Welcome, Autumn! (#solstice #memories #newengland)

Photo by Lisabet Sarai

Today is the autumnal equinox, the first day of fall. Here in the perpetually steamy tropics where I live now, it doesn’t feel much like the cool, crisp, luminous autumns I remember.  However, just the word “autumn” brings back vivid memories of my years in New England, where the season can take your breath away with its beauty.

In celebration of the day, I’ve got a snippet from my short story “Making Memory” which captures some of the glory of the northeast (Maine, in this particular case) during the fall. You can read the full story in my F/F collection Her Own Devices.

I looked up and down the two lane road, thinking to hitch a ride to the next town. The cracked tarmac was empty. All I could hear was bird-song and the breeze, whispering of the evening to come.

With a sigh, I retrieved my overnight bag from the trunk, locked the car, and began walking in the direction I had been headed. I hoped that I would come upon civilization before my flimsy Italian heels disintegrated.

Late afternoon sun slanted across the fields lining the road. The crisped remains of summer tangled in the steel safety cables: Queen Anne's lace curled into brittle fists, shaking themselves at me; milkweed spilling silk into the mild October air; tall grasses heavy with seed. The breeze was fragrant with the sun-baked, browning vegetation. And the sea was not far off. Mixed with the field smells, I caught the faint tang of salt and seaweed.

The beauty of Indian summer penetrated my distraction, soothed my irritation just a bit, eased the tight knot of unshed tears. A whippoorwill called, prematurely. Ten minutes into my walk, I entered the village of Spruce Point.

It was not much of a town: a grocery, a gas station, a store advertising ‘Antiques’, and a white-spired church, grouped around a miniature green. At six thirty PM on an October Sunday, all the commercial establishments were shut tight. I was newly disheartened by the ‘Closed’ sign on ‘Ray's Auto Service’. How in the world would I get my car fixed? I had to get home. I had a critical meeting first thing Monday morning.

Behind the gas station, sharing a drive, there was a white clapboard house with green shutters. Bold in my desperation, I knocked on the door. It was answered after a moment by a gnarled, skinny figure. His chin bristled with stubble, but his eyes twinkled in his furrowed face as he gave me a warm smile.

"Good evening, young lady. Can I help you?"

"Are you Ray?" His oil-stained work clothes strongly suggested that he was.

"Yes, ma'am. Thirty years experience, at your service."

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I blew out a tire about half a mile up the road. The thing totally burst. I really need to get back to Boston tonight. Can you replace the tire for me? I know that you're closed for the evening, but it's an emergency. I'll be happy to pay you extra."

Ray looked me over. I could imagine what he saw: a slender, athletic woman with short, dark hair, designer suit and chocolate silk blouse, Gucci bag, impractical shoes. City folk. He grinned. "What kind of car?" he asked.

"Honda Accord."

"Miss, I'd love to help. But I don't generally stock tires for little foreign cars. 'Round here, folks seem to prefer full-size Ford station wagons, or Chevy pickups. I can get you a new tire from Thomaston, but not until tomorrow."

He must have seen the dismay in my face, because he patted my shoulder kindly. "Look, I was just fixing my supper, but if you'd like, I can go out now and tow your vehicle back here to the garage. That way, it'll be safe, and ready to be worked on as soon as I can get hold of the replacement."

I began to protest that this was unacceptable. I had to get back to Boston. Then I realized that it was futile. I could take a bus, perhaps, if I could get this man to drive me to Portland, but then my car would be stranded.

With a sigh of resignation, I nodded. "I'd be very grateful for your help. But please, finish your dinner first." I suddenly realized that I was ravenous. I had taken lunch with Dad in the nursing home dining room, but although he ate heartily, I had no appetite. "Is there a hotel anywhere around here?"

Ray considered the question. "Well, there's Maggie's place, the Bellweather Inn, down at the point. She's closed for the season, but I expect she wouldn't mind airing out a room for you. I can run you down there before I head over to get your car."

"What about your dinner?" I said, eager to find bed and food, but not wanting to seem impolite.

"Just franks and beans," he said with a grin. "I can heat it up again."

We piled into his tow truck and he headed south through the town. Soon the peaked roofs, shutters and picket fences gave way again to autumn-burnished fields. He turned east onto a dirt road marked with a weathered signboard.

Up ahead I saw a building, silhouetted against the fast-darkening sky, flanked by two tall evergreens. "Them's the spruces that gave our town its name," Ray commented.

We pulled up outside the inn. It was as weathered as the sign, but despite the graying shingles, it gave an overwhelming impression of solidity. Perched right on the rocky point, it had a wraparound porch that overlooked the surf-splashed cliffs on one side, a gently sloping lawn on the other. To the left of the driveway, I saw a well-tended garden, still bright with drooping sunflowers and brilliant purple chard. Lights shone in the ground floor windows, welcoming me.

