07 April 2023

Close Your Eyes: A Fairy Tale by Chris Tomasini Blog Tour! @cathiedunn @chrisfindsthelight @thecoffeepotbookclub

#HistoricalFiction #BlogTour #TheCoffeePotBookClub

Book Title: Close Your Eyes: A Fairy Tale

Author: Chris Tomasini

Publication Date: December 16th, 2021

Publisher: Independently published / Self published

Page Length: 258 pages

Genre: Historical Fiction

Set in early 1400s Europe, Close Your Eyes is a sincere, yet light-hearted and lustful, ode to love. As Samuel, the court jester, struggles to describe why his friends, Agnieszka the cook, and Tycho the story-teller, fled the King of Gora's service, he learns that love was the beating heart behind everything that happened in the castle.

He learns as well that more ghosts than he knew of walked the midnight halls, and that the spirit of Jeanne d'Arc haunted his friend, and once slid into bed with Tycho, daring him to leave - to take to the cold roads of Europe, where he had once wandered orphaned and alone, and find his destiny there.

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/u/4DJN6g

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B09NRYXDM9

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09NRYXDM9

Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/Close-Your-Eyes-Fairy-Tale/dp/B09NRK3ZQH

Amazon AU: https://www.amazon.com.au/Close-Your-Eyes-Fairy-Tale/dp/B09NRK3ZQH

Tycho's Journal

March 1431

After my story last night, Agnieszka and I walked together through the castle, through the dark, echoing stone passages, and eventually found ourselves in the dining hall.

It was black and empty, and for several moments we simply stood near the entrance, listening to our whispers scurry off into the murky emptiness. I took Agnieszka's hand and guided her through the maze of invisible tables towards one of the fireplaces. I set her down in a chair, ran back to the hallway and brought a torch flaming before me into the room. With much effort I built a fire, fueling it with wood until it was high and warm, and Agnieszka and I sat in chairs before the fire, a great darkness above and around us, warm furs clutched tightly about our shoulders.

We spoke lazily, allowing lulls to exist in our conversation - long lulls when we sat listening to the crackling of the flames, content with silence, perhaps even comforted by it.

I asked her to explain how she felt for her husband.

The question turned her face to mine. "I love him, Tycho.”

"But love, Agnieszka, this word, I want to know what you mean by it."

Her beautiful eyes, harbouring a reflection of the fire, turned from me. In her silence I realized that she was struggling, for the first time, to put a true meaning to this word. I closed my eyes, enjoyed the glow and warmth of the fire upon my face, leant back into the embrace of the night.

"He makes me happy."

"I make you happy, as does cooking, and you would not use this word for us.”

"I would," she replied. "I love cooking, and I love you, in a way."

"It is not the same."

"No," she said, gazing into the flames. "No. It is a different manner of love." She told me how, after all these months, she could still feel the touch of his hand, could close her eyes and count, from memory, the number of wrinkles upon his forehead when he frowned. She spoke of the strength and warmth of his arms, how she could endure anything if she knew he was awaiting her, and how this separation, caused by Pawel's money, had caused a gnawing ache within her, affecting her so deeply at times that she merely wished to lay curled in bed, too weak to stand.

So, when Agnieszka says "I love my husband," this is what she means.

After a long silence, Agnes turned the conversation to me. I deflected her a few times, a game I like to play with her - she asks questions and I reply with non sequiturs which enrage her, but finally, and in exasperation, she said "You've never been in love, have you?"

It was no secret; in fact, I may even have told her as much before. I paused for a long while, staring at the fire, and then let slip an idea I’d long kept to myself, fearing to speak it, as though utterance would make it true. "My heart," I whispered, "seems not designed for love."

She was staring at me. "Tycho, I love you. I have told you as much."

The firelight was shining upon her face, in her eyes, across her long brown hair. I dropped my eyes from hers to look again into the fire, burning bravely in the vast darkness of the dining hall. "It is not the kind of love which can save me. Not the kind of love that will save me from the storm."

She didn't reply, my words stilling her, and after sitting long and silently by the fire, I guided Agnes to her room.

