Saturday, March 21, 2020

Saturday's Series Spotlight: Haven Hart Universe by Davidson King - Audiobook Part 1


Snow Falling #1
Summary:
After running from a past destined to kill him, Snow has been hiding on the streets.

Tell nobody your name.
Tell nobody your secrets.
Trust nobody!
These are the rules of the streets.

His entire life changes when he saves an eight-year-old boy from a violent end.

Christopher Manos is one of the most powerful crime bosses in the country.

Don’t ask anyone to do something you aren’t willing to do yourself.
Secrets can get you killed.
Trust nobody!
These are the rules he lives by.

When his eight-year-old nephew disappears, he never expects the boy’s savior to end up being his own.

A man with a dangerous past and a man with a dangerous future find love amidst murder and mayhem. But with Snow's life being threatened at every turn, will Christopher's best be enough to prevent Snow Falling?

Hug it Out #2
Summary:
Riordan Darcy has spent the last fourteen years building a name for himself as a notorious assassin. He travels the world taking the lives of some of the worst humanity has to offer, leaving his signature on every victim.

Riordan becomes unhappy and withdrawn from the world after a job goes horribly wrong and he makes the decision to get out of the life he was forced into, so long ago. When his meddling, older sister gives him a birthday gift that’s impossible to refuse, his plans to leave his life of crime take a backseat when he’s forced to protect the life of a veritable stranger.

When professional hugger and TLC provider, Teddy Harris, is offered a month-long companionship contract, he’s hard pressed to turn it down. Cuddler by day and a video game reviewer by night, Teddy’s need to make people feel loved and cared for is what drives him. When he meets Riordan Darcy, professional challenge and personal temptation collide, making it nearly impossible for him to endure a whole month with the gorgeous, enigmatic man without falling head over heels in love.

When a mole is discovered within Riordan’s organization, relationships are compromised, and people’s lives are in danger. Time isn’t on their side, and they discover answers can’t always be found by hugging it out when someone is hell-bent on eliminating each and every one of them. Can Riordan and Teddy survive long enough to fall in love, or will they die trying?

A Dangerous Dance #3
Summary:
Finally working for a man he can trust has given Bill a new purpose. His boss, Christopher Manos, commands respect and absolute loyalty, and Bill has proven himself worthy of a seat at Christopher’s table. Becoming best friends with Christopher’s husband, Snow, has further proven his allegiance and cements a place for him in the Manos family. When Snow’s life is in danger, Christopher places his full trust in Bill to destroy anything and anyone that poses a threat to his husband. But hunting and wiping out the enemy for the safety of everyone Bill cares about means partnering with the one person he has vowed to never see again.

Mace wears a mask of vain cockiness and uses his model good looks to his full advantage. Known to many as Without a Trace Mace, he’s a deadly assassin well known for wiping out whole families and getting away without a trace. With a dangerous past and an unknown future, Mace uses his veil of conceit to keep others at a distance, rarely trusting anyone. When his boss, Black--the one man he trusts above all others—gives him his next assignment, he learns his newest partner is none other than Bill, the man he’d do anything to avoid.

With the safety of the Manos family on the line at the hands of a brilliant maniac, Bill and Mace begrudgingly put their differences aside to ensure Snow, and his loved ones, are protected from harm.  With their lives in grave danger and the clock ticking towards zero hour, they navigate deathly perilous situations and uncertain outcomes, hoping they survive long enough to keep the Manos family safe.

Bill and Mace’s traitorous hearts draw them closer together no matter how hard they fight the inevitable. With the lives of their loved ones hanging in the balance, they find themselves in the middle of a dangerous dance. But when the music stops, will they both be left standing?

From These Ashes #4
Summary:
A product of his past, Black spends half his time saving lives and the other half taking them. Every day, a hard choice must be made and he’s the man to make it. Long ago, he vowed to never love again; one-night stands with a willing body was all he ever needed. But along came Quill, and Black’s life is irrevocably changed. He never expects something as simple as Quill’s persistence to alter the way he not only sees the world, but how he lives it.

Quill has bad taste in men and equally horrible luck. Growing up wasn’t easy, surviving is even harder. When his past and present collide, he’s convinced he’ll finally witness his own destruction. But when an unlikely antihero steps in to protect him, his life is turned on its head. He’s spent months flirting with the man of his dreams and hoping he’d take notice. But it turns out, being on Black’s radar isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and his idea of protection varies greatly from Quill’s.

Unknowingly sharing the same goal—burying their own pasts deeper than the fires of hell can reach—they’re both unaware that jumping into that fire will do more than ignite their feelings, it could lead to their own demise. Will Black and Quill be consumed by the flames, or from these ashes, will they find their own happily ever after?

Snow Falling #1
Original Audiobook Listen November 2019:
With the holidays, I actually reviewed book 4(From These Ashes) first but I did listen to the series in order.  Snow still completely blows me away, Christopher is an awesome blending of hard ass and soft hugs.  I guess that's what makes Snow and Christopher work so well, they compliment each other, they keep the other in check(or they try their hardest to do soπŸ˜‰).

As for the narration, well like I said in book 4, I've never listened to a book with dual narrators before but they worked perfectly.  When I first started listening I thought Snow came across as jumpier, a little out of sync but the more I listened the more I realized that it was the perfect way to bring Snow's upbeat and snarky character to life.  Could other narrators pull it off?  Sure, but after hearing Joel Leslie and Philip Alces, I can't imagine anyone else bringing Haven Hart alive.

Original ebook Review December 2017:
When Snow comes upon a little boy in trouble and comes to his aid, he has no plans for it to lead to a new beginning he was just doing what he felt was right.  Christopher may be the head of a family that has some questionable tactics but he is an honorable man so when his nephew is saved by a young man in an alley, he offers the man a job.  Will either man let the future take root and grow or will their secrets get in the way?

Snow Falling is a masterpiece!  That is the best way to explain what I read, nothing more, nothing less.  It is a true masterpiece, a gem to be savored.  When you factor in that this is a debut novel by the author, well frankly its hard to believe because its just so great.  Now, I would be lying if I said I am unfamiliar with the author because I consider her a friend and kindred spirit and I have been cheering her on for several years.  I knew her book would be good but even I was overwhelmed at how stunning and heartwarming Snow Falling is.

The characters, from Snow and Christopher to Roy and Bill to Lisa and Maggie, they all bring something to the story and not a single one is "window dressing" or "filler", they all have a part to play in the journey that is found within the covers of Snow Falling.  I mention that because that is a rare thing, in my experience there is usually at least one character that could have been removed from the pages and the reader would not miss them but not here.  Every character is intriguing in their own way and makes the story better.

As you know, I don't do spoilers so all I'll say in regards to the plot is WOW because I was hooked and had everyday life not got in the way I would have easily read this in one sitting.  Talk about an easy read, and don't think I mean "easy" as in simple and short. No, I mean "easy" as in it grabs you from the first page and before you know it half the book is gone and then suddenly you find yourself at the epilogue.  I started this review by saying Snow Falling is a masterpiece and I'll end with saying it has heart, no better way to say it: Snow Falling will break your heart, but it will also warm your heart.

Hug it Out #2
Original Audiobook Listen November 2019:
Teddy and Riordan are still amazing, they just click.  Everything about them says they shouldn't have ever met let alone fallen in love but they did, they do, and it is absolutely right.  The mystery and suspense holds up to a re-read(or listen in this caseπŸ˜‰).  Hug it Out(Haven Hart as a whole) is pretty close to fiction paradise.  Complete escapism that entertains from word one to the end.

Again for the narration, Joel Leslie and Philip Alces are amazing!  They really bring the characters alive, I can almost feel one of Teddy's hugs.

Original ebook Review April 2018:
Riordan Darcy finds himself disheartened in his role as an assassin after a job goes wrong and his family is worried.  Teddy Harris, prefessional hugger and TLC provider, found his calling giving the kind of care to others that he found in his grandmother's arms growing up and he loves every minute of it.  When Riordan's sister hires Teddy for one month, she had no idea what she was starting.  Can these two polar opposites find happiness in each other's worlds or will love and comfort fail to conquer all?

First off I have to admit that when the author told us what Teddy's profession was, I chuckled and thought "okay that's a bit out there".  Now, I know how hugging can change your whole demeanor, how your day can be fulfilled or lacking.  Having set too many times by my mother's hospital bed as she was hooked up to a respirator and had to return to my lonely hotel room without a goodnight hug left many a day incomplete.  So I more than understood the needs and services that Teddy would be providing, I just did not know it was a profession.  So as the saying goes, "you're never too old to learn new tricks".

