Monday, October 26, 2015

Monday's Montage Mantlepiece: Irregulars

NATO’s Irregulars Affairs Division is a secret organization operating in thousands of cities around the globe. Its agents police relations between the earthly realm and those beyond this world, protecting us from terrible dangers as well as enthralling temptations.

These agents—Irregulars, as they are known to the few who know them at all—are drawn to the work for their own reasons and close cases in their own unique ways.

Agent Henry Falk–an undead tramp brought back for a mission that might finally put him into a grave he can’t climb back out of.

Agent Keith Curry–a former carnivore chef turned vegetarian currently dealing with a goblin problem.

Agent Rake–a tough and ambitious guy with a penchant for easy living and dangerous games.

Agent Silas August–an uncompromising jerk with a dead partner and an assignment babysitting an assassin.

Four adventures from four award-winning authors, all set in one amazing world. Is your security clearance high enough to read on?

Green Glass Beads by Josh Lanyon
Never trust a goblin.

Even a child knows that much. But there are times when you’ve got to take the chance, when the prize is worth the risk -- which is how Archer Green happened to be in a drafty warehouse on Quebec Street in Vancouver a few minutes before midnight, waiting with a goblin named Ezra for the Moth Man to turn up.

Why the goblins called the Moth Man the Moth Man was a mystery. He was an albino, so maybe that had something to do with it. That, and his predilection for the bright and shiny, especially things that easily caught fire or exploded. The Moth Man had a way of finding artifacts that were, in Archer’s opinion, better left lost. It was probably a strange opinion for the curator of the Museum of State-Sanctioned Antiquities in Vancouver. Not that the ordinary man -- or woman -- on the street would know anything about MoSSA.

The wind moaned dolefully through the chinks in the old brick walls. Ezra puffed agitatedly at one of those violet floral cigarettes he was so fond of. Archer kept to the shadows and resisted checking his pocket watch yet again. He wasn’t nervous, exactly -- it took a lot to make him nervous -- but he wasn’t happy either.

“He’ll be here soon.” Ezra continued to pace up and down before the empty wooden crates with their faded emblems of skulls and crowns, the dully gleaming vats and ducts that looked like nothing so much as a giant steel stomach. “Don’t worry.”

Archer lifted a dismissive shoulder, but he’d already made up his mind to walk if the Moth Man didn’t show by five after. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the Moth Man had something worth his time and trouble. The Moth Mans of the worlds seemed always to have the inside track on beautiful and rare items before they hit the regular black market. Still, Archer would have preferred to know exactly what he was acquiring before venturing out in the dead of night with a wallet full of cash.

“His merchandise is always worth it.” Ezra drew hard on his cigarette and blew agitated purple puffs toward the rafters overhead. “He said he wants to talk to you personally.”

Archer threw him a quick look. “Me? Why me?”


“Your friend. Why should he want to speak to me in particular?”

Ezra gave a smoky laugh. “Don’t know. Never asked.”

Archer pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Moonlight through the grimy windows illuminated the time. Three minutes after midnight. He snapped the watch closed. “That’s it for me. I’ve an early start tomorrow.”

“No, wait!” Ezra cried. “Don’t leave. I know he’s on his way.”

Archer studied Ezra, studied the beads of sweat popping out over Ezra’s human features, took note of the anxious licking of tongue over lips. Yep, definitely time to say adieu. Archer opened his mouth, but somewhere to the left of where they stood came a ghostly screech of rusted hinges.

Instinctively, they both turned.

“See. Told you,” Ezra muttered.

Archer ignored him, watching warily until at last he spotted a tall figure in a drab overcoat moving through the darkness like a white shadow. The figure moved swiftly, with frequent glances over his shoulder, as though he feared pursuit through the canyons of metal tubes and casks.

“Well! You took your time,” Ezra greeted the Moth Man when he reached them at last.

“Can’t help it. Thought I was being followed.” The Moth Man’s voice was high and breathy. His eyes were large and protuberant. They appeared colorless in the gloom. He was taller than most humans, certainly taller than Archer, and very thin.

