Giveaway & Review – Dark Dweller by Gareth Worthington @DrGWorthington @partnersincr1me

Posted on November 13, 2023 by fundinmental

Dark Dweller

by Gareth Worthington

November 13-24, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

MY REVIEW

Gareth Worthington writes some amazing novels that have given me hours of entertainment and that is why he is on my must read author list. I am super excited to get my hands on Dark Dweller, a thought provoking science fiction novel. The illustrations by Bona Chang are amazing, bringing to life The Six.

Paralas is a freighter visiting ******* to siphon off Helium 3. The danger is getting too close and being unable to break the planetary pull, so they though. Actually, ******* had moved. As the crew debates the possibilities, an escape pod appears…a very old one. They proceed to investigate.

Dr Sarah Dallas is the main character, but that is not meant to deny that the peripheral characters don’t have an important part to play in the story, especially Kara, the 15 year old girl they had found on the escape pod.

Nobody respects Sarah, considering it is her family that has gotten rich from siphoning off the Helium 3 from *******, creating an empire back on earth. Helium 3 was needed, because humanity cannot live without electricity and they have depleted many of Earth’s resources through greed and disregard of what nature had given them.

Kara states that she is Captain Kara Psomas, who died over a hundred years ago in a failed mission. She confides in Sarah, because she needs her help to be released from the contamination chamber they locked her in. She knows about Captain Chau’s plan, but she can use what he has hidden to stop the Fulcrum that was set in motion eons ago.

Commander Feng Chau resented everything about Sarah, but there is more to his story than that. He has a mission of his own and has worked with Dona, the artificial intelligence that runs the ship to implement it. Dona has the ultimate power, so negotiating with the AI is required from the crew members.

The danger and suspense comes from without and within. I wonder who will live and who will die, or will they all have to sacrifice themselves to save humanity? Sacrifice the few for the many? Does humanity deserve to be saved? After all, they are destroying their own world and branching, taking others down its own destructive path.

My thoughts about the singularity was flawed and I love it. As I approached the emotional ending, I wondered how Gareth would make it happen. I couldn’t decide how ‘I’ wanted it to end. The tension increased, the danger rising, I read faster. The Epilogue…..

Gareth Worthington doesn’t just think outside the box, he creates a new one. His ability to create worlds that stretch the imagination never fail to amaze me. ‘Gareth…take me away.’

Animated Animals. Pictures, Images and Photos — 5 Stars

SYNOPSIS

Captain Kara Psomas was pronounced dead when her research vessel slammed into *******.

More than a century later, the crew of the Paralus, a helium mining freighter, find a pristine escape pod with a healthy young girl nestled inside. A girl who claims to be Kara—and she brings a message of doom.

She says she has been waiting in the dark for that exact moment. To be found by that particular crew. Because an ancient cosmic being has tasked her with a sacred responsibility. She claims she must alter the Fulcrum, a lever in time—no matter the cost to the people aboard—or condemn the rest of civilization to a very painful and drawn-out demise.

She sounds convincing. She appears brave. She might well be insane.

Praise for Dark Dweller:

“… intense, exciting, and nerve-wracking … taut, tense, and ultimately explosive. A fantastic read not just for science fiction aficionados but for all lovers of adventure.”
~ Readers’ Favorite

“Dark Dweller is that rare beast of hard sci-fi that can pull off high-end concepts, but also entertain the reader with tension and strong set pieces.”
~ SFBook Review

“A story steeped in intrigue, vivid descriptions, and action-packed dialogue.”
~ Midwest Book Review

“Epic, bleak, provocative.”
~ Indiereader Review

“Knuckle-hard science fiction.”
~ Bestsellers World

Book Details:

Genre: Hard sci Fi mixed with esoteric elements
Published by: Dropship Publishing
Publication Date: February 2023
Number of Pages: 304
ISBN: 9781954386051 (ISBN10: 1954386052)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

PROLOGUE

Dr. Sarah Dallas

“Are you the fucking pilot, Hair?” Boz screams at me, piggy eyes aflame in her round face.

I hate that moniker: Hair. Not important right now. The fact we’re going to die is. “No, I’m not, but—”

“Then stay in your lane and shut your hole.”

Breathe, Sarah. Don’t punch her. You’re the ship’s counselor. Be professional. Do not punch her. The mantra rings over and over in my skull, but Boz tests every ounce of my training. There are four of us on this twelve-year round trip. Assaulting the pilot isn’t the best idea.

I release a very measured breath and fix my attention on the largest planet in our solar system looming large in the viewfinder of our liner—the Paralus. ******* is enormous, its surface banded with reddish-brown and off-white clouds, rushing and crashing into one other. Its one angry red eye stares at us, at me.

My supposed intellect short-circuits as I try to quantify and categorize. In the face of something truly awe-inspiring my tiny human biological computer is unable, or refuses, to comprehend the sheer magnitude of this world. Yet my limbic system must have some ancient recollection of dealing with overwhelming reverence, forcing a rush of adrenaline through my bloodstream and into my trembling muscles.

Just look at it.

The Paralus shudders as we hurtle into the upper atmosphere. ******* has a will of its own, intent on sucking us into its gassy interior. Ironic, given we’re here to grab its vapors. Helium-3 to be specific, to act as cryogenic coolant for our nuclear fusion reactors at home and space stations set out along the Interplanetary Transport Network. ******* has helium in spades, while Earth has precious little, and so now we risk our lives on ridiculously dangerous missions to mine the ether. In the age of interplanetary travel and colonization, profit trumps human life—as always.

Metal squeals and the hull creaks. The luminous tabs and keys beneath crystal glass control panels stutter and flicker. Even the slick white walls and soothing curves of the Bridge’s interior can’t muffle the complaints of the frail, human-made underpinnings.

A tear slips from the corner of my eye and my knuckles are white as I grip the armrests.

“Are you crying?” Boz yells, peeling her stare from the enormous viewfinder to gawk in disgust at me for daring to have any emotion other than anger.

“We’re coming in too hot,” I press, flitting a concerned frown from Boz to the planet and back again in hopes she takes the hint to watch where the hell she’s going. “Can’t the AI take over?”

“Which part of shut up isn’t penetrating all that hair?” Boz clicks her tongue, then tweaks on the thruster yokes. Sweat beads on her forehead. “I got this, Dallas. Now back off.”

I wriggle back in my seat and adjust the harness again. Everyone hates a backseat driver, but if she gets this wrong ******* will seize the Paralus and we’ll never have enough thrust to escape. We’ll either be torn to shreds or crushed like a tin can. Either one a shitty way to go.

Our freighter shakes like a rag doll in the mouth of a puppy, the nuts and bolts of this dilapidated piece of junk threatening to come loose. The Paralus is fragile as all hell and entirely breakable—the sort of construction a five-year-old makes out of drinking straws and modeling clay. A mile-long needle with a nuclear fusion engine at the aft end, a Scoop and transport shuttle docking bay, the AI mainframe in the center, and two spinning rings: one for cargo, and one for medbay, exercise room and living quarters. Ops, also called the Bridge, sits right in the nose.

Perfect for a front-row seat to our doom.

“Still too much speed,” Boz says. “Increasing retro-thruster burn.”

Will that do anything? The main retro-thrusters have been firing while we’re asleep for months now, slowing us to enter orbit correctly, which sounds great on paper but—given the heap of shit we’re in—means diddly squat.

“Boz, keep her steady,” Commander Chau calls from his chair.

“I’m trying, sir,” she yells back.

“Tris?” Chau says loud enough to be heard over the din of warping metal punctuated at regular intervals by the warning alarm.

“The trajectory is off, something’ changed,” Tris Beckert, our co-pilot and chief engineer, replies in his Texan drawl. “*******’s not where we predicted. It’s not a big ol’ shift, but enough.”

I swear my ass just clenched hard enough to make a button on the seat. A ton of unmanned craft have slammed into their destination planet or just whizzed on by into space forever. I’m no astrophysicist, but was once told reaching a target in space like standing on Everest and firing a bullet at a pea-sized target on the other side of the Earth.

“We’re comin’ in a little steep,” Tris says, tapping away at his readout. “AI is helpin’ Boz compensate—”

The alarm blares again.

“Warning, orbital entry path suboptimal,” says a synthetic, sonorous voice from overhead.

Only an AI could so calmly announce our deaths.

“Yes, I fucking know, Dona,” Boz spits back. “Reverse thrusters won’t do it. Gotta skip over the atmosphere. Just need to burn more delta-v.”

The Paralus lurches under a burst from the engines. The horizon of ******* fills the viewfinder, its swirling fumes mixing like milk and coffee in a fresh latte. A fresh latte? Shut up, Sarah.

On the horizon, flashes of white light, tinged with green edges, emanate from just below *******’s cloud line.

Tris shoots a worried look at Boz.

“Asteroids exploding on impact?” she yells without breaking her concentration.

“I don’t think so,” Tris shouts back.

“You better fucking hope not or we’re about to get cratered,” Boz says.

Cratered. Great. Pebble-dashed with chunks of space rock. The spindly nature of the Paralus helps it to not be a gigantic target, but it only takes one puncture and we’re all screwed.

Why am I here, again?

“Hold on to your pantyhose,” Boz says, perspiration running down her temples.

The Paralus is battered, a pathetic kite in impossibly strong winds, as we plunge farther into the outer atmosphere of *******. The viewfinder is near black—sunlight can no longer penetrate the violent vapors assaulting us. Multiple feeds from external cameras cycle on and off, but offer no help.

Boz roars long and loud, heaving on the yokes while Tris taps away at his console, calculating and recalculating—pinging his very human assumptions off the computations of the AI. Chau sits, smooth jaw set and stoic, his narrowed sights fixed on some imaginary endpoint to this nightmare of an orbital entry. He looks oddly calm.

I squeeze my eyes shut and mumble a prayer, though to whom I don’t know. God, Yahweh, Allah. Anyone who’ll listen. In moments of extreme stress, time seems to slow, the human mind suddenly able to function on some higher level, absorbing all the information it can in hopes of averting disaster. Behind my eyelids, in a weird half-dream, half-out-of-body experience, I see myself clinging to the harness. Observing the cowardly pose fills my astral-projected self with shame, which only grows with the knowledge I’m not praying for loved ones at home who might miss me when I’m gone, but to make it out alive so I can go on ignoring them for a little longer.

Except for Dad, always have time for Dad.

The shuddering stops.

I open my eyes. The last wisps of *******’s atmosphere slip past revealing vast, open space. Here, unadulterated with the light of human cities, the universe is alive. The light from the smallest of stars reaches out to me from across the expanse. The feeling of relief at still being alive is replaced with nausea. The same feeling one gets when peering into a pitch-black well, wondering how far down it goes. We came so close to death, but what difference would it make? The universe doesn’t care. Look at how big it is.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Boz says, slumping back in her chair.

“Hey now,” Tris pipes up.

“Sorry, Tris.”

She’s not sorry. Tris doesn’t like too much swearing, but Boz does it anyway. Several times a day. So do I, just in my head. Isn’t that what we all do? Hide a little piece of who we are to placate others. To survive society. But again, it’s hard to care when you’re out here knowing the cosmos really doesn’t give a rat’s ass what we do. The desire to let loose a string of expletives nearly overwhelms me. Nearly.

“I want to know what happened,” Chau says, his expression cold like granite. “How could our trajectory be that off?”

