Monday, November 25, 2013

Suicide Ride: The Platinum Man excerpt by E Llewellyn

You hitch your lift with this man, You'll have your blood on your hand ... in Suicide Ride: The Platinum Man by E Llewellyn.

AN OLDER MAN WITH NO FUTURE, AND NOTHING TO LIVE FOR … Norman Dimond is the Silver Man, an over-the-hill LA-based rock 'n roll record producer who has seen better days. A set-for-life bisexual with a hard spot for younger men, he squanders his nights hustling cash-strapped gay-for-pay desperadoes who swagger into his den on the Sunset Strip, looking for drive-by love in all the right places. Lonely and at loose ends, he longs for a worthy dance partner, but despairs of finding him … Until one night, when he least expects it, in waltzes … 

A YOUNGER MAN WITH A PAST, AND A DEATH WISH … Johnny Gellis is the Platinum Man, a beautiful straight wreck who needs fixing—and who wants exactly what Norman Dimond has to give: a platform, a stage. But does he want it badly enough? Desperate to outrun his demons, he's driving himself crazy, and is heading straight for the edge. Can Norman save him, before it's too late?

TWO LIVES ABOUT TO COLLIDE IN A SUICIDE RIDE … When Norman meets Johnny, their heavy-metal fenders bend, sending the male-on-male sparks flying. Johnny's number-one-with-a-bullet hit "Suicide Ride" blows Norman's mind, while his number-99-with-an-anchor tattoo pricks up more than just his ears. And though this hell-bent, cliff-hanging headbanger is the man-boy of his dreams, keeping him on course turns out to be a waking nightmare. Can Norman do it? Can he put him on top while stopping him from breaking down and destroying them both? The deeper Dimond digs, the darker it gets; and as the secrets and suspense multiply, so, too, do the lies. Johnny is hiding something, that much Norman is sure of; and what's worse, he begins to feel the tug of even darker and ever more violent undertows—sinister, malevolent drags that Gellis himself cannot spin-rinse away. 

Although SUCIDE RIDE: THE PLATINUM MAN (Book One of the SUICIDE RIDE series) is marketed as Gay Literary Fiction, its target audience is much broader. It will appeal to anyone who relishes a riveting story well told, to all lovers of literature, regardless of orientation, all readers who get off on beauty and precision in language, who dig delving deep into the minds of eerily alive characters so real you need to prick them with a pin just to be sure ... 

At its heart, SUICIDE RIDE is a beautiful, lyrical, raw, and palpably poignant love story, a paean to the blood pact made in the dark between two lost, lonely souls. An archetypal tale evoking the age-old quest for immortality brokered by those man-made devils within and without, it speaks deeply to anyone who has ever struggled to square his circle in the world. 

Suicide Ride: The Platinum Man
Amazon Digital Services, Inc. (September 29,2013)


Yes, this was Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles, California.  And it really was about five o'clock in the morning.  But there the script ended.

Blowing into town, he blitzed down the Strip, fueled by high-octane adrenalin.  A sat-nav - hardly!  He was not that type: he didn't need any talking to by some wise-ass Tom-Tom leering over his shoulder telling him what to do, when to do it, and where to go.

As he neared Amoeba Music on his right, he got a wheel, deciding at the last second to flip the Strip a bird, ditching its crank, kinetic energy and high strung lights for the calmer canal of Cahuenga, beating it north toward the mist-hung lavendar hills.

The harder he gunned it, the further away they got.  On the horizon straight ahead, nestled high up in those deep purple knolls, one flinty prick of light stood out, luring him on with the promise of a bed.  Flickering through the festoons of smog, it offered the barest hint of a cantilivered, white cubist haunt clinging to the ledge.  And so he followed that star, for as long as its limping little flame held out. 

Finally at the Empire Night Club, he lost sight of that goodly light, and so headed West.

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Monday, November 18, 2013

Not As Easy As It Looks excerpt by Jaime Samms

In Not As Easy As It Looks by Jaime Samms, Don Jenkins will do anything for a happy, thriving family and home. When he discovers that Griff McAllister, his life partner and love since high school, seems to be losing faith in him, he’s at a loss for how to mend the relationship. Then Howard Campbell is added to the mix, a man Don and Griff both love beyond words, and jealousy and mistrust threaten not just their bond, but even Don’s ability to keep his farm viable. 