So on to Hug it Out.  Last fall I fell in love with Davidson King's writing, no that's not accurate enough because what she does is more than writing.  Davidson King is a storyteller.  Some might think that writers and storytellers are the same thing, I don't see it that way.  A writer tells a story but a storyteller creates a world that sucks you in, holds you there, and won't let go.  A storyteller creates a world you want to exist in, people you want to know, communities you want to see unfold outside your living room window.  Haven Hart may be a city that Miss King created but she does it in a way that it could be anywhere on the map.

All authors start somewhere but when their debut novel is as amazing as Snow Falling was, one wonders will their follow-up be The Empire Strikes Back caliber or go the way of Speed 2?  I can safely and honestly say that Hug it Out is a TESB-quality sequel.  Did Teddy and Riordan touch my heart as much as Snow and Chris? Probably not but I wouldn't want to place a bet on the difference.  I won't touch on the plot because as you know I don't do spoilers but let me just say that their story is a humdinger that had me hating such insignificant chores such as eating and sleeping.  I couldn't put it down but when I reached the last page, I kicked myself for not reading it slower to savor the awesomeness.

Some might say I haven't actually said much about the book or the characters and maybe that's true with the whole no spoiler rule I live by.  I will add that even though the characters, main and secondary, might not be people we would meet at the store or pumping gas, I still connected with their pain, tension, and the overall emotions they feel throughout.  Which only goes to strengthen my belief that Davidson King is more than just a writer as I said above.  A true gem that I am already looking forward to re-reading for years to come.

One final thing, for those who are wondering if you need to read Snow Falling first, its my personal preference to say yes but Hug it Out is a standalone in the Haven Hart Universe.  We see Snow and Chris from book one a few times and though it is not necessary to know their journey to understand Teddy and Riordan, I think it flows better if you read book one first but no, it is not a must.

A Dangerous Dance #3
Original Audiobook Listen November 2019:
First off, Bill and Mace are still just as snarky and at each other's throats(in more ways then oneπŸ˜‰) as they were when I originally read A Dangerous Dance.  And yes, I know it's the same story so of course that part wouldn't have changedπŸ˜‰ but I still found them just as beautifully written with what I like to call a spot-on blend of snark and cuddle.

I won't lie, I was a little apprehensive as to how the narrators were going to pull off such an equally alpha pair as Bill and Mace because let's be honest here, Christopher and Riordan are a tad more alpha than their respective partners, Snow and Teddy.  Well, I needn't have worried because Leslie & Alces bring the guys to life with a flare that not only fits but makes them real, puts them in the room with you.  I've said in other audio reviews of mine how I collect old radio shows of the 30s & 40s and when the narration is as spot-on and topnotch as Joel Leslie and Philip Alces, I truly feel like I'm listening to one from my collection.  I expect to hear the sponsor break in with their ad or product placement.  King, Leslie, & Alces are definitely a winning combination.

Original ebook Review July 2018:
When Bill found himself working for Christopher Manos he not only found a job and position suited for him but he finally found a home and a  family in his friendship with Christopher's husband, Snow.  "Without a Trace Mace" has spent a long time carving out a name for himself in his business of death and he couldn't have done it without the help of his boss Black.  When Snow's life is threatened, Christopher cashes in a favor with Black and now Bill and Mace find themselves once again having to endure each other's company to get the job handed to them done.  When all is said and done, will anyone be left standing? And more imporantly, will Bill and Mace's hearts be left intact?

Let's get it out of the way right now: there will be no spoilers in this review.  As to what I will touch on the plot: HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!!!  If you thought Bill and Mace got on each other's nerves in Hug it Out then you haven't seen anything yet.  The animosity is so thick, well as the clichΓ© goes: you could cut it with a knife.  But, as thick as the tension is the passion is even more intense.

Okay, so that was all you'll get out of me in regards to the plot so onto the characters.  I just knew Bill was going to be special when we met him in Snow Falling but I had no idea just how much I would love him.  Did he burrow deeper into my heart than either Snow or Teddy? Probably not but I wouldn't want to try and measure the difference.  As for Mace, he is a conundrum.  You want to hate him because he is able to detach himself from his work, or at least it appears so, but he too has a soft side(don't let him know I said soπŸ˜‰).  As much as I loved Snow/Christopher and Teddy/Riordan in books 1 & 2, I think that Bill and Mace blossomed the most so far in Haven Hart.  Did they "grow"? No because I think that they have always been passionate people but they finally let someone else in and that is something they spent their lives keeping very limited.

Now that I've talked about the book let's talk about the author for a minute.  I said in my review for Hug it Out "when their debut novel is as amazing as Snow Falling was, one wonders will their follow-up be The Empire Strikes Back caliber or go the way of Speed 2?  I can safely and honestly say that Hug it Out is a TESB-quality sequel" and I can now say that Davidson King has continued with her amazing storytelling prowess.  I would say that A Dangerous Dance is Return of the Jedi awesomeness but as ROTJ was George Lucas' concluding entry in the original Star Wars saga and Miss King is no where near done with Haven Hart I hesitate to make that comparison but for only that reason.  The emotional and passionate WOW-ness Dance invoked was just as powerful as anything Mr. Lucas brought with ROTJ.  Some might say I'm stretching that comparison a bit, well perhaps but when I reached the final page of Dance, the sense of satisfaction and entertainment is very similar to what I feel every time the heroes are left celebrating in the Ewok village.

Now one final note: A Dangerous Dance like all the entries in Haven Hart Universe are technically a standalone because each one centers around a new pair and their paths but I find it just flows better if you read the series in order.  There are enough secondary characters and plot points that travel throughout to keep it connected.  Will you be lost if you start with Dance? Probably not, but I highly recommend starting from the beginning, trust me you won't be sorry.

From These Ashes #4
Audiobook Review December 2019:
I've been listening to this series from the beginning recently but with the holidays fast approaching I have not yet got around to writing my reviews for books 1-3 so don't be surprised if some of what I say in this review shows up in those as well, particularly anything pertaining to the narration.

There is really nothing I can add to my original review from last year in regards to the story and the characters.  I still don't want to give anything away, the book might have been around for over a year now but I'm sure there are plenty of readers out there that have not yet visited Haven Hart.  Black and Quill still seem like a complete trainwreck waiting to happen on the surface but once you get to know them you realize how perfectly suited they really are.

Now on to the narration.  I've never listened to audiobooks with two narrators before so I wasn't sure how I would like it. Well, I love it!  Both Joel Leslie and Philip Alces capture their main character(and others) expertly.  They are easy to listen to and they both make everything come alive visually.  I often say when an audiobook is read wonderfully they remind me of the old radio shows of the 30s & 40s that I collect well not only is From These Ashes read wonderfully but having the dual narration makes it even more reminiscent of those old radio shows.  Add in the brilliant storytelling of Davidson King and I swear I'm listening to Suspense and expected at any minute for Harlow Wilcox to break in with the Autolite Spark Plug sponsor ad.  Now I realize most people have no idea who Harlow Wilcox was(he's one of the more well known pitchmen of the era) but I included that tidbit in my review to properly express how the dual narration came across as more than just another audiobook reading.  Joel Leslie & Philip Alces bring to life Davidson King's incredible words that will entertain for decades to come, I'm sure in 80-90 years people will be collecting audiobooks as I do radio shows and they will be enthralling a whole new generation.

Original ebook Review December 2018:
Black closed his heart off to more than one night stands years ago but a chance meeting could change that.  Quill has spent his life surviving but never quite living than a moment of timing changes that.  When Black and Quill's worlds collide will they be able to resist the changes they face?  Will they even be able to survive before they have the opportunity to rise again?

Davidson King has done it again!  I really find myself at a loss as to what to say and not give anything away.  Haven Hart Universe just keeps getting more and more interesting.  I'm not sure which intrigued me more: Black's gruffness hiding his heart underneath or Quill's fears hiding behind his peppiness.  On the surface, not only are these two polar opposites but they really shouldn't even exist in the same universe let alone interact but then you get to meet them and I mean really meet them and you realize they are perfect together.  Looks don't determine the man and both Black and Quill have weaknesses and strengths that have made them into who they let the world see which is why they balance each other out, that is if they let the other one in to see the real person and for that you have to read From these Ashes yourself.  I'm not even going to attempt to touch on the action/mystery/thriller side of the story because . . . well just . . . WOW! . . . and I'll leave it at that: WOW! and DOUBLE WOW! and a HOLY HANNAH BATMAN! for good measureπŸ˜‰. Oh, and it is set at Christmas so what more can you ask for?