“Were you?” Archer asked as Ezra scoffed.

The Moth Man shook his head. He eyed Archer curiously. “You’re him? You’re--”

“No names,” Archer cut in.

“No. No, it’s just I thought you would be different.”

Archer got that a lot. “What is it you have for me?”

“Have you got the money?”

“Show me the goods first.”

The Moth Man reached into his overcoat and pulled out a long, plain envelope. He picked at the flap with long gray fingernails, plucked it open, and held out an old-fashioned Polaroid. He smiled slyly.

“What is it?”

“Take it.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t buy on spec--”

As he spoke, the snapshot gave a tiny pop and green sparks flew up. The Moth Man giggled. “It likes you.”

Casting him a doubtful look, Archer reached slowly for the photograph. It seemed to slip right into his palm. He gazed down.

He was looking at what appeared to be a small mound of broken glass arranged on a square of black velvet. The picture hummed against his fingertips.

Wonderingly, Archer raised his gaze to the pallid one so closely regarding him.

The Moth Man gave another of those unsettling giggles. “Er, might I interest you in a strand of green glass beads?”

At that instant the tall warehouse doors rolled up with a rattle like a million eyelids snapping awake. Dazzling white light flooded the building, bouncing off the canisters and tubing in a blinding glare. Navy uniformed VPD poured into the building, shouting orders. Much worse were the familiar dark-clad agents flanking the locals. The regular law enforcement hung back as the men and women in black fanned out behind the slow rolling green-gray of damping dust that tumbled lazily, almost playfully, through the entrails of the machinery and ladders. They wore spell masks and carried precision mage pistols. The Irregulars. Everywhere you turned these days the Irregulars were underfoot.

The Moth Man gasped in alarm, snatched back the photo, and bolted, his overcoat flapping behind him like failing wings. Archer also bolted -- in the opposite direction -- ignoring the cries to stop, the shouted warnings, and a few obscenities. He raced for the metal knot of drums and tubing and platforms at the back of the long building. What became of the Moth Man he didn’t see, but his words still echoed in Archer’s mind as he ran.

Green glass beads.

No time to consider it now, but…was it possible? Had they turned up after all this time?

The air was thick with holy water and incantations that wouldn’t have thwarted a baby brownie. Archer sprang for a sharply slanted ladder, scrambled up, then pelted down a wide landing crowded with mysterious metal silhouettes. Climbing over the rickety safety railing, he leaped across the aisle to another landing. More of a shelf than a landing, but it would do. Below him, the green damping dust billowed up. He pulled his handkerchief out and clamped it over his mouth and nose before dropping down to a large rusted shipping container. He landed with a bang, but what was one more bang in the surrounding pandemonium?

Holding his breath, he sprinted down the scratched and peeling lid of the shipping container, the metallic pounding of his footsteps echoing the beat of his heart. Boom, boom, boom. No time to be subtle. His lungs burned with the need to breathe. The damping dust stung his eyes, but he could still see -- an advantage of his half-faerie bloodline. Behind him, he could hear muffled cries falling away.

“Where is he?”

“Where did he go?”

“There he is!”

“That’s not him, dumbass! That’s a pipe.”

 Archer dropped to the dusty brick floor behind the container.

Mage lights skimmed the walls of the building and swept the floors in a tiger-eye glow. Archer crouched low, breathing hard through the damp silk of the handkerchief. It was not that he was out of shape so much as out of practice. The burst of adrenaline, his human half’s response to threat, left him disconcertingly breathless and a little shakier than he liked. This would do him good. If he got out of it. Out of this trap. That’s what it was. A trap. But was it for Archer or for the Moth Man? Archer had a suspicion and it didn’t make him happy.

Always lovely to be wanted, of course, but that son of a whoring goblin Ezra would regret it the next time they met.

The mage lights slid past and Archer took the opportunity to move further away from the approaching tattoo of department-issue boots. Wriggling through a narrow opening between towers of cold and rusted cylinders, he reached up, grabbed for the rough edge along the top of one of the wide vats, and hauled himself up. The soles of his boots slipped on the smooth sides. The muscles in his arms, shoulders, and across his back flared with pain.

