Shira Anthony's Blog - Posts Tagged "lgbt"

I'm headed on vacation soon, but a little birdie told me my free story for the MM Goodreads Romance Group's "Love is Always Write" event is coming very soon! Can't tell you exactly when, but keep an eye out for it here: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13...

"Kiss and Makeup" is a short story (about 10,000 words) about Ted Aaronson, a Hollywood makeup artist, and a Hollywood star/action hero, Len Golden. Ted has to turn Len into an alien commander for a big-budget sci fi movie. But once Ted sees Len in person, he realizes he'd much rather turn Len into his boyfriend. Which might present a bit of a problem, since Ted's pretty convinced Len's straight. Turns out, the two men met ten years before, doing summer stock.

A little less angsty than my usual books, this story is a fun summer romance with explicit sex and a HEA. I hope you enjoy it! -Shira

Enter until 7/15 to win a paperback copy of my new release, "The Trust," from Dreamspinner Press! Here's the link to the giveaway: http://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/sho...

Theme/Genre: Gay romance, contemporary, mystery/suspense, sci fi

Contains: Graphic depictions of homosexual sex, James Bond type violence (think secret agents with guns) and, of course, a happy ending!

Blurb: Eight years ago, Jake Anders was a college kid from the wrong side of the tracks. Then Trace Michelson recruited him into The Trust, a CIA-backed agency whose “executives” eliminate rogue biotechnology operations. Trace was everything Jake ever wanted in a man: powerful, brilliant, and gorgeous. But Jake never admitted his attraction to his mentor, and Trace always kept Jake at arm’s length.

Now Trace is dead and Jake is one of The Trust’s best operatives, highly skilled and loyal to the organization. But the secret agent has his own secret: six years ago, before he was assassinated, Trace designed a Sim chip containing his memories and experiences—and now that chip is part of Jake. It’s just data, designed to augment Jake’s knowledge, but when Sim becomes reality, Jake wonders if Trace is still alive or if Jake really is going crazy like everyone claims. He doesn’t know if he can trust himself, let alone anyone else.

To learn the truth about Trace and the chip, Jake embarks on a dangerous mission—except he’s not the only one looking for the information. Some of the answers are locked in his head, and unless he finds the key, he’ll be killed for the technology that’s become a part of him.

Now, more than ever, Jake wishes Trace were here to guide him. Too bad he’s dead... right?

"The Melody Thief" (Blue Notes #2) just received its first editorial review from Melanie Marshall of Joyfully Jay and Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words. It's a lovely review and it always makes me feel so good when a reviewer gets the point of a book. More than just "gets it," really. "Gets" a part of me.

Melanie writes, "[Shira Anthony's] experience gives such depth to the musicians here and the life they must lead in order to rise to the top of the field that our understanding of the discipline it takes becomes much clearer. It is not enough to be gifted, one must also be driven as well. To have the music be an all encompassing part of your life has a price, and Anthony brings this theme throughout her series, as all the characters must look at their lives, past, present and future and balance it out with their obsessive need to play and be heard."

Wow. I read this and I thought,"Yep. That's me. The person with a gift for singing that just wasn't able to make it the all encompassing part of my life that my characters have."

I sang professionally for about 14 years. For those of you who know a bit about the performing arts, you'll understand how difficult a career it is. I had my second child when I was 33. Until then, I'd been flying up to New York City for voice lessons every other week or so and working as an administrative assistant at a law firm. I'd sing two or three "gigs" a year, but I was spending the majority of my time working at a job I didn't enjoy and traveling far from my family. Nobody forced me to quit. My husband was incredibly supportive of my singing. He was as excited as I was when the San Franscisco Examiner wrote of a performance of "Pagliacci," "Remember the name. Gruber is a discovery!" It was a high point for me. A vindication, of sorts. The universe telling me I was good enough to make a career of singing.

But at some point, adults have to make difficult choices. I saw singers a few years ahead of me career-wise, saw their floundering marriages, and sensed their pain at having to leave their families behind when they traveled. And for opera, at least, travel was an integral part of the career. There are few, if any opera companies left in the world in the 21st Century who have year-round contract singers. Add to those considerations my own growing fear of performing well in audition situations (for me, the actual performance was never really an issue, it was the "proving myself" part of the equation that left me shaking in my boots), and I decided it was time to let go and move on. Hardest decision I've ever made, and one that still haunts me.

