Monday, March 18, 2024

Teaser Tuesday: The Cyclopes' Eye by Jeffrey Haskey-Valerius #promo #teasertuesday #excerpt #comingsoon #yadystopian #yascifi #rabtbooktours @jeffreyhvwrites

 

YA Dystopian, Soft Sci-Fi

Date to be Published: 04-09-2024

Publisher: NineStar Press


 

First they came for his sister’s eye. Now they’re coming for his. And what’s even worse is he deserves it.

Henry has never had anything good happen to him, period. Full stop. That’s why, after school, he’s going to put on his big-boy pants and confess his love to his best friend—because the universe owes him one, dammit, and he needs a win.

But maybe doing it on Drill Day wasn't the best idea—the one day a month that healthcare conglomerate Axiom infiltrates schools across America to select a new candidate to give up one of their eyes, for... research? And if this Drill Day is anything like the last, Henry will never get a chance at a good life. Especially if his past keeps threatening to eat him alive, and especially if his old ways of keeping the darkness at bay refuse to work anymore.

 

Excerpt

I hate attention. I hate causing a scene. I hate being noticed. And I’m very, very aware that, right now, that is exactly what’s happening. I’m also noticing how sweaty I am. My face is either ghost white or bile green. Or beet red. All three?

A part of me knows they can’t be looking at me any worse than they usually do, though. Poor Henry with his one-eyed sister. Poor Henry with his drunk of a dad. Poor Henry with his convict of a mother.

I think about reaching down to my thigh to catapult me out of this moment, the tangle of cuts and scars I could squeeze and knead like dough so the jolt of hurt would replace this ache of embarrassment. But I can’t. Not here.

We take the third speed bump slower than the last two, but I still feel touch-and-go. At this point, the best option is to just get out of here as fast as I can. Since I’m already standing when we pull into the parking spot, I don’t wait for all the people in front of me to get off first. I march right on up to the front like I own this bus. And you know what? For right now, I do, fuckers.

“You in a hurry or something?” asks the driver. He removes his shades to reveal two very intact and very brown eyes. His fist is wrapped around the lever to open the door, but he’s not opening it.

I wasn’t expecting this, and with each second, my blood feels thicker and thicker, like sludge. I mumble something about a test I have to study for.

“One day you’ll realize life’s about more than school,” he says, believing, I’m sure, that he’s being very profound at six-thirty.

I just nod and smile, hoping my face doesn’t betray my anguish.

He smirks and finally pulls the lever, and the door squeaks and sighs as it opens. I jump down the stairs, and I must go a little too fast because there’s no way I can hold it in anymore. I’ve got to puke, and I’ve got to puke now.

I race around to the front of the bus, shielded on all sides by other buses that I really hope are empty, and let it go.

It’s so painful coming up, like someone is stabbing me. My eyes flutter open and closed as it comes pouring out, and it’s like I’m watching myself in stop motion. It forms puddles around my feet. Some of it gets on my shoes.

It’s hot and gross, and some of it sprays up into my nose, which might make me puke more. I try to be quiet so nobody will hear me, but the bus engine is so loud that it probably doesn’t matter. Or maybe that’s delirious thinking. Maybe the driver is watching from his window right now. But if anybody does come over to see, they don’t wait around long enough to say anything.

A minute later, when I’m sure it’s all out of me, I feel light, free. Empty. I think this might be the best I’ve ever felt in my life. Maybe I can read this poem today. Maybe Sam will respond the way I want. I should puke more often.

Everything in me goes still and quiet. It’s almost like I’m floating through fog as I wind my way through the maze of buses all parked in a cluster. I’m so light, it feels like a dream. Like I’m not real. Is this what it’s like to get high?

As soon as I round the last bus, I come down.

If getting sick was a dream, reality is not worth waking up for. The nightmare of my life is as bleak as it’s ever been.

Ah, yes, here we are. Drill Day.

Across the parking lot, a few hundred feet away, is the entire student body—two thousand of my peers. They’ve been rounded up like cattle in front of school, their incessant chatter like primal, god-fearing cries for help before being led to slaughter. And just like real cattle, they know there’s no escape.

But at least the cows get to die before their mutilation

 

 

About the Author

Jeffrey Haskey-Valerius works in healthcare by day and writes weird fiction and poetry by night. His shorter work has been featured in numerous literary journals and has been nominated for prizes, including Best of the Net. He currently lives in the Midwest with his unbelievably handsome and perfect dog, and also a human whom he loves. The Cyclopes’ Eye is his debut novel.