I feel strongly for Agnieszka, and perhaps it is love that I feel, but I long thought that the emotion which inspired Petrarch and Dante to write all those words for Laura and Beatrice, and which allowed Abelard to endure castration for Eloise, would be much different, and somehow allied to sex.

I wish Petrarch's spirit would visit me in my cold room. I would like to ask him what he would do - knowing that Agnieszka loves a man she is being kept from, what would you do? Is love so beautiful and precious a thing that you would sacrifice your life to it, though the love be not your own?

I wish you could tell me Petrarch. I do not know or feel love. I believe in love, and not only because of you and Dante and Abelard, but also because I can see it in Agnieszka. When she thinks of her husband something shines through her. She becomes distant, and strong, and weak. The emotions she holds for Michal could protect her against the coldest night, but somehow she also seems vulnerable, as though she would die if anything happened to her husband.

That, I presume, is love.

I believe in love.

I don't understand love.

Agnieszka is my friend.

I’m happy in Gora. I have a family here, and the thought of returning to the life I knew as a child - nights under open skies, praying in the early morning hours for sleep to return, even the sleep of death, so that I'll no longer feel the cold, terrifies me.

But this love, Agnieszka's manner of love, seems to be a very rare thing.

Chris Tomasini lives in Ontario, Canada. He has studied creative writing via Humber College's "Correspondence Program in Creative Writing", and through the University of Toronto School of Continuing Studies.

In the 1990s Chris taught English as a Second Language and had stops in England, Poland, and Japan.

Since 2000, Chris has worked in bookstores, publishing, and in libraries.

Chris is married with two children, and can often be found (though not very easily) on a bicycle on country roads in central Ontario.

Website: http://www.christomasini.ca/

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

TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@chrisfindsthelight

Book Bub https://www.bookbub.com/authors/chris-tomasini

Amazon Author

Page: https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B019NO9NO2

Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14814659.Chris_Tomasini

Tour Schedule Page:

06 April 2023

The Connection Game: A Novel by S.S Turner! Guest Post! @SSTurnerswriting @iReadBookTours @SSTurner7 @SSTurnerWriter and @acornsireadbooktours

#iReadBookTours #books #authors #giveaway

Book Title: The Connection Game: A Novel by S.S Turner
Category: Adult Fiction (18+) , 272 pages
Genre: Literary Fiction
Publisher: The Story Plant
Release date: Feb 2023
Content Rating: PG: There’s some violence and a small bit of profanity.

UK cover

Bound to the Warrior Knight

Wed to a stranger

Awakened by his touch

As the new wife of stoic knight Benedictus Monceaux, innocent Adela finds herself in a whole new world... Their union is one of convenience and power, but her feelings for the warrior unsettle and excite her. Hiding an inner strength, Adela knows she can be a strong ally to her husband but first she must walk a fine line between duty and desire, both in court and in the bedchamber.

Purchase Links

Ella Matthews lives and works in beautiful South Wales. She writes medieval romances for Mills and Boon. When not thinking about handsome heroes she can be found walking along the coast with her husband and two children (probably still thinking about heroes but at least pretending to be interested in everyone else).

www.ellamatthews.co.uk

Twitter @ellamattauthor

Instagram @ellamatthewsauthor

Out in the Surf by Lane Hayes Audio Post! @lanehayes3 @indigomarketingdesign #LGBTQIA+

#contemporary #audio #booklover #bookblogger #bookaddict #romancereadersofinstagram #booknerd #bookworm

Title: Out in the Surf

Series: Out in College, Book 10

Author: Lane Hayes

Narrator: Michael Dean

Publisher: Lane Hayes

Heat Level: 4 - Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 4 hrs and 8 mins

Genre: Romance, Contemporary MM Romance, Sports Romance, Bisexual, College Romance

Add to Goodreads

The hockey player, the surfer, and a lesson neither can forget…

Luca-

I love the beach, and I’m a good athlete. Learning how to surf should be a breeze, right?

Wrong.