For those of you who have read "Blue Notes" and who know my story, you'll realize there's a great deal of Shira in Jason Greene, the former pianist, now attorney. The pain of giving up a career in music in that story is my own. The same is true for the upcoming third installment of the series, "Aria." Much of that book draws on my own life experiences when I was living with and later married to my wonderful (and patient!) husband. Opera singer Aiden Lind's nomadic life was mine for a short time, although I never reached the heights of my career that Aiden does in the novel. But the pain and challenges of a long-distance relationship? Been there, done that.

I say all this because it really does mean a great deal to me when a reader or a reviewer connects with the story and understands the intention behind it. In retrospect, I feel lucky to have had the experiences I've had, even the painful ones. It means even more to me to be able to share them with others and help them to understand. -Shira

PS: Want to hear what I sounded like in my 20s? Click here. That's me, recorded live singing the title role in "Tosca."

Happy Friday! No earthshaking revelations on tap for today (right!), but just a reminder that I'm running two giveaway contests. The first, which ends tonight at midnight EST, is for a free ebook copy of my first Dreamspinner Press release, "The Dream of a Thousand Nights." To enter, just leave a comment with your name and email address on my blog.

The second is for a paperback copy of my newest release, "The Melody Thief," also from Dreamspinner Press. To enter, click here to go to Goodreads, scroll down and you'll see the contest information. That giveaway ends at midnight on October 19th.

I just received the "your edits are coming" email from Dreamspinner about "Aria," Book #3 in the Blue Notes Series. You can read an excerpt from that story by clicking the link. My current WIP, Book #4 in the series, "Prelude," is about 2/3 of the way drafted. It's always a challenge to be writing and editing at the same time, but it's also exciting. I've got one other project that will be on its way to the publisher this weekend, a joint project with another Dreamspinner Press author. More to come about that soon!

Enjoy the beautiful fall weather and have a wonderful weekend, ya'll! -Shira

 

Welcome to day two of the Howloween Blog Hop! Be sure to check out all the other wonderful blogs taking part in the hop by clicking on the graphic or the link above. Each blogger is offering wonderful prizes, so be sure to check them all out!

My prize? An ebook copy of your choice of my Dreamspinner Press releases. You can check them all out here or by clicking on the "My Books" link to the left of this post. Enter by commenting on this post, and 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 day two of the hop, and in honor of Halloween, one of my favorite holidays, I thought I'd share my own personal horror story from my real life opera career. I've already told you that in my various roles I've been stabbed to death, jumped to my death, and died of consumption (at least twice). I also got to stab a villain to death in "Tosca," which was a lot of fun. (I know, I'm a little twisted!) And, by the way, one of my boys in "Aria" (Blue Notes #3), plays the part of the villain I got to stab.

[caption id="attachment_1172" align="alignright" width="277"] Me on stage at the famous La Scala Opera. Okay. Not me. In my dreams![/caption]

Part of any opera singer's training involves stage combat. At one point, I actually knew how to use a sword (not very well, but I did know how to use one). I knew how to pull a punch, slap someone across the face, pull someone by their hair, and, most importantly, how to stab someone. I also knew how to get stabbed. Or maybe I should say I knew how to avoid getting stabbed for real with a knife.

Yes. Most operatic "stabbings" are done with REAL knives. Which, believe it or not, is usually the safest type of knife to use. I say "usually," because in my personal experience, there was one production that left me wondering.

[caption id="attachment_1174" align="alignleft" width="240"] Luciano Pavarotti in "I Pagliacci"[/caption]

One of the first roles I ever performed was Nedda in "I Pagliacci." If you've seen a crying clown singing opera in a commercial, that's "Pagliacci." Nedda is the wife of the crying clown and one of the members of the troupe of performers who travel from town to town, entertaining the local folks. She was rescued from the streets when she was very young and, well, she's not so happily married to the ageing head of the troupe. She's getting a little something on the side from a very handsome young baritone. She also is fighting off another troupe member who insists on trying to rape her.

So here I am, maybe 25, singing in California with a tenor who was well past his prime (but perfect for the role). And he's a little iffy, in many ways. And I'm being shoved around by a very nice baritone (the one who tries to rape my character) who gets a bit carried away with the emotion of the scene. Hence the finger-sized bruises on my upper arms. I can handle that. Bruises fade, and he really didn't mean to grip my arms quite so hard.