 

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter: @jeffreyhvwrites

Instagram: @jeffreyhvwrites

TikTok: @jeffreyhvwrites


RABT Book Tours & PR

Teaser Tuesday: Once We Were Witches by Laura Daleo #promo #excerpt #teasertuesday #supernatural #giveaway #rabtbooktours @AutLauraDaleo

 

Immortal Kiss Series, Book 4


Supernatural Fiction

Date Published: 03-08-2024

 

 

The mysterious world of witchcraft, murder, and mystery thrusts Raven Sagestone into an adventure whose main goal is to unlock the secrets of her powers. To do this, she teams up with Brandon Cass, an outsider with knowledge of the supernatural world. Raven is introduced to Eve, a psychic who reads destinies. Despite this, Raven is protected by a strong magic barrier, preventing Eve from seeing her. Brandon and Raven search for the truth at Bloodthirst, a vampire club. Visiting The Council's haven with Margarete and Caleb is Raven's chance to find answers to the questions that have plagued her.

 

Excerpt

Chapter 1

 

A breaking news alert flashed on the TV screen as I bit into my bagel.

As the reporter stood by, the camera panned over to the lifeless body of a young woman hanging from a tree branch. “Witch” was carved into her gray, blood-stained forehead. He sighed and hung his head. “A seventh victim has been added to the list.”

I shoved my bagel aside as a sick feeling gripped my stomach. My heart ached as I stared at the girl’s lifeless face. How could someone be so cruel and sadistic? This was not just a random act of cruelty. And where were the police in all of this?

My mom walked in, grabbed the remote, and shut off the TV.

“I was watching that.”

“There’s no need to watch some sicko murder young women. Life’s too short to fixate on people like that.”

“I’m not fixated,” I clarified. “I’m concerned. There’s a difference. That’s seven girls now. Each with the word ‘witch’ carved into their foreheads. What are the police doing? Nothing?”

She blew me off. “Investigations take time. The police are doing everything they can. Your dad and I see a lot of accidents at the hospital. Sadly, crime is a real thing. But you,” she kissed my forehead, “don’t need to worry about that. Your focus should be on college and the class you need to get to.”

Mom was wrong. I had to worry. The creep pursued young women, specifically witches, a trait I shared and kept to myself. While my parents were blue-eyed and blonde-haired, I had pitch-black hair and brown eyes, and I also had strange birthmarks covering my forearms. It might seem like I have a tragic story, but I believe everything happens for a reason. Maybe I was destined to be abandoned outside the hospital where my adoptive parents worked. As they headed home after a long shift, they heard a faint cry near the emergency entrance. Rushing to investigate, they found me abandoned on the front steps, bundled in a pink blanket. As fate would have it, they immediately took me in and showered me with love.

As a baby, a toddler, a teen, and now at 19, a college student, they never saw me as anything but sweet, curious, sulky, and smart. They had no idea what I was hiding, the power I perfected, the spells I practiced, the magic I shed. In their eyes, I was like them. I knew I was someone beyond their comprehension, someone powerful. But who was I? Who were my birth parents who should have taught me how to use the gifts given to me at birth? The only information I had about my past came from visions—an image of a dark figure dropping me outside the hospital. There were no records of my birth, my parents, a location—as if I never existed. Bringing my questions to my adoptive parents wouldn’t do any good. They’d kept these secrets hidden from me. In spite of me knowing the real truth, my adoptive parents provided a birth certificate, giving me the name, Raven Sagestone. I love them, but I want answers. I wanted to know the truth, and it was clear it wouldn’t come from them. This was something I had to figure out for myself.

I put on my cropped denim jacket, kissed my mom on the cheek, and hit up Uber on my cell. My driver’s tests were a total disaster. I failed every time. It creeped me out when the instructors stared at me with their beady eyes. So…my driver’s license was out, and Uber was in. Having someone else do all the driving was a much better plan, for now anyway.

Forty minutes before class, the Uber driver dropped me off in front of the massive steps leading up to entrance of Granite Bay University. It was one of the oldest schools in Jodence, like something straight out of a fairytale. Its structure was reminiscent of a castle, with its towering columns, decorative arched windows, and cone-shaped roof; yet modern-day people dressed in jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers surrounded the ancient building—me being one of them.

