All I want and more...

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Giveaway & Guest Post by Damon Suede for Riptide

Welcome, Ladies and Gents of the Lair... I want to welcome you to week long party! Let the party continue...

Let's put together a warm welcome for Damon Suede!

What does your family think of you writing erotica?
They LOVE it! Seriously. I was raised by a very out, very political lesbian who devoured all manner of LGBT fiction. I grew up reading pulps and romances that she recommended, both straight and gay. My mom passed away in 2008, but she would have been trumpeting my books on billboards and late night television if she were still with us. As it is, her widow has named herself my unofficial publicist, pushing my books as anyone who will sit still long enough to give her an opening. J She hands out swag at hardware stores, put a banner up at our ranch, and reads aloud from the books at parties and dinners!

What would you tell a reader reluctant to read erotica?
Do you mean pornographic fiction or erotic romance? Because I think those are two points on a very wide spectrum. One person’s gonzo-porno is another person’s tender flirtation. First off I’d make sure to clarify terms with them before I stomped in with recommendations. J
Now I have a theory about this erotica/romance spectrum… in the simplest terms, erotica reduces characters to objects that lack an internal life and romance accomplishes the exact opposite, describing objectively beautiful bodies and bestowing the illusion of an interior life. The relative success of both genres depends on the reader encountering the degree of subjectification or objectification expected. Or to boil it down to a bumper sticker,erotica turns you on and romance turns you inside out.
With anyone curious but hesitant about looking at erotic romance, I’d let them know that their preconceptions of the genre might give them pause, but the books themselves are not what they expect. Skeptics seem to think that erotic romance is equivalent to porn, that any mention of intimacy is prurient or vulgar, and that sexuality is somehow corrosive of the social order. I’d encourage them to look around for recommendations to find an author with whom they’d feel comfortable. On the other hand, with someone hesitant to read flat-out porn, unless we had a sexual relationship, I’d say it’s none of my business what they do with their literature and their libido.
Erotic romance varies as widely and wildly as science fiction, fantasy, or mysteries or any other genre fiction. But hating all mystery fiction because you hated The Maltese Falcon when you were twelve seems a little myopic. Dismissing a book because you didn’t enjoy it is one thing. Dismissing an entire genre because you’ve ignored it simply closes off an entire world of characters and stories that might surprise and delight you in ways you hadn’t imagined.

Have you ever tested out one of your sex scenes on your significant other?
Oh HELL yeah. J Why do you think all my readers crow about the obsessive realism in my books? LOL

Is there any topic you find taboo?
Exploitation of children, the romantic eroticization of minors… it’s irresponsible and nauseating. My boyfriend is a federal investigator who spent eight years prosecuting kid cases (abuse and exploitation of children): horrifying, mindbending, soul-destroying shit.
Now, I don’t believe in censorship. I’m not talking about stories that use sexualized children to repulse the reader or shock the lethargic (Lolita, End of Alice, Zombie, American Beauty), I don’t mean prurient pulps that use crimes against minors as the ne plus ultra of cultural violations (Andrew Vacchs Burke novels, Morality Play, The Serpent Club), and I don’t even mind lurid bourgie porn that trots out sex abuse to make the moron majority feel superior. No. I mean romance fiction taking a soft focus look at the rape and exploitation of minors as if the crimes do not utterly ruin their victims, as if there is a world in which such blameless suffering is a fantasy that deserves defense.
I don’t mind edgy fiction, or freaky age-gaps, or kinky fantasy, or even shocking role play… but a fantasy that exploits and romanticizes crimes with actual underage victims is capital-E evil and deserves repercussion, not because it somehow causes such crimes, but because it minimizes them. Stealing and trivializing a child’s agony to make a buck is lower than rape. And if you don’t believe me, my boyfriend has some crime scene photos to show you.

What role do you think toys play in sex?
Depends on the sex. Depends on the people involved. Half the time people treat each other as toys, using someone else’s body as a hand to rub one out and then wiping them off soon as they’re finished. I think anything that helps people find their way to each other, that bridges the gaps between people can be powerful in the right hands, or pitiful in the wrong ones. As everything it depends on the context. But I don’t have a kneejerk prejudice about toys. They can be groovy.

Do you think food has a place in sex?
In fantasy great. In reality, not so much. I’ve used food in sex and had it be wonderful, but generally it’s messier than people imagine and only sexy as long as you can stay in the moment. Now, in fantasies, food is another thing that’s tactile, sensual, complicated, specific… so yeah it can be great.

What do you think of role play?
Love it when it’s intense and in the moment and feels authentic; hate it when it feels lame and scripted, or like a b-roll from a bad porno film. The best roleplay is always with adroit people who have enough imagination to inhabit the role deeply and interest to maintain the connection. The mutual performance should have the same heat and resonance of a great scene on stage, except that there’s not the same kind of audience, and you’re improvising almost exclusively. My best roleplaying memories have always been with very clever, very creative folks whose kinks run deep and intersect with my own in interesting ways. Still there is no greater moodkiller in the world than “yeah yeah do it harder stud” banalities swiped from a 1990s Vivid video. The one time that happened to me during sex I busted out laughing, which actually stopped the bullshit and led to a much better experience for both of us. J Clichés are death and they kill boners as easily as they slaughter genius.

Would you prefer to be the submissive or the dominant?
Depends on the other person, dunnit? J As that goes, I’m a classic switch. I’ve got a fair amount of BDSM experience and I’ve taken my licks and earned my leathers, if you know what I mean. But I’m not a lifestyle Dom or sub. And I can’t imagine being only one thing your whole life. It’s always about the vibe between me and the other person and the vibe evolves. The real secrets cannot be communicated. J

What’s your favorite ménage trios: M/M/F, M/F/F, M/M/M, or F/F/F?
Well, I’m a big homo, so three blokes. I’ve had a couple successful threeway relationships in my life, but finding the right balance is tricky and it takes a certain type of person times three. In fiction, it doesn’t matter as long as the relationship gets the necessary attention and the characters (and their feelings) seem authentic.

What do you think of orgies?
In life? They can be awesome if the organizers know what they’re doing. A blind free-for-all is generally grotty but they’re parties really. And have to be planned and managed as any gathering of personalities. The right combo? Heaven! J In books, I don’t think they’re that interesting. What I love in romance is seeing people connect. Hard enough to do with TWO, let alone 15. LOL And even if your two lovers are polyamorous, it’s hard to bring the reader along without losing the immediacy of the POV. All those bodies are distracting; actually that’s true about fiction and life as well.