In a twist, hockey is nothing like surfing. That’s okay—I just need a diversion to round out my new life in So Cal while I figure out what comes next. As long as I keep my head above water, this could be fun.

Bonus…my instructor is hot.

Cal-

Teaching newbies to surf is easy money. Usually. My newest student is a wild card who seems to think his jock status should make him a natural at everything he tries, and I can see why. Luca is…special. He’s dynamic, energetic, and fun. It’s hard not to like him. But I like him a little too much.

This could be trouble.

Out in the Surf is a low-angst MM romance, bisexual-awakening story. When the teacher becomes the student, it may be time to come out in the surf.

I held out my hand, smirking when he stared at it suspiciously.

“Thanks.”

He pressed his palm against mine, shook my hand, and released it. No big deal, right?

Wrong.

My fingers tingled and my heart rate soared to the stratosphere. I played it cool, though. I hooked my thumbs in my belt loops, casually glanced up at the street sign before asking, “So…when do you want to schedule your next lesson?”

Luca barked a laugh. “I’m not doing that again. That was single-handedly the most traumatic thing that’s happened to me since I moved to Cali. A clear sign I should stay closer to shore and away from surfboards.”

“No, no, no. You’ve got that wrong,” I cajoled. “It’s like I tried to tell you…you’ve got to get back on that horse. Or surfboard. Don’t let fear win.”

“I’m not afraid of surfing. It’s more a matter of returning to the scene of the crime.”

“What crime?”

“The kissing crime!” He threw his hands in the air and paced a few feet away.

I pursed my lips to keep my smile in check when he came to a stop in front of me. “Are you going to do it again?”

Luca shrugged. “I didn’t intend to do it the first time around. But what if I accidentally stick my tongue down your throat? Don’t look at me like that. It could happen.”

“I’m willing to take a chance.” I chuckled. “How about Monday?”

He screwed his features into wide-eyed disbelief. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I can’t. School started last week and I can’t be late…yet.”

“Wise choice.” I stepped away from the crosswalk to lean against the building’s façade. “Okay, if you have any open mornings, we’ll make it work. Otherwise, I’ll make time for you on the weekend. Early.”

Luca furrowed his brow. “If I hypothetically agreed, what is ‘early’ to you?”

“Seven a.m.”

“Fuck that.” He snorted with a laugh. “I need my beauty sleep.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to assure him that he didn’t, but that was a strange sentiment coming from another guy. Wasn’t it?

“Early bird gets the worm and all that,” I singsonged.

“Hmph. I’ll think about it…someday.”

“Sounds fair. Gimme your phone number.” I handed over my cell and let him add his contact info. “I’m free tomorrow morning…just sayin’.”

I was teasing. I was more interested in coaxing an incredulous reaction than anything. And Luca didn’t disappoint. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head in mock consternation.

“You’re nuts. Certifiable. I wouldn’t want to hang out with hungover me if I were you.”

“I’ve seen you barf. Does it get worse?”

He opened his mouth and closed it. “Wow, I really was a mess that day.”

“You weren’t that bad,” I chided playfully.

“Liar,” Luca scoffed. “All right. Call me or text me. We’ll have a redo and next time, I promise not to kiss you.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” I replied, unthinking.

We both froze.

I wasn’t sure who was more surprised. My jaw unhinged while he cocked his head and really looked at me for the first time that night, his eyes roaming my face as if searching for clues.

“So kissing might be okay,” he hummed, narrowing his eyes.

I felt his gaze like a physical touch. It had never occurred to me to wonder how another man saw me, but I had to admit, the flash of naked desire in his expression did something for me.

This was a new one. Luca was gay, or maybe bi. Either way, he was plainly interested in me…and I didn’t hate it. In fact, my jeans hugged my crotch a little too tightly, which meant my body appreciated his interest and maybe shared it. And that was pretty…gay.

Was I okay with that?
Purchase at Audible

Lane Hayes loves a good romance! An avid reader from an early age, she has always been drawn to well-told love story with beautifully written characters. Her debut novel was a 2013 Rainbow Award finalist and subsequent books have received Honorable Mentions, and were winners in the 2016, 2017, 2018-2019, 2020-2021 Rainbow Awards. She loves wine, chocolate and travel (in no particular order). Lane lives in Southern California with her amazing husband and her fabulous pup, George.