The tenor, on the other hand, is a problem. The last scene in the opera, he's found out I've been cheating on him, and that I plan to run away with the handsome baritone. He's not very happy about that (understatement of the century). At the end of the scene, where we are both in clown makeup and supposedly putting on our play for the audience, the tenor is supposed to grab a knife off the table and stab both me and the cutie pie I'm trying to run off with. I'm cool with that. What I'm not so cool with is that in rehearsals, we didn't yet have the knife, so the tenor was using a spoon on us. And really JABBING us in the gut with it. Ouch!

[caption id="attachment_1171" align="alignleft" width="264"] Interior of the La Scala opera house in Milan, Italy[/caption]

At this point, the baritone says, "Time out!" Mind you, he and I were both thinking, "If this guy's going to use a real knife on us, we're going to get hurt." Yes, they dull the knives, but a butter knife can still end up in your belly. Not a good thing. Enter the propmistress. She's the person who provides us with the knives.

We discuss a collapsible knife. You've seen these, I'm guessing. Hard plastic, and when you press the blade against something, it slips inside the handle of the knife. But they tend to jam. Baritone and I are thinking, "That would hurt like hell." Not an option.

[caption id="attachment_1173" align="alignright" width="240"] Rubber Knife[/caption]

We discuss a rubber knife. Wobbles like a rubber chicken. Totally unconvincing. Not an option.

Back to the real knife.

And so it went for days. Seriously! And over that time, the tenor got more and more iffy. He's still not getting his musical cues, he is missing entrances all over the place, and still stabbing us with the spoons. The baritone and I put our collective feet down. Finally, the tenor has a hissy fit in front of the entire cast and quits. Just like that.

Did I mention that "I Pagliacci" is usually performed with another short opera, "Cavalleria Rusticana?" Thank God for that! Turns out the tenor singing in THAT cast knows the role in "I Pagliacci." He is totally professional and steps into the role with only a week of rehearsals. So in the end, we got stabbed with a real knife. I ended up with a bunch of bruises and a rave review in the San Francisco Examiner. No puncture wounds, though!

By the way, in case you're interested in how you "stab" someone with a real knife and make it look real? The person doing the stabbing has their back to the audience and holds the knife where everyone can see. They make a pretty obvious stabbing movement toward the belly of the person being stabbed and, as they come in to do the stabbing, they flatten the knife and literally lay it across the other person's gut. Believe me, it looks pretty damn convincing. The person getting stabbed grabs their abdomen and falls to his/her knees, writhing in pain, then becomes still. Or maybe sings an aria and then dies (this IS opera, after all!).

Hope you enjoyed my little story. Entirely true, all of it. Ah, the glamorous life of an opera singer. -Shira

PS: Did I mention there was an earthquake during rehearsals and that this was performed in Oakland, CA, about a year after the big quake that brought down part of the Bay Bridge?

Welcome to day two of the Howloween Blog Hop! Be sure to check out all the other wonderful blogs taking part in the hop by clicking on the graphic or the link above. Each blogger is offering wonderful prizes, so be sure to check them all out!

My prize? An ebook copy of your choice of my Dreamspinner Press releases. You can check them all out here or by clicking on the "My Books" link to the left of this post. Enter by commenting on this post, and 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.

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

For day two of the hop, and in honor of Halloween, one of my favorite holidays, I thought I'd share my own personal horror story from my real life opera career. I've already told you that in my various roles I've been stabbed to death, jumped to my death, and died of consumption (at least twice). I also got to stab a villain to death in "Tosca," which was a lot of fun. (I know, I'm a little twisted!) And, by the way, one of my boys in "Aria" (Blue Notes #3), plays the part of the villain I got to stab.

[caption id="attachment_1172" align="alignright" width="277"] Me on stage at the famous La Scala Opera. Okay. Not me. In my dreams![/caption]

Part of any opera singer's training involves stage combat. At one point, I actually knew how to use a sword (not very well, but I did know how to use one). I knew how to pull a punch, slap someone across the face, pull someone by their hair, and, most importantly, how to stab someone. I also knew how to get stabbed. Or maybe I should say I knew how to avoid getting stabbed for real with a knife.