“It wasn’t,” Tris replies, shaking his head. “I told you, ******* moved.”

Chau narrows his eyes. “Not possible.”

“Engineer Tris is correct,” the AI says, its tone unchanging. “*******’s orbital path appears to have altered.”

“How the hell is that possible?” Boz asks.

“Ya’ll got me,” Tris replies, tapping at his screen. “Some kinda gravitational irregularity?”

“Affecting *******?” Chau says, one eyebrow raised. “******* moves celestial bodies, not the other way around.”

Tris shrugs. “I’ll look into it.”

“Fine, but after the grab,” Chau says.

“I need to get us back into a proper orbit,” Boz says, already tapping away at her console. “That’s gonna take a while. We had to burn long and hard to skip over the atmosphere. It’s gonna be like turning a galactic Buick.”

“Do it,” Chau says.

“Um.” As the word leaves my lips I wish it hadn’t.

All eyes fix on me.

Shit. Well done, Sarah. Best follow through now. “Is that an aerostat in our flight path?”

“What are you talking about, Doctor,” Boz says.

I point out of the main window.

The crew follows the imaginary path from my fingertip out into space and to the spheroid metallic object. “If that’s an aerostat, it’ll do a lot of damage if we hit it.” Though they’re flexible, colliding with one of these weather stations dropped into the atmosphere to monitor the constant violent storms would fuck us up.

“That ain’t an aerostat, that’s a ship,” Tris says, squinting. “Too far out of the atmosphere. Wrong shape.”

“Are we going to hit … whatever that is?” Chau asks.

Boz shakes her head. “We’re headed out. Seems it’s geo-synched, in orbit.”

“You’re eyeballing it?” I ask.

Boz glares at me. “How about you let me do my job, Dallas?”

Chau holds up his hand. “Enough. What do we do about it?”

Tris clears his throat. “ITN protocol says we have to prioritize the grab, but … this is a little unorthodox. There’s no precedent for an alien ship.” He shoots a nervous glance at Chau.

Chau sniffs hard. “There’s no evidence to suggest it’s an alien ship. How close will we come to it?”

Tris’s fingers flit across his console at lightning speed. Then, with a dramatic swipe, he sends the flight path file from his panel to Boz who looks it over.

“Within a hundred feet,” Boz says. “Just like I said.”

Yes, Boz, I get it— you’re a genius and I’m an idiot. Seriously, Sarah, hold it together. “Do we need to adjust?”

“If we try that, we’ll push ourselves further out,” Tris says, “and it’ll take longer to re-enter synchronized orbit.”

“At a hundred feet we can get a pretty good look at it, though, right?” I say.

Tris nods. “I’d get a window seat now, because we’re about to zip by.”

We, of course, aren’t going to unbuckle and float over to the large window, so we all just fall into a confused silence and fix our attention to the small vessel that is fast approaching—or rather the one that we are fast approaching.

Could this really be alien? Are we the first humans to encounter other intelligent life? Finding microbes on Mars some fifty years ago was a little anticlimactic, especially at a time when humankind had finally started to pay consideration to our own dying world. Too little too late. But a spaceship? Maybe this crappy trip was worth it after all.

The alien vessel is now large enough in the viewfinder to study it a little better. Too damn close if you ask me, but hey, I’m just the shrink right?

Boz glances over her shoulder at Chau. The two of them don’t cross words, but exchange an unspoken question.

They’re right to be confused. What the hell is going on?

The ship, or pod, is roughly egg-shaped, and in the outer lights of the Paralus seems to be grey in color. No windows. Small rear thrusters. And an ITN insignia.

“Holy shit,” Boz says. “It’s an escape pod.”

“Did the last liner report a pod ejection?” Chau asks.

“Not to my knowledge,” Boz says. “Tris?”

The Texan shakes his head. “I got no record of that.”

“Those markings, they’re old,” I pipe up. “See the logo? ****** is included now, since the expansion. This is pre-rebrand, done more than twenty years ago. Actually, that looks even older. Museum old.” That tidbit of information only serves to remind them who I am, how I’m here, and that they really don’t like me or my family. Shit.

“Chief,” Tris says. “We gotta see what’s over there. I can take a Scoop.”

Chau looks to Boz.

She just shrugs. “I have to swing her around ******* to get us into orbit. I can use the gravity to catapult us ’round and come up on the pod again. Give us time to gear up.”

Chau tents his fingertips. “How will that affect the grab?”

“Well, it’ll delay it,” Tris says, rubbing at his square jaw. “But ******* isn’t going anywhere.”

“Didn’t you just say it moved?” My lips try to hang on to the last word as if I can suck back the regrettably snarky remark.

Tris pinches his lips together and gives a subtle shake of his head.

You’re right Tris; shut up, Sarah.

“Oh man, we best still be haulin’ when we return,” Boz says, and shoots me a look as if this whole thing is somehow my fault. “Only get paid if we have a load.”

Hauling back Helium is all anyone gives a shit about, because it means getting paid. Helium is this century’s gold rush. This is hilarious, given I’ve listened to enough company speeches to know that helium is the second most abundant element in the universe. The problem is, while God was handing out the element, He—or She or It—seemed to skip Earth. Our planet’s crust is probably not even in the parts per billion range. In the Earth’s atmosphere, it’s only 5.2 parts per million per volume. So, ******* is our reservoir, our lifeline. Still, the ITN has protocols for situations like this. The pod could pose a threat to continued mining. Though no idea what kind of threat, not my wheelhouse. “I think the ITN are gonna call this one,” I add. “Something like this will trump a helium grab. The AI has probably locked all systems anyway. We won’t get to do the job yet.”

Boz tuts again.

“You are correct, Dr. Dallas,” the AI says. “Current mission suspended until investigation completed.”

Chau tents his fingertips. “The faster we clear that pod, the faster we get back on mission.”

Everyone unbuckles and swims out of the only door in or out of the Bridge. Boz gives me a long, hard, disapproving stare, but Tris flashes a grin. Chau doesn’t even bother to acknowledge me. For him, a shrink has two jobs on these freighters: make sure the crew don’t lose their minds in deep space, and stay the hell out of the way.

So far, no-one’s lost their marbles, yet.

***

Author Bio:

Gareth Worthington holds a degree in marine biology, a PhD in Endocrinology, an executive MBA, is Board Certified in Medical Affairs, and currently works for the Pharmaceutical industry educating the World’s doctors on new cancer therapies.

Gareth is an authority in ancient history, has hand-tagged sharks in California, and trained in various martial arts, including Jeet Kune Do and Muay Thai at the EVOLVE MMA gym in Singapore and 2FIGHT Switzerland.

He is an award-winning author and member of the International Thriller Writers Association, Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and the British Science Fiction Association.

Born in England, Gareth has lived around the world from Asia, to Europe to the USA. Wherever he goes, he endeavors to continue his philanthropic work with various charities.

Gareth is represented by Renee Fountain and Italia Gandolfo at Gandolfo Helin Fountain Literary, New York.

Catch Up With Gareth Worthington:
GarethWorthington.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @GarethWorthington
Instagram – @garethworthington
Twitter/X – @DrGWorthington
Facebook – @garethworthingtonauthor
YouTube – @garethworthington7564

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The Spotlight Is On The Epsilon Account by Joni Parker @PumpUpYourBook

Posted on November 13, 2023 by fundinmental

In a thrilling mystery of intrigue, the Elfin Keeper of the Keys, Alex, uncovers a sinister plot to steal the gold set aside for the Golden Harvest by a rival group of Elves, who will stop at nothing to get it.

Title: The Epsilon Account: The Golden Harvest Series Book 1
Author: Joni Parker
Publisher: Independent
Pages: 388
Genre: Fantasy/Science Fiction Hybrid

Thousands of years ago, Eledon was created for the Elves by their Mentors when they were forced to leave Earth. At least, that’s how the legend goes. In return, the Elves must pay them a tribute in gold, known as the Golden Harvest, every four thousand years. The Elfin Council of Elders appoints Lady Alexin (Alex) Dumwalt, the Keeper of the Keys, to manage the next payment, due 244 years from now. That is, until the Mentors show up unexpectedly and demand immediate payment of the Epsilon Account. Since the Harvest has never been called that, Alex suspects foul play and uncovers a sinister plot by the Star Elves, a rival clan from the Constellations, who want to steal the gold. To make matters worse, they’re willing to do anything to succeed to include murder. Can Alex stop them and save the Elfin gold before it’s too late?

Buy Link:

Amazon

Book Excerpt

It worked! The emergency contact system I had set up with the help of my Elf grandfather really worked. With this system, I could leave the magical Keys of Eledon with my grandfather, just in case something disastrous happened, like a flood or a quake. My grandfather had been the Keeper of the Keys before me, so he could fill in as needed, but if there was something he couldn’t handle, he’d sent Lord Hillen for me.

Lord Hillen had been in London recently to investigate the presence of Elf slaves in the mortal world and had posed as my Uncle James. If he needed to contact me, his lordship would use the portal and call me on a pay phone on the street corner outside of Hyde Park. We rehearsed it several times to make sure it worked. Unfortunately, when he called for real, I was the middle of a fashion show in Paris.

A few months ago, I signed a five-year contract to work as a fashion model for the Echelon Modeling Agency owned and operated by Andrew Miller. The next day, my exile to the mortal world ended, and I was allowed to return to Eledon. But since I had signed a contract, I felt obligated to finish it, so I asked for and received permission from the Elfin Council of Elders to do so. Five years meant nothing to the Elves.

My mobile phone rang when I returned backstage to change into my next outfit. I should have let it go to voicemail, but the caller ID said it was Mrs. MacDougall, the dog walker from Hyde Park in London. Why would she be calling me? Then I recalled how much Lord Hillen had liked the woman, so I answered it.

“Mrs. MacDougall? This is Alex. You’re on speaker.” I needed my hands free to touch up my makeup.

“Oh, Alex. How wonderful! I just wanted to let you know your Uncle James is here, and he asked me to call you.”

“What ‘s wrong?”

“Alex? Alex, are you there?” Uncle James/Lord Hillen shouted loud enough to be heard over the music. Everyone shushed me.

“Sorry.” I turned off the speaker and put the phone to my ear. “Yes, Uncle James. I’m here. You don’t have to shout. Is everything all right?” I was concerned about my grandparents. They weren’t old by Elf standards; they were considered middle-aged even though my grandfather was thirty-five hundred years old, and my grandmother was about fifteen hundred years old, give or take a thousand years.

“Lord Ashur must speak to you immediately,” he said. “It’s about the Epsilon Account.”

I paused. “What Epsilon Account?” I’d never heard of it although I knew it was the fifth letter in the ancient Greek alphabet. But the Elves had never used Greek letters for anything. Still, I was relieved to hear it wasn’t about my grandparents.

“We don’t know what it is,” he said.

“Okay, so why is this an emergency?”

“Because Lord Ashur said so.”

“Oh.” Lord Ashur was the Elfin leader of the Council of Elders, and I should drop whatever I was doing and rush home, but I couldn’t right now. “I can meet you in Hyde Park by eleven tonight.” I had memorized the Eurostar train schedule from Paris, so I knew what time it got to London. Once I got there, I would have to transfer to a local train for Hyde Park. “Can you wait with Mrs. MacDougall?”

“Oh… my pleasure,” he said, as he ended the call.

