Sam Quinton #3
Mystery
Date Published: 03-08-2022
Publisher: Camel Press
About the Author. . .
Contact Links
Purchase Links
Sam Quinton #3
Mystery
Date Published: 03-08-2022
Publisher: Camel Press
About the Author. . .
Contact Links
Purchase Links
RELEASE BLITZ
Book Title: The Reaper
Author: Rae Scott
Publisher: Page Publishing
Release Date: November 3, 2022
Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Crime
Tropes: Vigilante justice/ Victims no one will miss/ The one you least expect
Themes: Good vs Evil, Life or Death
Heat Rating: No heat
Length: 188 pages/ 60 000 words
It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliffhanger.
Blurb
Fear not those who are innocent, for I shall cause you no harm. I seek out only those who have yet to pay for their sins. Fear me if you have no remorse, for I am the Reaper, and I will ensure that you reap what you have sewn.
The serial killer known as The Reaper is loose on the streets of Norfolk. Its victims have two things in common: They have each hurt a child but served little to no time in jail for it and none of them regret their actions.
Detective Mel Tanner is close to retirement when she is assigned to investigate a murder that leads her in a hunt for the serial killer known as The Reaper. As a seasoned homicide detective of fifteen years, she now finds herself jaded and unfeeling to the atrocities that she has had to witness every day.
When rookie Detective Nat Petrov lands her dream assignment, to work with the best Detective in Norfolk, she is thrown headfirst into The Reaper’s perverse sense of justice. The Detectives race against the clock as body after body turns up with the signature Grim Reaper tarot card, each life ended in a way specifically designed for the individual victim. Will the detectives be able to catch a twisted serial killer before time runs out or will The Reaper exact revenge in a way more personal than anyone could have ever fathomed?
Michael watched with a sense of foreboding as the masked figure in the black cloak stood looking down at the various items on the table, fear of the unknown beginning to take hold of him. A thousand thoughts and images ran through his mind as he tried to work out the reason for why he was there on that table, but as hard as he tried, he couldn’t come up with a single explanation for his circumstances. He tried to figure out who his captor might be, but the only name he could come up with was the Grim Reaper, because that’s what his captor looked like. The Reaper came back and held a card in front of his face with its left hand. It was a three-by-five-inch tarot card, and on it was a picture of the Grim Reaper. Michael felt the color drain from his face. The Reaper pulled the card away and with its right hand, held up a laminated newspaper clipping for him to read. Michael Fitzpatrick received a six-month sentence for the beating death of his then-girlfriend’s six-year-old son. Questions on the mishandling of evidence dropping the charges from murder to child abuse.
His stomach dropped. “I did my time for that,” he said, his voice shaking with dread. Out of nowhere, his captor’s fist came swinging down hitting him square on his nose. The sound of his nose breaking resonated loudly in his ears. Instantly his eyes began to water, and blood began flowing down his throat. He tried to turn his head so he could spit the coppery-tasting substance from his mouth, but the Reaper held him still, forcing Michael to swallow the thick fluid. The Reaper slowly shook its head from side to side. Fear of repercussions should he move kept him still and motionless even when his captor went back to the table again.
When the Reaper returned, he was shown another news article. This one detailing all fifty-three injuries the boy had sustained by him during a drunken rage. While he read the article, tears spilled from Michael’s eyes in earnest as he finally realized that he wasn’t going to get out of this room alive. Again, his captor went to the table, returned the news article, and came back to look down at him with its unblinking gaze. It held the Grim Reaper’s card up to him again, only this time it showed him the message that had been written on the back of the card. Swallowing several times to clear the blood from throat, Michael read it out loud, “Fear not those who are innocent, for I shall cause you no harm. I seek out only those who have yet to pay for their sins. Fear me if you have no remorse, for I am the Reaper, and I will ensure that you reap what you have sewn.” Michael looked from the card to the Reaper, tears flowing down his cheeks as he begged for his life. “Please, no. I did my time for that. I would never have hurt him if I hadn’t been drunk. It wasn’t my fault. She knows how I am when I get drunk. She should have kept him quiet and away from me.”
