📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: Dead Man's Chest by Kerry Greenwood

Summary:
Dot unfolded the note. "He says that his married couple will look after the divine Miss Fisher...I'll leave out a bit...their name is Johnson and they seem very reliable." Phryne got the door open at last. She stepped into the hall. "I think he was mistaken about that," she commented.

Traveling at high speed in her beloved Hispano-Suiza accompanied by her maid and trusted companion Dot, her two adoptive daughters Jane and Ruth, and their dog Molly, The Hon. Miss Phryne Fisher is off to Queenscliff. She'd promised everyone a nice holiday by the sea with absolutely no murders, but when they arrive at their rented accommodation that doesn't seem likely at all.

An empty house, a gang of teenage louts, a fisherboy saved, and the mystery of a missing butler and his wife seem to lead inexorably toward a hunt for buried treasure by the sea. But what information might the curious Surrealists be able to contribute? Phryne knows to what depths people will sink for greed, but with a glass of champagne in one hand and a pearl-handled Beretta in the other, no one is getting past her.

CHAPTER 1
When I was at home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content. --William Shakespeare As You Like It

Dot opened her eyes. Only because the Hispano-Suiza had, at last, stopped. It was a four-hour journey from Melbourne to Queenscliff, the holiday destination of the Hon. Miss Fisher, her maid and companion Dot, her two adoptive daughters Jane and Ruth, and their dog Molly. Miss Fisher wanted to make it a three-hour journey and she drove like a demon. Only Phryne, Molly and Jane had really enjoyed the flashing panorama of fields, trees, cows, little towns, fist-waving motorists and shouting traffic policemen — Phryne because she loved speed and Jane because she was calculating how fast the car was going by counting seconds between milestones. She had been given a wristwatch for Christmas. Sometimes the car's speed had exceeded eighty miles an hour. Jane was impressed. Ruth, who wanted to be a cook if she survived this trek, was feeling sick. She stared fixedly at the horizon and tried not to think of food. Dot had given up on courage and had just closed her eyes, crossed her maidenly breast and commended her soul to God. Molly had hung her head out the window and let the wind blow her ears inside out.

Dot saw that the car had arrived in the main street of a respectable little town. They were at the bottom of a steep hill. In the road three well-dressed youths were tormenting a dungaree-clad boy carrying a basket of fish for which some cook was undoubtedly waiting. Impatiently.

Phryne was getting out of the car. Dot closed her eyes. Miss Fisher was about to happen to someone again. She hoped that Phryne wouldn't get blood on her shoes. That glacé kid was a beast to clean. Ruth took a deep breath of relief as her sickness subsided and grabbed Molly. Jane wondered whether there would be any interesting injuries.

Phryne walked up to the group. Nice flannels, white shirts, blazers of a well-known and expensive public school. They had surrounded the young man and were pushing him from side to side, hoping that he would drop the basket so they could kick the fish all over the road and get the poor boy into trouble. Oafs, thought Phryne, disgusted. I just don't seem to be able to get away from oafs.

'Play time's over, chaps,' she said in a clear, authoritative voice. 'It's tea time, and Nanny's getting cross.'

'Who're you?' grunted an oaf with short blond hair, giving the fisherboy another shove.

'Phryne Fisher. Who are you?'

The curly-headed oaf was struck with an inconvenient memory when he heard that tone. He suddenly recalled a Maori storyteller from his childhood. One of their heroes had addressed an enemy: 'What name shall I put on the cup I shall make from your skull?' It had always made him shudder. He shuddered now, and began to back away.

'Kiwi, what's the matter with you?' snarled the blond.

'I never liked you, Fraser,' said Kiwi. 'Come on, Jolyon. This is a beastly sort of game.'

'Moral courage,' observed Phryne. 'How proud your school will be when I tell them how their alumni spend their holidays. Surfing? Good game of tennis? Torturing the peasantry?'

Fraser glared and retained his grip on the fisherboy's arm, twisting it behind his back. He winced but still did not speak.

'Let him go now,' said Phryne. 'Fun's over.'

'Oh, Lord,' whispered Jolyon, stout and red-faced. 'I know her.'

'Why, who is she then?' Fraser bared his teeth.

'She's the Hon. Miss Fisher,' muttered the boy. 'Like she said. My mother's been angling for an invitation to one of her parties. She's rich. And famous.'

'So? Your mater's a climber.'

'Kiwi's right,' said Jolyon with considerable dignity. 'I never liked you either. How about a game of billiards, Kiwi?'

'Let that boy go right now,' said Phryne, who had arrived somehow behind Fraser without him noticing that she had moved. 'Or you will be really, really sorry.'

He hesitated. Phryne, who was preparing to kick his feet out from under him and dance on his chest in her heavy driving shoes, observed the movement and caught his arm, putting him in the identical arm-lock but with a lot more skill.