Nearly losing Howard in an accident serves as a wakeup call. They begin to pull their relationship out of the muck and work to remember why they came together in the first place. If they can figure out how to help one another and make sure each man gets what he needs, the trio might build the loving future they’ve dared to hope for. They have to be brave enough to commit every resource they can muster—especially trust, understanding, and acceptance—and realize true love is never as easy as it looks.

Not As Easy As It Looks
Dreamspinner Press (October 31/November 1, 2013)
ISBN: 9781627982160 (ebook)
ISBN:  1627982175 (paperback)


A low growl issued from Griff’s chest and he turned. “You’ve got to be the densest person on the fucking planet.”

Don blinked at him. Griff never swore.

“I don’t understand.”

“Obviously.” He shook his head, tossing strands of gold and sunlight over his face and past the clear blue of his eyes, like wheat on the horizon. And that look went on forever.

Until Griff was too close to focus on and of much more immediate importance was the taste of the coffee they’d been drinking and the mint gum Griff always chewed. Eclipsing whatever was behind his eyelids—closed now because there was nothing to look at—was the feel of calloused fingers on his cheek, then his neck, and the slither of wet tongue into his mouth, past lips still parted in shock.

Griff was kissing him.

It was clumsy and wet and more real than any kiss Howard had presented him with. It was as strange as a boy stepping between him and threat and punching it in the face. And it was as ordinary as a boy climbing into the cab of his father’s truck like he belonged there.

He hadn’t even gotten his head around the fact of it before it was gone.

Griff watched him, eyes wide, fingers still lightly connected to his face.

“You… smell like horses,” Don said.

Blond brows collapsed in confusion and the blue clouded over.

“Howard never kissed me like that.”

“Holy fuck!” Griff spun and reached for the door.

“Howard’s gone!” Don shouted. “He’s gone, Griff.”

“What do you mean? Gone?”

“We had a fight. He took off and I haven’t even spoken to him since.”

Griff’s head bobbed once, slowly. “That’s why you’ve been so….”

Don waited, but his friend didn’t say anything else. “So what?” he asked finally.


“I’m not sad over Howard.”


Another swear.

“I’m not.” And he wasn’t, exactly. At least, he didn’t think he was. “He asked me if I thought what we did was… gross.”

“I don’t think I want to—”

“Just listen.” Don knew Griff probably didn’t want to know what they’d been doing. But it was part of the thing that mattered. Part of the foundation, now. “I guess… he thought I was ashamed of it.”

“Are you?”

Don shrugged. It didn’t matter that Griff couldn’t see the gesture. “Doesn’t matter what I think of it. Doesn’t change anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“We did it once… I don’t even know. It was sort of by accident.”

Griff snorted. “Oops. I fell and kissed a boy.” He shook his head. “You’re so full of shit.”

More swearing. He’d never heard Griff swear before, and here he’d dropped them all in the space of five minutes.

“I don’t know. It wasn’t planned. It just happened. I wouldn’t have done it, or done it again if I didn’t like it. I kissed Kerrie-Lynn once, too, and that was gross.”

Griff chuckled. “Yeah. Wendy Scofield. Course, I was, like, ten, so what did I know, right?”

“You know when it isn’t what you want.”

“So you wanted Howard?”

“Listen.” Don held his breath. He wanted to explain. To make Griff understand, but he didn’t want to make Howard the bad guy. He hadn’t actually done anything wrong. If anyone had been in the wrong, it had been Don, not Howard.

“Okay,” Griff said slowly. “I’m listening. So talk.”

Don let out a breath and nodded. “So I told him I didn’t tell anyone about him and me because I didn’t want to get the shit kicked out of me when people found out.”

“I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you,” Griff said, his voice fierce and quiet and full of all those things in him that made him stick up for small, skinny boys he didn’t know.

“I know you wouldn’t.”

And there. That was not the same answer he’d given Howard at all, was it?

“I know you wouldn’t, Griff. That’s what Howard said, too. I told him, basically, he couldn’t protect me, and he wasn’t worth taking the chance. Well.” Don drew in a breath and let it out, because the next bit was him taking a hammer to his own foundation in hopes he was just knocking away the loose flakes and not smashing it to smithereens. “What I told him was that not even you were worth it.”

Griff gasped.

“Wait. Let me explain.”

“There’s more? Christ!”