What’s the spiciest thing you can think of right now?
A smile in a whisper. A throat kiss in the dark. A post-orgasmic sigh in a gravelly bass.
Unless you mean another kind of spicy, then I’d say a cayenne used as a urethral sound! LOL

What do you enjoy the most about being a writer?
Building worlds from the ground up. Unleashing three-dimensional characters to test the limits of the worlds. Articulating their stories sot that a reader submits to the fantasy. I think reading should be like dreaming… ineluctable and seductive. I constantly push for ways to make the dream more seamless and seedless, to keep the sand out of the sheets so that nothing wakes from the story before it’s finished.
When Hot Head first came out, I noticed the funniest thing about the comments. Four out of five people mentioned that they hadn’t wanted to start reading right away but as soon as they started they literally plunked down, abandoned their day and finished the 320 pages with Griff and Dante in a single sitting. So MANY people read the whole story in a single day, and many flipped right back to the front and read it again. THAT is what I want. J

What do you find the most challenging about being a writer?
Waiting. Writing empowers our imaginations, allowing us to build worlds so sturdy that others can inhabit them. But that deceptively godlike control has nothing to do with the nuts-n-bolts process of bringing a book to market. Everything takes time; most people read unbelievably slowly. Decisions take forever and committees take even longer. Sometimes the whole world moves like tar in winter. And you have to deal with it or find another job. Any collaborative artform (and that’s pretty much all of them) requires give and take to put a piece of work in front of an audience. And the minute a second opinion exists about a situation, everything takes ten times longer… with each additional opinion increasing the delay exponentially. As my agent used to say, you don’t have to love the process, but you have to learn to live with it.

What genre(s) do you write and why?
Contemporary, mystery, gothic, steampunk, fantasy, science fiction, rom-com… You name it, I’ve pretty much written it. The only genre I’ve never written in is Westerns and only because I’ve never been hired to do so.
Now in M/M I’ve only written Contemporary, Science Fiction, Historical Fantasy, and Steampunk… For scripts I’ve written in several genres because I got hired and the script came to me already situated in a given genre. In truth, I learned a valuable lesson from that stricture. Your voice exists in every genre, if you can find the point of cohesion and resonance.
So in M/M, I’ve written in the genres that the stories demanded. The story would present a given plot and cast of characters and the genre became obvious by default.

What's the one thing you wished you had known about the publishing world before you got into the biz?
Well, I’m a bad person to ask because I’d written for so long and in so many formats before crossing into romance. With regard to M/M especially, I wish I’d known how friendly and supportive the community is because I would’ve been writing gay romance a decade ago!! I’ve said it elsewhere, but the raw, rushing freedom afforded by writing romance has changed ALL my writing for the better. And unlike film or stage, which can be unbelievable petty and random communities, M/M romance (and by extension romance e-publishing) opened its arms wide and warmly from day one. Had I but known sooner, it’s have ten years of stories told. Time to get busy! J

Are you a plotter or panster?
Y’all are determined to make me seem like an evil taskmaster!
I am an adamant, dyed-in-the-wool plotter. I have to be in order to earn a living. As a screenwriter and playwright, I often get paid for a pitch, a treatment, a synopsis, an outline before I’m allowed to write a single word of the actual script. I’d never book a job if I could organize my thoughts about the story without sitting down to right the thing! LOL You do not reach a destination without context. And outline is only structured context.
Even more damningly, I’m a teacher. I’ve taught writing for well over a decade. The value of sitting down and simply puking on the page is that it doesn’t let students procrastinate. The “just get started” model became popular in the 1970s when fiction underwent radical changes. It’s great for getting children to write ANYTHING rather than nothing, but it’s actually a pretty rotten way to teach writers anything about craft. Anyone can type words on paper, but typing is not writing. Random clumps of unstructured prose will never become genre fiction. The outline is the way you write the book. The bottom line is that genre fiction (by definition) is structured. So we can either structure it before we get to work, or slog through blind and then go back to make sense of what we did.
Plotter: hands down, no bones. And really opinionated about it obviously.
Here’s the thing: and this is the part where people will get annoyed with me. I don’t believe in pantsers. I belive that some writers convince themselves that they are not outlining. I believe that some writers draft these long messy, muddled outlines that they call rough drafts. I believe that these “pantsers” have no choice but to go back and revise those messy outlines before the book actually gets written. But a Pantsers so-called “rough draft” IS an outline, a jumbled structure that wastes a lot of valuable time and energy. Outlining is part of craft, and craft is where professionalism starts.
If that sounds medieval, then tough shit. J I believe in apprenticeship and discipline. No amateur ever built a cathedral by winging it.
Some people can outline in their heads so they know where they’re headed. Some feel stifled by deadlines and drop dates and drive producers/publishers mad. Some folks hate thinking about their stories in abstractions, and so what I see as wasted time/energy is part of the creative crucible. That’s their business. Art is individual and we aren’t insects. LOL If that’s how the book has to come, then so be it, but anyone can learn to structuregenre fiction. And while many professional writers might start out as so-called pantsers, dealing with deadlines cures 90% of those cases, right quick. The other 10% are stubborn, brave souls.
Look: you get the book done by any means necessary. But if you want to do it again, do it well, do it for a living, I would advise that you learn the craft of getting it done efficiently or you will waste yourself and your talent on the oyster instead of the pearl.

Any advice you’d like to share with aspiring authors?
Being an artist is not a disability.
Write every day, no excuses. Professionalism counts. Treat it like a job or it will treat you like a joke. Manners matter. Throw away your TV. Make bold choices. The things about you that irritate people are often the things other people admire: every sword cuts both ways. Know who you are and practice being it. Be specific.
If you write for fame or fortune, you’ve made a terrible mistake about the nature of the job as they are the least of its rewards. Cultivate big eyes, a thick skin, and a full heart. Smile. Listen. Write about the things that matter to you. Nothing is worse than a flop you didn’t believe in. Challenge yourself every day, and challenge your readers every time. Get better.

Do you have any other hobbies that you enjoy?
I read like a maniac. I see a ton of theatre, which is partially work, but occasionally bliss. I love skiing, but I don’t have a lot of time for it lately. I go twostepping once a week and used to rodeo every chance I got. I collect tarot decks and orreries. I love hosting hilariously bad movie nights with my friends… and maintain a shocking library of sleazy and overproduced cinematic trash (everything from Showgirls to Body Rock). My boyfriend and I have Jane Austen marathons where we read a novel while drowning ourselves in every adaptation of that novel for film, television, or radio.

