Shira Anthony's Blog - Posts Tagged "excerpt"

The Blog Hop Spot's 2012 Easter Blog Hop begins Friday, April 6th and runs through Sunday, April 8th! Leave a comment on my Wordpress blog, http://wp.me/p1ldWQ-63, and you will be entered to win a free ebook copy (format of your choice) of my latest Dreamspinner Press release, "Blue Notes" (or, if you already have that one, of my novella, "The Dream of a Thousand Nights").

I'll be posting an excerpt from the second book in my "Blue Notes" series, "The Melody Thief" for everyone to check out.

Be sure to check out all the other wonderful blogs who have signed up (and all the goodies they are giving away) on the Blog Hop Spot here: http://thebloghopspot.com/event-page/

Happy Easter, Happy Passover, and Happy Spring, everyone! -Shira

Thanks to everyone who stopped by for the Easter Blog Hop and a special thanks to Drea Becraft for setting up the Hop! I'm so happy you all enjoyed the excerpt of "The Melody Thief," (Blue Notes, Book #2) which will be published in August. I'll be posting excerpts from two other upcoming releases of mine, "The Trust," a gay spy thriller with an unusual romantic twist, and "Aria," Book #3 in the Blue Notes series (tentative publication December 2012). All from Dreamspinner Press!

The winner of the free ebook for the blog hop contest is Krysykat! Thanks again to everyone who commented. And if you're interested in reading Blue Notes #1, it's available from Dreamspinner Press, AllRomanceEbooks and Amazon in ebook and paperback.

Happy Easter, happy Passover and happy spring to all! -Shira

Welcome to day three of the Howloween Blog Hop! Comment on this post to win an ebook copy of your choice of one my Dreamspinner Press releases. You can check them all out here or by clicking on the "Books" link to the left of this post. Don't forget to leave your email address so I can contact you if you win! I'll be drawing a winner on October 30th.

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Since the theme for the hop is Halloween, I thought I'd talk about things that scare us. But not in the horror movie sense. I want to talk about real life fears that keep us from being the people we want to be. At their core, all of the Blue Notes Series books address these types of fears.

In the original "Blue Notes," lawyer and former pianist Jason Greene has lived his life the way everyone has told him to live it. His success is just a sham, though. Beneath the "perfect" veneer is a man who is unhappy. Why? Because he's never faced his personal demons: his sexuality, his fear of performing, and his fear that what makes him happy isn't what people think should make him happy.

In the second Blue Notes novel, "The Melody Thief," cellist Cary Redding has been running from his childhood all his life. He never feels as though he deserves his success--he believes he's stolen it. He is the melody thief. Unworthy, undeserving, deeply flawed. He tries to dull his pain by drinking too much and seeking out anonymous sex in the seediest of places.

Book Three of the series, "Aria," also revolves around the characters' fears. In "Aria," Sam Ryan (who readers meet in "Blue Notes"), is afraid to let go of the memory of his first love, Nick. When he meets opera singer Aiden Lind (who appears as Cary Redding's best friend in "The Melody Thief"), the attraction is intense and immediate. But Sam just isn't ready. Aiden, too, has his demons. Supremely talented and successful, he fears that people will realize he's just an unsophisticated kid from backwoods Mississippi. And when he catches his partner cheating on him, he half believes it was his own fault.

What else do these books have in common? A happy ending. Because there's nothing like unconditional love to begin the healing process. Each character heals in a different way, and in a way that I hope readers will find believable and human.

Interested in reading more? "Aria" will be released by Dreamspinner Press on December 24th. A long sneak peek at Chapter Five of the novel follows (18+ excerpt - this one is steamy and NSFW!). I hope you enjoy it! And don't forget to comment. You could win a free copy of your choice of the books! -Shira

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NOTE: Prepublication excerpt, content may change. 18+ only, NSFW, contains explicit sexual content

Chapter Five:

New York, New York

The SoHo bar was crowded when Sam arrived a few minutes after eight o’clock. Some of his friends had recommended it to him, but he had never been inside. Typical of many establishments in the area, the walls were stripped bare of years of paint. Modern canvasses in various sizes and shapes broke the monotony of the ancient brick. Italian track lighting hung from the drop ceiling illuminated the artwork and the tables. Sam could make out the strains of classic jazz over the low drone of conversation. The smells of alcohol, aftershave, and musk hung in the air.

Sam realized his hand rested on his briefcase. He thought briefly of the metal cookie tin inside, which inevitably made him think of Nick. He and Nick first met in a bar, but Sam had never liked them much. As a couple, they had mostly socialized with friends, alternating hosting get-togethers at their loft apartment and spending weekends upstate in small B and Bs.

Sam felt overwhelmed as he sat down at the end of the bar and ordered a drink. He reminded himself that he was just here for the alcohol, but the Manhattan gay scene loomed frighteningly on the horizon, and he was woefully unprepared. Even now, a year after Nick’s death, he knew he wasn’t ready, though he’d already received a few appreciative looks in the few minutes since his arrival. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready for it again—it had been intimidating enough the first time around.

“Vodka tonic,” he told the bartender. Tonight he needed something stronger than his usual beer. Running a hand through his hair, he took a look around the bar for the first time. There was no dance floor, so the action was subtler. Men filled nearly every seat at the long bar, chatting in undertones over drinks. He fought the urge to leave. When the bartender placed a drink in front of him, he thanked the man and took a long, desperate swallow. The comforting effect of the alcohol began to kick in.

What am I doing here?

The man seated to his left got up and threw a twenty down on the bar, then waved to the bartender and the other men at the counter. Sam finished his drink in one long swallow and looked up again, this time into a pair of warm brown eyes framed by long lashes. The newcomer smiled affably at him. Sam managed to return the smile before quickly looking back down at his empty glass.

This was a mistake. He pulled his wallet out of his jacket and rummaged for a twenty.

“I hope you’re not leaving on my account,” said the man next to him. And, God, what a voice! A resonant, sexy-as-fuck baritone that went straight from Sam’s ears to his cock.

“Aiden Lind,” he said more formally as he offered Sam his hand.

“Sam Ryan. Nice to meet you.” Sam's hand was warm, his grip firm.

Aiden gestured to the bartender. “Two more. On me.”

“I was just about to leave.” Sam didn’t want to be rude, but he needed to get out of the place. Coming here had been a mistake.

“Sure I can’t convince you to stay?”

“No. But thanks, Aiden. It was good meeting you.” Sam forced a smile and picked up his satchel before heading for the door. A moment later he stepped out into the chilly night air, taking deep breaths to calm his racing heart.

He wasn’t ready. He pulled his jacket collar up, then started for the subway station.

“Sam!”

Sam turned around to see someone running after him down the street. What was his name? Aiden.

“Look, Aiden,” Sam said as he caught up with him, “I’m tired.”

Aiden blinked. “Oh. No. It’s not like that.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet. Sam’s wallet.

Shit. The guy was being nice, and Sam had tried to blow him off.

Sam took the wallet and their fingers brushed. Sam's cheeks warmed as their eyes met. Uncomfortable, he shifted his briefcase from one hand to another. “Thanks. Damn good thing my head’s attached to my body tonight.”

“No problem.” Aiden shoved his hands back into his pockets.

“It was good meeting you.” Sam was hard-pressed not to like the man.

“You too, Sam.” Aiden hesitated a second longer, then turned and waved as he headed back toward the bar.

It’s only a drink. No strings. It’s not like you have anyone waiting at home.

“On second thought,” Sam called after Aiden, “I think I’ll have that drink.”

“Great!” Aiden turned around and beamed at him, and Sam’s initial hesitation evaporated in the warmth of Aiden’s smile.

A few minutes later, they walked back into the bar. Aiden motioned to a free table. “This okay with you?”

“Sure.” Sam set his briefcase back down and settled into one of the metal chairs.

“What are you drinking?” Aiden asked.

“Vodka tonic.”

“Great. I’ll be right back.” Aiden headed for the bar before Sam could offer to spring for the drinks.

Now that they were back inside in the light, Sam got his first good look at Aiden. He hadn't noticed when they were sitting down, but Aiden was nearly as tall as he, probably around six feet. He'd already noticed Aiden's curly hair, high cheekbones, and the strong line of his jaw. Now, Sam couldn’t help but notice the black jeans that hugged Aiden’s firm ass and the long-sleeved Henley that fit his upper torso tightly enough to hint at the muscle beneath. Casual but undeniably sexy.

Back a minute later, Aiden sat facing Sam, and Sam noticed Aiden’s foot tapping the leg of his chair.

He’s nervous too. That surprised Sam. The guy was good-looking, friendly. Trying to quell his own anxiety, Sam took a deep breath. “Thanks for the drink. And thanks again for the wallet.”

Aiden seemed buoyed by Sam’s change of heart. “Long day?” He brushed a stray lock of hair from his eyes.

“You could say that.” Sam shook his head and exhaled audibly. If only you knew….

A waiter brought their drinks. “Cheers.” Sam held up his glass and Aiden touched his beer against it.

“Cheers.”

They drank in silence for a few moments until Sam realized he must have been staring, because Aiden leaned in and gazed at him—a gaze that held more than a whisper of lust. For the past year, Sam hadn’t even considered how he looked to the world at large. He donned his expensive suits like the uniforms they were, shaved, and combed his unruly hair, but he’d just gone on living, nothing more. He’d had a few blind dates friends had set him up on, but none of them had gone anywhere and he hadn’t cared. Now he was suddenly self-conscious, his suit rumpled after a long day bent over piles of documents, his hair undoubtedly sticking up in odd places as it liked to do.

When did it get so hot in here?

Sam pulled off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. As the second drink went straight to his shoulders, he felt his old confidence return. “What do you do for a living, Aiden?”

“Musician.”

“Really? What kind?”

Aiden appeared uncomfortable, almost apologetic. “I’m a singer. An opera singer.”

“You’re serious?” Explains the voice of God vibe.

“Yeah.” Aiden shifted in his seat.

“That’s cool,” Sam said enthusiastically.

“You think?”

“Yes, definitely.”