The Reaper placed the card on Michael’s chest and shook its head. With its other hand, the Reaper slowly lifted up a ball-peen hammer, holding it in front of Michael’s face so he could see it, the intention clear.
“Please, no. I’m sorry,” Michael sobbed, frantically pulling against his bindings as panic began to take over.
The Reaper slowly turned and walked around the table until it was standing next to Michael’s right knee. As the hammer was steadily raised over its head, the Reaper looked down into Michael’s eyes.
He didn’t feel the wetness pooling around him as his bladder released nor the pain of the restraints as they cut into his already raw and bleeding skin. The only thing he felt was pure unadulterated terror. “No, please! You don’t understand!”
The Reaper tilted its head, the hammer still hovering high in the air over Michael’s knee and placed one black-gloved finger to its mouth. Shhh. It said as the hammer came down hard, shattering his kneecap.
About the Author. . .
Born in New England, Rae Scott spent her childhood hiking, fishing, and enjoying the outdoor life inherent to the area. This love of adventure led her to travel the world in a quest to discover new and exciting things, feeding her thirst for knowledge and creativity that she now draws on for her books. In between her travels, she can be found on her porch in Virginia with her family coming up with new ideas as to where their next adventure will take them.
Midpoint: A Memoir
by Patricia Angeles
Genre: Nonfiction Memoir
Patricia Angeles is a tenured and award-winning banking professional with an MBA degree in international studies from the University of La Verne. She grew up in Manila, Philippines and moved to sunny Southern California in 2005. She currently resides in Los Angeles with her husband, and three daughters. When not writing or reading, she enjoys spending time with her family and traveling with them to new places.
Word Count: 11,664
Book Length: SHORT STORY
Pages: 59
Genres:
CELEBRITIES
CHRISTMAS
CONTEMPORARY
EROTIC ROMANCE
FRIENDS TO LOVERS
GAY
GLBTQI
HOLIDAYS
SECOND CHANCE
It’s your Christmas, Nick. Make it what you want it to be.
Nick only agreed to return to Littleton for Christmas because Charlie, his movie-star ex, is throwing a Christmas Eve party. Charlie was the one who got away, and, regardless of what his old friend Seph says, Nick thinks he still has a shot.
But things don’t go according to plan. Maybe it’s being back in his hometown, maybe it’s the time of year, but Nick is looking at Seph in a whole different way.
Nick has to decide what he really wants for Christmas before he blows yet another chance at happiness.
“I got it,” Nick said as he stepped into the icy December wind. “I only bloody well got it.”
“Congratulations.” Nick could hear the smile in Seph’s voice, even though the mic on his friend’s pay-as-you go mobile made him sound like he was at the bottom of a well. “I knew you’d smash it.”
Nick also smiled as he hailed a taxi. Seph always made him feel good, even at times like this when his other emotions were harder to call. “Well, they couldn’t exactly pass me over after my big win last month.”
“You gonna phone your dad?”
“I’ll tell him Monday,” Nick said as he climbed into the taxi, wincing at Smooth Christmas blasting from the driver’s radio. “Mate, can you turn that down?”
The driver gave him a look and turned Slade’s Merry Christmas Everybody down by one notch. Nick sighed. “Kensington please, pal. This is finally it, Seph. A shot at a partnership. The chance I’ve been waiting for… You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“Got something to share?” Nick said after a heartbeat.
“Why would you say that?”
“I know your silences, Seph. Come on. Spit it out.”
Seph sighed. “I dunno, Nick. Just last week you were telling me how you never have time for yourself—to have fun, to meet anyone. Won’t this promotion mean even less time for those things?”
“Yeah, but I’ll finally be getting paid enough to make it worth it.”
“Fair enough.” Seph’s neutral tone didn’t fool Nick, but he continued before Nick could retort. “So, did you make a decision yet?”
“About what?” Nick asked, gritting his teeth as Slade ended and Michael Bublé’s crooning filled the car.
“About this weekend,” Seph prompted. “You know…Christmas?”
“I can’t come. Gotta get caught up on my new caseload.”
A pause. “Not to be that guy, Nick, but your dad—”
“Dad wants to sit on his arse getting pissed. It will be no different from any other day, except on Saturday he’ll be drinking sherry.”
“He wants to see you, Nick. I know he does.”