I knew he liked her, so I was sure he’d be happy to spend more time with her. I rushed off to make my next entrance and slipped the phone in my pocket without thinking. As I strutted down the runway, my mobile went off again. It was making too much noise to ignore, so I took it out to turn it off. It was Mrs. MacDougall again, so I swiped it and answered it as if it was part of the show. Uncle James/Lord Hillen came on the line, saying he forgot to tell me my grandparents were fine.

“Thank you so much,” I said, as I hung up. But instead of putting it away, I continued talking as if I was in the middle of a business deal. “But you don’t understand. I want two million, not one.” I rolled my eyes at the audience. “No deal!” I touched the screen, shook my head, and waved my mobile in the air.

The audience laughed, and cameras flashed all over the place. So, I turned my back to the audience and took a selfie. The show’s narrator, Philippe, grimaced at me and waved me off the stage. I strolled by him and waved my mobile to thunderous applause.

It was never my intent to become a fashion model, but after I was exiled here, I needed to earn a living. Modeling didn’t require a special skill except to walk in high heels. At the time, I was staying with Vice Admiral Sir Malcolm Teller and his wife in London because I had no place else to live. Their daughter, Suzette, was a fashion designer and asked me to be her model because hers had quit unexpectedly. I did fine in my first show, but my heart wasn’t in it. I’d been trained as a soldier, so I applied to join the Royal Marines. When they rejected my application, I went back to work as a model.

After several more dress changes, I ended the show wearing a spectacular wedding dress. My boss, Étienne, had specialized in them at one time in his career, and this dress was exceptional. It was made of embossed white silk with kimono-type sleeves, with a definite Japanese flair, but with an off-the-shoulder look. The train was at least twenty feet long, and the veil was to die for. I’d get married in that dress except I didn’t want to get married. Maybe one day. After all, that’s what fantasies are made of.

When the show ended, Philippe, the narrator, stormed backstage and chewed me out for taking a phone on the runway and violating the model’s code of silence. It wasn’t the first time he did this. The man hated me from the moment we met. He spoke so rapidly in French I couldn’t understand what he said except for those few words that crossed over to English, like ‘idiot’ and ‘mobile phone.’ I didn’t know why the French language was a such problem for me. I was fluent in four other languages—English, Scinthian (ancient Greek), Dwarf (Droogan), and Elf. Maybe it was a self-defense mechanism, so I wouldn’t understand all the nasty things Philippe said to me.

His tirade lasted for ten minutes. By the time he was done, everyone else had left, and we were the only ones backstage. He stalked away and left me to find my way to the mandatory after-show party at our boss’s house.

About the Author

Joni Parker was born in Chicago, Illinois, but moved to Japan when she was 8 so her father could become a professional golfer. Once he achieved his dream, Joni and her family returned to the U.S. and moved to Phoenix, Arizona. After high school, Joni served her country for 22 years in the Navy and another 7 years in federal civil service. She retired in Tucson, Arizona, devoting her time to writing, reading, and watching the sunrise.

Author Links

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Giveaway – Second Term by J M Adams @partnersincr1me @JM_AdamsAuthor

Posted on November 13, 2023 by fundinmental

Second Term

by JM Adams

October 23 – November 17, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

A lame duck president’s desperate power grab threatens democracy in the United States—can former intelligence operative and single mother Cora Walker prevent catastrophe?

September 2012. Cora Walker, a DIA defense operative, learns of a terrorist plot in Benghazi and rushes to a secret installation to stop it. When her superiors ignore her dire warnings, she’s forced to mount an unsanctioned attempt to thwart the attack. Her team barely repels the large force of invaders determined to kill Americans.

Sixteen years after her heroic actions in Benghazi, Cora is the press secretary for the Speaker of the House. As a single mom, she’s struggling to balance her demanding job and her home life. Soon, things get more complicated at work as the lame duck president suspends habeas corpus and begins arresting members of Congress in a desperate attempt to retain power.

Cora springs into action to save the Speaker and prevent catastrophe. She’ll have to work strategically to keep everyone safe—alliances turn sour, and her trust in others begins to falter. It’s an uphill battle for Cora until an explosive finale exposes what can really happen to democracy when political extremism reaches new heights.

Praise for Second Term:

“Second Term is second to none when it comes to high stakes action and nonstop thrills. J. M. Adams has fashioned a ticking time bomb of a political thriller that evokes the best of classics from Seven Days in May to Six Days of the Condor.”
~ Jon Land, USA Today best-selling author

“A battle of wits that heats up the pages, this one will hold you tight until all is revealed.”
~ Steve Berry, New York Times best-selling author

“In his debut novel, Second Term, J. M. Adams keeps the pages of his political thriller turning at a blistering pace, led by a character you’re going to root for aloud. If only she were real!”
~ Jerome Preisler, New York Times best-selling author

“I sat down with Second Term and didn’t stop reading until I finished it. Breakneck pace and an all-too-plausible scenario, with a vivid and memorable protagonist. I hope we see more of Cora Walker.”
~ Joseph Finder, New York Times best-selling author

“Adams effectively harnesses the headlines to create suspense.”
~ Publishers Weekly

Book Details:

Genre: Action, Suspense, Thriller
Published by: Oceanview Publishing
Publication Date: October 2023
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 9781608095919 (ISBN10: 1608095916)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Oceanview Publishing

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

September 10, 2012
Mediterranean Sea, North Africa

A heavy breeze rolls off the Mediterranean Sea pushing away the stench of the city slowly dying around me. The deep salty air offers a snippet of comfort although I have no idea why. There are no childhood memories of the sea. I grew up in western Colorado and southwestern Virginia. Maybe it’s the brief respite from the taint of chemicals and human waste that’s embedded itself into the pores of this city. I feel like I’m constantly gagging on smoke from the unseen forest fires that raged in Colorado when I was a kid.

The buildings around me are pockmarked with bullet holes. Sandbags stand watch in front of every entrance with piles of rubble towering from thirty to fifty feet high. This place is a giant landfill waiting to fall into the sea. I walk another block and come across a building that looks like something took a mammoth crescent-shaped bite out of it. Rebar splinters off in several directions like webs constructed by a giant spider.

There’s no way to underscore the toll of human suffering here. My line of sight follows another tower of rubble going up to the second floor where a little kitchen comes into view. On the left side of the room there’s vibrant yellow wallpaper, a Roman numeral wall clock, and a table topped with a bright floral Persian table runner. On the right, the walls are stained with blood and black scorch marks. There are more weapons than food in this cursed city and the reminders are everywhere.

Western leaders continue to fool themselves into believing that the death of Muammar Gaddafi would have brought some semblance of sanity or stability to this region. The Brother Leader’s forty-year reign of terror against his people might have ended, but death and chaos rule this city with an iron hand.

Libya is a slave to its violent history, and no one is looking for a way out. But what do I know? I’m just a covert foot soldier for the American Department of Defense. I can’t begin to understand why Washington believes that with Gaddafi gone, it’s nothing but butterscotch and ponies here in North Africa.

I have a wake-up call to deliver to my superiors that may realign some of that thinking, but only if I can make it to the CIA installation in one piece. I’ve been collecting intel for the past two months posing as an English teacher for a wealthy family living in a chateau in Derna.

Derna was the perfect place for undercover work. The charming Libyan port city is about 200 miles east of Benghazi and doesn’t begin to fit in with the rest of Libya. It’s one of the wealthiest areas in the country, a quaint little town nestled into beautiful green mountains rich with exotic sea cliffs and waterfalls. Two days ago, I obtained information that forced me to blow my cover and run. There was no way to securely transmit the sensitive information I’ve gathered without landing in a cell never to be seen again.

My pickup time is slated for the conclusion of the Muezzins’ call to Fajr prayer. The Fajr is the first of five daily Muslim prayers broadcasted from speakers atop the mosques that are still standing around the city. They stick to strict schedule and this morning’s devotional is set for 4:58am (the true dawn) although the sun won’t rise until after 6:30 this morning.

I emerge from the shadows of the long-abandoned Benghazi Cathedral. It’s ironic that one of the most prominent structures in this old Muslim city is a decaying Roman Catholic Church. I have little time to get to the parking lot at the 7th of October Hospital without drawing attention to myself. Good luck with that, I laugh out loud. Hopefully my baggy clothes, hat, and short haircut can fool anyone who doesn’t get too close.

I pull the wide brim of my camouflage bucket hat lower to cover more of my face. My oversized camo jacket is untucked over a dark t-shirt hanging over black jeans. The street is still deserted as I execute what I like to call my husky “man-walk.” I emit an audible sigh of relief rounding the corner by the burned-out Hamzawi Café. I’m less than a hundred yards away from the hospital and have a straight shot to my destination where I can hole up until my ride arrives. At the same time, two militiamen turn the corner and are coming my way. So much for a smooth escape. Why aren’t they preparing for morning prayers?

I ease my Cressi finisher knife into my right hand spinning the blade backwards against my forearm to keep it out of sight. The sharp pinprick of the blade against my skin provides some small comfort. The knife is specifically designed for underwater hunting, but it’s always done the job for me. Five inches long with a deadly stiletto tip. I have zero interest in any confrontation, but that pipe dream is starting to evaporate.

“Asalaamu alaikum,” I say in my practiced husky “man-voice” trying to sound masculine friendly, but in a hurry.

Thankfully, both of their AK-47s remain slung to their backs.

The guy on the left is slightly built, with a camo hat that looks a little like mine. He’s not paying any attention, but the bigger man closer to me answers with a slight edge to his reply, “Wa alaikum salam.”

His eyes are alert and suspicious underneath bushy caterpillar eyebrows and a tangled mane of black facial hair.

I try to politely pass them on the right when the hairy man lashes out seizing my shoulder and reaching for a compact revolver from his belt. I wonder what prompted him to grab me at the same time I plunge the length of my blade deep into his armpit underneath an outstretched arm. His eyes pop wide open in horror. He grunts in confusion as I turn my blade twice before yanking it out of his body and jabbing two explosive thrusts deep into his throat.

Blood erupts from the neck wound covering my hands as I step forward to his companion who is in the clumsy process of unslinging his rifle. I dispatch him quickly with a sweeping arc of my blade and survey the area for witnesses. I’m lucky that this unfortunate incident took place in the cover of darkness. We are the only people on the street, and our encounter made very little noise.

The entire altercation took less than ten seconds. My arms are covered in bright red arterial blood with one of the men gurgling bubbles from his open neck wound at my feet. I lean down and try to leave as much of the mess as I can on his jacket. I switch jackets with my second victim as the loudspeakers crackle to life around the city signaling the start of the morning prayers. Any sane person would want to sprint from the scene, but my training forces me to walk casually away from the dead men lying in the street. I walk into the hospital parking lot. There’s a black Mercedes. The plate matches the numbers I’m expecting as I throw open the passenger door and slam it behind me.

“That’s a good way to get shot,” says the smiling driver in place of a greeting, his hand resting on the Glock 19 in his lap. He studies me with open curiosity.

“If you don’t want company, you should probably keep your doors locked in a neighborhood like this,” I answer.

“Jesus,” he asks, voice rising in concern as he stares at the blood-soaked jacket on my lap. “You hit?”

“It’s not mine. I had a run-in with a couple of locals around the block,” I say quietly.

“A run-in? You’re covered in blood,” he says. I nod.