Aiden laughed—a warm, rumbled laugh that made Sam melt like a puddle into his seat. Aiden Lind was a handsome man, even more so when he laughed. “I get a lot of flak from my family about it.”

“Really? Why?” Sam finished his drink and flagged down the waiter for another round.

“They think it’s queer. I used to sing rock and gospel. That was okay with them. But opera? And shit, if they knew I liked men and women….” He laughed again, but Sam heard an edge to the sound this time and saw a flash of something like pain in Aiden's eyes. “So what do you do, Sam?”

“Compared to singing opera? Just boring stuff. I’m a lawyer for a firm near Wall Street.”

“I sort of guessed. Nice suit, briefcase ’n all. Nice tie too.” Aiden wasn’t looking at Sam’s tie, though; his gaze never left Sam’s.

Maybe it was the booze, but Sam wasn’t in the slightest bit tempted to look away. Instead, he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.

“So what kind of law do you practice?”

Shit. What was it about Aiden that made everything he said sound like an invitation to do something sexual? The voice. Definitely the voice.

“Personal injury. Not my first choice.” Sam had rationalized taking the job for many reasons, but one in particular topped the list: the prospect of going home to Tennessee and back into the same dark and claustrophobic closet he had come out of was too horrible to contemplate.

“What would you rather be doing?”

At that moment Sam could think of a few things he’d rather be doing that had nothing to do with practicing law. “Employment law. Plaintiff’s work. You know, the underdogs?”

“Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“No. Nothing at all.” The job had been a compromise: it hadn’t been what Sam had wanted, but it hadn’t been part of Samuel Stetson Ryan III’s “plan” either. It had been a huge disappointment to the old man that Sam didn’t return to Memphis to work for his firm.

Sam shifted in his seat, brushing Aiden’s foot by accident. At least he thought he’d done it by accident. “So.” Sam changed the subject and tried to focus on something other than Aiden’s foot rubbing against his own. “What’s it like, singing opera?”

The waiter came with another round of drinks—Sam lost count of how many he’d downed. Was this three already? It was hard to focus, and Sam was pretty sure it wasn’t the alcohol that was turning his brain to mush.

Aiden leaned back in his seat with his legs slightly apart. It was an inviting pose. Aiden held his beer in his right hand and gesticulated with it as he spoke. As Aiden's leg pressed against Sam's, Sam did his utmost to keep his eyes focused on his companion’s face. His own face felt warm.

“It’s great,” Aiden replied. “I’m planning to go to Germany soon, maybe do a few auditions there.”

“Sounds exciting. What would you be auditioning for?” Laughter erupted from the bar, and Sam moved his chair closer to better hear Aiden’s answer.

“Most of the larger German cities hire contract singers for their opera houses. It’s better than in the States. Here, you mostly just string gigs together to make a living. There, you have a steady job for a year at a time, do stuff in repertory. Beats waiting tables.”

“I didn’t realize it was that tough getting work.” He and Aiden were only about a foot apart now. From this distance, Sam could see the hint of Aiden’s hard nipples beneath the close-fitting Henley. It was difficult to focus on the conversation when his mind was busy imagining how he might take one of those nubs between his teeth.

“Once you get an agent, it gets better. I only graduated from school a few years ago, and it’s hard to get hired for big roles right away.”

“Kind of like getting stuck doing the grunt work right out of law school.” Sam knew the feeling well. He’d only made partner last year, and he’d done his share of shit jobs before that.

“Yep.” Aiden finished the rest of his beer, lingering over the mouth of the bottle before giving Sam a smile.

Sam swallowed hard and tried to ignore the renewed jolt of sexual heat he sensed in Aiden’s gaze. He looked down at his drink. It definitely wasn’t only the booze talking. He got hard just thinking about kissing Aiden, tasting him. “Are you from around here, originally?”

“Nah. I’m from Mississippi. Little town named Fenton, right outside of Jackson.”

“Really? Hell, I grew up in Memphis.”

“No shit.” Aiden laughed. “I thought I heard a little Tennessee in you.”

“You had me fooled. I figured you were from up north.”

“Comes with the territory. Good ear. Had to study French, German, and Italian in school. You lose the drawl fast or they beat it out of you.”

They talked about growing up in the South for a few minutes. Comfortable, easy conversation. How long had it been, Sam wondered, since he’d had a conversation like this with someone other than Nick?

Too long.

“Listen,” Aiden began as he stared awkwardly at his beer, which was now clearly empty, “would you like to get out of here?”

Since Nick died, Sam had said no to anything but casual hints at dating. This was much more of an offer.

“I’d like that,” he heard himself say.

Aiden looked surprised and pleased, but no more than Sam. Had he really said yes?

“I live over in Alphabet City. It’s not much, but….”

“That’d be fine,” Sam reassured him. He might be ready to spend the night with someone, but he sure as hell wasn’t ready to take a man back to his own apartment—the apartment he and Nick had shared. Not yet, anyhow.

Maybe never.

 

After a short cab ride, Sam followed Aiden up the stairs of a third-floor walkup off Avenue C and into a small two-bedroom apartment. The living room appeared to double as a third bedroom. Pots, pans, and cooking utensils hung from every inch of the high-ceilinged walls of the tiny kitchen. An electronic keyboard sat atop a cardboard box, and piles of music filled the built-in shelves. In spite of the clutter, the apartment was clean and smelled vaguely of lemon.

“I live with two other singers,” Aiden said. “Mark works nights, and Rob is out of town at a gig, so we have the place to ourselves.”

Sam put his briefcase down and tossed his coat onto the couch. He turned to find Aiden only a few inches away. In the shadows of the semidarkness, Aiden’s high cheekbones were more defined, his body backlit by the light from the streetlamp outside.

A moment later they were kissing. Rough, hungry lips met with equally awkward eagerness, teeth tapping against each other as Sam and Aiden found their bearings. Sam ran his tongue against Aiden’s lower lip and gained entry before pressing inward to find the warmth that waited there. Aiden’s mouth tasted good, with a hint of dark beer that lingered from the bar.

“Bed?” Sam asked.

Aiden’s answer was a low growl with the same deep resonance of his speaking voice. Sam had never realized the sound of someone’s voice could be such a turn-on. His body was thrumming now, and he knew there was no going back. He’d waited so long, denying himself in silent penance for circumstances over which he’d never had any control. Now he would let that final piece of Nick go and give his body over to someone new.

You know he would have wanted this for you.

Aiden put his arm around Sam’s waist as he led him down the short hallway, then pushed the bedroom door open with his foot. Sam felt the bed at the backs of his knees as Aiden pushed him down on top of the ragged comforter. The bedding smelled clean, though. Sam didn’t have a chance to take in the rest of the room before they were kissing again. Sam scrabbled for purchase on Aiden’s shirt, reaching to pull it over his head. He needed to feel Aiden’s chest, to feel someone else’s skin beneath his fingers.

Aiden’s body was as finely honed as Sam had imagined it to be back at the bar. Lean—not the overly sculpted abs that graced Times Square billboards—but just the way Sam liked them, with more than a dusting of dark, curly hair between his nipples. He pressed his hand to Aiden’s enticing skin. He wondered what it would be like to feel that chest vibrate when the other man sang. The thought led him to a renewed jolt of desire, and he pinned Aiden to the bed before pushing down Aiden's dark jeans along with the gray boxer briefs to reveal the purple tip of a sizeable cock. It took only another minute before Aiden was completely naked on the bed. The fact that Sam was still fully dressed only served to arouse him more.

He didn’t need any encouragement to take Aiden’s erection in his mouth; he had to taste it. God, but the man tasted so good! Sam swallowed Aiden’s long cock down, pulling back the foreskin as he went and grabbing the base with his hand, slicked up with saliva. For a man who made his living with his voice, Aiden remained remarkably silent, but the upward arch of his body was tacit reassurance. Sam licked with abandon at the underside of Aiden’s hard width, then tightened the suction until he was rewarded with a gasp.

Sam’s ran his teeth and lips over Aiden’s cock as he moved upward to the tip, then nibbled his way around the crown and probed the leaking slit with his tongue, sucking to milk the salty essence there. He could feel his own hard-on pressed against his pants, which only served to intensify the experience. Denial for now. But later….

“Shit, Sam,” Aiden murmured in a distant rumble. “So good. So fucking good….”

Sam smiled wickedly, happy to have finally coaxed a sound from Aiden’s lips. He reached his free hand underneath Aiden’s balls, rolled them in his palm, then licked them, all the while fisting Aiden’s hard cock. He swallowed it again, skating wet fingers to find the clenched ring of muscles between the tight asscheeks. The press of his finger against the tight opening was rewarded with a low drawn-out groan, so he teased it again.

“Lube?” he whispered as he released Aiden’s cock for a moment.

“Don’t want any,” came the tense response. “Just push your finger in.”

Sam hesitated.

“Nah, Sam. It’s good like that… I like it like that sometimes.”

The words shot through Sam like fire. He pressed his saliva-slicked finger inside and felt Aiden’s big hands grasp his shoulders and pull him closer, encouraging him to push deeper. Sam hollowed his cheeks and increased the suction, pulling and licking until he could feel Aiden’s balls pull tight against his forearm.

“Shit… Sam… gonna… come,” Aiden warned.

Sam released Aiden’s cock from his mouth but continued to rub his lips and hand over it until he felt the warmth of Aiden’s come on his cheek. After Aiden stopped shaking, Sam met his warm brown eyes and smiled.

Aiden reached up and wiped Aiden’s cheek with the sheet, then leaned back against the pillow and inhaled long and deep. “Good God,” he said in an impossibly low, sexy voice, “that was incredible.”

Sam’s face warmed at the compliment, and he fought the urge to protest. Even after so many years of living in New York as an openly gay man, he still felt the stirrings of shame from time to time, his Southern Baptist roots too well ingrained to ignore. But the moment of embarrassment was short-lived, eclipsed by his own unsatisfied need.

“I want to fuck you,” he whispered. “If that’s okay….” He had never been hesitant before, but he felt like he was seventeen all over again, doing it for the first time in the woods behind the cabins at summer camp.