I must be honest, Black and Quill are probably my least favorite of the pairings so far in Haven Hart.  Now, having said that, if I was to actually rate the couples the difference between all four would be only about .93.  It's kind of like me admitting that The Phantom Menace is my least favorite of the Star Wars films and yet of the 8 main saga films so far, all 8 are in my Top 15 Films of All Time so TPM still ranks pretty darn high and that is exactly what Black, Quill, and their journey in From These Ashes do: rank pretty damn high on my "Fiction Fantastical" list.  As the Haven Hart Universe continues to grow and more of the characters are revealed so does the talent of storyteller Davidson King.  Since I mentioned it you are probably asking why Black and Quill are #4?  I could be superficial and say its Black's hair(I'm not much for long hair in men, just doesn't tick my boxes) but I'm not that superficial.  Truthfully it really comes down to just the timing.  Had they been the center of book 1 then they would most likely be my favorite.  It happens almost 99% of the time when a series focuses on different pairings in each installment, the first is always my favorite.

One of the things I love most about the Haven Hart Universe is, yes these situations and people are not the kind of thing every town or city faces but at the same time the characters are so genuine and real you actually feel like you could meet them pumping gas, dropping off Christmas packages at the post office, or waiting in line to get your morning hot chocolate(sorry I'm just not a coffee personπŸ˜‰).  So no matter who is your favorite in this series you will never be disappointed, the author's talent for storytelling will never leave you wanting.  A true gem and classic in the making.

If you are asking can you start with From these Ashes, I suppose technically you could since each entry features a new couple but I highly recommend starting from the beginning.  Characters, situations, plot points can pop up and carry over though Davidson King does a pretty good job of "recapping" so you aren't lost but it just flows better in order.  Personally, I can't imagine visiting Haven Hart in any order other than it was published.  And yes, I said "visiting" not "reading" because you find yourself getting so sucked in that you reach for a tissue or drink(trust me you will need both for happy and sad times) you expect to find the characters sitting next to you.  So sit down, buckle up, and hold on because you are definitely heading for a bumpy but exciting journey.

RATING:


Snow Falling #1
I should have known I wouldn’t get far. Frank grabbed my arm. “He’s not my kid. His pop will very much want to speak with you. Something tells me if you walk out that door, you’ll disappear, and I don’t have time to go lookin’ for you. So, I think you’ll come with us for now.” His firm tone made it clear it wasn’t a question.

When I looked around the police station, I was shocked that no cops were interfering in what was clearly a kidnapping. I shouldn’t have been too surprised. After all, in my book, police didn’t have a very good track record for doing what was right.

“Stranger danger!” I yelled, which just made Simon laugh.

“No, Snow, we aren’t strangers anymore. You come home and my pop will protect you. That’s what he does.”

Who the hell was his pop? Surviving was a lot about picking your battles. Looking around the precinct, it was obvious my choices weren’t going to win out. Frank and his goons weren’t going to let me pass. On the off chance I got away, then I’d have Roy and these guys chasing me.

“I don’t think I have a choice, do I?” Frank shook his head. “Okay then. Onward, my good man!”

If the limo wasn’t a huge giveaway that Simon’s pop was disgustingly rich, the enormous mansion with the iron gate was.  Two large Ms were worked into the iron. The house had a medieval look about it. A fountain of fear was on display in the middle of the circular driveway, some sort of gargoyles spitting water out of their mouths… or was it their eyes?  Gray stone, iron, and darkness made up this house. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t just rich, he was powerful. Leaning over, I whispered in Simon’s ear, “Is your pop Tony Stark?”

 Simon chuckled. “No silly, he’s Christopher Manos.”

Christopher Manos? Oh, son of a bitch. At least Iron Man was on the right side of justice.

“Come on, Snow, you can meet my pop!” Simon grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the limo with all his might. When we came to the stone steps and I looked up, I came face to face with not only the most dangerous man in this city, but the most gorgeous. He was broad, and I could see the muscles in his arms and legs even through his expensive suit. He had midnight black hair and obsidian eyes. There was no doubt he and Simon were related.

“Pop!” Simon ran into his arms. The man didn’t miss a beat. He scooped Simon up without ever taking his eyes off me. “That’s Snow. He saved me.”

“Mr. Manos, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ll have you know, I didn’t want to come here. I was forced. You have a beautiful home and a great kid and if you just let me go, I’ll happily walk home.”

He stared at me coldly. “You don’t know my home is beautiful, you haven’t seen it. Let’s rectify that. Come in.” He turned and walked inside. The nudge from Frank was likely the only encouragement I’d get.

I hope I don’t die.

Hug it Out #2
When I opened my eyes, Riordan was watching me. He looked away quickly, but not fast enough. What did he see when he looked at me? A goofy gamer who loved to hug? Did he see the man behind the bunny suit? Maybe he wished I looked more like my friends and less like a nerd.

Odd that this was bothering me. Normally, I didn’t give a shit what people thought. Riordan was a client and I needed to remember that.

“I didn’t mean to be insulting, Teddy, or accusatory. It’s not every day I find out the man hired to keep me company is friends with Christopher Manos’ husband, a man who happens to be a well-known crime boss.” When he lifted his sunglasses and exposed his eyes, I felt better. The barrier was unnerving and reading people was better this way. “In my line of work, people are judged by those they associate with. Too many times, I’ve been right. Hang out with shit and you start to smell.”

Now it was my turn to react. “Snow is not shit. He’s an amazing guy. He may be married to a crime boss, but he’s not like that. He’s my friend because he treats me with respect. Now, I think I will be ending this lunch. You can put it all away. I’ll call a cab to take me home.”

Riordan jumped up when I did. His hands were inches from my arms, yet I could feel them as if they were on me. “Whoa, calm down. I wasn’t calling him shit. Wow.” He chuckled. “You’re a spitfire, huh?” He rubbed his hand over his buzzed head almost like he was nervous. “Here I thought you were all marshmallows and rainbows. It’s nice to see there’s a fire in your belly.”

“Look,” I said as I began putting the food away since it was obvious Riordan wasn’t going to do it. “I want to help you. Aisling hired me, and I know we said we’d give it a week, but I’m not sure it’s going to work. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable with someone else.”

I’d guessed Riordan was gay and called him paranoid. Both assumptions I would have never made with any other client. I also didn’t fight with clients. I was breaking all my own rules and cutting this short would be wise.

“You want to quit because we had a little spat?”

“It’s not a spat.” I tugged the blanket until he got the hint and moved off it. “I work for people who want me there. You don’t. This isn’t about you being a jerk about my friends or dropping me off to park.” I was mid-fold when I turned to give Riordan a sardonic look. “You do realize you pulled into a spot to let me out to find a spot, right?”

I could practically hear Riordan counting to ten as he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know. I had to deal with something. I can’t tell you, but…” He inched closer to me, eyes soft and sincere. “I don’t think you’re horrible. Our company is strange, but I like it. Let’s just do the whole month, it’ll be fine, I’m sure. I don’t want to start over with someone else.”

In a gesture almost too sweet, Riordan brushed a curl from my forehead and smiled. “I need you to not ask me about the things I do. I can’t tell you. Ever. But I promise I will relax more and stop being such a jerk.”

I could see the truth in his eyes. I knew calling it quits was probably the right thing to do. We were clashing left and right. He’d try to see things my way, but we’d argue again. But I was a fool sometimes and I really believed I could help him. “Okay. We can stick to the schedule for the month as planned. But if it doesn’t work, if we’re fighting or it’s stressful, we need to break the contract. Agreed?”

 “Agreed.”

A Dangerous Dance #3
The night before, I left Mace sleeping on the couch. I’d never admit it to him, but I ended up foregoing the end of The Fifth Element in favor of watching him sleep. He was a gorgeous man. Too beautiful for a mere mortal, almost.

I remembered when we were staking out a place we thought Lee was in last year, Mace was so bored, he ended up watching cat videos. He had laughed like he was afraid of being caught. It was then I began wondering why he’d felt that way. Of course, it had only taken him opening his mouth to remind me why I didn’t give a shit.

People like Mace fucked men like Snow. Ethereal, stunning, pristine men. Men that when they rubbed up against you made you shine brighter. I fucked whoever showed me even a little interest. I wasn’t picky.

