Posts
Don't forget, after the blurb, interview and excerpt have you panting for the book you still need to scroll down to the giveaway link at the bottom, because free stuff is AWESOME. Go on. Get you some.
Blurb:
In Nick’s perfect world, Valentine’s Day would be struck from the calendar.
Nick’s dreams of a Happily Ever After were shredded long ago
and the last thing he and his customers need is a bunch of happy loving couples
rubbing it in their faces.
Bouncer Fat Boy Newman is willing to bet he knows Nick’s
heart better than he does. He has just six days to change Nick’s mind about
romance and the holiday and the perfect man to do it.
Too bad it’s not him.
Too bad Nick’s not going down without a fight.
Too bad he cheats.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
INTERVIEW:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE DAY AFTER THE NIGHT BEFORE
The man on the floor was hard to ignore. If I got up now,
I’d be stepping on him—not that I planned on leaving anytime soon. It wasn’t
every day a man fell at your feet, much less one of the pretty ones. I wasn’t
complaining—I could use the distraction. February with its faux-holiday was
always my own personal hell, and this week, with the tidal wave of red and pink
already threatening to swamp me, things kept getting worse. Maybe my luck was
finally changing. I hoped so.
I squinted in the dim light of the bar to get a better look.
His strawberry blond hair was disheveled, uncovered now that the ball cap he’d
worn into the bar was resting against the chrome leg of my barstool. He stared
up at me with eyes like some cartoon character from a Looney Tunes classic.
Comically huge saucers of Arctic blue overwhelmed a nose too pert for a man;
his rosy lips forming a perfect O of shock and surprise completed the picture
as he lay stunned.
I’d watched the cap spin merrily away as he landed
face-first onto the industrial-grade carpet, and winced—not in sympathy for the
blow to his face, per se. No, it was due to the knowledge that FatBoy Newman
had thrown up on that exact spot the previous day. I groaned as unwelcome
memories of FatBoy and the events of last night flooded my mind, distracting me
from the blond.
FatBoy was the newest addition to our little Frisson bar
family. He’d been working the door for a couple of months, doing his job by
lurking in the background and monitoring the crowds stirring each other up on
weekends. One minute, he would be wallpaper, and the next, he’d be hanging out
at my end of the bar, playing a nightly game of twenty questions.
Last night it was a string of questions like “Marie Claire
or Vogue?” and “Barbeque Beans or Pork & Beans” or, more disturbing, “Brad
Pitt or Yoda?”
Normally, I would have blown FatBoy off as I do every other
asshole annoying me while I’m working; even the bouncers who like to lean on
the bar and steal olives and fruit don’t linger if I’m there. FatBoy was
different. He might look like a giant hick with the brains the size of a pea
and a case of ’roid rage, but for all I knew, he had balls the size of an
elephant. He’d need them. He’d been pressuring me for weeks to date his cousin,
ever since he figured out that I’m gay, and I’d been equally absolute in my
refusal. I don’t date, no matter how smoky blue your eyes are when you ask.
Not that I tried to hide my orientation—it’s just none of
your damn business and not a topic of conversation I usually led with. At six
two with brown hair, green eyes, and a naturally muscled build, bar patrons
just assumed I was straight; keeping things pleasant and light with our mixed
crowd of tourists and local party boys and girls kept the mood fun and—most
importantly—the tips pouring in.
I also wasn’t such a megalomaniac that I thought everyone
wanted to sleep with me—though working the bar, I got plenty of come-ons and
come-hithers. Despite the occasional tumble with Juan, I hadn’t met anyone who
inspired me to make the effort. If you want to know the truth, in my heart of
hearts, I was a romantic; I dreamed of being swept off my feet by the “one”. In
the meantime, I kept my head down, mixing my drinks and keeping my dreams and
hands mostly to myself.