What inspired you to pen this sexy tale?
Grown Men grew out of a photograph posted at the M/M Romance Group at Goodreads. Their amazing mods set up a massive collaborative anthology project in which people could select a photo and propose a plot germ and writers picked a prompt. The prompt I chose was an odd one: a gigantic man easily 7¾ feet tall with his arm draped over another man easily a yard shorter... both muscular, uncircumcised, and sun-bronzed, standing on a beach under a tropical tree.
Romance needs an element of impossibility for the proper friction and heat. The two guys’ photoshopped size disparity was SO extreme and so impossible that it sparked something in my imagination. The image felt like a Sci-Fi story, but more contained than a space opera: something primal, but something a little… off world.
Out of that image and that imaginal friction, an entire HardCell Universe sprang up around me! I could barely keep up and loved what I learned. It’s set at a point in the future when massive corporations have scattered human civilization across planets and breed employees who must earn citizenship by life-or-death contracts. The only art form left is elaborate adver-tainments and human relationships have dwindled to fast-food convenience. Totally harsh and sexy. LOL Perfect for a swoony romance too!
The trouble was, the characters and the world took hold of me and wouldn’t let go. What started out as a simple two-hander rapidly ballooned beyond a length that suited a large collection of shorts. So I set the original story aside, and instead wrote its prequel for the anthology, a snarky compressed heist set in the same universe, but with different characters, a different situation. To explain two giants, they had to become twins, natch, J but of radically different temperaments. And the HardCell domination of the Universe kept growing and deepening. LOL

Seedy Business, the first HardCell “transmission,” wound up being about sperm piracy and illegal organ theft with a pair of world-class scumbags forced to un-scum themselves. The second “transmission” became
Grown Men and dwelt on terraforming and the threat of corporate assassination with a relatively sweet duo marooned on a planet ranching eel so they can earn corporate citizenship. And of course, like all science fiction, they poke at a lot of modern cultural assumptions, in sexy (and sometimes sweet) ways.
All because of a photo posted at random.

Here's the blurb from Grown Men:

Every future has dirty roots.
Marooned in the galactic backwaters of the HardCell company, colonist Runt struggles to eke out an existence on a newly-terraformed tropical planetoid. Since his clone-wife died on entry, he’s been doing the work of two on his failing protein farm. Overworked and undersized, Runt’s dwindling hope of earning corporate citizenship has turned to fear of violent “retirement.”
When an overdue crate of provisions crashes on his beach, Runt searches frantically for a replacement wife among the tools and food. Instead he gets Ox, a mute hulk who seems more like a corporate assassin than a simple offworld farmer.
Shackwacky and near-starving, Runt has no choice but to work with his silent partner despite his mounting paranoia and the unsettling appeal of Ox’s genetically altered pheromones. Ox plays the part of the gentle giant well, but Runt’s still not convinced he hasn’t arrived with murder in mind.
Between brutal desire and the seeds of a relationship, Runt’s fears and Ox’s inhuman past collide on a fertile world where hope and love just might have room to grow.

This title is #1 of the HardCell series.

Okay... Your favorite time.... Giveaway Time!!!!

This will be the rule for all Giveaways this week...

All Giveaways will end Friday, November 18th at Midnight....

The winners will all be picked and announced....

Monday, November 21st!

Good luck!

Now time for Damon's Giveaway!

First Wave Winner’s Choice: Pick any one backlist book from Rachel Haimowitz, Aleksandr Voinov, L.A. Witt, Brita Addams, or Cat Grant (“Frontlist” books, i.e. Riptide releases and newest non-Riptide release, are excluded, as are the Courtland Chronicles).

What do I want from you.....

Well, you have to leave your email address ~ A MUST.

You have to be a follower of this blog ~ A MUST.

You must leave a comment or question for Damon ~ A MUST!

Good Luck!

Grown Men is available at Riptide Publishing. http://www.riptidepublishing.com/titles/grown-men
Email address: Damon@DamonSuede.com
Website URL: www.DamonSuede.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/damon.suede
FB Fanpage: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Damon-Suede/118289681583504
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4656955.Damon_Suede
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Damon-Suede/e/B005675E2Q/
Google+: https://plus.google.com/101253837178781687484/
Dreamspinner: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/index.php?cPath=55_429
GLBT Bookshelf: http://bookworld.editme.com/damonsuede
Manic Readers: http://www.manicreaders.com/DamonSuede/

The Giveaway for Riptide:

From October 1 to December 31, Riptde authors and editors will set sail on a massive

Grand Opening blog tour!

We're gearing up for three months of games, prizes, interviews, chats, and scavenger hunts, and we'd love to have you along! At each stop along the tour, we'll be giving away great prizes - tons of books from our authors' backlists, swag by the boatload, gift ceritficates to All Romance Ebooks, and entries into the Grand Prize drawings for a Nook, a Kindle, and an iPad.

Go check it out!!!

And remember... Keep it Dirty, Smutty & Hussy!

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Giveaway & Guest Post by Rachel Haimowitz for Riptide

Welcome, Ladies and Gents of the Lair... I want to welcome you to week long party! Let the party continue...

Let's welcome Rachel Haimowitz to the Lair!

As someone who writes m/m with bondage, do you identify more with your Dom or sub character? Or are their heads equally easy to slip into for you?
From a personal perspective, I’d have to say I identify more with the Dom, as that’s the role I take in real life. That being said, being a good Dom—to me, at least—means doing everything in your power to understand your sub’s motives, needs, wants, desires, fears, secret fantasies, boundaries, even their thoughts from moment to moment. So in that regard, it’s quite possible that I identify more with the sub. Certainly in a real scene, my sub is my entire focus. In my written scenes, the sub the Dom’s entire focus, too. And because understanding a sub’s inner processes is so important to me, I do tend to write quite a bit of my BDSM scenes from the sub’s POV—more, actually, than I write from the Dom’s POV. So I guess the short answer is that it’s easy for me to slip into both their heads, even if the Dom POV comes more naturally to me.