Yes. Most operatic "stabbings" are done with REAL knives. Which, believe it or not, is usually the safest type of knife to use. I say "usually," because in my personal experience, there was one production that left me wondering.

[caption id="attachment_1174" align="alignleft" width="240"] Luciano Pavarotti in "I Pagliacci"[/caption]

One of the first roles I ever performed was Nedda in "I Pagliacci." If you've seen a crying clown singing opera in a commercial, that's "Pagliacci." Nedda is the wife of the crying clown and one of the members of the troupe of performers who travel from town to town, entertaining the local folks. She was rescued from the streets when she was very young and, well, she's not so happily married to the ageing head of the troupe. She's getting a little something on the side from a very handsome young baritone. She also is fighting off another troupe member who insists on trying to rape her.

So here I am, maybe 25, singing in California with a tenor who was well past his prime (but perfect for the role). And he's a little iffy, in many ways. And I'm being shoved around by a very nice baritone (the one who tries to rape my character) who gets a bit carried away with the emotion of the scene. Hence the finger-sized bruises on my upper arms. I can handle that. Bruises fade, and he really didn't mean to grip my quite so hard.

The tenor, on the other hand, is a problem. The last scene in the opera, he's found out I've been cheating on him, and that I plan to run away with the handsome baritone. He's not very happy about that (understatement of the century). At the end of the scene, where we are both in clown makeup and supposedly putting on our play for the audience, the tenor is supposed to grab a knife off the table and stab both me and the cutie pie I'm trying to run off with. I'm cool with that. What I'm not so cool with is that in rehearsals, we didn't yet have the knife, so the tenor was using a spoon on us. And really JABBING us in the gut with it. Ouch!

[caption id="attachment_1171" align="alignleft" width="264"] Interior of the La Scala opera house in Milan, Italy[/caption]

At this point, the baritone says, "Time out!" Mind you, he and I were both thinking, "If this guy's going to use a real knife on us, we're going to get hurt." Yes, they dull the knives, but a butter knife can still end up in your belly. Not a good thing. Enter the propmistress. She's the person who provides us with the knives.

We discuss a collapsible knife. You've seen these, I'm guessing. Hard plastic, and when you press the blade against something, it slips inside the handle of the knife. But they tend to jam. Baritone and I are thinking, "That would hurt like hell." Not an option.

[caption id="attachment_1173" align="alignright" width="240"] Rubber Knife[/caption]

We discuss a rubber knife. Wobbles like a rubber chicken. Totally unconvincing. Not an option.

Back to the real knife.

And so it went for days. Seriously! And over that time, the tenor got more and more iffy. He's still not getting his musical cues, he is missing entrances all over the place, and still stabbing us with the spoons. The baritone and I put our collective feet down. Finally, the tenor has a hissy fit in front of the entire cast and quits. Just like that.

Did I mention that "I Pagliacci" is usually performed with another short opera, "Cavalleria Rusticana?" Thank God for that! Turns out the tenor singing in THAT cast knows the role in "I Pagliacci." He is totally professional and steps into the role with only a week of rehearsals. So in the end, we got stabbed with a real knife. I ended up with a bunch of bruises and a rave review in the San Francisco Examiner. No puncture wounds, though!

By the way, in case you're interested in how you "stab" someone with a real knife and make it look real? The person doing the stabbing has their back to the audience and holds the knife where everyone can see. They make a pretty obvious stabbing movement toward the belly of the person being stabbed and, as they come in to do the stabbing, they flatten the knife and literally lay it across the other person's gut. Believe me, it looks pretty damn convincing. The person getting stabbed grabs their abdomen and falls to his/her knees, writhing in pain, then becomes still. Or maybe sings an aria and then dies (this IS opera, after all!).

Hope you enjoyed my little story. Entirely true, all of it. Ah, the glamorous life of an opera singer. -Shira

PS: Did I mention there was an earthquake during rehearsals and that this was performed in Oakland, CA, about a year after the big quake that brought down part of the Bay Bridge?

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.

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

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.

********

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.

I think I'm finally recovered from my 12 days traveling to Yaoicon and GayRomLit! Not sure if it was jet-lag, or Hurricane Sandy, or just coming back down to earth after two amazing weeks, but I probably slept 10 hours a day last weekend! What a treat. November promises to be a very busy month for me, so I thought I'd update everyone who's asked and let you all know what I will be up to.

