knew exactly how they felt.

He’d been scoping her Instagram for ages, but there was nothing like seeing her in real life. With her long blonde hair and big eyes, she looked like Sailor Moon—his first and most powerful crush. He watched as Eden put her hands behind her head and shook, her tits bouncing in her wedding dress. Attraction burred through him like an electric current. He’d never been so into anyone. Even Sailor Moon. What could that be but true love? As he watched her dance, he made himself a promise—come hell or high water, he’d talk to her tonight.

A hard elbow bashed his side.

“Oi,” Derek shouted over the music. “What are we still doing here? Everyone’s out of their minds.”

Willow danced away from his friend. “I dunno. I’m not tired.”

“You’re never fucking tired. Where’s the patient?”

Willow glanced around. Patrick Normal, better known as Psycho, was swaying softly beside the bar, apparently having forgotten he wanted a beer. “Psycho’s… having a time.”

Derek followed his gaze. “Fuck me, he’s maggoted.”

“Yeah, he’ll be up for hours. Better we’re still out with him, hey?”

“This is all your fault. If Mara was in town, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve made it clear you’ll be dogging the boys from now on, Hardo.”

The track Eden was playing bled into a remix of that Rasputin, love machine song. The dancers packed around the stage, jumping so hard the floor shook. Eden swished her white-blonde hair over her shoulder and his cock throbbed. He could see her doing that while she rode him—looking down her nose as he worked to make her come.

His side burst with pain. He rubbed it, glaring at Derek. “What’s your problem?”

“You. You’re making gorilla noises.”

“You could hear that?”

“Of course, I…” A look of barely concealed terror dawned on Derek’s face. A look Willow knew all too well. He backed away in case Derek decided to put him in a headlock. “What have I done now?”

Derek pointed at the stage. “Please tell me we’re not here because you want to fuck that DJ?”

Willow gave him a winning smile. “Do you want a drink?”

“I wanna know if you dragged me all the way to the city to watch you fail to pick up a DJ.”

Eve Dangerfield has loved romance novels ever since she first swiped her grandmother’s paperbacks. Now she writes her own stories about complicated women and gorgeous-but-slightly-tortured men. Her work has been described as 'genre-defying,' 'insanely hot' and ‘the defibrillator contemporary romance needs right now'...and not just by herself or those who might need bone marrow...OTHER PEOPLE! She lives in Melbourne with her boy and a bunch of semi-dead plants. She can generally be found making a mess.

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Book 3 in the Hell in a Handbag series by @laft100 Book Blitz and Giveaway! #XpressoTours @XpressoTours

 

Liquid Foundations
Lisa Acerbo

(Hell in a Handbag, #3)
Publication date: April 13th 2022
Genres: New Adult, Post-Apocalyptic, Supernatural, Urban Fantasy, Young Adult, Zombies

Even the most solid foundation can be shaken.

No place is safe anymore, and I’m on the run from something new.

The putrid stink of zombies has been replaced by sulfur, feces, and wet dog. The High Point Inn has been abandoned, the landscape plagued by the unimaginable, animal-hybrids. Wolves and bears rise from the grave or maybe they never died. Sure, the hordes of undead humans are diminishing, but whatever lies in wait is faster, smarter, and spurned by the devil himself.

With Caleb, Lilly, and Eric at my side, I search for friends and suFictiorvivors. But the new evil has arrived.

I can’t run quick enough.

The wolves are here, and they’re hungry, not to mention cunning and cruel. Endless rains force my group underground and into a cave system. Lost in the interminable, pitch-black subterranean tunnels, I struggle to keep my sanity and my life. There’s only one place in the world that makes sense anymore, and that’s where my friends are.

If I can survive the dark and the zombie wolves, Hopewell, Maine, here I come.

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—

EXCERPT:

Her eyes found the offending window, and the Streaker who launched through it. What had once been a squat man in a flannel shirt and jeans had turned into a distended corpse in blood-crusted rags, its bloated stomach exposed for all. The Streaker wore a wrinkled face with the consistency of a peach left too long in the sun. One arm hung limp, fingers gnawed away.

Did something do that to the Streaker, or did it eat away at its own flesh?

The monster staggered to the curb and stopped, pointing its chin to the sky, and taking in a breath through black, decayed nostrils. Its next meal had arrived, served up and ready to be consumed. Patches of skin had been torn away, exposing the rot that lived underneath. With a mewl, it lumbered at Jenna. The Streaker’s stare met her with singular intent. Eyes dead and unblinking, it closed the distance between them. She equaled food, and the risen dead was hungry.

In a practiced motion, Jenna released her bowie knife from the sheath on her belt. The monster stumbled over a garbage can in its path. Moving close, it reached out.

