tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70213644142498977662024-03-14T11:40:29.626-07:00Rick R. Reed RealityAuthor Rick R. Reed's Official Online PresenceRick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.comBlogger1220125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-54239543555803391462024-03-14T11:39:00.000-07:002024-03-14T11:39:51.734-07:00Now Out in Audiobook HUSBAND HUNTERS<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZCHGRJkX64_6ZGCPVR2LdUh4lgmrI_YIeeEFwzxrNQT2-BeOuK4K9_TPFiqZZ4HxXgRfd-jVOQD2A701X5RbegrdBCkmh7Eme0AdIxf4dOOe6UPVS9QcBnr1ItmeIH187Y5MR4YN1PDWArTc1ahZ5HbP4lWDrDG4IlWGr-8Rp6hs4djx4JdA-smE4aZyz/s1080/NOW%20OUT!%20(1)%20copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="566" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZCHGRJkX64_6ZGCPVR2LdUh4lgmrI_YIeeEFwzxrNQT2-BeOuK4K9_TPFiqZZ4HxXgRfd-jVOQD2A701X5RbegrdBCkmh7Eme0AdIxf4dOOe6UPVS9QcBnr1ItmeIH187Y5MR4YN1PDWArTc1ahZ5HbP4lWDrDG4IlWGr-8Rp6hs4djx4JdA-smE4aZyz/w566-h566/NOW%20OUT!%20(1)%20copy.jpg" width="566" /></a></div><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Excited that my #romanticcomedy, HUSBAND HUNTERS, is NOW OUT in #audiobook! Narrated by the talented Wes Landry, the book is a fun take on: </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">* reality TV, <br /></span><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">* the perils of dating, <br /></span><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">* and the idea that the one you've always been looking for just might be hiding in plain sight. <br /></span><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">BUY: </span><a class="x1fey0fg xmper1u x1edh9d7" href="https://www.amazon.com/Audible-Husband-Hunters/dp/B0CXBT592X"><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">https://www.amazon.com/Audible-Husband-Hunters/dp/B0CXBT592X</span></a><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b>ABOUT THE BOOK</b> </span><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipiwCnE0gng_ziSHPzmn6-WoV5ataGIdPFmz7rf4TaGlBRSijXA1kRjKHe-NBKJJ2LPzUxBouYN8swyFVJYm5ccmQ4-t1LgWMsWOyi13WpYNOpZlbsvnRvnYUfmMS7e7bhFin0q_C-OWKq3wf5XfdINSAJqrs2RB-n5PLicPxjVL-g5eLD_mmsWW8RE5zK/s1000/1293284174144562625.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="1000" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipiwCnE0gng_ziSHPzmn6-WoV5ataGIdPFmz7rf4TaGlBRSijXA1kRjKHe-NBKJJ2LPzUxBouYN8swyFVJYm5ccmQ4-t1LgWMsWOyi13WpYNOpZlbsvnRvnYUfmMS7e7bhFin0q_C-OWKq3wf5XfdINSAJqrs2RB-n5PLicPxjVL-g5eLD_mmsWW8RE5zK/s320/1293284174144562625.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />You never know where the love of your life might turn up.</span><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">When Matt Connelly suggests to his best buddy Cody Mook that they head to downtown Seattle to audition for the gay reality TV show Husband Hunters, both agree the experience might be a lark and a chance to grab their fifteen minutes of fame.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">What they don't know is that the show, modeled after HGTV's House Hunters, will open doors of longing neither expected. For Matt, the secret love he has long harbored for Cody might be thrust into the spotlight. Cody might realize his search for his perfect-forever-man extends no farther than the man who's always been at his side.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Husband Hunters promises laughter, tears, and, just maybe, a happy ever after. Will Cody and Matt's story be one of best-friends-to-lovers -- or an outright disaster?</span><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">#ownvoices #mmromancenovel </span></span>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-82679811011264178602024-03-04T14:15:00.000-08:002024-03-04T14:15:52.865-08:00Jeffrey Dahmer and Me<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAfhITj2IooVmoA6cnexF1v9kxe1BMrOYJX8FmPcm5tc09yCydyp2rmIQpenmN-9d4UpHfVbKkVdqM7CkPYq-AkVfNH1zRHPtrMHt-AbUyXTZsSS8-NmbNENGr6qV0XSD301BJ0oVw9WcaX7l6jMdaRHasQ4OhTlBj9NSTh4AGNZ6Lsgk_lmZYwOQ6Rw/s750/TheManfromMilwaukee-f500.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAfhITj2IooVmoA6cnexF1v9kxe1BMrOYJX8FmPcm5tc09yCydyp2rmIQpenmN-9d4UpHfVbKkVdqM7CkPYq-AkVfNH1zRHPtrMHt-AbUyXTZsSS8-NmbNENGr6qV0XSD301BJ0oVw9WcaX7l6jMdaRHasQ4OhTlBj9NSTh4AGNZ6Lsgk_lmZYwOQ6Rw/w426-h640/TheManfromMilwaukee-f500.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="m8h3af8h l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhql8FW5fyyo7kxzSwNDlZ_RApD88FRfrpdC7QOBy3alB40uq5vcU14VAfFlUbL6NEVsm76cL6i1csPRdWHTCa4Oy42QPsEefXapt_Xjo789RU-CFW9rjC1DbT4BvtvT6rCPHa-G7HhfqOSpgzNGlnB64QcbTW1kTVqcWXz8xDe9vXnusAMb5C_BokdTA/s1481/MV5BM2IwNWY2YWEtNTU4Ni00MmE2LTljZjItNWQ0NzBlNjJiMzBiXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMTQxNzMzNDI@._V1_FMjpg_UX1000_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1481" data-original-width="1000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhql8FW5fyyo7kxzSwNDlZ_RApD88FRfrpdC7QOBy3alB40uq5vcU14VAfFlUbL6NEVsm76cL6i1csPRdWHTCa4Oy42QPsEefXapt_Xjo789RU-CFW9rjC1DbT4BvtvT6rCPHa-G7HhfqOSpgzNGlnB64QcbTW1kTVqcWXz8xDe9vXnusAMb5C_BokdTA/w270-h400/MV5BM2IwNWY2YWEtNTU4Ni00MmE2LTljZjItNWQ0NzBlNjJiMzBiXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMTQxNzMzNDI@._V1_FMjpg_UX1000_.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><br />Ryan Murphy's <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a class="qi72231t nu7423ey n3hqoq4p r86q59rh b3qcqh3k fq87ekyn bdao358l fsf7x5fv rse6dlih s5oniofx m8h3af8h l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk srn514ro oxkhqvkx rl78xhln nch0832m cr00lzj9 rn8ck1ys s3jn8y49 icdlwmnq cxfqmxzd d1w2l3lo tes86rjd" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/dahmer?__eep__=6&__cft__[0]=AZV1btLhz4Syry8PmgJ3fxppFMsALUPaSRfaqiVkHc93Opzd1yNLxSIDelRqIKOrJyLzT3HMZLkA0GsmlB41wxaL5UBqArJJE-OUqPh8nXCUP3wn_q4oPmk3IWf2mc4-PMhy9ecemMz2znPaS94zy5HM_5ni3Pa_TeVJtKnw8LwJ6gmRTgPpvtlYRmszri73zoo&__tn__=*NK-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">#Dahmer</a></span> series saddened, outraged, and depressed me, but also uplifted me and in awe of the reverence and respect with which it treated the families of the victims and the ineptitude of law enforcement (who could have prevented some of these deaths had they not been blatantly racist and homophobic).</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I agree that no one needs to watch stuff like this if it disturbs them or simply isn't their cup of tea. But I </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">believe there are benefits to understanding the human condition, both light and dark, and media that allows us a glimpse into the shadows can help us understand ourselves and each other better, because we're all composed of both darkness and light.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For me, it's an aid in my writing about real people in my work (who sometimes happen to be killers).</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Overall, I thought the series was, in the end, a testimony to love, redemption, and perseverance.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">For more about the case--and my spin on it--check out <b><i>THE MAN FROM MILWAUKEE</i></b>, my award-winning take on how a closeted young man, filled with self-loathing, becomes obsessed with the killer at the time of his arrest in the summer of 1991: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08C26Z5TM">https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B08C26Z5TM</a> (also available in audiobook, paperback, and an Italian edition).</div></div></div><p><b>ABOUT THE BOOK</b></p><p><span class="a-text-bold" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 700 !important;">2021 Rainbow Awards Winner<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />* Best Gay Book of the Year<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />* Best Gay Mystery/Thriller</span><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />It's the summer of 1991 and serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer has been arrested. His monstrous crimes inspire dread around the globe. But not so much for Emory Hughes, a closeted young man in Chicago who sees in the cannibal killer a kindred spirit, someone who fights against the dark side of his own nature, as Emory does. He reaches out to Dahmer in prison via letters.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />The letters become an escape—from Emory's mother dying from AIDS, from his uncaring sister, from his dead-end job in downtown Chicago, but most of all, from his own self-hatred.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Dahmer isn't Emory's only lifeline as he begins a tentative relationship with Tyler Kay. He falls for him and, just like Dahmer, wonders how he can get Tyler to stay. Emory's desire for love leads him to confront his own grip on reality. For Tyler, the threat of the mild-mannered Emory seems inconsequential, but not taking the threat seriously is at his own peril.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Can Emory discover the roots of his own madness before it's too late and he finds himself following in the footsteps of the man from Milwaukee?</span></p>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-39946532472620226582024-01-21T13:02:00.000-08:002024-01-21T13:02:07.863-08:00NEW AND NOTABLE: D.B. and Me by Rob Rosen<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfTQsnTpErDtkVxbeWRRKIgwdOO6C58wNaFJXUqiMhPm-JW6fQR6ep1bGJv1TBoRUapX9DlltrQ2k76eS0fsmDAzTTk8gJhdB0H7_ij0lv6rWQwYmJ9TDnAET7uZiCSTBJgJ9Kn936gep1gSdsloDrM-FB-JzAVKCv5jEdDaP7clS2n88P14aO8W2BEHr/s1500/71GUr2duAML._SL1500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrfTQsnTpErDtkVxbeWRRKIgwdOO6C58wNaFJXUqiMhPm-JW6fQR6ep1bGJv1TBoRUapX9DlltrQ2k76eS0fsmDAzTTk8gJhdB0H7_ij0lv6rWQwYmJ9TDnAET7uZiCSTBJgJ9Kn936gep1gSdsloDrM-FB-JzAVKCv5jEdDaP7clS2n88P14aO8W2BEHr/w426-h640/71GUr2duAML._SL1500_.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br /> <i>My friend, Rob Rosen has a new book out and it sounds wonderful. I can't wait to read it!</i><p></p><p>ABOUT THE BOOK</p><p><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">In the gripping tale of </span><span class="a-text-italic" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic !important;">D.B. and Me</span><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">, the enigmatic hijacker D.B. Cooper parachutes into the unknown with $200,000 in ransom money, but little does he know that his daring escape is just the beginning of an unforeseen journey filled with mystery, suspense, and steamy romance.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />D.B., now Tim, finds himself along the banks of the Columbia River attempting to fade into the shadows. However, fate has other plans when he encounters Adam, a charismatic stranger who’s also in hiding. The air becomes charged with anticipation as the two men become entangled in a mysterious dance, each harboring secrets that could shatter the fragile equilibrium they've quickly established.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Tim's initial plans to vanish into the vast expanse of Canada are abruptly put on hold as the magnetic pull of Adam draws him into a world where passion and danger collide. As their connection deepens while they wander through the snow-covered forests of the Pacific Northwest, so does the labyrinth of unanswered questions surrounding their pasts. The suspense thickens with every stolen glance, every shared secret, as Tim and Adam navigate a love affair shadowed by the lingering echoes of several daring crimes, all against the backdrop of the Vietnam War.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />As the story unfolds, readers are taken on a heart-pounding journey through a landscape of intrigue, where the line between right and wrong blurs, and the boundaries of love are tested. Will Tim's past catch up with him, will Adam’s, or will they find a way to rewrite the narrative that destiny has penned for them?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /></span><span class="a-text-italic" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: italic !important;">D.B. and Me</span><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"> is a riveting exploration of love in the face of danger, a tale where passion and suspense interweave, leaving readers breathless and eagerly turning each page to unravel the secrets hidden within the folds of this captivating romance. Will Tim find redemption or be swallowed by the sadness of his past? And what about Adam and his troubled family and the ever-nagging reminders of a horrible war that still plague him? Dive into the depths of mystery and desire in this thrilling novel that will keep you on the edge until the very end.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/D-B-Me-Rob-Rosen-ebook/dp/B0CRH5Y5D6" target="_blank">Click here</a> to get your copy.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-family: "Amazon Ember", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></p>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-60183956066786435622023-12-22T08:42:00.000-08:002023-12-22T08:42:56.345-08:00NOW OUT! HERE COMES THE SUN A Poignant Vampire Tale <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9Iwgq9CGatQR5wJsHo2zzR4QdUvpCA2dr81ltk3bQwrkKqgMen_4XozrOl4jWLF3xfJqQ_ZyfUZgTmngkIpI4UlDqRTnXbljbS6tuDQEi8g21bJbchwCuDq-kHu5O6oVAGWNrzT8Mm2ZH10P5SinO53lTXDjIqs5rQi33wK0G1nd6JsUSKDQyuk9D-kY/s2250/a%20vampire%20tale%20FINAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1410" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9Iwgq9CGatQR5wJsHo2zzR4QdUvpCA2dr81ltk3bQwrkKqgMen_4XozrOl4jWLF3xfJqQ_ZyfUZgTmngkIpI4UlDqRTnXbljbS6tuDQEi8g21bJbchwCuDq-kHu5O6oVAGWNrzT8Mm2ZH10P5SinO53lTXDjIqs5rQi33wK0G1nd6JsUSKDQyuk9D-kY/w402-h640/a%20vampire%20tale%20FINAL.jpg" width="402" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Very proud of my haunting story about a vampire on the cusp of an important decision...</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In the ethereal stillness of a desert mountaintop, Asa Beck, a timeless figure bound by the chains of immortality, grapples with the weight of his existence. The impending sunrise paints the horizon with hues of amber and gold, signaling both beauty and an inevitable reckoning for this centuries-old vampire.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As Asa perches on the precipice of his eternal twilight, he confronts a past etched with torment and shadows—a legacy of immortality that bears the scars of a life lived in perpetual darkness. The origin of his immortal curse emerges like a haunting melody, weaving through his thoughts—a twisted path that seduced him into embracing the shadows within, while a relentless thirst clawed at the fabric of his soul.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Yet amid this bleak tapestry, a bittersweet ember glows—the memory of a forbidden love. In the vast expanse of his endless night, there existed one soul that dared to intertwine with his. A human heart that beat in synchrony with his own, a beacon of light that briefly illuminated the abyss of his existence.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">With the impending sunrise heralding an existential crossroad, Asa's mind wanders to the pivotal choice that awaits him. Does he continue his existence as a creature of the night, forever haunted by the echoes of his past and the insatiable hunger that defines him? Or does he yearn for redemption, seeking solace in the eternal slumber that awaits with the breaking dawn?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">As the first rays of light crest the horizon, casting elongated shadows upon the desolate landscape, Asa Beck, the wanderer cursed with immortality, stands at the nexus of decision. His fate, eternal and uncertain, hangs in the balance—a pivotal moment that will define the trajectory of his timeless existence.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">In this tale of eternal struggle and poignant love, Asa Beck's journey transcends the realms of mortality and immortality. It delves into the depths of the human spirit, exploring the haunting beauty of love against the backdrop of an endless night—a saga that echoes the universal quest for purpose and redemption in the face of eternity.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0f1419;">Grab yours and read by the light of the sun:</span></span></div><div><span style="color: #0f1419; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CQRLW3GQ">https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CQRLW3GQ</a></span></div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-57351370204696448772023-12-19T21:12:00.000-08:002023-12-19T21:12:25.213-08:00Homeless for the Holidays--My Two Christmas Stories<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEin9NM5SdSLV3yvFpSEH5o0h6z1pzvgNpPpmGPw-YlASOu9IQPBKP9lYVEZho6q0Es8MnUbFeq73FnfTfvK4Hs5162vYyTJi4RcmU_cPGM6JaLKFGrYi6wwWjD6ulZMwQM-2RN7SpUTV2Gikh10z11-n0rjo3p1PsRPntNgmupw74tPQN4W-YnSfzgong=s2000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="2000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEin9NM5SdSLV3yvFpSEH5o0h6z1pzvgNpPpmGPw-YlASOu9IQPBKP9lYVEZho6q0Es8MnUbFeq73FnfTfvK4Hs5162vYyTJi4RcmU_cPGM6JaLKFGrYi6wwWjD6ulZMwQM-2RN7SpUTV2Gikh10z11-n0rjo3p1PsRPntNgmupw74tPQN4W-YnSfzgong=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
In the mood for a little holiday poignancy? I have two tales that just might bring a tear or two to your eye....<br />
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<b><u><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZ85_lmAt_18RHNynU5SmH9wlyoYEjT3jZ6Tpxjj1bsG-ObgDD9Cr8m2HHBEbueawRzSd5OJLaOfzfyNv1YJ6idxAEuDlsqljAo2_0KI09gpTtFqNsLzN-WnA4V8G8V-MCFYQ6CbjFcyJ7O8FtQk_3KH04mhuDJzxPR1elOFOi3Ze_IBvrF9TK46W_nw=s840" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="560" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZ85_lmAt_18RHNynU5SmH9wlyoYEjT3jZ6Tpxjj1bsG-ObgDD9Cr8m2HHBEbueawRzSd5OJLaOfzfyNv1YJ6idxAEuDlsqljAo2_0KI09gpTtFqNsLzN-WnA4V8G8V-MCFYQ6CbjFcyJ7O8FtQk_3KH04mhuDJzxPR1elOFOi3Ze_IBvrF9TK46W_nw=w261-h393" width="261" /></a></div><br />AN OPEN WINDOW</u></b><br />
<br /><b>BLURB</b><br />Two men. One Christmas Eve that changes the courses of both their lives.<br /><br />Henry’s homeless and only wants a warm place to sleep on the coldest night of the year. A forgotten open window in a darkened house entices Henry inside with the promise of warmth and comfort. He knows it’s bad, but he promises himself he’ll be out before the owner wakes on Christmas morning. Except he oversleeps and the homeowner, Jim, discovers a bearded stranger sawing logs under his dining room table. When the shock and the drama that ensues dies down, Henry and Jim discover that they might have found, quite unexpectedly, the Christmas miracle they’d both been longing for—love and home.<div><br /></div><div>Divine Magazine said:<br />
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<b>REVIEW</b><br />
<i>An Open Window is told retrospectively, which is a tactic that works really well for this short because Reed focuses the reader's attention on Henry and Jim's meeting.</i><br />
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<i>Reed poignantly highlights the plight of homeless people at Christmas and immediately we only feel sympathy for Henry rather than judging him for his choice to enter the open window in someone else's home. I think our emotions are intensified by the fact that Henry thinks about being found frozen on Christmas morning with a mixture of "terror and relief".</i><br />
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<i>Another man who is alone on this Christmas Eve is Jim, who has had a lucky, if upsetting, escape from a man who could not give him the love he deserved. Every reader knows that Christmas is a time to be spent with loved ones and for that reason, we feel compassion for Jim, who feels that "he might never celebrate the holiday again".</i><br />
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<i>Reed brings these two men together unconventionally but beautifully and I adore the fact that Reed is able to capture the Christmas spirit of goodwill in An Open Window. I turned the final page and was left with all the right warm and fuzzy feelings.</i><br />
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<i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Open-Window-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B081XVR3K1" target="_blank">An Open Window</a></b> may only be 21 pages but it is a story perfectly formed!</i><br /><br />
<br />
<b>BUY </b><br />
<a href="https://www.jms-books.com/rick-r-reed-c-224_245/an-open-window-p-3093.html" target="_blank">JMS Books</a><br />
<div>
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Open-Window-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B081XVR3K1" target="_blank">Amazon Kindle</a><br />
<br />
<b>AND... </b><br />
<b>MATCHES</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tDqoR9ibjAUTQc8TGB8O8nUxvEweAbe4tjIPe8wtnSUIZF2TXtV23aJSEVLjpzzUq1TinP2b9OvyRwIfYiLrhzn9TalOztvKrlsVA_7cb8QDKBjJeyf7A4KT2QzwIreTbIh-cjPKhTiB/s1600/51u8YQnXPTL.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tDqoR9ibjAUTQc8TGB8O8nUxvEweAbe4tjIPe8wtnSUIZF2TXtV23aJSEVLjpzzUq1TinP2b9OvyRwIfYiLrhzn9TalOztvKrlsVA_7cb8QDKBjJeyf7A4KT2QzwIreTbIh-cjPKhTiB/s400/51u8YQnXPTL.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
<i>I've always loved the darkly beautiful fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen. "Matches" is my gay take on "The Little Match Girl".</i><br />
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<b>BLURB</b><br />
Christmas Eve should be a night filled with magic and love. But for Anderson, down on his luck and homeless in Chicago's frigid chill, it's a fight for survival. Whether he's sleeping on the el, or holed up in an abandoned car, all he really has are his memories to keep him warm-memories of a time when he loved a man named Welk and the world was perfect. When Anderson finds a book of discarded matches on the sidewalk, he pockets them. Later, trying to keep the cold at bay hunkered down in a church entryway, Anderson discovers the matches are the key to bringing his memories of Welk, happiness, and security to life. Within their flames, visions dance-and perhaps a reunion with the man he loved most.<br />
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Matches-poignant-beloved-Christian-Andersen-ebook/dp/B00Q1UTSA6" target="_blank">BUY for .99 on Amazon Kindle</a> (FREE for Kindle Unlimited Readers)<br />