How difficult was it to take that first (or 100th) idea and actually created an entire story from it?
Short answer? Hard. Ideas are easy; I’ve got more of those than I could develop in ten lifetimes. Taking that first wisp of an idea and fleshing it out into a story-world is a little less easy, but arguably (for me at least) the most fun part of writing. It’s where you can let your imagination fly, where you can explore every possibility, where nothing is set in stone yet and no answer is explicitly wrong. I find it helps tremendously to have at least one person you can use as a sounding board during this stage; they’ll come at it with different eyes and different life experiences, and will invariably find connections you could not.
Moving past the fleshing-out stage and actually sitting down to write is by far the hardest part of creating a story. I’m more of a pantser than a plotter, so I tend to just write for a while and let the world and characters take me where they will. But about halfway through that process, the shape of the story becomes clear enough for me to stop and outline the rest. That’s my compromise between the creative freedom of explorative writing and the tight, well-paced focus of outline writing. Mind you, the beginning almost always needs redoing, or at least editing quite heavily, once I hit the outline stage. In Counterpoint, I cut about 40 pages out of the beginning and wrote about 25 new ones to replace it with. Anchored was a little smoother going, as that story was birthed more or less fully grown right from the start: an adult Athena popping from Zeus’s head. It was only the world details that needed changing in Anchored, as I discovered them along the way.

I’m always curious where people find their inspiration. So I want to know where you get your plot ideas. Are they just floating around up there in the gray matter?
For me, I think it’s mostly just about keeping my eyes and ears open. The oddest things can trigger an idea. If you want to hear what triggered the idea for Anchored, hop on over to Nina Pierce’s blog(http://ninapierce.com/blog/), where I did a guest post earlier this week that addressed exactly that. For the most part, though, it’s just totally random. I’ve learned to follow all my little “what if” musings and daydreams, to let my mind play with them and to write them down; you can mine gold in those fleeting thoughts.
Sometimes there’s a collision of concepts, too. For instance, a couple weeks ago I was watching some crappy crime procedural that was investigating an organ-stealing ring. And then I read an excerpt from a book with an immortal character. Somehow, my brain mashed those two things together and said, “Wouldn’t it be interesting to have some kind of human with regenerative capacity being held captive by a black-market organ ring? They’d take his liver, and he’d grow a new one.” From there I started thinking about what kind of human: Genetically modified? Magically immortal? Cursed by the gods like Prometheus? Not human at all, but an alien with compatible organs? And then I started thinking about what kind of plot I could build around that story. Will anything ever come of it? Who knows. But I’ve got a file full of notes, and maybe one day it’ll be a story.

How does look your typical writing day? Do you write in the mornings, evenings or it doesn't matter to you?
I’m very fortunate not to have a 9-to-5 job, so I have a ton of flexibility in how and when I write. I work my day job from home and set my own hours and workload, with rare exception (scheduled client interviews, or a rapid-turnaround press kit, for example), so most weeks I’m able to spend a good chunk of each day working on my own stuff. I tend to be quite the night owl, so a typical day might see me waking at 1 or 2 in the afternoon, and writing so far into the night I watch the sun rise the next morning. Other times I’m on “normal person” hours, and I go to bed at 10 and wake up at 6 and start writing first thing in the morning. As long as I get enough sleep (and I may be the only person in America who does), I can get the writerly juices flowing at any time of day or night.

Here's an excerpt from my newest release at Riptide Publishing, Master Class:

Chapter 1

Even stars got star-struck, right? It was perfectly normal. Not embarrassing at all.
At least, that's what Nicky kept telling himself as he stared across the table at Devon fucking Turner, A-lister extraordinaire and, let's face it, hunk to beat all hunks.
And Dom to beat all subs, too. Nicky was certain of it. The way Devon met his eyes with such force across the candle-lit table that Nicky had to avert his gaze. The way he made Nicky feel like the only man in the room, naked at Devon's mercy despite the armor of his three-piece suit and the other six guests at the table, only two of whom he knew but all of whom, he was certain, could see right through his flustered, lust-sick stare.
Shit, he had to get out of here, get some air. Get his head back on his shoulders before it ended up, uninvited, in Devon's lap.
"Excuse me," he blurted, standing up from the table hard enough to skid his chair. He'd forgotten about the napkin in his lap; it swooshed to the floor as all eyes landed on him. Why had he tied his tie so tight? "I uh . . ." He pointed vaguely toward the area where he thought the restrooms were. "Excuse me."
He ran off before he could take stock of all the curious looks. Or, God help him, the knowing one—the absolute, bone-deep surety—of Devon Turner's.
He found the men's room without fuss and pushed through the door, just leaning for a moment on the other side remembering how to breathe. For Christ's sake, this wasridiculous. He performed in front of thousands eight times a week without the slightest trouble. What was his problem now?
He cast a glance at the empty urinals and realized he did kind of have to piss. Took care of it with trembling fingers and a visualization exercise or three to keep his Devon-induced erection at bay. Went to the sink to wash his hands and nearly jumped right out of his shoes when the bathroom door opened, and in strode the object of his fantasies.
This time, when Devon's eyes zeroed in on Nicky's, Nicky couldn't look away. Wanted to, didn't want to . . . didn't matter. Somehow, he couldn't move.
Devon stepped forward. Glided, more like—all grace and easy confidence—snatched up one of Nicky's wrists in a powerful hand and pulled him close. No words, which was probably for the best; Nicky doubted he'd have heard them anyway over his heart thudding in his ears or the Vader-esque rasping of his breath. Just a single silent look from Devon, long and piercing, more a statement than a question: Pay up, that look said. Make good on every single thing you haven’t been saying for the last hour. I know you. I see you. You see me too.
Yes. God yes.
Nicky didn’t struggle when Devon forced his still-dripping hand against his crotch, made him use his pants like a towel—an expensive, pinstriped, tenting towel. Thank God the restaurant was dimly lit; otherwise his erection would show across the room. So would the giant wet spot.
But that was all the thought he gave it as Devon twisted his wrist, forcing Nicky's fingers against his own straining cock. Still Devon watched him carefully, so, so carefully, looking for the argument, the repulsion, the horror. Not expecting to find it, but looking nonetheless. Being responsible.
Nicky ducked his head and thrust his hips forward. I want what you’ve got.
But Devon just yanked Nicky’s wrist out to the side and shoved him so hard into the sink that he only stayed (mostly) quiet because Devon slapped one giant paw over his mouth.
He was still breathing through the pain in his back when Devon pulled his hand away and mashed his lips to Nicky’s, biting until Nicky opened his mouth in another breathless yell—half surprise, half pain, half Oh my God I'm being kissed by Devon fucking Turner, and yes, he was perfectly aware that made three halves, thank you very much. Who could care about things like that anyway when Devon’s tongue was parting his lips, when their crotches were grinding together so sweetly that it took only moments before Nicky thought—with what little thought remained—that a water-wet crotch would soon be the least of his problems.
Until Devon stopped, ripping away and shoving Nicky two-handed to the floor.
But that was okay. Heck, more than okay. Nicky could play this game. He could play it very, very well.
He swallowed a moan and crawled toward Devon’s feet, head down, ass up, inviting—Take what you want, his body said. Beat me, fuck me; preferably both at once.
“When I’m good and ready, whore.” Devon stepped on Nicky’s outstretched hand and sneered down at him with positively withering contempt. Nicky’s cheeks burned as hot as the tender flesh beneath Devon’s heel, but he made no attempt to pull his hand back, to stand up, to take back the offer he’d made. He rather liked it down here, after all. Always had.
But Devon just ran a hand through his hair, straightened his tie, lifted his foot from Nicky’s hand, and left the bathroom without another word.
Nicky waited until the door had closed behind Devon before rising to his feet. What the fuck had just happened? If not for the pain in his back and hand, the wetness at his crotch, and the tingle at his lips, he might have doubted it had happened at all. Too good to be true. Too odd to be true.
Except for the part where it was.
Bracing his hands against the sink, he blinked into the mirror and tried to compose his face into some semblance of normalcy. He did that for a living, for fuck’s sake; why was it so hard now? Faucet. Cold water splashed on hot cheeks with shaking fingers. Towel dry.
His erection was slowly fading. God only knew how long he’d been staring through the mirror, what his friends must be thinking about his absence. He pulled away and forced his feet to carry him back into the dining room—back to his table, to Devon—trying to pretend he wasn’t spending every conscious second wondering how Devon’s cock would taste shoved down his throat.