November 1st marks the start of NanoWriMo. Unfortunately, there's no way I'm going to be able to participate this year. For those of you who may not know, "The Melody Thief" was a late entry into NaNo last year, so I've definitely found NaNo to be great motivation in the past. This year, however, I've got way too much on my plate to give it another go.

First up on my list of to-dos: "Aria" is in the final editing process and set for a Christmas Eve release at Dreamspinner Press. I've approved the cover art (it looks amazing!) and am waiting on the final version to share with you all. "Aria" is the story of Sam Ryan (from Blue Notes #1) and Aiden Lind (Cary Redding's best friend from Blue Notes #2, "The Melody Thief."). Aiden is an opera singer. Sam is an attorney who lives in Philadelphia. The book focuses on themes including the difficulty of long-distance relationships, letting go of the past, and moving forward from grief. It's a sweet and sexy look at the opera world, with a bit of intrigue. It's set in Paris, London, and Philadelphia for the most part, and revisits characters from both the prior books, as well as introduces everyone to a few new characters who you will hear more about in the future.

Next up: I'm wrapping up book #4 in the series, "Prelude," co-authored with my good friend Venona Keyes. Tentative publication date for that book is April, 2013. "Prelude" is the story of superstar conductor David Somers, who appears in all three Blue Notes novels. David is wealthy, successsful, and yet insecure about his ability to do the one thing he truly loves: compose music. When he meets crossover violinist Alex Bishop, David's world is turned upside-down, and he is forced to confront his insecurities both in music and in love. I have to admit that David is one of my favorite characters. He's a mentor to most of the musicians who inhabit the Blue Notes books and, as you will see in "Aria," a good friend, as well.

Oh, and: I'm starting work on Blue Notes #5, working title, "Encore," which features two secondary characters from "Prelude." I'm also working on my pirate/shifter novel, "Stealing the Wind," which I hope to finish this spring.

Lastly: I'm both a participant and judge in Elisa Rolle's Rainbow Book Awards this year, reading wonderful stories and following the amazing cover art contest. Oh, and if you haven't seen, "The Dream of a Thousand Nights" cover is still in the running for Best Cover! Anne Cain rocks!

Wow! Just saying all that makes me tired. December will be a bit less hectic, I think (at least I hope it will be!). In the meantime, stay tuned for more information about the upcoming "Aria" release and some contests to go along with it, as well as guest posts from some wonderful writers including Hayley B. James, Michael Rupured and Michael Halfhill.

Happy November ya'll! -Shira

Today, I have a very special guest on my blog. And I have to admit that I'm doing a little fangirl dance here introducing him! Michael Halfhill is a fellow Dreamspinner Press author, as well as a friend and a beta reader par excellence!

I love all of Michael's books. His Jan Phillips Series is exciting and takes me to places I've only imagined (and does it in such a way as to make me feel as though I'm right there, too). Jan is such a wonderfully flawed character--a good man who doubts his own goodness at every turn. The stories in the series are at once exciting and poignant.

But of all Michael's books, there is one that I found so incredibly beautiful, I wanted to cry (and not for lack of a HEA - there is one!). That book is Two Hearts, Two Spirits, the story of Helki and Igashu, native American men living in a remote area of wilderness, nearly untouched by the outside world. Not only is the love between these two men beautiful, but the story is so beautifully told. Lyrical. You can read my review here.

So without further ado, here's Michael, answering my prying questions (yes, I wanted to know the answers, too!). And if you'd like to read an excerpt from "Two Heart, Two Spirits," click here and scroll down. Enjoy! -Shira

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Tell us a little about yourself. There’s not much to tell, really. I come from a devout Catholic family. My education remained in the Catholic sphere well into my college years. My college major was journalism, however, I earned my living not by writing, but in analytical science. My life partner, Peter and I have been together for the last seventeen years. When I’m not writing, I devote my time to Peter. He and I show our borzoi aka Russian wolfhounds at AKC events.

When did you start to write and why? I began writing essays, short stories and novels in 2002. The reason is simple. I retired in 2001, and after the usual year of idleness that most retires allow themselves, I became bored, and so I started to write. What began as a lark later became a serious effort to produce a novel.