“Those two militia dudes? Big shaggy guy?” I nod my head again.

“We need to get out of here,” he says.

“Better wait until prayers are over,” I answer. “We shouldn’t be on the streets during prayers.”

“Muhammad will have to see his way past our sins,” he says, slamming the car into gear and pulling out onto the empty street. “I’m Deckard by the way. Welcome to Benghazi.”

I nod, scanning the streets for anything out of place.

“There’s wipes in the glove box. You should clean up the best you can. We should be back at the ranch in fifteen to thirty depending on roadblocks. You sure you’re OK?”

I reach for the wipes as a violent cough escapes my lips. The worst thing about Benghazi isn’t the people waving guns; it’s the never-ending cloud of macabre dust that dominates the air here. North Africa is hot, the air is thick, and it’s only rained once since I got here two months ago.

A bottle of water appears in front of my face, and I suck it down in two gulps.

“The station chief told me to look for a seasoned operative. You don’t look old enough to drink. Are you Langley? Everyone else here is.”

Langley is shorthand for CIA. I wonder if he’s going to prattle on all the way to the station.

“Something like that,” I say.

“So what should I call you?” he asks with a twinkle in his eye. “Jane the Ripper?”

“Jack is fine,” I chirp back. “Got another water?”

“You don’t look line any Jack I’ve ever met. Anyway, the station chief has a hard-on for you already,” he says handing me another water. “Says you’re compromising the Agency’s mission in Benghazi and you shouldn’t be coming in at all.”

I lean my head back and close my eyes. The last thing I need now is some sad little station chief crying to me about his little slice of turf in the desert. I need to talk to Washington and get the American ambassador out of Libya or at least stop him from coming to Benghazi.

CHAPTER 2

I have to admit, the driver is quite competent, and that’s high praise coming from me. He’s avoiding the main roads and driving around in haphazard circles. The last thing he needs in life is to be caught up in one of the impromptu militiaman roadblocks with an armed woman scrubbing blood off of her skin. There is no rule of law here. It’s survival of the fittest and open season on Westerners.

People are shot dead in the street every day. Benghazi is inundated by a tsunami of guns, rocket launchers, and grenades, courtesy of the raided Gadaffi stockpiles around the city. Once Gadaffi was dead, the grand prize was a leaderless country where everyone suddenly had access to military-grade weapons.

“You got a change of clothes?” I ask.

“In the duffle behind the seat.”

I climb into the back and start rummaging through his bag. “Please,” Deckard says dryly. “Help yourself.”

I pull off my jacket and shirt, happy to see my sports bra didn’t catch any blood. I only have one more in my possession. I pull on his shirt, about two sizes too big, and tie it up at the bottom. I ball up my blood-covered jacket and hand it up to him. “Get rid of this, please.”

“Pockets empty?” he asks.

“No, just a blueprint for the U.S. Consulate, signed confession, and the bloody knife.”

He chuckles at my amazing wit and tosses it out the window.

***

Author Bio:

J.M. ADAMS has more than 15 years of on-air television journalism experience, reporting for CBS and NBC news affiliates across the United States.

Highlights from his career include sea patrols with the Navy after the 9/11 attacks and reporting on location from Kuwait, Iraq, and a number of hurricane disaster zones across the country. Adams was briefly detained in East Germany during the fall of the Berlin Wall. Second Term is his debut novel.

Adams lives in Northern New Jersey with his wife, two daughters, and a pair of Cavashons who appear to have taken over the house.

Catch Up With JM Adams:
JMAdams.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @JM_Adams
Instagram – @jmadamsauthor
Twitter/X – @JM_AdamsAuthor
Facebook – J.M. Adams
TikTok – @jm_adamsauthor

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Giveaway – Girl On Trial by Kathleen Fine @partnersincr1me @kathleenfine

Posted on November 11, 2023 by fundinmental

Girl on Trial

by Kathleen Fine

October 23 – November 17, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

Does doing one bad thing make you a bad person?

Sixteen-year-old Emily Keller, known by the media as Keller the Killer, is accused of causing the deaths of a family of four, including young children. Emily is one of the youngest females to be accused of a crime so heinous, making this the nation’s biggest trial of the year. But what really happened that fateful night—and who’s responsible—is anything but straightforward.

Living in a trailer park in Baltimore with her twin brother and alcoholic mother, Emily’s life hasn’t been easy. She’s had to grow up fast, and like any teen, has made questionable decisions in a desperate attempt to fit in with her peers. Will her mistakes amount to a guilty verdict and a life in prison? It’s up to the jury to decide.

Praise for Girl on Trial:

“Kathleen Fine has written a compassionate, thought-provoking thriller that will have readers asking themselves big questions about redemption while also turning the pages with breathless anticipation. From her opening pages, Fine grabbed my attention and didn’t let go until I closed the book, hardly twenty four hours later. Fine’s story reminds us that everyone has a backstory and that the root of empathy involves discovering the particulars of someone else’s history with an open heart and mind.”
~ Christie Tate, Author of Reese’s Book Club and NYT bestseller GROUP

“In her sharp debut Girl on Trial, Kathleen Fine deftly weaves the past with 16 year-old Emily Keller’s present-day manslaughter trial, allowing readers to put together the puzzle pieces of what really happened the day everyone says Emily killed an entire family. With her vivid characters and a well-developed setting, Fine evokes compassion for people trying their best and reminds us that there’s more to every story than meets the eye. Girl on Trial asks readers to wonder: are we more than our biggest mistake, and does everyone deserve redemption?”
~ Jessie Weaver, author of Live Your Best Lie

“Readers will be on edge as Emily’s decisions lead her to become involved in and vulnerable to dangerous situations… The epilogue brings the roller-coaster ride to a satisfying conclusion…. Gripping, tragic, but ultimately hopeful.”
~ Kirkus

“In Kathleen Fine’s Girl on Trial…interpersonal dynamics are revelatory… reality wars with public perception…a suspenseful thriller in which a maligned teenager is forced to fight for justice.”
~ Foreword Reviews

Book Details:

Genre: YA Contemporary Mystery/Thriller
Published by: CamCat Books
Publication Date: October 2023
Number of Pages: 336
ISBN: 9780744306835 (ISBN10: 0744306833)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | CamCat Books

Read an excerpt:

Prologue

January 12, 2022

i

“The only reason I come to this meeting is for my weekly caffeine high,” Tiffani with an i admitted. Emily nodded at her friend as she took a sip of her lukewarm, watered-down coffee, a taste she’d gotten used to. A taste she now associated with healing.

“I’m not no strung-out addict or nothin’,” Tiffani continued and then focused on Emily, remembering that Emily, in fact, wasn’t there just for the coffee. “No offense—wasn’t tryin’ to say nothin’ bad about addicts. It’s just they don’t give us caffeine inside, ya know?”

“No offense taken.” Emily smiled as she wrapped both hands around her coffee cup, relaxing her tense shoulders. She’d become used to Tiffani’s candor and had grown to appreciate the woman’s raw honesty. She watched as Tiffani sprinkled some sugar into her undersized paper cup and stirred it with the plastic spoon tied to a container with blue yarn. Tiffani glanced around the room and then untied the yarn, placing the spoon into the pocket of her gray, state-issued sweatpants. Emily bit her lip, debating if she should stop her, but then decided not to. Tiffani was going to do what Tiffani wanted to do—she always did and always would.

“I gnaw on the edges of this enough and it gives me a sorta sharp blade.” She gave Emily a wink as she patted her pocket, keeping the new weapon safe as she took a seat in the circle with the other women.

“One minute, ladies,” the guard announced to the group as the chatter quieted down and the women took their seats in the circle. Emily picked up an NA book from the only empty seat in the circle that Nikki left for her as a placeholder. She sat down in its place, shifting uncomfortably in the metal chair. She moved her eyes toward the group secretary, Darlene, as she flipped through a stack of papers on her lap.

“Hello, I’m an addict and my name is Darlene. Welcome to the Lincoln Juvenile Correctional Center’s group of Narcotics Anonymous. Can we open this meeting with a moment of silence for the addict who still suffers, followed by the serenity prayer?” Emily closed her eyes and took a deep breath as she tried to stop her palms from sweating. She still got anxious even though she’d been attending the meeting every week for the past year. How has it been an entire year? she wondered. So much has happened in only twelve months.

“Is there anyone here attending their first NA meeting or this meeting for the first time?” Darlene asked. “If so, welcome! You’re the most important person here! If you’ve used today, please listen to what’s being said and talk to someone at the break or after the meeting. It costs nothing to belong to this fellowship; you are a member when you say you are. Can someone please read, Who Is an Addict? and What Is Narcotics Anonymous?”

“I will,” Chantelle volunteered as she reached across the circle, grabbed the paper from Darlene, and began reading aloud to the group.

“Yo, Em,” Nikki leaned over and whispered in Emily’s ear. “You celebratin’ today?” Emily nodded at her timidly. She didn’t like speaking in front of people even if it was a group of women she trusted.

“You’ll do great,” Nikki whispered as she punched Emily lightly in the arm. Emily peered around the circle to make sure no one was paying attention to Nikki’s whispers. They weren’t supposed to have side conversations during the meeting—the guard would send them out of the room if he caught them.

When Chantelle finished the reading, Darlene thanked her and said, “Now can someone please read Why We Are Here and How It Works?”

Emily watched anxiously as the paper was passed down to Trina. She closed her eyes and listened to Trina’s words, clenching her jaw tightly.

“I used last night,” Nikki muttered so quietly, Emily wasn’t sure if she was meant to hear her. She glanced over at Nikki, who was staring down into her coffee cup shamefully. Nikki had been the first person to introduce herself to Emily at her initial meeting, making her Emily’s OG friend in the group. Emily furrowed her brow and placed her hand on top of Nikki’s. She wished Nikki had told her about the relapse earlier—then she could have had an actual conversation with her about it. She wondered where Nikki could’ve gotten her hands on anything since she’d heard a rumor the guards had been doing weekly bunk checks.

One day at a time, Nikki had told Emily, so many months before when she’d been a broken shell of herself. “One day at a time,” Emily whispered, trying not to let the guard hear their buzzing.

Seeing Emily’s tentative face, Nikki mumbled, “My roommate snuck some smack up her papusa. Had her boyfriend’s kid bring it in when he visited her. Whack, dude. Whack.” She shook her head and rubbed her buzzed hair with her rugged hands. “She’s a bad influence on me. I gotta get a new roommate.”

Emily frowned, aware that there was nothing she could do to help Nikki. Nikki had to want sobriety for herself, just like Emily had wanted it. She squeezed Nikki’s hand tightly and whispered, “Glad you’re here.” As much as Nikki’s relapse upset her, it gave her a tiny bit of strength to share her story. Maybe she could help Nikki even a little bit today by sharing her own struggles.

“No touching,” the guard yelled from across the room, eyeing Nikki and Emily. As if being scolded by a teacher, Emily reddened and instantly pulled her hand away from Nikki’s.

Darlene reached below her chair and lifted a shoebox to her lap. “This group recognizes length of clean time by handing out key tags. If you have one coming to you, please come up and get it. The white one is for anyone with zero to twenty-nine days clean and serene.” Darlene opened the box to reveal a white key tag and dangled it in the air. Nikki glanced at Emily and then hesitantly stood up to collect her tag. The group clapped and whistled wildly as she crossed the circle and took her tag. She gave a couple of the women fist bumps as the group chanted, “What do we do? Keep coming back!” Emily put her fist out as Nikki gave it a bump. She hoped this small gesture, this modest group of women cheering for Nikki, would be the reason she’d quit for good this time.