Chapter 2

From the front row of the empty theater, Nicky's director sighed loudly enough to carry past the mezzanine.
The stage manager, clearly bored with feeding Nicky lines, read in a monotone from the script in his lap. “And then he will say to them: Anything you did for one of your brothers here, however humble, you did for me.”
Nicky whispered it once to cement it in his brain, then repeated it aloud, eyes roving about his castmates pretending to be sheep on their hands and knees.
He’d not seen too many sheep floating around Manhattan, but he was pretty certain they didn’t usually look so pissy.
Of course, he was pretending to be Jesus, and he was pretty certain the son of God didn’t grind near-strangers in a men’s room and then spend the next day forgetting his lines.
His castmates baaah’d in unison. One dead beat followed. Then another. He was really starting to hate this scene.
Robin elbowed him in the shin. Shit, his line again? He pointed—stage right? No, stage left. “For when I was hungry—”
“God, no!”
A-ha-ha, yeah, because that joke never gets old.
Nicky threw his director a sheepish (a-ha-ha) look and waited for the man to correct him.
“It’s ‘to the eternal fire, that has been ready for you with the devil and all his angels.’ Then‘For when I was hungry, blah blah blah. Jesus, Nicky”—and clearly, no joke intended this time—“what’s gotten into you today?”
Nicky shrugged. “Sorry, boss. Not feeling very well.”
What a lying liar he was. And an idiot, too; here he was in the starring role of fuckingGodspell, the fucking Broadway revival no less, and he couldn’t get his head out of his ass. Couldn’t stop thinking about dinner last night with his actor buddies and their actor buddies, about what it had been like to sit next to Mr. Devon Turner for an hour and a half.
About what had happened afterward.
“All right, you know what? Go home. Get some rest. Adam, get in there for him.”
His understudy peeled out of the house and up onto the stage in two seconds flat, and Nicky, relieved and not nearly as guilty as he knew he should be, offered apologies and a “See you tomorrow” to his castmates. A quick trip to his dressing room to change his clothes and wash the face paint off his right cheek, and then he’d be out of here. The faster he got home, the faster he could jerk off. Or not jerk off; he wondered how long he could deny himself tonight before going crazy, if he could manage to sleep without touching himself.
Without thinking of Devon.
He closed and locked his dressing room door, stripped off his Superman t-shirt, and stood in front of the mirror, twisting around with a hiss to examine the soreness at the small of his back. Shame there was no bruise. He pressed two fingers to the tender flesh and hissed again, smiling.
When I'm good and ready, whore, Devon had said. Threatened. Promised.
Hopefully he’d be ready soon. Still thinking of dinner (and dessert, definitely dessert), Nicky pulled on a t-shirt and a gray hoodie, jeans and sneakers, hung up his Superman tee, and left the dressing room, the strap of his courier bag slung right across the soreness Devon had caused.
His mind was turned so intently toward yesterday’s dinner, toward that moment of instant recognition—his “Domdar” pinging, Devon’s “subdar” clearly pinging just as loud—toward Devon’s laissez faire enjoyment of his food and his drink and all his company but Nicky, whom he’d ignored with such finesse after their encounter in the bathroom that Nicky wouldn’t even have noticed being ignored if he himself hadn’t been staring, fixated, at Devon’s hands, Devon’s mouth, the casual cruelty just beneath the surface of Devon’s boisterous, Ken-doll-handsome face . . .
So inward were his thoughts that when he walked past the last row of seats in the theater, he didn’t notice Devon.
A hand caught his wrist, squeezing hard, and his first thought was “Oh fuck, crazy fan.” Before he could wonder how said fan had gotten into the closed rehearsal, before he could even try to yank his arm away, a big body to match the big hand was pressing into his, lips touching his ear, warm breath whispering, “Not a sound, boy. Not one.” A thumb found its way into a pressure point on Nicky’s trapped wrist, just daring him to defy the order, but Nicky bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath and nodded.
“Macbeth ruins everything,” the whisper continued.
No shit. It was ridiculous to be so superstitious, but at the mention of that cursed play, he couldn’t help but cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure there wasn’t an electrical fire smoldering in the catwalk or an uncovered trap door on the stage.
“Say it, and it ends the night. ‘Macbeth.’ Understand?” The thumb dug deeper and Nicky choked off a grunt, nodded again, short and fast. “Say it now. Once. Practice.”
“Macbeth,” he whispered back, afraid if he spoke any louder, he’d shout, and the whole cast and crew would hear him. They already had enough reasons to be pissed at him.
“Good boy.”
Devon yanked Nicky out the auditorium, through the lobby, into the street. Hailing a cab in the Theater District was an art form, but people stopped for Devon Turner. Heck, some people even stopped for Nicky.
A car pulled over in seconds and Devon opened the door, dragged Nicky inside after him. “Manhattan Plaza, please,” Devon said to the driver as he fastened his seatbelt, never releasing his punishing hold on Nicky’s wrist.
Nicky didn’t bother wondering how Devon knew where he lived.
As the taxi merged into traffic, Devon leaned close and brushed his lips against Nicky’s ear. “I’m going to fuck you so raw your eyes will water every time you sit.” The words were harsh but the tone was a purr, a promise so hot Nicky’s breath caught. “Would you like that?”
No breath, no words. Nicky nodded instead.
“I’m going to make you scream. Not my name—just scream. Would you like that, too?”
Another breathless nod. He felt Devon’s lips curl into a smile against his earlobe, teeth latching on as Devon’s thumb, in perfect mirror, bit deep into Nicky’s wrist.
By the time they reached his apartment, Nicky was sweating and a little nauseous. The cab ride had been like every Manhattan cab ride, all sudden starts and stops and swerves and the vague stench of the thousands of asses that had warmed the backseat before him.
Devon’s grip hadn’t let up for a second, and the pain of that pressing thumb was deep, unrelenting, expanding with every passing moment until Nicky could think of nothing else—nothing but Devon, the power of the man, the power Nicky had granted him and just how, exactly, he planned to use it.