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</div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-76756322076004792892023-11-17T15:10:00.000-08:002023-11-17T15:13:23.382-08:00Now Out in Audiobook THE COUPLE NEXT DOOR<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgION_geeWX98GhyphenhyphencGcrCfq9T0rXcXohoYZZ5Pzx77sGoXYwERK1OFbAOATpcvyD1IXQOcdK4hpD34h041SlQw5a2pwyHT9vEaSE2tRWjKe9ZzTDgQKjyDMqnnIPeoFvS8shm_1T-nj8N3VO49sE2omk1blXc-rD-xi8u_547f437OLdR23SZjRoABHIQKd/s2400/Narrated%20by%20Paul%20Will.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="2400" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgION_geeWX98GhyphenhyphencGcrCfq9T0rXcXohoYZZ5Pzx77sGoXYwERK1OFbAOATpcvyD1IXQOcdK4hpD34h041SlQw5a2pwyHT9vEaSE2tRWjKe9ZzTDgQKjyDMqnnIPeoFvS8shm_1T-nj8N3VO49sE2omk1blXc-rD-xi8u_547f437OLdR23SZjRoABHIQKd/w470-h470/Narrated%20by%20Paul%20Will.jpg" width="470" /></a></div><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><p><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p>Excited to announce the release of my twist-filled </span><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1qq9wsj xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/romantic?__eep__=6&__cft__[0]=AZVPf_eCDbjLspk7vSqchbohuWE7HQL6l1PSJ3n5oRL2K78Sq7tXedO3AykZaYdEQESqPMaTMuGdD8dbLQtHCkDuGEIIUCqIi2GKsvEj7xOoJd-Dw7MNLurRYM4brRegyseSYKkZEV-6o0cB9QNjIYJ-lfJ3zwKI6m6gXrnG8VYOuQ&__tn__=*NK-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">#romantic</a></span><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1qq9wsj xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/suspense?__eep__=6&__cft__[0]=AZVPf_eCDbjLspk7vSqchbohuWE7HQL6l1PSJ3n5oRL2K78Sq7tXedO3AykZaYdEQESqPMaTMuGdD8dbLQtHCkDuGEIIUCqIi2GKsvEj7xOoJd-Dw7MNLurRYM4brRegyseSYKkZEV-6o0cB9QNjIYJ-lfJ3zwKI6m6gXrnG8VYOuQ&__tn__=*NK-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">#suspense</a></span><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1qq9wsj xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/novel?__eep__=6&__cft__[0]=AZVPf_eCDbjLspk7vSqchbohuWE7HQL6l1PSJ3n5oRL2K78Sq7tXedO3AykZaYdEQESqPMaTMuGdD8dbLQtHCkDuGEIIUCqIi2GKsvEj7xOoJd-Dw7MNLurRYM4brRegyseSYKkZEV-6o0cB9QNjIYJ-lfJ3zwKI6m6gXrnG8VYOuQ&__tn__=*NK-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">#novel</a></span><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">, <b><i>THE COUPLE NEXT DOOR</i></b>, in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Audible-The-Couple-Next-Door/dp/B0CNFHVLN5" target="_blank">audiobook</a></span><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> narrated by the amazing </span><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1qq9wsj xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/wes.landry?__cft__[0]=AZVPf_eCDbjLspk7vSqchbohuWE7HQL6l1PSJ3n5oRL2K78Sq7tXedO3AykZaYdEQESqPMaTMuGdD8dbLQtHCkDuGEIIUCqIi2GKsvEj7xOoJd-Dw7MNLurRYM4brRegyseSYKkZEV-6o0cB9QNjIYJ-lfJ3zwKI6m6gXrnG8VYOuQ&__tn__=-]K-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; font-family: inherit; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><span class="xt0psk2" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">Wes Landry</span></a></span><span face="system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">. </span><p></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: large;">ABOUT THE BOOK</span></b></div><br /><i>With the couple next door, nothing is as it seems.</i><br /><br />Jeremy Booth leads a simple life, scraping by in the gay neighborhood of Seattle, never letting his lack of material things get him down. But the one thing he really wants—someone to love—seems elusive. Until the couple next door moves in and Jeremy sees the man of his dreams, Shane McCallister, pushed down the stairs by a brute named Cole.<br /><br />Jeremy would never go after another man’s boyfriend, so he reaches out to Shane in friendship while suppressing his feelings of attraction. But the feeling of something being off only begins with Cole being a hard-fisted bully—it ends with him seeming to be different people at different times. Some days, Cole is the mild-mannered John and then, one night in a bar, he’s the sassy and vivacious drag queen Vera.<br /><br />So how can Jeremy rescue the man of his dreams from a situation that seems to get crazier and more dangerous by the day? By getting close to the couple next door, Jeremy not only puts a potential love in jeopardy, but eventually his very life.<span face="system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, .SFNSText-Regular, sans-serif" style="color: #050505;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; white-space-collapse: preserve;">
</span></span><p></p><br /><div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">EXCERPT</span></b></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkG4AkTBhuNLTGaemEQT3sg4SbjuEhJhyYG4bun1rVd4R7fTU71VPfkgy-QfkW3Nu1E8onmZZ123HapxbqjabSirnbHQA46BtoSaO3RtQZtMlIkkseQ5MxrZO6x4kv0P2EroGgrxbznT7m/s1600/Things+aren%2527t+always+what+they+seem.....jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="789" data-original-width="940" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkG4AkTBhuNLTGaemEQT3sg4SbjuEhJhyYG4bun1rVd4R7fTU71VPfkgy-QfkW3Nu1E8onmZZ123HapxbqjabSirnbHQA46BtoSaO3RtQZtMlIkkseQ5MxrZO6x4kv0P2EroGgrxbznT7m/s320/Things+aren%2527t+always+what+they+seem.....jpg" width="320" /></a><i>Does my knowing the truth make me an accomplice? Does Shane knowing the truth make him an accessory after the fact to murder?</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>What, I ask myself for the thousandth time, have I gotten myself into? The answer comes to me in an image: Shane, smiling, the delight clear in his icy blue eyes when he first sees me.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>A man. It’s always a man. If I could learn to live without men, I’d be happy, I tell myself.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>Good luck with that.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>I go into the kitchen, grab some oranges and a couple of protein bars from a drawer. It’s a meager breakfast, but it’s the best I have to offer.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>Knock, knock, knock and Shane opens the door. His eyes are rimmed in red. He looks as though he hasn’t slept—like me. He wears a torn and faded navy blue T-shirt and gray sweatpants. I can see the outline of his cock through the loose jersey fabric. My mind wanders away from danger, scaling other exhilarating heights.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>He looks breathtaking. All I want to do is hold him, comfort him, and go from there—proceed directly to his bedroom, do not pass go. Why am I thinking of sex at such a horrible time, when he has shared with me the truth of his history? Now is the time for talk, not lovemaking. Yet the lust persists like an itch right in the center of my brain. There’s only one way to scratch it.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>It’s like he’s read my mind. He takes the fruit and the protein bars from me and turns away to set them on the arm of a chair near the front door. Then he comes back to me and enfolds both of my hands in his own.</i><br /><br /><i>The moment is too charged with something, some kind of electric connection, for words. Talking would break the spell. The silence is delicious and weighted.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>His hands are warm, verging on fiery, feverish. He tugs me toward him roughly, and before I know what’s happening, I’m in his arms. This is no friendly “hello” hug. This is an embrace born of hunger, of desperation, of an animal need for comfort. His mouth seeks mine, starving, and the merging of our lips and tongues is like some kind of communion. It’s more than passion. It’s the uniting of two lost souls.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>And with the thought of lost souls, I realize why we both feel such a connection. In his famished kiss, I can feel not only his need for me but also mine for him.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>We stop only long enough to turn, to head toward the bedroom. Shane never lets go of at least one of my hands. I can almost feel his need to cling, to ensure I don’t escape.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>I welcome it.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>He kicks the door closed, and then he’s on me like some kind of jungle cat, ripping the few clothes I wore off, scratching me in the process. I will not see the claw marks until later, until they appear red and scarlet on my flesh. I will rub them, treasuring the memory connected to them. Now, though, there is only animal want and the desire, deep-seated, for human comfort that only oblivion can provide.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>We tumble on one of the two beds crammed into the room together, so hungry we can’t stop devouring the other. Not just cocks but nipples, armpits, the crooks behind knees, the tender, sensitive flesh of our thighs, the smalls of our backs. Fluid—saliva, come, tears, all flow, and we exchange them. Greedily.</i><br /><i>He mounts me. I mount him. We are in such a haze we almost forget the condoms and the lube.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>Almost.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>Time stands still as we fuck. As we suck. As we wait, breathless, and do it again.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>It’s not until I am lying in Shane’s arms later, when our respiration and heartbeats have returned to some semblance of normalcy, that we speak.</i><br /><i><br /></i><i>I mince no words. “Why did he do it?”</i><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><b>BUY</b><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Audible-The-Couple-Next-Door/dp/B0CNFHVLN5" target="_blank">Audiobook</a></div><div><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Couple-Next-Door-Rick-Reed-ebook/dp/B08H7XQZM4" target="_blank">Amazon Kindle</a><div><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Couple-Next-Door-Rick-Reed/dp/1648900895" target="_blank">Paperback</a></div><div><a href="https://ninestarpress.com/product/the-couple-next-door/" target="_blank">NineStar Press</a></div></div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-22798752253156857922023-11-15T09:13:00.000-08:002023-11-15T09:13:52.845-08:00SEASPRAY Magical Realism Meets Domestic Abuse in One of my Most Unusual Novels<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW41-TWgeepmt9LR7RZvTwVo_DkFm8wcUejVF08UBMCdE-xlX4IupS4wadGpbKNNSzL0u4INi5prRmr48DTmpuu2bR91fcXSak_dm351HU2_5UtRCDjiSi0fUlXwTZsRBmdKao4ybyA_X7RjMRzDEeSd9mDjccM6-BCo4lliGERbbQrmyKe-8xKH0KVQ/s940/Seaspray%20Reed%20Graphic%202.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" height="449" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW41-TWgeepmt9LR7RZvTwVo_DkFm8wcUejVF08UBMCdE-xlX4IupS4wadGpbKNNSzL0u4INi5prRmr48DTmpuu2bR91fcXSak_dm351HU2_5UtRCDjiSi0fUlXwTZsRBmdKao4ybyA_X7RjMRzDEeSd9mDjccM6-BCo4lliGERbbQrmyKe-8xKH0KVQ/w536-h449/Seaspray%20Reed%20Graphic%202.png" width="536" /></a></div><br />Review site <b>OnTopDownUnder</b> published <a href="https://ontopdownunderreviews.com/cindis-books-of-the-year-2022" target="_blank">a list of their best books of 2022</a>...and my own <b><i>Seaspray</i></b> was #1 on the list. Reviewer Cindi said:<p></p><p></p><blockquote><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">"Seaspray isn't just one of my favorite books by Rick R. Reed. <b>It's one of my favorite books of all time.</b>"</span></blockquote><p style="text-align: center;"><b>ABOUT THE BOOK</b><br /></p><p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUNfrmyDrSvfafOy4JNhxCqSHTLpvNg2Tmx4_DYrA__MV4cjMo0e757sWdeXqkrlkCLsKcQu8feJBddLNYw-fGDe3_gH0HUztmK0xejG-JcQkLkn3e6TPuR9KUDD-RzBCJAFmrDRMFL3omq7m90kwQUB5f-XdAYGIyHVVx0o7ymkajnGadWMT8ey3IQ/s477/Seaspray-Resized-Cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="318" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUNfrmyDrSvfafOy4JNhxCqSHTLpvNg2Tmx4_DYrA__MV4cjMo0e757sWdeXqkrlkCLsKcQu8feJBddLNYw-fGDe3_gH0HUztmK0xejG-JcQkLkn3e6TPuR9KUDD-RzBCJAFmrDRMFL3omq7m90kwQUB5f-XdAYGIyHVVx0o7ymkajnGadWMT8ey3IQ/w133-h200/Seaspray-Resized-Cover.jpg" width="133" /></a></i></div><i><br />Winslow Birkel is a sweet young man in his first relationship. But his boyfriend, the charming and fiery Chad Loveless, has become increasingly abusive to the point where Winslow fears for his life.</i><p></p><p><i>Everything changes in a single night when Winslow, fleeing yet another epic fight, goes out to a local bar and finds a sympathetic ear in a new friend, Darryn Maxwell. But when he comes home, Chad’s waiting. He’s got it in for Winslow, whom he wrongly accuses of being unfaithful.</i></p><p><i>The stormy night sends Winslow off on a journey to escape. The last thing he recalls is skidding off the road and into the river. When he awakens, he’s mysteriously in the charming seaside town of Seaspray, where people are warm and welcoming, yet their appearances and disappearances are all too inexplicable.</i></p><p><i>Back home, Darryn wonders what’s happened to the new guy he met during his first outing to the local gay bar, the Q. Darryn knows Winslow’s been abused, but he also feels he’s quickly fallen in love with Winslow.</i></p><p><i>Can Winslow and Darryn decipher their respective mysteries? Is it possible for them to reunite? Is Chad still lurking and plotting to make sure Winslow never loves anyone else? The answers to these questions await you in Seaspray, where you may, or may not, ever leave.</i></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>BUY THE BOOK</b></div><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Seaspray-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B0B4KTWBNB" target="_blank">Digital</a><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Seaspray-Rick-R-Reed/dp/1648905080" target="_blank">Paperback</a><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Audible-Seaspray/dp/B0BYG148F8" target="_blank">Audiobook</a> <p></p>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-5261773657547968802023-11-11T00:30:00.012-08:002023-11-11T00:30:00.138-08:00NEW AND NOTABLE: MU Legend of the Lost City by MD Neu<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQYc0RhJ7cJp183v7sFNeKBYT8eZiVd1N-BXCxEIZ1lNy4OUVX78U_HTkuX_IEeA8SlBqmwBYVUrg8SWRy7mK-NP67aLkBXXDJ-GOvG9MqYIXWCynK7J1TW736Y8_F-pxAU6D8bsm0qupeXLZt3sZ5yqsXeAjRLYIgeUG4CTKWjtlEyfHgMsw43yRF92Y-/s2560/Mu%20Cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQYc0RhJ7cJp183v7sFNeKBYT8eZiVd1N-BXCxEIZ1lNy4OUVX78U_HTkuX_IEeA8SlBqmwBYVUrg8SWRy7mK-NP67aLkBXXDJ-GOvG9MqYIXWCynK7J1TW736Y8_F-pxAU6D8bsm0qupeXLZt3sZ5yqsXeAjRLYIgeUG4CTKWjtlEyfHgMsw43yRF92Y-/w400-h640/Mu%20Cover.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ABOUT THE BOOK</b></div><i>For years, the whispers and legends of a lost city hiding in the Pacific Ocean were just that; legend. On the day Kaimi discovers his parents, the Queen and King of Mu, murdered, Mu’s most powerful weapon fired, sending a pulse rushing towards the North American west coast.</i><p></p><p><i> After the 2025 Great Pacific Pulse Event, or Pulse, vomited up much of humankind’s trash in the Pacific Ocean along the North American west coast. The mysterious occurrence causing the largest environmental disaster in human history, people are no longer certain there is nothing concealed in the depths of the ocean. Scientist Karen Linn and billionaire investor Michael Donovan want to find out what actually happened that day five years ago. Will Michael’s life in the adult entertainment industry and Karen’s moniker in pseudoscience keep them as social pariahs, or are they on the cusp of finding a civilization that has been kept out of our grasp, deep in the world’s largest ocean? How does the event from five years ago tie into the murder of the Queen and King of Mu? What lies under the sea may be bigger than anyone can imagine, and neither civilization may be ready for the truth.</i></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>BUY</b></div><div><p class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 13.3px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><a href="https://books2read.com/Mu-Legend-of-a-Lost-City">https://books2read.com/Mu-Legend-of-a-Lost-City</a></span></p></div><br /><p></p><p> </p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b>ABOUT THE AUTHOR</b></div>M.D. Neu is an international award-winning inclusive queer Fiction Writer with a love for writing and travel. Living in the heart of Silicon Valley (San Jose, California) and growing up around technology, he’s always been fascinated with what could be. Specifically drawn to Science Fiction and Paranormal television and novels, M.D. Neu was inspired by the great Gene Roddenberry, George Lucas, Stephen King, Alice Walker, Alfred Hitchcock, Harvey Fierstein, Anne Rice, and Kim Stanley Robinson. An odd combination, but one that has influenced his writing.<p></p><p> Growing up in an accepting family as a gay man he always wondered why there were never stories reflecting who he was. Constantly surrounded by characters that only reflected heterosexual society, M.D. Neu decided he wanted to change that. So, he took to writing, wanting to tell good stories that reflected our diverse world.</p><p>When M.D. Neu isn’t writing, he works for a non-profit and travels with his biggest supporter and his harshest critic, Eric his husband of twenty plus years.</p><p> Links:</p><p>Email: <a href="mailto:info@mdneu.com">info@mdneu.com</a></p><p>Website: <a href="http://www.mdneu.com/">http://www.mdneu.com/</a></p><p>Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/Writer_MDNeu">https://twitter.com/Writer_MDNeu</a></p><p>Facebook: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/mdneuauthor">https://www.facebook.com/mdneuauthor</a></p><p>Instagram: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/authormdneu/">https://www.instagram.com/authormdneu/</a></p><p>BookBub: <a href="https://www.bookbub.com/profile/m-d-neu">https://www.bookbub.com/profile/m-d-neu</a></p><p>Goodreads: <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/66488958-md">https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/66488958-md</a></p><p>Youtube: <a href="https://youtube.com/@AuthorMDNeu">https://youtube.com/@AuthorMDNeu</a> </p><div><br /></div><p></p>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-43711319725112756622023-11-07T10:23:00.001-08:002023-11-07T10:23:05.478-08:00True Crime and Me: SILENCE OF THE MISSING<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgtSFn_dzPZvUjm1bV3K6BGCtbJ9Ey9gBnWUs1900WyXJ8ItYKoXVuQAFsDP7wCmWpNDAQFTLoSaDT8jfRPyUZWXvjYqUCeGkvf_sYEIrIakiy05m7Yw_Kl0B_tjYNV43vI9cjr0gF7DkS1bNxeZme_xdJjQjGMirxFNF7wmd2UQApnbdcM9t1N_mNY6L/s1080/IMG_2685.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgtSFn_dzPZvUjm1bV3K6BGCtbJ9Ey9gBnWUs1900WyXJ8ItYKoXVuQAFsDP7wCmWpNDAQFTLoSaDT8jfRPyUZWXvjYqUCeGkvf_sYEIrIakiy05m7Yw_Kl0B_tjYNV43vI9cjr0gF7DkS1bNxeZme_xdJjQjGMirxFNF7wmd2UQApnbdcM9t1N_mNY6L/w400-h400/IMG_2685.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />Dear Reader:<p></p><p>Does true crime fascinate you? It’s always been a somewhat dubious pleasure of mine. Dubious because I wonder why I’m drawn to stories of murder, abduction, and other dastardly deeds my fellow humans perpetrate on each other.</p><p>Whatever the reason, trying to gain some understanding of human nature is a passion of mine, whether it’s for the best humanity has to offer or the worst.</p><p><b><i>SILENCE OF THE MISSING</i></b> gives readers a glimpse into both the darkness and the light, the good and the evil. I was inspired by missing persons’ cases where the result was not the typical and tragic ending of finding a body. What would happen if a missing person returned many years later? What effect would it have on loved ones? Was there a possibility that the person claiming to be the missing soul was actually an imposter? What happened during those intervening years when family and friends worried and, most likely, gave up on their vanished loved one?</p><p> These questions, along with some significant true-crime cases, inspired me to write <b><i>SILENCE OF THE MISSING</i></b>.</p><p>I wanted to write something haunting, something that would draw you, the reader in, with the same burning questions that kept me up at night.</p><p>All good fiction, I believe starts off with the classic question of—what if? It’s obvious my what-if was, “What if your first love was abducted and turned up years later when you and everyone you knew believed he was dead?”</p><p> I wondered further—what if this person wasn’t who he said he was? Or maybe, even better or worse, what if he was?</p><p> SILENCE OF THE MISSING opens with the appearance of the missing person—a shocking event that disrupts a very ordinary day and an ordinary life. The appearance changes everything and plunges Sam, our main character, into a world he can no longer trust or perhaps even believe.</p><p> Was Sam’s long-lost love who he said he was? And why appear now, over thirty years later?</p><p> Read <b><i>SILENCE OF THE MISSING</i></b> and find out.</p><p> The answers may not be as simple, or as innocent, as you may first believe.</p><p> Your conspirator in truth and fiction,</p><p>Rick R. Reed</p><p><b>ABOUT THE BOOK</b></p><p>He went into the woods…and never came out.</p><p>In 1986, thirteen-year-old Jeb Kleber vanished during his small town’s Fourth of July fireworks. His mysterious disappearance left his first love, Sammy Blake, grieving for years.</p><p>Flash forward to present day. A now middle-aged Sam Blake has a comfortable and predictable life with his husband Marc in Chicago. All that changes when a stranger arrives at Sam’s door, claiming to be the missing Jeb Kleber. The stranger knows things he couldn’t possibly know—including the hidden love the boys shared during the summer of ’86. He also wears an amethyst pendant Sam gave him shortly before he disappeared.</p><p>Could this be the real Jeb Kleber, missing for thirty-seven years? If not, who is this mysterious stranger? And what does he want after all this time? His appearance plunges Sam’s life into a nightmare of questionable identity, long-buried secrets, and perhaps even murder.</p><p></p><p>#author #suspense #crimefiction #ownvoicesbooks</p><p>Pick up your copy: <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Silence-Missing-gripping-psychological-thriller-ebook/dp/B0C4M7TKQV">https://www.amazon.com/Silence-Missing-gripping-psychological-thriller-ebook/dp/B0C4M7TKQV</a></p>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-36531045324015668692023-10-08T08:55:00.002-07:002023-10-08T09:02:38.519-07:00Mama, I'm Pretty<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_rTtxSVPFwnwdg4TNuGvkN7MnLg_C4LHmPbbKNjikStCxpOHDrU9HApTZp65uAu4NlSBZQShSI7ETN2S7oXKcM9kpTjAk8Yqg1eqmSOjU6wjHsyIrFugYbq0EvjJk7CltQsDnh4Yu1z7Lsottp-99HyIli4vld7NBBy-sGIqlf1Q-TO5Yzu6pxUp41kaC/s960/natalie17.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="960" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_rTtxSVPFwnwdg4TNuGvkN7MnLg_C4LHmPbbKNjikStCxpOHDrU9HApTZp65uAu4NlSBZQShSI7ETN2S7oXKcM9kpTjAk8Yqg1eqmSOjU6wjHsyIrFugYbq0EvjJk7CltQsDnh4Yu1z7Lsottp-99HyIli4vld7NBBy-sGIqlf1Q-TO5Yzu6pxUp41kaC/w514-h289/natalie17.jpg" width="514" /></a></div><br /><p></p><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Last night, we revisited one of my favorite childhood movies, GYPSY. I hadn't seen it in years, but the excerpt below shows that the Natalie Wood/Rosalind Russell vehicle was one that had a powerful and lasting effect on me as both an artist and as a queer man. </span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioocprMgcmshO24G5jSR6I3GbuXbFgouIVAZKrVqVrmVYe-px3vjJqn-sTH-o3TwDd3mCUbs1IPY9m2J_C3wA8yia1d4yoN-PLVbGYF6auFPa8mS9sxBedr-Peh4-rvhz4LT0VEO6JgfhLaORuv_Kb8S5xcoumxEmiOolXdTQ9XU9eA75PjQ1XyWqJC4Qx/s1250/BookBrushImage-2022-9-7-16-5227.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="1250" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioocprMgcmshO24G5jSR6I3GbuXbFgouIVAZKrVqVrmVYe-px3vjJqn-sTH-o3TwDd3mCUbs1IPY9m2J_C3wA8yia1d4yoN-PLVbGYF6auFPa8mS9sxBedr-Peh4-rvhz4LT0VEO6JgfhLaORuv_Kb8S5xcoumxEmiOolXdTQ9XU9eA75PjQ1XyWqJC4Qx/s320/BookBrushImage-2022-9-7-16-5227.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />This is from THE IMPOSSIBLE CHILDHOOD OF MY DESIRES (<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Impossible-Childhood-My-Desires-ebook/dp/B0BDXNF4KM">https://www.amazon.com/Impossible-Childhood-My-Desires-ebook/dp/B0BDXNF4KM</a>). In this scene, my trans woman character Cara is at last dressing up for the very first time to go out in public as a woman. She's very late in coming to this moment, but she recalls her childhood and her late--and beloved mother.