“I said that, and it was cruel, Griff. Don’t you see? It pretty much told him he was less to me than you are.”

“And yet I’m not worth taking a risk for.”

Don blinked hard and swallowed. How to explain he’d been wrong about that?

Finally, Griff turned just enough to look at him, and there were tears on his cheeks. 

“Shit. I’m sorry.” He was dense. He had no idea what he was apologizing for. But Griff was crying and there wasn’t anyone else around who could have caused it. He was lousy at this shit.

“For what?” Griff asked, sniffing and wiping the back of his hand across his cheek.

Don shrugged.

“This is stupid,” Griff muttered, turning back to face the front of the cab.

“I guess.” Don smiled weakly and reached to turn the engine back on. It roared to life and when he glanced over at Griff, his friend’s proximity made his heart jump.

This kiss was less wet and a little longer. Griff leaned over to put his mouth next to Don’s ear after and shouted, “Don’t kiss Howard anymore.”

Howard had left.

Don grinned like an idiot as he got the behemoth machine moving again.

Griff had kissed him. Griff was his. His what? He grinned wider. Just his. That was good enough.

Monday, November 11, 2013

Audio Books

Three gay fiction masters whose work has been excerpted on this blog.  The dates these excerpts were posted are given, as well as the link to the audio book editions.  So, sample their written words and sample the audio books of the same volumes.

Victor Banis

Longhorns - 9/16/13, 3/19/12, 2/23/09 and 6/9/08
Deadly Nightshade - 4/20/09
Deadly Wrong - 3/16/09
Deadly Dreams - 7/25/11
Deadly Slumber - 10/7/13
audio sample links:

Dorien Grey

The Butcher's Son - 1/21/13
His Name is John - 2/6/12, 6/23/08
Caesar's Fall - 11/15/10
Calico - 2/9/09
Short Circuits - 7/11/11, 6/10/13
audio sample links:

Rick R Reed

Bashed - 4/6/09
IM -2/18/08
Blue Moon Cafe - 5/31/10, 4/9/12
audio sample links:

Monday, November 4, 2013

Pretty Boy Dead excerpt by Jon Michaelsen

A murdered male stripper. A missing go-go dancer. A city councilman on the hook. Can Atlanta homicide detective Sergeant Kendall Parker solve the vicious crime while remaining safely hidden behind the closet door?

When the body of a young man is found in a popular midtown park, police and local media quickly pin the brutal killing on a homeless gay kid with AIDS. But Homicide Detective Sgt. Kendall Parker isn’t convinced, even when the suspect is accused of assaulting a police detective with a deadly weapon.

City leaders want the heinous murder solved yesterday and they jump at the chance to pin the crime on the drug-craving teen. Besides, it’s an election year and remaining in office is their top priority, even at the sacrifice of the young man. Sgt. Parker isn’t easily persuaded and is determined to prove Hopper’s innocence, despite protest from his colleagues and the great citizens of Atlanta. And all threatens to expose the deep secret Parker has carefully hidden from his comrades for years.

Pretty Boy Dead
Wilde City Press (November 6, 2013)


The call came through Sergeant Kendall Parker’s cell during his regular morning coffee run to the Landmark diner on Cheshire Bridge. Moments later, the detective slapped a blue light on the roof of his silver-blue cruiser and sped through the Morningside neighborhood, an overpriced in-town section on the northern fringes of the city. He turned off Cheshire Bridge to Piedmont Road and punched the accelerator after maneuvering around a few startled drivers. The traffic proved thicker than he’d expected this morning, forcing him to jockey along Piedmont Avenue and zigzag through the southbound lanes. The call had directed him to Piedmont Park, a popular one hundred and sixty-eight acre triangle of land in the heart of Midtown, originally named for its crop-producing milieu connecting downtown and the tony Buckhead community lying northeast of the city. A body found in a runoff ditch at the park’s southernmost corner had provided no identification or apparent cause of death. Dumped several days ago, the body had washed downstream after last night’s heavy spring rain. 