Okay... Your favorite time.... Giveaway Time!!!!

This will be the rule for all Giveaways this week...

All Giveaways will end Friday, November 18th at Midnight....

The winners will all be picked and announced....

Monday, November 21st!

Good luck!

Now time for Rachel's Giveaway!

Rachel has so kindly let me give away anything from her backlist...

Except Crescendo. Not sure why!

What do I want from you.....

Well, you have to leave your email address ~ A MUST.

You have to be a follower of this blog ~ A MUST.

You must leave a comment or question for Rachel ~ A MUST!

Good Luck!

Master Class can be purchased at Riptide: http://www.riptidepublishing.com/titles/master-class-master-class-1

To find me across the web, you can visit:
Email address: metarachel@gmail.com
Website URL: rachelhaimowitz.com
Blog URL: Rachel-haimowitz.blogspot.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/RachelHaimowitz
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/rachel.haimowitz
Goodreads Page: http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/4110966-rachel-haimowitz

The Giveaway for Riptide:

From October 1 to December 31, Riptde authors and editors will set sail on a massive

Grand Opening blog tour!

Go check it out!!!

And remember... Keep it Dirty, Smutty & Hussy!

Monday, November 14, 2011

Giveaway & Guest Post by Aleksandr Voinov for Riptide Party

Welcome, Ladies and Gents of the Lair... I want to welcome you to week long party! When I was contacted by Chris from Riptide ~ asking me to participate in an awesome party geared for the M/M world, what do you think I said!!! YES, of course! So, this is my first day kicking off the party!!! Stay tune... Because, this plans to be one hell'va party!!!!

Do you tend to base your characters on real people or are they totally from your imagination?
Of course I’m taking bits and pieces from real people I’ve met. But they are all Frankenstein’s monster. I take pieces and put them together into a new shape, then inspiration strikes and they shamble off to wreak havoc.

If you could meet a paranormal being or character of your choice with no safeguards, what/who would you choose and why?
I’d like to meet Silvio, my current character, just to experience what it means to be in the same room with him.

What do you like or dislike about eBook publishing?
What I like is how much talent is out there that is completely undiscovered by the mainstream. You get so much creativity and unique writers and books that would never get a chance in print publishing because publishers are scared of risk.
What I dislike? So many awful books with horrific editing and terrible covers.

What are your current projects?
I’m currently writing the second part of “The Lion of Kent” – my co-writer has made a really good start on it, now I have to write my scenes and chapters before we can continue. It’s about a gay knight in the late 12th century, who becomes famous, then joins the Templars to escape his sins, and eventually ends up doing cool stuff in the Holy Land.
Then there’s the “Dark Soul,” the story of a married Mafia capo and the killer he’s sexually and emotionally obsessed with. Silvio, the killer, is sex on legs, and the poor capo basically stands no chance.
I’m also working on two historical novels set in the Second World War in Europe.

Can you tell us a little about your latest release?
The latest release is “Dark Edge of Honor,” a military sci-fi romance novel I wrote with Rhianon Etzweiler. It’s the story of two enemy soldiers falling in love despite everything.
Here’s the blurb:
Sergei Stolkov is a faithful officer, though his deepest desires go against the Doctrine. A captain with the invading Coalition forces, he believes that self-sacrifice is the most heroic act and his own needs are only valid if they serve the state.
Mike, an operative planted within Cirokko's rebels, has been ordered to seduce Sergei and pry from him the Coalition's military secrets. His mission is a success, but as he captures Sergei's heart, Mike is tempted by his own charade and falls in love.
When the hostile natives of the planet Cirokko make their move, all seems lost. Can Mike and Sergei survive when the Coalition's internal affairs division takes an interest in what happened in the dusty mountains of Zasidka Pass...?

What do you like most about writing?
When I hit the flow (which is rare) – the words just come out and they are all perfect. That’s an amazing feeling. Also, when the story just takes its twists and turns, keeping me on my toes, and my character surprise me with the stuff they’re doing and which I’d have never expected.

What genre do you write mostly and what appeals to you most about your genre?
I’m the wrong guy to ask. I get bored with every sub-genre after a couple books, so I constantly need to move from contemporary to military to sci-fi to fantasy to military to thriller and back again. I follow the story – and if the story happens to be in a certain genre or sub-genre, I try to learn the rules of that really quickly.

Where do you get the names for your characters?
Sometimes they are homages to existing people. William Raven was named after William Marshal, one of the most famous knights of his time. Raven is an allusion to Ravensbourne, which is a little town on my daily commute. As I like in Kent and William is “the Lion of Kent”, that seemed very fitting.
Silvio Spadaro – “Silvio” means “of the forest” – the forest being wild and untamed and dark/threatening terrain (think back to fairy tales – weird and horrible things happen in the forest). “Spadaro” is an old Italian name pointing either to a Byzantine officer (there’s the soldier connection again) or to sword-maker. There’s the whole Biblical idea of who takes up the sword will die by the sword – very good symbols for a mafia killer, I thought.
So, yeah, I spend a fair amount of time thinking about the names. The right one will just simply click in my head.

What are you reading now?
Non-fiction about medieval warfare and the Third Reich. All research.

Who are your favorite authors?
On the literary side, William Faulkner and A M Tuomala. In our genre, Kirby Crow, Manna Francis, Rachel Haimowitz, Peter Hansen, Kate Cotoner, Rhianon Etzweiler, and many, many more.

What would you advise an aspiring author?
Keep writing, read books on writing craft, read outside the genre, and learn how to accept feedback and critique. Keep working on your prose even if you get to the point where you think you know what you’re doing. An honest critique will hurt you badly, but without honest feedback, you might never grow out of your beginner’s mistakes.

