The Vineyard VBT

Blurb:

Ten years after college, three very different women reunite for a summer on Martha’s Vineyard. As they come to grips with various challenges in their lives, an encounter with a reclusive fisherman threatens to change everything they believe about their world—and each other.

Excerpt:

Chapter 21

Climbing up the dune, she stumbled from little avalanches of sand that slipped beneath her feet. The boy caught her and pulled her up. His hand was smooth and warm and young. It felt good to her to hold a boy’s hand again.

         

At the top of the dune, the salt air swept over and around her face and hair. The ocean was shimmering, limitless. There was nothing around them but the sea and the wind and the sand—which is why she had come to this, her new favorite place on the Vineyard. Only today she was going to have to share it with a gangly skinflint of a boy who stood there still grinning at her, the wind tossing a lone, blond cowlick back and forth on top of his head like a bobble-head doll.

         

Perhaps he expected another kiss. She assured herself he wouldn’t be getting one. After all, she had grown better at restraining her impulses in the two months since that first ferry ride.

         

“I thought you’d be married and off on your honeymoon by now,” Charlotte said, glad finally to be back on offense after nearly rolling down the dune.

         

She made a point of not looking at him. Teenage boys with racehorse metabolisms and zero body fat were very fond of not wearing shirts, and while the cheerleading squad down the beach probably found that exciting, Charlotte thought it was important that she not appear to agree.

         

She kept looking out to sea as she spoke, as if the water were far more interesting than the boy or what he might have to say, which in truth it was not. When the silence became awkward, she turned to see if he were even paying attention. He was staring off at the horizon. She followed his gaze.

         

“Long story,” he said, finally.

         

In the pause that followed, it became clear that the story, long or short, was not likely to be told. Charlotte sensed a wound that was something more than shyness. It provoked an unwanted and involuntary surge of maternalism in her.

         

“I’m Charlotte,” she said, extending her hand. “I’ve been told I’m a good listener to long stories.”

         

The boy looked at her and took her hand for the second time. He did not complete the introduction but simply held her hand in his. He wasn’t coy; it just didn’t occur to him that his name was at all important to her.

         

In his bare feet he was not as tall as she remembered, and he seemed younger. He wasn’t a child, but he couldn’t have been older than twenty-two, if that. Separated from the rough girl who had been hanging on him on the ferry, he looked less like a greaser and more like a California surfer. The difference somehow mattered to Charlotte. It felt weird that it mattered.

         

She hadn’t intended to be his company, nor had she asked him for his, but the top of the dune was not wide. When she wandered away the few feet it allowed and spread her blanket, he followed and sat beside her. He offered a half-empty bottle of spiced rum she hadn’t noticed he had been dangling from his left hand. She didn’t usually drink that early in the morning—or to be more precise, she never did—but somehow she sensed this wasn’t the time or the place to accentuate the differences in their ages and manners. She wanted to hear his story, and she wanted him to feel free to tell it.

         

Still, he said nothing. Instead, he sat next to her and peered out at the sea as if they were an old married couple, silent and content merely to have each other’s company.

         

The voices of the others rose and fell periodically on the air, coming from fifty yards away in the direction of skiff down the beach. That the boy’s friends didn’t seem in a hurry to join him suggested that they, too, knew he needed some space. Charlotte could hear them laughing and groaning and grunting, trying to pry the keel of their boat out of the sand with the help of the tide that slowly rose around it.

         

She leaned back on the towel and continued to follow the boy’s gaze out to sea. He had an odd intensity about him, as if he were expecting something was about to happen out there—a missile launch or mermaid eruption or something. On the third pass of the rum, he turned to look at her.

         

“We were supposed to be having a baby,” he said.

         

“We?”

         

“The girl and me—the one you saw on the ferry.”

         

"And . . .?”

         

“And nothing. She lied to me. I heard about it from one of her girlfriends who called me from back home. Said she couldn’t keep quiet anymore. That she felt it was wrong. She said my girlfriend wasn’t pregnant—never had been. She just made that up to get me to take her away from her old man. Not that I can blame her. He used to beat her . . .”