When I had worked for Roy, I never fucked the underage boys like he did. Never raped anyone like he did. I slipped into gay clubs, fucked a stranger in a bathroom, and rushed back before anyone knew I was gone. Sex for me was never a beautiful thing. It was a necessary thing. Something I did so my balls wouldn’t explode.

“We leave in ten,” Mace shouted through my bedroom door, where I was getting dressed to blend into Wet and Wild Night at Joker’s Sin. I didn’t have clubbing clothes, so I opted for a white t-shirt, black jeans, and my boots. It was getting colder outside and often a flurry would pop up out of nowhere, so I was glad I had my leather jacket.

When I stepped out of the bedroom, Mace was leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. Most likely a message from Black. I was able to take a moment to appreciate the physicality of the man. Long legs that would wrap nicely around my waist. The white shirt was so sheer, I could see the shadows of lean muscles I wouldn’t mind painting with my come. His dark, layered hair was longer than I’d ever seen it and my fingers twitched with the need to grip it as I thrust into his tight…

“Why are you staring at me? Do I have a stain or something?” He frantically began looking over every inch of fabric. I decided to put him out of his misery.

“Nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if I was underdressed. I don’t want to stick out, I need to fit in.”

Mace took me in. His gaze was both welcomed and dangerous. Lust danced in his eyes and I suddenly wondered how this even happened. I hated this man, everything he stood for, and his better than thou attitude. Why was I suddenly wondering what he tasted like?

Had I not seen the want in his gaze, I wouldn’t have believed he’d find someone like me appealing at all.

“You look good.”His voice was rough and when he turned away, I felt the loss like ice water thrust over me. “Jones is driving us. He’ll watch the entrance. Zagan is unpredictable, so we need all the eyes we can get.”

From these Ashes #4
Black
I parked my car as close to Joker’s Sin as I could. I took my leather jacket off the seat and quickly put it on, hit the alarm, and made my way toward the club. There was still a line after midnight. The place closed in two hours, why would people wait that long? Well, I wasn’t.

“Can I help you?” the large bouncer asked.

“No.” I barreled through him and made my way into the club. It was like dubstep nation in there and so much fucking leather.

“Hey.” I felt someone tap my shoulder. I whipped around and grabbed whomever it was by the neck. It was the bouncer from the door.

“Not today, Junior. You tell Atlas, Black is here. Now fuck off.” I pushed him away and made my way to the bar. I hadn’t been inside Joker’s Sin before, I only knew how it looked based on Mace and Bill’s description.

I liked the concept and would’ve taken more time to appreciate it if I wasn’t hell-bent on finding Quill.

“Can I help you, handsome?” I turned and looked down. A small guy with pink hair and barely-there black leather shorts had spoken.

“No. Where’s Quill?”

The small man slid his fingers down my arm. “Mmm. Quill didn’t tell me he had a God for a boyfriend. You’re better than most I see him with.” He jerked his head to the right. I followed the direction and there before me, was Quill.

He was dressed in red leather. I couldn’t see below the waist, but the vest he wore was tight against his pale skin. I knew he loved his bracelets, and he had them all on tonight. His arms were covered in red and silver glitter, making him stick out like a gorgeous disco ball. It looked like he had put all of his piercings back in, and I could see when the light shown on his face, he also had glitter on his cheeks.

“I’ll just leave you to it,” the small man said with a chuckle, and I took the few steps to where Quill stood mixing drinks.

He hadn’t noticed me yet, and I got a chance to see he had red eyes and black liner on his lids. He looked like pure sin. I was surprised when I felt my cock stiffen. Until now, I was never sexually interested in Quill. Okay, to be fair, I admired him. He was stunning, but there was a line cut somewhere between admiration and want.  Why was I feeling something now?

“Are you following me?” Quill’s voice snapped me back to attention.

“I thought you wanted me to follow you.”

Quill narrowed his eyes, but I saw how he swallowed as he took me in. He was a flirt by nature and no matter how peeved he was at me, he could never sustain that anger.


Saturday's Series Spotlight
Haven Hart
Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3

Joker's Sin


Westford
🎧Monday Mysterious Mayhem🎧


Author Bio:
Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.

When she's not writing you can find her blogging away on Diverse Reader, her review and promotional site. She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.

If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she'd tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you're afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.


Davidson King
FACEBOOK  /  TWITTER  /  WEBSITE
INSTAGRAM  /  AUDIBLE  /  LINKTREE
BOOKBUB  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS 
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com

Joel Leslie(Narrator)
FACEBOOK  /  TWITTER  /  WEBSITE
AUDIBLE  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS

Philip Alces(Narrator)



Snow Falling #1

Hug it Out #2

A Dangerous Dance #3

From These Ashes #4

Series

Blog Tour: Silent Sin by EJ Russell

Title: Silent Sin
Author: EJ Russell
Genre: M/M Romance, Historical
Release Date: March 3, 2020

Summary:
When tailor Marvin Gottschalk abandoned New York City for the brash boomtown of silent-film-era Hollywood, he never imagined he’d end up on screen as Martin Brentwood, one of the fledgling film industry’s most popular actors. Five years later a cynical Martin despairs of finding anything genuine in a town where truth is defined by studio politics and publicity. Then he meets Robbie Goodman.

Robbie fled Idaho after a run-in with the law. A chance encounter leads him to the film studio where he lands a job as a chauffeur. But one look at Martin and he’s convinced he’s likely to run afoul of those same laws—laws that brand his desires indecent, deviant… sinful.

Martin and Robbie embark on a cautious relationship, cocooned in Hollywood’s clandestine gay fraternity, careful to hide from the studio boss, a rival actor, and press on the lookout for a juicy story. But when a prominent director is murdered, Hollywood becomes the focus of a morality-based witch hunt, and the studio is willing to sacrifice even the greatest careers to avoid additional scandal.


Dottie shook her head, grabbed Robbie by the elbow, and towed him, unresisting, out of the room. She didn’t say anything to him until they were settled at a table in the corner of the commissary.

Dottie unwrapped her ham sandwich. “What did you get?”

Robbie looked down at the table in front of him. “I—I’m not sure.” He lifted one corner of the wax paper. “I think it’s a pickle.” He peered into his cup. “And tomato soup?”

She set her sandwich down. “Rob, did Antoine knock you that far off your pins?”

“I just—What—How did he—” He gave up and took a bite of his pickle, and as the sourness hit the glands at the back of his tongue, he remembered that he hated pickles. He dropped it onto its wax paper.

She sighed. “I think we need to talk about a few things.”

He nodded and then took a sip of his soup. And I hate tomato soup too. “I think that’s probably a good idea.”

Propping her elbows on the table, she leaned toward him. “The thing is, Rob, some men like men.”

“Of course they do. Everyone has friends.”

“I don’t mean that kind of like. Not as in friendship. As in love. As in sex.”

Robbie gaped at her for what might be forever. Dottie waited patiently until he’d gotten his head around the fact she was speaking about that. Nobody spoke about it. Even Frank had whispered things in bits and pieces, never giving Robbie the whole picture—never naming it—until they were hunkered down in that basement hallway, waiting for their turn in there.

But Dottie acted like she was talking about whether to order lemonade or iced tea with her sandwich.

“I—I know that.”

“You do? Then that makes this easier. In Hollywood, there’s regular work—” She held out one hand, palm up. “—and there’s queer work.” She held up the other hand.

“Queer. Is that what they call them? Men who… who like men? Do they make them all stay together? Where the queer work is?”

Dottie chuckled. “They don’t make them, but there are definitely certain places where producers think it’s okay for queers to work. The costume shop is one place. Set design and decoration is another.”

“Not acting?”

Her expression darkened. “Not openly, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t queer actors. See, for all the power the studio heads have, they’re working stiffs under the skin. The artistic types, the sophisticates they call ’em, have class. So the producers depend on fellows like Antoine or George Hopkins, over at Famous Players-Lasky.”

Robbie nodded jerkily. “I’ve met George.”

“Honey, everyone’s met George. He’s been here since he was seventeen and started designing for Theda Bara. But George and Antoine…. Well, the producers defer to them because they make the studio’s pictures look good.” She shrugged. “And if the pictures look good, audiences pay to see ’em. Which makes the producers happy.”

“Okay. That makes sense, I guess.”