When did you start the adventure of writing?
I was telling stories from a very early age. Started to actually write them down as a teenager. Published my first short story at sixteen and my first longer piece of fiction at 23, I think. My first novel at 25. It just kinda grew from there.

What's the funniest scene you've ever written?
I’m not actually good at comedy. I hope my characters are funny at times, but they tend towards snarky and witty rather than funny. So, uhm, I’d have no clue where to start looking.

A quick quiz: Answer as fast as you can.

Favorite Hero:
Frank Castle, aka The Punisher
Favorite Dessert:
Toroncino affogato – semi-frozen nougat then drenched in hot espresso.
Favorite Villain:
Luke Skywalker and friends. Ruined a perfectly good empire.
Favorite Song:
The Sentinel, Judas Priest
Have you ever written to music?
All the time.
What music?
Anything loud and rhythmic: metal, hard rock, R’nB, industrial, reggaeton, film and games scores
What is the most interesting thing you have learned from your research?
I’ve done some very interesting research on medieval hunting techniques for “Lion of Kent”, and I’m currently reading about the French tournament circuit. You basically had this year-long event of tournaments being held all over France, and half of Europe’s knights touring from one to the next to win a lot of money and even more fame and political power. Fascinating culture somewhere between touring bands and celebrities like Brad and Angelina taking their kids around the world, drawing huge crowds.

Here's an excerpt from Dark Soul:

