Thursday, October 29, 2015

Throwback Thursday Tune



Yep, I had to put this last simply because it was so groundbreaking in so many ways. There will only ever be one Micheal Jackson. Enjoy and feel free to do your own zombie dance. I know I will!


Monday, October 26, 2015

Tuesday Tales - Gold



Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.




Today we have the next issue in my historical M/M romance, Dear Jon, which is set in 1945. Every issue of this serial will be under 1500 words so they're quick reads.  Our word prompt today is 'Gold'. This story contains mature language and gay sexual situations. If that offends now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering. 

Don`t forget to visit the other talented Tuesday Tales authors. Thanks for stopping by!



See, this is what I never understood about God . . .

One minute he`s using you for punting practice. The next he`s got one of the most fantastic looking men he ever molded from clay smiling at you as you enter his humble shop. Not just a ‘Hey, how are ya?’ smile’ either. There was real pleasure in those slate grey eyes of Ross Coleman`s.  The bell announcing our presence was a pleasant sounding one, ringing joyfully just over our heads.  I heard the Mills Brothers singing from the backroom.
Andrew was now loosening his grip so that I could feel my fingers. The shop was a small one, but man alive, was it something to behold. Fine furniture crafted by hand filled the shop. Tables, chairs, rockers, hutch cupboards, cradles, and porch swings. You name it, and Ross Coleman could make it, and make it well. Inhaling deeply, my nose tickled as minute particles of wood dust entered my nostrils.
“Well, look what the sunshine brought out.”Ross called, stepping around a tall bookshelf of golden honeyed oak. The wood gleamed in the bright rays streaming in the wide front windows.  Andrew released my hand to hug my leg. Walking became interesting. I met Ross halfway. The handshake lasted a second longer than society called for. I was intrigued, but too damned blue to act on it. “What brings you into town?”
“Your truck door,” I said, jerking my head at the front window. Ross raised an eyebrow. There was sawdust in the creeping brow. His black-and-silver hair had a fine coating of wood powder as well. He wore old trousers, a short-sleeved shirt, and an old leather apron. The urge to get my hand under his apron nearly blinded me. I do have a weakness for older men. Tipping his head to peek around my noggin, Ross gazed at his truck parked along the curb, and then looked back at me. “It was me that stove it in. Since I was in town to pay that old grave-tender Martin, I figured I might as well drop in and apologize for the damage.”
“Heck,” Ross said, a slow smile breaking free, “I hadn`t even noticed it. You said you were over to Martin`s? I hope no one close passed.”
“My sister,” I replied, my hand dropping down to rest on Andrew`s sandy-blond head. “His mother,” I added gently. Ross looked down at the lad stuck to my leg like a burdock.
“I am so regretful.” The man turned from us. He had to sloop and slew like a circus acrobat to fit around all his creations. Behind an old beaten counter he went and then disappeared. I looked down at Andy. He looked up at me, clearly curious as to what was going on. His fingers were tugging the hairs on my legs through the material of my pants, but I didn`t pry him off. That funeral home had scared me as well. When Ross appeared once more, he had a stout wooden horse in his hands, finely painted a soft tan. “This is for you,” he smiled, dropping down into a crouch in front of Andy.
“Mr. Coleman, you don`t have to do that,” I said. Andrew reached for the toy horse then stopped when I spoke up.
“I`d like the lad to have it,” Ross said, holding the horse out to Andrew. “I made them to keep the children occupied while the parents shop. He`s more than welcome to it.”
Ross stood up. Andy hugged the clunky horse to his chest.
“That`s very kind, Mr. Coleman,” I said with candor. He brushed off the sentiment, uncomfortable with the praise. “What do you say, Andrew?”
“Thank you,” the boy whispered while sniffing the pine horse.
“Please, call me Ross, and I`ll call you Jon. That`s the neighborly way of things here in Hannity Hills.”
I nodded, fully aware of how neighborly Hannity Hills could be. I took off my out-of-shape Fedora. The store was rather stuffy. I removed my hankie to mop my brow.
“So, you stove in my truck door? I`m afraid that will cost you, Jon.”
The way he said it jerked my attention from my sweaty forehead. I lowered the handkerchief I had been dabbing with.  Was I just hoping to see what I thought was attraction in his thunderstorm eyes? I`d been around the block a time or two, and thought I could read the signs. The bell over the door tingled, shattering the moment like a mallet to the knee. We both took a step back instinctively. A woman called gently from the doorway.
“Why don`t you and the lad meet me at the diner where the accident occurred tonight at six, and we`ll discuss settlement for the door.” Ross smiled politely but the smolder in his eyes was anything but urbane. I wavered. He patted my arm as he left to attend to his customer. “I`ll be there, if you come that`s fine, if not, we`ll meet up somewhere else. I hope I haven`t offended you.”
My palm resting on Andy`s head, I watched Ross wiggle around a claw-foot end table. The lad began to chatter to his horse. Asking for his hand, I led my charge through the narrow passages, pausing at the front door. Ross was showing a reedy woman in a plain brown dress a delicate shelf to hold whatnots. He looked up when the bell chimed.
I nodded then tapped my old wristwatch, indicating to mind the time. The man inclined his head. ‘Message received’ his smoky gaze said. Outside Andy and I went, my burden feeling somewhat lighter.
“Time to get some staples,” I said, heading to Henderson`s Market on Main Street, my nephew tight to my side. The way finances were going, Andy and I would need every S&H Green Stamp we could beg, borrow, or steal.