Charlotte had not forgotten the girl’s blistering right hook, and now she realized where it came from. She must have given the old man as good as she got.

“ . . . but it was a damned lie just the same.”

         

Charlotte said nothing, which didn’t seem to faze him. “A damned lie,” he said again, looking back toward the sea.

         

“Is that why you were getting married?”

         

“She must have thought so, but I would have married her anyway—baby or no baby.”

         

“And so now you’re not—getting married, I mean?”

         

“You can’t build a marriage on a lie,” he said, looking at her with an expression of surprise, which she took to mean that he would have guessed someone so much older would have been a little wiser.

         

Charlotte let the proverb hang in the air. It was true enough, in theory, but in reality her own marriage and, she had come to believe, a great many others—perhaps even the majority—were rather elaborately built on a foundation of lies. True love was a myth, as far as she was concerned.

         

“’Think about it,’ you said to me, back then,” he continued. “Do you remember?”

         

“I do, but I was …” She started to explain her bizarre conduct on the ferry that she realized, as soon as she began, made no difference to anyone now. He cut her off.

           

“Truth is, apart from wondering why you was such a damn lunatic and where the hell you had come from, I didn’t need to think about it. In fact, I was pretty excited about it. That’s what I guess you didn’t know—and how could you. I’m sure I looked like just a punk to you.”

         

“Still do, actually.” She said this to be witty and cute, which it was not, and which alarmed her, as if her mouth had suddenly detached itself from her brain. She regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. Another lie told to the poor boy. He seemed rather Byronesque to her, in fact, and not at all like a punk, but she didn’t think he would understand why, so she left it.

         

“I was excited to be a father,” he continued, indignantly. A tear rolled down. He was struggling to keep his emotions in check. She had had no idea. She felt suddenly even more mortified at her glibness a moment ago.

         

It was either the best or worst of all possible combinations, depending on the eye of the beholder. Here was this painfully earnest boy, wounded and still suffering at the hands of a conniving and thoughtless girlfriend. Here was this older woman, herself conflicted and out of touch with her own feelings about love and sex and marriage. Between them was a half-empty bottle of rum, and all around them was sunshine and the sea.

© 2014 by M. C. Hurley. All rights reserved.

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Author Bio and Links:

Michael Hurley and his wife Susan live near Charleston, South Carolina. Born and raised in Baltimore, Michael holds a degree in English from the University of Maryland and law from St. Louis University.

The Prodigal, Michael’s debut novel from Ragbagger Press, received the Somerset Prize for mainstream fiction and numerous accolades in the trade press, including Publishers Weekly, Kirkus Reviews, ForeWord Reviews, BookTrib, Chanticleer Reviews, and IndieReader. It is currently in development for a feature film by producer Diane Sillan Isaacs. Michael’s second novel, The Vineyard, is due to be released by Ragbagger Press in December 2014.

Michael’s first book, Letters from the Woods, is a collection of wilderness-themed essays published by Ragbagger Press in 2005.  It was shortlisted for Book of the Year by ForeWord magazine.  In 2009, Michael embarked on a two-year, 2,200 mile solo sailing voyage that ended with the loss of his 32-foot sloop, the Gypsy Moon, in the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti in 2012. That voyage and the experiences that inspired him to set sail became the subject of his memoir, Once Upon A Gypsy Moon, published in 2013 by Hachette Book Group.

When he is not writing, Michael enjoys reading and relaxing with Susan on the porch of their rambling, one-hundred-year-old house.  His fondest pastimes are ocean sailing, playing piano and classical guitar, cooking, and keeping up with an energetic Irish terrier, Frodo Baggins.

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Shimmy For Me SBB

Blurb:

Juggling two jobs to keep her belly dance studio afloat keeps Abby Anderson’s mind off her shattered love life—until a reawakened pain sends her into the arms of an anonymous stranger she plucks from the audience of her tribal belly dance show. No names, no strings, no romance. She tells herself it’s a harmless hookup.

Until he turns up at her day job . . .