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">She was scared to death of what might peer back at her. Would the effect be comic? Ridiculous? Milton Berle in a dress? </span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">She had to face the woman in the mirror. No one else could judge her and, more importantly, no one else could love her as much as she knew she needed to love herself.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">There was a silver-framed square mirror hanging above their blue velvet couch. It’d always been ornamental and Cara had passed it without really looking into it hundreds of times.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Now it was a litmus test.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Mirrors don’t lie.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">She set down her drink and wandered over to stand before it. She didn’t even realize that she’d closed her eyes the moment she was before the silvered glass.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">She drew in a deep breath and allowed herself to open her eyes.</span><div><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">She immediately went to the old movie she’d adored as a little boy growing up, Gypsy. And her thought was of the scene when Natalie Wood as Gypsy Rose Lee encounters her adult self in a mirror, in a blue satin gown. Gypsy realizes, finally, she’s come into her own as a woman.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">She’d said three profound words, “Mama, I’m pretty.”</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Even as a small child in Ohio, Cara recalled how she understood that the character was, for the first time ever, discovering her own beauty. There was such power and grace in that moment.</span><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Cara thought she was no Natalie Wood as she gazed into the mirror. She probably had at least twenty years on the tragic actress when she’d made the movie, for one thing. For another… Well, she didn’t want to admit how many more pounds she weighed, how her figure was, er, less than Greek.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Yet she spoke to her reflection with tears glistening in her eyes. </span><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">“Mama, I’m pretty,” she said.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">She didn’t laugh. She didn’t think she was being vain. She regarded herself, also in a dress made from blue satin. Coincidence?</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">She shook her head, taking a spin in front of the mirror. The dress was vintage with a scoop neckline, and belted at the waist with a rhinestone belt. Blue satin pumps on her feet. Her wig was perfect, looking to Cara like her own natural hair. Her makeup was subtle, with a good foundation, a little blush, some eyeliner and mascara and just the faintest hint of blue on her eyelids.</span><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">I don’t look like a woman.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">I am a woman.</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">Just before turning away from the mirror, she gasped. Her mother stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder. Her nails were blood red. She squeezed and mouthed, “You are pretty.”</span><br /><br /><span style="white-space-collapse: preserve;">And then she was gone.</span></div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-9842903180559941712023-09-19T09:52:00.003-07:002023-09-19T09:52:42.984-07:00My Vampire Novel, IMMORTAL THINGS, Is About Love, Immortality and Art<p> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieP5Utg3BQEWUu2O5vBCjAe1jEVyc1DAhig_A6YBoJCUzApdgxzeApNdzuXXZOvqvpCbHF6WtGpuYZOdW0QYhypBynxBWapr-MkKXxaZVccTG3K19PZNEVyjGgcyyhYZ8Mmgeu2NacPks/s750/ImmortalThings-f500.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieP5Utg3BQEWUu2O5vBCjAe1jEVyc1DAhig_A6YBoJCUzApdgxzeApNdzuXXZOvqvpCbHF6WtGpuYZOdW0QYhypBynxBWapr-MkKXxaZVccTG3K19PZNEVyjGgcyyhYZ8Mmgeu2NacPks/s16000/ImmortalThings-f500.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<h1 style="text-align: center;"><b>About the Book</b></h1><p><i>By day, Elise draws and paints, spilling out the horrific visions of her tortured mind. By night, she walks the streets, selling her body to the highest bidder.</i></p><p><i>And then they come into her life: a trio of impossibly beautiful vampires: Terence, Maria, and Edward. When they encounter Elise, they set an explosive triangle in motion</i></p><p><i>Terence wants to drain her blood. Maria wants Elise . . . as lover and partner through eternity. And Edward, the most recently converted, wants to prevent her from making the same mistake he made as a young abstract expressionist artist in 1950s Greenwich Village: sacrificing his artistic vision for immortal life. He is the only one of them still human enough to realize what an unholy trade this is.</i></p><p><i>Immortal Things will grip you in a vise of suspense that won’t let go until the very last moment…when a shocking turn of events changes everything and demonstrates—truly—what love and sacrifice are all about.</i></p><h1 style="text-align: center;"><b>Excerpt</b></h1><p><b><i>Immortal Things</i><br />Rick R. Reed © 2021<br />All Rights Reserved</b></p><p><b>Prologue</b><br />No one can hear the screams, the cries for mercy, and the shrieks of agony. It is as though the house is alive and it clamps down in reaction to the turmoil going on inside. One would never guess from its calm exterior that blood drips from its walls and those unlucky enough to enter have a good chance never to emerge again.</p><p>This house appears to be empty. Dignified. Crumbling testimony to the wealth that once existed on Chicago’s Far North Side. It sits like a boulder on a corner, empty-eye-socket windows facing Sheridan Road and beyond it, the expanse of Lake Michigan. The lake is dark now; white-tipped waves crash against the shoreline, breaking at the boulders, a crescent moon bisected and wobbling on its black and churning waters. The house has borne witness to these waters, moody and changeable, always fickle, for more than a hundred years.</p><p>The house is fashioned from white brick, yellowed and dirty. Nothing grows in the yard, save for a few straggling weeds that refuse to give in to the barren soil.</p><p>The house is dead.</p><p>And so are its inhabitants.</p><p>*****</p><p>The dead are inside and reveal a surprising likeness to living creatures. They can move and speak just like the rest of us. They have wants and needs. They go about fulfilling these wants and needs with the same kind of intensity and purpose as the rest of the world. One could even say they have jobs, even if their occupations would be deemed illegal and certainly immoral by almost everyone.</p><p>But look beyond these superficial similarities and you’ll feel chilled. Touch their flesh and it’s cold. Lay your head at their breasts and hear…nothing. Look into their eyes and find yourself reflected back in a black void that you just know, if you linger too long in its embrace, you’ll be sucked in and it will be all over for you. Grab one of their cold wrists and feel stone, marble to be exact.</p><p>There is no pulse.</p><p>But tonight, they are a merry band of three. Like the living, they are filled with anticipation. An evening out awaits them. They will, like so many others getting ready for a night on the town, meet others, exchange knowing glances and a mating dance of words. They will sup, but not on the gourmet offerings of the city.</p><p>Most houses borne of this period contain many rooms, perhaps more than necessary. Whoever designed this house had the presence of mind to create wide-open spaces, breathing room. Enter the double front doors and you come directly into the living room. Or is it a drawing room? A great room? No matter. What you do not enter is a vestibule or a foyer as other houses of this period would contain. The walls are parchment colored, but right now, that color is indiscernible to the human eye, lit as they are by dozens of flickering candles. Water stains mar the walls and give to them a trompe l’oeil elegance, a look of almost deliberate aging. The floors are dark, their hardwood planks, tongue and groove, blackened by the lack of light and dust accumulated over many years. Along one wall is a fieldstone fireplace, its mantel tall as a man, its hearth cold and empty.</p><p>There is no furniture in this huge room. No chairs. No tables. No bookcases or desks. No divans or chaise lounges.</p><p>What does occupy the room, other than these three lifeless, yet curiously beautiful souls, is art. Paintings of every period lean against the wall and hang from their crumbling surfaces. Here is one after the style of Rubens, there another that looks pre-Raphaelite, here a Picasso…Jackson Pollock…Monet…Keith Haring…Willem de Kooning…Mark Rothko…Barnett Newman…plus the works of a legion of unknown artists, in every style and medium imaginable. The walls are crowded with it. The room is a gallery assembled by someone with vast resources, but tastes that go beyond eclectic. The only common theme running through these works is that all are unique. There is a respect for form, for color, for technique. Most of all, there is a certain indefinable quality that manages to capture the human spirit in its delicacy, in its discontent, in its hunger.</p><p>Perhaps it’s the hunger that appeals to them.</p><p>And the floor is a cocktail party of human sculptures. Men and women carved from marble, granite, and alabaster, cast in bronze. There are later figures cast from polymers, smooth acrylic, welded metals.</p><p>It is eerie—this empty house that has become museum or mausoleum.</p><p>Or both.</p><p>But art is what the dead crave. It sustains them—that and something else—something warmer and more vibrant, but they are too genteel to admit to such hungers. Like animals, they simply feed when they are hungry and discuss it as little as possible.</p><p>The walls also contain long leaded-glass windows, through which, appropriately enough, a full moon sends its pale rays, distorted and laying upon the darkened wood like silver. The leaded glass has become opaque, obscured by layers of dust, grime, and accumulated smoke.</p><p>And we can see the creatures now, gathering. Listen: and hear nothing save for the creaking of ancient floorboards.</p><p>First, let us consider Terence, broad shoulders cloaked in a pewter, latex zippered vest open just enough to display the cleft between smooth and defined pecs, tight leather jeans, and biker boots. Blond hair frames his face in leonine splendor: thick, straight, and shining, it flows to just below his shoulders. Glint of silver on both ears, studs moving like an iridescent slug upward. Terence is the second oldest of the three. His skin, like the others, has the look and feel of alabaster. Dark eyes burn from within this whiteness and present a startling contrast. Terence is a study in symmetry: his wide-set eyes match each other perfectly, his aquiline nose bisects dramatic cheekbones, and his full lips speak volumes about sensuality and lust. Stare into Terence’s eyes and gain a glimpse—quick, like a jump cut in a movie—of cobblestone streets, horse-drawn carriages, and the grime and elegance that was London in the late 1800s. Shake your head and the image disperses and you are left thinking it’s only your imagination conjuring up these images. After all, what does this post-punk Adonis have to do with the British Empire in the time of Oscar Wilde? Besides, Terence’s smile will have you thinking only of the present. And the present is what Terence lives for—the pleasure he can find, the communion of flesh and blood, seemingly so religious and yet sent from hell. He throws back his head and does a runway model turn, for the benefit of his companion, Edward, who rolls his eyes and snickers. “Don’t look to me to be one of your adoring minions.”</p><p>Let’s shift our focus to Edward. Edward is musculature in miniature, stubbled face and a shaved pate. Leather vest, black cargo pants tucked into construction worker boots, no jewelry save for the inverted cross glinting gold between shaved and defined pecs. On his bicep, a tattooed band: marijuana leaves repeated over and over, rimmed with a thick black line. Edward’s look would be comfortable in the leather bars along Halsted Street, and he is the only one of the three who prefers the embraces of men. He is relatively young, a newcomer to this scene of death and the greedy stealing of life. Watch him carefully and you will detect a hint of uncertainty in his handsome, rugged features. Melancholy haunts his dark eyes, which, unlike Terence’s, are not symmetrical: the left is a little smaller than the right and crinkles more when he laughs, which is seldom. Curiously, though, it is Edward’s features that look most human…because it’s humanity that lacks perfection and Edward hasn’t been of this undead world long enough to adopt its slick veneer of beauty that’s too perfect to be real or wholesome. Look into Edward’s eyes and you’ll see a beatnik Greenwich Village, a more personal vision: an artist’s studio which is nothing more than a cramped room with bad light with canvases he worked on night and day, brilliant blends of color and construction for which Edward had no name, but one day would be called abstract expressionism.</p><p>Shake your head, and—as with Terence—these images disperse. There’s nothing there, save for this macho gay clone boy with eyes that still manage to sparkle, in spite of the thin veneer of sadness and remorse deep within them.</p><p>And last comes Maria, on silent cat feet, moving down the stairs. A whisper of satin, the color of coagulating blood: rust and dying roses, corseted at the waist with black leather. Black hair falls to her shoulders, straight, each strand perfect, sometimes flickering red from the candles’ luminance. Dark eyes and full crimson lips. Maria stands over six feet, and her body, even beneath the dress, is a study in strength: muscles taut, defined, like a man save for the fact that the muscles speak a hypnotic feminine language: sinew locked with flesh in elegance and grace. “Feline” would not be going too far were one to describe her. There is the same grace, the same frightening coiled-up power, perfect for the hunt, perfect for surprising and making quick work of her prey.</p><p>She pauses, turning slowly in front of the men, her men, waiting for an appraisal. And, unlike Terence, this move does not seem vain, but more her due.</p><p>The men applaud softly and Maria stops, dark eyes boring into theirs. They do not see the watery streets of Venice, but you would, if you dared to engage her gaze for long. Dark canals and mossy mildew-stained walls, crumbling stairs at which black water laps, an open window through which one hears an aria. Smell the mildew and the damp.</p><p>The three take seats on the dusty floor, bring out mind-altering paraphernalia.</p><p>Terence, first: “Whom will we lure tonight?”</p><p>And Edward, eyes cast downward, the candle flames reflected off his bald and shining pate, sighs.</p><p>It is Maria who touches him, her hand a whisper, but with the tightness of a claw against his shoulder, forcing him to look up into her eyes. “I know it’s hard. But eventually you’ll come to understand, to be like Terence and enjoy what is natural.”</p><p>Edward laughs, but there is no mirth in it. “Natural? You call what we do natural?”</p><p>“We are God’s creatures, just like the ones we prey upon. Just as an owl preys upon a mouse. We have needs and we do what we must to satisfy them—or else we die.”</p><p>“We’re already dead,” Edward says.</p><p>Maria picks up a glass cylinder and looks at it critically for a moment. “Legend looks at us that way. That much is true.” At the top of the cylinder is a small bowl, which Maria stuffs with sticky, green bud. The smell of marijuana is redolent in the air, mixing with the burning wax of the candles. “But I prefer to think of us as another species. A different kind of animal.”</p><p>Edward stares at the silver light coming in through the long leaded-glass windows. It has been more than fifty years since he first met Terence in a tiny basement bar in Greenwich Village. Fifty years since he transformed himself into this new kind of animal Maria is now trying to make him think he is, to excuse their killing, the mayhem they wreak wherever they go. The heartbreak and the bloodshed, the latter so delicious, and so damning. Will he ever become callous enough to view what they do and what they are, like Maria? Will he ever be able to look at one of their victims, convulsing before them on a grimy floor, surrendering to death, and see them as merely sustenance? He’ll never believe it.</p><p>The most curious thing about his transformation is this: time has taken on completely different dimensions.</p><p>Five decades have passed like five days. It makes eternity easier to bear, he supposes.</p><p>“If that’s what gets you through the night, Maria, fine. And as for being like Terence one day, well, that’s a hell I hope to never visit.”</p><p>His last comment elicits a snort from Terence, who seems to either find everything humorous or everything sexy. He lives for pleasure. Sometimes, Edward wishes he could be like him. Terence has no conscience. It would be easier to be so ignorant.</p><p>“Here.” Maria hands him the glass cylinder, the thing that in a head shop would be called a Steamroller, and Edward fishes in his vest pocket for a disposable lighter. He fires it up and holds it to the little ashen bowl topping the cylinder, watching as it grows orange and holding his hand over the open end of the tube. It fills with smoke. When Edward removes his hand, the blue-gray smoke rolls toward him, into his open mouth, and he longs for the oblivion he knows it will bring. He holds the smoke deep in his lungs and then exhales. It doesn’t take much of this stuff to change his mood, to make him forget, and for that, he’s grateful.</p><p>He hands the cylinder to Terence, who locks his hand over his and stares into his eyes. “You always were so beautiful,” he whispers.</p><p>“You always were such a liar.”</p><p>And the merry band of three becomes silent and a little less merry. They know the truth: Terence is a liar, and had it not been for his charm and deceptions, Edward would not be with them tonight.</p><p>No, Edward would not be with them. He would be a man in his seventies by now, either a bum or a respected abstract expressionist painter; in the movie of his life, someone short but muscular would play him; the title of this film would not be Pollock, but Tanguy. Instead, Edward was no longer an artist, no longer a human being really. No, he is now a creature who has made stealth and superhuman attunement his artistic expression. He thinks, with a dark snort, that all he draws now is blood.</p><p>Maria’s cold, satin flesh takes hold of his forearm; the slight pressure of her nails: the gentle touch of a bird of prey’s talons. Even with his own kind, Edward thinks, one can’t be too careful.</p><p>She knows he is not attuned to the night, but is depressed and resigned to the hunt. He has never fully realized the joy of taking sustenance. Maria stares into his black irises with her own pitch orbs, and smiles. She licks her lips and raises her nose to sniff. “Mmm. Can’t you smell them, Edward? The sharp, hot tang?” She closes her eyes in a kind of rapture, breathing in deeply. The smell of people wafts through the hot summer air, as much a background as the bleating horns, exhausts, and squealing brakes from the cars on Sheridan Road.</p><p>Edward allows Maria to lead him to the front door. Puncture or perish is the joke he whispered to himself.</p><p>Terence waits at the curb, his big Harley churning and revving. He grins and one can see, even from yards away, Terence’s eyes twinkling with anticipation.</p><p>Edward thinks as he descends the wide flight of stairs, Maria clutching his arm, that Terence is the luckiest of the three because he feels no remorse.</p><p>He has no heart.</p><h1 style="text-align: center;"><b>BUY</b></h1>
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://ninestarpress.com/product/immortal-things/" rel="noopener" target="_blank">NineStar Press</a> | <a href="https://books2read.com/immortal-things" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Books2Read</a> | <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Immortal-Things-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B09GXGFHJL" target="_blank">Amazon</a></h2>
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Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-85086010392509454352023-08-29T14:26:00.002-07:002023-08-29T14:26:45.040-07:00Things Aren't Always What They Seem with The Couple Next Door<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9NBfEI2t8AFjU6rg9kcPp7Hol6wXHDpCcdnIkxhVHzzlpQfdQ5Vzos-UZlqxo_TJuKMjqn4meTB1w2Al0P4Bfn50jiGCYhsPQglDWpqa-ZOfKvr-457TN351gAMRMaQRcFxvRjp1OPMK/s2048/TheCoupleNextDoor-f.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="742" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9NBfEI2t8AFjU6rg9kcPp7Hol6wXHDpCcdnIkxhVHzzlpQfdQ5Vzos-UZlqxo_TJuKMjqn4meTB1w2Al0P4Bfn50jiGCYhsPQglDWpqa-ZOfKvr-457TN351gAMRMaQRcFxvRjp1OPMK/w494-h742/TheCoupleNextDoor-f.jpg" width="494" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Below is an excerpt from <b><i>The Couple Next Door.</i></b> It’s a scene where two lost souls—Jeremy and Shane—at last unite, under very difficult circumstances. See, Shane has been physically and emotionally abused by the man with whom he lives. Jeremy has been witness to it and has tried to be a friend, to help, to perhaps even be a savior. He’s tried to keep a respectable distance.</div>
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But the pull between these two men, as you’ll read, is just too powerful….<br />
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<b>EXCERPT</b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkG4AkTBhuNLTGaemEQT3sg4SbjuEhJhyYG4bun1rVd4R7fTU71VPfkgy-QfkW3Nu1E8onmZZ123HapxbqjabSirnbHQA46BtoSaO3RtQZtMlIkkseQ5MxrZO6x4kv0P2EroGgrxbznT7m/s1600/Things+aren%2527t+always+what+they+seem.....jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="789" data-original-width="940" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkG4AkTBhuNLTGaemEQT3sg4SbjuEhJhyYG4bun1rVd4R7fTU71VPfkgy-QfkW3Nu1E8onmZZ123HapxbqjabSirnbHQA46BtoSaO3RtQZtMlIkkseQ5MxrZO6x4kv0P2EroGgrxbznT7m/s320/Things+aren%2527t+always+what+they+seem.....jpg" width="320" /></a><i>Does my knowing the truth make me an accomplice? Does Shane knowing the truth make him an accessory after the fact to murder?</i><br />
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<i>What, I ask myself for the thousandth time, have I gotten myself into? The answer comes to me in an image: Shane, smiling, the delight clear in his icy blue eyes when he first sees me.</i><br />
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<i>A man. It’s always a man. If I could learn to live without men, I’d be happy, I tell myself.</i><br />
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<i>Good luck with that.</i><br />
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<i>I go into the kitchen, grab some oranges and a couple of protein bars from a drawer. It’s a meager breakfast, but it’s the best I have to offer.</i><br />
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<i>Knock, knock, knock and Shane opens the door. His eyes are rimmed in red. He looks as though he hasn’t slept—like me. He wears a torn and faded navy blue T-shirt and gray sweatpants. I can see the outline of his cock through the loose jersey fabric. My mind wanders away from danger, scaling other exhilarating heights.</i><br />