Copyright 2013 ©by V.L. Locey

*~*~*

Click on the link below to return to the Tuesday Tales main blog for more great reads from the Tuesday Tales authors.


See you next week!




International Hockey Romance Month Author/Book Spotlight - Jaymee Jacobs' Home Ice Advantage



Today I am thrilled to have another Seduced by the Game author here! As you may recall, the Seduced by the Game books are charity works. 100% of all proceeds are being donated to various hockey teams cancer funds. Please support all the authors who have books coming out over the next few months. Jaymee is here to tell us about her release, and the first of the Seduced by the Game books to come out so far, Home Ice Advantage! 






BLURB:

Iris may have home ice advantage, but Mark is the hometown hockey hero.

Mark Klingensmith just played the worst season of his career. He’s got one season left on his contract with the Dallas Comets, and he’s worried that the team won’t re-sign him. Mark doesn’t have time to think about his future, though, because he gets the bad news that his mother is still sick with cancer and is undergoing a second round of chemotherapy.

Iris Olson has been taking care of Mark’s mother, Sandra, while Mark was off playing pro hockey. Sandra had always been like a mother to Iris, and Iris gladly takes on the duty of helping Sandra after her diagnosis.

When Mark returns to Grand Rapids, Minnesota, for the summer to help with his mother, Iris’s life gets much more complicated. They have a history: she and Mark were once engaged. The two former flames team up to help Sandra through her treatment, and working together so closely reminds them of why they were so in love—but they are also reminded of why they couldn’t make it work.

Can they reconcile their love for each other while pursuing their dream careers? Will they try to give their relationship a second chance? And will Sandra beat her cancer?

Home Ice Advantage is being released as a part of the Seduced by the Game: Cancer Charity Collection. All proceeds will be donated to the Mario Lemieux Foundation, to support cancer research and patient care.


Excerpt: http://jaymeejacobs.blogspot.com/p/home-ice-advantage-excerpt.html


PRE-ORDER LINKS:






AUTHOR INFO:

Jaymee Jacobs is southwestern Pennsylvania born and raised. She graduated from the University of Pittsburgh with a BA in English literature and a psychology minor.

Jay has always had an interest in people and their stories. After graduating, she turned that interest into crafting her own stories featuring her own characters. With some encouragement from friends and readers, Jay decided to take the plunge and began to self-publish her novels. Play the Man came first, published in March 2013. Shots on Net followed in October 2013. In 2014, Jay released Game On and began developing her hockey romance series featuring the Dallas Comets. "A Valuable Trade," the first novella of the series, was released as a part of the Seduced by the Game cancer charity anthology in 2014, and Home Ice Advantage will follow suit in 2015.

Hockey plays a major role in these stories because she's a die-hard fan of the sport. Jay faithfully cheers for her hometown team, the Pittsburgh Penguins. She plays fantasy hockey as one of two female owners in a male-dominated league and routinely ranks in the top half of owners. For the 2015-16 season, she was promoted to co-commissioner (Gary Bettman, eat your heart out!).

Website: jaymeejacobs.com
Facebook author page: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJaymeeJacobs
Twitter handle: @jaymeejacobs@hotmail.com 
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6981867.Jaymee_Jacobs?from_search=true



Sunday, October 25, 2015

Sunday Ramble - Getting Ready for NaNoWriMo





Ah yes, it's that time of year again. Time when we authorly types decide, for some manic reason, to pledge to write 50,000 words in a month. A month for me that has a book release, a major holiday and a trip to NYC to see my Rangers mangle play the Flyers.