Derek Collier, the sexy heir to the Collier media dynasty, just landed everything he’s always wanted: the publisher’s seat at the Orange County Herald. Except his first order of business is to sell the newspaper. Reeling from his family’s betrayal, his only comfort is the memory of that mysterious belly dancer and the perfect night they spent together.

He won’t rest until he finds her again.

She’ll lose everything if he does.

Excerpt:

Only one thing could divert his thoughts tonight, and she was standing in front of him, just out of reach.

He bridged the distance and touched her porcelain white chin.

“Is this all right?” he asked.

She covered his hand with her own and nuzzled into it.

“We seemed to have skipped the introductions,” he said, his eyes locked on that smooth, soft cheek. “I suppose I have the advantage. I already know who you are, Zenina, so maybe I should tell you I’m—”

She stopped his mouth with a quick finger. “No names,” she said, her chocolate eyes widening. “No numbers. Nothing. All right? Let’s just enjoy tonight.”

She didn’t want to get to know him? Or force him to get to know her? No hoops to jump through, no empty promises to make?

She really was perfect.

She took his hand from her shoulder and guided it down the front of her, over the rise of her breast, the soft slope of her belly, the ridge of her belts and scarves.

His chest thudded at the feel of her. His mind froze.

She stopped his hand and pulled it away.

“Do we have a deal?” she purred.

“Oh yeah,” he said, his heartbeat racing, his breath coming fast. “You can have whatever you want.”

         

A slow, sexy smile crept across her face and she rose on her toes to whisper in his ear. “Just for tonight, handsome. Just one night.”

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Author Bio and Links:

DeAnna Cameron writes novels featuring feisty heroines transformed by true love and belly dance—the oldest and most exciting dance form in the world. Her novels have been translated into Japanese, Polish, and Serbian, and her work has been praised for its “deft prose, energetic characters and . . . colorful images” by RT Book Reviews and called “most entertaining” by the Historical Novel Review. Before turning to fiction, DeAnna worked as a journalist, writing and editing for several Southern California newspapers and magazines. She’s a member of Romance Writers of America, as well as its Orange County chapter. When she isn’t working on her next novel, she can usually be found at her jeweler’s bench, creating new wire-wrap, bead, and multimedia designs. She lives in Orange County, Calif., with her family.

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Dragon & Flame Blog Tour

Book Description:

Rory Sullivan thinks he has it all, until his boyfriend breaks his heart and the new landlord raises the rent on his bar. A chance meeting with Jin Yue, a rich dragon, gives Rory hope. Jin promises Rory he can save the bar and get even with his ex – for a price.

All Rory has to do is pretend to be in a relationship with Jin. Rory’s bad boy nature, and the desire for some no-strings-attached sex make the idea way too intriguing. Even if Rory’s brain thinks it’s a bad idea, his cock heartily disagrees.

Problem is, Jin Yue might be all kinds of hot, but he’s also Haven City’s one and only crime boss – sexy, powerful and deadly. Now Rory is tied to Jin until the dragon’s mission is complete, regardless of assassination attempts, hunters or the cops.

Jin Yue won the gang war, but the battle for Haven City isn’t over.

Enter Rory Sullivan – the tatted up fire mage who can help Jin lay claim to his rightful territory. However, things don’t turn out the way Jin plans. Rory pushes all the right buttons and riles up Jin’s dragon instincts. The fire mage is the farthest thing from Jin’s type, but the heat between them sets Jin’s blood on fire.

They’re playing a dangerous game that puts both of their hearts and lives on the line. While the passion between Jin and Rory sizzles, can a relationship built on deceit grow into something more?

Warning: contains violence and graphic gay sex scenes.

Available at Amazon  BN   ARe  Google Play

Excerpt:
When they left the restaurant, Jin took him downtown to go shopping. 

Rory stopped outside the store and raised his eyebrows at the name. “Armani? Isn’t that last season or some shit?”

Jin chuckled and stepped inside. “The label is all certain people care about. The tux should work for your sister’s wedding as well.”

Rory forced himself not to glower and followed.

His patience came to an end when no less than three sales people walked up and started asking stupid questions. Jin answered, and Rory wondered if these three women spent all their income on designer clothes. What a ridiculous waste of money. They pulled out three tuxedos, which all looked the same to Rory, but the sales vultures insisted they were different in cut or style.