“He told you this?”
“I can just tell. He’s lonely.”
“Stop with the guilt-tripping, Dr. Rose,” Nick muttered. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“Nick, Christmas is a time to be with those you love—even if you hate them at the same time.”
“I don’t hate Dad,” Nick said, loosening his tie. “I’ve just got too much on.”
“Even more reason to come. You need a break. Besides, didn’t it occur to you…?”
“What?” Nick prompted when Seph didn’t continue.
“Didn’t it occur to you that I might want to see you?”
“We just saw each other,” Nick protested, wincing when his work phone started buzzing in his pocket. His new secretary was emailing his schedule for the following week and requesting confirmations. He fought the sinking feeling when he saw the back-to-back court dates, meetings and corporate networking events. “What did you say?” he said when he realized Seph had said something else.
“I said my conference was eighteen months ago. And you’ve not been here to Littleton in, what? Christ…years.”
“Look… I’m sorry, Seph,” he said, opening the app to accept the appointment invitations. “There’s just nothing for me up there.”
Another pause, longer this time. But before Nick could decide what it meant, Seph spoke again.
“Come on, Nick,” he cajoled. “Even Charlie Kearney is spending Christmas at home this year.”
Nick started. “Charlie’s back?”
Seph swore under his breath. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”
“Charlie Kearney is going to be in Littleton for Christmas?”
“Yeah,” Seph said, a little tightly. “He’s having some big look-how-famous-I-am party at Arnold House on Christmas Eve.”
“And you’re invited?”
“Unfortunately.”
“He didn’t tell me…”
“Shit, Nick, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, no. This is a good thing,” Nick said, pocketing the work phone and smiling.
“It is?”
“Think about it. I’ve just got my new place, a new job. What better time to see him again? It’s, like, fate or something.”
“You really think it’s worth it? After all this time?”
“Things are different now,” Nick said. “I’m different.”
“His fiancé will be there.”
Nick snorted. “That designer he picked up in Paris? They’ve only been together for three weeks.”
“They’re still engaged.”
“I don’t care if they got married at Notre-Dame. Mega-star or not, it’s still just Charlie being Charlie. This feels like a chance, Seph, a second chance, and I’m gonna take it.”
“I just…”
“What?” Nick said, his friend’s tone sending irritation rippling over his skin.
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Nick insisted. “I’m not saying we’ll get back together. But there’s unresolved shit there. You know I don’t like loose ends.”
“Well, that’s romantic.”
“Fine. You want romantic?” He drew a deep breath. “He’s the one who got away, Seph. I’ve never stopped thinking about him. I deserve the chance to at least tell him that. Right?”
“Of course you do. But do you really think you’ll have anything in common anymore?”
“He’s a Littleton success story,” Nick said, swiping the steam away from the window to try to see what progress they’d made down Brompton Road. “So am I.”
“Well, can’t argue with that.”
“Too right.” Nick frowned as they passed Harrods’ festive shopfront display—plastic snow, garish ornaments, a smiling family in matching jumpers digging into mince pies in front of a blazing log fire that had to be a set in some studio somewhere. “Might as well get something out of this god-awful weekend.”
“So…you’re coming?”
“I’m coming.”
“Great,” Seph said, the warmth in his voice starting an unfamiliar tingling in Nick’s toes. “That’s really great, Nick.”
S. J. Coles is a Romance writer originally from Shropshire, UK. She has been writing stories for as long as she has been able to read them. Her biggest passion is exploring narratives through character relationships.
She finds writing LGBT/paranormal romance provides many unique and fulfilling opportunities to explore many (often neglected or under-represented) aspects of human experience, expectation, emotion and sexuality.
Among her biggest influences are LGBT Romance authors K J Charles and Josh Lanyon and Vampire Chronicles author Anne Rice.
Find S. J. Coles at her website and follow her on Instagram.
Enter for the chance to win a $50.00 First for Romance Gift Card! Competition hosted by Totally Entwined Group.
RELEASE BLITZ
Book Title: Irish Charm (Flying into Love #3)
Author and Publisher: C F White
Cover Artist: Kelly Martin (KAM Design)
Release Date: November 28, 2022
Genre: Contemporary M/M Romance
Tropes: Hurt/Comfort, Opposites Attract
Themes: Second Chance, Forced Proximity
Heat Rating: 4 flames
Length: 64 250 words/260 pages
It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliffhanger.