The most annoying thing about all this was nobody knew when the old badger was going to kick the bucket. But to make the wait comfortable, at least, Stefano had secured a nice leather chair near the fireplace, Vince covering his flank.
He didn’t expect hostility. If he had, he wouldn’t have shown up; he wasn’t that brave. But he still liked having Vince at his side. This way he had at least one ally in the room. The others were fleeting alliances or all-out rivals for the business soon to be up for grabs.
Luigi Ferretti, the old badger’s right-hand man, stepped into the room and walked toward Rossi, an east coast boss. They exchanged a few whispered words, then Rossi put his wine glass down, straightened his suit like a boy being called to the principal’s office, and followed the consigliere.
Stefano was too low on the food chain to receive the call so soon. First the dying man’s old comrades, then the young Turks. No doubt the big pieces of the old man’s empire would be taken by the time his turn came. But even if there were only scraps left, he couldn’t afford not to be here. He had to circle with the other sharks.
His cell phone buzzed. Just short; a text message. He fished it from his pocket and cast a glance at the screen.
Having a great time, but the hotel bed is so empty without you.
He smiled at the thought of Donata in that Parisian five-star hotel, wearing a silken negligee—maybe the one as red as spilled blood—her small breasts and hard nipples pushing against the barely-there fabric. He was damn lucky to have married her rather than taken her as a mistress, even if he did tend to send her away on shopping trips to London, Paris, or New York when he had to get this involved with the family business. Even if, as she put it, she only bought the clothes so she could take them off for him.
His neck was cramping up, so he stood, stretched out, and then headed for the open balcony doors and the salty breeze. In a corner, two men were talking in murmurs, denying him solitude, so he headed down the broad stairs toward the front of the mansion.
The white gravel driveway was lit all the way from the road. Above the rhythmic swell of the ocean sounding from beyond the house, Stefano heard the revving of a powerful, aggressive engine.
A motorcycle, all sharp edges, painted black with white highlights. It zipped along the winding driveway as if it had a race to win, swerving dangerously and then stopping with a dramatic turn, spraying gravel everywhere.
Including across Stefano’s polished leather shoes.
The driver was hunched over the handlebars, wearing a matching full-body leather suit with Kevlar plates.
Like some modernist centaur on wheels.
The driver stepped off, displaying long, long graceful legs and a tiny ass clad in leather. Woman? Lean and angular, but feminine, even when kicking the stand underneath the bike. The helmet came off after a somewhat awkward release. Short, spiky hair beneath. Not a woman—and that jolted through Stefano just as hard as the driver’s cold, motionless, focused expression. In that pale face lurked the blackest, darkest eyes Stefano had ever seen, and lips like they’d been cut with knife blades, perfect, sharp, and deadly.
The driver cast him an annoyed glance—At his proximity? His staring?—but then paused and regarded him longer. No smile, no recognition. Eventually, he turned to hang the helmet from the handlebar.
Stefano backed away, but watched the man unstrap saddlebags just large enough for a proper suit and toiletries.
The driver glanced at him again. “Old guy’s not dead yet?” he asked.
“Not that I know of.”
“Bene.” The driver shrugged. “I’ll go have a shower now. Wanna come?”
What. The. Fuck. He forced himself not to recoil. Think, Stefano. Think. If he’s family. Son? Cousin? Grandson? He couldn’t afford to make enemies here, even if those words—that invitation—could get men killed.
Wanna come? The way he’d said it could have meant anything.
Stefano decided on a sneer. “That would hardly be appropriate.”
The driver shrugged and sauntered past him toward the house. The guards near the door stopped him, but when he produced a piece of paper from inside his leather suit, they let him pass. They even looked a little impressed. Or was it bewildered?
Stefano followed back into the house—not following the driver, though, of course not—and watched him climb the big central staircase inside.
The leather played off his body in interesting ways. He tried to ignore the other details—taut piece of ass, broad shoulders, the V-shape of the back at odds with the first impression of femininity when he’d straightened up from the bike.
Not that women had any reason to be here. At least not attractive single women. Stefano shook his head and turned away.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” one man said, casting a baleful eye up the steps.
“He’s Battista’s boy,” another man said, in the far more hushed tones of respect.
“Gianbattista’s getting senile to rely on him,” the other man sneered. “Fucking wild card.”
“Well, seems Battista’s not coming personally.”
Stefano inched closer, ostensibly to settle at one of the small round tables scattered around the house, and pretended to be interested in the glass of salt sticks nobody else had touched.
“What’s he up to these days, anyway?”
“Breeding roses, they say.” The boss ignored his companion’s incredulous snort. “For all intents and purposes, Battista’s retired. I’d say the boy’s making sure nobody comes calling in favors.”
“Security?”
“Oh yeah. He killed Diego Carbone. In self-defense.”
The other man grimaced. “I’d heard Carbone was dead, but not who did him.”
“I have it on good information. He did Diego. Pumped him full of lead and then strangled him. It was a massacre. Diego shot him, too. Put the boy in the hospital for a few months—blood poisoning or some shit like that. People say he’s just as insane as Carbone now.”
“Cazzo.” The man glanced up the stairs, but the driver was gone. “I believe it.” He looked around as if trying to escape the conversation, then stood and followed a servant with a silver tray of canapés.
Stefano made eye contact with the boss who’d been left behind. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing that conversation. Stefano Marino.” Stefano offered his hand.
Gathering information beat sitting near the fireplace being bored. The thought that the driver had killed Diego—an enforcer so violent as to be virtually insane—made him uneasy. He didn’t hear much news from the east coast, wrapped up as he was in the microcosm of his own territory and his immediate interests. But some interesting names in all that. Il Gentiluomo, Gianbattista Falchi, cultured on the outside with his mild manners and graying temples, an old-style consigliere like straight out of The Godfather. Stefano had met him only once, warned and aware that Falchi was a trickster and schemer, yet still not immune to his charisma.
How curious that the old consigliere trusted his security to this young killer who didn’t seem to give a fuck about tradition. Maybe as a retiree with still-considerable influence, Gianbattista Falchi could afford to ignore tradition, too.
“You’re still here,” a voice said at his back.
Stefano turned around to find himself standing way, way too close to the driver. Those black eyes were without light, without reflection. The stare punched the air from his lungs, and those lips . . . God, those lips. Distantly, he heard his conversation partner making his excuses, but he paid the man no mind, and neither did the driver. He could feel the heat from the driver’s body. Imagined touching. Being touched. He blinked and stepped away.
Only then did he realize the driver had changed and showered, as promised. His short hair was still wet, and he was wearing a severe black suit over a white shirt. No tie. The suit was cut to hide the gun under his right shoulder, but also showed off a whole lot of lean muscle. Not an ounce of fat on him.
Stefano swallowed. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“They call me Barracuda.” No smile, just stating a fact. The name was oddly fitting for that expressionless face. “Silvio Spadaro.”
Spadaro was offering his hand. Stefano took it, the grip firm and dry, the skin rough. Of course, he was a killer, a sicario, so he’d have to touch guns enough to harden against them. Stefano swallowed. He shouldn’t be thinking about what this hand touched and how. “Stefano Marino.”
“I know.” Spadaro lifted an eyebrow, and didn’t release Stefano’s hand. “How long have you been waiting for the old man to die?”
“Leukemia takes a while. We’ve had some false alarms in the past.”
“This time it’s real. That’s why I’m here.” Spadaro kept holding his hand, and Stefano realized he was beginning to sweat. It wasn’t fear. The man was just so intense. Not freakish, not insane. Just mental games, psychological warfare. A killer’s job.
“So, how—” he forced his hand from the man’s grip “—is Gianbattista Falchi these days?”
“Sta bene.” Spadaro cast a quick glance around the room. When the eye contact broke, Stefano could breathe again. But then the eyes came back, staring him point-blank in the face. “He sent me to pay his respects.”
“Why’s he not coming personally?”
“Want the truth or a polite lie?”
Stefano huffed. “Surely he’d say goodbye to his old friend?”
“He fucking hates the rest of the family,” Spadaro said flatly. “And he hates the smell of hospitals. The lies, the polite smiles. He said he wouldn’t trust himself not to make a scene.”
Seemed Gianbattista had embraced his retirement. Or saw a danger to himself here. Stefano filed the thought away. “So he figures you of all people won’t?”
Spadaro’s lips quirked. “Maybe I’m here to make sure the old guy meets Death properly this time. Do you know what’s going on in people’s heads here?”
“I have an educated guess.” Stefano reached for the glass of salt sticks, more unnerved than he wanted to admit by the killer’s comments. He didn’t expect violence, but you never really knew with the family, did you?
“Yeah, well, fuck ’em.” Spadaro cast another glance at the assembled Mafiosi. “I wouldn’t change places with any of them.”
Was that a slip of the mask? Calculated provocation? “Oh? Why not?”
“You know what they did to Joey D’Amato?”
Stefano straightened. Why would Spadaro mention the faggot? Way too crass and unsettling, especially considering he’d been vanished, not even a body to bury.
Spadaro studied him, head tilted. “That’s why I don’t belong to anybody,” he said quietly, but with the force and conviction of a kidney punch. “I’m not following their fucking rules.” He swept the crowd again with his expressionless black eyes, then fixed them on Stefano’s face.
Stefano’s lips tingled. It was still hard to breathe and he had no idea why. He couldn’t let this man intimidate him. Couldn’t be seen as too interested. Barracuda or not—even Gianbattista Falchi’s protetto or not—he could afford zero suspicion. He’d be dead. Fuck Spadaro for flustering him so, and fuck himself for getting flustered, but he’d never show it. “Well, give Falchi my best wishes when you return to him.”
“Will do.” Spadaro sketched an ironic salute and stepped away.
Stefano fought the urge to straighten his tie, fought harder against the urge to watch the Barracuda cut through the assembled groups of men.
He caught Vince’s gaze, and though his bodyguard relaxed a little, he still looked worried. Stefano could see why. A sicario who belonged to a “retired” consigliere, and not just any pensioner, but crafty old Gianbattista Falchi, who’d been more powerful in his own right than many bosses. That was all manner of disturbing. “Paying his respects” by being anything but respectful. Mentioning D’Amato like killing the faggot was somehow wrong. Mentioning him in fucking public.
He stood around, restless, then noticed Luigi approach Spadaro and touch his shoulder. The black eyes flared and Spadaro glowered at Luigi as if he were about to take the older man’s head clean off. But he reached into his suit jacket, pulled his gun from his holster with two fingers, and handed it to Luigi. The consigliere took it without batting an eyelash, then went upstairs. Spadaro followed.
Vince stepped to his side. “That’s really fucking impressive. Arrives here and gets seen almost immediately.”
“Well, he was sent by Gianbattista Falchi.”
Vince nodded solemnly. “I don’t like his attitude.”
“I fucking hate it.” The way the man’s presence made his skin tingle wasn’t hatred, but that wasn’t something he could admit. Spadaro seemed to have that effect on people. The fact that he clearly carried weight and power was even worse.
So what was this guy’s game?

Okay... Your favorite time.... Giveaway Time!!!!

This will be the rule for all Giveaways this week...

All Giveaways will end Friday, November 18th at Midnight....

The winners will all be picked and announced....

Monday, November 21st!

Good luck!

Now time for Aleksandr's Giveaway!

Aleksandr has so kindly let me give away anything from his backlist...

Except Counterpunch. Not sure why!

What do I want from you.....

Well, you have to leave your email address ~ A MUST.

You have to be a follower of this blog ~ A MUST.