“The orange one is for thirty days clean and serene.” Emily watched as two women got up, collected their tags, and sat back down. Applause and chanting “What do we do? Keep coming back!” vibrated the room.

As Darlene handed out the tags for two months, three months, and so on, Emily gripped her chair, knowing her turn was coming. Her palms, damp with her sweat, began to slip along the chair’s metal sides.

“The yellow one is for nine months clean and serene,” Darlene announced.

Nikki peered at Emily and nudged her bicep. “Your turn is coming up soon,” she whispered. Emily smiled at her, trying to give the façade of bravery, but she felt anything but brave. What she really wanted to do was run as fast as she could out of the room and into the parking lot.

“The glow-in-the-dark one is for a year clean and serene.” You can do this, Emily thought as she unsteadily stood up and walked toward Darlene. All the women in the room clapped loudly and chanted as she took the tag and went back to her seat, her face flushing with pride.

Darlene placed the box back under her chair and collected the sheets of readings from the women who had read. “Today, Emily is celebrating her one-year anniversary with us. You ready, Em?”

The women’s applause quieted and all eyes turned toward her. Clenching her fists tightly, she felt her beating heart rise to her throat. She scanned the room at the women and girls before her. Addicts, inmates, and friends. My people, Emily thought as she said, “My name is Emily, and I am an addict. This is my story . . .”

1

Trial Day 1: January 7, 2019

i

The alarm on Emily’s phone chimed just as Sophie whispered in her ear, “Wake up, Emawee. Wake up.” She opened her eyes widely, her body covered in sweat, her sheets soaked yet again. “Time to wake up.” She heard Sophie’s whisper get farther away, humming distantly from somewhere in her dreams.

From somewhere in her nightmares.

As she turned off the alarm, she tried to overlook the numerous text messages that’d surfaced from numbers she didn’t recognize.

“Die, killer”

“You’ll pay in hell for what you did.”

“Murderer”

How can people I don’t even know want me dead?

With shaky hands, she deleted the texts as a CNN report popped up on her screen, updating her on the “Trial of the Year,” that was beginning that day:

CNN Breaking News
The Biggest Trial of the Year Begins Today, January 7, 2019. Emily Keller, also known by the media as Keller the Killer, is accused of causing the deaths of four family members, two of them small children. Only 16 years old, Emily is one of the youngest females to be accused of a crime so heinous.

Emily buried her face in her pillow, taking a deep breath. She tried to hold back the habitual tears that were creeping out from the corners of her eyes. I have to be strong today; no crying, she told herself as she rubbed her temples slowly. I need to put on my protective armor, or I’ll never make it through today alive. She reached under her mattress, grabbed her orange pill bottle and gave it a shake, the rattling sound of the tablets comforting her. She poured two pills onto her clammy palm and placed them gently on her tongue. Protective armor.

“Emily?” her brother, Nate, quietly inched open the bedroom door, “You awake? It’s time to start getting ready for court.”

Without looking up at him, she nodded as she rolled out of bed, trying not to think about how wrong the prosecution had the facts and how she could be sent to prison because of it. As she attempted to walk toward the door, her ankle monitor snagged on her lavender bedsheet. She yanked the sheet off in frustration and dragged her feet to the bathroom to prepare for the first day of her new life.

Debbie and Nate were already waiting for her in Debbie’s rumbling Toyota Camry when she stepped out of the trailer.

“It’s your turn for shotgun.” Emily opened the door to the backseat where Nate was already buckled in.

“You can take it today,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact with her.

“I don’t need pity shotgun just because I’m on trial for murder, Nate,” Emily replied curtly as she reluctantly sat down in the front seat. As she buckled her seat belt, she already regretted scolding Nate for doing something kind. I’ll apologize to him later, she told herself. Nate had been up with her until three o’clock that morning, listening to her cry and consoling her. I don’t deserve him, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut.

She rolled down her window and took a deep breath of fresh morning air as her mom lit a Virginia Slim, her hands trembling. “Morning vodka shot hasn’t kicked in yet?” Emily muttered under her breath as she turned on the radio. Or maybe one shot doesn’t cut it anymore, Emily thought.

“What hasn’t kicked in?” Debbie asked as she ashed her cigarette into an empty coke can, oblivious to Emily’s disrespectful comment.

“Coffee hasn’t kicked in yet?” Emily corrected herself as she investigated her face in the cracked side mirror of the car. The face staring back at Emily was swollen from weeks of nonstop crying. Although she’d put on some of her mom’s waterproof mascara, she still looked like someone had run her over with a truck. You’re so repulsive, she thought as she tried to comb her drab chestnut hair with her fingers, squinting at her image through the cracked glass. She wanted to disappear. Sink down into the seat of the car and disappear forever.

As she pinched her upper cheekbones to give her face some color, she glanced at Nate through the corner of the broken mirror, hoping he couldn’t tell she was staring at him through the mosaic lens. Since he had headphones in his ears, she assumed he was listening to a news podcast about the trial. The expression on his face looked like it was straining to stay calm, but she could read his emotions no matter how hard he tried to hide them. When you shared a womb with someone, you knew everything they were feeling.

There was actually supposed to be three of them. Her dad had left when he’d found out Debbie was pregnant with triplets. He’d said since he didn’t want one baby, he definitely didn’t want three. Emily used to sometimes think about how different her life would’ve been if their other brother hadn’t died at birth. Maybe he would’ve punched Tom Swanson for dumping her two years ago since Nate didn’t do a thing about it. Maybe he would’ve taught Emily to throw a football since Nate was anti-athletics.

Maybe he could’ve stopped Emily before she lost herself. Maybe he could’ve stopped this whole situation. Maybe no one would have died.

“Valerie told us to meet her around back when I spoke to her on the phone last night,” Emily directed her mom as they pulled up to the courthouse. Debbie nodded as she navigated her ancient car around to the back of the building, avoiding the crowd hovering at the entrance.

“Shit, look at all of the people,” Nate announced as he stared at the crowd and cameras surrounding the front of the building. No one seemed to notice their rickety car escape past the swell to the rear parking lot. Maybe they were expecting some sort of official-looking black SUV like you see in crime movies and not our pathetic piece of tin, Emily speculated, thinking about how some seniors at her school owned nicer cars than her mom’s. She peeked down at her gray dress and nervously picked little lint balls off it as her mom parked the car.

“You look fine, Em,” Debbie insisted as she opened a mini bottle of vodka from her purse and took a swig, “That dress looks lovely on you.” Debbie had spent her tip money to buy Emily “new” thrift store clothes for the trial. Emily was now pulling at a seam on the edge of the dress, making it unravel.

As she waited for her mom to finish her shot, she felt around for the phone in her purse to make sure it was turned off. She’d turn it on later that night once her mom and Nate were sleeping so she could read through her texts and the news in privacy. That way, if she cried, no one would see her. Strong people don’t cry, she told herself.

“You need a pill?” Debbie asked as she fumbled through the large purse on her lap. The Valium Emily had taken that morning was beginning to set in, and she was starting to feel unreasonably calm.

“I’m good.” Although I’ll need another one soon, she thought. It hurt her too much to live in reality.

Emily’s lawyer, Valerie Anderson, was standing at the back entrance of the building, propping open the heavy metal door with her bright red heel. As Emily stepped out of the car, Valerie waved her hands frantically, “Quick, before they catch on that you’re back here!” she shrieked as she lifted her long, hot pink nails to her mouth.

“We better hurry.” Debbie grabbed Nate’s and Emily’s hands, tugging them toward Valerie.

“Wait,” Emily urged as she struggled to catch up to her petite mom’s gait. Without warning, her black heel wobbled to the side and she stumbled, falling onto the hard concrete. Before she had the chance to assess the damage to her knees, Nate dropped his mom’s hand, grabbed Emily up by the arm, and quickly escorted her to the door. As they approached Valerie, all eyes looked to the blood running down Emily’s knees. Emily was surprised the wounds stung so badly even though the rest of her felt numb.

“We’ll have to find some Band-Aids ASAP before we converse.” Valerie’s heels echoed in the hallway as she led them to their room. Emily slouched over even more than she had been as she followed Valerie, spying the name Keller stuck to a metal door with a yellow Post-it. As they stepped inside, the heavy door slammed behind them with a loud thud.

***

Author Bio:

Kathleen Fine received her Master’s in Reading Education from Towson University and Bachelor’s in Elementary Education from University of Maryland, College Park. She is a member of the Maryland Writers Association, International Thriller Writers, and Author’s Guild. When she’s not writing and selling real estate, she enjoys spending time with her family, traveling to the Outer Banks, and of course, reading anything she can get her hands on. She currently lives in Baltimore, Maryland with her husband, three children, and Sussex Spaniel. Her short stories have been published in Litro Magazine, Pen in Hand, The Maryland Writer’s Association Anthology, and in The Indignor Playhouse Anthology. Girl on Trial is her debut novel.

Catch Up With Our Author, Kathleen Fine:
KathleenFineAuthor.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @kathleenfineauthor
Instagram – @kathleenfineauthor
Twitter/X – @kathleenfine
Facebook – @fine.kathleen
TikTok – @kathleenfineauthor

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews and opportunities to WIN!

ENTER FOR A CHANCE TO WIN

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for Kathleen Fine. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

You can see my Giveaways HERE.
You can see my Reviews HERE.
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Look on the right sidebar and let’ talk.
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Giveaway — Moon Flower by Heather Ewen Foster @XpressoTours

Posted on November 10, 2023 by fundinmental

Moonflower: Vampires of Los Angeles
Heather Ewen-Foster
Publication date: November 7th 2023
Genres: Adult, Urban Fantasy

Sonia, a 250-year-old Australian vampire, thought she had found peace in the quiet neighborhood of Whitley Heights, Hollywood. But when a mysterious creature starts slaughtering young vampires, Sonia is thrust into a deadly game of cat and mouse.

With her friend Sunny targeted by an ancient monster, Sonia must uncover the truth behind these brutal attacks. Desperate to save her friend and end the bloodshed, Sonia navigates the treacherous politics of the vampire world. Along the way, she finds herself torn between her irresistible attraction to Alex, the enigmatic human journalist helping in her investigation, and her deep bond with sexy and charismatic Sunny, Alpha Vampire extraordinaire.

As the sinister plot unravels, Sonia’s race against time becomes a pulse-pounding battle against an impossibly powerful foe. Will she uncover the truth before more lives are lost? And what sacrifices will she have to make to protect those she loves?

Moon Flower is a spellbinding urban fantasy that will leave you breathless. Heather Ewen-Foster’s suspenseful tale immerses you in a world of danger, romance, and mythical creatures. Get ready for an electrifying adventure that will keep you turning the pages late into the night.

Amazon

—

EXCERPT:

Terror. Pain. Then darkness.

This is how it starts.

The only link to the world around you is the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Your hearing seems to be the only sense still functioning, while sight, smell, touch, and taste seem oddly suspended.

You vaguely realize something is wrong with that pounding. You become aware that your pulse is slowing, beat by beat, which rapidly absorbs all of your attention.