Why do we do this? I can't say.  Must be we writers like to weep and wail and type until our fingers bleed. We're a wacky lot, trust me.

I've been participating in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) for several years now. Sometimes I use the mad rush to crank out novellas, or to pen a tale in a genre I don't usually write. It's fun to spread your wings on occasion! I once wrote an M/M historical western just to try my hand at it. This year I'm going to write a M/F motorcycle story told from a male point of view. I've never written a heterosexual male POV before so I'm looking forward to it.

The book is called Legacy:Resurrection. I even made a mock-up cover for over at the NaNo site because I simply do not have enough to do. I need help. Someone please send Henrik Lundqvist to save me from myself! He's good at saving things.



So while I work away on Legacy and get to know it's star, Decker Law, a bit better, I won't have time to write original posts for Sundays. What I plan to do is share some snippets from the NaNo novel in place of my Sunday Rambles. We'll still have Tuesday Tales and Throwback Thursday Tunes, no worries! To help us cope with no rambling posts about who knows what, why don't we give Decker another peek.


Mm-hmm. If that man isn't inspirational I don't know what is! Is anyone else taking part in NaNo this year? If so, and you'd like a writing buddy, look me up under V.L. Locey. I'd love to have more folks to share the madness with.




Thursday, October 22, 2015

Throwback Thursday Tune




Who you gonna call? Ray Parker Jr. has the answer to that one as well as this weeks nod to a great spooky film and song! This is one of those movies that I never tire of watching.


Monday, October 19, 2015

Tuesday Tales - Corn



Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.




Today we have the next issue in my historical M/M romance, Dear Jon, which is set in 1945. Every issue of this serial will be under 1500 words so they're quick reads.  Our word prompt today is 'Corn'. This story contains mature language and gay sexual situations. If that offends now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering. 

Don`t forget to visit the other talented Tuesday Tales authors. Thanks for stopping by!




            Morning came, and with it the realization that kids are agents of Lucifer. I had never spent a more horrific night, and that included the trip to Maryland with Charlotte where we both woke up in some man`s bed hung-over, covered with honey and feathers and sporting welts on our asses that made sitting down for a week nigh onto impossible. 

I was seated at the shitty kitchen table, nursing a shitty cup of coffee, while a pair of shitty geese stood by the back door making enough noise to raise the dead. If they were looking for food, they were SOL. The pinching bastard and bitch could starve as far as I was concerned. Overall, it was a shitty start to what would probably be a very shitty day.

            Andrew had become this demon child by the time we got home last night. Instead of being tired, as you`d think a kid would be, he was a bundle of energy. He ran. He screamed. He shot his cap guns inside the bungalow. He cried. He laughed manically. He kicked, bit, and shrieked for his mother, tears coursing down his flushed cheeks. I held him tight during the last tantrum; trying to talk sense to him, but what kind of sense can a four-year old who just lost his mom digest?

So, instead of talking, I just held him, pinning his wildly flailing arms down to his sides. Eventually he ran out of steam. His lashes –long and spiked with tears – dropped down like rocks. I sat there holding him while he slept. I had to stay seated. I was crying too damn hard to get up and pull the bed out of the sofa. Now I was wishing I had some stronger coffee and a smoke. The last scoop of grinds I found in a ceramic canister in the fridge weren`t enough to get me moving. I even over-perked the pot in hopes of a better mug. It was a no-go. And sitting under my piss-poor mug of tea-colored coffee was the folder. I reached for it. My fingers shook like that rum-soaked bum I knew back in Greenwich. Shuffling through the bills and accounts payable, my throat getting tighter, I located a long envelope hidden among the nicely phrased and quite sympathetic demands for money.

Jon

That was all that was on the front of the envelope. My name in my sister`s incredibly neat script hit me like an uppercut from Jake LaMotta. I did not want to open it. I had to. The blueberry with the legal degree would be expecting me to have read this last missive from my sister. He didn`t know the things I had said to her, and her to me, that day of dad`s funeral. I placed the envelope to the top of the folder and stared at it as if it held some ancient mystery, or the key to my future. Tears dampened my scruffy cheeks.

“They want bread.”

The sound of Andy`s sleepy voice so close and unexpected startled me terribly. The mug of coffee flew from my hand, landing on the table. Coffee – if you dared call it that – doused the folder. I leaped to my feet, geese honking, kid staring, and grabbed up the legal work but it was too late to keep the stack dry. Cussing under my breath, I threw the entire mess on the counter, flung the back door open and shouted things at those two white geese that would make the honey and whip man in Maryland blush.