Yes, definitely out of practice.

He clambered on top, risked standing upright, and jumped for the landing beneath the giant windows. He almost didn’t make it. Nothing like slamming into a hard, splintery surface to concentrate the mind. The fleshy part of Archer’s thumb caught on a nail as he dragged himself up and then half climbed, half fell over the flimsy railing. He kept clear of the moon bright window as he scuttled back, vaguely aware that his hand was throbbing. That was going to hurt like hell later on.

Assuming there was a later on.

For a few seconds, Archer sprawled on the narrow ledge, catching his breath and observing the activity below.

A number of regular police officers now searched the narrow walkways of the warehouse. So many cops, in fact, that they were starting to get in each other’s ways. Not so with the Irregulars. They were systematically sweeping the building from one end to the other. Black and silver figures moved quickly up the ladders to the landing across from Archer.

Archer rolled away from the edge and stared up at the rafters far above. What a pity he couldn’t fly. But being a half-blood did have its advantages. There were still one or two tricks up his sleeve.

He scooted over to the wall between the banks of multi-paned windows. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on melding with the deep shadows. He pictured the edges of his outline softening, blurring, becoming part of the gloom. Yes, that was it. Fade into the darkness. Let it swallow him...

Footsteps were coming his way. He gathered his nerve and stood, taking a careful, silent step back, flattening himself against the bricks. His heart thumped crazily as the march of feet came closer. Two of them. Their mage lights scudded lightly ahead of them like dogs tugging on leashes.

 Archer closed his eyes so that this last telltale gleam would not give him away.

They were nearly on him now. He steadied himself, stilled his breathing, willed his heart to pause.

Down below, the noise and activity continued.

Creak. Thump. Squeak. Thump.

They passed so close Archer felt the sleeve of the nearest brush his arm. His heart did truly stop then, but the agents moved past, slow and deliberate and blind to him.

True faerie glamour. To the casual mortal eye his silent figure would appear to be nothing more than shadows and the outline of post or beam. That was one magic that even the Irregulars with all their special forces high-tech equipment hadn’t figured out how to dismantle yet. Too old and too simple perhaps.

Archer remained stone still as the agents continued to prowl the landings and sweep through the puzzlework of aisles below.

“Clear up here.” One of the agents who had passed Archer signaled down.

“Check again! He didn’t go out the back. And he sure as hell didn’t go out the front.”

Archer sank further back into the shallow brick recess.

Thump. Squeak. Thump. Creak.

The agents retraced their steps, moving in unison.

And in unison moved right past him. Archer waited to expel a long, soft breath until the two Irregulars had reached the end of the landing and were starting down the ladder. Their boots clanged on the rungs. They muttered their discontent to each other.

Tense, alert, Archer continued to watch, but at last he accepted they had no more sense of his presence above them than would any civilian. He slid slowly down the wall and sat, knees hugged to his chest, waiting.

It was a long wait.

A very long, very dull wait.

They did not give up easily. In fact, Archer wondered at one point whether they would give up at all, if they would perhaps stake out the warehouse entrance and wait until hunger and thirst drove him out in a day or two.

Had they captured the Moth Man? Archer saw no indication of it, which reinforced his suspicions. Ezra, of course, was long gone. Dear old Ezra. But Archer wasn’t concerned with Ezra. It was the Moth Man he needed to speak to. He wanted to hear more about those green glass beads. Much more...

* * * * *

The hunt ended at last. The Vancouver police had long since called it quits by the time the Irregulars reluctantly gave up the search and withdrew to the alley outside. The warehouse lights died out, row by row, leaving the great empty barn of a building to the shadows and moonlight. The heavy doors slid shut with a roll like thunder.

Through the dirt-streaked window Archer watched the agents milling dispiritedly. A tall figure appeared in their midst and began to speak. Archer looked more closely and thought he could make out the glittering insignia of a commander.