“You’re joking, right?” Aiden laughed. “Hell, yeah.” He reached under the mattress and pulled out a box of condoms and a small bottle of lube, then tossed them within Sam’s reach.

The tension in Sam’s shoulders relaxed until he felt his companion’s hand rubbing at the crotch of his pants. His breath caught in his throat. Too long. Way too long. He started to loosen his tie, but Aiden stopped him.

“Fuck me in that suit. It’s so damn hot.” He rolled onto his stomach and lifted his ass in blatant invitation. “I want you to fuck me in your clothes.”

“Damn,” Sam hissed as he unzipped his fly and pulled his cock out. There was something thrilling about the way Aiden had taken control, something about the way Aiden's words had sounded almost like an order that made Sam shiver. And, oh God, the globes of Aiden’s ass beckoned, tight and smooth. Sam began to stroke him while he uncapped the lube and slathered his fingers with it, then reached around to press at the hole he had only barely breached before.

“No prep,” Aiden rumbled. “Lube it up. I like it when it hurts a little.”

What the hell do I say to that?

Sam knew the feeling himself, although he had never admitted it to Nick. He and Nick had been tender lovers—the kind of lovers who explored every inch of each other’s bodies with gentle fingers and tongues. Their lovemaking had never approached the rough animal sex Sam had often fantasized about. That hadn’t been Nick’s style; he had been as laid-back and slow in bed as he was in life, and Sam had loved that about him. The sex had been great. Better than great, but now….

Sam rolled the condom over his erection and greased it well, then leaned over and spread Aiden wider. Aiden’s low laugh was an invitation, and Sam looked up to see Aiden’s eyes filled with a mixture of need and playfulness. He pressed the head of his cock against Aiden’s hole, inhaling sharply as the outer ring of muscle gave way and he felt the warm tightness nip at his sensitive tip.

“Come on,” Aiden urged him. “I want it all the way inside.”

He pushed harder, Aiden’s inner muscles gradually releasing with some resistance until Sam was seated up to his balls. Aiden was half-hard again, and Sam grasped his thickening flesh with one hand as he pulled out. Then he pushed in once more, making sure he brushed against Aiden’s prostate. He felt Aiden’s shudder and saw the look of pleasure on his face.

“Harder, Sam. Need it harder.”

“Oh God, yes. But it’s been too long. I won’t be able to….”

“I don’t care.” Aiden’s voice was now rough, husky with need. “Do it like you know you want to.”

The realization that Aiden had guessed at something Sam himself had long denied only served to intensify the urge to pound Aiden senseless. “Fuck,” he panted. “You’re so tight.”

The bed shook as he picked up speed, pistoning back and forth, letting go of all of his repressed desire. His shirt clung to his skin, his pants rode up his ass, but that only increased the pleasure that ran from his cock up his spine and pulled his sac tight. He came with a shout and a series of shudders, then leaned down so his face was only inches away from Aiden’s.

Their eyes met. For Sam it was like diving into dark water—he didn’t know what he might find, but he was caught in the siren song. Aiden’s lips met his, and something deep inside Sam’s heart let go. A door he had closed when Nick died opened just a crack. It stayed open for a brief instant before he felt ice in his veins as fear seeped back inside.

“Stay?” Aiden offered hopefully.

“I….” Sam hesitated. “Okay.” He knew he should leave, that he wasn’t ready for this, but he couldn’t do it. He was so raw, so hungry for Aiden’s touch. He wanted more.

Aiden smiled at Sam and began to unbutton his shirt.

Last day of the Howloween Blog Hop! Comment on this post to win an ebook copy of your choice of one my Dreamspinner Press releases. You can check them all out here or by clicking on the "Books" link to the left of this post. Don't forget to leave your email address so I can contact you if you win! I'll be drawing a winner on October 30th.

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For the last day of the hop, I'm going to leave you with the first chapter of a WIP that is not part of my Blue Notes Series. In fact, it's an entirely different type of story. Sexy pirates and shifters. 18+, dubcon, with a bit of MMM, and definitely NSFW, ya'll, so don't say I didn't warn you!

Summary: Taren has never known anything but life as a slave, but when he's kidnapped by the captain of a pirate ship, his lifelong dream of going to sea is realized. The pirate captain Rider offers Taren his freedom in exchange for three years of his life and sexual servitude. Not a bad trade, Taren decides, given that the pleasures he finds in the captain's bed far surpass his greatest fantasies.

When Taren is lost at sea trying to save a fellow crewmember, he finds himself a captive of Captain Rider's old enemy: Eoin Dunaidh, the enigmatic captain of the Blue Water. But Eoin and his crew harbor a secret that will change Taren's life forever, forcing Taren to choose between his loyalty to Captain Rider and his crew, and a call far more primal.

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When two sailing ships were engaged in battle, the attacking ship would try to get upwind of the enemy vessel and spread its sails out full, literally stealing all the wind and leaving the enemy “dead in the water.” The attacking ship could then ram the enemy, cutting it in half and sinking it.

Chapter One

Taren huddled beneath a tattered blanket as an icy wind blew through the cracks of the building. The mortar between the bricks had crumbled and the fire was a good twenty feet away, providing him little warmth. He didn’t dare move closer—he had been beaten more times than he cared to remember by the other, more powerfully built men with whom he shared the tiny sleeping quarters.

He had lost track of time since he had come to this place. Had it been a year, perhaps two, since the old sail rigger had sold him to pay a gambling debt? The living quarters at the inn were far less comfortable than Saren’s hut on the edge of the docks, but the work wasn’t nearly as strenuous. Still, he longed for the freedom of climbing the ropes of the incoming vessels and standing atop their masts with the wind in his face.

More than anything else, Taren of Laxley dreamed of sailing aboard one of the great ships. He closed his eyes and imagined the spray against his face, the rocking of the vessel beneath his bare feet. He imagined crouching on the masthead, looking out through the spyglass, trying to spot approaching ships. He imagined hoisting the sails and watching them flutter in the wind and the feel of the ship as she caught the wind.

He had to imagine all these things; he had never been to sea.

“You, boy,” a sturdy woman snapped from the doorway. “What’s your name?”

“Taren, ma’am.” He got to his feet and repressed a shiver. It would do him no good to irritate Madame Marcus at such an ungodly hour—she would see his weakness only as a complaint, and he didn’t want another whipping.

“Cook’s needing you in the dining room. Seems a new ship’s put into port. He wants an extra pair of hands.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Taren said, dropping the threadbare blanket by the wall.

Dining room duty was better than some chores. Cook might even let him scrape the dregs from the pots as they cleaned up later. Taren’s empty belly growled at the prospect and he followed the woman across the open courtyard, past an angry rooster who pecked at him when he strayed too close, and into the warmth of the kitchens.

“Cook, sir,” he said to the large man standing at the ovens, face dirtied with soot from the fires. “What do you need?”

“Grab the soup from off the counter, boy, and ask the gentlemen if they would like more.”

Taren nodded and pulled a potholder from beside the smallest of the ovens. The padding was, as with everything else, worn thin, and he felt the heat from the iron handle as he reached in to lift the pot off its hook. He ignored the pain as the metal burned his palms and scurried out into the dining room, retrieving a large ladle hanging near the doorway.

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The light in the dining hall was far more subdued than in the kitchen, the gas fixtures on the walls burning a warm yellow and making the faded red fabric walls appear tawdrier even than in the daylight. Long wooden tables ran the length of the room, several of which were filled with men, laughing and shouting, some singing off-key, most with large pints of ale in their hands.

Taren’s gaze met Serita’s. She was one of the other servants and old enough to be his mother, but her inclinations were hardly of the maternal kind. Still, she had always been kind to him—as kind as could be expected in a place such as this. She nodded and got back to filling tankards, cackling when the men handled her ample bottom and leaning over as she poured their drinks so they could easily see her full breasts. Later, he guessed, she would offer her services in their rooms as many of his fellow servants did for the paltry coins they might receive in return. The master never complained about such activities, but Taren knew he expected half of what Serita and the others earned with their bodies. Taren had never been tempted to follow a guest to his or her bedroom, although he had been presented with the opportunity on many an occasion.

He felt a rough hand on his forearm, and nearly lost his grip on the pot. “You’re a pretty one,” the owner of the hand said in a low voice. “Ain’t he, Captain?”

“Please,” Taren said in a trembling voice. “I must serve the soup.” Another hand grabbed his buttocks and squeezed. He couldn’t pull away, or he’d spill the hot soup on himself and possibly the man seated to the left of his antagonist.

Pirates, thought Taren, judging by their looks and their rough manner.

The man seated at the head of the table—the “captain”—pursed his lips in appreciation. As his gaze raked over the open collar of Taren’s shirt and the tight fit of his too-small-britches, Taren felt hotter than he had under the blanket only minutes before.

In the past year, Taren had begun to grow from a boy to the beginnings of a fine man. He now stood taller than the women, and although most of the men were larger than he, Taren guessed it was only a matter of time before he would reach and perhaps surpass their stature. This transformation had come as an enormous relief. He had no idea how old he was—sixteen or seventeen, perhaps?—nor did he know his parents. For so long, he had been the smallest of all the boys at the inn, and he had been given no reason to expect that it would ever be otherwise. Until, that is, his body had begun to assert itself.

“Come here, boy!” the captain shouted over the din.

Taren did as he was told, trying to ignore the lecherous gaze of several of the men seated nearby. “What can I get for you, sir?” he asked, as he’d been taught.

The captain, middle-aged with a coarse beard peppered with gray, was a broad-chested, bear of a man. Powerful and attractive, his weathered skin spoke of the sun and the wind, and his eyes were a piercing blue. And yet the weight of that gaze upon him made Taren feel slightly dizzy. It was a frightening thing, and the desire he saw in the older man’s eyes was raw.

The master won’t abide a servant taken without consent, Taren reminded himself as he began to ladle the fragrant soup into the captain’s bowl. He would endure the wanton looks and the fondling in silence, as he had done in the past. Then he would retreat to his duties in the kitchen, safe once more behind the wall that separated servant and guest.