“What’s that smell?” Jenna ducked and swung low and hard. “Step back, foul one. God, you reek. Haven’t bathed in forever I’d guess. Personal hygiene not a priority these days?”

The Streaker growled in response and stretched a mottled, pus-clotted arm to grab her camo jacket.

“They’re slower than they used to be, Jenna, but don’t get too smug. The bite might not kill you, but the infection can.” Lilly tilted her head. “Need help?”

Eric moved closer, a similar knife in his hand. “Don’t worry. I got you covered.”

Jenna kicked at the creature. “Eric and I can handle this.”

The Streaker staggered back, but then surged forward again. “I’ll keep watch.” Lilly surveyed their surroundings. “Where there’s one, more to come.”

“Did you just make that up?” Eric asked.

“I like to rhyme,” Lilly said. “Appears clear.”

“One of your many talents.” Eric sent a smile her way and turned back to face the enemy.

“Come here, big boy.” Jenna took a step back into the center of the road where less debris meant less to trip over.

“Me or the monster?” Eric joked.

The Streaker trailed Jenna, the remains of its ragged flannel shirt fluttering open. Guts leaked out of its sliced chest cavity and slipped out of the tattered remains of clothing.

Jenna gagged. “There’s something no girl ever wants to see. Put it away and be a gentleman.”

“The gentlemanly thing to do would be to find dinner somewhere else.” Eric moved behind the creature. The undead mewled.

“That’s all you got for me?” She stepped back, hoisted the bowie blade, and slashed. The knife embedded itself between the creature’s eyes. She sliced higher. The blade released with a pucker. She stepped back. The zombie closed in. “Guess I missed my mark.” Jenna dodged the lumbering monster.

Eric’s knife slashed the Streaker’s back with a repeated, steady swing. Strips of skin and black goo melted to the ground.

Jenna sliced across the creature’s neck, stabbed, and drew her knife away, hearing the suck of release. She skidded back. “Why won’t it die?” Jenna eyed the creature for a weakness.

“Maybe you have bad aim.” Eric carved out new wounds, but the monster stretched its arm making it impossible to get close.

“Could be that it’s already dead.” Jenna frowned. “I have great aim and practice a lot more than you to make sure I never lose it.”

“I’m younger and more fit.”

“We’ll see about that.” Jenna moved behind the writhing creature. She hoped to catch it unaware, but the monster spun, its lifeless eyes meeting hers. Jenna jumped back and huffed out a breath. “So much for the element of surprise.” She’d better practice those battle skills a few more hours a day.

“What’s the plan?” Eric sidestepped to refocus the Streaker’s attention on him. “More firepower? Bring out the big guns?”

“Don’t want to attract more.”

Eric scooted close and then backed away. “I’ll draw its attention. You finish it from the rear.”

“Sounds like a firm plan.”

“Not in this case.”

Jenna eyed the undead. “True. Very saggy from this view.”

“Get on with it, you two.” Lilly waved a hand at them. “I don’t want to hang around here any longer than I have to.”

Lisa Acerbo is a high school teacher and adjunct faculty at a local community college. She lives in Connecticut with her husband, daughters, two dogs, and horse. When not writing, she mountain bikes, hikes, and fosters dogs.

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Wilder Trilogy by Ali Dean Tour!

She’s a rising tennis star from a family of con-artists. He’s a football hotshot and devoted to his family. When her path crosses with his family’s, he’s immediately suspicious, and she’s determined to keep her secrets, despite their sizzling chemistry. Fans of Ivy Smoak and Tijan will love this addicting, edge-of-your-seat sports romance.

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Wilder Games

It’s match point in the most important tennis match in my life, and nothing can distract me. Nothing, that is, except the sight of Jude Wilder sitting in the stands with his little sister on his lap. He’s never watched me play. Never even noticed me before. And yet his eyes are on me now. I know what he must be thinking. I’m not just an outcast, I’m a social pariah thanks to my family being the town’s most notorious con artists. Jude is on the opposite side of the spectrum. Not only is he accepted, he’s worshipped. I’m nobody to him, and yet I’ve got this chance to impress him.

As it turns out, he isn’t at all impressed when I win the match, and I’m worse than a nobody to him. Jude thinks I’m a threat to his family. This should alarm me. It should scare me. Jude in protective mode is hot, all right, but I can’t afford to be on his radar. I’ve got one year to secure a college scholarship. It’s hard enough keeping a low profile with my tennis success, and the last thing I need is Jude Wilder of all people drawing more attention my way.

Especially if it’s hostile.
Even if I like it.