He swore softly. He’d heard the Irregulars were replacing Brennan. Inevitable probably, but still too bad. Brennan had been easy to work with. Or work around, as the case might be. No one knew anything about this new man, except that he was not local, not from British Columbia, perhaps not even from Canada. Apparently the rumor that the higher-ups had been worried about Commander Brennan getting slack had been true.

Thus, Commander Spit and Polish.

Archer rested his head against the rough brick and listened to the agents reporting their failure. The alley would have been too far away for human ears to catch a word, but Archer’s ears were the least human thing about him. In fact, those small but definite points of cartilage were pretty much a dead giveaway of his half-faerie heritage. The difference wasn’t all cosmetic, either. His hearing was as inhumanly keen as his sight.

The commander heard his team out and then reassured them that the night’s efforts had not been a waste.

Which meant what exactly?

Then, finally, the Irregulars departed in an official rumble of government-owned vehicles. The alley stood empty.

Still Archer waited. One could never be too careful.

Another hour passed. The last of the damping dust flattened and its green faded out to nothing. The moon had now slipped down a few squares in the window panes.

Archer walked lightly down the ledge and let himself over the side, dropping quietly onto one of the oddly shaped containers. From there he jumped to the mossy bricks.

A crosshatch of moonlight lay across the open space of the floor. He stuck to the shadows and headed for the rear entrance.

The door was locked, but it only took a few seconds work to fiddle the mechanism. He eased the door open.

The alley behind the warehouse was silent and empty. The smell of garbage and cold exhaust lingered in the damp air. Nothing moved. Not so much as the flick of a rat’s tail stirred the darkness. And yet…unease slithered down his spine. The same unease he had ignored earlier -- a few minutes before the Irregulars had burst in.

Archer retreated, slipping back inside the building, slipping back into the shadows, slipping back into the glamour, fading away into the bones of the old building.

He didn’t have long to wait.

The door to the alley opened soundlessly. A man stood framed in moonlight. His face was silhouetted; Archer saw only that he was tall and disconcertingly broad.

“I know you’re here.” The deep voice was conversational, yet it carried. “I know who you are and I know what you are. Why not dispense with these childish games?”

It wasn’t a question. He didn’t really expect Archer to give himself up. Archer wasn’t convinced he even wanted him to give up. There was a certain note in the shadow’s voice. Not amusement -- something more like anticipation.

Archer kept moving, intangible as a shade, heading for the side entrance. This one was clever and patient, but he couldn’t be two places at once, and since he was busy talking to Archer…

“You’ve had a good long run, but your time is up.” The voice found Archer as he reached the door.

Archer waved his hands in front of the lock and felt the tumblers turn, felt the outside bolt slide. He inched the door open just wide enough to step through.

“Another time,” he whispered, and let the door fall shut.

Just before it sank into the frame, cutting the connection between them, there came a whispered answer to Archer’s own whisper, which should have been inaudible to human ears.

“Sooner than you think.”

Author Bios:
Nicole Kimberling
Nicole Kimberling lives in Bellingham, Washington with her wife, Dawn Kimberling, two bad cats as well as a wide and diverse variety of invasive and noxious weeds. Her first novel, Turnskin, won the Lambda Literary Award for Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror. She is also the author of the Bellingham Mystery Series.

Josh Lanyon
A distinct voice in gay fiction, multi-award-winning author JOSH LANYON has been writing gay mystery, adventure and romance for over a decade. In addition to numerous short stories, novellas, and novels, Josh is the author of the critically acclaimed Adrien English series, including The Hell You Say, winner of the 2006 USABookNews awards for GLBT Fiction. Josh is an Eppie Award winner and a three-time Lambda Literary Award finalist.

Ginn Hale
Ginn Hale resides in the Pacific Northwest with her wife and three cats. She spends many of the rainy days tinkering with devices and words and can often be sighted herding other people’s dogs, bees and goats. Her novel Wicked Gentlemen won the Spectrum Award for Best Novel and was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award.