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Instagram | BookBub

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05 April 2023

The Dead Certain Doubt: An Ed Earl Burch Novel by Jim Nesbitt Book Tour!

March 13 - April 7, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

Revenge, Guilt, Redemption & Gunsmoke

When Doubt Is Your Only Friend

Ed Earl Burch, a cashiered Dallas murder cop, is a private detective facing the relentless onslaught of age, bad choices, guilt and regret. Smart, tough, profane and reckless, he's a survivor who relies on his own guts and savvy and expects no help or salvation from anybody.

But he's also a man who longs for the sense of higher calling he felt when he carried a homicide detective's gold shield. He seeks redemption and a chance to make amends to a dying old woman he abandoned decades ago when she needed him most.

When he sees her again, she has the same request -- save her granddaughter from the vicious outlaws on her trail and bring her home for a final goodbye. Easier said than done because the granddaughter is a hardened hustler and gunrunner, hellbent on avenging a lover who got chopped up and stuffed into a barbecue smoker by cartel gunsels and a rival smuggler.

To fulfill the old woman's last request, Burch heads back to the borderlands of West Texas on a mercy mission that plunges him into a violent world of smugglers, cartel killers, crooked lawmen, Bible-thumping hucksters, anti-government extremists and an old nemesis who wants to see him dead.

The odds are long and Burch has his doubts -- about himself, the granddaughter, old friends and the elusive nature of grace from guilt. Truth be told, doubt is the only thing he's dead certain of.

Grace Or A Desert Grave?

Praise for The Dead Certain Doubt:

"Gritty and tough with enough despicable West Texas hombres to fill a tour bus."
~ Bruce Robert Coffin, award-winning author of the Detective Byron mysteries

"Rough days and harsh nights seem like paradise before it's all over...."
~ Rod Davis, author of the Southern noir novels, South, America and East of Texas, West of Hell

"A no-holds-barred mission of revenge, redemption and righting wrong from the past...."
~ R.G. Belsky, author of the Clare Carlson mysteries

"The pace is swift, the action is raw and the characters are intense and visual."
~ Carmen Amato, author of the Emilia Cruz and Galliano Club mystery series

"Ed Earl Burch will guide you through the last arroyo with wit, truly memorable dialogue and locations you’d like to visit…with a gun."
~ John William Davis, author of Rainy Street Stories and Around the Corner

"The Dead Certain Doubt is a thrilling, lightning-paced, ferocious crime novel. Highly recommended!"
~ Rich Zahradnik, author of The Bone Records and Lights Out Summer, winner of the 2018 Shamus Award for Best Paperback Private Eye Novel

Book Details:

Genre: Hard-Boiled Crime Thriller
Published by: Spotted Mule Press
Publication Date: March 2023
Number of Pages: 260
ISBN: 978-0-9983294-5-1
Book Links: Amazon

Read an excerpt:

Seven

Watch your six, Sport Model.

A dead partner’s whispered warning. A triggered twitch of muscle memory and street cop reflexes. The split-second dive to the right. The graceless tuck and shoulder roll that slams and skids your ass across the greasy linoleum floor of a roadside tienda.

Left hand full of a Colt’s cold comfort. Hammer back. Eight Fat Boys in the mag. One in the pipe. Hardball .45 ACP and Flying Ashtrays. Find the source of that buckshot blast meant to blow your head into red mist, skull fragments, hair and brain matter.

Ignore the screams, shouts, clumping footfalls and Dios Mios of customers and clerks exiting rapido to safety. Smell the cordite but pay it no mind.

Ignore all that shattered bottle glass and the ketchup, mustard, mayo, salsa picante and salsa verde splattered across the floor, your jeans, your belt buckle and your best Nocona boots. A swirling mess of red, green, white and yellow that just doesn’t matter.