“Assholes,” Andrew whispered behind me. Panting like a deranged person, I closed my eyes, counted to forty, and then stepped aside so the four year old could go give his geese a crust of dry bread. There he stood, no taller than the gander; his sandy hair knotted from sleep, his green pajamas wrinkled, and his little toes bare, feeding his friends while calling them words ranging from asshole to zebra-fucker. I was screwing this up so badly . . .

“Let`s get dressed,” I said weakly, watching the kid face the future with more aplomb than I could ever hope to possess. At least he hadn`t cried this morning. “You want some breakfast at the Blue Hen?”

Andy looked over his shoulder at me and nodded. “Can I have Coca-Cola?” he asked as the goose stole the last slice of bread in the house and ran off with it, the gander literally snapping at her tail.

“Maybe we ought to go with milk for breakfast, okay?”

He thought about it. His tongue was caught between his teeth just like me when I`m deep in thought. My knees felt weak.

“Chocolate malted milk?”

“Maybe.”
*~*~*

It didn`t seem quite real.


Funeral Services - $45.00
Casket - $150.00
Hearse-$10.00
Chairs-$5.00
Minister-$15.00

I glanced from the bill in my hand to the tall, gaunt man in black seated behind a frilly desk. The smell of lemon cleanser couldn’t quite disguise the reek of embalming fluid in the air. Andy was in my lap, his face in my neck, his clammy fingers digging into my shoulder. I guess the funeral director scared him as badly as he did me just for different reasons.

“This is quite a lot of money,” I managed to say then immediately felt like a shit. “I mean, she was worth it, of course, but is there any way we can lower the cost? Is there a casket that doesn`t cost a hundred and fifty dollars?”

Mr. Ezekiel Martin stared at me flatly, his long hands folded on his desk.

“I`m not trying to be cheap,” I whispered, as if Betty`s son wouldn`t hear every damned word I said. “It`s just that I`m an up-and-comer, you know?”

“Do you have any savings?” the ghoul asked. Andrew nearly choked me; his thin arms tightened terribly when Mr. Martin spoke. “I hate to be so blunt, but according to our files there was no life insurance to speak of. You`re listed as the person to send all bills to. This is you, is it not, Mr. Porter?” he asked, turning a legally signed contract for services between my sister and this house of the dead. One skeletal finger tapped at the line where my name and address in Greenwich were typed out. The fucker knew it was me, so why pretend otherwise. I nodded. He spun the document back to face him.

“I`ll have to contact my bank in New York.”

“Please, feel free to use our phone.”

I was left alone then. Andy clung to me like corn on a cob as I rung up the operator. Within twenty minutes, my life savings of four hundred and seventy-three bucks was being mailed to me here in Hannity Hills. Mr. Martin seemed very pleased with that news and informed me that the service would be Monday at nine AM sharp. The minister`s fees could be added onto the bill for the funeral, if I wished.

“Sure,” I said and stood up. Save me from filling out another check. I had to go buy a plot yet and that was fifty bills. Betty was going to break me in a matter of days. Carrying the solid weight of a four year old out of the eerily white funeral home on the corner of Main St. and Creston Lane, I couldn`t decide if I should sit down on the curb and cry, or stand in the town square to scream at the heavens. Andy sniffled into my neck. I was furious with my sister, and sick at myself for being mad at her for dying. Standing beside my car parked too close to the curb, I saw that blue Ford truck rumble past, the dent in the passenger door looking much worse in the light of day.

“Shit.” I peeled my nephew from my neck. Closing the door carefully, I followed the backend of the truck, much like I had the Ford`s owner, until it made a left onto Monument Street. If I was shelling out money, I might as well go see Ross Coleman to make an offer of reparations. Maybe God would smile down on me, and Ross would laugh off my offer then ask me out to dinner. Sliding behind the wheel, a snotty-nosed whining orphan at my side, I figured God would do lots of things for the queer from New York, but smiling down on him wasn`t one of them.

           
Copyright 2013 ©by V.L. Locey

*~*~*

Click on the link below to return to the Tuesday Tales main blog for more great reads from the Tuesday Tales authors.


See you next week!




International Hockey Romance Month Author/Book Spotlight - Samantha Wayland's Home & Away





More hockey goodness is about to come your way! Today the lovely and talented Samantha Wayland is here to share the news about her latest M/M hockey romance, Home & Away.