'Not so fast. Those fish will have spoiled. Dig into those pockets, fellows, how much have you got?'

Such was her suasion that they assembled seven shillings and eight pence halfpenny and handed them over to Dot, who had left the car and was standing by to assist in any way, from yelling for the police to belting the nearest head with the tyre lever she held in her hand. She made Jolyon feel even worse. She was a plain young woman with a bun and a firmly fixed hat with orange geraniums in it. She looked so respectable!

Phryne released Fraser, shoving him away, and put a hand on the fisherboy's shoulder.

'Just a moment. We'll give you a lift to avoid any little recurrence of trouble. And boys, I'm going to be here for weeks, and if I see any of you so much as look sideways at an innocent man, woman, child or dog, expect retribution to set in with unusual accuracy and force. You hear me?'

They nodded, hangdog, beaten. Phryne took the victim by the shoulder and marched him to the car. Molly, excited by his delightful aroma of fish, licked his face. Ruth moved over to accommodate him. The big car moved off. Molly paused to bark scornfully at the three schoolboys standing amazed in the middle of the street.

The fisherboy, who was fairly sure that he was hallucinating, clutched his basket.

'I have to go to Mercer Street,' said the driver, an angel from heaven who had, doubtless for reasons of camouflage, appeared as a very well-dressed young woman. 'Turn left?'

'That would be right,' he said, finding his voice. All his aches suddenly made themselves felt. 'T'ank you, t'ank you, Missus! I thought I was gone and done for, so I did.'

'West of Ireland,' she commented. 'Gaeltacht?'

'Galway.' He was beyond amazement. Angels knew most things and, of course, they did go everywhere. 'Here's your house, Missus.' He pointed to a tall building a good height above the sea, unlit and shuttered.

'Thanks. If you have any more trouble with those louts, you come and tell me. What's your name?'

'Michael, Missus Fisher. Michael Callaghan. T'anks,' he repeated. As soon as the door was opened, he took his basket and alighted. He clawed off his flat cap and bowed. Phryne smiled at him. He was a wiry, red-headed boy with creamy Celtic skin much weathered at the wrists and neck. He gave her another clumsy bow and vanished, running, down the hill.

'Well,' said Phryne, 'that was stimulating. Is this the right house? It is. I have the key and the owner's note. No one appears to be at home,' she added, as the doorbell pealed in an empty space. 'Odd. What did Mr. Thomas say, Dot?'

Dot unfolded the note. 'He says that his married couple will look after the divine Miss Fisher ... I'll leave out a bit ... their name is Johnson and they seem very reliable.'

Phryne got the door open at last. She stepped into the hall.

'I think he was mistaken about that,' she commented.

The house was of a pleasant, if familiar, design. Two storeys: a long hallway into the main rooms, kitchen and bathroom at the back, up the stairs to bedrooms. The floor was unswept. Leaves and sand had blown in under the door. Ruth, who read a lot of Gothic romances, released Molly with shaking hands.

Molly ran barking down the hallway and into the kitchen, a place she could always find.

'Dot, keep the girls here while I go and see if there is any reason to worry,' said Phryne in a low voice. Dot nodded and herded the two young women into a search of the parlour and the withdrawing room.

Phryne, who sometimes hated the way her mind worked, walked down the unlit hall into the world beyond the green baize door, dreading what she might find. Corpses, perhaps? There was no smell except for the sea and an overlay of dust. Molly was barking hysterically — but that's dogs for you, she thought. Their solution to any problem was to give it a good barking.

The house was dusty, unloved and uncleaned, but not for very long. No trailing cobwebs caressed her face as she opened the door into the kitchen, the butler's pantry, the scullery. The house was making the usual creaks and groans of an old house but they were exaggerated by the still air. Phryne wished she had her little gun in her hand, though any peril must be long gone by now. She had left the gun in the car.

She was relieved to find nothing more frightful than an open back door. Beyond, the kitchen garden looked dry but not desiccated. A strong scent of herbs came to her. That mint bed could do with watering. Now, what had happened here?

The kitchen table was bare. The dishes from the last meal served here had been washed up and put away. The floor was damp because the ice in the ice chest had melted because the door had been left open. There was no betraying butter by which she could estimate anything by observing the depth to which the parsley had sunk. The sink was dry. The cupboards were void of anything, even salt, even tea. The kitchen had been looted. Cheap cutlery in the drawer, but the owner would not leave silver in a holiday house. There were plates, cups and glasses, and there was table linen in the linen press. The butler's cupboard, however, was empty of even a sniff of cooking sherry.

Molly came in from the garden grinning and panting. She had not found anything alarming.