Find that shooter. Listen for the telltale shing-shing pumping more buckshot into the chamber. Pray he’s old school. Pray the shotgun isn’t a semi-automatic with the next round already in the pipe.

Shing-shing.

Answered prayer. The sound rises from the next aisle to his front left. The Colt tracks the echo, sights panning across the shelves facing him. Jarritos, Jumex, Sidral Mundet, Big Red, 7 Up. Spam, Underwood Deviled Ham, Starkist. Valvoline, Havoline, Pennzoil.<

A boot sole scrapes the linoleum. Front corner of the next aisle. Right behind the 10W30. Colt centers on the sound. Front blade splits a quart of Havoline. Blast five shots. A grunt, a groan and the clatter of dropped gun metal. Ears ring.

Quick crab crawl to the opposite corner.

Sneak a peek. Shooter on his knees. One hand covers his bloody gut. The other reaches for his pump shotgun.

Fuck you, old school. Three more blasts from the Colt. Squeeze the trigger like a lover until the slide locks back and smoke curls from the breech. One round cores a Third Eye in the shooter’s forehead.

Quema tu culo en el infierno, pendejo. No last rites. No absolution. Straight to the flames. Spit a sour green ball of phlegm on the floor.

Shuck the empty mag. Slap home a fresh one. Trip the slide. Shake out a Lucky and stick it on a dry lip.

Light the nail with a Zippo and a shaky hand. Drag the smoke down deep to smother the stench of gunsmoke and blood. Dial 911 on the black rotary phone next to the cash register and wait for the gaudy post-mortem show to start. No popcorn.

Give thanks to the whiskey gods you survived another gunfight. Thank those old reflexes, too. They’re the second cousins of doubt -- the only thing you’re dead certain of.

*** *** *** ***

Dealer’s choice. Jacks or better to open. Check, raise, bluff or call in a round of liar’s poker with a lawdog Burch knew but hadn’t seen in almost a decade. Didn’t know if he could trust the man who held all the high cards. And the badge. Best to play it close to the vest.

“I see you still worship at the Church of John Browning. Bet you still follow the lessons they taught you at the Hollow-Point Charm School.”

Raise with a bluff and smartass bluster.

“Dance with who brung ya, Sheriff. And not much charm to this deal. Just a shitload of lead. Muchacho there tried to make me a headless horseman with some double-ought. I begged to differ and let Brother John’s best do my talking for me.”

“Old gun.” Call.

“Old man shootin’ it. Only gun I can hit anything with.” Re-raise.

“And you had to come all the way out to my county to prove you still could. Why the hell is that?”

Burch smiled but didn’t answer. A quiet fold. The sheriff was deeply annoyed but wasn’t ready to throw him in a jail cell. Yet.

Burch stood about five feet away from the shooter’s corpse, dripping ketchup, mustard and salsa on the tienda linoleum. Half-assed trying not to fuck up the sheriff’s crime scene while smoking another Lucky pacifier.

His eyes scanned the body, sprawled face first in a dark, spreading pool, left arm flexed out like it was plowing a path for a body that would never follow.

His brain automatically picked out and filed the details. Once a murder cop, always a murder cop. Gold badge or not.

Detail: The last hollow-point he fired blew out the back of the man’s skull. Filed.

Detail: A scorpion tattoo on the left forearm. Black ink only. Lines still sharp. Filed.

Detail: Shooter’s gun a Remington 870 pump. Twelve gauge with a sawed-off barrel. Common as rocks and sand in West Texas. Filed.

He studied the left side of the man’s face, the side that wasn’t marinating in blood and brain pulp.

Detail: Smooth bronze skin, left eye showing the eight-ball bulge. Detail: Lips locked back over a pearly white grimace. Silver cuff on the left earlobe. Maricón? Maybe.

Details and question filed. Nothing rose from his memory banks. Noted and filed.

His eyes returned to the gaping hole in the back of the man’s skull.

Gotta love them Flying Ashtrays. Did damage to a man. Hardball knocked him down and hollow-point chewed up his innards and cored out his skull. The Big Adios. One-way ticket. Paid in full.