Blurb:

Rupert Smythe is fond of many things. Callum Morrison isn’t one of them.

Rupert is a quiet, thoughtful business man and, sadly, a total wimp. Maybe not the ideal candidate to run a professional hockey team, but he signed on to do it anyway. As his life has reminded him on an almost daily basis since, this isn’t the most brilliant idea he’s ever had. And that was before Callum showed up.

Being in the spotlight is just part of being a professional athlete, but Callum needs a break. He arrives in Moncton unannounced, determined to help grow the team he just bought, and under the assumption he’d be welcome. Possibly he should have tried to make a better first impression.

Callum figures he can push through the rest of the summer, never expecting two kids, a host of friends, and his growing feelings for Rupert to derail everything he has ever believed about what he wanted, and what he could have.


Excerpts

PG-13:
Callum hadn’t meant to frighten the guy. Hadn’t for one moment thought he could. Jesus H. Christ, Rupert managed a professional hockey team. This was not an occupation for the faint of heart. And until that moment, Rupert had been happy to lock horns, his cheeks red and accent clipped, practically radiating prim British outrage. It had been kind of adorable—not that Callum was ever going to admit that out loud. To anyone. Ever. He had only intended to get in Rupert’s face and make his point. He would never lay a hand on someone in anger.
Well, okay, he’d never lay a hand on someone in anger off the ice.
Now Callum was left with Rupert looking like he had a very large and profoundly uncomfortable poker up his butt. He was glaring at Callum like if he tried hard enough, he might be able to light Callum on fire.
There was probably something wrong with Callum that this didn’t make Rupert any less attractive.
Could long-term celibacy lead to the early onset of dementia?
Rupert’s lips pursed, and Callum realized he was about to get another tongue-lashing—of the uptight, bitchy variety, not the potentially more fun kind.
“What do you want me to do?” Callum asked, hoping to forestall the lecture he probably deserved.
“Pardon?” Rupert asked haughtily. His tone made it clear that Callum was the equivalent of something stuck on the bottom of Rupert’s shoe. The accent helped, too.
“Where do you need me? What should I do? I said I would help, and I will,” Callum said. He’d come here because he loved his sister and wanted to help her—with or without her permission—but he also wanted to learn more about the team he’d bought into, and the people who were running it.
That included Rupert Smythe, even if the other man obviously wished Callum were several thousand miles away and never to be heard from again.
Rupert studied him dubiously and Callum forced himself not to fidget. He tried to think how he could present himself as helpful. Which, okay, was probably a little late, but whatever. “I need to check into my hotel at some point, but otherwise I’m ready to start now. Whatever you need.”
“You came directly here?”
“From the airport. Yes.”
Rupert lost his bitch face long enough to look worried. “Is everything okay in Boston? I know you told Garrick that nothing had happened, but you seemed to be in a hurry to get him out of here.”
Callum grimaced. “No, they’re fine. I mean, as far as I know. And I don’t want to know more. Because any further discussion about what may or may not be happening in Boston may or may not get into the details of my sister’s love life, which may or may not involve more than one man and—ugh. Yeah, no.” He shuddered.
A hint of a smile curled Rupert’s lips. “Fair enough.”
Callum stared at Rupert’s mouth. “So, where do you want me?”
Rupert’s frown returned, and with it the efficient, controlled businessman. “There is a meeting of the construction team at one o’clock.” Rupert thrust a massive binder across the desk. “This is my copy of the project information. Garrick has another. Learn it.”
Callum knew an olive branch when it was waved in his face. Or smashed over his head, as the case may be. “Great.”
He didn’t miss how Rupert stepped back, putting himself more than arm’s distance away again. What the fuck was up with that?
“It’s still only part of what you’ll need to know, but perhaps if you learn something, you’ll get through the meeting without embarrassing yourself. Or me.”
Seriously, the dude was such a bitch.
“I’ll see what I can do.”