“But the thing is, those same producers—and all the ‘regular’ folks—don’t want queers to show up anywhere else. Directors? Stuntmen?” She pointed to a table nearby where the sausage-slinging actors were eating hot dogs. “Actors? Nope. They’ve got to be he-men. Because what they do isn’t ‘queer work.’” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the corridor leading to the costume shop. “In there, it’s safe for Antoine to be who he is, because he’s where he belongs. But to be queer on the set? Behind the camera?” She shrugged. “You’ve got to have thick skin, a convincing cover story, and the courage of a whole pride of lions. You also need someone to stand by you, or you’ll get kidded by every bull-necked yahoo on the lot.” She took a huge bite of her sandwich.

“Does that happen? The… the kidding?”

She swallowed, then took a swig of her lemonade. “It can. If a director thinks an actor isn’t he-man enough for him, he’ll let a scene go on a little too long before calling ‘cut’—not long enough for any real injury, but long enough for discomfort and fear. That happened to Jack Kerrigan all the time.”

“Somebody should have stood up for him.” Robbie’s throat was tight. I didn’t stand up for Frank.

“Rob. God, your face.” She reached across the table and grabbed his hands. “It doesn’t happen all the time. Look at George. He and Bill Taylor are pretty much untouchable because they work together, so they’ve always got each other as backup. Although when Bill was in London last year, George could have had a little trouble if it weren’t for the fact that his mother has almost as such influence as he does.”

Robbie’s stomach dropped. “Bill Taylor? As in Mr. Taylor, the director?”

“Yep. William Desmond Taylor.”

Robbie tried to speak but could only manage a croak. He took a gulp of his cold soup. “You mean they’re… they’re….”

“Together. Yes. Like that.” She let go of him, although she still watched him as if she were afraid he was about to burst into flames. She’s not wrong. “Not that they make a production out of it in public. What Hollywood tolerates here in town, in our own circles, is different from what the ladies in the temperance unions or the preachers in the revival tents can handle.”

Robbie clutched his knees, his head whirling. If someone like Mr. Taylor could do that, be that, and have his… his lover by his side….

“But Mr. Taylor is such a gentleman. He makes all those speeches to the ladies’ temperance clubs and all. Even the censorship groups listen to him.”

Dottie gave him a pitying look. “Rob, just because a man likes men more than girls, it doesn’t make him a monster.”

Author Bio:
Multi-Rainbow Award winner E.J. Russell—grace, mother of three, recovering actor—holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant (as one does). She’s recently abandoned data wrangling, however, and spends her days wrestling words.

E.J. is married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, CH loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).

E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.


FACEBOOK  /  TWITTER  /  WEBSITE
NEWSLETTER  /  FB GROUP  /  KOBO  /  B&N
GOOGLE PLAY  /  PINTEREST  /  RIPTIDE
iTUNES  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS 




Brought to you by:

Friday, March 20, 2020

πŸ“˜πŸŽ₯Friday's Film AdaptationπŸŽ₯πŸ“˜: Turnabout by Thorne Smith


Summary:
Sally Willows envied her adman husband his glamorous work; Tim Willows felt Sally lived in ease and luxury while he was sweating to pay the bills. So an ill-tempered minor god, tired of their bickering, worked a modest miracle...

...and Sally Willows, no occupying her husband's body, experienced the full horrors of the Nationwide Advertising Agency, while Tim, now outwardly Sally, dealt with the amourous advances of a local Lothario.

It was a toss-up whether Sally/Tim's well-earned dismissal or Tim/Sally's bizarre attempt at murder was more spectacular - but both seemed insignificant when Tim found he was pregnant!


Chapter One
Mr. Willows Removes his Socks
Clad in a fragile but frolicsome nightgown which disclosed some rather interesting feminine topography, Sally Willows sat on the edge of her bed and bent a pair of large brown eyes on her husband. This had been going on for some minutes — this cold dispassionate appraisal. At the present moment a growing sense of exasperation was robbing it a little of its chill. Warmth had crept into her eyes, making them even more beautiful and effective, but still they were not pleasant. Far from it.

As yet, however, Mrs. Sally Willows had denied herself the indulgence of speech. For this she is to be commended. It was a piece of self-discipline she seldom if ever inflicted on her tongue. She was waiting, waiting for that sock to come off, hoping against hope that the crisis would pass and the evening remain calm if dull.

Meanwhile she was content to sit there on the edge of her bed and silently consider her husband. At the moment she was considering him as she would have considered a mere thing, or some clumsily animated object that forever kept knocking about her private life and getting in the way. Terribly in the way.

Five years ago everything had been so different. Then she never would have looked at Tim Willows as she was looking at him now. In those early marital days this man creature had never been in her way, could never get in her way too much. Naturally. That had been before he had become a mere thing in her eyes. Also, that had been before her own personal experience, enhanced by the vicarious liaison dished up by the high priests of Hollywood, had given her a true appreciation of men, had shown her how really attractive and devastating men could be and yet retain a quality so charmingly boyish and unspoiled . . . great, silent, passionate men with whimsical eyes and just a shade of helplessness . . . men who could find a taxicab when no taxicabs were to be found and who could purchase firstnight tickets or reserve an illimitable vista of rooms on the Île de France — never forgetting the flowers and a trick toy or two — with admirable precision and dispatch and without the slightest display of nerves. Whenever her own husband attempted similar operations, on a much smaller scale, of course, he invariably returned unsuccessful, a nervous wreck bitterly complaining about the chicanery of mankind and the complexity of modern existence. Why, the poor beast could hardly make change without becoming so helplessly entangled that he was forced to turn to her with trembling hands. Frequently she feared the man would begin to chatter instead of talk.

As she sat there on the edge of the bed, a trim, sleek, wholly desirable figure with a smartly tailored head of glossy black hair, Sally Willows could think of at least a couple of dozen men more appealing to her than her husband, more worthy of her favors. When she had married Tim Willows she had not sufficiently appreciated her own possibilities or the possibilities of others. Idly she wondered how it would feel to be kept by a gloriously wealthy man who would give her everything she wanted, including unlimited freedom to exercise her charms on other men perhaps a trifle younger. Like most women who permit themselves to think at all she felt at times that she had it in her to become something pretty good in the line of a demimonde, one in a position to pick and choose her votaries, even to command them. Nothing sordid, of course.

And at that moment, sitting on various beds in various parts of the world, innumerable wives were thus considering their wretched husbands and thinking the self-same thoughts. Who can blame them?

Yes, things were a good deal different now from what they had been five years back. For some time past — ever since she had danced with Carl Bentley, in fact — she had come to regard her husband as being just an animal about the house, an animal of the lower order that had been thoughtlessly endowed with the gift of speech and an annoying ability to reason rather trenchantly. It had to be fed at certain times, kept clean and profitably employed. In a way she was responsible, and it was all so very tiresome. Occasionally she still found this animal useful, extracted from it a certain amount of physical satisfaction. It brought home money and did things to the furnace. Sometimes it even made her laugh and feel unexpectedly tender. But romance — where was romance? Deep, vigorous, headlong passion — what had become of that? Had the cinema screens absorbed that precious commodity as blotting paper absorbs ink? And why did this animal fail to arouse in her that deliciously meretricious feeling that lent such zest to her flirtations with other men . . . with Carl Bentley, especially?

All of which goes to show that Sally Willows was in rather a bad way. The girl stood sadly in need of a friendly but invigorating kick in her spiritual step-ins. But who was going to confer this favor upon her? She was worth it. She really was, for fundamentally Sally Willows was a good sort. One of the best. And at twenty-eight even a modern woman still has a lot to live and learn as well as to forget.

Cheerfully unconscious of his wife's protracted scrutiny, entirely ignorant of her state of mind, Mr. Willows, his slender body plunged in a deep armchair, was dreamily engaged in removing his socks. That is not quite accurate. The man was not actually removing his socks, but rather working himself up gradually to such a pitch that he would be forced to take some decisive action about his socks, one way or the other. It was almost as if he entertained the mad hope that the socks, once having ascertained his purpose, would obligingly remove themselves. From the expression in his rather dim, dissipated-looking eyes one would have been led to believe that he was enmeshed in the web of some mystic ritual of transcendent loveliness.

After thirty-five years of hostilities the man was still at war with himself and the world in general. So many men are, and like Tim, not altogether without reason. He had not succeeded in getting himself anywhere in particular, and he rather more than half suspected he never would. Somehow he could not bring himself to care greatly about it. That is bad, the very antithesis of the red-blooded, two-fisted, he-man attitude that invariably leads to success. He was too erratic ever to establish himself securely in the advertising agency that tolerated his presence. Also, he was far too brilliant. Brilliance in business as distinguished from cleverness is a disturbing factor. It is slightly immoral and always subject to change.