Soon, far sooner than should be possible, you have reached that critical point where that little muscle—the strongest in the human body—struggles to keep you from crossing the threshold dividing the world of life from what awaits you at death.

But something else is terribly wrong: there is no warm light to dissolve into, there are no familiar faces waiting to usher you into paradise. There is only darkness and a failing heart that tries to pump what is no longer there. The terror within you surges as you realize that, should your heart fail, this great, dark oblivion of nothingness will become permanent. And all that is you—your very essence of self—will be gone.

And your heart, most assuredly, is failing.

It is at this crucial moment, when time seems to stand still, that you are offered a choice—a choice that is really no choice at all since the basic animal instinct to stay alive now dominates higher forms of reason.

You do not hesitate. You embrace the offer with a ferocity that speaks to the predatory nature once so close to the surface in humanity, though long since buried by generations of social, sedentary living and the trappings of “civilization.”

Then comes the oblivion, but not the one you expected—not the one which serves as the fate of everyone else. You are in limbo, with no beginning and no ending. No up and no down. But your sense of self is mercifully intact. You are still you.

Here, in this mental womb, you remain for days until— if you are one of the lucky ones—you open your eyes for the first time to a world utterly transformed. And, as you lay there staring into the brilliant colors of the night, you slowly realize that nothing will ever be the same.

This, dear readers, is what we call The Birth. My name is Sonia.
I am Vampire.

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Giveaway – Emissary by E B Brooks @GoddessFish @EBBrooksFiction

Posted on November 9, 2023 by fundinmental

Emissary by E.B. Brooks

GENRE: Science FIction

BLURB

Two Worlds. One Future.

Ewan O’Meara is no stranger to death: in recent months, he’s found his way to limbo at least once per week, much to his parents’ concern. It’s a necessary price for getting experience to become the greatest adventurer his homeland of Veridor has ever known, but the overbearing Veridian Church has him pinned down, soaking him for the penance gold to unlock his stats each time he respawns. And because the Church’s ancient war put an end to both the godlike Gems and the epic quests they once bestowed, Ewan has no better alternative.

That is, until he encounters a young woman fleeing arrest from the Church’s soldiers. At first glance, Treanna Rothchild needs it: she’s clueless about Veridian life. But she has other skills that defy Ewan’s understanding, and she knows things. Unsettling, seditious things the Church wants kept secret at any cost.

And she’s in Veridor to raise an army, to fight an enemy only she can see.

Risking both life and soul, Ewan follows Treanna where no Veridian has ever been and there is no respawning. But for him to have a chance at making a real difference in the strange, harsh world she reveals to him, he must first come to terms with it. Especially as he and Treanna discover how much it has in common with Veridor—and how much they depend on each other to survive.

New-adult science fiction, wrapped in gaming and fantasy around a hopepunk core, Emissary is an immersive, thought-provoking adventure with a little teen romance and a lot of heart.

EXCERPT

Ewan didn’t know why he did it. He had plenty of reasons. He was angry about getting censured, annoyed with Paul’s warning to keep his head down, and embarrassed by how quickly he’d ignored it. No one took him seriously as an adventurer, much less understood when he asked the big questions.

But, more than anything, looking into those eyes, he simply knew this girl was in trouble, and that he wanted to help her.

She flew past as time resumed its normal flow; Ewan shouted and leaped in front of the Swords to draw their aggro. He called up his menu, winced when he remembered he’d given Kate his armor, then equipped his blades anyway.

An ominous tone sounded in his mind, and a warning flashed across his vision that he now had a bounty, along with a reminder that only Swords were permitted to equip weapons in the cathedral. As if to prove the point, the soldiers slowed as they saw the blades flash into being on his back, but with grim smiles they equipped their own and changed targets.

Ewan spared a quick glance behind him to see the girl vanish down the steps, then turned to face his opponents.

The crowd was whispering excitedly now, but he focused on the Swords, quickly calling on his own basic aura-reading skills to scan them. They were stronger than him, and bigger too, but neither had bothered to bolster their defense beyond their armor, clearly seeing him as an easy mark.

Time to see what agility’s all about, he thought with a nervous chuckle.

AUTHOR Bio and Links

E.B. Brooks lives in the southeastern USA, where he splits his time between writing, research, and homesteading. He enjoys building fictional worlds, real houses, and landscape models, but he’s most at home with his wife and children, and their many, many pets.

Website: http://ebbrooksfiction.com/
Twitter: @EBBrooksFiction
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCG2vFKJoCSoJaP6qCECwPIA
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19919752.E_B_Brooks
The StoryGraph: https://app.thestorygraph.com/authors/d82b9abb-6a6a-48a7-8563-a84689316df7
Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/e-b-brooks-df6155fb-c7c4-4568-b612-ac5ae2eeb86b
Buy Links (Amazon): https://www.amazon.com/stores/E.B.-Brooks/author/B087D6C88X

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The Spotlight Is On Catnip Plushie Balls And Q-Tips by M G Rorai @pumpupyourbook

Posted on November 7, 2023 by fundinmental

Catnip, Plushie Balls, and Q-Tips

Virtual Book Tour

Media Kit

🙤 · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ꕥ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · 🙦

About the Book:

Title: Catnip, Plushie Balls, and Q-Tips

Author: M.G. Rorai

Publisher: Independent

Publication Date: September 30, 2023

Pages: 178

Genre: Poetry/Pets

Ever wonder why there are “mews” in “amewzing”?

This collection of cat poems will tickle your whiskers and your funny bone. They’re the purr-fect way to brighten your day and celebrate the furry friends in your life.

Prepare to laugh out loud as you read about cat adventures with magnets, candles, strawberry milkshakes, and plush balls—but don’t let me ruin the surprise, you’ll have to read to find out!

Get ready to laugh your tail off!

Buy Links:

Book Excerpt:

The magnets are so cute

that I must knock them off

but get yelled at for this,

so the new approach is soft.

I sit by the fridge

staring at those squares

and when Human isn’t looking

I lick with tongue hairs.

All was going good

until one was quite sticky

leaving a bad taste,

and I’m not so picky.

I bite at the air

to get rid of the taste

then knock down that magnet;

good riddance, post-haste.**

About the Author

M.G. Rorai enjoys hanging with her cats and annoying her husband. Her latest book is Catnip, Plushie Balls, and Q-Tips.

Author Links

Website | Facebook

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Giveaway – RSVP To Murder by Carol Pouliot @partnersincr1me

Posted on November 6, 2023 by fundinmental

RSVP to Murder

by Carol Pouliot

November 6 – December 1, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A new twist on the 1930s English country house mystery.

Embarking on their most daring time-travel experiment to date, Depression-era cop Steven Blackwell and his 21st-century partner-in-crime Olivia Watson travel to the Adirondack Mountains for a Christmas party at one of the legendary Great Camps. Their host, a wealthy New York publisher, has planned a weekend filled with holiday activities, but, as the last guest arrives, temperatures plummet and a blizzard hits. Before long, the area is buried in snow, the roads are impassable, and the publisher is poisoned.

Unwilling to wait until the local police can arrive, the victim’s widow convinces Steven to launch an unofficial investigation. Soon, a family member goes missing and Steven and Olivia discover a second victim. Trapped with a killer, Steven and Olivia race against the clock before the murderer strikes again.

Praise for RSVP to Murder:

“A classic holiday movie and Agatha Christie novel mashup”
~ Shawn Reilly Simmons, author of the Red Carpet Catering Mystery Series

“RSVP to Murder is Agatha Christie with a time-travel twist. Pouliot supplies us with just what we crave in a great locked-room mystery: a blizzard, closed roads, dead phone lines, roaring fires, and lots of suspects and motives—all set in a luxurious Adirondack Great Camp in 1934. Snap on your seatbelt and travel with Steven and Olivia, you’ll be happy you did!”
~ Tina deBellegarde, Author of The Batavia-on-Hudson Mystery Series.

“A Great Camp in the Adirondacks serves up a sumptuous setting of plump armchairs, roaring fireplaces, and the heady scent of Christmas pines—all begging to be settled into with this thumping good vintage whodunit set in the 1930s. Cleverly plotted with plot-twists aplenty and some time-travel to boot, this immersive mystery is a gem.”
~ Laurie Loewenstein, Author of the Dust Bowl Mystery Series

“Readers are invited to the glamour of the Thirties, where the rich are putting on the Ritz, until there’s a murder to solve. Join time-travelers Blackwell and Watson in a race to the Racines’ Adirondack Great Camp to catch a killer. A clever…and a thoroughly unique must for fans of the paranormal and historical. RSVP today!”
~ Gabriel Valjan, Author of the Shane Cleary Mysteries series

“The Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mysteries’ latest installment, RSVP to Murder, combines the thrilling and “timeless” aspects of Jack Finney’s classic TIME AND AGAIN mixed with the wit and charm of a modern, puzzling mystery. Highly recommended for all lovers of time travel, history, romance and wily sleuths.”
~ L.A. Chandlar, Best-selling author of the Art Deco Mystery Series

Book Details:

Genre: Traditional mystery
Published by: Level Best Books
Publication Date: September 2023
Number of Pages: 305
ISBN: 9781685123857
Series: The Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mysteries, #4
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

December 31, 1902
New York City, New York

She was marrying the wrong man.

With a silk-gloved hand, Margery Belleville lifted the bottom of her wedding gown and peeked around the heavy, carved doors into the nave of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Several hundred guests—ladies in expensive finery, wool coats trimmed with ermine and fancy hats with brims reaching out over their shoulders, and tuxedoed men in black silk top hats—awaited the wedding of the decade. St. Patrick’s reminded Margery of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris with its Gothic-style pointed arches and rich stained-glass windows set in lacey webs. The soaring, vaulted ceiling, lit by crystal chandeliers suspended on long rope-like cables, rose hundreds of feet in the air. Light from the chandeliers reached into the far corners of the church and mingled with the glow of candles twinkling in wrought-iron stands. Inhaling the scent of balsam fir from the many holiday decorations, Margery gazed down the long center aisle, where she would soon walk with her father.

Margery stepped back into the vestibule, her pure-white gown rustling softly as she moved. She was, at least, happy her parents had allowed her the choice of her wedding dress, if not the groom. Margery and her mother had searched in several shops, nearly deciding to have the dress custom made when they came upon this elegant, sleek gown. The moment Margery laid eyes on it, she knew it was the one. The high neckline draped in soft folds beneath her chin, flattering her face. The form-fitting bodice hugged her curves, yet avoided the dreaded hourglass silhouette, with its yards of smooth satin skirt billowing around her. Margery’s unadorned veil revealed topaz eyes and soft lips, but covered her rich auburn hair and cascaded down her back. This was the gown of a modern, independent woman. If only her life matched the dress.

His conversation with the bishop finished, Anthony Belleville joined his daughter. “Are you ready, my dear?”

The organ began Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” and a rumble echoed throughout the nave as the guests stood and turned toward the back of the cathedral. Trembling, Margery took her father’s arm.

He must have felt her shaking because her father leaned over and, to Margery’s astonishment, whispered, “I know he’s not your first choice. But you will be well cared for and you know Gil adores you. I don’t know which man has captured your heart, but you won’t lack for anything with Gilbert Racine. The publishing empire he’s going to inherit will provide a comfortable, even pampered, life. He’s the best choice to keep you in the style your mother and I have provided. I can’t bear the thought that you would ever lack for anything, my dearest daughter.”