Universal Link | Amazon US | Amazon UK
Blurb
“What you grinning for?” Ciara was at his office door, nose scrunched.
Declan composed the returning message, then clicked off the phone and dropped it on his desk.
“You’ll get an extra hundred in your pay this month. Euan coughed up.”
“You got that tight arse to pay? How did you do that?”
“My obvious charm.”
“Did you deny him his drink?”
“Aye.”
Ciara snorted.
“You’re still okay to stay until closing tonight? Paddy’ll be with you, so you won’t be alone to lock up.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
Ciara’s dubious grin had Declan’s brow furrowing. “You might reconsider that.”
Declan stood, smoothing down his shirt. “Doubt that.” He did. He needed to get laid. However it came. “Does this shirt make me look—”
“Old?”
“Publican?”
“Aye.”
“Oh.”
“Cause y’are.”
“I know, but sometimes I like to hide that fact.” He unbuttoned the shirt, ruffling it out from his jeans and flapped it off his arms.
“What vocation you going for?”
“Model? Actor? Front man of a boy band.”
Ciara cracked out a laugh. “Only way you’ll pass for that is if you serve the bloke your lock, stock and barrels, getting him so bollocksed he can’t see.”
“You’re good for the soul, y’know, Ciara.”
Ciara curtseyed. “You’re welcome. You still won’t go out though.”
Declan shot a confused look over his shoulder as he rummaged around in his office wardrobe. He kept spare clothes down here for those times he needed a quick change rather than having to venture up three flights of stairs. Mostly it was shirts for when he’d been drenched with beer. Or the occasional jacket for when he had the brewers in. Or a jumper for when he needed to head into the cellar at night. But, right at the back, were a few go-tos for last minute dates. He yanked a T-shirt off a hanger and checked it over. Least it didn’t spell middle-aged owner of a centuries-old pub. It was tight. Might as well be a base layer. Perhaps it was. He wriggled into it. Thank Mary he still had a decent body. He turned to Ciara and smoothed down the creases, tucking the tee into his waistband.
“This?”
“Aye, you could pass for one of the fellas from Boyzone. The oldest one.”
“Grand.” Declan ruffled his curls.
“You still won’t go out though.”
“Why not?”
Ciara smirked, then angled her head for Declan to follow her. He tutted. If it was Jacob, he’d call the Garda. Or his daughter. He’d put the fella in a home himself. Because nothing was going to prevent him getting laid tonight. He needed rid of the loitering scent of Rowan, and to work off the lingering fantasy of a certain army captain.
Ciara led Declan from his back office, through the inn’s reception and into the main bar. Irish folk played on a loop for the few customers chatting into their drinks and finishing off the special of steak and ale pie with greens. Ciara stopped, folded her arms and nodded toward one of the tables.
Declan regretted his choice of top as it restricted his lungs expanding.
In an exact recreation of the previous night, Captain Kane Taylor stared forlornly into a pint of Guinness. Declan doubted a single drop had passed his lips and it wouldn’t be anything to do with how Shane had poured it. A shadow of a man—hunched and childlike—there was too much and nothing at all going on behind sad eyes. Declan’s desire to go to him wrenched hard. Harder than his need to release his pent-up load into a stranger.
Ignoring Ciara’s triumphant “told ye so”, he went to him and slipped into the seat opposite.
“Howaya?”
Kane met his gaze, eyes dreary and empty yet filled with need. With hope. With longing. He dug deep into his jeans pocket, fished out a coin and slid it across the table.
Declan tilted his head. “Don’t usually accept British currency. I’ll make an exception for you though.” He picked up the two pound coin and tossed it into the air, catching it in his fist. “You want change, it’ll have to be in cents.”
“No need for change. I have a lot of thoughts to pay for.”
Declan’s lips curved into a benevolent smile. Ciara had been right. With thoughts of nothing but this man, Declan wasn’t going anywhere.