“What’s your name, boy?” The captain’s voice was a deep rumble that seemed to work its way through Taren’s ears and into his body.

“Taren of Laxley, sir,” he answered, his trembling hand the only outward sign of his fear.

“Moran’s right. You are a pretty one.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The man’s hand rubbed Taren’s ass before he realized what was happening. He couldn’t move away, or he’d spill the soup, nor could he put the pot down on the table and risk Cook’s wrath. He felt his shirt pulled from the waist of his pants before he could protest, and the same hand that found his ass now found his hardening cock beneath the fabric.

“Now there’s a tempting treat,” the captain rumbled appreciatively.

Taren’s legs shook with the contact. The captain’s hand was practiced, the touch of the rough palm sensual. Taren tried to repress the moan that issued from his lips, but with little success.

“You like that, don’t you, Taren of Laxley?” The pirate removed his hand and Taren’s disappointment was obvious. “Don’t worry,” the captain added, “I just wanted to make this a bit easier for you.” He took the pot from Taren’s hands and set it on the table, then pulled Taren closer to him by his shirt.

Taren looked around the room. No one seemed to notice how he now stood in front of the pirate with his back against the table, or the stain on his cheeks he was sure was as bright red as the feathers of the rooster in the courtyard. He swallowed hard but he did not move away, the realization that he wanted the other man’s touch a shock.

“I won’t hurt you,” the captain said, his voice low, his expression unfathomable.

“I know,” Taren whispered. He shuddered in anticipation as the captain reached around him and slid it under his pants and over his buttocks. This time, however, the hand was slippery. Taren caught the faint whiff of butter from the table and saw the smile on the pirate’s face.

“Better like that, isn’t it?”

Taren nodded, too overcome to speak.

The pirate’s other hand found the soft flesh of his sac and rolled it around. Taren shivered as a large finger probed to find the sensitive ring of muscle between his ass cheeks. He nearly fell forward, but the other man’s muscular thighs held him upright.

He had never known such pleasure. The captain’s scent was powerful, adding to the intensity of the sensations that ran through Taren’s body like fire. The man’s eyes held him captive as much as his hand. Taren fought the urge to reach out and touch the pirate’s rough jaw, to feel it beneath his fingertips.

The man’s finger breached his opening, while he took Taren’s erection in his other hand, pulling and stroking until Taren had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. Taren no longer saw the room or the other men as the captain’s hand traveled up over his tip and probed the slit.

“Ahhh…,” Taren groaned. He didn’t care if anyone else heard. He couldn’t hold back anymore. And when the finger in his ass pressed completely inside, he came hard, his body shuddering with his release, his head reeling from the intensity of it.

“Thank you, sir,” he managed to croak as he came back to his senses.

The captain chuckled and licked his hand as if it were covered in honey. “No need to thank me, boy,” he said. “The pleasure was all mine.”

Taren was thankful that his long shirt covered the front of his trousers and the wet spot there. He escaped from between the pirate and the table, and picked up the soup. A heated flush still on his cheeks, his breath came in stuttered gasps as he stood at the entrance to the kitchen, trying to calm his racing heart.

Oh, God! Had Serita witnessed the entire sordid act? And what of himself? Had he enjoyed it?

No. Anyone would respond to such a touch. The thought was hardly comforting. And yet the warmth that he felt, having been satisfied by a hand other than his own, still lingered. A man’s hand, no less!

He set the soup back down on the fire to keep it warm and glanced over to Cook, who was happily tasting an aromatic stew in large spoonfuls, oblivious to Taren’s return.

“I’ve finished, sir.” Taren set about to doing the dishes while he awaited further instruction. Perhaps he might be able to explain the embarrassing stain as water from the sink. As it happened, however, Serita returned a short while later with a stack of bowls for washing, then left with the stew on her arm. She didn’t say a word, nor did she attempt to catch his eye.

********

More than an hour later, the dishes dried and replaced on the shelves, Cook gave Taren leave to return to the sleeping area. Taren had avoided any further contact with the pirates, and Serita vanished after the tables were cleared, mostly likely to spend what remained of the night with a guest.

The faint color of dawn lit the horizon as Taren stepped into the courtyard. The rooster who had scolded him before called loudly from atop a stone wall. Taren yawned deeply and strode with purpose across the dirt, taking care to steer clear of the other birds that were already pecking the ground in anticipation of breakfast.

He was nearly to the doorway of the building when he heard footsteps from behind him. He turned in surprise, confused as to why any other servants were up before the morning call. But it was not a servant's face he saw—it was one of the men from before.

“What can I get for —” he began to say, but his words were cut short by a hand, clamped tightly over his mouth from behind. His eyes grew wide in fear as the hand pressed a piece of cloth against his mouth and nose and he inhaled a pungent odor. The world seemed to dim, and he remember nothing more.

Time to bid good-bye to 2012. Other than the usual can't-remember-to-write-the-new-year-correctly-on-my-checks nonsense, years seem to come and go quietly, with lots of hope for the future (why is it I can't remember that it's a new year until we're two months into the new year again?).

For me, 2012 has been a great year in so many ways, not the least of which that my family are all happy and healthy, and my muse hasn't gone on strike or decided she wants to write non-fiction (not happening!). I've had three books published this year, all from Dreamspinner Press: "The Trust," "The Melody Thief," and "Aria." I've been nominated for several MM Romance Goodreads Reader's Choice Awards, and "The Melody Thief" received an honorable mention/one perfect score from the Rainbow Book Awards. I'm so thankful and amazed at the recognition--it was just over a year ago that I had my first book published by Dreamspinner Press, so it feels a little surreal.

So what better way to celebrate the new year than to share some of my writing. This is a never-before released excerpt from "Aria," which was just published a week ago. New Year's Eve with Aiden and Sam, except that Aiden isn't going to tell Sam where they'll be spending the night. I have to admit this New Year's Eve trip is a bit of a fantasy of mine. Maybe someday!

So without further ado, much love and happiness to you all in 2013! Thank you all for your support, your words of encouragement, and your kindness! -Shira

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

Excerpt from Chapter 14

“MR. LIND?” The stage manager poked her head into his dressing room. “There’s a Mr. Ryan to see you.”

“Thanks, Carla.” Aiden guzzled the rest of his bottle of water and went to the door.

“Sam. Damn, it’s good to see you.” He pulled Sam inside and shut the door, then kissed Sam, lingering lightly over his lips before embracing him. There hadn’t been any earlier flights from Philly to Miami, and they hadn’t seen each other before the concert.

“You were wonderful.” Sam put down the small overnight bag he was still holding and swept two fingers over Aiden’s lips, a gesture that made Aiden shudder with pleasure.

Aiden smiled the same pleasant smile he always gave when someone complimented him. It mattered little that the reviews of his performances were universally good; he still felt uncomfortable with the praise. Even a little undeserving. “Thank you.”

He’d worried that the weeks apart might have made their reunion a bit awkward, but as usual, Sam set him at ease with another kiss.

“So what’s on the agenda to celebrate the New Year? You promised you’d let me know what you were up to when I got here.”

“Did I?” Aiden did his best not to smile.

“Is it something I’ll like? Because I’m thinking spending the night in a hotel with you would be fine with me.” Sam laughed against Aiden’s throat as he feathered kisses there.

“My lips are sealed.” Aiden pushed Sam playfully away, then grabbed a small duffel from off the lighted table. “I think you’ll like it, though. Just the two of us. Romantic.”

Sam put an arm around Aiden’s waist and pulled him back, this time to claim his lips.

“This is just the two of us.” There was a mischievous twinkle in Sam’s eyes.

“Do lawyers always argue?”

“Of course.”

Aiden pulled away and straightened his bow tie and cummerbund. “Mr. Ryan, we’re on a very tight schedule here. The limousine is waiting outside and”—Aiden pushed up his sleeve to check his watch—“we have four hours to midnight. I’ll hold you in contempt if we’re late.”

Sam held up his hands. “I’m throwing myself at the mercy of the court.”

“You’ll behave?”

“You might have to make me behave.” Sam’s eyes glittered with lust.

“Shit. You’re incorrigible.” He aimed Sam in the direction of the door, giving him only a minute to grab his bag before pushing him into the corridor. “This way,” he said as he gestured to the entrance to the street. A moment later they were outside, and Aiden was leading Sam over to a limousine. There, the driver took Sam’s suitcase and held the door for them.

Once settled inside, Sam looked at Aiden with a raised eyebrow. “Nice. So are we headed to some swanky party that only the rich and famous are invited to?”

Aiden only shook his head. “My lips are sealed.” Okay, so Sam proved him wrong on that point pretty quickly with a deep kiss. But he wouldn’t give up the secret. “Keep trying. I’m liking this.”

“Clearly I’ve miscalculated. I should be withholding my affections. Then maybe you’d come clean and tell me where we’re headed.”

Aiden bit his lower lip before opening a panel to reveal a bottle of chilled champagne and two crystal flutes. Then, without missing a beat, he said, “Something to drink?”

“Isn’t it a few hours too early?”

“It’s past midnight in London,” Aiden pointed out as he opened the bottle and filled their glasses.

A few minutes later, they were settled in each other’s arms. “I missed you, Aiden. Sam’s voice was soft in Aiden’s ear. “More than you know.”

“Oh, I think I know.” Aiden’s heart felt as though it were going to burst.

THE limousine stopped about twenty minutes later. Sam looked out the window. They were in a parking lot illuminated by several lights. There was what looked like a small building at the edge of the lot, but other than a single light at the entrance, there was nothing to identify it. When Sam looked to Aiden for an explanation, he just took the champagne flute from Sam’s hand, placed it alongside his own on the console, then pulled something out of the same cabinet in which he’d found the bottle and glasses.

“Gonna tell me what that is?”

Aiden held the object out so that Sam could see it. A flashlight.

“What are you up to, Lind?”

The driver opened the door and Aiden illuminated their way, leading Sam across the parking lot and down a paved walkway. The faint scent of the ocean wafted on the breeze, and the air was cool. “You’re not very good with surprises, are you?”