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<i>He looks breathtaking. All I want to do is hold him, comfort him, and go from there—proceed directly to his bedroom, do not pass go. Why am I thinking of sex at such a horrible time, when he has shared with me the truth of his history? Now is the time for talk, not lovemaking. Yet the lust persists like an itch right in the center of my brain. There’s only one way to scratch it.</i><br />
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<i>It’s like he’s read my mind. He takes the fruit and the protein bars from me and turns away to set them on the arm of a chair near the front door. Then he comes back to me and enfolds both of my hands in his own.</i><br />
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<i>The moment is too charged with something, some kind of electric connection, for words. Talking would break the spell. The silence is delicious and weighted.</i><br />
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<i>His hands are warm, verging on fiery, feverish. He tugs me toward him roughly, and before I know what’s happening, I’m in his arms. This is no friendly “hello” hug. This is an embrace born of hunger, of desperation, of an animal need for comfort. His mouth seeks mine, starving, and the merging of our lips and tongues is like some kind of communion. It’s more than passion. It’s the uniting of two lost souls.</i><br />
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<i>And with the thought of lost souls, I realize why we both feel such a connection. In his famished kiss, I can feel not only his need for me but also mine for him.</i><br />
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<i>We stop only long enough to turn, to head toward the bedroom. Shane never lets go of at least one of my hands. I can almost feel his need to cling, to ensure I don’t escape.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I welcome it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He kicks the door closed, and then he’s on me like some kind of jungle cat, ripping the few clothes I wore off, scratching me in the process. I will not see the claw marks until later, until they appear red and scarlet on my flesh. I will rub them, treasuring the memory connected to them. Now, though, there is only animal want and the desire, deep-seated, for human comfort that only oblivion can provide.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We tumble on one of the two beds crammed into the room together, so hungry we can’t stop devouring the other. Not just cocks but nipples, armpits, the crooks behind knees, the tender, sensitive flesh of our thighs, the smalls of our backs. Fluid—saliva, come, tears, all flow, and we exchange them. Greedily.</i><br />
<i>He mounts me. I mount him. We are in such a haze we almost forget the condoms and the lube.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Almost.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Time stands still as we fuck. As we suck. As we wait, breathless, and do it again.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>It’s not until I am lying in Shane’s arms later, when our respiration and heartbeats have returned to some semblance of normalcy, that we speak.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I mince no words. “Why did he do it?”</i><br />
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<b>BLURB</b><br />
<i>With the couple next door, nothing is as it seems.</i><br />
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Jeremy Booth leads a simple life, scraping by in the gay neighborhood of Seattle, never letting his lack of material things get him down. But the one thing he really wants—someone to love—seems elusive. Until the couple next door moves in and Jeremy sees the man of his dreams, Shane McCallister, pushed down the stairs by a brute named Cole.<br />
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Jeremy would never go after another man’s boyfriend, so he reaches out to Shane in friendship while suppressing his feelings of attraction. But the feeling of something being off only begins with Cole being a hard-fisted bully—it ends with him seeming to be different people at different times. Some days, Cole is the mild-mannered John and then, one night in a bar, he’s the sassy and vivacious drag queen Vera.<br />
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So how can Jeremy rescue the man of his dreams from a situation that seems to get crazier and more dangerous by the day? By getting close to the couple next door, Jeremy not only puts a potential love in jeopardy, but eventually his very life.<br />
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<b>BUY</b><br /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Couple-Next-Door-Rick-Reed-ebook/dp/B08H7XQZM4" target="_blank">Amazon Kindle</a><div><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Couple-Next-Door-Rick-Reed/dp/1634766482" target="_blank">Amazon Paperback</a></div><div><a href="https://ninestarpress.com/product/the-couple-next-door/" target="_blank">NineStar Press<br /></a>
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</div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-86425367289084424462023-07-15T08:00:00.000-07:002023-07-15T08:00:03.611-07:00Now Out in Paperback and Ebook SILENCE OF THE MISSING<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs0jzioyv063ZWFa1-hx_koXs4SVu4XIglbxdBMjD_SoOBYxCz8iBTKu6IJ9YcvPxh0rhSLVdWQco8jRnc3yWZDwhO0igyJP2TqGkUfzKAzGmteoX0_pz_c5a8CFKqi7-yy10yiSo1E_p9sa3jWfSB9zZq87lcEKJ4tlKpri9TB8SpUhkqAJHxro3HeAMg/s2560/eBook%20Cover%20FINAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs0jzioyv063ZWFa1-hx_koXs4SVu4XIglbxdBMjD_SoOBYxCz8iBTKu6IJ9YcvPxh0rhSLVdWQco8jRnc3yWZDwhO0igyJP2TqGkUfzKAzGmteoX0_pz_c5a8CFKqi7-yy10yiSo1E_p9sa3jWfSB9zZq87lcEKJ4tlKpri9TB8SpUhkqAJHxro3HeAMg/w400-h640/eBook%20Cover%20FINAL.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">#ReleaseDay!</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Today, I'm #grateful that my 52nd #novel, SILENCE OF THE MISSING, is now out in both ebook and paperback.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The #crime <span class="xv78j7m" spellcheck="false">#psychologicalthriller</span> is, I think, one of my best!<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Pick up your copy: <a class="x1fey0fg xmper1u x1edh9d7" href="https://www.amazon.com/Silence-Missing-gripping-psychological-thriller-ebook/dp/B0C4M7TKQV">https://www.amazon.com/Silence-Missing-gripping-psychological-thriller-ebook/dp/B0C4M7TKQV</a><br /><br /></span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">ABOUT THE BOOK</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJviyHTAPaAJP7kUxwuNK2fkArMYnesLu_vcTNqjiFypj49M7bTsicrH6cZ7OwsdkmgttpF1LhIRCB9FKVd-R5xw2P5byMTTZikoK0eaAhLyeYpi_U9573VdKXdPExvqiI_dNHrqIeJSTMbERifIi8LAuXrvoUK7eCOCy-rp_jQWbI-3DvvWzM503L15yB/s600/Silence-of-the-Missing-1st-Quote.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="397" data-original-width="600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJviyHTAPaAJP7kUxwuNK2fkArMYnesLu_vcTNqjiFypj49M7bTsicrH6cZ7OwsdkmgttpF1LhIRCB9FKVd-R5xw2P5byMTTZikoK0eaAhLyeYpi_U9573VdKXdPExvqiI_dNHrqIeJSTMbERifIi8LAuXrvoUK7eCOCy-rp_jQWbI-3DvvWzM503L15yB/s320/Silence-of-the-Missing-1st-Quote.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br />He went into the woods…and never came out.<br /><br />In 1986, thirteen-year-old Jeb Kleber vanished during his small town’s Fourth of July fireworks. His mysterious disappearance left his first love, Sammy Blake, grieving for years.<br /><br />Flash forward to present day. A now middle-aged Sam Blake has a comfortable and predictable life with his husband Marc in Chicago. All that changes when a stranger arrives at Sam’s door, claiming to be the missing Jeb Kleber. The stranger knows things he couldn’t possibly know—including the hidden love the boys shared during the summer of ’86. He also wears an amethyst pendant Sam gave him shortly before he disappeared.<br /><br />Could this be the real Jeb Kleber, missing for thirty-seven years? If not, who is this mysterious stranger? And what does he want after all this time? His appearance plunges Sam’s life into a nightmare of questionable identity, long-buried secrets, and perhaps even murder. </i><br /><span class="xv78j7m" spellcheck="false"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span class="xv78j7m" spellcheck="false">#author</span> <span class="xv78j7m" spellcheck="false">#suspense</span> <span class="xv78j7m" spellcheck="false">#crimefiction</span> <span class="xv78j7m" spellcheck="false">#ownvoicesbooks</span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">REVIEWS</span></b></p><div class="a-section a-spacing-small a-padding-small" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 0px; padding: 6px 10px !important;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">"Compellingly readable, </span><span class="a-text-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic !important;">The Silence of the Missing</span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"> keeps the twists and turns coming right to the end. But Rick R. Reed's real strength is investigating the human heart in crisis, and how resilient it can be—and how appalling." --Felice Picano, author and founder of modern gay literature along with the other members of the Violet Quill<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />***<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />"Reed's story of loss, love, and suffering showcases his trademark ability to explore the nature of evil and, more profoundly, the humanity behind it." --Gregory Ashe, author of the </span><span class="a-text-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic !important;">Hazard and Somerset Mysteries</span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />***<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />"While I wouldn't say </span><span class="a-text-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic !important;">Silence of the Missing</span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"> is a horror story, I will say that it's a mystery/thriller that will keep you guessing until the very end. It's kind of a romance but not in the way you'd expect. arts will get your heart racing as you're eager to find out what really happened that 4th of July night so many years ago. Other parts will have your heart breaking a little for more than one of the characters. In the end, no doubt you'll be pleased with the resolution even if it's not the ending you might expect." --OnTopDownUnder Reviews<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />***<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />"In </span><span class="a-text-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic !important;">Silence of the Missing</span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">, Reed artfully pens an eerily haunting tale of loves lost, of lives ruined, of mystery, suspense, despair and ultimately hope. The story will leave you guessing throughout as it adeptly weaves its way through its characters' troubled lives. Mesmerizing." - Rob Rosen, author of </span><span class="a-text-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic !important;">Bobby Ray Breaks the Universe</span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />***<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />"...memorable characters who feel authentic and very human. </span><span class="a-text-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic !important;">Silence of the Missing</span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"> is an intriguing double mystery." --Laury Egan, author of </span><span class="a-text-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic !important;">The Firefly</span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /></span><span class="a-text-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic !important;">***</span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /></span><span class="a-text-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic !important;">"</span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">"When a man claiming to be Sam's long-lost love shows up at his door over thirty years later, it begins a series of harrowing events which will forever change his life. Rick R. Reed is a master storyteller, digging into the psyche of each character to provide insight and various perspectives of what happened that fateful night in 1986 to Jeb, and how those events continue to impact his characters three decades later. The twists and revelations will keep you wondering what the truth is until you reach the last page." ~Jodi Zeramby, Launch Point Press publisher and author of </span><span class="a-text-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic !important;">Undertow</span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">, </span><span class="a-text-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic !important;">You Matter</span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">, and </span><span class="a-text-italic" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic !important;">Musings of a Madwoman</span><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"> (under the pen name Jazzy Mitchell)</span></span></div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-78533585670886959872023-07-03T09:14:00.001-07:002023-07-03T09:14:59.368-07:00Now Out in Audiobook: THE IMPOSSIBLE CHILDHOOD OF MY DESIRES<p> </p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span data-offset-key="6dm5k-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9pAqZR2uoG3pmYQj98d_gAt2ikO7hZRQbF6gmLUvo9IkO1RKk3NqOYnMCf3iUlTz7qzX_FVWZuhGVUzIkjunlSEhqDAfn9lTwmI-nIKX94vskHDyrURZ3pxvCUO7MmZvochw7uIB2hwijJx31aNfTXUbn-6uZGWC0jLKVrxr13cd5F_zxpiWmZI7XyzT/s1600/2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9pAqZR2uoG3pmYQj98d_gAt2ikO7hZRQbF6gmLUvo9IkO1RKk3NqOYnMCf3iUlTz7qzX_FVWZuhGVUzIkjunlSEhqDAfn9lTwmI-nIKX94vskHDyrURZ3pxvCUO7MmZvochw7uIB2hwijJx31aNfTXUbn-6uZGWC0jLKVrxr13cd5F_zxpiWmZI7XyzT/w563-h317/2.png" width="563" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br />Performed by Adam Stone, this is my heartfelt story of <span class="xv78j7m" end="124" start="118" style="color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;">#trans</span><span data-offset-key="6dm5k-4-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> awakening and how one couple's love is tested in the face of long-buried secrets. Will the reveal of those secrets bring understanding and tolerance or destroy a marriage? </span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK</span></b></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5bSTnhqTcBK6BcrE7pvChFVaNx-syl_RnhP_e2ejtow_m4QcUGRDRlpPPXqIMdOhYbjl-TkzLbzOA7cD_s7HKb2Bshb3cslvO8wszdETls2TQOKPR1MzCbIar_KT4smTtB0iPKYXEzkoqvB36NcRrVGxvFT0fQ7G7ND4irxtAn-ISKBVS5rcNcFPPI3_/s500/51edBUPxHXL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5bSTnhqTcBK6BcrE7pvChFVaNx-syl_RnhP_e2ejtow_m4QcUGRDRlpPPXqIMdOhYbjl-TkzLbzOA7cD_s7HKb2Bshb3cslvO8wszdETls2TQOKPR1MzCbIar_KT4smTtB0iPKYXEzkoqvB36NcRrVGxvFT0fQ7G7ND4irxtAn-ISKBVS5rcNcFPPI3_/w286-h286/51edBUPxHXL.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><br />Carl Young’s biggest secret: he’s always felt like Cara Young. Through the years, he acknowledged his authentic female self in ways he kept hidden in the shadows. The makeup, the dresses, the shoes -- all of them represented his most longed-for desires and his deepest shame.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111;">When Carl’s husband Roberto comes home early from work to discover Cara in her wig, makeup, dress, and high heels, he’s shocked. Who is this person he married decades ago? He flees, leaving their home in Chicago for the obliviousness of the sunny skies of Southern California.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111;">Cara begins making tentative steps into a world she imagined would always remain secret. She ventures out, dressing the only way she feels whole. Publicly claiming her identity, she’s terrified, but also filled with joy when she discovers there are others like her, people who will welcome her with open arms and support.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #0f1111;" /></span><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111;">But for both Roberto and Cara, their long-term and love-filled marriage is now a challenge with which they both must reckon. Does her transition mean following separate paths? Or forging a new one ... together?</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span></span></p><div class="x1e56ztr" data-block="true" data-editor="2eglh" data-offset-key="cui83-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin-bottom: 8px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="cui83-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative; text-align: center;"><span data-offset-key="cui83-0-0"><b><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">BUY</span></b></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="cui83-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span data-offset-key="cui83-0-0"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="cui83-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span data-offset-key="cui83-0-0"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Impossible-Childhood-My-Desires/dp/B0C9KYY55G" target="_blank">Audible</a></span></span></div></div><div class="x1e56ztr" data-block="true" data-editor="2eglh" data-offset-key="c9d4u-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin-bottom: 8px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="c9d4u-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span data-offset-key="c9d4u-0-0"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Impossible-Childhood-My-Desires-ebook/dp/B0BDXNF4KM" target="_blank">Kindle</a></span></span></div></div><div class="x1e56ztr" data-block="true" data-editor="2eglh" data-offset-key="7fh6g-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin-bottom: 8px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="7fh6g-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span data-offset-key="7fh6g-0-0"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Impossible-Childhood-My-Desires/dp/B0BHRB3N54">Paperback</a></span><span data-offset-key="7fh6g-2-0"> </span></span></div></div><div class="x1e56ztr" data-block="true" data-editor="2eglh" data-offset-key="5klr7-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin-bottom: 8px; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5klr7-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span class="xv78j7m" end="11" start="0" style="background-color: var(--text-highlight);"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="5klr7-0-0" style="direction: ltr; position: relative;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><span class="xv78j7m" end="11" start="0" style="background-color: var(--text-highlight);">#loveislove</span><span data-offset-key="5klr7-1-0"> </span><span class="xv78j7m" end="20" start="12" style="background-color: var(--text-highlight);">#lgbtqia</span><span data-offset-key="5klr7-3-0"> </span><span class="xv78j7m" end="47" start="21" style="background-color: var(--text-highlight);">#transrightsarehumanrights</span><span data-offset-key="5klr7-5-0"> </span></span></div></div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-25464611540102828552023-07-01T09:24:00.001-07:002023-07-01T09:24:19.657-07:00THIRD EYE A Psychic, Two Diabolical Killers, and a Journey Into Nightmare and Redemption<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3M4dU4hTYaXXQkhrLo5-9lxWcAlhlCRE8_8xxaQNfG3ThF7YgLZrK81as958iki65RPLYOs2xXCbd2zatF8Lr7G7gF6orOL9Kv7abFkPGzgcM3gHkvk_rq9vE2YWDcQDQSwR9LRJJTxGr/s2048/ThirdEye-f.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3M4dU4hTYaXXQkhrLo5-9lxWcAlhlCRE8_8xxaQNfG3ThF7YgLZrK81as958iki65RPLYOs2xXCbd2zatF8Lr7G7gF6orOL9Kv7abFkPGzgcM3gHkvk_rq9vE2YWDcQDQSwR9LRJJTxGr/w426-h640/ThirdEye-f.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Third-Eye-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B0875V15XR" target="_blank">THIRD EYE</a></b> is my thriller about a psychic and his reluctant visions into the murders of young women in small-town Appalachia. </i><i>The awesome cover art is by Natasha Snow.</i><br />
<br /><div><b>BUY</b></div><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Third-Eye-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B0875V15XR" target="_blank">Amazon</a></b></div><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Third-Eye-Rick-R-Reed/dp/1951880919" target="_blank">Paperback</a></b></div><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Third-Eye/dp/B00VF1OEPA" target="_blank">Audiobook</a></b></div><div><b><a href="https://ninestarpress.com/product/third-eye/" target="_blank">NineStar Press</a></b></div>
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<b><br />ABOUT THE BOOK</b></div><div><b><br /></b><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMfN_wWu_YYyEY7dF7noNp-wKJ_FIMy_f4zxSTqabnfNbwSmfNiMzUEyNt5AjoS9JGtc9H4YkR7nTM1lR8_FDvlexaZevq4gPCF0M2gVwhxrXum1iezkHQAGGsPoNOPhTO9QhwFoTRAbvA/s1080/Get+your+copy+now+from+Ninestar+Press+or+your+favorite+bookstore.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMfN_wWu_YYyEY7dF7noNp-wKJ_FIMy_f4zxSTqabnfNbwSmfNiMzUEyNt5AjoS9JGtc9H4YkR7nTM1lR8_FDvlexaZevq4gPCF0M2gVwhxrXum1iezkHQAGGsPoNOPhTO9QhwFoTRAbvA/s320/Get+your+copy+now+from+Ninestar+Press+or+your+favorite+bookstore.jpg" /></a></div>
Who knew that a summer thunderstorm and a lost little boy would conspire to change single dad Cayce D’Amico’s life in an instant? With Luke missing, Cayce ventures into the woods near their house to find his son, only to have lightning strike a tree near him, sending a branch down on his head. When he awakens the next day in the hospital, he discovers he has been blessed or cursed—he isn’t sure which—with psychic ability. Along with unfathomable glimpses into the lives of those around him, he’s getting visions of a missing teenage girl.<br />
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When a second girl disappears soon after the first, Cayce realizes his visions are leading him to their grisly fates. Cayce wants to help, but no one believes him. The police are suspicious. The press wants to exploit him. And the girls’ parents have mixed feelings about the young man with the “third eye.”<br />
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Cayce turns to local reporter Dave Newton and, while searching for clues to the string of disappearances and possible murders, a spark ignites between them. Little do they know that nearby, another couple—dark and murderous—are plotting more crimes and wondering how to silence the man who knows too much about them.</i><br />
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<b>EXCERPT</b><br />
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<b>Third Eye</b></div><div>Rick R. Reed © 2020<br />
All Rights Reserved<br />