“Do I have to try all three of them on?” Rory asked and shoved his hands into his pockets. Too bad his bartender getup wouldn’t pass at a fancy gala.

“Yes. I want my money's worth, and you’re the best model I can think of,” Jin said with a delectable smirk and headed toward the fitting rooms.

Heat flared in Rory’s chest, torn between annoyance and lust. Why did Jin always fall right on that line? This weird place between wanting and wanting to punch.

He stalked after the dragon.

“You’re coming in with me?” Rory asked as he walked into one of the palatial dressing rooms. It was the same size as his bedroom and had a damn couch, for fuck’s sake. Yeah, it wasn’t anything like the dressing rooms at the places he usually shopped.

Jin stepped inside after him. “I wouldn’t want you getting lonely in here all by yourself.”

Rory doubted that eventuality, but he didn’t kick Jin out either. “And here I didn’t put on my fancy underwear.”

Jin smirked.

A sales woman brought in the tuxedos and shut the door as she left.

A dare lit up Jin’s eyes as he settled on the couch.

What did he expect? That Rory wouldn’t actually strip? He slipped the leather jacket off his shoulders and set it aside. “You want to watch me take off my clothes?”

“Very much. You’re an attractive man. I can see what Richard loves about you, but I can’t see what you liked about him,” Jin said evenly.

Love. Ha! Dick never loved him. Rory knew that, and Jin used that word on purpose.

Rory yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it on his jacket. Then he stepped forward. “Like what you see?”

Jin’s eyes crinkled at the edges, and Rory wondered how old the dragon was. Older than Rory.

Jin’s dark eyes drank in Rory’s firm chest, the tattoos that wound over his arms and taut pectorals, and the little black rings that pierced his nipples. But Jin didn’t reach forward and touch him, like Rory assumed he would. Hell, from the look of hungry fascination on Jin’s face and the flick of Jin’s tongue over his lips, Rory expected a hell of a lot more.

“I said you were attractive,” Jin purred.

“So take off my pants,” Rory said and moved so close his legs straddled Jin’s thighs. Perfect position for a suck job, and he smirked at that thought. If the sex was on his terms, he sure as hell wouldn’t mind.

“Is this how I earn my kiss?” Jin asked and leaned forward.

“Maybe,” Rory said. How the hell did this go from a power play to flirting? Fuck. He didn’t know. The heat building in his balls told him not to worry about it.

“Hmm,” Jin hummed, and his rough hands wound down Rory’s chest. They flicked and pulled, ever so carefully, at the rings on Rory’s nipples.

Rory bit back a groan.

Jin smiled and roamed lower. His fingers caught on the top of Rory’s jeans, and he undid the top button. His dark eyes burned as he grabbed the zipper, and eased it down like this was all some great big act of seduction.

It worked.

Rory’s breath hitched in his throat as Jin’s fingers brushed Rory’s bulge. It twitched and stiffened, and Rory fought the urge to thrust his hips into those hands.

“You want me to keep going?” Jin asked.

The dare still burned in his eyes, but something else flickered alongside it. The same flame that burned inside Rory – the thing that urged him closer and closer to the edge between what was safe and what was possible.

He didn’t trust himself to speak, so Rory nodded instead.

Jin complied. He hooked his thumbs in the side of the jeans and inched them lower and lower. They slid over Rory’s black jockeys, down his legs and bunched there. He forgot about the boots. Well, since Jin was in the neighborhood.

“Those too,” Rory said, his voice gruff.

“Oh, you’re going to pay for this later,” Jin said with a dangerous smirk.

Rory returned it with one of his own. “Sure thing.”

Jin made quick work of the laces, and Rory stepped out of the boots and jeans with a minimal amount of hopping. The jockey’s hung so low on his hips the dark red curls popped out of the waistband, but he didn’t bother yanking them up.

It gave the dragon a good look at what Rory had in store for him.

“Do I have to dress you too or can you manage?” Jin asked, his voice rich with 
amusement. A spark shone in his eyes.