Sam shook his head and chuckled. “Depends.” He snaked an arm around Aiden, nearly knocking him off balance before pulling him tight to claim Aiden’s lips. “As long as it involves you and sex, I’m good with it.”

“Could be.” Aiden slipped out of Sam’s grasp and continued to walk and point the way. “Watch your step here.”

A band of metal met the pavement, and the path beyond was wood. The smell of salt water was powerful here. A dock. “Aid—”

“You might want to take your shoes off.” Aiden was already slipping out of his patent leather oxfords and rolling up the legs of his tux pants. Sam did the same, unable to suppress a grin. Wherever they were going, he was having fun. He felt like a kid again. “You can leave them here. Ralph will pick them up when he comes with the bags.”

“Bags?”

Aiden took Sam’s hand, and they walked to the end of the dock until they reached a large white wall. A restaurant, perhaps.

Then the restaurant’s lights went on, illuminating the surface of the wall. “Holy shit.” It wasn’t a restaurant. It was an enormous yacht—at least a hundred feet long. “Where did you…?”

“Mr. Lind?” A man wearing a crisp white uniform, complete with captain’s hat, walked toward them down the gangway at the end of the pier.

“Richard?”

“That’s me. So good to have you joining us tonight. And this is Mr. Ryan?”

Sam offered the man his hand. “I’m Rich Cowan. Captain of the Prelude. Good to meet you.”

“The Prelude?”

Rich looked to Aiden, who nodded.

“She belongs to David Somers.”

They climbed aboard and Sam tried not to stare as a young woman dressed in white pants and a white polo greeted them.

“This is Amy. She’ll be attending to you gentlemen. We’ll be getting underway for the Bahamas in a few minutes. We’ll arrive by morning. Maestro Somers sends his compliments and says you should enjoy yourselves. We’ll arrive back in Miami in time for your flights on Monday morning. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”

“Dinner will be ready in about an hour,” Amy told them after Rich left. “Would you like to dine on the foredeck?”

“Sounds wonderful.” Aiden turned to look at Sam, who nodded his approval.

“Do you need me to show you the stateroom?” she asked.

“I know the way. Thanks, Amy.” Aiden turned to Sam after she left. “Well? How did I do?”

“Not bad.” Sam did his best to keep a straight face. But then Aiden smiled, and Sam grabbed him and crushed his lips against Aiden’s. “Better than that,” he said after the kiss broke. “Amazing, really.”

“We have an hour. How about thanking me up close and personal.” Aiden took Sam’s hand once more and led him down a set of stairs to the cabins below.

 

THEY sat on the foredeck, having finished one of the best meals Sam had ever eaten.

Not that the starry sky and the company had anything to do with it.

“Remind me to thank David next time I see him.” Sam stood up and began to massage Aiden’s shoulders.

“My fairy godfather.”

Sam laughed.

“David’s been too good to me.” Aiden’s voice was slightly wistful now. “Not only this, but he helped me out of a bad situation.”

“Cam?”

“I’m not sure I’d have had the guts to move out if it hadn’t been for David. Hell, I tried to find a place of my own in London and he told me to stay. Said he didn’t spend much time there anyhow.” Aiden leaned into Sam’s hands, and Sam kissed him on the top of his head.

“You sound almost like you don’t think you deserve his friendship.”

Aiden’s shoulders tensed beneath Sam’s fingers. “Am I that obvious?”

“No.”

“Sometimes I worry that I can’t even begin to give back what he’s given me.”

Sam moved in front of Aiden and drew him up off the chair with a hug. “You don’t give yourself enough credit, you know.”

“You think?” Aiden’s laugh was bitter.

Sam traced a line over Aiden’s lips. “I think I could kick myself for letting you go. Twice.”

Aiden’s smile looked strained. “Are you sure you want this? I mean, there’s a reason you let me go before. My lifestyle isn’t exactly the best for long-term relationships.”

"It was never about your lifestyle.” Sam wasn’t exactly sure how to explain his hesitation. “I just wasn’t ready.”

“You don’t need to justify it, Sammy.”

“I know. But I wish—”

“Here and now. That’s what matters. Fuck the rest of it.”

“Right.” Sam inhaled a long slow breath and looked over the bow at the moon rising on the horizon. And yet he couldn’t help but think of New Year’s past. And of Nick. “You’re right. Fuck the rest of it.”

“Happy New Year, Sammy.”

“Happy New Year, Aiden.”

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

Want to read the entire novel? It's available on Amazon, Allromanceebooks, Barnes and Noble, and Dreamspinner Press in paperback and ebook formats!

No doubt you've heard the expression, "life imitates art." In my experience, or at least in my writing, it's been mostly the other way around. I've consciously drawn on my own experiences for many of my novels, especially the Blue Notes Series books, which are set in the classical music world I used to inhabit. My experience with Lighting the Way Home , my upcoming Dreamspinner Press release (part of the Delectable Series of food-themed romances), co-authored with the incomparable EM Lynley, was much the same. EM and I drew on our own backgrounds growing up in Jewish families to create the Jewish home life chef Josh Golden and lawyer Micah Solomon grew up with in Lighting. Somewhere along the line, however, the more imagined aspects of the story became reality for me. But first, a bit of story background...

Josh Golden grew up on the lower east side of Manhattan and figured out pretty early on that he was gay. He also figured out that he was in love, or a least in lust with his best friend Micah. Micah has a much harder time figuring things out for himself than Josh. When things fall apart between them, Josh runs to Europe to pursue a career as a chef. Ten years later, he's successful and loving his work. Then his parents ask him to come home temporarily to help out at their family restaurant. Josh agrees, although he's counting the days before he returns to France even before he sets foot back in his family home.

EM and I fashioned Josh's parents' home, family, and community by drawing on our own backgrounds. From the old plug-in clock and the metal cabinets in the kitchen, to the slightly faded drapery, to the "claw ladies" who pinch cheeks until they hurt--those are all recreated from our memories of growing up. And if we were thinking of our own aging parents when we created Miriam and Seymour Golden, it was only peripherally (or at least, I can say that it was for me).

Josh comes home because his mother, Miriam, needs gall-bladder surgery. But later on, he learns that his father has been having heart problems, and needs valve replacement surgery. When EM added this last piece more than six months ago, I thought it worked well--Josh's parents are getting older, and heart valves often need replacing in older people. Perfect sense, right?

Then my own aging parents came for Thanksgiving this past year, and my dad (never overweight, always a regular and serious exerciser), was experiencing extreme shortness of breath. To the point where he was literally struggling just to walk. My dad the former swimmer who had two knees replaced so he could keep hiking in the mountains outside my parents' apartment in the French Alps. After several months of tests, we got the verdict: he needed at least one new heart valve and another repaired or replaced. Open heart/open chest surgery. I was floored.

Fast forward to March 1st, when my dad had his surgery, which also included double bypass. Turns out he also had two calcium blocked arteries. No wonder he could barely breathe! While I was waiting around the hospital that day, and for several days before, I was working on edits. Which book, you ask? The galley proof for Lighting the Way Home. The irony was not lost on me (or EM, for that matter).

I'm happy to report that my dad's recovering well now. Still, even though I thought I understood what Josh was going through by coming home, I feel a bit more affinity for his situation now that I've experienced some of his reality. More fodder for future stories, no doubt. I just didn't expect that the bit of unreality that I had helped write in a story would become my reality. Go figure.

Lighting the Way Home is now available for pre-order at the Dreamspinner Press website. I'll leave you all with the blurb and an excerpt from the first chapter of the story, where you'll get to know the Goldens. Enjoy! -Shira

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Blurb: World-class chef Joshua Golden is homesick for Paris before he even arrives in New York, but he’ll endure it—his parents need him to help run the family restaurant while his mother recovers from surgery. Running a place so far beneath his talents is bad enough, but bad turns to worse when Josh discovers his former best friend and lover, Micah Solomon, is living at his parents’ house with his ten-year-old son, Ethan.

For ten years, Josh has done his best to forget how Micah shattered his heart into tiny pieces. Now Micah’s back, fresh out of prison, and helping out at the restaurant. Micah may not be the kind of sous chef Josh is used to, but he is more helpful and supportive than any of the other employees. But Josh finds it hard to keep his distance when, time after time, Micah proves himself a better man than Josh thought. Reluctantly, Josh realizes there is more to Micah than his lousy life choices… but that doesn’t mean Josh is ready to forgive him.

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

Excerpt from Chapter One (prepublication excerpt, final version may change):

“DON’T worry. It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine!”

Joshua Golden couldn’t begin to count how many times he’d heard his mother say those very words. This time, however, he didn’t believe them.

“Mom, it’s surgery. It’s serious.”

“You’re a good boy, Joshy.” She reached for his hand and placed a loud kiss on the back of his knuckles. “Don’t worry about me.”

He cringed at the old nickname. And the kiss.

“The doctor says it’s nothing.” Josh’s dad gave his typical shrug. “She’ll be in the hospital overnight, that’s it.”

“Then why did you need me to come home from France and help you run the restaurant for two weeks if it’s nothing?” Josh suspected there was something they weren’t telling him. He let out a loud sigh, louder than he expected. His mother tilted her head and gave him that look that said “Don’t start.”

Yes, he was home. He hadn’t even stepped foot inside his parents’ house, but he already knew everything would be the same as it had been while he was growing up, from the slightly faded drapes on the front windows, to the outdated upholstered furniture in the living room, to the worn rug in the front entryway. Everything would be the same, right down to the way his parents manipulated him, as they always did, and the way they treated him like a five-year-old, no matter his age.

It would be a long two weeks.

He already missed France. Even a week away from the restaurant now was something he couldn’t afford, not when they’d just been awarded their third Michelin star—the highest rating. Only about eighty restaurants in the whole world had achieved the feat. Press and gourmets from all over Europe were flocking there, and here he was, in New York, because his mother called and asked him to come home for the holidays.