Turning east onto Monroe, Parker spotted a pair of blue and whites angled on 10thStreet across from Grady High School’s new football and track field. Early rising joggers sprinkled the gravel running track that circled the perimeter of the field, several gawking at the flashing lights invading their area.
The Criminal Investigation Division dispatched at least three investigators to the scene of every death in the city: two from Homicide and another from either Sex Crimes or the Robbery unit. CID personnel received their orders from the homicide detective on call even though the homicide sergeant ultimately ran the investigation. Sgt. Kendall Parker led the charge today. Most referred to him by last name only. Parker was a major-crimes investigator for the department, CID, his rank Master Sergeant, a ten year veteran with APD, the last six with the Homicide Squad.
Parker ran two wheels of his car over the curb and killed the motor, extricating his linebacker frame from the vehicle and striding across the grassy plane toward the dark blue uniform standing at the perimeter of a paved walking trail. He flashed his badge to a beat cop standing guard at the scene, who pointed him in the direction of the body without introduction.  
Head down to protect his face from assault of thorns, he trudged through a thicket of overgrowth and underbrush, the branches snatching at his trousers and poking through the fabric, nicking his flesh. He emerged at the crest of a wide drainage ditch. Looking out, he noticed the storm basin sliced through the southeastern edge of the park and vanished through a giant steel cylinder set beneath 10th Street. He came upon a second cop sitting on the angled concrete about thirty yards from the body and stuck out his badge again.  
“Anyone touched the body?”
“No sir,” the man called as he shielded his eyes from the sun with an upraised arm and stood to meet the sergeant. “Ain’t let nobody down there, sir,” he said, jutting out his chin toward the corpse below. “Waitin’ for the MPO.” He followed along, becoming alarmed when Parker didn’t stop. “You can’t go down there.” 
The sergeant reached the precipice of the concrete gully. A body lay tangled in a web of branches and debris, face up in a flow of shallow water. The stiff appeared wrapped in a type of overcoat, raincoat, or dark canvas outerwear. A strong odor often associated with a bloated corpse drifted in the breeze. Parker squatted, angled his six –foot four inch frame to make the steep trek into the ditch and walked the edge of water this side of the cadaver, careful not to contaminate the scene. 
“Ignore me. I won’t touch a thing,” he said, cursing the cop under his breath. Damn rookie.
The officer’s faced glowed red. He perched himself in a spot above the basin, jotting the detective’s name and badge number in his spiral notepad while, no doubt, awaiting his supervisor.
The detective pushed mirrored shades over his head of thick, dark curls and withdrew a pocket notepad that was as much a part of him as the badge he had clipped on his belt. He noted the time, location, and weather conditions. Surveying the area, he sketched out the scene while completing a spiral search, working his way toward the remains. A crime scene crew would trudge the same route when they arrived to videotape the area scene, but Parker needed his own notes for later recall. 
“Call came in at 6:42 a.m.,” a voice said from behind the sergeant. 
Parker scowled and glanced over his shoulder, recognizing Timothy Brooks, an overzealous rookie detective recently assigned to the squad. 
Brooks clambered into the gully, slipping and sliding on his backside until the heels of his large wingtips caught hold at the bottom of the ditch, but not before his right foot landed in the water. 
“Watch it,” Parker pointed and snapped. “You’ll fuck up the scene.”
“Sorry.” Brooks stepped back shaking water from his shoe. “Homeless man spotted the body at first light.” He continued without missing a beat and brushed the seat of his pressed khakis. “Perelli’s taking his statement up near the toilet-house. Dispatch traced the call to the emergency phone up there.”
Brooks sported a wide, Cheshire cat grin as he approached his new boss and stopped several feet from the body, tucking both hands in the flat-front pockets of his trousers. The beat cop resting on the embankment ventured forward. 
Parker shook his head and waved his arms at both of them. “Get the hell back.”
Brooks obliged, retracing his steps double-time and shuffling the objecting officer back up the embankment. The cop shouted expletives indecipherable to Parker as he turned his attention back to the cadaver. Brooks had to learn his preference for spending a few minutes alone at a fresh crime scene, so best start now. Parker viewed the precious time alone a ritual of sorts, a rite of passage earned by years of long hours spent investigating the deaths of others. He’d be chastised by his commanding officer later.
A body commanded the heart of any homicide. Parker’s badge required him to confront the remains, regardless of circumstance or condition. Years of experience had taught him emotional detachment was the key to any successful investigation and although that theory may work for some, deep down inside he knew better. Soon, he’d relinquish a piece of his soul to this abandoned corpse, as with every other that followed. Truth be told, he died a little death at the beginning of every homicide investigation.