Astrid Amara
Astrid Amara lives in Bellingham, Washington. She's a former Peace Corps Volunteer, an advocate for animal rights, and a bureaucrat by day. After work she can usually be found writing, riding horses, hiking, or else sleeping. Her novel The Archer's Heart was a finalist for the 2008 Lambda Literary Award.

Nicole Kimberling

Josh Lanyon

Ginn Hale

Astrid Amara

B&N  /  KOBO  /  iTUNES  /  ARe

Deranged by Niko McQueen

Title: Deranged
Author: Niko McQueen
Series: Ivy Hollow Chronicles #1
Genre: M/M Romance
Release Date: February 11, 2014
Adam Rossmore is a rich party boy who doesn’t answer to anyone. He’s played the orphan card for too long and it’s gotten him out of every DUI, arrest, and fine.

Until now.

When a judge slaps him with community service at the insane asylum, Ivy Hollow, Adam thinks it’s all a joke. Until the doors lock and he starts meeting the residents.

Christian Hale has lived at Ivy Hollow his entire life. He seeks solace in his music—and whatever orderly happens to be nearby.

When Adam hears Christian play the piano for the first time, the music draws him deep into Christian’s web and he must fight an arousal that is both confusing and exciting.

     Adam drifted to the far wall, eyes never leaving Christian’s tortured form. Dressed again in head-to-toe black, feet bare against the pedals, dark hair falling in curtains down his back and concealing his face, Christian was lost to the music, oblivious of anything beyond his notes. Even with the little time Adam had spent around him, Christian always seemed super-charged and micro-assessing; conscious of everything with an extra-sensory perception. He seemed to absorb the energy of an entire space--along with the light--keeping himself drenched in shadow, yet hyper-aware.
     But not when he played. The music created a nearly perceptible bubble that shielded Christian from the rest of the world, cloaked him off and allowed him to interact with only the melody. Watching him was like observing a surgeon perform open-heart surgery, or an architect craft a masterpiece, or a painter bring a scene to life. This gift of Christian’s was something to behold . . . and one he kept very, very secret.
     Adam didn’t know how all those insights came to him, but they bombarded him like the music, infiltrating his mind with a crystal clarity.
     Beneath a wide window, a fainting couch offered the only seating in the room other than the piano bench. Adam wondered if anyone else was allowed to play the piano in here or if this room was off limits to anyone other than Christian. The greenhouse seemed to have the same territorial feeling; like no one but Christian ever entered these spaces.
     A shiver skittered across Adam’s skin.
     Except for his own repeated trespassing.
     This time there would be no Dr. Hamilton to save him. No Zachary to sweep in laughing about the funny practical joke. Only the night separating Adam from this enigma of Christian.
     And tying him to the space as effectively as a chain around his ankle.
     Adam slowly lowered himself to the cushion. From this angle, he could watch Christian’s profile and his graceful fingers caressing the keys. Adam couldn’t stop staring at how long Christian’s fingers were. They stroked the keys with a sultry perfection. Stretcing forward, and then pulling back like the long sure stroke of sex.
     Every one of Adam’s muscles tensed and quivered beneath the fabric of sound, making the next note bounce off his skin like the taught surface of a trampoline. Ripples of vibration bounced over his skin lifting the hair on his arms and at his nape.
     He’d never been more aroused.
     Or confused.
     Or intrigued.
     He didn’t just want Christian’s body, he wanted to know the man behind the curtain. Adam needed to know who Christian was, his history.
     His future.
     The melody throbbed against Adam’s bare feet and he pressed them deeper into the floor, driving his hips hard against the back of the couch. The warm skin of his palm contrasted with the cool hardness of his cock and Adam tightened his grip and stroked once, then forced his hand from where it had slipped beneath the waistband of his pajamas.
     He bit his lip and leaned forward, gripping the edge of the bench. He needed to leave, to run, but he couldn’t. His cock ached and his balls were tight against his ass. The music pitch escalated and Adam leaned back. His fingers grazed his cock and it jumped. He closed his eyes and his breath tightened in his chest. He would not. He couldn’t . . . not here. Not like this. His hand closed around his cock and he squeezed, begging it to soften, but it thickened instead. He slid his hand down the shaft, twisting painfully just below the head. His ass clenched. He pressed his head against the wall. Now the music was a pulsing throb, faster, harder. Adam stroked again. His breath shot out his nostrils and he could barely take another. His hand worked harder, faster. The music throbbed over his body. His ass tightened on the bench and all his muscles shook with the intensity of his arousal.
     Christian’s voice was just another note in the darkness, another vibration on his body. “Come for me, Adam.”