Margery was further shocked when her father wiped a tear from his eye.

It was at that moment when Margery Belleville, soon to be Margery Racine, accepted her fate. She would be a good wife for her successful businessman husband. She would provide him with children and a well-run home. She’d bury her feelings deep inside, lock them away in a cupboard, and throw away the key. She could not marry the man she loved. But she might grow to love the man she married.

Margery forced a smile and reached up to give her father a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be alright, Papa. Gil will be a good husband.” She patted his hand. Straightening her spine, Margery gave a sharp nod of her head. “I’m ready.”

***

Author Bio:

A former language teacher and business owner, Carol Pouliot writes the acclaimed Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mysteries, traditional police procedurals with a seemingly impossible relationship between Depression-era cop Steven Blackwell and 21st-century journalist Olivia Watson. With their fast pace and unexpected twists and turns, the books have earned praise from readers and mystery authors alike.

Carol is a founding member of Sleuths and Sidekicks, Co-chair of the Murderous March Mystery Conference, and President of her Sisters in Crime chapter. When not writing, Carol can be found packing her suitcase and reaching for her passport for her next travel adventure.

Learn more and sign up for Carol’s newsletter on her website:
www.carolpouliot.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @cpouliot13
Instagram – @carolpouliotmysterywriter
Facebook – @WriterCarolPouliot
Sleuths and Sidekicks

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Giveaway & Review – Killing Johnny Miracle by J K Frank @jk_franko @partnersincr1me

Posted on November 1, 2023 by fundinmental

Killing Johnny Miracle

by JK Franko

October 16 – November 10, 2023 Virtual Book Tour

MY REVIEW

I have read J K Franco’s Eye For An Eye Trilogy and loved it, so it was a no brainer to grab Killing Johnny Miracle. I love books that smack of betrayal and revenge and Killing Johnny Miracle gave me more than I expected.

The first sentence: Mary Miracle would always recall with clarity the moment she decided to kill her husband.
After Mary decided Johnny had to die, she spent the rest of the week working out the best way to do it, the ‘best’ way meaning how to kill him in the manner that was least likely to end with her in prison or – as they lived in Texas – on death row.

With these quotes being on the first page, I anticipate many pages of wicked goodness, 409 to be precise, plus the author supplies us with an interview telling us how he came to write the book.

Johnny Miracle is quite the opposite of his name. He is more like a curse, and it is Mary’s misfortune to be the his target. He has his eyes on the prize, and it’s not his wife. I do love a great villain, and J K Franko supplied us with one in Johnny Miracle.

Mary’s grandmother dies and…well, here is where Mary begins to wake up to the awful possibilites in front on her.

Johnny Miracle is a scumbag, a cheater, but he is not alone when it comes to people who will betray Mary. Secrets, so many secrets and betrayals..

Things are bad for Mary early in the story, but in Chapter 43, J K Franko steps it up a notch.

Rubi Yi…who is she? I learn about her, but it takes me a while to see how she fits into the story….and I love it! Us ladies have to stick together, don’t we? When everything comes together, secrets are shared and messes are cleaned up. I was smiling.

What a fabulous story of betrayal and us women making things right in the end.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, no man, no matter how smart or strong, can compete with a motivated woman.”

As I read the Afterword, J K Frank had me smiling again. I love that all his ideas wouldn’t fit in Killing Johnny Miracle. That means more books for us to read. But, he covered the gist of it.

A story about how a strong young woman finds her moral compass and life path while the universe is throwing buckets of shit at her.

The book had my mind spinning and I love it. A tangled web, for sure, and a snake in the grass that kept me turning the pages.

Synopsis:

Johnny Miracle thinks he’s got it all… and he’s in love, just not with his wife, Mary. He wants a divorce and he’s got leverage. Johnny knows her deepest, darkest secret. He’s going to use that to take everything: her vineyard, her money, and her priceless family heirloom. He’ll do whatever it takes to get it all.

But, as Grandma Nellie used to say, “No man, no matter how smart or strong, can compete with a motivated woman.” Mary is a motivated woman, she’s got her own agenda, and it doesn’t include losing. She’s going to kill Johnny. To get away with it, she needs a plan and an alibi. And she thinks she has both.

Book Details:

Genre: Crime Thriller
Published by: Rum House Publishing
Publication Date: May 2023
Number of Pages: 350
Book Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Nobody ever said it was going to be anything better
than a round of poker on the raft of Medusa.
It’s not who wins the game that counts.
Nobody wins. It’s who gets out least lost.
From Memo, by Todd Hearon

PART ONE

MARY’S WORLD FALLS APART

CHAPTER ONE

Mary Miracle would always recall with clarity the moment she decided to kill her husband. It wasn’t a decision she’d come to suddenly. She had loved him at one point, with all her heart. But over the course of their marriage, there’d been an accumulation of things he’d done that—little by little, like a blowtorch burning paint off steel—scorched away chunks of her love.

Usually, once love is gone, only indifference remains. In which case, the logical thing for Mary to do would have been to get a divorce, not kill him. But in Mary’s case, there was one final thing Johnny did to her that obliterated not just the love, but even indifference. And from the charred remains of everything she had once felt for him grew a revulsion so deep that she refused to live in a world where he existed.

After Mary decided that Johnny had to die, she spent the rest of the week working out the best way to do it, the ‘best’ way meaning how to kill him in the manner that was least likely to end with her in prison or—as they lived in Texas—on death row.

As his wife, I’ll be the prime suspect. The fact that we’re in the middle of a divorce makes that even worse. Lord knows, I’ve got plenty of motives.

It needs to look like an accident. Poison? A hit and run? Maybe a burglary gone wrong?

And I’m gonna need an iron-clad alibi.

It took Mary a few days to figure out the accident part. The more difficult piece was the alibi. She came up with lots of ideas. But in the end, she concluded that to pull off a foolproof alibi she needed help: an accomplice. There was only one person in the world she could trust with something like this. Abby Winehouse. They’d grown up together, shared secrets. They knew each other like sisters.

Abby also had the skills to help Mary put the finishing touches on her plan. The only downside was that she’d probably try to talk her out of killing him; Mary was almost sure of that.

She arranged to meet Abby at her place that Friday for some wine and cheese. The house was just west of downtown Austin and had been in Abby’s family since the late 1800s. The two friends sat, as usual, on the wooden back deck in lawn chairs overlooking the small yard. Its perimeter was marked by a hurricane fence. The lawn was thick Saint Augustine grass. There was a small rock garden in one corner, in the center of which sat a broken bird bath; the bath part was dry and dusty. A couple of beat-up cornhole boards leaned against the fence by the gate to the alley. It was just past seven. A cool fall evening.

Abby was sharing some of the highlights of her week. She was on a bit of a rant. “And so, I told him, ‘Don’t be mansplainin’ to me about what a rollin’ stop is. You may have a badge, but I was runnin’ stop signs while you were still on training wheels!’”

Mary nodded and smiled as her friend spoke, but she wasn’t listening. She was rhythmically clinking her fingertip against the stem of her wineglass to disguise the slight tremor in her hands. Nerves. She had rehearsed what she wanted to say. And how to say it. Still, her neck felt tight. Could Abby tell that she was distracted? Abby was never one to pry. She had always been the type to chat, entertain, all while waiting for Mary to open up.

“So fiiiiinally,” Abby dragged out the word, “he agreed to let me off with a warnin’.” She shook her head. “But I had’ta get all pissed off and tell him I’m a lawyer to get ‘im to back down.” She scoffed. “Imagine how they treat regular folk . . . ” She stopped to pour herself some more rosé.

Mary decided to capitalize on the lull. The sound of cars rushing down Mopac highway nearby provided white noise that she felt protected their conversation from prying ears. But she reached out and turned the music on the Bluetooth speaker up a bit, just to be safe. A song by The Dixie Chicks was playing, the one about Earl. It was a song she knew well, but she was so focused on what she wanted to say that the irony was lost on her.

“I need to tell you something, Abby,” she said. “Ask a favor, really . . .”

Abby finished refilling her glass. She turned to look at her friend, and her face fell. “Oh, shit! What’s wrong? No. Don’t you cry, girl,” she reacted instinctively, then backtracked. “Or go on and let it all out if ya need to . . .”

Mary hadn’t realized her eyes were watering. Tears were not on her agenda. She inhaled, seeking to extract confidence from the air around her. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“What is it, Mare?”

“I’m gonna need your help with something,” Mary said. The tension in her neck eased slightly as she spoke.

Abby cocked an eyebrow, and Mary watched her eyes dart back and forth as if scanning through a spectrum of possibilities. Despite all her rehearsing, Mary couldn’t help beating around the bush just a little. “It’s a big one,” she added, her eyes turning hard and her chin tilting up slightly.

The air around the two women suddenly felt almost electric. Mary saw that her friend felt it too; the hair on Abby’s arms stood on end.

She leaned towards Mary, placing a hand on her knee. “You know you can count on me, hon.” She unconsciously lowered her voice to a whisper. “What can I do?”

“I . . . It’s about . . . him.”

Abby inhaled deeply and sat up straighter. Her lips pursed, then she took a swallow from her wineglass. “Well, what’s he gone and done now?” Abby’s head tilted; her mouth set in a hard line. “It’s high time you divorced that sumbitch. I know it’s been a mess. But of course, you can count on me—”

“Oh, no. It’s not about the divorce.” She sat back, more confident now that she had gotten the topic on the table. “I mean, thank God, I found out because of the divorce. But . . .”

Mary had read somewhere that when the police deliver news of a family member’s death, they use simple, direct language to avoid confusion. In the shock of the moment, brutal clarity works best. Mary had decided to follow that approach. That’s what she had rehearsed.

She took a sip of wine, her gaze locked on Abby’s. She breathed in, then exhaled slowly and, for the first time, said out loud what she’d been thinking, planning, what she knew she had to do.

“I’m going to kill Johnny.”

Her tone made it clear that this was not a figure of speech.

Abby sat for a good while studying her friend. She was searching, hoping for some indication that she was misreading the moment—that Mary wasn’t actually declaring her intent to commit murder.

When it became clear that Mary had nothing further to add, Abby started to speak several times. Mary watched as her mouth would form the tip of a word, before aborting the effort as new scenarios percolated out of her keen mind. Finally, Mary saw that look in her friend’s eyes; her best friend was still there, but the lawyer in her was sharing control. Abby clasped her hands together, resting them softly on her knee, then spoke the best open-ended reply of them all.

“Why?”

***

Author Bio:

J.K. Franko was born in Texas and spent his childhood in Corpus Christi where he attended St. Patrick’s Elementary and Incarnate Word Academy. He was educated by Irish nuns who thought his conduct poor and academic effort lacking. Franko admittedly spent too much time at the video arcade, playing hacky sack, and later hanging out with friends drinking beer and listening to eighties music (this was in the eighties) at Swantner Park.

He would not change any of that (if he could).

Franko got his act together in college, during what he calls his Tour of Texas: Del Mar College, Baylor University, University of Dallas, University of the Incarnate Word (BA Philosophy, cum laude), St. Mary’s Law School (Juris Doctor, summa cum laude), and UT Austin’s McCombs School of Business (MBA, Kozmetsky Scholar).

He worked for ten years as a trial lawyer in Texas, then went on to work as an executive in the Fortune 100 in Europe and Asia.