“I think I can manage,” Rory said and picked up the first tux.

He put on the pants, shirt and jacket without a problem, but the bowtie was another issue altogether. However, one of the sales women came in and righted it for him. Then there was a whole lot of ‘turn left’ and ‘turn right’ before he finally got to put on the other two.

Even looking at himself in the mirror, Rory couldn’t see the difference. He chose the first one out of spite, and Jin didn’t argue with that decision.

“I’ll box this up for you sir. And I’ll set out some suitable shoes. Size twelve?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Rory said and waited for her to shut the door before he looked at Jin again.

Jin’s eyes lingered on Rory’s bulge. “Do I get to take that off too?”

“Maybe after the gala,” Rory said and tossed the shirt at the dragon.

Jin caught it and stood up in one swift movement.

Right. Shifter. They were fast – faster than he was.

Rory barely registered that thought as Jin’s body met his, pressed him against the wall and took a long, slow sniff of his neck.

“You smell like sex,” Jin purred.

Rory’s heart jumped into his throat, and his cock responded to the sudden proximity. “Do I?”

“Mmm,” Jin said. His lips vibrated against Rory’s flushed skin. “You most certainly do. And I want my kiss. I think I’ve earned it.”

The cuff on Rory’s wrist felt heavier than normal, thick and tight. If he said ‘no,’ maybe Jin would have to stop. He’d need to back off until the situation was all on Rory’s terms. But Rory couldn’t find the words. They bunched up in his throat and came out as a groan.

Jin sucked at Rory’s skin and fire rose across his flesh with it.

“Earned it? Not quite,” Rory whispered. “Get me off, and I’ll consider it.”

Jin’s fingers dug into his shoulders, and he smiled against Rory’s flesh. “You’re going to pay for that too.”

Rory didn’t see how that could be a bad thing.

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About the Author:

Zoe Perdita writes gay shifter romance because the only thing better than one hot shifter dude is two hot shifter dudes making out.

She lives in the Pacific Northwest with a fluffy orange cat and a lively roommate. When she's not writing, Zoe likes to travel, read and play video games.

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Goodreads

Heart of Steel Cover Reveal

Welcome to the cover reveal of HEART OF STEEL by Elizabeth Einspanier, a Science Fiction Romance available February 17, 2015. Elizabeth is giving away a $20 gift certificate to Steampunk Emporium. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

When reclusive cyborg Alistair Mechanus meets his captive, ER doctor Julia Parker, it is love at first sight--for him. While he eagerly drops his plans for World Conquest to woo her, ten years of solitude have left his social skills badly rusted. When his misguided act of kindness spirals out of control, however, Julia is forced to trust the mad genius with her life, and she discovers the vulnerable side under his armored plating. She has the skills he needs to unlock his forgotten past, but learning who he used to be may come at the cost of his remaining sanity.


Enjoy an excerpt:
She advanced cautiously, trying to get a look at the subject of his study in the next room. Before she could, however, the tall man in the hall with her spoke.

“Greetings, Julia,” he said in the baritone she’d heard from the speaker. She turned, and saw to her shock that a significant portion of the left half of his face, now revealed to her, was crafted of overlapping segments of unpolished metal, apparently riveted through the flesh and into the skull and jaw. His left eye was a mechanical lens that turned and focused in perfect coordination with its biological counterpart as he regarded her, its iris dilating as he offered her a welcoming smile. “I am, as you have probably guessed, Dr. Mechanus. I welcome you to my humble lair.” He sketched a bow to her, and she either heard or imagined the sound of countless motors whirring within him.

At first her thoughts were consumed by a single horrified thought—what the hell what the hell what the hell—repeated over and over again until her mind filled with what the hell from top to bottom and side to side. She felt light-headed, and braced herself against the edge of the observation window to avoid falling, but some persistently reasonable corner of her mind gently informed her that now simply was not a good time for her to faint or throw up.

Stay frosty, Julia, the voice advised her, in a familiar-sounding voice that Julia couldn’t immediately identify. Think of this like your first car crash in the ER. Sure, it looks horrible, but you can get through this. Just breathe. Get through this, and find out what’s happened to Jim. You’re okay.