“Bottle of Jameson’s, Ciara,” he called over to the bar. “Two glasses.” He then wrapped his hand around Kane’s pint and dragged it toward him. “I take it you’re not going to drink this?”
“No. As much as I want to.”
“I hope, one day, that I can drink it.”
“That day not today?”
“That day isn’t today.”
Declan held up the glass in salute. “Then I’ll take one for your team.” He drank the lot, dumping the empty onto the beer mat, and wiped the froth from his lips. “Can’t waste the best poured pint outside Dublin.”
About the Author. . .
Brought up in a relatively small town in Hertfordshire, C F White managed to do what most other residents try to do and fail—leave.
Studying at a West London university, she realised there was a whole city out there waiting to be discovered, so, much like Dick Whittington before her, she never made it back home and still endlessly search for the streets paved with gold, slowly coming to the realisation they’re mostly paved with chewing gum. And the odd bit of graffiti. And those little circles of yellow spray paint where the council point out the pot holes to someone who is supposedly meant to fix them instead of staring at them vacantly whilst holding a polystyrene cup of watered-down coffee.
Eventually she moved West to East along that vast District Line and settled for pie and mash, cockles and winkles and a bit of Knees Up Mother Brown to live in the East End of London; securing a job and creating a life, a home and a family.
After her second son was born with a rare disability, C F White’s life changed and it brought pen back to and paper after having written stories as a child but never had the confidence to show them to the world. Now, having embarked on this writing journey, C F White can’t stop.
So strap in, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
Author Links
Twitter @CFWhiteUK | Facebook | Blog
Instagram | Newsletter Sign-up
Giveaway
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an ebook and audio code of French Kiss (Flying into Love #1).
Orphans of Canland
by Daniel Vitale
Genre: Climate Apocalypse, SciFi Dystopian
A complicated, rich, and challenging work ... An impressive debut that goes beneath surface issues of climate-apocalypse fiction. - Kirkus
It’s 2088, and the dust has settled on America, decades after an environmental collapse. The eco-totalitarian organization, WORLD, has reconfigured society with the intention of restoring nature. Twelve-year-old eternal optimist Tristan Weekes lives in what he believes must be paradise: Canland, an agrarian California desert-greening project. However, Tristan’s life-defining medical condition, analgesia, prevents him from feeling physical pain, leaving his brain’s stress centers unresponsive to everything from ego-blows to heatwaves.
Well-intended, curious, and wielding a stunning vocabulary, Tristan loves to listen to the subversive theories spouted by his older brother, Dylan, a drug-addicted satellite hacker. He also wants to prove his independence to his mother, Helena, a powerful population control-extremist. Meanwhile, all around him, the survivors of the environmental collapse are just working toward a better tomorrow. But when a slew of violent acts befalls Canland, Tristan must confront certain truths about the community he loves—including his family’s secrets, his own involvement in the horrors enacted by WORLD, and the debts that are owed to the orphans of Canland.
In this work of literary fiction, set against the backdrop of a frighteningly plausible dystopia, Daniel Vitale explores the fate of our planet, the nature of family, and the duty of science, as Orphans of Canland asks: What does it mean to belong on Earth?
Amazon * B&N * Indiebound * Goodreads
Snow In Love
by Libby Kay
Genre: Sweet Contemporary Romance
The slopes are heating up this holiday season!
Skiing’s golden girl finds love this Christmas when she falls for the sport’s bad boy.
**New Release!!**
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**Coming Soon on December 20th!**
Falling Home
A Buckeye Falls Novel
by Libby Kay
Genre: Sweet Contemporary Romance
Welcome to Buckeye Falls, Ohio!
‘Tis the Season for Second Chances…And this couple is going to need a Christmas Miracle!
**PreOrder Now!!**
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Libby Kay lives in the city in the heart of the Midwest with her husband. When she’s not writing, Libby loves reading romance novels of any kind. Stories of people falling in love nourish her soul. Contemporary or Regency, sweet or hot, as long as there is a happily ever after—she’s in love!
When not surrounded by books, Libby can be found baking in her kitchen, binging true crime shows, or on the road with her husband, traveling as far as their bank account will allow.
Writing is a solitary job, and Libby loves to hear from readers. Reach out and review her stories anytime. She’d love to hear from you.
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