In the past fourteen weeks, my daily agenda had consisted of visiting the library before class and researching its extensive collection of witchcraft, magic, and supernatural books. One of those books was certain to contain the answers to my birthright. I absorbed every word I came across about soul-bending, mental conjuring, healing rituals, protection rituals, binding magic, and the lore of fire, water, and air. One of the most fascinating things I discovered was the witch’s mark. It has likely been around for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. However, between the 15th and 18th centuries, it had a much darker history than it does now. Witches were often burned, hanged, drowned, and tortured, and those with red hair and extra fingers and toes were often suspected of witchcraft. Witch hunters used moles, birthmarks, scars, and extra digits to identify witches. It was a myth that a particular god or bloodline was associated with the presence of a mole cluster or rose-colored mark. My arms were covered in black symbols like ancient ink, and neither a cluster nor a mark applied to me. Thank goodness I wasn’t born back then.

With my arms full of books, I walked beneath the library’s massive brick archways, combing its numerous aisles for books I hadn’t read. When I rounded the corner, I tripped over a guy sitting on the floor. My books flew through the air and landed with a thud. I groaned as I hit the ground, hoping I had not damaged my books. The guy on the floor, on the other hand, quickly sprang up and apologized profusely.

His hands steadied me as he blurted, “Whoa, sorry.” He helped me gather my books and ensured I was okay. An adorable smile swept along his lips as he brushed sandy-brown hair out of his hazel-colored eyes. He was probably one of those guys unaware of how cute he was, but cute or not, he’d parked his ass in the middle of the aisle, causing me to trip.

“What the hell, dude? There are tables to sit at and read.”

“Yeah, I see your point,” he grinned, revealing dimpled cheeks as he flipped through the books. “So you’re into witches? Or maybe it’s research for a paper about what’s going now right now?”

“Does it matter?”

He squished his eyebrows together and tilted his head to the side. “Do you know my sister?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” He tucked the books under his arm and bobbed his chin toward the tables. “Here, let me help you. It’s the least I can do.”

With a smile, I accepted his offer. “Thank you.”

He arranged the books on the table before shoving his hands into his pockets. Then he stood there, studying me.

“Stare much?”

“Has anyone told you, you’re difficult?” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “But hey, I apologize for staring.” He spread his fingers and moved them in a circular motion over my face. “You remind me of someone, Eve. She’s got the same dark hair, ivory skin, and red lip look.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know anyone named Eve.”

“Hmph.”

 The sound of a distant scream sent chills down my spine. My eyes darted around, searching for the source. “Did you hear that?”

“That was definitely a scream.”

Students leapt from their seats, hurling books onto the floor as their gazes swept the room. Librarians abandoned their posts and spilled into the aisles. Panicked voices shouted, “Who screamed?” “What happened?” Me and the guy were thrown into madness by a stampede of people charging to the exits and pushing us out of the building and onto the library’s steps.

The echo of my thumping heart filled my ears as I tried to figure out what was happening around me. The once orderly campus had become a chaotic mess as hundreds of people rushed by, pushing and shoving, their faces filled with panic. As I fought my way through the crowd, I couldn’t help but wonder where everyone was going and what had happened to cause such chaos.

“There!” the guy pointed toward the sculpture of the university’s tower in the courtyard.

I gasped as my eyes landed on the bodies. Three girls hung from the white tower with their necks bound together, now covered in blood. As I looked at their lifeless eyes and saw the word “witch” carved across their foreheads, a chill ran down my spine. An eerie, tragic, and horrific scene surrounded the stained white tower. As students and teachers huddled together, whispering in disbelief, a shrill of sirens echoed in the distance, intensifying panic and fear. Police authorities were under pressure to find those responsible for these horrific acts.

“Damn, three this time,” he uttered with shock.

I couldn’t speak. My throat swelled with a huge sob as I slowly shook my head.

The police rushed in, their footsteps pounding the sidewalk as they raced toward the tower. Their faces were determined as they cautiously approached the cordoned-off area. They quickly pulled out their clipboards and meticulously documented the evidence, taking photographs of the area.

An officer, wearing an exasperated expression, yelled. “Get back! This is a crime scene.”