She’d told him she was scheduled for surgery, and she’d explain everything once he arrived. But not to worry, which from Miriam Golden was a signal to do exactly that. But Josh couldn't help but worry. It was the main reason he'd agreed to come home—temporarily. The only reason. He'd kept his distance from New York—and the memories it held—for a reason. He hadn't been back to his old neighborhood for five years, though he'd been in the States on a number of occasions he hadn't mentioned to his family. They wouldn't understand, he reminded himself at the wave of guilt that swept over him at the thought his mother's condition was more serious than she'd admitted over the phone. She looked perfectly fine. She sounded like she had his entire life. As they walked toward baggage claim, Josh’s dad shuffled along; then his mother turned around and smiled enigmatically. Oh yeah. Now he was really worried, but it had nothing to do with his mother’s health.

“SO, TELL us all about your restaurant in Paris?”

They were in the car driving toward Manhattan, stuck in on the Long Island Expressway. They had barely made it a mile from JFK. His father’s shoulders were visibly tense—Josh knew how he hated dealing with the traffic. Why hadn’t he just taken a cab instead of letting them pick him up? He could afford it.

“Well, Mom, it’s called Le Petit Cerisier.”

“Sounds very French,” his mother said, in a tone that implied it might be better to sound Martian.

“It’s named after the Japanese cherry blossom trees. We cook European-Asian fusion and—”

“What the hell is that when it’s at home?” his father interrupted, turning his head toward Josh.

“Dad, pay attention to the road.” “We’re going two miles an hour, where’s it going to go?”

“That’s not the point, Dad.”

“Sure it is.”

A taxi cut in front of them, nearly hitting the front right bumper.

“Seymour.” Just his father’s name. That was all his mother had to say—in just the right tone, with heavy emphasis on the first syllable—and his dad shrugged and turned his attention back toward the road ahead of them. Amazing, really. He still couldn’t figure out how she did it. It had worked on him, too, when he was a kid.

It’d probably still work now, he thought wryly.

“Go on, Josh.” His mother patted his hand. “What kind of food is it?” It was her usual smile this time, but he noticed the wrinkles around her mouth were more pronounced than he remembered. When had her hair gone completely white?

“You wouldn’t like it.” He wouldn’t even try to explain why he was cooking traif—non-kosher foods Jews considered unclean, like pork and shellfish. They’d never eaten any of those things when he was growing up. He hadn’t tasted shrimp until he was in college, and even then he felt guilty for liking it. And once he’d moved to Europe, it was as if an entire new universe of tastes had opened up for him.

“Fine.” She let out another heavy sigh, and Josh immediately felt a touch of guilt at having foreclosed that part of the conversation. She meant well, didn’t she? “Do you like it?”

“I love it. We’re really hitting our stride, and we just got another star.” He smiled, partly out of pride, but partly to reassure her.

“That’s nice.” Josh repressed a sigh. He knew she was more proud of him than she let on; she just didn’t quite understand how important his career was to him. Neither of them had understood why he’d left home, left Goldens, their family-run restaurant, and headed off on an international culinary adventure through Asia and Europe, eventually ending in France where he'd washed dishes and peeled potatoes to pay his way through Le Cordon Bleu. It wasn’t all about food at the time, but he put his passion into his cooking rather than dwell on the real reason he’d left.

He’d finally got up enough courage—chutzpah, his dad would call it—to walk into Raymond Vessy’s kitchen and ask for a job. He was right out of culinary school and with no experience working in any professional kitchen other than his parents’ and half a dozen little places around Asia and Europe, learning local cuisines and techniques. Raymond had just stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I do not hire children,” Vessy said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Come back when you have lived a little.”

Undaunted, and knowing no explanation of his travels and experience would suffice, Josh had offered to prepare him a meal, and surprisingly, Vessy had relented. Josh had done everything himself, working from early in the morning to have dinner prepared for the chef. The look of happy surprise on Vessy’s face had been worth every Band-Aid on his fingers.

“I’ve never had dumplings like this before. Duck confit pot stickers? Where did you learn this?”

“I made it up.”

“Really? Why this combination? And five-spiced pineapple.” He pursed his lips in the way the French had that could be interest or insult. Josh had struggled to express himself in French. Vessy pelted him with more questions. “What wine would you serve with the dumplings?”

“Petite sirah.” Josh made sure to state it with confidence, even though he felt anything but. He could see by the raised eyebrows he’d impressed Raymond, who’d made an exception to his “no babies” rule and given him a job on the spot.

He started as a kitchen assistant, tasked with the scut work in the kitchen—peeling, boning, and cleaning up after the more experienced staff—but once a week Raymond asked him to prepare staff lunch, and after six months he’d been promoted to the lowest rung of station chef. Five years later, Josh was number two in the restaurant and all but ran the place.

The drive to his parents’ house, only twenty miles, took two hours in typical traffic. They’d hit rush hour. Jet lag and the late nights at the restaurant caught up with Josh, and he fell asleep curled up on the backseat of the car. By the time they’d parked the car in the garage and Josh's mother shook him from his slumber, it was six o’clock.

Josh sat up and moved to wipe the back of his hand across his face, but his mother’s glare put paid to that intention. He hoped he hadn’t drooled while he slept. He ran his fingers through his hair to smooth it down as his father shuffled around to the trunk. “Dad, I’ll bring the luggage.” Josh put his hand on his father’s shoulder and with a forced smile, placed himself between his father and the trunk. He was here to help them, wasn’t he? His dad didn’t need to be schlepping his bags.

“That’s okay. I’ll be fine. You go and have a nap.”

“You better not sleep too much, or your clock will be all messed up,” Miriam added with a frown.

Josh shrugged and realized he’d reacted the same way his dad had earlier in the car. Shaking off the horrific thought he might be turning into his dad, Josh lugged the suitcase out of the trunk in silence and began to roll it toward the back door.

“I could have gotten that.” His dad sounded slightly insulted.

“What happened to that nice suitcase we got you?” his mother added as she studied the hard-case spinner suitcase he’d picked up in Paris.

“Mom, that was when I graduated from college. It was years ago.” He remembered the suitcase well: fake carpetbag paisley. He’d taken it when he’d left home, but it had been too impractical for his travels, so he’d replaced it with a sturdy backpack long ago.

“I still have the same suitcase I had when your father and I….” Josh tuned her out. He loved her, but it was times like these he realized how much he’d changed since he left home and begun his own life. His parents would never understand why he did what he did, why he’d chosen a different life from theirs. He’d given up explaining himself, but then they asked so many questions. He was caught in the middle. Somewhere between the kid and the adult.

He stifled a yawn as he wheeled the suitcase in through the kitchen, letting it bounce over the raised threshold that separated inside from out. The kitchen looked the same, with its drab linoleum floors, ruffled curtains, and metal cabinets. The clock over the sink was the same one Josh remembered from when he was a kid—the electrical cord ran from the bottom up and over the pass-through to the dining room.

“Why get a new clock?” his father had said when Josh had suggested a battery-operated one on a trip home from college. “This one works fine.” The kitchen smelled good, though. Comforting. Familiar.

“Oh, Josh, honey. Wait a minute before you go upstairs,” Miriam called to him as he made his way along the familiar hallway toward the front entryway.

Thundering feet rushed down the stairs and a blue and red blur sped past him. Was that a kid? His gaze followed the blur toward the kitchen, and sure enough a boy of about ten was settling himself in at the kitchen table. His mother smiled at the boy and ruffled his hair, just like she had always done when Josh was that age. Whoever the boy was, Josh was too tired to have what promised to be a strange conversation with his mother about him. He turned back toward the stairs, came face to face and nearly collided with a man who had just stepped down. Not just any man.

Micah Solomon.

 

Nine days until the release of the next Blue Notes Series novel, Prelude , and time for another pre-release giveaway contest! This contest is for a $10 Dreamspinner Press gift certificate good towards any purchase at the Dreamspinner Press web store. To enter, comment on my blog, the Blue Notes Series facebook page post, or my Goodreads blog. I'll draw on winner on Sunday, May 5th (the day before release day!) at midnight.

Now for a brand-new, never before seen excerpt from Prelude. Alex Bishop filled in for an ailing violinist and performed under David Somers's baton at the Chicago Symphony. The two men bump into each other a few days later at an art show to benefit the symphony, and David gives Alex his card in the hopes that Alex's agent will arrange for Alex to play with the CSO again. Alex, however, decides he wants to ask David out on a date, and finally gets up the nerve to call David. David, however, has pretty much given up on dating. But there's something about Alex that he finds irresistible....

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Blurb: World-renowned conductor David Somers never wanted the investment firm he inherited from his domineering grandfather. He only wanted to be a composer. But no matter how he struggles, David can’t translate the music in his head into notes on paper.

When a guest violinist at the Chicago Symphony falls ill, David meets Alex Bishop, a last-minute substitute. Alex’s fame and outrageous tattoos fail to move David. Then Alex puts bow to string, and David hears the brilliance of Alex’s soul.

David has sworn off relationships, believing he will eventually drive away those he loves, or that he'll lose them as he lost his wife and parents. But Alex is outgoing, relaxed, and congenial—everything David is not—and soon makes dents in the armor around David's heart. David begins to dream of Alex, wonderful dreams full of music. Becoming a composer suddenly feels attainable.

David’s fragile ego, worn away by years of his grandfather’s disdain, makes losing control difficult. When David’s structured world comes crashing down, his fledgling relationship with Alex is the first casualty. Still, David hears Alex’s music, haunting and beautiful. David wants to love Alex, but first he must find the strength to acknowledge himself.

Prelude is now available for pre-order at the Dreamspinner Press store. Oh, and if you haven't ready the original Blue Notes and Aria , those books are 20% off until May 1st in honor of France's legalization of same-sex marriage!

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PG Excerpt from Chapter 6

ALEX looked down at the card in his hand. He’d been sitting on the couch, staring at the damn thing for nearly ten minutes and holding his cell phone in the other hand. He’d even keyed in the number.

What the hell was wrong with him? He’d never hesitated to ask another man out before. He’d done his homework. David Somers had been married, years ago, but Paulette insisted he was gay. Single and gay.