About the Author:

Elizabeth Einspanier is the self-published author of the Weird Western novella Sheep’s Clothing and the upcoming sci-fi romance novel Heart of Steel. Her short stories have been published in Down in the Dirt and Dark Fire Fiction. She is a member of the St. Louis Writer’s Guild and an associate member of the Horror Writers of America. She lives in St. Louis, but frequently spends extended periods in worlds of her own creation.

Website     |     Blog     |     Twitter

Google+     |     Amazon Author Page

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The Bones of You VBT

Blurb:

Oliver Andrews was wholly focused on the final stages of his education at Cambridge University when a well-meaning friend up-ended his world with a simple email attachment: a clip from a U.S. morning show.

The moment he watches the video of his one-time love Seth Larsen, now a Broadway star, Oliver must begin making a series of choices that could lead him back to love—or break his heart.

The Bones of You is full of laughter and tears, with a collection of irritated Hungarians, flirtatious Irishwomen, and actors abusing Shakespeare that color Oliver and Seth’s attempts at reconciliation.

Excerpt:

They walked into the house, laughing (“I haven't seen one tweed cap, Oliver. I feel cheated.”), and realized that Janos was home. He was watching a football game, and looked over the back of the sofa at them and held a hand up in greeting before turning back to the television.

           

“He's not what I expected,” Seth whispered as they moved into the kitchen with their food.

“Oh? What did you expect?” Oliver asked, pulling out two plates and silverware.

“Viktor Krum.”

Oliver grabbed the edge of the counter and laughed loudly.

“American television has done the Iron Curtain a major disservice,” Seth whispered, jerking his head in Janos's direction. “I expected a sallow complexion and a black unibrow, not, well… that. Why are the good-looking ones always the homophobes?”

Oliver bit his lip to keep from laughing again and motioned for Seth to take his plate to the small table against the far wall. “Janos,” he called out, “there's enough for you, if you want any?”

           

Janos turned and looked their way, giving Seth a thorough once-over. “No, thank you,” he said; his voice sounded mildly disgusted.

           

Seth went still briefly and bristled with visible indignation. “Don't worry. We didn't order it with a side of homo, so you should be fine. Although it seems like you had a helping of jackass earlier; no wonder you're not hungry. Must have had seconds.”

           

Janos twisted on the sofa, his arm draped over the back as he gaped at Seth. Oliver was momentarily shocked into silence, but Seth had never really needed assistance in the face of bigotry—only support.

          

“Van egy nagy heréje, akkor a buzl. Én szeretem.”

            

Oliver and Seth both narrowed their eyes at him, Oliver trying to figure out what the hell Janos just said.

           

“Translate. Now.” Seth's voice was positively icy; he vibrated with anger. “Or you're going to learn in a very painful way that I'm a hell of a lot tougher than I look.”

           

Janos seemed to pick up on this and answered quickly, with his hands up in surrender. “I say: for a f-, uh… homosexual? You have… what, balls? Testicles.” He grabbed his crotch and continued. “I say I very much like this about you.”

           

With as droll a voice as Oliver had ever heard, Seth replied, “Isn't that interesting that you're fond of my testicles so quickly; normally it takes until the third date for me to hear that.”          

Laura, thanks so much for stopping by. So, why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?

Thanks for having me! First and foremost, I'm Texan. I'm an Ann Richards, Molly Ivins Texan which means I'm proud to stand on my own two feet with my convictions, but I usually have a tray of pecan tarts on me to share. I grew up acting in commercials and theater, did Indie film work, studied Microbiology, became a Master Gardener, and naturally that led me here talking with you about my book about lost loves.


How did you get started writing?

I've always written; my parents still have a story I wrote when I was ten years old, in fact. My dad is a sweetheart--he had it bound and kept it, and even did the same for the stories my children have written. I loved thinking out stories and little fantasies as a child, and either wrote them down or acted them out. I never got out of that habit.


What was the inspiration for your book?