Underpaid although frequently patted on the back, he was nevertheless held suspect by the powers that were. An accusing aura of cynical detachment seemed to surround him. He was unable to shake it off, unable to conceal it. From somewhere within his being emanated a spirit of unorthodoxy. At times in his presence his superiors experienced a vague feeling of insecurity and for the moment even suspected the efficacy of their most dependable platitudes. Even while they were showering praise upon him for some brain wave they seemed to realize that in Tim Willows they did not have a willing worker for whom the honor and the glory of the Nationwide Advertising Agency, Inc., trod hot upon the heels of God and country, so hot, in fact, that at times both God and country were left a trifle winded.

From his point of vantage on a nearby bookcase Mr. Ram, in his turn, considered both husband and wife.

Mr. Ram was a small Egyptian statue. Old, ages old. The wisdom of the powdered centuries lay behind his eyes. He was a colorful little figure and quite authentic. Mr. Ram through the sheer charm of his persuasive personality had established himself as a household deity from the first days of the Willowses' joint experiment. He had moved with them from house to house, traveled with them over land and sea and shared in the ebb and flow of their never opulent fortunes. During those five years he had observed much and thought more. Whatever detractors might say about Mr. Ram they could not accuse him of having failed to take seriously his responsibilities to Tim and Sally.

Tim was more fortunate than he realized in possessing the casual affection of a globe-drinking uncle beside whom the blackest of sheep would have appeared pallid. Dick Willows, so far as the family had ever been able to ascertain, had only two aims in life: to keep bartenders on the alert and to ward off the pangs of solitude from as many lonely ladies as time and nature would permit. Upon the occasion of his nephew's wedding this amorous philanthropist had from some corner of Egypt dispatched Mr. Ram to the young couple, together with an indelicate note in which he suggested that the little man be appointed chamberlain of the ceremonies of the nuptial couch, adding that Mr. Ram was that sort of little man and that his presence would banish the last shred of decency as was only right and proper at such a time.

From the first Tim and Sally had been drawn to Mr. Ram. He, on his part, was attached to them both, although of late their constant bickerings had worn a trifle on his fine Egyptian nerves. He was beginning to suspect that perhaps a little something should be done about it.

Tonight as he considered the pair there was something inscrutable in his beady, black little eyes. Although time meant absolutely nothing to Mr. Ram he could not figure out for the life of him why Tim was consuming so much of it in the removal of his socks. They were not such remarkable socks. Just the opposite. They were the most infamous-looking socks, an unsightly hole disgracing each crumpled toe. And as he watched and waited on the bookcase a suggestion of gathering purpose touched the usually benign features of the colorful little idol. Most assuredly, something should be done.

Apparently Sally felt somewhat the same way about it. She fixed her bemused husband with an unadoring gaze and gave utterance to a single word which sounded strangely cold and hostile in the silence of the room. "Well?" she said.

Across vague leagues of nebulous speculations Mr. Willows's eyes sought Sally's.

"Huh?" he inquired inelegantly. "You said what?"

"The sock," she went on in the level tones of one exerting the utmost self-restraint. "Does it come off?" Slowly and uncomprehendingly, Tim's eyes journeyed down the long reaches of his thin leg until they rested broodingly on his sock. Gradually intelligence dawned. "Oh," he exclaimed, a pleased expression animating his face. "It's the sock. How stupid of me, Sally. It comes off. In fact, I'm going to take it off myself."

"That's good of you," said Sally Willows. "I would."

And he did.

He took the sock off, then sank back in the chair and regarded his liberated foot with an expression of mild surprise, as if trying to remember where he had last seen the thing. Then he indulged in a display of sheer animalism which his wife found exceedingly trying to bear. With a sigh of almost voluptuous contentment he deliberately wiggled his toes, some of which in the process gave tongue to a crackling sound.

"Don't," was all she said, slightly averting her gaze. "Please."

"What's that?" demanded Tim, who under the fascinating spell of his toes was rapidly receding into a vast expanse of fresh speculation.

"Don't wig — — " Mrs. Willows began, then hesitated. "What you are doing," she continued with dignity, "is both revolting and extremely childish. Don't do it."

Tim Willows stilled his agitated toes and thoughtfully considered the surprising request.

"Can't see anything wrong in a man wiggling his toes a bit," he observed at last. "Good thing to do. Good for the toes . . . for the entire foot, for that matter. Why don't you wiggle yours? Exercise 'em."

"There's only one place where I'd like to exercise my toes," replied Sally.

Mr. Willows disregarded this ruthless ambition and pondered a moment more.

"You know," he offered in a confidential voice, "I'll bet that almost everyone wiggles his or her toes at one time or another. It's not nice to think of Keats or Shelley or Lord Byron doing it, but they must have done it. Even that sloppy movie hero of yours. I'll lay odds he wiggles his priceless toes."

"Perhaps he does," conceded Sally, "but he doesn't explode a bunch of writhing firecrackers virtually in his wife's face."

A smile slowly arranged itself on Tim's lips and became fixed in a grin.

"I'm different," he declared irritatingly. "Bigger than he is. I take you into my confidence."

"There are certain little intimacies which even after five years of married life might just as well remain unrevealed," replied Mrs. Tim. "I don't like toes and never have. Can't bear the thought of toes, much less the sight."

"But I didn't ask you to think of my toes," observed Tim, in one of those gently reasonable voices that drive wives mad. "I can jolly well think of my own ten toes."

"How can I help it when you're waving the horrid things before my eyes?" A tragic note had crept into Sally Willows's voice.

"Trouble with you," continued Tim reflectively, "is that you've got a phobia against toes. You allow them to dominate your mind. They get the best of you. Now, take these toes, for instance. Look at 'em."

"I won't take those toes," Sally protested passionately. "You take those toes and get them out of my sight. Cram them into your slippers. And, furthermore, I have no desire to get into a long, involved argument with you about toes or any other part of your miserable anatomy. Is there no fragrance in life? No romance? Must I be compelled to sit here all night with my thoughts no higher than your crablike toes?"

"Oh, all right. All right," Tim hastily agreed, realizing from past experience that the breaking point was dangerously close at hand. "We'll say no more about toes."

He snapped off his other sock, thrust his feet into his slippers, struggled out of the chair and strayed off nakedly about the room.

"I say, Sally, seen anything of that shirt?" he called out after he had succeeded in methodically disarranging the contents of the closet and knocking down several of his wife's dresses, which he gropingly retrieved and blindly flung back in the general direction of their hangers. "Wonder why women invariably hang up their things in such a hell of a way," he continued irritably. "No brains at all. Now where could that shirt have got itself to? Just where? Tell me that."

"I just saw you taking it off," replied Sally, ice edging her words. "For goodness' sake cover your nakedness. You're unlike anything in heaven above or the earth beneath or the waters under the earth." Mr. Willows allowed this remark to pass unchallenged, but stuck gamely to his aimless quest.

"I don't mean that shirt," he explained. "I mean that long voluminous garment I bought in Paris."

"When drunk," supplied his wife, then asked in a rather hopeless voice, "Aren't you ever going to use your pajamas, Tim — the bottoms as well as the tops? Is it essential to your happiness that you rig yourself up in these weird costumes and go trailing about the house like some anemic beach comber? Are you so physically different from all other adult males of your species that you must flaunt the lower half of your body in the eyes of the world?"

"I keep telling you," Tim retorted with weary patience, "that I can't stand pajama bottoms. It's like toes with you. And I don't know anything about other men. I don't go around investigating. Anyway, it doesn't matter. If the Lord Himself appeared before me at this very moment clad in a pair of pajama bottoms I could only find it in my heart to feel sorry for him. The damn things get in my way. They roggle up. They — they choke me."

"You needn't trouble yourself to make it any plainer," said Mrs. Willows with some attempt at dignity. "Don't give me a demonstration. Just the same, I'm sure other women's husbands must wear the trousers of their pajamas."

"Sure, a lot of lizzies," proclaimed Mr. Willows derisively. "Real men take their pajama trousers off when they go to bed."

"Don't be vulgar," said Mrs. Tim.

"Well, we won't go into that," he remarked, turning to a bureau drawer and pawing through its contents. "I'm different, as I told you before," he went on. "Much franker. I take you into my confidence — entirely."

"You're altogether too frank for decency."

He dragged several yards of material from the drawer and finally succeeded in draping it over his body. Above this tentlike arrangement his face emerged with a triumphant expression. The remainder of him was far from lovely.