He took a deep breath and tapped the Send button.

“Hello?”

“David? This is Alex Bishop. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

There was a hint of a pause before David spoke. “No. Not at all. What can I do for you, Alex?”

“I thought I’d check to see if Kenny ever got back to your booking folks.”

“He did. Thank you. Mr. Sykes said he’d need to check with your manager first. He says she has your calendar.”

Alex laughed. “That’s a good thing. I have the hardest time keeping up with it. Fortunately, my manager is also my roommate.”

“Oh.” Alex thought he heard a note of disappointment in David’s voice.

“Marla’s a smart woman. She knew she couldn’t afford a view of Lake Michigan on her own. We share the place.”

“I see. I just assumed you were seeing each other when I met her after the concert.” David’s voice was brighter now. Alex was sure of it. “So do you live near the park?”

“Harbor Point Tower.”

“We’re neighbors. I’m just down on Lake Shore Drive at Oak Street Beach.”

“Really? That’s great.” Alex leaned back on the couch.

David paused as if unsure how to respond. “I do appreciate your calling,” David said, breaking the silence. “I’m glad I was able to make contact with your agent."

“I am too. Listen, David”—Alex hoped he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt—”if I’m out of line here, just tell me. I know you gave me your number so I could follow up about the gig. But I was thinking maybe you and I might get together sometime.”

“You want to go on a date with me?”

The way David put it so bluntly reminded Alex of how totally unprofessional he had been to ask David out at all. “I… well… yes.”

Another pause, this time longer than the last. “That’s very kind of you.” Another pause. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I generally don’t date.”

Not an out-and-out rejection. Alex heard hesitation in David’s voice, but there was something else that convinced Alex David wasn’t an entirely lost cause.

“We could just have lunch downtown. Nothing fancy. Just talk.” He almost said, We can hang out, then thought better of it.

“All right.” David still sounded tentative, and Alex hoped he hadn’t forced his affirmative. The man was always so polite. “Where were you thinking?”

Alex hadn’t thought that far ahead—he’d stalled out at the “do I ask him or not?” part of the equation. “A friend of mine has a new place I’ve heard is good. Tapas.”

“Tapas sounds lovely. We have a guest conductor this weekend, so I have no other engagements on my calendar.”

Alex repressed a chuckle, imagining a servant standing at attention as David spoke on the phone, ready to update his busy social calendar. “Let’s make it Saturday, then.” Saturday was sooner than Sunday.

“Saturday it is. Why don’t we meet at Symphony Hall? I have a few administrative matters I need to take care of in the morning. Say, eleven?”

“Eleven would be great.”

“See you then.”

Alex tapped the phone, leaned back on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair. Something about David made him nervous— something he couldn’t quite fathom. Something under the calm and composed exterior. Alex had never met anyone quite like David Somers.

Saturday couldn’t come too soon.

 

Happy Monday and welcome to a new Hop Against Homophobia and Transphobia post! There are so many wonderful people participating in the Hop Against Homophobia and Transphobia, so be sure to check out the Hop's website for links to blogs. Just a reminber - I'm running giveaways for an ebook copy of one of my back catalog books (you can see them all here), a Blue Notes Series t-shirt, and a paperback copy of one the Blue Notes Series books to three winners, so be sure to comment on one of the HAHAT posts here to be entered.

I'm a straight woman. And although as a woman (and as a Jew), I've experienced some bigotry and prejudice, I have never felt as though my life's choices are dictated by society. I have pursued several careers (opera, law, and now writing), and I dated, lived with, and eventually married the man I chose to spend the rest of my life with. I know how damn lucky I've been to live my life as I chose to live it. But let's face it, too many people don't have the choices I've had, even here in the United States, where we like to think we're progressive and welcoming.

Those of you who know my story know that I sang opera professionally for more than a decade. In that time, I met many man, most of whom were gay or bisexual. Wonderful, gorgeous, sweet men who deserve happiness as much as any other person. I remember one of my fabulous colleagues who sang the role of the villain Scarpia in Tosca. Absolutely gorgeous, supremely talented baritone who was my inspiration for the character of Aiden in Aria. He was in a committed relationship with another man; a man who flew in for one of the performances. I remember him saying that he hoped they'd stay together, but the statistics weren't good. This was back in the early 1990s, and he said the worst thing was that there were so few role models for gay relationships. Marriage was completely off the radar screen at that point.

Fast forward about 17 years, and I was in San Francisco for Yaoicon, having dinner with my cousin. Beth is a wonderful woman who is in a committed, life relationship with another woman. They have two incredible children together. We spent an evening out at a restaurant downtown and caught up on life and careers. Beth and her partner are both attorneys who live in the Castro.

On the way back from dinner, I asked Beth why she and her partner didn't get married while it was still legal in California. She said she didn't need a piece of paper to tell the world she was married to Jill. They had two beautiful children, they owned a house together, and they'd been together for nearly 30 years. Add to that, Beth's parents' marriage ended in a bitter divorce. She said she could live without that. And I understood. Totally. But we both agreed that having the choice was something important. Just because she chose not to marry doesn't mean she shouldn't have been able to choose.

So as I write this post in my second year of participating in the hop, I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, nearly a quarter of US states have legalized gay marriage. On the other, states like the one where I live and work have amended their constitutions to prohibit it. The tide is turning, but it's up to us to get the word out and get people to speak up about marriage and equal treatment of LGBTQ people in our own communities. So please join me in writing to your senators, congressmen, and other government representatives and telling them it's time that marriage equality is the rule and not the exception.

I said before that I know I'm preaching to the choir. But the choir has a loud and persistent voice. Let your voice be heard! -Shira

PS: For those of you who haven't yet read the excerpt from my WIP, Encore, it's below. Encore spans my lifetime. A lifetime that's seen positive change. But the pain remains and the work still needs to be done. Part of what I hope to show in Encore is how that pain affects people and their life choices. Is there a HEA? Damn straight! But it's a hard won happiness.

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Chapter One

 

October, 1971

Toledo, Ohio

 

John wound his way around gaggles of girls who blocked the hallway like a twisted obstacle course. He dodged a locker door here, someone slinging a backpack full of books there, and nearly got whacked in the gut by a kid holding what looked like a trumpet case. John’s elbow connected with the hard fiberglass of the case as he pivoted to avoid the collision.

Shoot. That was going to make one hell of a bruise. Not to mention it hurt like hell.

He rounded the corridor and stepped inside the band room, relieved to find it empty. He leaned against the wall and took long, raspy breaths to try to calm his pounding heart. He wiped the sweat off his face with his hands, then rubbed his hands on his brown polyester pants.

“Hiding?”

“What?” John nearly jumped when he realized he wasn’t alone. His voice sounded high and girlish to his ears.

“Are you hiding?” The speaker was a kid with wild brown hair and a hint of shadow on his jaw. He was seated on one of the chairs by the podium, twirling a violin bow around like a baton.

“I... N-no.” Damn. Was he stuttering now? He hadn’t stuttered since elementary school.

The kid just laughed. “You new here?”

“Y-yes. Transferred last week.”

“You got a name?”

“J-John. Fuchs.” John’s face was on fire as he croaked out his name. “W-who are you?”

“Roger Nelson.” Roger ran a hand through his curly hair, which only served to make it stand up on the top of his head like horns. John was reminded of a devil, and it wasn’t just the hair.

“N-nice to m-meet you, Roger.” John walked over and offered Roger his hand.

Roger laughed and ignored the hand. “Yeah.” John could see that his eyes were a deep green. Luminous. “Where d’you transfer from?”

“Saint B-Barnaby’s.”

More laughter. “So you’re slumming it with us now?”

“I guess.” He sure wasn’t going to tell Roger about his parent’s divorce, or about how his parents had decided they no longer had the money to send him to private school one year before graduation. “I hear you’ve got a great orchestra.” At least he wasn’t stuttering anymore. He’d spent years in speech therapy in elementary and junior high school, but when he was nervous, it sometimes came back.

“We’re pretty good,” Roger said. John knew this was an understatement. His mother had done her homework—Marysville Senior High School’s orchestra had won the state Division A championship the year before. “You play?”

“Piano. But I play viola, trumpet, and flute.” When Roger’s eyes widened, John quickly added, “Not very well, though.” John looked down at his feet and studied them intently. “I’m going to be a conductor.”

When Roger didn’t respond, John asked, “How about you?” He realized how stupid a question it was the instant he’d asked it. Of course the guy played violin.

Roger raised a sardonic eyebrow and John wished he’d just disappear into the linoleum floor. “Concertmaster.” In spite of the casual response, John thought he saw a hint of pride flash in Roger’s eyes. “I’m going to be the guy who hangs off the back of the garbage truck.”

“Oh.” What do you say to that? He had no idea if Roger was joking, but he sure wasn’t going to embarrass himself by finding out.

Roger stood up and began to put his violin away. He was a little taller than John—who was now nearly six feet tall—with a lanky body and surprisingly broad shoulders. Good looking, too. John’s face warmed once more.

“Is Mr. Constantino in his office?” he asked, mostly because he was having a really hard time trying not to stare at Roger. He didn’t really need to speak to the orchestra director.

Roger shrugged. “He was there a little while ago.”

“Thanks.” John waited for Roger to say something, but when he didn’t, John made his way over to the office at the far end of the room.

 

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

 

By the time John finished talking to Mr. Constantino, grabbed his books from his locker, and headed outside to the main courtyard, the sun was beginning to set. The air was cool, not surprising for late October in Northern Ohio, so John set down his pack and zipped up his poplin jacket. The smell of fallen leaves mingled with a more pungent odor. Marijuana. He looked around and saw Roger, seated on the low brick wall at the edge of the courtyard, smoking a joint.

“Hey.” Roger inhaled and held his breath.

John swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. “Hey.” Oh, that was great! “Uh, h-how are you?”

Roger laughed and exhaled as John walked over. He held out the joint to John. “Want some?”

“No thanks.” He’d never even come this close to the real thing. “I’ve got to get going. Bus leaves in about five minutes.”