Without question, it's the beautiful song with which my book shares a name, The Bones Of You, by an English band, Elbow. (They're magnificent.) It was one of those haunting songs that tells a moment of an epic story, leaving you wanting more. Well, it left me wanting so much more that I fabricated an entire story based on the scene of a busy man stopping in his tracks as he hears a song that reminds him of his past lover, flooded with painful memories and unsure with what to do.

What’s the one genre you haven’t written in yet that you’d like to?

Western--it seemed such a masculine and uninviting genre for girls when I was growing up. So naturally I want to tackle that and prove it not to be the case!

Are there any genres you won’t read or write in? Why?

See the above. Honestly, it just didn't feel like it would be my cup of tea, but I'm a massive Stephen King fan (as so many of us are) and fell in love with his Gunslinger series. It had the perfect mix of Lone Wanderer, Fantasy, magical elements and romance to show me just how wrong I'd been, even though it's not a true Western. But since I never say never...

So, what are you working on right now? Got any releases planned, or still writing?

And that leads to a new book I'm just beginning to work on, set in the last quarter of the 19th Century, cowboy culture, the violent nature of gunslingers in towns like Deadwood and Tombstone, and of course, two cowboys who can't deny their feelings for each other, something that was actually common for the time! Before that book is released, however, I have a story I'm currently writing set in our time. It revolves around a young woman who has lost her lover to a tragic accident, leaving her adrift and unsure if she can let herself have feelings for a new young woman in her life. (Spoiler alert: she will.) That particular story deals with a lot of the issues that arise in butch-femme lesbian relationships, as well as how people can bury themselves in their grief and what it takes to dig themselves out.


Alright, now for some totally random, fun questions. Favorite color?

Green, green, green! Beautiful, crisp, fresh, and full of life green!


Favorite movie?

This may sound strange, but The Last Picture Show. That movie was formative for me. It's a perfect example of how I see romance, love, relationships, what's right, and oh, the pining! Plus, it's just a gorgeous movie. (But I have to defend my book writers and say that the book is even better.)


Book that inspired you to become an author?

I don't know that I ever thought I could be an author, but every story I've read has made me want to be a writer. Maybe the Emily of New Moon series written by L.M. Montgomery. Her heroines were all writers, and I just loved them all to bits and pieces; they made it seem possible even with their failures.



Alright, you have one superpower. What is it?

To be able to manipulate cellular matrix. Which is basically the nerd way of saying a Wonder Twin without the water/animal limitation.



You can have dinner with any 3 people, dead, alive, fictitious, etc. Who are they?

Paul Lynde is my first guest, hands down. If I'm going to conjure someone from the dead, they better be someone whose word I want to hang on, not to mention laugh myself sick. Carol Burnett, and once I stopped crying over how much she means to me, can you imagine how much fun she would be? The stories she could tell? And of course, Jesus. He was this awesome, super sweet guy who lived down the street from me where I grew up, really good-looking, too. I haven't seen him in years, so it would be fantastic to catch up. (Oh, did you think I meant..?)


Last question: Which of your characters are you most like and how/why?

Well, anyone who knows me should know the answer to this is Moira. I should state that I do not have a drinking problem. Moira would say it's a drinking solution, at any rate. I also over-identify with Oliver's people-pleasing ways, especially when it comes to our fathers. Second-guessing choices that we've made, hoping we're not adversely affecting those around us... Yeah, he wasn't difficult for me to write, that's for sure.

That’s all from me, thanks so much for taking the time to stop by!

Thank you so much for the opportunity!

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Author Bio and Links:

A life-long fan girl, Laura Stone takes a leave of absence from the glamorous life of motherhood while the kids were in school, devoting her days to writing full-time. In the past she's worn the hat of actress, Master Gardener, and computer geek, but now sticks mostly to a Texas Ranger's ball cap as she raises her children. They're not fully raised, but then again, she would say that she isn’t either.

She began telling stories to her parents at the age of four. She was so successful in catching her parent's attention that her father actually dislocated his back, trying not to sit on her imaginary cat, Doka.

She lives in Texas as proof that it's not totally populated by hard-line right-wingers—and because that's where the good tamales are from.

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