"I imagine the reason the French build their shirts like this," he observed, "is because they're constantly running in and out of doors with husbands and wives and entire hotel staffs running after them. It must be that."

"I'm not interested," returned Sally, "but I do know that that atrocity you're wearing is neither one thing nor the other. There's too much of it for a day shirt and too little for a night. It's simply an unsatisfactory compromise."

"Well, at any rate," replied Tim thriftily, "I'm not letting it go to waste. I'm getting my money's worth out of it like any French gentleman would do."

"I'd even pay good money to have you take it off," said Sally.

"Oh, my dear!" her husband murmured, looking at her archly.

"Shut up," interrupted Sally. "You're not amusing. Is there no romance anywhere in that feeble frame of yours? Must I spend all my nights with a comic-strip character — a clown?"

Tim looked thoughtfully down at his wife.

"Romance, my child," he told her, "does not reside in the tail of a shirt. Its seat is here — in the heart."

He slapped himself so vigorously just below that organ that the front of his shirt gave a startled flip, and Mrs. Willows hastily closed her eyes. The effect of his little speech was somewhat marred.

"If I were you," remarked Mrs. Willows, "I wouldn't strive for nobility in that costume. It doesn't quite come off."

"Is that so?" he replied unenterprisingly, turning his back on his wife and running his eyes along a row of volumes in the bookcase. "What shall we read tonight?"

"I don't feel like reading anything tonight," Sally Willows replied petulantly. "That's all we do in this beastly place, anyway. It's read, read, read, night after night. No change. Nothing. First thing you know we'll be old. Life will be over. Other wives go places and do things — — "

"Right!" shot back Mr. Willows. "They sure do."

"And I don't mean that either," Sally went on. "They are seen — not buried alive. What do I see? Where do I go? Cooped up here in this miserable house all day long. No companionship. No relaxation. Same old thing day in and day out, year after year. Then home you come, his lordship from the office. And what do you do? Do you offer me a couple of tickets to a play? Do you suggest going out to a dance or something? Ha ha! Not you. No. You go prancing round the house in a horrid old shirt like a third-rate comedian in a burlesque show. And then you ask me to read. Of all things, to read. Well, do you know, my darling husband, you haven't even taken me to one honest-to-God night club? Not one. When I married you — — "

Tim Willows swung round to confront his wife, and the tails of his shirt flared alarmingly.

"If you made a phonograph record of that set lament of yours," he said nastily, "you could turn the damned thing on whenever you felt like it and save no end of breath. I know it myself by heart. Word for word, sentence for sentence it's graven on my brain. Now go on and tell me what I led you to expect before you married me — how I tricked you to the altar with false promises. Come to an hysterical climax about my unjustifiable jealousy and then we can both rush out into the night and offend the damn neighbors."

He turned bitterly away from the small, furious figure seated on the bed and, going to the window, stood there gazing out into the pinched face of winter. Hardly thirty feet away stood another neat little suburban home — with garden and garage — and in between lay nothing but dirty snow, its flat surface broken by a straggling line of frozen shrubs. Lifting his eyes a little he saw the roofs of other houses. There were thousands of them — too many of them. He felt himself sinking, going down in a sea of neat little suburban homes. In desperation he again elevated his eyes and let them rest on the dark outline of the distant hills. Bright stars were hanging above those hills. The stark limbs of numb trees reached achingly up to their cold beams. And lights studded the hills, the lights of other homes. Way off there people were living and carrying on life. Tim wondered idly what they were like, those people who lived over there. Did they, too, commute? Did they go eternally to offices? Did they have to hang up their pride with their hats and coats and swallow rebellious words in the teeth of secure executives? Was economic necessity always goading them on, marshalling them down windy platforms, cramming them into subways that steamed and stank, and finally plopping them down in front of dreary-looking desks, nervously baited and physically ruffled even before the long day had begun? Was life just going to be like that all the damn time? He had a dim understanding of his wife's restlessness of spirit. In a way he sympathized with her. Probably their glands were all wrong. They weren't real people. Not properly equipped for life. Maladjusted to the world. Tim did not know. Nor did he give a hang. Something was all wet somewhere. He, too, would like to try a night club, look at a lot of naked girls. It might be entertaining. Damned if he knew. He'd like to vary the monotony of the daily routine and talk with some interesting people — that is, if they would talk with him. Whom had he ever licked? Never done anything much. Only thought and talked . . . complained. But as things stood, what could he do about it? He was in no position to create his own circumstances . . . to pluck friends, funds, and entertainment from thin air. And anyway, what the hell was she grousing about? She was out all the day gallivanting round. She had freedom ofaction, thought, and speech. What was eating her? God knows, she was not repressed unless she created her own inhibitions through sheer intellectual vacuity. She had her day, her bridge, movies, shopping, teas, lunches, and even men. He was painfully aware of the latter. No, there was little about which she could complain. Perhaps he was wrong at that. What, after all, did he know about this woman? What did she know about herself? They were all in it together. A mess . . . a cul-de-sac.

Tim Willows, standing by the window, experienced a feeling of utter frustration. It was a spiritually debilitating feeling — a miserable thing. More profoundly hopeless than a nauseating hangover after a long-distance spree. More hopeless because now the brain was clear and could look into the future. And what a future it was! Tim realized he had just about reached his highest peak. He wouldn't be earning much more money ever. Less, if anything. And he did not have much faith in breaks. People who waited for breaks, he had found, usually went broke. There she blew, the future, the taunting white whale. Constant bickerings and recriminations paved the way. And the rest — just sour grapes and shabby expedients. Well, it was a good thing they had no spawn, although a baby or two barging about the house might have given them a bit of a kick. At least they'd have something to think about besides themselves.

"There's going to be a change," came coldly from the bed. "I don't intend to stand this life any longer. Other women work. Why shouldn't I? If you won't make a life for me I'll make a life for myself. I deserve a life. I'm still under thirty and not altogether unattractive. All you seem to care about is reading and writing and bad gin."

At that moment she saw herself as the glorified secretary of a huge Wall Street wolf with a boyish smile. She was helping him to ruin thousands of inoffensive lives in one mad and dazzling coup. Then the Riviera and a series of top-notch seductions. Perhaps in the end she would discover that she had always loved her husband. But, of course, she'd have to do considerable experimenting before she found that out.

Tim's mirthless laugh smeared a streak across the pleasant picture.

"You've got a damn poor chance of finding life and romance on a desk top," he said. "And if you're satisfied with what you do find there you're a whole lot dumber than I thought you were, and that would make you a little less than a half-wit." He turned from the window and confronted the charming feminine figure which for him at the moment had lost a great deal of its charm. "What in the name of God are you kicking about, anyway?" he demanded. "You haven't a damn thing to do, no drudgery or monotonous routine. The Twills, such as they are, still take care of the house. You can pound your ear all day long or do what you jolly well please. No cooking, no washing — not even a child. I leave you here in the morning literally drugged with sleep only to find you at night a nervous and physical wreck. Your first words are either a complaint or a criticism. And always in the offing is the threat of a nice, noisy case of hysterics. You hold that in reserve as a last resort because you've found out that it's an infallible weapon. You can win every time no matter how wrong you are, but nothing is ever changed, nothing is ever settled. You don't even drive me down to the station in the morning. At night you habitually arrive there late through some unavoidable delay. Your excuses are so illogical they fairly sicken me to hear them. I wish to several different sets of gods I could change places with you for a while. Believe me, I do. I'd jolly well find something to occupy my time without looking for work. I'd sit down and write myself a book. It might be a rotten book, but at least I'd have the satisfaction of finding it out. I know I could do it, and in your heart, when you use it, you know I could do it, too."

Strange to say, Sally did know he could do it. Even at that heated moment she realized that this husband of hers was a little better than she allowed herself to admit. There was a lot more to him than any of the men she knew. That was just the trouble. There was too much to him. He was not a normal male animal and he wouldn't act like one. He was a sort of artist without an art, which was much like being a man without a country. An unexpected wave of sympathy almost smothered the retort trembling on her lips. That would never do. They were often like this with each other now, their best words remaining unspoken while their worst ones came tumbling out.

"I'd like to take you up on that," she flung at him. "I wish I could change places with you. Oh, how I do! You clear out of it all every morning, go to the city and see something new — eat where you like and what you like — interesting men to talk to — good-looking girls to see — lots of them. And you don't miss one, I'll bet. You've got a rotten pair of eyes. You're like a little old lascivious hermit — a twittering dog."