A girl with hair down to her waist walked over to them. John was sure Roger was going to hide the pot, but instead he held it out to her and she took a long toke. Roger put his arm around the girl’s shoulders and shot John a knowing look.

“Who’s he?” the girl asked as she blew smoke in John’s face.

John coughed and blinked.

“New kid. Orchestra.”

“I’m John.” John offered the girl a smile. He’d decided shaking hands was not public school etiquette after meeting Roger earlier.

The girl just stared at him, then turned to Roger and proceeded to kiss him. Not just any kiss. A French kiss. John felt sick to his stomach watching this. He’d always thought that kissing girls was gross. Now he was sure of it.

Roger kissed the girl back, then pushed her away. “Need a ride?”

The girl glared at Roger, who ignored her.

“I... ah... s-sure.” John wasn’t sure at all, but Roger had been the only kid who’d acknowledged his existence since he’d arrived at Marysville and he figured it’d be rude to turn down the offer.

He and Roger walked in silence to the parking lot, where Roger led him to an enormous brown Buick. Small blue and pink spots dotted the exterior where someone had, he guessed, sanded off patches of rust in preparation for a paint job that never materialized. The windows were rolled down and the doors unlocked.

Roger grinned. “V-8.” When John didn’t respond, Roger continued, “This baby can outgun just about any car on the market.”

“Groovy.”

Roger’s laughter echoed off the nearby building. “Jeez, what the hell did they teach you at St. Something?”

“St. Barnaby’s,” John corrected, feeling keenly awkward.

“Yeah. That place. Nobody says ‘groovy’ anymore.”

“Oh.” John’s cheeks burned and he stared down at the blacktop, focusing on a weed that had forced its way up through a crack and pushing it with his shoe.

“Get in.”

The slippery fabric of John’s pants propelled him over the vinyl bench seat as if someone had greased it. He stopped sliding about a foot away from where Roger was, key already in the ignition, his left foot releasing the parking brake. John looked around for a seatbelt. There was none.

“Always buckle up!” His mother’s voice resonated in his brain and for once, he ignored it.

“Where to?” Roger had started the engine, which roared to life, backfired once, then settled down to a noisy rumble. “This baby purrs, doesn’t she?”

“I... er... yes.” Then, realizing he hadn’t answered Roger’s first question, he added, “2430 Covington Drive.”

“Fancy part of town, huh?”

Not for long. The realtor had come by the other day, and John thought he’d seen her drool when his mother had told her they needed to sell quickly. He wondered where they’d end up. Probably one of the duplexes closer to downtown. The places people moved in and out of on a regular basis.

He often walked the dog by the duplexes on garbage night, curious as to what ended up on the tree lawn after the latest renters had left. He’d found an entire stack of LPs one night, including a boxed set of Tchaikovsky’s Greatest Hits and a recording of the Singing Nun. He’d hidden them in his closet—God forbid his mother find out he’d been going through other people’s garbage. She’d have a fit.

He hummed a bit of “Dominique” and smiled. He’d always liked that song. Dominique, neekah, neekah...

“What’s that?”

Roger’s voice brought John back to the here and now. “Nothing. Just a song.”

Roger reached for the radio as they stopped at the light. The radio blared, and John winced inwardly. He didn’t like loud rock music—it gave him a headache.

We're not gonna take it! Never did and never will.

“We're not gonna take it,” Roger sang along. “Gonna break it, gonna shake it, let's forget it better still.”

Roger looked over at John and grinned.

“Who’s that?”

“The Who. That’s who.” Roger snorted, a look of smug satisfaction spreading across his face.

“Oh.” John had heard of them, although he’d never heard their music.

“Cool, huh?”

“U-huh. Cool.” John made a mental note not to mention the Singing Nun and to use the word ‘cool’ instead of groovy.

As they drove, John watched Roger. He wore a pair of off-white painter’s pants with a half dozen pockets and a hammer loop. John couldn’t help but notice how the pants pulled at Roger’s crotch when he sat. Roger’s shirt was a blue plaid flannel, unbuttoned to reveal a dusting of curly hair on his chest. John’s mouth was dry, so he chewed on the inside of his bottom lip. He felt a pulsing feeling in his groin and shifted to accommodate his embarrassing erection. He prayed Roger wouldn’t notice.

Disgusted with himself, he thought of his first and only discussion of homosexuality with his father.

“Fucking fluters,” John’s father had said as they watched the evening news report in the living room about a riot in Manhattan at a place called Stonewall. “They should have shot them all.”

John, who was about fourteen years old, had just stared at the images on the TV. “What’s a fluter?” he asked.

Jerome Fuchs had looked down at his son and snorted. “Homosexuals. Deviants who prefer to spend time with their own.”

When John had just blinked in response, his father continued, “They don’t like women.”

“Why not?” John was genuinely curious.

“How the hell should I know?”

Six months later, after Raymond Lessor kissed him in the coat room, John figured out what his father had meant. He was exactly the kind of man his father had been talking about.

“You okay?” Roger turned down the radio and looked at him.

“Yes. I’m great.” He forced a smile and realized they’d just turned onto his street. “Oh, that’s my house, about halfway down.” He pointed.

Roger pulled into the driveway a minute later and John, backpack held in front of him like a shield, climbed out of the car. Slid, really.

“Thanks, Roger.” John waved tentatively, feeling like a complete idiot.

“It’s cool.” Roger turned on the radio again and pulled back out of the driveway. He waved, then gunned the engine and took off down the street, leaving a cloud of white smoke in his wake. John waved the smoke away and watched the car disappear around the corner.

“Cool,” he repeated as he swung his backpack over his shoulder and headed into the house.

Happy weekend! I'm off to our sailboat, Land's Zen, and the Carolina coast tomorrow morning. I thought I'd leave you all with a new excerpt from "Stealing the Wind," the first book in the Mermen of Ea Series, due out this summer from Dreamspinner Press. But before I do, a few quick updates....

First, I hope you all like the updates my wonderful web guru, Angsty G, has made to my website. What's new? Buttons for Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter, as well as progress bars for all my WIPs. You may also notice the new "Series" tab, where you can find all my series listed. Most of the other goodies aren't as obvious, with one major exception: I now have a newsletter! To subscribe, just enter your email address on my home page. Simple, and I promise never to spam you or to send you newsletters more often than once a month.

Next, "Encore," the fifth Blue Notes Series book has been submitted to Dreamspinner Press. If they contract the book, look for a November release date. I'm also working on a Blue Notes novella to be released during the holidays, tentatively entitled, "Symphony in Blue." It will be a sequel to the first four books, and wrap up of Cary/Antonio and Sam/Aiden, but will also include Jules/Jason and David/Alex pairings. Oh, and Massimo, too!

Lastly, I'll be starting a new free serialized story, "Who Rules the King's Heart," in my first newsletter issue. Subscribers to the newsletter will get updates on the story in each issue and a week later, I'll post the updates to the "Free Fiction" tab on my website. So you don't have to subscribe to read the story, but you will get it sooner if you do. "Who Rules the King's Heart" is an MM erotic fantasy story about a king and the half demon/half human he loves.

Thanks for stopping by! Remember to sign up for the newsletter if you'd like. To read the excerpt from "Stealing the Wind," go to my website, www.shiraanthony.com. I'm anxiously awaiting the cover art for the novel, and I'll be sharing that as soon as it's finalized, so stay tuned. Enjoy your weekend! -Shira

PS: If anyone knows who the artist is for the lovely artwork, please let me know! I found it on the web and can't find any attribution.

Welcome everyone to the When Sparks Fly Fourth of July Blog Hop! I'm one of a whole slew of romance writers participating in the hop that begins July 4th and ends on Monday, July 8th. You can find a listing of all the participants by clicking here or on the hop graphic to the left. Everyone has giveaways going for the hop, so be sure to comment on my blog and on the other blogs to be entered to win!

For my part, I'm offering up winner's choice of an ebook of one of my Dreamspinner Press releases or some Blue Notes Series swag (a collection of a Blue Notes t-shirt with the cover of your choice, pens, a mousepad, and some other Blue Notes goodies). All you need to do to enter is to comment on this post! I'll draw a winner after midnight on July 8th!

Of course, if you're talking romance, "sparks" usually take the form of sexual tension or just sex. Fireworks of a different variety than those you might watch with the 1812 Overture playing in the background. Much as I love fireworks, I prefer the sexual kind. So I'm sharing a bit of fireworks from my upcoming Dreamspinner Press release, Stealing the Wind . And believe me, this one's a scorcher--a long excerpt of an MMM threesome from the beginning of the story (although the story itself is an MM pairing).

Stealing the Wind is an adventure on the high seas with of pirates and merman shifters, as is the first in a series of mermen shifter novels (Mermen of Ea Series). This scene takes place after Taren, a young slave, is kidnapped by pirates and finds himself aboard the Sea Witch. The captain offers Taren his freedom in exchange for three years aboard the ship and in the captain and his first mate's bed. Taren, who is powerfully attracted to the captain, quickly agrees.

You can read the excerpt here. Keep an eye out for the book, which will be released on August 12th by Dreamspinner Press. Happy Fourth of July! Don't forget to comment to be entered into the drawing! -Shira

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Blurb: Taren Laxley has never known anything but life as a slave. When a lusty pirate kidnaps him and holds him prisoner on his ship, Taren embraces the chance to realize his dream of a seagoing life. Not only does the pirate captain offer him freedom in exchange for three years of labor and sexual servitude, but the pleasures Taren finds when he joins the captain and first mate in bed far surpass his greatest fantasies.

Then, during a storm, Taren dives overboard to save another sailor and is lost at sea. He’s rescued by Ian Dunaidh, the enigmatic and seemingly ageless captain of a rival ship, the Phantom, and Taren feels an overwhelming attraction to Ian that Ian appears to share. Soon Taren learns a secret that will change his life forever: Ian and his people are Ea, shape-shifting merfolk… and Taren is one of them too. Bound to each other by a fierce passion neither can explain or deny, Taren and Ian are soon embroiled in a war and forced to fight for a future—not only for themselves but for all their kind.