The sheriff squatted on his boot heels near the dead man’s right hip, using the eraser end of a pencil to lift the bloody tail of a denim shirt to study an exit wound. A muttered oath. English or Spanish. Burch couldn’t tell.

More muttering. A wallet fished out of a back pocket with a hand gloved in latex. A glance at the driver’s license. A quick riffle through a thick sheaf of greenbacks.

Detail: Helluva lot of lettuce in that wallet. More than your average greaseball carries. Noted and filed.

Sheriff Sudden Doggett gave one shake of the head then pinned Burch with dark, angry eyes framed by the underside of a faded, stained and dented Resistol that might have been dark gray in its younger days.

“Why the fuck is it every time you cross the Cuervo County line you have to announce your presence by painting the walls red?”

“Only the second time I’ve visited your fair jurisdiction, Sheriff. And the first time was a few years back. Seven or was it eight?”

“Not long enough if you ask me. Why can’t you be like every other tourist passing through and keep trucking over the river for some bad tequila and cheap pussy?”

“Because I’m on a job. Was on my way to see you when this happened.”

“Well, fuck me runnin’. Worst news I’ve had all day. Fuckin’ angel of death is what you are. And my morgue’s already full. Last thing I need is another gun hand racking up body count.”

“Startin’ to sound like your old boss.”

“You can just take that talk and jam it straight up your ass, pendejo. Go clean yourself up some. You look like Ronald McDonald with that shit smeared all over you.”

“Good to see you again, too, Sheriff.”

“Bite my ass, Burch.”

Risky to poke a stick at Doggett with the thin hand he held. Might wind up in a jail cell for his trouble. But the reaction he got was worth it – genuine pissoff with no hesitation or trace of guilt. Told him he just might be dealing with a straight shooter. Hope so. We’ll see.

The lawman kept his eyes locked on Burch as he barked an order.

“Get this fuckhead out of my face before I run him in lookin’ just like the clown he is. Take him out back. Ruby’s got a garden hose out there. Let him use it and get cleaned up while I check out this mess. Leave his Colt on the counter.”

A blade-faced deputy with acne scars and the flattened nose of a bad boxer stepped up and grabbed him by the elbow. Burch shook his arm free, gave him a glare and walked toward the back door of the store.

Anger flushed out the shakes. He felt better, but not great. As good as it gets after killing a man.

***

Jim Nesbitt is the award-winning author of four hard-boiled Texas crime thrillers that feature battered but relentless Dallas PI Ed Earl Burch -- THE LAST SECOND CHANCE, a Silver Falchion finalist; THE RIGHT WRONG NUMBER, an Underground Book Reviews “Top Pick”; and, his latest, THE BEST LOUSY CHOICE, winner of the best crime fiction category of the 2020 Independent Press Book Awards, the 2020 Silver Falchion award for best action and adventure novel from the Killer Nashville crime fiction conference and bronze medal winner in the best mystery/thriller e-book category of the 2020 Independent Publisher Book Awards. His latest book is THE DEAD CERTAIN DOUBT, which was released in early March. Nesbitt was a journalist for more than 30 years, serving as a reporter, editor and roving national correspondent for newspapers and wire services in Alabama, Florida, Texas, Georgia, North Carolina, South Carolina and Washington, D.C. He chased hurricanes, earthquakes, plane wrecks, presidential candidates, wildfires, rodeo cowboys, migrant field hands, neo-Nazis and nuns with an eye for the telling detail and an ear for the voice of the people who give life to a story. His stories have appeared in newspapers across the country and in magazines such as Cigar Aficionado and American Cowboy. He is a lapsed horseman, pilot, hunter and saloon sport with a keen appreciation for old guns, vintage cars and trucks, good cigars, aged whiskey and a well-told story. Nesbitt regularly reviews crime fiction and history on his blog, The Spotted Mule, and his author web site, as well as Facebook, Amazon and Goodreads. He now lives in Athens, Alabama.

To learn more, visit him at:
JimNesbittBooks.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @edearl56
Facebook - @edearlburchbooks

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