R:
Callum had never seen anything sexier or more ridiculous than Rupert obviously flustered and wary. Goddamn, there had to be something wrong with Callum that he found it so arousing. So adorable. But Rupert was usually so poised, so civilized, and all Callum wanted to do was wreck him.
He wanted to make Rupert look as messy as Callum had felt since they’d kissed.
His hands were on Rupert’s face, their hips bumping together, before Rupert could do more than squawk. Then it was all lips and tongues and, holy shit, Callum had no idea what he was doing, but he couldn’t stop doing it.
Why had he been avoiding this? He couldn’t remember. It must have been because he was a fucking idiot, because this was as good as he remembered. As good as he’d been pretending he’d imagined. Better, maybe, because this time he wasn’t just letting it happen. This time, he shoved his fingers into Rupert’s hair to learn it was as soft as he’d guessed. This time, he traced his fingertips against Rupert’s scalp, along his ear and down his neck, delighting in how Rupert shuddered against him. After a week of ignoring how much he wanted this, he let himself wallow in it. Let himself taste and touch and know.
It was amazing. And terrible. Because now he was dangerously close to coming in his pants, which wasn’t something he’d ever done before, and, as it turned out, wasn’t on the embarrassingly long list of things he wanted to try.
He ached for some relief. Some goddamn friction. The little noises Rupert made, which Callum swallowed, made his hips jerk, seeking. They stumbled back until Rupert’s shoulders hit the door and he gasped into Callum’s mouth, the sound strangling off when their bodies met and smashed together from knee to shoulder. It still wasn’t enough. Callum cupped one of Rupert’s perfectly round ass cheeks in his hand and ground Rupert into the door.
“Callum,” Rupert groaned between kisses, the sound firing straight down Callum’s spine, his cock jerking in a desperate bid to answer that plea.
He curled his fingers into Rupert’s hair, holding fast, and kissed along Rupert’s cheek and down his neck, drawing on everything Rupert had done and all the ways Callum had imagined turning that back on Rupert in the days since. He licked behind Rupert’s ear, nipped the lobe, then sucked his way down the strong muscles beneath until he reached the edge of a starched collar. He buried his nose there, taking in a deep draught of cologne and shampoo and detergent and Rupert, imprinting the scent on his brain.
God, Rupert was totally fucking him up.
Rupert pushed at his shoulder and Callum growled, trying to stay right where he was. A strong grip in his hair yanked him back, but before he could object—or possibly finally succumb to the need to come in his pants because, yeah, turns out hair-pulling was fucking hot—Rupert sealed his lips over Callum’s and Callum was lost. Drowning. Chests pressed tight, hips grinding. Seeking. Fucking desperate for something.
His heart stopped when someone pounded on the door.
Sheila’s muffled voice barely reached them over their panted breaths. “Rupert? Mr. Smythe? Are you okay?”
Rupert tipped his head back against the door with a thunk, still clinging to Callum. Callum buried his face in Rupert’s collar once more.
“Yes, Sheila. I’m fine. Is anything the matter?” Rupert called out politely. Callum smiled against the warm skin of Rupert’s neck and wondered if everyone in the office could hear the rasp in Rupert’s voice.
“Garrick is on the phone,” Sheila replied. “He said he couldn’t reach you. He sounds a little freaked out, boss.”
Callum vaguely recalled the buzz of Rupert’s phone on his desk. His own phone had gone off in his back pocket and he’d ignored it completely.
“Shit,” he whispered, carefully stepping away from Rupert.
Rupert’s hand grasped the doorknob, as if he needed it to hold himself up. “Tell him I’ll ring him in a moment, please,” Rupert called through the door.
Callum wished everyone could see Rupert’s hair standing on end, his lips pink and swollen, the pleat of his trousers utterly ruined by the erection tenting them. He dragged his eyes back up to Rupert’s face and met his hot blue gaze.
“We’re going to come back to this,” Rupert promised softly.
Callum smiled. “Okay.”
Rupert looked somewhere between eager and surprised, and Callum felt a pang of guilt. He’d been an asshole, again, so worried about what an idiot he’d been, how obviously inexperienced and pitiable, that he hadn’t considered that Rupert might have been left wanting, too.
He never wanted Rupert to be wanting. Not for anything Callum was able to give.
             



Buy Links:

Author Bio:
Samantha Wayland has three great loves in life; her family, writing books, and hockey. She is often found apologizing to the first for how much time and attention is taken up by the latter two, but they forgive her because they are awesome and she clearly doesn’t deserve them.
Sam lives with her family—of both the two and four-legged variety—outside of Boston. She is a wicked passionate New Englander (born and raised) who has been known to wax rhapsodic about the Maine Coast, the mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont, and the sensible way in which her local brethren don’t see a need for directional signals (blinkahs!). When she’s not locked away in her home office, she can generally be found tucked in the corner of the local Thai place with other socially-starved authors and an adult beverage.
Her favorite things include mango martinis, tiny Chihuahuas with big attitude problems, and the Oxford comma.