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<b>Prologue</b><br />She was only thirteen. It wasn’t fair she now lay, bound, waiting for death. Before, there had been struggling: clawing and fighting, scratching their faces, pulling at their hair, batting at whatever part she could reach. Her breath had come in choking spasms, adrenaline pumping, burning, anteing up the hysteria so much she thought her air would be blocked. Then had come the dread that made her lose most of her fight, when her terror-addled brain had begun to accept her fate was to die here, in this tiny, hot room, with the only witness to her demise the sparkling eyes of her killers and the maddening, crooked whirl of a ceiling fan long past its prime and wobbling, doing nothing more than blowing the overheated, moist air around the room. The dread had risen up, a nausea twisting her gut and making her afraid she would vomit. And then had come the numbness, a dull tingling throughout her body that precluded movement, stripping her of coherent thought.<br />
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They stood above her. Faces she had trusted, faces she had seen before, around her neighborhood. The man she and her friends had had a crush on. He used to drive by her little house on Ohio Street in his old red Mustang, looking the picture of youth, confidence, masculinity. His hair was dark, cut bristle-brush short, and his face always clean-shaven. Thin lips bordered rows of perfect white teeth, and when he had smiled at her, only hours ago, she had lit up. A tingling had started in her toes and had worked its way up until the color rose to her cheeks. At her young age, the interest of a man in his twenties was inconceivable, although it had been something she had hoped for since the first day she had seen him, back at the onset of summer, when the sun had turned white-hot, burning up the grass and making illusory waves rise from the hot, cracked sidewalks.<br />
<br />
He had pulled to the curb and sat there, car idling. She sat in the front yard, sorting through Barbie clothes: ball gowns and swimming suits, miniskirts and stretch pants. He didn’t say anything, not right away. She had looked at him once, then looked away, certain his interest could never be in her. Suddenly she felt ridiculous with her metal trunk, her Barbie dolls, and all the outfits she had once been so proud to collect. Swiftly, she returned the clothes to their case and slammed it shut.<br />
<br />
She leaned back, resting on her palms, and lifted her face to the sun. Its heat beat down relentlessly, making the skin on her face feel tight.<br />
<br />
She felt his eyes on her still. She opened her own eyes a crack and regarded him peripherally. He really was looking at her! The adorable little smile that caused a dimple to rise in his right cheek deepened in the sun’s play of shadow and light. She leaned back more, left hand reaching out to surreptitiously move the Barbie trunk farther away. In this posture, here on the withered and brown grass, she felt that her breasts, little more than two tiny bumps an unkind boy at school had once referred to as her anthills, looked larger. She could be eighteen, couldn’t she? With the right makeup and her hair pulled up….<br />
<br />
But now her long blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, clipped with a pink plastic barrette. She wore a pair of cutoff shorts and an oversized South Park T-shirt belonging to her older brother. He would have killed her had he known she was wearing it. But he was away at the Y’s summer camp and would never know the difference.<br />
<br />
The idling of the car was like an animal purring.<br />
<br />
And then the sun disappeared, and she sat in darkness. Beneath her closed lids, she sensed someone standing over her.<br />
<br />
Why hadn’t she heard the slam of the car door? Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not open them. It would be just like her mother to come outside now and stand above her, hands on hips, and ask her what she thought she was doing.<br />
<br />
“Lucy?”<br />
<br />
Finally, she opened her eyes and blinked at the brightness of the August day. He was smiling. So unlike the other guys in Fawcettville, he was dressed in pressed black slacks and a collarless white shirt, buttoned to his neck.<br />
<br />
“How did you know my name?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, I make it my business to know the names of all the pretty young ladies around here.”<br />
<br />
Lucy felt the heat rise to her face once more. She grinned and could not think of a single word to say.<br />
<br />
“Playing Barbie?”<br />
<br />
She shoved the case farther away, until it was completely out of her grasp. The case lay in the white heat, glinting, looking, she hoped, as if it had nothing to do with her.<br />
<br />
“What? Oh…no, no. These are my little sister’s. She always makes such a mess of things, and I was just organizing for her.”<br />
<br />
“What a good sister.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, well…”<br />
<br />
The two said nothing for a while, and Lucy began to grow uncomfortable under his gaze. She shifted her long, tanned legs in front of her, crossing them at the ankle.<br />
<br />
“I was driving by and saw you sitting there, and I had to tell you”—he hunkered down beside her—“what a lovely sight you are. It made me stop just to have a better look.”<br />
<br />
She laughed and thought she sounded way too much like the thirteen-year-old she was. “Thank you,” she whispered, wondering where her voice had gone.<br />
<br />
“No, thank you, for being here, for making the heat of this day a little more pleasant.”<br />
<br />
Oh, stop! she wanted to cry out but whispered again, “Thank you.”<br />
<br />
He leaned closer, enough for her to feel his breath near her ear. In spite of the day’s heat, his nearness caused gooseflesh to rise on her arms, her spine to tingle.<br />
<br />
“Listen.” He glanced around the empty street with eyes like none she had ever seen: green, ringed with thick black lashes. And in his gaze was a conspiracy that included only the two of them. “My car has air-conditioning. I know this is out of the blue and all, but I wondered if you’d like to go for a ride with me.”<br />
<br />
Lucy glanced back at her house. She wished suddenly she lived in a bigger house, in a better neighborhood. Here on this modest residential street close to the river, her small white clapboard house was surrounded by other houses very much like it, some of them covered in rusting aluminum siding. She pictured her mother inside, on a vinyl-covered kitchen chair, watching All My Children on a thirteen-inch portable TV on the Formica-topped kitchen table. Her mother, she knew, would never approve of what was transpiring here, right in her front yard.<br />
<br />
He stood suddenly. “Okay, okay. I get the message.”<br />
<br />
“Wait.” She sat up straighter. A pickup rumbled by and left in its wake a smell of exhaust and a rush of hot air.<br />
<br />
He turned. “What? Need to get your mom’s permission?”<br />
<br />
“Of course not!” Her voice came out higher than she would have liked, the whiny protest of a child. She stood. “I’d like to come with you. But I can’t stay out too long.” She was about to say “My mom will be worried” but realized how immature that would sound. “I’ve got some people I have to meet in a little while.”<br />
<br />
He smiled. And the smile erased any nervousness she had about going with him. After all, she had seen him around the neighborhood dozens of times. He wasn’t exactly a stranger, not really.<br />
<br />
“That’s fine, Lucy. I’ll have you back within an hour. I promise. I certainly wouldn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with you.” He winked, and she followed him to the waiting car.<br />
<br />
Lucy tripped getting into the car. Her head bumped against the chrome surrounding the upper doorframe, and her hand slid across the black vinyl seat. The laugh that followed came out high and flighty, a little bird. Lucy reddened once more, embarrassed by her klutziness.<br />
<br />
He was grinning, already behind the steering wheel. “Don’t worry about it. We are all prey to tiny lapses in coordination.”<br />
<br />
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while Lucy settled beside him, doing her best to recover her composure. With elaborate care, she positioned herself on the seat and crossed her legs. She admired her legs and hoped he did too: long and tan, smooth, the legs of a woman.<br />
<br />
It was then she felt, more than noticed, the presence of someone else in the car. Lucy turned and saw her for the first time. In the back sat a young woman. Her hair, like Lucy’s, was blonde, but more of a brassy platinum shade. She wore a pair of dark glasses with cat-eye frames, bright-red lipstick, and a silk scarf tied around her neck. Her simple white shift contrasted sharply with her peach-colored skin. Lucy thought she was about the most glamorous thing she had ever seen in Fawcettville.<br />
<br />
He noticed her looking. “This is my girlfriend, Myra. Sweetheart, say hello to Lucy.”<br />
<br />
“Hello, Lucy.”<br />
<br />
Did Lucy detect a very slight British accent in the gravelly voice? Whatever it was, this woman seemed so self-possessed and confident, Lucy’s dismay that this man had a girlfriend was almost overridden. Lucy was fascinated.<br />
<br />
Lucy turned back to the man. “I don’t think you told me your name.”<br />
<br />
He laughed, and Lucy forgot about Myra. His laugh was musical, setting her heart to thumping. She wondered what it would be like to slide closer, to rest her head on his shoulder.<br />
<br />
“It’s Ian.” He slid a pair of Ray-Bans over his green eyes and shifted the car into drive. They sped away from the curb.<br />
<br />
Lucy watched as her little white house grew smaller in the side-view mirror.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t long before they were pulling up in front of a trailer on the outskirts of town. Lucy was disappointed; the dwelling didn’t seem to fit Ian’s character at all. She had expected something more romantic: a houseboat moored on the Ohio River, a high-rise apartment in nearby Pittsburgh, a mansion, a log cabin, anything but a trailer.<br />
<br />
And it wasn’t even a nice one. Set up on cinder blocks, the trailer was a big box wrapped in harvest gold and dingy white aluminum. A piece of the skirting had torn loose at one end, and there was rust around the corners.<br />
<br />
Ian shut the car off and draped his arm across the back of Lucy’s seat. “It isn’t much, love, but it’s all I’ve got. Care to come inside, or should we take you home?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, just take her home, Ian. She’ll be late for supper,” Myra said from the backseat, where she hid behind a cloud of cigarette smoke.<br />
<br />
“I’d love to come inside. This is where you live, right?”<br />
<br />
Ian laughed. “Yes, for now. Are you sure you have time?”<br />
<br />
Lucy glanced down at her watch, embarrassed suddenly by the pink vinyl strap and the Hello Kitty face on the dial. She would have to get a new watch soon, no matter what. Mom would probably be wondering, right about now, where she had gone off to. “I have a little time. Let’s go in. I want to see.”<br />
<br />
Lucy followed the two of them toward the trailer. Ahead of her there was a copse of maple trees on a bluff. The Ohio River, looking brown and stagnant in the milky white light, curved as it made its way south.<br />
<br />
Inside, the sudden change from the day’s withering brightness to the dark interior blinded Lucy, and she felt her first moment of panic. Neither of them said anything, and she suddenly felt helpless. For the first time that day, she questioned their interest in her and thought herself foolish for not having wondered why a young couple in their twenties would want to bring her home.<br />
<br />
But she did look older, didn’t she?<br />
<br />
Of course she did. Ian confirmed it. “We’re going to have a glass of wine, Lucy. Would you care for one?”<br />
<br />
A flush of pleasure rushed through her. They did think she was older, a peer. Perhaps they were just trying to make friends. Before the onset of the summer, she couldn’t recall having seen either of them before. But what would Mom say if she came home with liquor on her breath? She groped in her pocket, thankful for the piece of Bazooka there.<br />
<br />
“Well, maybe I could have just a small one.”<br />
<br />
“Excellent!” Ian clapped his hands together and went toward the wall behind him, where a portable kitchen waited. He took a jug of white wine from the refrigerator and poured three glasses.<br />
<br />
After they were settled in the living room and Lucy’s eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting, she said, “This is much nicer than I thought.”<br />
<br />
The couple exchanged glances, laughing, and Lucy wondered why. The place was run-down. The carpeting, a beige-and-brown tweed, was threadbare, and the furniture was a hodgepodge of mismatched pieces, all of it looking secondhand. The scarred coffee table contained an odd assortment of items: a book called Crime and Punishment, a ceramic skull, and two black votive candles set on tin jar lids.<br />
<br />
But the dimness and stale air bothered her more than anything else. Why were all the curtains drawn? “It’s kind of dark in here, isn’t it?”<br />
<br />
That remark they found amusing as well; their laughter began to make her uncomfortable. She scratched her arm.<br />
<br />
Ian said, “Lucy, haven’t you noticed? It’s hot outside. It keeps things a little cooler if I keep the drapes drawn.”<br />
<br />
Of course.<br />
<br />
After they had finished their wine—well, after Ian and Myra had finished theirs; Lucy thought it tasted horrible—Ian disappeared for a moment. When he came back, he was carrying a video camera. It was one of those tiny ones you could almost palm in your hand, and the red light on it was blinking.<br />
<br />
What was going on?<br />
<br />
“Smile for the camera, Lucy.”<br />
<br />
Lucy tried to smile, but things were getting too strange. She managed to turn up the corners of her lips in a grin. Suddenly, Myra was on the couch next to her, too close, really. Lucy smelled her perfume. It was too sweet, with a bitter undertone. It smelled like she had rubbed incense on herself. The scent of the perfume combined with cigarettes and wine caused Lucy to lean back, away from Myra. Suddenly, the woman didn’t seem as glamorous as she had in the car.<br />
<br />
She put her arm around Lucy and mugged for the camera. “Come on, Lucy, smile!”<br />
<br />
Lucy bit her lip, thinking of the Barbie trunk she had left on her front lawn. Kelsey Timmons, just down the street, wouldn’t be above taking the whole trunk home, especially with the golden opportunity Lucy was giving her. Kelsey had coveted Lucy’s Barbie collection since she had moved in down the street four years ago. “I think I’d like to go home now.” Lucy tried to look anywhere but into the lens of the camera. She wished he would turn it off.<br />
<br />
“Nonsense!” Ian exclaimed.<br />
<br />
“You just got here, dear,” Myra whispered to her. Her lips were too red, and Lucy suddenly felt sick.<br />
<br />
“Please, I need to go home now.”<br />
<br />
“Just a few more minutes.” Ian hunkered down in front of the two of them, moving the camera slowly up and down their bodies.<br />
<br />
Lucy lifted the wine to her lips, just to have something to quell her mouth’s terrible dryness. She began to perspire, dampening at her armpits, her hairline. She whimpered, “You said no more than an hour.”<br />
<br />
“Such a pretty girl,” Myra whispered, lifting Lucy’s ponytail and turning it in her hand. “Oh, to have such tresses. What I wouldn’t give to have hair this color.” She giggled. “Naturally, I mean.”<br />
<br />
“Jealous?” Ian stood and aimed the camera down at the two of them.<br />
<br />
Lucy shot up, heat and fear coalescing to make her sick. The walls of the trailer closed in. “I don’t feel so good. Can we go now?”<br />
<br />
<br />
Ian set the camera down for a moment and gave her his most winning smile. “The answer to that question, my sweet, is no.”</div><div><br /></div><div><b>BUY</b></div><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Third-Eye-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B0875V15XR" target="_blank">Amazon</a></b></div><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Third-Eye-Rick-R-Reed/dp/1951880919" target="_blank">Paperback</a></b></div><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Third-Eye/dp/B00VF1OEPA" target="_blank">Audiobook</a></b></div><div><b><a href="https://ninestarpress.com/product/third-eye/" target="_blank">NineStar Press</a></b></div><div><br /></div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-21189495948216686922023-06-28T08:17:00.001-07:002023-06-28T08:17:00.154-07:00New and Notable: Magic, Monsters, and Me by Timoteo Tong<p> </p><a href="https://www.indigomarketingdesign.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/Magic-Monsters-and-Me-Tour-Banner.png"><img class="aligncenter wp-image-101115 size-full" height="237" src="https://www.indigomarketingdesign.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/Magic-Monsters-and-Me-Tour-Banner.png" width="640" /></a>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Title</strong>: Magic, Monsters, and Me</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Series</strong>: The Magicals' Alliance, Book One</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Author</strong>: Timoteo Tong</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Publisher</strong>:<strong> </strong>NineStar Press</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Release Date</strong>: 06/06/2023</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Heat Level</strong>: 2 - Fade to Black Sex</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Pairing</strong>: Male/Male</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Length</strong>: 126400</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><strong>Genre</strong>: Fantasy, YA, coming of age, LGBT, angsty, supernatural, magic</p>
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<h1 style="text-align: center;"><strong>Description</strong></h1>
Sixteen-year-old Elijah Delomary wants to be a normal boy, riding his skateboard, reading his favorite books, and playing with his familiar, Boxey. His mother expects him to practice magic and fight the monsters who are hurting ordinaries, but he’d rather spend time with his new best friend, Austin. <div><br /></div><div>As their friendship deepens and an old nemesis—Devlina, the Queen of the Gloom—threatens to destroy the universe, Elijah has to decide what’s more important: magic, family, or love?
<h1 style="text-align: center;"><strong>Excerpt</strong></h1><p>Magic, Monsters, and Me<br />Timoteo Tong © 2023<br />All Rights Reserved</p><p>Fifteen-year-old Austin Kang Jr., well over six feet tall, lean and lanky with a mop of black hair falling over his eyes, adjusted the thick black glasses on his face. He studied the white stone and glass mansion jutting out over a hillside on North Sunset Canyon Drive. The house appeared to have good feng shui, with a Southern exposure to allow absorption of positive chi, a panoramic view of the Valley below, and a clear path to the front door.</p><p>Feng shui was important to Austin and his parents. They believed it helped center their family and keep them grounded and safe. Austin and his parents were descended from a long line of Magicals called Glimmerers who could tap into a glimmer of magic and twist, turn, and manipulate it as if it were hot ore being turned into a sword.</p><p>Coaugelus, as they were known in the Old Language, the mother tongue of the Magicals, were a class of warriors. They defended Magicals and Ordinaries, or humans without magic, from dark forces, creatures, and monsters that lived in the dark shadows of Earth—a place called the Gloom.</p><p>Coaugelus, Magicals, and Ordinaries lived in the light in our world, also known as the Shimmering. Everywhere that the sun touched was part of the Shimmering. Austin, his parents, even the people driving by in cars, walking their dogs, and watering their lawns shimmered and lived in the light.</p><p>Long ago, the Gloom and the Shimmering met face-to-face in a great war that killed and destroyed countless Ordinaries, Magicals, and monsters. The war raged on and reached a crescendo. A Pàcifimenta, a treaty among Ordinaries, Magicals, and the Gloom was signed. The war ended. Peace settled over the Shimmering and the Gloom.</p><p>Still, many in the Coven, the collective of monsters in the Gloom, did not agree with the Pàcifimenta. They didn’t like that they had to sacrifice feeding on Ordinaries or haunting, possessing, or simply terrorizing them. Others wanted power to control the Coven, and to defeat the peace created by the Pàcifimenta. Some creatures didn’t like peace as part of their nature. These monsters were fought by Coaugelus like Austin and his family.</p><p>Austin loved three things in life: playing soccer (known as football back home in Hong Kong), listening to grunge music like his dad, and fighting the Coven. For Austin, being a Coaugelo gave him a purpose in life and a place where he felt like he belonged. He particularly enjoyed kicking, punching, and using Xem Sen Ou, the ancient martial art from Minerva in Old Earth in the Seventh Dimension where all Magicals came from.</p><p>He also fancied his PlasmX, a purple plasma staff that folded into nondescript metal object akin to a lighter that he always carried with him. He had used it only last night while hunting down a group of rather angry werewolves, or Malloupus, that were attacking tourists at the night market in Kowloon. Austin enjoyed watching the pure purple plasma slice through the heads and arms of werewolves that were in the middle of reaping the souls of innocent Ordinaries.</p><p>Austin loved saving Ordinaries from monsters.</p><p>“What’s our assignment?” Austin asked his parents.</p><p>“Trouble is breaking out within the Coven here in Los Angeles,” said Austin Sr.</p><p>Austin and his family spoke with posh accents, a holdover from when Hong Kong was a colony of the UK. “We’re here to investigate and report back to XAQ2,” continued Austin Sr.</p><p>“Bleedin’ hell,” Austin complained. “XAQ2 are wankers. Full of rules. Can’t we simply report to the Anti-Coven League and be done with it?”</p><p>“Xutactiendo Allégansa Qu’elicallen Duzo have moved more operations of the League from the clandestine to the legal,” said Austin Sr.</p><p>“What does that mean?” Austin asked.</p><p>“The Alliance is strained and weakened. As leaders of the Alliance, the Còngréhassa are trying to placate their counterparts in the Coven and maintain the Pàcifimenta. Part of that entails relying more on formal procedures. The League works in secret, whereas XAQ2 works through formal channels as the official body of the Alliance.”</p><p>“Tossers,” Austin said. “XAQ2 can all go to hell as far as I’m concerned.”</p><h1 style="text-align: center;"><strong>Purchase</strong></h1>
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://ninestarpress.com/product/magic-monsters-and-me/" rel="noopener" target="_blank">NineStar Press</a> | <a href="https://books2read.com/magic-monsters-me" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Books2Read</a></h2>
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<h1 style="text-align: center;"><strong>Meet the Author
</strong></h1>
Timoteo K. Tong grew up in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles dreaming of living in a rambling Victorian mansion. He currently lives with his husband and way too many plants in San Francisco. He is obsessed with cheese pizza, drinking cola, and daydreaming about magic. He sold his first book when he was age eight, a story about his beloved stuffed animal named Crocker Spaniel. He is a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators International.