I flinched, staggered backward, before firmly planting my feet on the ground. I wasn’t going anywhere. This was my battle. I needed answers. Those poor girls needed answers too. My eyes grew wide as I demanded, “Why don’t you find this sick creep before we all die?”

The guy’s gaze burned into my flesh as he snapped his head toward me. “What are you doing?”

The officer thrust his shoulders back and barked out, “You need to step back.”

“Are you trying to get arrested?” the guy whispered in my ear.

Just as his words entered my head, I overheard someone say, “They’re ice cold; not a drop of blood in them.”

My eyes locked on the authoritative policeman. “Blood? Is that new? Were the other girls drained of blood too?”

A pair of squinted eyes glared at me. “You can retreat or go downtown and think about your actions in a jail cell.”

“Omgeez, man up much?” the guy said as he grabbed my arm and hurried me away. “You need to calm down.”

I tore my gaze away from the dead girls and locked it on him. “Don’t tell me what to do. You don’t know anything about me. I want answers for those girls.” And myself, I privately declared. “It seems nobody is fighting for them.”

“It might seem that way on the surface, but I’m sure they’re doing everything they can to help.”

“I wish I could believe that, but dead bodies keep showing up…” My voice cracked as the sob squeezing my throat broke free. My shoulders quivered, and I buried my face in my hands.

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and softened his voice. “They’ll catch ’em. It’ll be okay.”

Sniffling, I sighed, “I can’t concentrate. I can’t be in class.”

“We can walk to The Grind, get a coffee, and just relax.”

I nodded and then hung my head as he led me away from the gruesome scene of dead girls.


About the Author

LAURA DALEO is a multi-genre author, specializing in Dark Fantasy, Urban Fantasy, Supernatural/Paranormal fiction, Science Fiction, and Young Adult Fiction. Immortal Kiss, her best-known vampire series, explores the Egyptian pantheon that gave rise to vampires. Currently, she is working on her eighth book, I am Wolf, an urban fantasy.

A native of San Diego, California, Laura now lives in Tucson, Arizona with her two dogs, Rose and Cooper.


Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Twitter

Goodreads

Pinterest

Instagram

BookBub

 

Preorder Links

Amazon Kindle - on sale for $0.99

Amazon paperback

Barnes & Noble - ebook - on sale for $0.99

Barnes & Noble - paperback

Kobo - ebook - on sale for $0.99

 

 

a Rafflecopter giveaway 


RABT Book Tours & PR

Teaser Tuesday: Ghost by Dana Cask #promo #teasertuesday #excerpt #comingsoon #motorcycleclubromance #mcromance #rabtbooktours @changelingpress

 

(Shiva’s Road MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Interracial & Multicultural

Date Published: March 22, 2024

 

 

 

Ghost -- Against my better judgment, I went to Chicago to meet my father. Instead I find a sexy siren who’s fighting a daily struggle to survive. I claim her for my own the first chance I get, but that’s when our troubles really start. She won’t leave without my sister Rachel, her best friend, and I’m a long way from home and my brothers. When the bad guys attack, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them both.

Simone -- I need a way out. When Ghost arrives, I take a chance and ask him for help. But he’s the son of the man who sells my body. I don’t know how far I can trust him. My life and Rachel’s hang in the balance. Ghost says he wants me by his side forever. I’m trusting him with our lives, but can I trust him with my heart?

 

 



EXCERPT


Ghost

“This place is something else,” Beowulf said over the sound of their idling bikes.

Ghost didn’t respond, knowing his best friend didn’t expect him to. He just stared at the place his mother had called home for the last twenty-five years. The McMansion and surrounding grounds presented a vulgar display of wealth against the suburban Chicago backdrop. The pink granite drive wound around the two-story house, lit by spotlights in the center of the immaculately manicured lawn. In bright sunlight, he’d no doubt need darker shades to withstand the glare of the mica-flecked walls and white shutters. He’d known about the setup from the intel Bytes had gathered on his father before they left the compound in Central Ohio, but seeing it in person shocked the man who had grown up dirt poor in a single-wide trailer on the Mescalero Apache Tribe Reservation.

“Name,” snapped a male voice from a box built into the brick column to the left of the wrought black iron gate.

“Lucas Blackfoot,” Ghost replied. His voice sounded rusty, even to his own ears.

“You were told to come alone.”

Ghost shrugged, sure the security cameras would pick up his response.