What experiences do you bring to your writing? I’ve been married. I’ve two children and I’m a grandfather. As a single man I’ve loved often, and I’ve lost love almost as often. I’ve traveled quite a lot, in Europe, Asia, and Central America. In short, I’ve been around, but it hasn’t all been romantic rickshaw rides, or sitting at dusk on the steps of Montmartre and watching Paris begin to light up below. I once interviewed a Nicaraguan journalist who was in hiding from the Sandinistas. His fear of being killed was clear, and I felt it. I was in Costa Rica when some people who wished him ill, tried (unsuccessfully) to assassinate the former vice president. I was on Gibraltar when the IRA attempted to attack a police station. The eight terrorists got all shot up in front of an orphanage—one of them was a woman. That spreading out of emotions is fertile ground for anyone who writes fiction.

What kinds of books do you enjoy? In the fiction category I prefer spy / espionage novels. David Baldacci, Steve Berry, Daniel Silva’s Gabriel Allon series, and The Elizabeth George Inspector Lynley series are just a few. I suppose that’s why my Jan Phillips stories are heavily weighted toward adventure.

For non-fiction I prefer biographies.

What inspired you to write “Two Hearts, Two Spirits?” That’s an easy question to answer. Ever since I was a teen, I was fascinated by the work of Karl Bodmer, one of the chief pictorial artists of the plains Indians of the late 19th century. Fast forward to 1996. The TV show, In The Life aired a special segment on the Two-Spirit tradition of the Native Americans. Bodmer’s pictures and those interviews, along with the explanation of just what a Two-Spirit person was, within the Native community, stayed with me until when, in 2009 I began work on Two Hearts Two Spirits.

How did you go about researching Native American culture for “Two Hearts?” I have to say, that if we didn’t have the Internet, Two Hearts Two Spirits would be a work in progress to this day. Much of the everyday life of the Native Americans as it was lived in the late 19th and early 20th century, is well documented. Less so is the Two-Spirit tradition. For that, I had to rely on the oral tradition of today. The In The Life program provided me much of that oral tradition. Later, I was able to augment that information through email conversations I had with a Lakota woman. Some readers complained that because the tribe in Two Hearts Two Spirits is fictional that by definition, my research had to be thin, or non-existent. Not true. It made my research all the more important because I had to make my tribe authentic and believable, and I couldn’t have done that without learning about the First Nations people. Then there was the locale. For my story, it had to be so remote as to be undiscovered by the white men of the 1920s. I thought I’d hit the proverbial wall on this score, until I watched a National Geographic TV special on Yellowstone National Park. One of the park rangers spoke of having just discovered a canyon, complete with an immense waterfall. I realized that with all our satellites and aerial surveying capabilities, we’re still finding undiscovered places in our world. Problem solved. I now had the confidence that I could write a believable locale, because I knew such a place could exist—even today.

“Two Hearts” is as much as story about self-discovery as it is a romance. What did you discover about yourself while you were writing the book, if anything? Chiefly I suppose, would be the ability to transcend my own experience and enter a world and a society that is at one hand, as remote to me as Mars, and at the same time thoroughly accessible through my imagination. I’ve never done that before, and I confess that the idea of repeating it is daunting. It’s much easier to write the time in which one lives rather than to fall back into worlds past, or even more adventurously, to leap forward, into those yet to be experienced.

What writing projects are you working on right now? Last July I began a review blog focusing on books I’ve read, and that I believe are worth recommending. http://michaelrecommends.blogspot.com I’m fleshing out ‘Sparkles’ the fourth book in my Jan Phillips series. I’m also co-writing a novel.

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Bio: Michael Halfhill was born in West Virginia, just as World War II in Europe was coming to an end. After high school came college at the University of Baltimore and then a stint in the US Army.

Michael has traveled widely in the USA, Europe, Central America, and Asia.

After building a 37-year career in analytical science with the DuPont Company, Michael retired in 2001. In 2002, after a year of hectic boredom, he produced the first of three novels. What began as a distraction has become a passion.

Michael currently lives in northern Delaware. When he's not writing, Michael, along with his longtime partner Peter, shows borzoi at local AKC dog shows.

You can reach Michael at http://www.michaelhalfhill.com