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/TimoteoTong" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Facebook</a> | <a href="http://www.instagram.com/Timoteotong" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Instagram</a> | <a rel="noopener" target="_blank">Pinterest</a> | <a rel="noopener" target="_blank">Bookbub</a> | <a rel="noopener" target="_blank">Other</a></h2>
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Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-3799771052417636802023-06-24T08:26:00.004-07:002023-06-24T08:26:44.999-07:00THE SECRETS WE KEEP Is Now Out in Audiobook!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq69O_I_El-QxCT0SR5h9DQ4nAwB4KRunTYcrLG_Ve7KdX8PMT0X1jw_75Ce0K7CKhrbFa08arBkBreoJ5ptRjy3dhcrLt0UVLMCSZIT-8IkiPX9E8vh10iTBoM_bFEkq8ROiKPXKrbe1VmOPIbwbcR5x3vIbN3dtcmd86h9q1G7dAhnsRVwdKR1cznBw2/s1400/TSWK-ad2a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="549" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq69O_I_El-QxCT0SR5h9DQ4nAwB4KRunTYcrLG_Ve7KdX8PMT0X1jw_75Ce0K7CKhrbFa08arBkBreoJ5ptRjy3dhcrLt0UVLMCSZIT-8IkiPX9E8vh10iTBoM_bFEkq8ROiKPXKrbe1VmOPIbwbcR5x3vIbN3dtcmd86h9q1G7dAhnsRVwdKR1cznBw2/w549-h549/TSWK-ad2a.jpg" width="549" /></a></div><p></p><div class="xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1qq9wsj xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/david.vargo1?__cft__[0]=AZUUAG2c5FYsGWGAKBohhmluB4DA5-vQRuQt8eNacDvgtMsvBJ6H01DA9Ted7FFkB_jzFh3zB8fUVHDGcqF1qYvNB9zbH30X-3LVKyvEi36HFYymHJUq8tE61s96hxEoYvqGN_56Hv9Jv2SlbEAj6QvToZHLY3LdyeclyhLtfEYE0A&__tn__=-]K-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0"><span class="xt0psk2" style="display: inline;">David Allen Vargo</span></a> narrates my haunting May/December <a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1qq9wsj xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/romance?__eep__=6&__cft__[0]=AZUUAG2c5FYsGWGAKBohhmluB4DA5-vQRuQt8eNacDvgtMsvBJ6H01DA9Ted7FFkB_jzFh3zB8fUVHDGcqF1qYvNB9zbH30X-3LVKyvEi36HFYymHJUq8tE61s96hxEoYvqGN_56Hv9Jv2SlbEAj6QvToZHLY3LdyeclyhLtfEYE0A&__tn__=*NK-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">#romance</a>. </span></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto"><b><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">ABOUT THE BOOK</span></b></div><div dir="auto"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Jasper Warren is a happy-go-lucky young man in spite of the tragedy that’s marred his life. He’s on a road to nowhere with his roommate, Lacy, whom he adores, and a dead-end retail job in Chicago.</span></i></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div dir="auto"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">And then everything changes in a single night. Though Jasper doesn’t know it, his road is going somewhere <a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer;" tabindex="-1"></a>after all. This time when tragedy strikes, it brings with it Lacy’s older, wealthy, sexy uncle Rob. Despite the heart-wrenching circumstances, an immediate connection forms between the two men.</span></i></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div dir="auto"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">But the secrets between them test their attraction. Will their revelations destroy the bloom of new love… or encourage it to grow?</span></i></div><div dir="auto"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></div><div dir="auto"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Audible-The-Secrets-We-Keep/dp/B0C91H65L9" target="_blank">Click here</a> to get your copy!</span></div></div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-36086941983212896542023-06-12T09:40:00.001-07:002023-06-12T09:40:22.455-07:00Pride 2023 Recommended Reading: BASHED<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpATo9ToN-XcPEylIlKeooR6ddIrbZl3rs-GHqBpzexscKX1wLROgTRrjDGceMTerOyZlPk9l0WFLm371yhnY8GbSYuVmwnfyMKJfjiP8bFowK6UEBcV2vemRAs4KveCJNgZFlz1F3HdMm/s750/Bashed-f500.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="694" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpATo9ToN-XcPEylIlKeooR6ddIrbZl3rs-GHqBpzexscKX1wLROgTRrjDGceMTerOyZlPk9l0WFLm371yhnY8GbSYuVmwnfyMKJfjiP8bFowK6UEBcV2vemRAs4KveCJNgZFlz1F3HdMm/w462-h694/Bashed-f500.jpg" width="462" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>For #Pride2023 🏳️🌈, I'd like to highlight the novels I've written that have the most relevance to issues facing our #LGBTQ community.<div><br /></div><div>BASHED deals with the aftermath of a horrible #hatecrime and how it affects the victims and perpetrators. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you want a copy, BASHED is available from Amazon at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bashed-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B08DTKLZ3V">https://www.amazon.com/Bashed-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B08DTKLZ3V</a> and other online retailers. </div><div><br /></div><div>#ownvoices #gaybashing #ghoststory</div><div><br /></div><div><h3 style="text-align: center;"><b><i>Do you believe that real love never dies? </i></b></h3><br /><i>That's the premise behind my ghost/love story from NineStar Press, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bashed-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B08DTKLZ3V" target="_blank">Bashed</a></b>. </i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bashed-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B08DTKLZ3V" target="_blank">Bashed</a></b> is a haunting blend of romance and suspense, wrapped up in a timely story that could have been ripped from today's headlines.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><b>The GLBT Roundtable of the American Library Association gave </b><i><b>Bashed</b></i><b> a highly favorable review and recommended the book for public libraries.</b><br /><br />In part, the review said:<br /><br /><blockquote class="tr_bq"><b><i>"A gripping thriller told from multiple points of view, Bashed delivers what readers have come to expect from Rick R. Reed: a violent and emotionally wrenching tale of realistic horror. The story is told by three characters: two perpetrators of a horrifying hate crime, and the man who survived the attack...The violence is graphic, as is the sex, but neither is gratuitous..."</i></b></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrWpyK6IrTg9iyGss3f7SU1OKuNfr8pcuNsyPUtciJM21yxRZezBiL7ZBWtpQ5OkBdS_PWt_hznsPJVLp3R43tmMxVckttpNmGK5jnJ_XQ89K63Eeo7I39Pv0Dtn-l1KonrS_kOqzD7bwJ/s2048/Ed5ni07U8AEPbMx.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2042" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrWpyK6IrTg9iyGss3f7SU1OKuNfr8pcuNsyPUtciJM21yxRZezBiL7ZBWtpQ5OkBdS_PWt_hznsPJVLp3R43tmMxVckttpNmGK5jnJ_XQ89K63Eeo7I39Pv0Dtn-l1KonrS_kOqzD7bwJ/s320/Ed5ni07U8AEPbMx.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p> </p><br /><br /><b>BLURB</b><br />It should have been a perfect night out. Instead, Mark and Donald collide with tragedy when they leave their favorite night spot. That dark October night, three gay-bashers emerge from the gloom, armed with slurs, fists, and an aluminum baseball bat. <br /><br />The hate crime leaves Donald lost and alone, clinging to the memory of the only man he ever loved. He is haunted, both literally and figuratively, by Mark and what might have been. Trapped in a limbo offering no closure, Donald can’t immediately accept the salvation his new neighbor, Walter, offers. Walter’s kindness and patience are qualities his sixteen-year-old nephew, Justin, understands well. Walter provides the only sense of family the boy’s ever known. But Justin holds a dark secret that threatens to tear Donald and Walter apart before their love even has a chance to blossom. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>THE TRUE STORY BEHIND THE BOOK</b></div><div><div>Sometimes, ideas come from real life. Such is the case with my novel, <b><i>Bashed</i></b>. For a lot of gay men and women, hate crimes are a fact of life. Many gay people have either themselves experienced the terror, violation, and persecution of being attacked simply for who they are (and whether the attack took the form of words, fists, or something more lethal) or, at the very least, they know someone who has. I've been lucky. I have no permanent physical scars. But I did come very close to experiencing a hate crime up close and personal (and I suppose one could argue that what I did experience was actually a hate crime) and that formed the basis for the inspiration of my novel. The title, of course, refers to being fag-bashed.</div><div><br /></div><div>My close call came one October night several years ago back when I still lived in Chicago. I was once into what's affectionately called the "leather scene" and owned chaps, biker jacket, boots, and other accouterments that passed the dress code in either a gay leather establishment or a biker bar. That particular night, I had been hanging out at the Eagle, one of Chicago's foremost leather establishments. I had stayed late, arriving after midnight and leaving near closing, at close to four o'clock in the morning. I had made a new friend and we were making our way to my car, which was parked on a side street that ran parallel to St. Boniface Cemetery. It was a very dark and quiet side street, made all the more so by the late night hour. My companion and I weren't thinking about things like fag bashers or hate crimes. </div><div><br /></div><div>But we suddenly were when we noticed an idling old car parked just opposite from my own. The car was a souped-up muscle vehicle of some sort and inside it, we could see several dark figures, all turning their heads, alert, as we approached. Both of us tensed and quickened our pace. Even in the middle of a metropolis like Chicago, it was easy to feel vulnerable and alone. And we felt even more vulnerable when the still of the quiet night was broken by the sound of car doors opening. Suddenly, my friend and I stopped, feeling exposed in our leather gear, as four young men emerged from the car. To the man, they all sported shaved heads and were dressed in uniforms of baggy jeans and hoodies.</div><div><br /></div><div>And one of them was carrying an aluminum baseball bat.</div><div><br /></div><div>They didn't call us "fags" or "queers". They didn't say anything. Their silence was perhaps more frightening than if they had hurled epithets our way. To reach my car, we would have to walk right by them...and it didn't appear as though they were planning to let us pass.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was like being confronted by a Grizzly in the woods, or a lion in the jungle. What do you do? Run the other way, knowing that four strong men are on your heels? Try to get to your car and hope that the baseball bat was for a late night game of sandlot?</div><div><br /></div><div>We froze. The four, as a unit, moved closer. One of the guys, the one with the bat, grinned, swinging the bat slightly.</div><div><br /></div><div>This was a moment of irrational fear. My heart pounded. A trickle of sweat ran down by back.</div><div><br /></div><div>In books, they call what happened next predictable or <i>deus ex machina</i>, but at just that moment, one of Chicago' finest rolled down the quiet street, very slowly, toward us. The men got in their cars quickly. And so did we.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thankfully, I do not know what the outcome of that night would have been had not the police come along on such a fortunate patrol.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the incident did stick with me for many years, until I got around to dramatizing the incident as the opening to Bashed. But in my fictional world, no police car came to the rescue and the pair of guys emerging from the leather bar end up bashed very badly...with an aluminum baseball bat. It’s chilling to think that one of your characters could have been you, a you that might not have survived to tell a tale again.</div><div><br /></div></div><div><b><u>BUY</u></b></div><div><b><a href="https://ninestarpress.com/product/bashed/" target="_blank">NineStar Press</a></b></div><div><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bashed-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B08DTKLZ3V" target="_blank">Amazon</a></b></div></div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-91242447740917758582023-06-06T17:04:00.003-07:002023-06-06T17:04:23.768-07:00PRIDE 2023 Recommended Reading <p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXrgOOBb6JdPv43YMz5tICFWWpM6XOlmPcNJrMeFj_h5QYm6gpyib1ircRCxmS37elQjnF4c92DWh3yOjMbS_vHrDjf5pr-RVFIcC1DnhO8t2sAnpwcX1uWxIDfURr5nXjJyKle_XfAxj/s2048/Chaser-f.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXrgOOBb6JdPv43YMz5tICFWWpM6XOlmPcNJrMeFj_h5QYm6gpyib1ircRCxmS37elQjnF4c92DWh3yOjMbS_vHrDjf5pr-RVFIcC1DnhO8t2sAnpwcX1uWxIDfURr5nXjJyKle_XfAxj/w300-h452/Chaser-f.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJnRdaqxB0DA_u1IURFZYlhUSzf9qfE6v8lOQwbEF1myKj3qVyQ467DSNlivxXo_0rvvVn9BXMEZbrUc1KXLBuzRBliMVzCBxhkCjponteLaimmm4tBmRJae2F8HDTJoAVTnnPaVdFuUA0/s2048/RainingMen-f.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJnRdaqxB0DA_u1IURFZYlhUSzf9qfE6v8lOQwbEF1myKj3qVyQ467DSNlivxXo_0rvvVn9BXMEZbrUc1KXLBuzRBliMVzCBxhkCjponteLaimmm4tBmRJae2F8HDTJoAVTnnPaVdFuUA0/w301-h452/RainingMen-f.jpg" width="301" /></a></div><br /><i><span class="diy96o5h" end="14" start="4" style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">#Pride2023</span><span data-offset-key="c2bol-2-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> 🏳️🌈, I'd like to highlight two of the novels I've written that have the most relevance to issues facing our </span><span class="diy96o5h" end="125" start="119" style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">#LGBTQI</span><span data-offset-key="c2bol-4-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> community.</span></i><p></p><p><span data-offset-key="c2bol-4-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Both CHASER and RAINING MEN deal with body image, sexuality, and self-esteem. </i></span></p><p><span data-offset-key="c2bol-4-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Get your copies from Amazon: </span><span class="py34i1dx" color="var(--blue-link)" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B075V3G2JX">https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B075V3G2JX</a></span><span data-offset-key="c2bol-6-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and other online retailers. </span></p><p><span data-offset-key="c2bol-6-0" style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #050505;"><b>CHASER</b>
Caden DeSarro is what they call a chubby chaser. He likes his guys with a few extra pounds on them. So when he meets Kevin Dodge in a bar bathroom, he can’t help but stare. As far as Caden is concerned, Kevin is physically perfect: a stocky bearded blond. But Caden gets tongue-tied and misses his chance.
When Caden runs into Kevin one night on the el train, he figures it’s fate offering him a second shot. Caden manages to get invited back to Kevin’s place for a one-night stand that turns into the kind of relationship he’s dreamed about.
But the course of true love never runs smoothly—Kevin and Caden’s romance is no exception. When Caden returns from a few weeks away on business, Kevin surprises him with a new and “improved” body—one that fits Caden’s shallow friend Bobby’s ideal, but not Caden’s. Caden doesn’t know what to do, and his hesitation is just the opportunity Bobby was looking for.
<b>RAINING MEN</b>
The character you loved to hate in Chaser becomes the character you will simply love in Raining Men.
It’s been raining men for most of Bobby Nelson’s adult life. Normally, he wouldn’t have it any other way, but lately something’s missing. Now, he wants the deluge to slow to a single special drop. But is it even possible for Bobby to find “the one” after endless years of hooking up?
When Bobby’s father passes away, Bobby finally examines his rocky relationship with the man and how it might have contributed to his inability to find the love he yearns for. Guided by a sexy therapist, a Sex Addicts Anonymous group, a well-endowed Chihuahua named Johnny Wadd, and Bobby’s own cache of memories, Bobby takes a spiritual, sexual, and emotional journey to discover that life’s most satisfactory love connections lie in quality, not quantity. And when he’s ready to love not only himself but someone else, sex and love fit, at last, into one perfect package.</span></span></p><p><span data-offset-key="c2bol-6-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span data-offset-key="c2bol-4-0" style="color: #050505;">Get your copies from Amazon: </span><span class="py34i1dx" style="color: black;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B075V3G2JX">https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B075V3G2JX</a></span><span data-offset-key="c2bol-6-0" style="color: #050505;"> and other online retailers. </span></span></p><p><span class="diy96o5h" end="365" start="355" style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">#ownvoices</span><span data-offset-key="c2bol-8-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span class="diy96o5h" end="377" start="366" style="color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">#loveislove</span><span data-offset-key="c2bol-10-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><div><span data-offset-key="c2bol-10-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="c92l9" data-offset-key="21v6p-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"></div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-58338876449866146012023-06-05T09:01:00.000-07:002023-06-05T09:01:02.724-07:00A Fever Dreams Becomes a Reality--SKY FULL OF MYSTERIES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF33oIteHVWVCXghd65IhjV0B4eTp8rgOBr31AToH25v7MndVyo9eobdtjyRW3CHqIFxySe0dnEaesmahwmMrXtuvXrVbcivTXcuE2JV1DfVVpDQn_9bGKLmcDHgRovlSzLVVIQ8BO22Ba/s1600/SkyFullofMysteries-f-scaled.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF33oIteHVWVCXghd65IhjV0B4eTp8rgOBr31AToH25v7MndVyo9eobdtjyRW3CHqIFxySe0dnEaesmahwmMrXtuvXrVbcivTXcuE2JV1DfVVpDQn_9bGKLmcDHgRovlSzLVVIQ8BO22Ba/s640/SkyFullofMysteries-f-scaled.jpg" width="426" /></a></div>
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<p style="text-align: left;"><i>Sky Full of Mysteries</i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> is one of my more unusual novels, inspired by a fever dream, it plays with science-fiction elements to explore the lure of new love versus long-term established love and commitment.</span></p>
<b><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><u>ABOUT THE BOOK</u></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><u><br /></u></span></b></div></b>
What if your first love was abducted and presumed dead—but returned twenty years later?<br />
<br />
That’s the dilemma Cole Weston faces. Now happily married to Tommy D’Amico, he’s suddenly thrown into a surreal world when his first love, Rory Schneidmiller, unexpectedly reappears.<br />
<br />
Where has Rory been all this time? What happened to him two decades ago, when a strange mass appeared in the night sky and lifted him into the heavens? Rory has no memory of those years. For him, it’s as though only a day or two has passed.<br />
<br />
Rory still loves Cole with the passion unique to young first love. Cole has never forgotten Rory, yet Tommy has been his rock, by his side since Rory disappeared.<br />
<br />
Cole is forced to choose between an idealized and passionate first love and the comfort of a long-term marriage. How can he decide? Who faces this kind of quandary, anyway? The answers might lie among the stars….<br />
<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: large;">BUY</span></u></b></div>
<a href="https://ninestarpress.com/product/sky-full-of-mysteries/" target="_blank">NineStar Press</a><br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sky-Full-Mysteries-Rick-Reed-ebook/dp/B083YSQ9KL" target="_blank">Amazon Kindle</a><div><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Audible-Sky-Full-of-Mysteries/dp/B09RQ8Y56J" target="_blank">Audiobook</a><br />
Paperback also available<br />
<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-size: large;">EXCERPT</span></u></b></div>
<br />
<i>Cole listened to the close of Tommy’s office door, the start of the new-age music he listened to as he wrote. Today it was Yiruma. Cole waited a moment, in case Tommy should open the door, and then headed down the hall to the master bedroom. He knew Tommy would not emerge until dinnertime, or even later, if he really got involved.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He sat down on the king-size bed, running his hand over the orange and gray quilt. Part of him simply wanted to collapse backward on it, close his eyes, and sleep for hours. The hum of the window air conditioner was soothing, and he knew he could be under within minutes if he allowed himself.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But no, it was the anniversary. He would do what he always did on this day. He pushed himself up and off the comfortable memory-foam mattress and walked to his closet. One of the advantages of the condo, which was built in the 1920s, was its massive size, a total of nearly 2500 square feet. Their bedroom was enormous and included two walk-in closets, one here and one they’d added off the en suite master bath.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Cole’s was in the bedroom, and even though he knew Tommy wouldn’t hear it, he opened his own closet double doors quietly, wincing at the familiar squeak of the hinges. Cole felt a rush of heat rise to his face, despite the frosty air-conditioned chill all around him. Guilt induced that heat, Cole knew. Like an addict, he’d told himself dozens of times he should put away his obsession with Rory. It wasn’t healthy, not for him, and certainly not for his marriage. Secrets never were. Tommy was understanding, sure, but Cole knew he didn’t realize the depth of Cole’s feelings for Rory, not after all these years. Tommy didn’t realize how much he still yearned for Rory, especially around this time of year.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Cole squatted down on the floor, pushing aside his rather sizable collection of running shoes, Cons, and sandals—no wingtips for this boy—and from the far back recesses of the closet, hidden by shadows and garment bags, pulled forth the old black Reebok shoebox. The box held his and Rory’s entire history. Sad thing was, there wasn’t even enough to fill it halfway.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>As he opened the box, Cole wondered why he even bothered. In more logical moments, he told himself that the Rory he still loved didn’t even exist anymore, no matter what had happened. If he was alive, he would have aged, just like Cole, by twenty years. So much could happen, physically, emotionally, spiritually, to a person in two decades. Most people weren’t even close to the selves they were twenty years ago.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Still, he dug into the box. There were only a half dozen or so items inside, and Cole knew each and every one of them by heart. He could just as easily have sat in the kitchen and brought each item out in his mind, examined it, and put it back.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But there was something about touching the mementos. There was an electric connection to each item. He likened it to movies he’d seen about psychics—and how they could get a certain energy from a person off an object they’d touched.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>First, there was his old ID for the Bally gym at Century City mall. Cole fingered it and laughed, remembering a time when he did have the energy for going to the gym on a regular basis. Thank God he did, because it was where he’d met Rory. At first sight, he knew that all he’d wanted to do was kiss the guy. He believed, and still did, in a way, that to kiss this kind of nerdy, uncoordinated, bespectacled young man would be a revelation and a kind of salvation for him. He’d be home. His wish had come true later that same day. And Cole had not been disappointed.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>What they shared had been far too brief, but it had been real.