After a long pause, the voice instructed, “Park your motorcycles in the open garage bay. You will be met at the interior door. Do not enter without an escort or you will be shot.”

“Friendly type, your Pops.” Wulf chuckled.

Ghost let his unease out by revving his old Harley. The Knucklehead vibrated the ground as the gate with a stylized W in the center pulled back to allow them entrance. They followed the drive to the right of the house, moving at a slow pace on the loose gravel, and found the place they were to leave their bikes without issue.

Almost as soon as they swung their legs over the fenders, a door at the far end of the far end of the garage opened. A limo occupied one bay. Midlife crisis cars sat in the remaining two, each of which probably cost more than Ghost had seen during his entire childhood.

A large, bald man in a black suit he couldn’t button over his flabby stomach -- a security drudge so stereotypical as to be laughable -- motioned them to come closer.

“What do you wanna bet he gets handsy?” Wulf said loud enough to be overheard.

Ghost grunted. This was gonna suck. He had planned to get in and out as quickly as possible, having minimal interaction with his sperm donor.

“Which one of you is Blackfoot?” the guard asked as they approached.

Like that wasn’t obvious. Even a toddler could tell the black-haired Native American from the Nordic blond. “I am,” Ghost replied.

“Your… companion… can wait here.” The guard put a wealth of innuendo into the word companion, still trying to get a rise out of him.

“No.” Ghost didn’t make a threatening move, but he wasn’t going into this house alone. He’d never spoken to Donald P. Willard, never went looking for his parents after his mother left the Reservation when he was eight. His father should be happy he’d only brought his best friend for backup. No way in hell would he allow himself to be separated from Wulf this early in the game.

“You come alone, or you don’t come at all.”

“Fine,” said Wulf, “We’ll be home in our beds by morning then.”

The dumbass reached out to grab Ghost by the arm. “I said --”

Ghost grabbed the guard’s hand by the thumb and bent it back. When the man tried to twist out of his grip, Ghost held on long enough to make sure the man knew Ghost was choosing to release him.

Another man, this one a little older and in better shape than the first, appeared in the doorway. “Problem?”

“He doesn’t want to come quietly, boss,” Dumbass said.

“Let him bring his little friend if it makes him feel better,” the new arrival replied. “I’m sure they won’t cause any trouble. Right, boys?”

“We’re housebroken,” Wulf assured him. “Can’t say the same for your team though. Need a lesson in manners.”

“Boss” stared at them for a few beats, then turned on his heel and walked back into the house. His lapdog followed, leaving Ghost and Wulf to take up the rear. As soon as they cleared the doorway, another man came up behind them, closing the door and walking practically on their heels. They moved through the mostly dark house in that formation until they reached a closed door with soft light spilling through around the cracks.

A knock on the door received a curt, “Enter.”

A hand on his back pushed Ghost ahead of Wulf into the room. No less opulent than the rest of the house, the study had dark built-in shelves at the back wall and thick, velvet green drapes bracketing the floor-to-ceiling windows along the side. Donald P. Willard sat behind a polished walnut desk. A Tiffany desk lamp illuminated Donald’s thick features and extremely short-cropped, graying hair. His hands were laced together in front of him, resting over a sizeable belly straining the buttons on his tailored shirt. His blue suit jacket hung on the back of his leather executive chair. The picture of a prominent light-skinned black businessman, surrounding himself with obvious signs of wealth and opulence. Ghost was pretty sure it was all a front, meant to impress.

“Son, please have a seat. The rest of you are dismissed,” Donald said.

The three bodyguards tried to grab Wulf to remove him bodily from the room, but he evaded their grasps and sat down on the green leather sofa which rested against a creamy damask wallpaper. “I think I’ll stay. I like it here,” Wulf said mildly.

“This is a private conversation between my son and myself. Please do us the courtesy of letting us have this family moment,” Donald replied.

Wulf looked to Ghost, who gave him a slight nod. Beowulf could take care of himself, and it didn’t seem like anyone was going to talk in front of his friend.

“Come on, boys. Show me the kitchen. I could use a snack after the long ride.” Wulf jumped up from the couch and led the way out into the hall.

Once they were alone and the door shut, Donald gave Ghost an appraising glance. “You look like your mother.”

Ghost knew what he meant. His father’s African American heritage didn’t show much in Ghost’s features. There didn’t seem much point in replying so Ghost didn’t bother.