Despite the nightly grilling, FatBoy wouldn’t have known any
different if he hadn’t walked in on my attempt to bareback Juan, our bar-back,
during a very slow Saturday afternoon. I’m kidding about the barebacking. Juan
is a good kid, and I’d never risk him or myself that way, and our relationship
was more about convenience than romance, but FatBoy did walk into the cold room
just seconds after a collision had wrapped me around Juan’s wiry body, forcing
our lips together. Fortunately, our tongues took the brunt of the accident,
ensuring no lasting damage to our libidos.
No, Mr. Newman can take the blame for that particular injury
and the subsequent ‘failure to launch’ sequence that resulted from it. Instead
of backing out like a normal person, he stayed—leaning against the frame of the
door and watching us quietly until I pulled away from Juan.
“Why the fuck are you still here? Can’t you see we’re busy?”
I snapped in frustration.
FatBoy didn’t respond beyond a slight twitch at the corner
of his mouth—though he did lean slightly out of the way as Juan slipped past
him, buttoning his jeans as he went. I reached down and readjusted my own cock,
sighing deeply and glaring at him while I waited.
“Soooo, Nick. Boys, huh?” he drawled, settling back into his
lean.
“Not boys, men. I’m not a pedophile, asshole.” As I stomped
back to the bar, I was running through a list of unpleasant scenarios I could
subject the prick to before I had to see him again. I was contemplating his
fall into an active volcano when I felt his eyes on my back, the same silent
force field I’d felt ever since he started working here.
I whirled around. “What? What! What? Did you need something,
or did your calendar say it was ‘Be a dick at work day?’ ’Cuz I have to tell
you, I’ve got a serious case of blue balls going on here, and unless you plan
on dropping and giving me head right here and now, I’m pretty sure there is
nothing you can say or do that I’m interested in.”
I might have caught a slight glimmer in his eyes when I said
that—but really, who cared? It was going to be long days of skittish looks
before Juan settled down enough to overcome his exaggerated fear of discovery
and be willing to risk spending more time with me in the back. Something about
losing his job and making his disabled mother homeless if he got caught
screwing around at work—like that would ever happen…
“Blake was asking for you. I figured you’d rather I tracked
you down myself instead of sending him into the icebox after you.” FatBoy
smirked and pivoted, leaving me alone with the unhappy thought that I owed him
one. With a silent apology to Juan’s fears, I wound my way back to the office
to check on the latest from the boss.
So best efforts of ignoring the new bouncer aside, we were
now out to the six five former linebacker from Tennessee—a Vol who’d majored in
French poets of the seventeenth century. You haven’t lived until you’ve
listened to FatBoy recite Molière in the original French, drunk off his ass, at
four in the morning, in a thick southern drawl. Despite all of that, or maybe
because of it, FatBoy was a bit of a prick—a trait I usually found entertaining
when directed toward someone else, but after my fobbing off all the gentle
nudges and hints about his cousin, he must have decided it was time to bring
out the heavy artillery and press the issue once and for all.
In this case, he used his prickdom to force me into the
drinking contest. He was, after all, he said, a gentleman of the South and
therefore felt obliged to offer me a game of chance rather than the outright
blackmail he originally had in mind—not that I believed he’d actually risk
anyone’s job. But it did make me curious.
I still wasn’t sure what was so important about finding his
cousin a date. I’d said no enough times that any other musclehead would have
gotten a clue and dropped it long ago. FatBoy’s cousin must have been horribly
disfigured or suffering from some social disease or on parole for unspeakable
acts as a minor for him to be this relentlessly annoying.
More likely, his aunt was nagging him to death—afraid her
baby was going to meet a big bad leather daddy now that he liked cock; I’d
heard stories. I was just lucky to be the first gay he’d met. Not that I ever
had that problem with my own family—I’m not sure they noticed the last time the
door hit me on my way out.
All in all, I wasn’t surprised when he finally cornered me.
Terms of the bet were simple. We would each drink at the
same time until we stopped. First one to pass out or throw up lost. Winner
named his prize.
The reason I thought FatBoy might have been juicing—beyond
the imposing build and lack of neck—was he’d overlooked the fact that I had
total control over the very medium that would determine the outcome of the bet.
6 Days to Valentines is Available for purchase at Wilde City Press
No comments:
Post a Comment
What's your take?