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Next, there was a cereal box top Cole had hung on to through all these years, simply because it was Rory’s favorite breakfast food. It was kind of endearing that Rory loved Froot Loops so much. Cole used to kid him about how childish it was, that he should eat something more grown-up, sensible, something with a little fiber, for Christ’s sake. “Real men don’t eat Froot Loops,” he’d tease, playfully whacking the back of Rory’s head as he sat on their thrift-store couch, hunched over a mixing bowl full of the stuff, just going to town. “You want me to put some cartoons on?” Cole remembered asking, and Rory had nodded, grinning through a mouthful of milk and unnaturally colored, fruit-flavored confetti.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>As the weeks and then months passed with no sign of Rory, he’d hung on to the cereal in the pantry. It wasn’t until he moved in with his sister, Elaine, and she was helping him pack up for his move, that he rescued the box of cereal from the trash, where she’d thrown it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“Oh no, not this.” He’d snatched it out of the wastebasket.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“You and your sweet tooth,” she said, taking the box from him. She opened it and dug around inside, grinning at him. When she put some in her mouth, though, she spit it into the sink. “That stuff is stale, Cole. Tastes like sugary cardboard.” She replaced the box in the trash.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He waited until she was in the bathroom to rip off the top of the box as a souvenir. Even then it was stupid. But somehow the cereal was a concrete reminder of Rory, who could sometimes be a little kid in a very smart man’s body.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>There was a poem Rory had written him, late one night after the third time they’d made love. It was scrawled on a yellow Post-it. Bad rhymes and nearly short enough to be a haiku, it was still the only poem a man had ever written to Cole, about Cole. Even Tommy hadn’t, and he made his living as a writer. Cole got a lump in his throat as his fingertips danced over the six lines and the words “You’re all my heart.”</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He missed his sister too, although not nearly as much as Rory. She’d passed away the year before, much too soon, a victim of breast cancer. He knew he should get out to Arlington Heights more often and see his nephew, Bobby, who was in high school now.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He returned his attention to the contents of the box. Here was the photo of Rory unpacking in their new apartment. He wasn’t looking at the camera, his glasses had slipped down his nose, and his reddish-brown mop was a mess, sticking up in several different directions. Cole recalled Rory didn’t even know when Cole snapped the picture. He was too absorbed in what he was unpacking—his computer game software, his most treasured possession. Back then Cole thought the photo would be funny, something to rib Rory about once he’d had it developed at Walgreens.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But now, with the sunlight hitting Rory’s head just so, the youthful exuberance on his face, even the bend of that lithe young body, the photo had become sacred to Cole, a reminder of their beginning a new life together.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>How short that life had been! If he had known it would all be snatched away just a few weeks later, would he have behaved any differently? That was the thing about life, though; we were never given the courtesy of a warning when something bad was about to strike. We could only mumble bitter what-ifs, which tasted like ash in our mouths.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Cole set the photo back in the box, eyes welling with tears. Why do I do this to myself? Once upon a time, it seemed there was a point to it, but no more. He was a middle-aged married man mourning a too-brief love from when he was in his prime. Pathetic.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He didn’t look at the rest—a takeout menu, a note Rory had left on the nightstand shortly before he disappeared, letting Cole know he’d gone to the gym—he simply put the lid back on the shoebox and then sat for a moment, cross-legged on the floor, staring at it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>As he did every year, he thought I really should get rid of that box. Burn it, maybe. And just like every year, he shoved it to the back of the closet, hiding it behind and under shoes.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>It was his history. No one could take that away.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“Hon?” Tommy called from the hallway. “What are you thinking for dinner?”</i><br />
<br />
<br /></div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-3649468871721089812023-05-18T08:18:00.003-07:002023-05-27T09:06:10.726-07:00My Collection of Love Stories Light and Dark, ECLECTIC MIX TAPE, is Now OUT!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMsO_GSyIY7u-2_KuZl1YoUGUTRXIG5khB55_XPbQdMV2XdPO_wdrdUKIkYwc9wW_GJI2s7mxRe02MBCXlw6FoqVfUmr3y9ocLrDRn8Ykj9VUfszTpPO8Ip6fwL6UQGDSYYepLHYuo49YluKRj_Kd5snJhEliS-55zVotND7KGZs4hPo-qJFKpYnJtQQ/s840/eclecticmixtape.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="560" height="725" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMsO_GSyIY7u-2_KuZl1YoUGUTRXIG5khB55_XPbQdMV2XdPO_wdrdUKIkYwc9wW_GJI2s7mxRe02MBCXlw6FoqVfUmr3y9ocLrDRn8Ykj9VUfszTpPO8Ip6fwL6UQGDSYYepLHYuo49YluKRj_Kd5snJhEliS-55zVotND7KGZs4hPo-qJFKpYnJtQQ/w481-h725/eclecticmixtape.jpg" width="481" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; 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My collection of 15 </span><span style="background-color: white; color: var(--primary-text); white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1qq9wsj xo1l8bm" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/love?__eep__=6&__cft__[0]=AZVgaKNxq02q8EGJji9n7J9RA-BVrmdIOVoAOFVw0Z83qhMcFQ03VX-j5BW7ZQ83mvKpT4xobFRiY4A0jntJyRev-HqDhj4f6dDLmY4-b-D-wEsOvALlDO-kPsssKlQJYAbNX5yeP9ykfLkXcIII2D4EQP3xKeljQ8XVjD6CN5IQDCxDiAaF7jwqQBtmwLt71W4&__tn__=*NK-R" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0">#love</a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: var(--primary-text); white-space: pre-wrap;"> stories (light & dark), ECLECTIC MIX TAPE is out today! And it's on sale </span><span style="background-color: white; color: var(--primary-text); white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1qq9wsj xo1l8bm" href="https://www.jms-books.com/rick-r-reed-c-224_245/eclectic-mix-tape-p-4708.html" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0" target="_blank"><span class="xt0psk2" style="display: inline;">JMS Books</span></a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: var(--primary-text); white-space: pre-wrap;"> for 45% off: </span><span style="background-color: white; color: var(--primary-text); white-space: pre-wrap;">only $3.29 thru May 29.</span></span></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: var(--primary-text); white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: var(--primary-text); white-space: pre-wrap;">Or grab a copy </span><span style="background-color: white; color: var(--primary-text); white-space: pre-wrap;"><a class="x1i10hfl xjbqb8w x6umtig x1b1mbwd xaqea5y xav7gou x9f619 x1ypdohk xt0psk2 xe8uvvx xdj266r x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r xexx8yu x4uap5 x18d9i69 xkhd6sd x16tdsg8 x1hl2dhg xggy1nq x1a2a7pz xt0b8zv x1qq9wsj xo1l8bm" href="https://www.amazon.com/Eclectic-Mix-Tape-Rick-Reed-ebook/dp/B0C5H2L6FV" role="link" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: transparent; background-color: transparent; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-width: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; cursor: pointer; display: inline; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; text-align: inherit; text-decoration-line: none; touch-action: manipulation;" tabindex="0" target="_blank"><span class="xt0psk2" style="display: inline;">Amazon Kindle</span></a>.</span></span></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: var(--primary-text); white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: var(--primary-text); white-space: pre-wrap;">Paperback coming soon! </span></span></span></div><div><b style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">ABOUT THE BOOK</span></b></div><div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6kmlM-ZmiHdCtNCtRpVQum9zPfybK0TpQ9uq9FxKVSKTyok3SV-oTqHQX4HQvLqDAidBvQ1YFYyueIhK1DOAipSee5hreGvrF-63tg1qFdg6aziQF0Kfff6qwgFqeVomN99kcuHwWkazlxKGgMImojFf4JjN8xSXYYISuAe-quHZ9dGCvMvkOItwibg/s1200/BookBrushImage3D-03Flat.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1134" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6kmlM-ZmiHdCtNCtRpVQum9zPfybK0TpQ9uq9FxKVSKTyok3SV-oTqHQX4HQvLqDAidBvQ1YFYyueIhK1DOAipSee5hreGvrF-63tg1qFdg6aziQF0Kfff6qwgFqeVomN99kcuHwWkazlxKGgMImojFf4JjN8xSXYYISuAe-quHZ9dGCvMvkOItwibg/s320/BookBrushImage3D-03Flat.png" width="302" /></a></div><br />The stories in this collection by best-selling author Rick R. Reed range from laugh-out-loud funny to tear-inducing poignancy, to get-your-hackles-up scary to fan-yourself erotic. Within the pages, you’re sure to find something to titillate, delight, provoke thoughts, and induce tears -- maybe all in one story.<br /><br />As diverse as this collection is, each story speaks to the power of love -- how it unites us, how it can free us, how it can imprison us, and, most of all, how it redeems us.<br /><br />Love speaks to our greater good, our most cherished dreams, and our deep need for connection. Revel in these fifteen tales and discover a world populated by people who want the most cherished of all human connections and who find it, often in the most unusual of places.</i></span><p></p></div></div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-3512097786040215812023-04-25T16:03:00.003-07:002023-04-25T16:03:32.914-07:00Have DINNER AT THE BLUE MOON CAFE, Where Terror and Romance Are on the Menu<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIzXUQQhgoYHUpLvCBraWcZOzVRRJVqnxduIdFt8kNQjyGXSMlv_7oWUQ-g_VqcdpATuaQ9GGdwIt7lkw7k2u2iWvxEzsuJmqSHSHJsqs_nJyEQ4Vybttgu3O8XDudR_Dd22ii9m4MPtPE/s750/DinnerattheBlueMoonCafe-f500.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="709" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIzXUQQhgoYHUpLvCBraWcZOzVRRJVqnxduIdFt8kNQjyGXSMlv_7oWUQ-g_VqcdpATuaQ9GGdwIt7lkw7k2u2iWvxEzsuJmqSHSHJsqs_nJyEQ4Vybttgu3O8XDudR_Dd22ii9m4MPtPE/w472-h709/DinnerattheBlueMoonCafe-f500.jpg" width="472" /></a></div></h2>
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<b><i>DINNER AT THE BLUE MOON CAFE is now out!</i></b></h2>
Get yours at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dinner-at-Blue-Moon-Caf%C3%A9-ebook/dp/B08L34S2DG" target="_blank">Amazon</a> or <a href="https://ninestarpress.com/product/dinner-at-the-blue-moon-cafe/" target="_blank">NineStar Press</a> <br />
<br />
<h1 style="text-align: center;"><b>ABOUT THE BOOK</b></h1><i>A monster moves through the night, hidden by the darkness, taking men, one by one, from Seattle’s gay gathering areas.</i><br />
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Amid an atmosphere of crippling fear, Thad Matthews finds his first true love working in an Italian restaurant called the Blue Moon Café. Sam Lupino is everything Thad has ever hoped for in a man: virile, sexy as hell, kind, and… he can cook!<br />
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As their romance heats up, the questions pile up. Who is the killer preying on Seattle’s gay men? What secrets is Sam’s Sicilian family hiding? And more importantly, why do Sam’s unexplained disappearances always coincide with the full moon?<br />
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The strength of Thad and Sam’s love will face the ultimate test when horrific revelations come to light beneath the full moon.<br />
<br /> <br />Get yours at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dinner-at-Blue-Moon-Caf%C3%A9-ebook/dp/B08L34S2DG" target="_blank">Amazon</a> or <a href="https://ninestarpress.com/product/dinner-at-the-blue-moon-cafe/" target="_blank">NineStar Press</a> <p style="text-align: left;"><b>Genre</b>: Paranormal, LGBTQIA+, chef, murders, werewolf, friendship, shifters, contemporary, Seattle, food, recipes</p><h1 style="text-align: center;"><b>Excerpt</b></h1><p><b>Dinner at the Blue Moon Café<br />Rick R. Reed © 2020<br />All Rights Reserved</b></p><p>Music from his clock radio woke Thad Matthews at 6:00 a.m. The song, “Smokestack Lightning,” yanked him from a heavy, dream-laden sleep. Its energy forced his eyes open wider, caused synapses, eight hours dormant, to tingle, and made him want to move. Nonetheless, he slapped at the snooze button, silencing the bluesy wail, rolled over, and then pulled the comforter over his head. He was glad he had tuned his clock radio to KPLU, Seattle’s only all-blues all-the-time station, but he desperately wanted to recapture just a few more minutes of his dream, in which he’d found himself on the moors of England. All he could recall was that the moors themselves were appropriately fog shrouded and lit with a silvery luminance from above. Someone waited for him in the shadows and fog. And he couldn’t, for the life of him, know for certain if that someone meant to do him harm or meant to just do him.</p><p>He’d been having a lot of sexual dreams lately.</p><p>As much as he wanted to unravel the mystery of the dream—and to perhaps savor the vague sexual vibrations he was getting from it—sleep eluded him. He found thoughts of the day crowding in, preventing even the most remote possibility of a recurrence of slumber.</p><p>Thad sat up in the four-poster, rubbing his eyes like a little boy, and wondered why he bothered setting an alarm. He had no job to go to, no pressing engagements, no muse to answer to—hell, he didn’t even have an appointment for an oil change.</p><p>This day, like all his others, stretched out before him completely unmarred with obligations other than the requirements life imposed upon him, such as eating and going to the bathroom, which the erection poking up under his sheets compelled him to take care of. He called this morning wood a pee-on, because once he had put that particular need to rest, it most often subsided.</p><p>After stumbling to the adjoining bathroom and letting go with a flow that caused a mighty sigh of relief to issue forth from him, he thought once again that maybe today should be the day he looked harder into getting himself some employment—anything to put him into contact with other people and to fill his waking hours. Lord knew he filled out enough applications and answered enough Help Wanted ads on Craigslist to keep the officials down at unemployment sending him checks. But all his efforts, dishearteningly, were ignored.</p><p>It had been nearly four months since he had been laid off at Perk, the national chain of coffee shops headquartered in suburban Shoreline. Thad had been there for six years, in the marketing department, spending his days writing clever sayings for paper coffee cups and point-of-purchase signs for the stores. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it. And writing phrases like “Plan on Being Spontaneous” paid the bills, even if it didn’t provide much creative or intellectual challenge. It helped sell coffee, and Thad never kidded himself: that’s why he was employed there.</p><p>Except now they didn’t need him anymore. Who would write the signs for their special Iced Coffee blend?</p><p>He gazed down at the bubbling golden froth in the toilet and flushed it away, along with his thoughts about his former job. He turned and rinsed his hands under the sink, then splashed cold water on his face. Standing up straight, he stared at his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror.</p><p>“You’re too young for a life of leisure,” he said to his reflection, rubbing his hands through his short, coarse red hair, which stuck up in a multitude of directions. People paid good money for products that would make their hair look as fetchingly disheveled as Thad’s did right now. He peered closer at himself, taking inventory of his pale skin, his gray eyes, and the constellation of freckles that spanned his nose and the tops of his cheeks. He flexed, thinking he was looking a little flabby around the middle.</p><p>“Workout day. I’ll head over to the gym today. I need it.” He sucked in his gut and let it out again, thinking it was empty and needed refilling. A Pagliacci delivery pizza only went so far. His slumber and active dream life, he supposed, had all but digested the pie.</p><p>Thad moved to the bedroom and began tossing pillows on the floor to make up his bed. He wasn’t sure why he bothered with this either, since it was unlikely anyone would see the military-neat bed except for him, when he would approach it once more this evening just to mess it all up again. But it was important to Thad to have a routine. Otherwise his days would blend into one meaningless chunk of time, formless, without definition or purpose.</p><p>It was becoming increasingly hard enough to distinguish Tuesday from Thursday—or Sunday, for that matter.</p><p>Back when he was putting in forty-plus hours a week, he envied the increasing number of friends and acquaintances who had gotten laid off during the economic downturn. The money they made on unemployment seemed like enough—at least for him and his modest lifestyle in his Green Lake studio apartment—and the freedom they had seemed worth the cut in pay.</p><p>But now he wasn’t so sure. The uncertainty of what would happen if he still wasn’t working when the unemployment checks dwindled down to zero hung over him like a vague threat. And the freedom wasn’t really so great, when that same threat prevented him from spending much money, lest he should need it down the road for luxuries like food and a roof over his head.</p><p>Worst of all was what the job loss had done to his self-esteem. Thad needed some meaning in his life, a purpose. That much had been instilled in him since he was a little boy, back in Chicago growing up in the working class neighborhood of Bridgeport, where his father was a cop and his mother waited tables at a Lithuanian restaurant.</p><p>He pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, padded out to the office area of his apartment, and plopped down in front of his laptop. He planned to check out the classifieds on Craigslist, then Monster, then CareerBuilder. When he was first laid off, he looked only at writing and editing jobs but had lately broadened his search to include, well, just about everything. Thad realized he would work retail, man a customer service phone line, groom dogs, or wait tables, as long as he had a job.</p><p>Yet the rest of the world hadn’t gotten wind of his eagerness to accept any kind of employment. Or if they had, they weren’t saying.</p><p>Before he went through the often-depressing ritual of cyber pavement pounding, he would check out what had happened in the world since he had stumbled in last night from an evening of self-consolation and vodka on Capitol Hill. He hit the little orange-and-blue Firefox icon on the dock at the bottom of his screen to bring up the day’s online news…</p><p>And was jolted right out of whatever sluggishness he was feeling. He stared at the lead article for that day’s Seattle Post-Intelligencer. A chill coursed through him, and he slowly shook his head as he read the details of that morning’s top story, titled “Brutal Slaying in Capitol Hill.” The article described how an as-yet-unidentified young man had been killed in an alley in the Seattle neighborhood known for its heavy concentration of gay bars and clubs. Thad had to stop reading for a moment to close his eyes because the gruesome details were simply too much to bear. His stomach churned. The man had not just been killed but had been literally ripped apart. Very little blood was found at the scene. And forensics had already determined that there was no trace of metal found on the victim’s flesh, which meant that the deed had to have been done with something other than a knife. The worst detail of all was the fact that the remains bore definite signs that much of the man’s flesh had been eaten. Authorities are keeping details to themselves regarding who—or what—the perpetrator could have been. The story closed with the usual cautions about what to do—don’t travel alone, avoid strangers and unlit places—when something so unsettling and violent occurs.</p><p>Thad exited Firefox sooner than he had planned and stared out the window. His heart thumped in his chest. Bile splashed at the back of his throat and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He had been in Capitol Hill the night before, having a dirty martini or three at Neighbours, one of the gay ghetto’s most popular hangouts. He wondered if, as he had made his way back to the bus stop, he had passed the killer or killers. If perhaps the killer or killers had eyed him, wondering if he would suffice for their demented purposes. He could see himself through their eyes, being watched from the shadows of a vestibule or an alley as he made his way back to the bus stop on Broadway. He wondered if he looked appetizing. He had been told on more than one occasion that he was “tasty” and “delicious,” but those doing the describing were not thinking of him as dinner—at least not in the conventional sense. He wondered if perhaps the only thing that had saved him was the coincidental passing of a boisterous group from the University of Washington, coming up alongside him just as the fiend in the dark was ready to pounce. He shivered. For once, rejection was a comforting thought.</p><p>Rejection, under these circumstances, was the new “getting lucky.”</p><p>Still, some poor soul had not been as lucky as he had, and today forensics was probably busy trying to figure out just who this unfortunate soul was. From what Thad had read, it didn’t sound like they had much to go on. Dental records, maybe? What kind of animal would not only kill a fellow human being but also eat his flesh and drink his blood? Was this a human being at all? Thad had heard of bears occasionally making their misguided ways down from the mountains and into Seattle, but they usually got no farther than suburban parks and backyards. And the “bears” that routinely cruised the Capitol Hill neighborhood were of a much more cuddly variety.</p><p>Surely, though, an animal couldn’t have been roaming around busy Capitol Hill on Friday night. The neighborhood, on weekend nights, was a blur of barhoppers and partiers, its hilly streets filled with people and cars jockeying for position. Loud and well lit, it was the kind of neighborhood that would scare the shit out of an animal, at least an animal with normal fears and inclinations. This had to be the work of a person, or people, right? And whoever was behind such a thing had to be majorly warped. Thad had a quick vision of pale-gray eyes and enormous canine teeth until he banished the imagery to the back of his brain, grateful for another kind of canine distraction.</p><p>That distraction had just sidled up beside Thad, her arrival signaled by a clicking of toenails on hardwood. Thad glanced down at his gray-and-white Chihuahua, Edith, staring up at him with her dark eyes. Her tongue stuck out one side of her mouth, giving her a both comical and wizened appearance. The dog was about a hundred years old, and Thad thought, for better or worse, she was his very best friend in the world. Edith got up on her hind legs to paw at Thad’s lap, indicating to him that he was not the only creature in the house that had to pee first thing in the morning.</p><p>Thad got up and, with Edith following impatiently behind, slid into flip-flops and grabbed her leash. “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s take a little walk down to the lake, and then we’ll see about getting us both some breakfast.”</p><h1 style="text-align: center;"><b>Purchase</b></h1>
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://ninestarpress.com/product/dinner-at-the-blue-moon-cafe/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">NineStar Press</a> | <a href="https://books2read.com/u/mdlrNy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Books2Read Universal Link</a></h2>