Sam loves to hear from readers. Email her at samantha@samanthawayland.com or find her online here:




Other Books by Samantha Wayland
Destiny Calls
With Grace
Fair Play (Hat Trick Book One)
Two Man Advantage (Hat Trick Book Two)
End Game (Hat Trick Book Three)
Crashing the Net
Home & Away


Sunday, October 18, 2015

Sunday Ramble - Love, Marriage, and Hockey





When we fall in love, it's a wondrous, giddy thing. We spin in circles of merriment, sigh a lot, get rushes of excitement just hearing our beloved's name, and feel lightheaded when in the company of that special someone. Not unlike being a hockey fan now that I think about it.

Little things that are cute and endearing when dating become measurably less cute after twenty-four years of wedded bliss, trust me. Now don't get me wrong, I love my husband. He is one the funniest, hardest-working and loving men on the planet. He is also a rabid channel-flipper. I, on the other hand, find a channel and then lay the remote down because I won't need it until my show, or game, is over.

This is not just a sports thing with him, this is any show we watch. Things get downright nasty during The Walking Dead when we come back from a channel flip to discover we've missed something vital and a leading character is now dinner.

So, imagine trying to watch a hockey game with him in control of the remote. It's taxing to put it mildly. He dislikes listening to the chit-chat between periods so he flips the channel. As soon as he does this, my gaze jackknifes to the clock on the wall. And yes, he also does this when his Bruins are playing, so it's not just to bust this Rangers fans chops. 

"The game will be back on in twenty minutes," I remind him.

"Yep."

I bury my nose into my Kindle and pretend I'm not checking the tiny clock on my e-Reader every two minutes. When the timer in my head goes off I clear my throat.

"I know, we have time," he says then continues to watch the middle of a movie he's seen forty-two times before.

"Honey, no we don't have time. Can we check the game?"

I can hear his eyes roll but he flips and finds a commercial. Back we go to the movie, or some show about how they make light bulbs, or the series starring two yahoos with metal detectors. I'm getting antsy now.

"Babe, the game must be back on. Can we please flip back?"

"Yep, right after I see how they put the wire in the light bulb. Isn't that interesting?"

"No, darling, it really isn't. The Rangers are interesting."

He huffs dramatically and flips back to the game. We find that we have missed five minutes, fifteen goals have been scored, a major fight has occurred, and Kevin Kline had broken into an impromptu rendition of I'm Just a Gal Who Cain't Say No from Oklahoma after talking with Pierre McGuire in a rare mid-game on-ice musical interview.

"Huh, guess it came back on sooner than it usually does," he says.

I cannot type what I say in return.



Thursday, October 15, 2015

Throwback Thursday Tune



One of my daughter's favorite movies, this song just had to be part of our spooky song fest!


Monday, October 12, 2015

Tuesday Tales - Box


Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.



Today we have the next issue in my historical M/M romance, Dear Jon, which is set in 1945. Every issue of this serial will be under 1500 words so they're quick reads.  Our word prompt today is 'Box'. This story contains mature language and gay sexual situations. If that offends now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering. 

Don`t forget to visit the other talented Tuesday Tales authors. Thanks for stopping by!





            The smell of fried foods made me salivate. A radio back in the kitchen was playing Flamingo, an oldie by Duke Ellington. Andrew climbed up onto a round stool. No sooner had his ass hit the padded seat and he started spinning around in circles. The man at the counter glanced from his newspaper at the kid whirling like a top beside him.

I was struck by his looks right off. Black hair shot through with silver worn short, eyes as grey as the skies overhead, hint of dark stubble, straight nose, killer jaw, thick neck, broad shoulders covered in a blue and white plaid shirt tucked into dark grey slacks. Just the type I would run after if this wasn`t Hannity Hills. Shit, I could even see the tuft of dark chest hair escaping from where it was left open to show the top of his white undershirt. Hairy men were all that and a Bit O` Honey for me. I placed my hand on Andrew`s leg as he careened past. The spinning stopped instantly. The boy made a snorting sound and tipped into the man trying to eat his pork chops.

“Sorry,” I gasped, lurching over to grab Andrew before he took a dizzy header onto the floor. The waitress exited the kitchen, a plump white woman in her mid-fifties with thick glasses and a kind smile.

“No problem,” he said, a smile playing on lips as full and plump as Betty Grable`s. His voice was rich and deep. I took my seat once again, smiled at the man and then at the waitress. My nephew was having trouble sitting upright, so I held onto the back of his shorts until his head stopped moving in circles. I gave the menu a fast glance.