Donald sighed. “Have a seat, son. We have a lot to talk about.”

Ghost sat in one of the chairs in front of Donald’s desk that matched the leather sofa. It was as uncomfortable as it looked. Still, he said nothing. He’d learned a long time ago prolonged silence had a way of getting people to start rambling just to fill the void.

“I have to say, your existence came as quite a shock to me. In all the years I’ve been married to Caroline, she never once mentioned you. Do you know why?”

“No.”

“Has she ever contacted you since she left the Reservation?”

“No.”

“I’ve always wanted a son to carry on my legacy. Surely, she would have known I’d have welcomed you with open arms.”

Ghost shrugged. His mother had signed over custody of him to his grandfather when she left, giving no explanation. His memories of her were happy, but dim. He couldn’t say why his mother did what she did, and wouldn’t tell this man even if he did know. He owed this man nothing.

“Did she tell you anything about me before she left? Anything at all?”

“No.” Ghost knew he sounded like a broken record but really what was there to say? He’d received word of his mother’s death from a lawyer, closely followed by a summons from Donald P. Willard to discuss her “affairs.” Ghost already regretted his decision to come here and couldn’t wait to get the fuck out.

“Man of few words, eh? I can respect that. Too many people don’t stand by their word these days. I’m not one of those. Old school to the core, just like my daddy.” He probably practiced his “trust me” smile in the mirror. Ghost wasn’t falling for it.

“Why am I here?” He knew why, but he wanted to see how the other man would spin it.

“I wanted to meet you, talk to you. I am your father, after all.”

“Are you sure?” Ghost was. Bytes had done the research. Donald’s name wasn’t listed on his birth certificate, but his mother had left a letter with his grandfather. The old man never said a word, but the document had been among his things given to the tribal leaders upon his death. An old friend read it to him over the phone. His father had been a high roller at one of the casinos on tribal land. His mother worked there and caught his eye. Eventually they started a relationship. She got pregnant. Eight years later, she left the Reservation to be his wife.

“Of course, I am. Your mother was faithful to me, even before we married. Or are you trying to tell me you know otherwise?” The thought seemed to anger him.

“No.”

“Well then, there you are. You’re my son. And I’d like to think we could have a good relationship now that we know about each other.”

Ghost almost said no again, just to see what the other man would do, but managed to stop himself. Instead, he changed tracks. “Your letter promised legal action if I didn’t show. That’s not very… fatherly.”

“That was before I got to know you. My security team did a little digging. Can’t blame a man for wanting to get to know all about a son he suddenly finds out about, can you? And now I know you’ve served your country well, but you’ve fallen on hard times. That motorcycle club you’re with, well, I’d like to see my son socializing with a better class of people. I can and will help you there.”

“No.” The word came out fast and emphatic. Shiva’s Road MC was his family now. Not this man.

“OK, OK, I can see I’m moving too fast for you. A habit in my business. You don’t make money letting grass grow under your feet!”

Donald’s business, according to Bytes, barely paid the mortgage on this eyesore these days. Donald’s father had been a solid contractor for large scale buildings in downtown Chicago. But cutting corners to underbid other contractors, shoddy supplies, and other bad business practices had given the family business a bad name. Donald scrambled to cover his monthly debts and if he didn’t hire better lawyers, he’d be facing jail time. Then there was the little matter of his gambling debts…

Instead of replying right away, Ghost let his attention drift around the office. There were business books, decanters containing various kinds of alcohol with the usual glasses, and several framed pictures. One of the pictures caught his eye. Two young women were laughing with their arms around each other in front of a fountain. One had black hair, dusky skin and a more than passing resemblance to Donald. She must be Rachael, his half-sister.

The other woman -- he didn’t recognize her -- was nothing less than stunning. Platinum-blonde hair surrounded her tanned face in a halo as the sunshine poured down on her, seeming to illuminate her from within. The red top she wore hugged her more-than-a-handful breasts and rode up enough to show a strip of her belly. The matching skirt flared out from curvy hips that begged to be gripped with his large hands and held onto for a wild ride. Though he couldn’t tell the exact color of her eyes from the photograph, they seemed to sparkle with mischief. And her full lips, painted the same red as her shirt, were a form of temptation all their own. He wanted to lick and suck and taste every inch of her. His cock came to life behind his zipper as he studied the image. He’d never had such a visceral reaction to a woman, let alone one he’d seen only in a picture, in his life.