Penis Envy & MM Romance
This is my first book blitz for my very first novel Deranged and I feel so happy to be able to guest post with you guys today. I really want the readers to get to know more about me since I’m really really new to social media (I just got on twitter….). One thing about me that I think most readers find odd is that my writing is so focused on love between two gay men when I am Lesbian. I have had a lot of people ask me how it is that I came to write MM Romance when I am Lesbian. I find it hilarious that readers think I should be writing lesbian romance instead. The reason why? I should be writing what I know. Okay, but what I know is that MM Romance flips my switch harder than anything m/f or f/f romance could ever give me. I don’t want to write my own life! I live the lifestyle everyday and it just isn’t something I want to wax poetics about. Surprise surprise, I have a serious case of penis envy. If I could be reborn I would come back as a handsome, tall, buff, gay man! I would live my life through my characters every single day.
I find great enjoyment in penning great stories with loveable swoon-worthy characters. The fact that they are gay is just the cherry on top. I want readers of both sexes to feel like they can relate to them but at the same time wish they were real so that they could do naughty and dirty things to their bodies. That is where I get my enjoyment. Knowing that at any point during the day there is someone with their hands busy reading my work. If it puts a perverted smile on my face then that’s my business lol. I hope you all continue to support authors; both indie and published, and enjoy every word you read. Read Responsibly.

Author Bio:
Niko currently lives in Charlotte NC with her four crazy roommates. She spends her days watching korean dramas and daydreaming of hunky guys falling in love with each other. She dreams of traveling the world gypsy style with her laptop and spinning awesome love stories.


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Everything Anise by Natalie-Nicole Bates

Title: Everything Anise
Author: Natalie-Nicole Bates
Genre: F/F Paranormal Romance
Release Date: October 7, 2015
Publisher: Torquere Press
A Victorian-era vampire living in the modern world, Emigh Bennett’s favorite activity is watching people from the window of her little bookshop. When she spots a woman nearly killed on the street outside her shop, she rushes to her rescue, and she meets Anise.

The proprietress of a little home business called “Everything Anise”, Anise crafts one of a kind perfumes all with a touch of her namesake spice, all with the power to intoxicate and delight the senses. She is smart, sexy, beautiful, and happens to be a little bit different.

Although Anise is everything Emigh could ever ask for and more, she can’t quite figure her out.  Anise possesses the duality of an innocent angel and a vivacious vixen. Even if Emigh can ever peel away the multi layers of Anise to uncover the truth beneath, what will happen when she finally reveals the truth about herself?

For the first time in…hell, it must be years, Emigh’s life felt bright and vibrant. Meeting Anise was the dawning of a new day. The lift she needed for so long.

She dared to pick up the phone that first night and call Anise. To hear that special kind of something in her voice as they spoke. To talk about everything and anything…well, not everything. She didn’t broach the subject of her sexuality – well, maybe not hers, she knew that, but Anise’s. As a matter of fact, Anise spoke of neither male nor female friends.

Anise spoke of her passion for crafting corsets and perfume. She loved to bake. She was estranged from her family. They didn’t understand she didn’t want to work a boring nine-to-five job, train into the city, train home again at night, exhausted. They thought she was wasting her life away, and because she wouldn’t come around to their strict way of thinking and living, she walked away from them.

Emigh admired her spunk and dedication. Smart, sweet, articulate, and she made her laugh, which was a tough thing to do. Anise was definitely a rare breed of woman.

But how long could it last?