Wilder Match

One second, the future of my tennis career is brighter than ever; the next, nothing is certain. Nothing, that is, except that I won’t be swinging a racket anytime soon. Jude Wilder wants to come to my rescue. I don’t need rescuing, even if it’s offered by the one guy who ignites a fire inside of me like I’ve only ever felt on the tennis court.

I’ve done things on my own my entire life, and I won’t let this setback steal my independence. Only, it’s not so easy to turn Jude away when he’s determined to help me. I want him, but I don’t trust him enough to let him in. Then again, if I can keep his savior complex at bay, he might just be the perfect distraction while I’m sidelined. It’s not like he’s going to stick around for long, and I can always cut him out of my life when I need to. That is, if I don’t fall in love with him first.

Wilder Play

The addicting, edge-of-your seat Wilder trilogy concludes with this final installment filled with sports, romance, and characters you’ll obsess about. Enjoy this fast-paced binge-read and its twisty, unpredictable plot!

I’m back on the tennis court, but the rest of my life is a hot mess. My mom stopped paying my bills, and I just discovered the reason for it: she’s dead. I’m about to get kicked out of my apartment – the same one that’s been broken into twice – if I don’t pay rent soon. My sister is still lurking about, up to no good. And someone is leaving messages telling me to break up with Jude.

He’s back from football camp and didn’t forget about me while he was gone. Jude’s seen the reality of my life, and he isn’t running away. Instead, he’s demanding I open up to him more, even though I’ve already made myself more vulnerable with him than with anyone else in my life. I keep telling myself it’s for his own good to keep secrets from him, but I’m starting to wonder if it’s more about protecting my heart than it is about proving my independence.

We’ve fallen hard and fast, and it’s up to me what happens next.

The man who’s come to deliver the news about my mom is about to tell me who my father is, and I have a feeling my world is going to get turned upside down. Should I take Jude’s hand and bring him along for the ride? And if I do, will having Jude beside me make me weaker, or stronger?

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Excerpt 

Copyright 2022 Ali Dean

“That would have been your first kiss?”
She shrugged. “Yeah.”
“You’re seventeen?”
Her eyes finally met mine, and I could see the relief there. She was glad I hadn’t pushed about the “other stuff” she’d referred to, which only made me more curious about it.
“So? I’m too busy with school and tennis, and now college applications and work, to hang out with people.”
“You really think you led him on? That’s fucked up, Karis. He was the one who kept touching you all territorial-like all night, and you never responded.”
“Should I have pushed him away? Told him to stop? I mean, he wasn’t groping me or anything.”
“Pretty sure you did give him a few shoves at the ping pong table.” I raised my eyebrows and she laughed softly.
“Only because I wanted to win and he kept screwing up.”
“Karis, guys should be able to read women’s signs. Anyone looking at you two would have seen that you weren’t into him like that. But Ferris has it bad, and he’s ignoring it or in denial. Telling himself it’s because you’re inexperienced or something.”
“So I should have told him to back off or pushed him away earlier if you hadn’t shown up? Even though it would have made it awkward when I saw him at BTC, which is practically every day in the summer?”
“You would let a guy kiss you, your first kiss, so you didn’t hurt his feelings?”
Karis laughed again and the rage beating inside me dimmed slightly. “Okay,” she conceded. “You’re right.”
“You didn’t have any trouble pushing me away the other night,” I reminded her. And she’d been turned on, I hadn’t misread that. She’d liked how my body felt crowding hers.
“Yeah well, you were pissing me off. I didn’t have to worry about hurting your feelings.”
“If I tried to kiss you now, what would you do?”
She rolled her eyes like she didn’t think I was serious. “I need to get to bed, Jude. I’ve got to be up at 5:30 in the morning.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” she said on a long sigh, moving to the bed. See? She had no problem walking away from me.
I found myself following her as I remembered that look in her eyes as she ran her finger along her lip in the hallway. The way her chest rose and her eyes dilated. The deepening blush. Her husky voice. It hadn’t been for Ferris. She felt this between us. I wanted to be Karis Jackson’s first kiss.

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About Ali Dean

Ali is a USA Today Bestselling author of girl power sports romance books, with enough suspense to keep you on the edge of your seat. She has always loved to read, especially when there's a happily ever after, but found that there weren't enough books out there featuring girl athletes. So, she decided to work on that. Like the heroines in her books, Ali is an athlete, with running and skiing her favorite sports these days. Ali hails from Vermont and now lives in her own happily-ever-after in Colorado with her husband, two sets of twins (yes, you read that correctly) and golden retriever Pancake. When she's not pursuing an outdoor adventure, Ali's less healthy passions include ice cream, coffee, and beer.

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