Friendship’s Ink (#rockstar #vampire #incubus @TrevannRogers)

By Trevann Rogers (Guest Blogger)

My upcoming release, After Midnight, is the story of three friends, Ria and Jewell and Cheyenne. Cheyenne, an incubus, is a friend with benefits. Ria and Jewell, two young vampires, also happen to be in love but their friendship is at the core of their four-year relationship.

I know many people who are still close to friends from college. I’m not talking about found you on Facebook close. I’m referring to relationships that may have ebbed and flowed with life’s currents, but never faltered. It makes sense—college is where we begin to develop into the person we were meant to be. We endure the pain and emotion of transforming into adults: making important decisions, taking risks without a net beneath us, finding new capabilities and interests, and separating from the comfort and warmth of our families. Perhaps it’s the emotion and commotion of these experiences that bonds us to the friends we meet there.

I’ve even met a few people who’ve kept up true friendships with kindergarten and elementary school classmates. I can’t relate to or begin to explain that connection. At five, we are nowhere near who we will be much later in life.

My deepest, oldest friendships are with my pen pals. Yes, I mean people with whom I exchange letters, handwritten letters. Most of them live in other states, many in other countries. There are some I’ve never met, except across the miles. And I’ve known all of them for decades.

I’ve written Vicki, my longest standing writing partner, for over forty years. We connected through our common love of animals. Over time, we found our lives had taken similar paths. I was a social worker, she worked in law enforcement. We both had children who needed our special attention to thrive in school. We talked about politics, religion, values and philosophies. We shared our lives, and found in each other a kindred spirit and a caring friend. As our lives changed, they seemed to change in similar patterns. For example, we’re both writers, something neither of us predicted or even intended. And we’ve never been in the same room.

I also have a group of amazing pen pals I met through a fan club. Seriously. We all fell head over heels for a particular rock star and found each other through the pen pal section of his magazine—nearly thirty years ago. Although he remains a frequent topic of conversation, over the years we’ve shared our hopes and dreams, our achievements and failures, our losses and our joys. We’ve consoled each other when life tossed hand grenades, and celebrated when it handed us roses. I’ve had the great pleasure of hanging with them at concerts and on vacation. Each time was always as if we’d been together all along.

The love of my life also began as my pen pal.

The medium of writing by hand enabled my friends and I to develop profound connections with each other. When you hand write, you are more focused than sending an email—the simplicity of pen to paper is less conducive to distraction. It takes longer and allows for the quiet contemplation that makes letters more personal and more poignant. Your soul is on the page in ways that it just cannot be on the screen. Perhaps this is why I continue to write my first draft longhand—I want readers to connect to my stories with their hearts.

Although today I also interact with my friends digitally, at the foundation we continue to share the abiding love we found through pouring our hearts out through our pens. The coldness of the computer won’t ever erase the flow of ink that connects us.

Take peek at Trevann’s upcoming release!

After Midnight

Prequel to House of the Rising Son

Living After Midnight Series

Release date: September 2016

Improbable love. Impossible life. Immeasurable danger.

Jewell’s stepfather thinks she’s worthless. She agrees. When she looks in the mirror she sees an overweight, overemotional, overeating mess who can’t keep her fangs to herself.

Ria hails from a family of old world vamps who'd be happy to share their wealth with her, if only she’d fall in line. Fat chance, especially since being in that line includes not being gay.

Being in love is easy for Ria and Jewell—the young vampires belong together like vodka and tomato juice. Adding Cheyenne, a talented and sexy incubus, to their union is the hot sauce in their Bloody Mary. The only problem? Vampires and incubi are mortal enemies.

Despite the odds Ria, Jewell and Cheyenne find their way to happiness. But Jewell is hiding a huge secret, one that defies the laws of procreation: she’s going to have a baby.

While she tries to figure out how to break the unbelievable news to her lovers, a horror from Jewell’s past slithers into her present, forcing choices no one should have to make.

Will it be love or death? Happiness or safety? She has until dawn to decide...and it's already After Midnight.

Excerpt

The choice between staying in on a Saturday night to clean and going to see Cheyenne at his first real gig hadn’t been a complicated decision. He was a world-class rocker who could play the guitar like a fiend and had a voice that made you feel…everything. Or made you horny. And fuck if she didn’t love him. Damn incubus.

She reached across him and caressed Jewell’s side. Jewell’s eyes opened and she stared expressionless at the ceiling, hyper-alert to danger. It always took a few moments after resurrecting for her to remember where she was and who was with her, but since moving into their new home it seemed to take even longer.

Ria sighed. She’d do anything if it would help Jewell feel safe enough to die each dawn and awaken peacefully. “All is well, Babydoll. It’s just me. Time to rise and twinkle with the stars.”

“Already?” Jewell scrunched her eyes and blinked as if trying to focus them.