She couldn’t tell Anise she was a vampire, let alone that she would never die.


How she hated the word! But until someone came up with something new, she was stuck with it.

Of course, Anise would never believe her. No one did. Every once in a while, some beautiful woman would come along, and their connection would be instantaneous…sizzling. Emigh would find herself whispering the truth to her beloved. Inevitably, the not-so-twin-flame would beat a hasty retreat, believing Emigh was crazy, or a liar…or both.

Crazy and liar are never good things in a relationship.

Author Bio:
Natalie-Nicole Bates is a book reviewer and author.

Her passions in life include books and hockey along with Victorian and Edwardian era photography and antique poison bottles. Natalie contributes her uncharacteristic love of hockey to being born in Russia.

She currently resides in the UK where she is working on her next book and adding to her collection of 19th century post-mortem photos.


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Release Day Blitz: Hoss by MariaLisa deMora

Title: Hoss
Author: MariaLisa deMora
Series: Rebel Wayfarers MC #7
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: October 26, 2015
Isaiah Rogers grew up on his family farm in Alabama. Loved by his family, he’s a country boy at heart, a southern gentleman by raising.

The path to northern Indiana was twisted and long, but this sensitive man found a comfortable niche as a member of the Rebel Wayfarers, vice-president of their affluent and growing Fort Wayne chapter. Hoss, as he’s now known, retains pieces of the boy from rural Alabama, but life in the club has hardened him, driving home the message time and again that love isn’t safe.

Hope Collins also grew up in Alabama, but their histories could not be more different.

An ill-timed youthful rebellion came with long-lasting consequences. It’s then she finds she’s not an only child after all, her father holding up her half-sister’s failures as a painful lesson before closing the door of her childhood home in her face.

Hoss and Hope’s paths collide when she travels to Fort Wayne, to meet the sister she had gone most of her life without knowing about. For Hoss, from the first moment he laid eyes on Hope, the truth and beauty inside her called to him. Now he will have to find a way to win the woman’s trust and love, while navigating the dangerous currents swirling around the club.


Author Bio:
Raised in the south, MariaLisa learned about the magic of books at an early age. Every summer, she would spend hours in the local library, devouring books of every genre. Self-described as a book-a-holic, she says “I’ve always loved to read, but then I discovered writing, and found I adored that, too. For reading … if nothing else is available, I’ve been known to read the back of the cereal box.”

A hockey fan, hiker, gamer, and single mom of a special needs son, she embraces her inner geek and has been working in the tech field for a publishing company for a couple decades.

Music is a driving passion, and she says, “I love music of nearly any genre — jazz, country, rock, alt rock, metal, classical, bluegrass, rap, hip hop … you name it, I listen to it. I can often be seen dancing through the house in the early mornings. But I really, REALLY love live music. My favorite thing with music is seeing bands in small, dive bars [read: small, intimate venues]. If said bar [venue] has a good selection of premium tequila, then that’s a plus!”


Hoss #7

Mica #1

Slate #2

Bear #3

Jase #4

Gunny #5

Mason #6

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Confessed by Lisa Cardiff

Title: Confessed
Author: Lisa Cardiff
Series: Vargas Cartel #3
Genre: Contemporary
Release Date: October 6, 2015

Revenge will be sought.
Love will be tested.
Lives will be lost.

One minute, I could see my future with Hattie and our baby. The next, moment cured me of the illusion. Vargas blood ran through my veins and regardless of what I wanted, the darkness would always win.

Make no mistake. I will save Hattie.

I will kill every last person affiliated with the Alvarez Cartel. But then, I will set her free…

Because that’s the only way to save her from me.

Author Bio:
After spending years practicing law and a million other things, Lisa decided to pursue her dream of becoming a writer and she must confess that inventing characters is so much more fun than writing contracts and legal briefs. A native of Colorado, she lives with her husband and three children in Denver. When she isn’t managing the chaos of raising three children and owning her own business, she can be found reading or writing a book.


Confessed #3

The Bargain #1

Unveiled #2

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