<h1 style="text-align: center;"><b>Follow Rick on Social Media</b></h1><h2 style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Website</a> | <a href="http://www.facebook.com/rickrreedbooks" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook</a> | <a href="http://www.twitter.com/rickrreed" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/rickrreed/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram</a></h2>
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Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-15082076171723367482023-04-04T09:59:00.002-07:002023-04-04T09:59:56.448-07:00My Inspiration for My Romance with Recipes: DINNER AT HOME<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6r7g_jdfSD0ozN1evACCu4mtQFW-y9jW1ENSRMAn0ZgZbK7OTqzykjhvQXIKF0rBlyIHmHdAgHGkVQ7Ft4dL5djgh-h8LMWg7tlAP7LIrPcU2tahaWSRsJrahyUXJsxNOu47NYpjWGiVT/s840/dinnerathome.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="560" height="688" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6r7g_jdfSD0ozN1evACCu4mtQFW-y9jW1ENSRMAn0ZgZbK7OTqzykjhvQXIKF0rBlyIHmHdAgHGkVQ7Ft4dL5djgh-h8LMWg7tlAP7LIrPcU2tahaWSRsJrahyUXJsxNOu47NYpjWGiVT/w458-h688/dinnerathome.jpg" width="458" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
If, or hopefully when, you read my book, <b><i>Dinner at Home</i></b>, you’ll encounter Hank Mellinger, a homeless twenty-something who, when we first meet him, is staying at a Charity called Haven, where he gets room, board, and training in how to be a professional cook. Two similar charities exist in Seattle, where the book is set, Fare Start, which teaches cooking skills to the homeless, and YouthCare, which provides shelter, food, clothing, and vocational training for homeless youth, an astoundingly (or maybe not) large number of whom identify as LGBT.<!--AddThis Button BEGIN--><br />
<br />When I lived in Seattle, I volunteered for YouthCare, cooking lunches and dinners once or twice a month with a group of my friends—we call ourselves the “It Gets Better” group. There weren't many things I did that were as satisfying, rewarding, and inspirational as this service. It warmed my heart to know that the food I made with my own hands was feeding kids who may not have anything else to eat the rest of the day. Their happiness at seeing what we made that day could bring tears to my eyes.<br />
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My experience with YouthCare is part of the reason I love my character Hank, in <b><i>Dinner at Home</i></b> so much. He’s like the kids I fed: streetwise, tough on the outside, but vulnerable too. They’re really barely more than children and they’ve been forced to grow up too fast and have seen too much. Hank is no different.<br />
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Here’s a little excerpt that shows you what Hank is all about—tough guy outside, but all heart on the inside:<br />
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<i>“You really want to feed people this crap?” Hank Mellinger snapped at his new boss. Lined up in the kitchen of Haven, a charity that housed and fed the homeless of Seattle and provided chef training for some of its residents, were several industrial-sized boxes of generic mac and cheese mix. Alongside the boxes were sticks of no-name margarine and boxes of powdered milk.</i><br />
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<i>His boss, E.J. Porter, an African-American woman with her hair braided tightly to her scalp and oval-rimmed frameless glasses, shook her head as she took in her latest charge.</i><br />
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<i>“Hank. We have to face reality here. Now, as much as I would love to serve people mac and cheese with real cheddar, cream, and maybe roasted red peppers, we just can’t afford that kind of stuff on the measly funds we get from the state and what donors kick in. Hell, honey, we might as well do a béchamel and throw some lobster in too.” She patted his shoulder. “It’s a nice dream, sweetie. Now you need to get cookin’. Lunch is only a couple hours away and I still need you to chop and prep the salad.” She pointed to the sorry pile of heads of iceberg lettuce in the sink.</i><br />
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<i>Hank shook his head. “So because people are poor, they have to eat this fucking shit? Why can’t we get some fresh vegetables? Is it that pricey? This stuff gives ‘em nothin’. Artery-clogging crap that might fill up their bellies, but doesn’t do a thing to keep ‘em healthy. Fuck.”</i><br />
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<i>E.J. moved in close to Hank, so close he could feel her breath and maybe even a bit of her spittle on his face. She spoke softly, but there was an intensity, perhaps even a fury to her words. “Look, Hank, you just got here. I have been trying to run this place for the last nine years. You have no idea what I go through just to get the food we have to work with. You have no idea how grateful some of these people are for this ‘shit’ as you call it. It tastes pretty good when the last meal you had came out of a dumpster, if you had anything at all. We work with what we get. Some days it’s healthier fare than others, but all of it’s food. For hungry people. And you might not think that’s something, but it is.</i><br />
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<i>“Now, you are just starting here. We gave you a roof over your head, food to eat, and we’re trying to help you find a career path as a chef. Haven may not be Le Cordon Bleu cooking school, but we will get you ready to work in a kitchen. We’ll give you knife skills, teach you how to make simple sauces, stocks, and soups, we’ll make a real cook out of you. Maybe not a chef, but a cook.</i><br />
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<i>“Now you need to watch your language, watch your attitude, and get to work.” E.J. stormed away.</i><br />
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<b style="background-color: white; color: #6b6b6b; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.79px;">BUY</b><br /><span style="color: #6b6b6b;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15px;"><a href="https://www.jms-books.com/rick-r-reed-c-224_245/dinner-at-home-p-3047.html" target="_blank">JMS Books</a></span></span><div><span style="color: #6b6b6b;"><span style="font-size: 15px;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Dinner-at-Home-Rick-Reed-ebook/dp/B0819LLTVZ" target="_blank">Amazon</a></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #6b6b6b;"><span style="font-size: 15px;"><br /></span></span>
If you want to know more about YouthCare (and maybe even donate), here’s a little more information:<br />
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<b>YouthCare History</b><br />
For 40 years, YouthCare has been a leader in providing effective services to Seattle’s homeless youth.<br />
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In 1974, a group of concerned citizens started a three-bed shelter for homeless and runaway youth, the first in the Western United States. Since then, we have grown to become a community-based agency with six sites serving the greater Seattle area. During that time, we have led the way in creating effective, innovative programs for homeless young people:<br />
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<ul>
<li>In 1989, YouthCare created one of the first transitional living programs in the Northwest. Straley House now houses Catalyst, one of the first low-barrier housing programs for homeless youth in the region.</li>
<li>In 1998, YouthCare opened ISIS House, the first transitional living program in Washington State to focus on the unique needs of homeless LGBTQ youth.</li>
<li>In 2003, YouthCare was one of the first agencies nationwide to contract with the Office of Refugee Resettlement to house a shelter/case management program serving the specialized needs of refugee youth.</li>
<li>In May 2010, YouthCare partnered with the City of Seattle, the King County Prosecutor’s Office, and others to open the Bridge Program, the first residential recovery program in the Northwest for sexually exploited children. Today, the program operates as a full continuum of services for sexually exploited youth and young adults, and includes dedicated beds in both emergency shelter and transitional living programs.</li>
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<b>Contact</b><br />For general inquiries, including program information and donation options: info@youthcare.org or (206) 694-4500<br />
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<!--AddThis Button END--></div>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-86323350047113077092023-03-30T10:41:00.001-07:002023-03-30T10:41:20.586-07:00Love After Loss HOMECOMING <p><i> Have you read my bittersweet love story yet? It's all about finding life and love after unimaginable loss... </i></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyzF4BJ8GgcOVcDNFEURPmaVJKFfbhSao_wHlzSS5ykJ0n5lxp-s49_4ROa2UHpoQjR2IqsIKjZv5QHpU9gxgqyAtG37Jk-TMpcCTSSnX1wGyr74s3Qcy2uhG126ZK5qlw8f9ecwFsTGw/s750/Homecoming-f500.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="712" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyzF4BJ8GgcOVcDNFEURPmaVJKFfbhSao_wHlzSS5ykJ0n5lxp-s49_4ROa2UHpoQjR2IqsIKjZv5QHpU9gxgqyAtG37Jk-TMpcCTSSnX1wGyr74s3Qcy2uhG126ZK5qlw8f9ecwFsTGw/w474-h712/Homecoming-f500.jpg" width="474" /></a></div>
<h1 style="text-align: center;"><b>About the Book</b></h1><p><i>After losing his partner Toby, Chase faces a long, painful road back to life and love.</i></p><p><i>At first, he doesn’t see how he can go on, but then Chase and Toby’s old friend Mike cajoles him into returning to Chicago for the annual International Mr. Leather Competition. There Chase revisits a world of hot, casual sex that he had forgotten existed, meets a friend who cares more for him than he ever realized, and discovers the possibility that he just might be able to move on without betraying the memory of his late partner.</i></p><p><i>Will Chase find his way back once more to life? To love? And will he find that place he’s been missing? Home. You’ll have to experience the heartrending journey firsthand to find out.</i></p><h1 style="text-align: center;"><b>Excerpt</b></h1><p><b><i>Homecoming</i><br />Rick R. Reed © 2020<br />All Rights Reserved</b></p><p><b>Chapter One</b></p><p>Toby tried his best to stay awake.</p><p>He was on the Microsoft shuttle, traveling home from his job at Microsoft’s Redmond campus, to his condo in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood. It was a long commute, but he had his phone, his weariness (which meant he sometimes slept through the trip), and an overactive imagination for company and entertainment. The commute was made longer because he had to transfer to a bus once he got to downtown Seattle to get close enough to home. Home was a two-bedroom with amazing views of the Space Needle and Lake Union he shared with his soul mate, his beloved, his special one, Chase.</p><p>He was grateful every single day for the wonderful life he’d built for himself. He was one of those lucky folks who could hardly imagine how things could possibly be any better.</p><p>The familiar scenery passed as the bus drew closer to closer to downtown.</p><p>He wished he could banish this fatigue, but it had been a long day and a long week and there simply wasn’t much fuel left in his tank.</p><p>But it was his birthday, for god’s sakes ! He wanted to celebrate—so much. It was a milestone, after all. One doesn’t turn forty every day.</p><p>If he came home exhausted and ready for bed—and sleep—at nine o’clock, it would only validate the sinking feeling Toby had that forty was the beginning of the long path down that particular piece of geography known as “over the hill.”</p><p>He hoped seeing Chase at the door to their shared home would revive him enough to at least maybe order a Pagliacci pizza for delivery and to stream a couple of episodes of Unforgiven on Britbox.</p><p>Now, that sounded like a perfect evening and a birthday celebration ideally suited to his introvert leanings. He was grateful once again he and Chase hadn’t made big plans for the 4-0. They could have a nice dinner over the weekend, perhaps, at his favorite Korean street-food eatery, Revel, over in the Fremont neighborhood. Or maybe they’d splurge, as they had last year, and try to get a table at Canlis.</p><p>To keep himself awake, he brought his phone out of the pocket of his jeans and, like everyone else on the bus, stared down at the illuminated screen.</p><p>He checked Facebook and found it flooded with birthday wishes, so many he got lost in the long thread of well wishes, emojis, and memes exhorting him to have an amazing celebration. Twitter was a little less celebratory, but he still felt like a rock star when he scrolled through all the birthday tweets directed toward him.</p><p>Last, he brought up one of his favorite blogs, Tales from the Sexual Underground, written by an old friend of his from Chicago, Danny Britton, who went by the more youthful-sounding pen name of Bryce Weston, because Danny didn’t know how seriously he’d be taken as a middle-aged dude from Highland Park writing about fringe sexual practices and personages. No one would guess most of his tales were made-up (except for the interviews with sex workers and porn stars) and that the man behind the blog was actually pushing fifty and was happily settled with a doctor husband and two very demanding Pomeranians. The wildest Danny got was a season ticket to Ravinia music park every summer.</p><p>Danny posted a new column twice a week and devoted the other days to curated roundups of news about sex workers, the porn industry, and the rights and freedoms of those wanting to pursue kinks without government interference. His blog had grown so popular that, last Toby heard, he was making a good chunk of change from advertising. The Twitter followers for his blog numbered in the tens of thousands.</p><p>He had a way of writing that made Toby feel he was speaking directly to him, even though he and Chase were pretty much mere acquaintances when they all lived back in the Windy City area.</p><p>This week’s latest blog post, for example, spoke to him and where he found himself in life at age forty perfectly. He’d read it earlier on his lunch break, but found himself wanting to savor its short, sweet, sexy words one more time. It was all about how love wins out over sex every time, although the two together could actually induce heaven on earth, provided everything was in place.</p><p>It was amazing how Danny could put himself in the shoes of a single gay man so convincingly. He’d been with his physician partner, Jake Wells, for more than two decades.</p><p>Back when he and Chase lived in Chicago, he’d tease Jake about the blog when they’d run into him at Wrigley Field or strolling around Millennium Park or at the gay beach at Ardmore and Hollywood. Toby would wonder aloud if Jake had been reincarnated from the soul of a wanton slut of a gay man, or if he was perhaps a horndog trapped in a gay milquetoast’s body.</p><p>Perhaps inspired by the teasing, Jake had even written a blog about that. It was hilarious. You never knew what would inspire Danny, or Bryce, as he was known to the masses.</p><p>Anyway, this particular post, though, made him so grateful and happy he’d found his one and only, Chase. He was grateful there was no longer any need to play the field. Someone, a happily married gay friend of his at Microsoft, had once quipped that there was no reason to go out for hamburger when he had filet mignon at home.</p><p>Toby couldn’t agree more. He began reading.</p><p>“Going for Quality, Not Quantity”</p><p>Why, I can remember a time when sex parties and the filthy backrooms of leather bars were the height of sexual euphoria. Coupling with strangers en masse set my heart to racing, the blood to pumping, and the brain to disengaging. Caution and even reason were thrown to the wind. Out the window too—unwisely, yes—went fears of AIDS, STIs, and even the limitations of the human lumbar system as I swam through the darkness like a hungry fish, searching with eyes glazed for the next cock, mouth, or ass.</p><p>But all of that stuff seems to have lost its charm, to be replaced by “gasp!” if not romance, then at least human connection.</p><p>Am I getting old? Maybe not. Maybe I’ve just grown jaded. And, wonder of wonders, perhaps I’ve grown wiser.</p><p>But these days, sex seems hotter when it’s one-on-one, with someone I actually know more about than the fact that he’s able to swing that baseball cap around effortlessly, inhale a bottle of poppers, and blow me all at the same time. I get more aroused in my own bed, waiting for someone whose name, occupation, and likes and dislikes I at least have a rudimentary knowledge of than I used to lining up for a crack at the crack in the sling.</p><p>A couple cases in point. Old habits die hard, which is why I readily accepted an invitation to a party held during International Mr. Leather (IML) weekend in one of the rooms of the host hotel, the Hyatt. There were to be about fifteen guys gathered. There would be no chips and salsa, witty repartee, or flirtatious glances across the room. No, we all knew what we were there for. The only party favors supplied were bottles of various lube (even that new sensation J Lube, which bears no relation to J Lo, except that both might or might not have something to do with big asses, but I digress), poppers, a sling set up in one corner of the room, and a portable enema hose in the bathroom’s shower. There was no music. No conversation. Just naked men (and some pretty hot ones), grunts, groans, and the odd operatic aria (“Sweet mystery of life, I adore you”).</p><p>After about an hour or so, and making the corporeal acquaintance of at least five other men, the whole thing seemed rather amusing and well, if I’m honest, a little boring. Gatherings like these were often so much better in the imagination than they were in real life.</p><p>So I left, even though the partiers had hours to go before they slept. Trying to get my clothes back on amidst a tableau out of something Fellini might have dreamed up was no easy task. Picking my way to the door through the sweaty bodies almost made me giggle…it was like playing a very grown up game of Twister.</p><p>Contrast that with Sunday…and a very nice day at the beach with someone whom I’m getting to know on many levels. Contrast the sex party with just the two of us, in my sun-drenched bedroom, pretty much doing what the guys at the sex party were doing, but instead of looking for who we should fuck next, we stared into each other’s eyes, charting the course of each other’s pleasure.</p><p>What’s happened to me? Does this mean I’ve finally grown up? Or am I just getting boring?</p><p>Yeah, Toby thought, I get it. He and Chase had been together now for years, and the thought of wanting a little variety or a little on the side had no appeal at all for Toby. He’d won the prize—a hot man who still inspired his passion, but also one who inspired a sense of contentment, a sense of home, and best of all, an assured future together.</p><p>They were almost at his stop and, yes, Toby, anticipating kissing Chase in the next few minutes gave him with a boost of energy. He wouldn’t need anyone else to make his fortieth birthday one for the books.</p><h1 style="text-align: center;"><b>Buy the Book</b></h1>
<h2 style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://ninestarpress.com/product/homecoming/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">NineStar Press</a> | <a href="https://books2read.com/u/b6ZeDy" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Books2Read Universal Link</a></h2>
<h1 style="text-align: center;"></h1><h2 style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.rickrreedreality.blogspot.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Website</a> | <a href="http://www.facebook.com/rickrreedbooks" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Facebook</a> | <a href="http://www.twitter.com/rickrreed" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Twitter</a> | <a href="https://www.instagram.com/rickrreed/" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">Instagram</a></h2>
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Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7021364414249897766.post-26002069745059749442023-03-17T10:38:00.000-07:002023-03-17T10:38:07.518-07:00My Magical Realism Novel, SEASPRAY, Is Now Out in Audiobook!<p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUUZvJf8MWPboWSxZCn86qXcujaheV8xrqxKas7a74Sg5w0pvEBBDQi-u0IFbF24PaXKgUVR_swx1z0IwYDIInc6ZSRMRsfBWGQfqO8MG-ufRNH-THAugjmCF5OACCivbk-kHAjIbhm7NO0gsZUHTNDcdUt7zdLTTyYbgZebeFaQFOneS5KyM1Jld8A/s1467/336511812_581449900683443_3668856582748873409_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1467" data-original-width="1466" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUUZvJf8MWPboWSxZCn86qXcujaheV8xrqxKas7a74Sg5w0pvEBBDQi-u0IFbF24PaXKgUVR_swx1z0IwYDIInc6ZSRMRsfBWGQfqO8MG-ufRNH-THAugjmCF5OACCivbk-kHAjIbhm7NO0gsZUHTNDcdUt7zdLTTyYbgZebeFaQFOneS5KyM1Jld8A/w400-h400/336511812_581449900683443_3668856582748873409_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Very, very proud of how this turned out!</span></p></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">My magical realism novel about escaping domestic abuse, <b>SEASPRAY</b>, is now available in audiobook, narrated by the amazing <span class="xv78j7m" spellcheck="false">David Allen Vargo</span>. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Get your copy: <a class="x1fey0fg xmper1u x1edh9d7" href="https://www.amazon.com/Audible-Seaspray/dp/B0BYG148F8">https://www.amazon.com/Audible-Seaspray/dp/B0BYG148F8</a><br />Also available in ebook and paperback:<br /></span><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Seaspray-Rick-R-Reed-ebook/dp/B0B4KTWBNB" style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #993300; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Digital</a><br style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;" /><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Seaspray-Rick-R-Reed/dp/1648905080" style="background-color: #fff9ee; color: #993300; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">Paperback</a></p><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><b>ABOUT THE BOOK<br /></b></span></h2><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /><b><i>Named Best Book of 2022 by OnTopDownUnder Reviews!</i></b><br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZaXfSF-_JKvAXQ3OJJE5yqJ8uDFIfe839V1yemo50_K-LTCSktS-5CTgN4kjqARAbv9ZVH2X8C3xhZV16v3JTZfvbRLPwITexwb2QcJ1s_VWKZcWAdEXaproPEoMHF3TX_t1J6FygmIa3lDpfolgSB3BH-1Z9ySy03BxMfEKkvYMhgATMjK5mJWweaw/s1080/BookBrushImage15206.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="423" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZaXfSF-_JKvAXQ3OJJE5yqJ8uDFIfe839V1yemo50_K-LTCSktS-5CTgN4kjqARAbv9ZVH2X8C3xhZV16v3JTZfvbRLPwITexwb2QcJ1s_VWKZcWAdEXaproPEoMHF3TX_t1J6FygmIa3lDpfolgSB3BH-1Z9ySy03BxMfEKkvYMhgATMjK5mJWweaw/w423-h423/BookBrushImage15206.png" width="423" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br />Winslow Birkel is a sweet young man in his first relationship. But his boyfriend, the charming and fiery Chad Loveless, has become increasingly abusive to the point where Winslow fears for his life.<br /><br />Everything changes in a single night when Winslow, fleeing yet another epic fight, goes out to a local bar and finds a sympathetic ear in a new friend, Darryn Maxwell. But when he comes home, Chad’s waiting. He’s got it in for Winslow, whom he wrongly accuses of being unfaithful.<br /><br />The stormy night sends Winslow off on a journey to escape. The last thing he recalls is skidding off the road and into the river. When he awakens, he’s mysteriously in the charming seaside town of Seaspray, where people are warm and welcoming, yet their appearances and disappearances are all too inexplicable.<br /><br />Back home, Darryn wonders what’s happened to the new guy he met during his first outing to the local gay bar, the Q. Darryn knows Winslow’s been abused, but he also feels he’s quickly fallen in love with Winslow.<br /><br />Can Winslow and Darryn decipher their respective mysteries? Is it possible for them to reunite? Is Chad still lurking and plotting to make sure Winslow never loves anyone else? The answers to these questions await you in Seaspray, where you may, or may not, ever leave.</span><p></p>Rick R. Reedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06200655067546158333noreply@blogger.com0