Cheyenne lay his head on the soft swell of Jewell’s belly. “Didn’t we just go to bed?”

Ria kissed his back and licked a slow trail down his spine. “Hours ago. Did we tucker out the poor little sex demon?”

“Not hardly, dead girl.”

She grabbed a fistful of his hair and turned him to face her. “That’s undead girl, thank you.” She bit his lower lip and let it drag between her teeth. “Show us what you’ve got left.”

Trevann Rogers writes urban fantasy and LGBT paranormal romances. Her stories incorporate an unquenchable addiction to music and her love for vampires, Weres, incubi and rock stars. Like these elusive creatures, Trevann learned long ago that sometimes being yourself means Living After Midnight.

You can find Trevann online at:

www.trevannrogers.com

www.facebook.com/trevannr

www.pinterest.com/trevannr

Twitter: @TrevannRogers

You can find the first book in the series, House of the Rising Son on Barnes and Noble and Amazon. For information about buying After Midnight, go to www.trevannrogers.com.

Review Tuesday: Wild Licks by Cecilia Tan (#bdsm #erotica #rockstar @CeciliaTan )

Wild Licks by Cecilia Tan

Forever (Hachette), 2016

Everyone knows that rock star Mal Kenneally never has sex with the same woman twice. Adoring fans of his band The Rough assume this is just part of his brooding, dangerous image, but the true reasons lie far deeper. A confirmed sadist who delights in inflicting pain, Mal is afraid he’ll cause serious damage—physical and psychological—if he allows any woman to get close. Disastrous past relationships have taught him to keep sex superficial and to dismiss his partners after a single encounter, before his insatiable Need takes over.

Gwen Hamilton dreams of becoming an actress. With her wealth and media connections, she could buy her way into show business, but she wants to succeed based on her own talent. Disguised and using an assumed name, she auditions for the part of a punk-inspired wild child, only to be dismissed before the director even listens to her read. On the rebound, she mingles with the groupies at a concert by The Rough and is chosen as Mal’s girl for the evening. She stays in character as Mal takes her, uses her, and gives her the sort of painful pleasure she’d almost given up on ever feeling again.

Mal finds he can’t forget the cheeky but profoundly submissive groupie he calls Excrutia, who sports a “Love Pain” tattoo on the inside of her thigh. As Mal tries to locate her, his publicist insists that the rock star shepherd the beautiful, cultured Gwen to various events, making a foursome with band front man Axel Hawke and his lover, Gwen’s sister Ricki. Gwen’s a good girl, an innocent, or so Mal believes. In her presence, he tries to remain distant and act the part of the gentleman escort, but he’s nearly as fascinated by Gwen as by the mysterious red-headed fan girl.

Eventually, of course, Gwen’s masquerade becomes apparent. By that time, Mal and Gwen have become entangled emotionally and sexually. Mal’s instincts are to leave, to protect the woman he loves from his inner darkness. Gwen, however, is determined to keep him if she possibly can.

I absolutely loved this novel—even more than Taking the Lead, the first book in this series, which I reviewed very favorably earlier this year. It’s intelligent, lively, subtle, deeply romantic and unabashedly kinky. Mal’s an extreme character, but Ms. Tan makes his doubts and his demons mostly plausible. Meanwhile, Gwen is simultaneously an outrageous pain slut and a practical, confident young woman who’s not afraid to fight for what she wants. She demolishes the stereotype of the doormat sub, illustrating that courage, self-love and self-respect lie at the core of true surrender.

Wild Licks is marketed as erotic romance, and it fits all the qualifications of the genre. Still, I’d label it as romantic erotica—not because it’s chock full of deliciously varied, lusciously detailed sex scenes (although it is), but because of its themes. At its heart, Wild Licks revolves around Gwen and Mal coming to terms with their sexual identities. Mal, in particular, struggles to accept his kinky desires. He has difficulty believing that any relationship that satisfies his sadistic urges could possibly be healthy and enduring. Gwen is more pragmatic. She recognizes that she needs what Mal provides. Despite having less experience with kink than Mal, she sees far more clearly that they cannot pretend to be vanilla. The exchanges of power and pain in which they indulge nurture and sustain them both.

Erotica concerns itself with the experience of desire and the way it changes us. Over the course of this novel, Mal and Gwen evolve toward greater understanding of their sexual selves, as well as toward the deeper love and commitment expected of a romance.

Readers who just want a hot story with a HEA about a sexy rock star and his girl will be thoroughly satisfied by Wild Licks. Those who care to look deeper will discover a thoughtful exploration of how kink shapes and challenges those of us who are wired that way.

(Note: I received a copy of this book from the publisher, in exchange for an honest review.)

Sneak Peek: The Persecution of the Wolves by Lucy Felthouse (#PNR #thriller #shifter @cw1985)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.