About the Author

Every book is a mystery to Dana. Whether it’s writing one or reading one, she delves into the who, what, when, where and why with a thirst for knowledge. Getting to know the characters and following their journey as it unfolds gives her a thrill she hasn’t been able to duplicate in any other activity. She’s been known to devour as many as three books in a day, and would write until her fingers bled if her muses allowed.

Although Dana is just getting started on her publishing career, please join her on Facebook and Goodreads, and visit her website often as her MC collection grows to see what Dana has in store for her readers next!

 

Contact Links

Author’s Website

Author on Facebook

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

 

Pre-Order Today


RABT Book Tours & PR

Tour Kick Off: What We Were Making by Peter Cloutier #blogtour #nowontour #comingofage #romance #rabtbooktours @PeterCloutier13





Adult Coming of Age / Romance

Date Published: February 23, 2023

 

 

A #1 Amazon Bestseller, Peter Cloutier's "What We Were Making" is a must-read for those who love ocean adventures, political thrillers, romance, or coming-of-age stories!

 

When the lives of two expatriates intersect at the edge of civilization, opportunity, duty and deception collide. Jane is a budding ambassador of heightened motivation, insight, and curiosity. Relentless in her pursuit of justice, ethics, and the common good, her life lacks love. Enter Bill, an adrenaline-fueled waterman who lives breath to breath, wave to wave, and fish to fish. A schoolteacher by day, he embodies the island life but without partnership. When catastrophe unfolds, the two must respond to those in need while attempting to dismantle the deeper collusion around them. In the end, the only winners are those who have the resilience to stand.

 

What others have to say about Peter Cloutier's "What We Were Making":

 

"A masterful blend of two contrasting worlds, political and natural, Peter Cloutier's What We Were Making is a sensational and evocative journey into the lives of two lovers suffering the greatest challenge of all: meaning. With a new layer of domesticity, romanticism, policy, and reality in each chapter, it is as multidimensional as it is tragic, and a must-read in any event." - JJ Hebert, USA Today, WSJ and #1 Amazon best-selling author

 

"A tremendous homage to the worlds of land and sea, of beautiful conflicts of interest, and I hope that all readers may find the same grace, eloquence, and courage that I found in..." - Mariel Hemingway, Oscar-nominated actress and author, granddaughter of Nobel Prize-winning novelist Ernest Hemingway



About the Author

Peter is a waterman with over twenty years working in the South Pacific, Southeast Asia and Southern Africa. He has enjoyed working with countries and communities in the development of greater marine conservation and access to justice, more resilient water, sanitation and hygiene systems, and better maternal-child health and control against infectious diseases. He is married and a proud father of two children. He is disabled after suffered a traumatic brain injury while working in Afghanistan and has pledged to donate a significant portion of the revenue from his writing to charitable groups located in the countries where he has worked. Learn more about Peter and his family on social media and www.seatheworld.org.

 

Contact Links

Website

Facebook

Instagram

Twitter

LinkedIn

Youtube

 

Purchase Link

Amazon





March 19 - Crossroad Reviews - Spotlight

March 20 - SSLY - Spotlight

March 21 - Book Junkiez - Excerpt

March 22 - The Faerie Review - Spotlight

March 25 - Texas Book Nook - Review

March 26 - My Bookmarked Reads - Spotlight

March 27 - Novel News Network - Review

March 28 - The Avid Reader - Interview

March 29 - Matters That Count - Spotlight

April 1 - My Reading Addiction - Interview

April 2 - Karma Zee Readz - Review

April 3 - Sapphyria's Books - Spotlight

April 4 - Books Blog - Spotlight

April 5 - The Indie Express - Review

April 6 - Brittany's Book Blog - Excerpt

April 8 - BRVL Book Review Virginia Lee Blog - Spotlight

April 9 - Momma and Her Stories - Excerpt

April 10 -  Momma Says to Read or Not to Read - Spotlight

April 11 - Writers N Authors - Interview

April 12 - Tea Time and Books - Spotlight

April 15 - Our Town Book Reviews - Excerpt

April 16 - Liliyana Shadowlyn - Spotlight

April 17 - On a Reading Bender - Review

April 18 - Nana's Book Reviews - Spotlight

April 19 - RABT Reviews - Wrap Up


RABT Book Tours & PR