"Why like a twittering dog?" Tim Willows inquired. "I don't quite get that. Twittering dogs and hermits don't seem to — — "

But the course of Sally's words was not to be deflected by irrelevant questions.

"Don't worry, my darling," she continued. "I'd change places with you quick as a wink. At least, you do something, move about, create a little world of your own, travel places and stay overnight. I never stay anywhere overnight. No, here I am — chained down. A prisoner. All I need is a striped suit and a number."

Mr. Willows smiled fleetingly at this, then stood for a moment looking seriously down at his wife.

"Sally," he said gently, "I think you must be mad or else you get a certain backhand satisfaction in being so consistently wrong-headed. You know damn well I don't enjoy the work I am doing, the mock importance and the hypocrisy of it, the daily drip I have to listen to and the humble pie I have to eat. A week of it would bore you to tears. Don't know how I've hung on so long myself. And I wouldn't have if I hadn't exploded occasionally. But I don't think I'll be able to hang on much longer. I feel a bust-up collecting itself right in the pit of my stomach. It's due almost any day now. Old man Gibber gets dottier all the time. He and his Nationwide — — "

"Do all men complain — — "

Sally's question was never finished. A knock sounding irritably on the bedroom door put an end to further hostilities. As if overtaxed by this unreasonable formality, Mrs. Twill, as was her wont, opened the door just wide enough to permit the inthrust of her head. More than once Mrs. Twill had told her husband that it always made her feel foolish to knock on Mr. Tim's door, "him being hardly out of the cradle yet."

"You'll feel a whole lot foolisher some night if you don't knock," had been Twill's sage advice.

For as far back as Tim could remember, the Twills had worked in tandem for one or another member of his family.

"Would you like to have the Twills help you out for a while?" his grandmother would ask some visiting relation, and upon receiving an affirmative reply the Twills would be packed up and bundled off to another household. In this way they gained a more comprehensive knowledge of the Willows' family history and private affairs than was possessed by any single member. It had been an old family of old people. Most of them were now beyond the need of servants, but the Twills still went on tenaciously clinging to a world which for them was peopled mostly with memories. It was as if they had been granted a special dispensation by Time to keep on going until the last of the Willowses had stopped. Then their work on earth would be ended and they would be free to follow into another world the family they had so faithfully served, there to begin the whole thing over again under the divine auspices of a chatty, pro-Willows God. Although the Twills were rather more of an obligation than an asset, they were comforting to have about the house. Their chief interest in life centered round Sally and Tim. Sally's girth they constantly studied with patiently hopeful eyes, but so far no embryonic Willowses had rewarded their watchful waiting.

"I can't stop him," Judy Twill announced tragically.

"Whom do you want to stop?" demanded Sally.

"The old fool," continued Mrs. Twill. "I know he'll break his neck on those basement stairs. Will you call him up, Mr. Tim? The furnace is stone cold."

"The mother of that damned furnace must have been done in by an ice box," complained Tim as he made for the door, uttering loud and discouraging noises as he went.

"Do hurry," called Sally, all other considerations forgotten in her anxiety for the safety of the venerable but pig-headed Mr. Twill.

"Come out of that, Peter," shouted Tim down the back stairs. "Don't you dare put a foot in that basement."

Through the floor, hollowly, came the protesting voice of Twill:

"But I can fix it, Mr. Tim," it said.

"God, Himself, couldn't fix that furnace," replied Tim. "Don't you even breathe on the thing. Snap out of it, Peter, and go to bed. Get yourself a drink if you can find one."

There was no response to this, but certain noises in the kitchen assured Tim that Peter had changed his mind and found warmth for himself instead of the house.

"Yes, Miss Sally," Mrs. Twill was saying as Tim returned to the room. "I certainly agree with you. It's a shame and scandal he doesn't wear pants."

"I can stand to hear very little more of that," announced Tim, looking darkly at the two women. "What I do with the lower half of my anatomy is no one's business."

"Oh, is that so?" put in Sally, slightly elevating her eyebrows. "Well, I like that."

"How do you mean?" asked Mrs. Twill.

"Be still," snapped Tim. "I'm speaking of raiment now. If you mention those pajama trousers again I'll take them out of the drawer and cut them up into little bits. I'll burn the — — "

"He was just like that as a baby," interrupted Mrs. Twill as calmly as if he had not been present. "No matter what we put on him at night you'd find him mother-naked in the morning — bare bottom and all."

"You can find him like that almost any time when he's not at the office," announced Sally. "But who wants to?"

"If you all have thoroughly finished," said Mr. Willows with frigid politeness, "I'll go down to the basement. Good-night, Judy. Tell that ancient wreck of yours that if he ever attempts to go down there again I'll put him on the retired list for good."

When Judy had withdrawn, Tim Willows looked down long and thoughtfully at his young wife.

"You know," he said at last, "my idea of hell is to be chained to a line of smugly secure home owners. Every one of them is stoking a glowing furnace and liking it. Every one but me. I am crouched on my bare knees, eternally doomed to pull cold clinkers from the sneering mouth of that damned thing down in the basement. That would be hell, and I'm already getting a sample of it right here on earth. In fact," he added as he walked to the door, "everything in this house is a little bit of hell."

"Then why not say 'To hell with everything in the house'?" inquired Sally, with one of her most disagreeable smiles.

"I do," replied Tim earnestly. "I most emphatically damn well do."

There was a pained expression in Mr. Ram's eyes as he watched Tim Willows leave the room. High time that steps were taken to show these two mere mortals the error of their ways.


Battling spouses accidentally switch bodies.

Release Date: 17 May 1940
Running Time: 83 minutes

Cast:
Adolphe Menjou as Phil Manning
Carole Landis as Sally Willows
John Hubbard as Tim Willows
William Gargan as Joel Clare
Verree Teasdale as Laura Bannister
Mary Astor as Marion Manning
Donald Meek as Henry - the Valet
Joyce Compton as Irene Clare
Inez Courtney as Miss Edwards
Franklin Pangborn as Mr. Alan Pingboom
Marjorie Main as Nora - the Cook
Berton Churchill as Julian Marlowe
Margaret Roach as Dixie Gale
Ray Turner as Mose
Norman Budd as Jimmy
Polly Ann Young as Miss Gertie Twill
Eleanor Riley as Lorraine
Murray Alper as Doc - the Masseur
Miki Morita as Ito
Yolande Donlan as Marie - the Maid
Georges Renavent as Mr. Ram


Sally Willows: Now listen to me, Tim Willows, the situation with this dog of yours has gone entirely too far. He goes to a kennel tomorrow or I go!
Tim Willows: Darling, you wouldn't have much fun in a kennel.

********

Henry: I'm very, very nervous about the whole thing. She wants to climb that flagpole and put up this aerial.
Marie: And she wants us to help?
Henry: Yes, and I really think she ought to have a net under her.
Nora: She ought to have a net *over* her if you ask me.

********

Henry: I told you I was sick. 72 is normal. When your pulse gets to 125 you die.
Nora: Whatcha waitin' for?

********

Sally Willows: TIM... is going to have a baby!

********

Phil Manning: [drops his pills in the fishtank]
Miss Gertie Twill: [chidingly] Is that the way you take your medicine?
Phil Manning: That's right, Miss Twill, I feed it to the fish every day for a week, then on Friday I eat the fish!
Miss Gertie Twill: You are not supposed to eat fish with your stomach.
Phil Manning: [sarcastically] Oh, I guess it will be more fun if I ate it with yours.


Ben Mankiewicz TCM Intro

Clip

Author Bio:
James Thorne Smith, Jr. was an American writer of humorous supernatural fantasy fiction under the byline Thorne Smith. He is best known today for the two Topper novels, comic fantasy fiction involving sex, much drinking and supernatural transformations. With racy illustrations, these sold millions of copies in the 1930s and were equally popular in paperbacks of the 1950s.

Smith was born in Annapolis, Maryland, the son of a Navy commodore and attended Dartmouth College. Following hungry years in Greenwich Village, working part-time as an advertising agent, Smith achieved meteoric success with the publication of Topper in 1926. He was an early resident of Free Acres, a social experimental community developed by Bolton Hall according to the economic principles of Henry George in Berkeley Heights, New Jersey. He died of a heart attack in 1934 while vacationing in Florida.


IMDB  /  KOBO  /  iTUNES  /  WIKI
AUDIBLE  /  INDIE BOUND  /  B&N



AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  B&N
KOBO  /  iTUNES  /  GOOGLE PLAY

Film
AFI  /  ALL MOVIE
WIKI  /  IMDB  /  TCM