Franko has written a number of non-fiction books and articles. But storytelling has always been his passion.

Publication of Franko’s first three novels—the Eye for Eye trilogy—was complete in 2020, with international publication in translation beginning in 2021.

He will be publishing two books in 2023: Killing Johnny Miracle and The Black Book.

Catch Up With JK Franko:
JKFranko.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @jk137
Instagram – @jkfranko.author
Twitter – @jk_franko
Facebook – @jkfranko.author

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and opportunities to WIN in the giveaway!

JOIN IN ON THE GIVEAWAY:

This is a giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for JK Franko. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Tours

MY J K FRANKO REVIEWS

You can see my Giveaways HERE.
You can see my Reviews HERE.
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Giveaway – Death Tango by Lachi @GoddessFish @lachimusic

Posted on October 31, 2023 by fundinmental

The cover is very eye catching and I love the concept. It seems all too real to me.

A Quick Fire Interview with Lachi

1. What’s the most adventurous thing you’ve ever done?

I’m blind, so pretty much everything. I’ll narrow it down to skydiving, camel riding and scaling up a New York City apartment building.

2. If you could dine with any literary character, who would it be and why?

Frankenstine’s monster. I think he gets a bad rep.

3. What’s your favorite joke?

Knock Knock

Who’s there?

To Who?

It’s To whom

4. Does your day job ever get in the way of your writing?

For my day job I tour and perform globally, so yes! I’ve written on plains, trains, boats and definitely hotels.

5. What’s your favorite Holiday?

Well it’s Halloween today, so let’s go with that!

6. What are your top three favorite genres?

1. Big Umbrella Horror (all but big T Torture)

2. Epic or Odessy Sci-Fi with long series

3. Adult Paranormal Romance

7. Did you have a specific audience in mind when you wrote Death Tango?

Adult Sci Fi readers. Some folks assume because I am a disability advocate that my fiction would be for younger folks. It’s not! This book has gore, violence, sex and language.

8. What was the first book you ever read?

My first horror novel was Cold Fire by Dean Koontz and my first Sci-Fi was Asimov’s Foundation followed by Frank Herbert’s Dune

9. What book do you like most among all the others you have penned down?

Death Tango is my most developed. I’ve also written the Ivory Staff.

10. Now, when you look back at your past, do you feel accomplished?

When I was young I wanted to be a musician and a writer with my own music studio in New York. I’ve managed to accomplish all of this and then some. Traveling the world advocating for identity pride and disability inclusion through music and storytelling has seen me to the White House, UN, BBC, GRAMMYs, a ton of very amazing places. But life is an ever-journey, and we’re just getting started.

11. Have you ever incorporated something that happened to you in real life into your novels?

Yes. I’ve been assaulted and my main character endures an assault.

12. If you had a superpower, what would it be?

To understand and to be understood.

13. What other projects are you working on now?

I’m working on a Non-Fiction, a music album called “Mad Different” that explores the weird, the different and leans in, and am forever touring.

14. Do you have any plans for a sequel?

Maybe. Let’s see where life takes us.

Death Tango by Lachi

GENRE: Science Fiction/Horror

BLURB

In a Utopian twenty-third-century New York City, where corporations have replaced governments, AI dictates culture, and citizens are free to people-watch any other citizen they choose through an app, this horror-laden Sci-Fi Thriller follows four mis-matched coeds as they attempt to solve the murder of an eccentric parascientist. Only someone or something able to navigate outside the highest levels of croud-sourced surveillance could get away with murder in this town. If the team can’t work quickly to solve the case, New York City will be devoured by a dark plague the eccentric had been working on prior to his death, a plague which, overtime, appears to be developing sentience.

EXCERPT

It is nine years ago. I stand alone on an unstable rock. Beneath that rock are a few precarious slabs of granite. Beneath the granite lies a hundred feet of air, of silence, of potential bone-shattering death. Surrounded by a dusk sky, Mount Venom—the cliff aptly named for the lives it has claimed—stretches endlessly beneath my quivering legs and far beyond my blurring vision.

Through the blaring wind, I hear several SOIs—School of Intelligence kids—hurl down demoralizing insults from the cliff’s edge. “She’ll never make it!” “Fall and die, swine!” Each year the SOIs goad us TFs—Testing Facility subjects—into scaling the cliff. If successful, the TF is accepted as an equal, putting an end to constant ridicule and torment. There is little sympathy for those who accept the challenge and fail. I tell myself to reach for the next stone along the slope, to keep my hands steady, to breathe.

I near the finish line.

Every inch of my body tastes it as much as my mouth tastes it. Get there; say nothing; feel no pride. My face wet with tears and mucus, my fingers slippery with blood, I feel around for my next grip and pull on my burning calves. I have only two heaves left. Two heaves, and no more being treated like trash.

I notice a small gap between two large stones above me. As I place my dampened hands into the hole for leverage, the rubble on which I stand gives out. My legs dangle freely. I have the willpower to lift my body onward, but my concentration is broken by a pair of black-gloved hands that pop out of the fissure above me.

Someone is hiding behind the rocks.

Tech Sports knitted in thin red stitching on each glove slides into view. My body ignores the anxiety presented by this new predicament, and I continue to lift. The gloves grab both my forearms and yank. I am now dangling by the grip of those hands; I am now at their complete mercy.

“Friend or foe?” I manage to growl between pained gasps, the wind forcing hair into my mouth.

“You’re so close,” replies a male voice I can hardly distinguish.

“I know! I know! Help me up!” I yell. My legs work uselessly to find hold. Receiving no verbal or physical response, I wriggle my shoulders. “Hey! Help me up!”

“Beg me!” the voice demands, barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears. I fend off a rapidly growing well of despair. Despair is a choice, a manifestation of surrender.

“Please!” I bark, the word taking with it all of my remaining willpower. I look up wide-eyed at the gloved hands, ignoring the falling stones as I await my fate.

“This is for putting in the application!” he yells, and with a quick jolt he lets go of my arms.

I fall.

I keep my eyes open, desperately hoping for something to grab, but all I see are a mix of gray sky, red rock face and my flailing arms. I hear my bones smash against the jagged teeth of Mount Venom and scream one long uninterrupted exhale, silenced only by the jarring collision of the back of my skull against the cold, hard pavement.

I don’t feel the fracture. I only hear it between my ears. Pop.

I lie at the foot of Mount Venom, looking up at dark clouds, a metallic taste oozing over my tongue, a harsh pain working its way down my neck. A thick puddle coalesces under my head as onlookers gather.

My vision snaps away instantly with a blink. Surrounding echoes fade slowly as the internal sound of my curtailed heartbeats takes over. Suddenly I feel cold and heavy. I am motionless, no longer taking in oxygen.

After an onslaught of euphoria, I feel my brain flatten. I hear its slight gummy movements of deflation against my last few heartbeats. And somewhere between no longer feeling the ground beneath me and no longer feeling the air around me, I realize I am dead.

I perceive only a black vastness about me. Like an autumn leaf I float in the Cartesian circle that is the keen awareness of my nonexistence. A mix of bliss and terror. I try to hold on to something physical, something I can understand. “You are safe. You are safe,” I repeat, exercising the remnants of my inner monologue.

Then I begin to see things.

A single bright blue diamond, about the size of a fist, appears five feet before me. It is soon joined by two more on either side, followed by two more still, until a string of blue diamonds surrounds me. I realize I can see my entire periphery, no longer limited by physical eyes. A light source switches on behind me, revealing that I am floating at the center of a rotating diamond-rimmed disco ball.

Trying to locate the light source, I push my perception upward, downward, left, right, only to find that I, myself, am the source of that light. The speed with which the disco ball spins steadily increases, faster and faster, until all is a blur of spinning frenzy. Suddenly thousands of quick snapshots of familiar faces speed toward me: my friends, my bullies, the dark skin of my estranged father, the Spanglish ravings of my drunken mother, their parents, their parents’ parents. Images of a cottage in France, a village in Africa, past wars, ancient discoveries, tree scavenging, gasping air, breathing ocean, swimming in gas, feelings of remorse, loss, shame, excitement, immense love, bitter anguish, and a desperate need for acceptance. Every imaginable emotion ravages me whole.

I experience my consummate past. A massive rewind that stops at a sweeping explosion. A sphere of white fire so bright, it could hardly be described as fire. I am an endless wave of raw emotion drowning in the unyielding flames. And in that eternal instant I understand everything.

Again, all fades to black, the warmth, the understanding. And though the blackness around me is infinite, I sense a presence. I am not alone.

“Look around you,” the presence communicates to me, not through sound, sight or touch, but through direct understanding. I am certain it is—at least in part—a being other than myself. I hold fast to my mantra. “Do not fear,” the presence continues. I allow the mantra to fade. “Do you see how far the blackness reaches, stretching beyond infinite horizons? That is how much you do not know, how much you’ve yet to learn.” A brief silence. “Fear is the great enemy of knowledge, and you, Rosa, are the switch between them.”

“Me?” I manage to convey through the slivers of my consciousness.

“Us.”

“Us? How? Why? What do you mean?” My figurative words come childlike and excited.

“You already know how,” the presence responds as it fades. “You already know why.” I feel a growing bitter loneliness as the presence drifts away.

“Wait!” I yell. The blackness around me congeals to a bumpy dark brown. “Come back!” The glistening euphoria gradually declines as my flattened brain begins to restructure. A physical atmosphere swiftly surrounds me, and a palpitating sensation starts beneath me, causing me to rise and fall. The pulsing sensation reveals itself to be my heart grappling for a pulse.

A crashing ocean of white noise fills my head. I feel that I have a head. A body. Arms. A face. My face.

I open my eyes as the rush of noise fades to the sound of an open room. I am lying on a bed in the infirmary, surrounded by the school nurse and Dr. Ferguson himself, their blurry faces examining my head wound.

Dr. Ferguson bends forward. “You had a very nasty fall, Ms. Lejeune. Do you remember that?” He watches a nurse as she dabs a cloth at my face. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

AUTHOR Bio and Links

Lachi is an internationally-touring creative artist, writer and award-winning cultural activist living in New York City. A legally blind daughter of African immigrants, Lachi uses her platform to amplify narratives on identity pride and Disability Culture. In her public life, Lachi has helped increase accessibility to the GRAMMY Awards ceremonies as well as create numerous opportunities for music professionals with disabilities, through her organization RAMPD. Lachi also creates high-quality content amplifying disability. She has hosted a PBS American Masters segment highlighting disabled rebels and releases songs such as “Lift Me Up” and “Black Girl Cornrows” that elevate disability and difference to the pop culture market. Named a “new champion in advocacy” by Billboard, she’s held talks with the White House, the UN, Fortune 100 firms, and has been featured in Forbes, Hollywood Reporter, Good Morning America, and the New York Times for her unapologetic celebration of intersectionality through her music, storytelling and fashion.

In her free-time Lachi writes sci-fi and fantasy novels with diverse, headstrong characters, focusing heavily on atonal world-building, quip-ridden character development, likable villains and psycho-spiritual discourse.

Website:www.lachimusic.com
Twitter: twitter.com/lachimusic
Facebook: facebook.com/lachimusic
Instagram: instagram.com/lachimusic
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Death-Tango-M-Lachi-ebook/dp/B0BLGYMCQ7/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0

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