“I`ll have the meat pie and coffee. What do you want, Andy?” I glanced over at the boy. The man with the stormy eyes was now reading the paper again.

“A Coca-Cola!” Andrew announced. I met the questioning look from the waitress in her neat blue uniform with a frilly white apron.

“Give him a meat pie too and a slice of apple pie for both of us,” I said as I slid the paper menu back to the waitress. She got us our drinks and then disappeared back into the kitchen. Andrew was kicking the counter. I told him to stop. He sipped his Coca-Cola. He dribbled soda on his bare knees. He slid off the stool while I was stirring some sugar into my coffee. After I caught him racing to the front door and was seated again, I heard the newspaper reading man to the left was chuckling at our show.

“He reminds me of my sister`s son,” he said, “nothing but energy. Names Ross Coleman, I own a small shop in town.” He offered me his hand. I took it. His palm was rough, his grip firm and confident. We shook as I introduced Andrew and myself. “Are you from around here?”

“Something along those lines,” I mumbled into my amazingly good cup of Joe. Our meals came then, and any further discussion with Ross Coleman with the slate eyes came to an abrupt halt. I spent the next twenty minutes trying to get Andrew to eat more than four spoons of the superbly seasoned meat pie. He was having none of it. All he wanted was Coca-Cola. Giving up, I let him suck down the bubbly brown treat. Ross had finished his meal, and with a "Pleasure to meet you and the boy" tugged his shirt collar up, slid on a rather battered gray jacket, and laid fifty cents on the counter for his meal and the tip. Out we went into the rain, my eyes rather glued to his well-crafted rump.

Andrew grew petulant as he finished off his second Coca-Cola. His sudden rush of energy baffled me. If I had acted like that my father would have boxed my ears. I gave the waitress two dollars and told her to keep the change. Lord knows she deserved the hefty tip for putting up with the cranky kid for the past half hour. The rumble of the Ford pickup taking off filled the café. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I had never told Ross that I had dented his door.

Grabbing the whining monster like a football, I raced out into the rain, our jackets hanging inside the café momentarily forgotten.

“Damn,” I grumbled as the Ford bounced back towards town.  

Andrew, the magpie, began saying ‘Damn’ repeatedly as the rain drenched us in no time flat. Guess there was nothing for it but to try to find the dapper man tomorrow when we went to town.

            The waitress opened the door and handed our jackets out to us.

            “Damn!” Andrew shouted at her in way of thanks.


Copyright 2013 ©by V.L. Locey

*~*~*

Click on the link below to return to the Tuesday Tales main blog for more great reads from the Tuesday Tales authors.


See you next week!



International Hockey Romance Month Author/Book Spotlight - Mary Smith



I'm thrilled to have Mary Smith here today. Not only is a lovely person, a hard-worker, and a hilarious woman, she is also the owner of my new publishing house, Gone Writing Publishing. You'll want to check out all of her hockey romance novels, but don't forget to look into her other works as well!








Best Selling Author, Mary Smith, has been coming up with stories her whole life. She has written A HOCKEY TUTOR, THE ICE SERIES, as well as co-authored with Lindsay Paige THE PENALTY KILL TRILOGY and OH CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN SERIES. When not busy writing or rooting for the Chicago Blackhawks you can find her with her nose stuck in her Kindle.
You can visit her website at: www.authormarysmith.blogspot.com
 Follow her on Twitter: @maryms1980




All Books by Mary Smith:
Melting Away the Ice (Ice Series #1)
Breaking Away the Ice (Ice Series #2)
Shattering the Ice (Ice Series #3)
Thawing the Ice (Ice Series Novella)
A Hockey Tutor
Always Forever
DREAM
A Royal’s Love (Matched #1)
A Protector’s Second Chance (Matched #2)
A Controller’s Destiny (Matched #3)




All Books with Lindsay Paige:
Breakaway (Penalty Kill Trilogy #1)
Off the Ice (Penalty Kill Trilogy #2)
Game Winner (Penalty Kill Trilogy #3)
Looking for You (Oh Captain My Captain #1)
A Hockey Player’s Proposal (Oh Captain My Captain #2)
Finding Carson Lett (Oh Captain My Captain #3)
Let’s Be Crazy (Oh Captain My Captain #4)
Their New Beginning (Oh Captain My Captain #5)
You and Me, Forever (Oh Captain My Captain #6)
Tainted (Oh Captain My Captain #7)