Off the kitchen were the servants' quarters. These usually comprised a bedroom, a bathroom and a sitting room. They were quite empty except for a stripped bed, a wicker armchair which was unravelling quietly in the dusty sunlight, and some litter on the floor: a few crumpled papers, a bathing shoe, a scatter of coins and a broken shoelace. All the signs of a hasty — but thorough — departure. Phryne could see the man, sitting on the side of that bed, tugging angrily at a bootlace and swearing as it snapped in that charming way shoelaces have when one is in a hurry. No blood. No signs of violence.

She returned to the hall, where Dot was looking worried.

'There's a few things missing, Miss,' she said.

'And from the kitchen, which is quite empty. Mr. Thomas's married couple seem to have left abruptly, pausing only for a spot of pillage.'

'There's sheets and blankets and so on upstairs,' said Dot. 'But some ornaments and a painting are missing. You can tell from marks in the dust. What do you want to do, Miss?'

'I'm not having you housekeep while we loll around,' said Phryne. 'Oh, for my Mr. and Mrs. Butler! Tell you what. Let's bring the things in — I notice that our trunks are here — and settle in for the night, and tomorrow we can find some servants.'

'I don't reckon we'll find anyone free in the season,' said Dot. 'But I don't mind, Miss. Nice house like this.'

Phryne looked at Dot affectionately. She was mousy and quiet where Phryne was bold, devout where Phryne was outrageous, and good girl was written all the way through her, like Castlemaine through Castlemaine Rock. And Phryne relied on her as she relied on her own right hand.

'Good. Well, girls?'

'Nothing scary,' said Jane, who disliked Ruth's emotionalism and never read novels. 'Have they gone, Miss Phryne?'

'Yes, and taken a lot of little souvenirs to remember poor Mr. Thomas by.'

'Are we staying?' asked Ruth.

'What do you think?'

'I say yes,' said Ruth, her courage much restored by not being expected to drive in that frightful vehicle anymore. Leaving would mean getting back into the Hispano-Suiza and Ruth was presently contemplating walking home to St. Kilda rather than doing that.

'So do I,' agreed Jane. 'I wonder if the neighbours saw the truck?'

'The truck, Jane?' asked Phryne, who was getting peckish.

'They must have had a truck to take all the things they stole.'

'Good observation. Let's ask them. You two carry up your own things then make up beds, and Dot can come with me. You'll be all right on your own?' she asked, seeing a shadow on Ruth's plump cheek.

'Of course,' said Jane flatly, and led the way to the luggage.

'I might just close and lock the back door,' said Phryne. 'Come and have a look at the kitchen, Dot. And where's that note? Mr. Thomas said something about the neighbours.'

Assisted by Molly, the girls opened the first trunk and began to haul their own belongings up the stairs. Dot walked into the kitchen and stared.

'They've even taken the tea,' she said, shocked. 'And the condiments, and the flour — look, there's been a whole sack here. And if it wasn't them, Miss, who did?'

'Perhaps someone who needed the flour more than we do,' said Phryne absently. 'The back gate might be open, too.' She led the way into a rather bijou little herb garden.

'Only been a couple of days without water,' remarked Dot.

The back gate, a heavy wooden construction topped hospitably with broken glass, stood ajar. Phryne shut and latched it.

'Flour,' she said, noticing traces of white powder on the gravel.

'I don't like this,' said Dot quietly.

'No, on consideration, Dot dear, I don't like it either — but whatever has happened has already happened. Let's call on the ... what's their name?'

Dot consulted the note.

'He says that the lady on the left is a Miss Rose Sélavy, she isn't here all the time and he doesn't know her, and the lady on the right is a nice Mrs. Mason, who will be delighted to introduce you to the worthies of Queenscliff.'

'Then let's go and call on nice Mrs. Mason, and see if she can spare someone to summon the constabulary.'

*

Mrs. Mason, when they gained admittance to the spacious house next door, did not seem conspicuously nice. She was large, pink, suicidally blonde, bridling and suspicious, but it did not take Phryne long to divine the cause.

'And I suppose you know Mr. Thomas well?' she asked, keeping her visitors standing in the hall, which was not polite.

'Not at all,' said Phryne promptly. 'Only met him once, at a big party. He said he had a house to lend and I accepted.'

Mrs. Mason relaxed, smiled and ushered them into the parlour.

Dot exchanged a glance with Phryne. Nice Mrs. Mason, apparently, had hopes of a closer relationship with nice Mr. Thomas.

The sun parlour was spotless and comfortable, furnished with cane chairs and possibly just a thought too many wicker whatnots. A small maid came in with tea on a trolley, an innovation of which Phryne approved. The weight of the average tray of teapot, milk jug, hot-water jug, sugar basin, slop basin, strainer, and cups and saucers was far too much for any young woman. Not to mention what looked like a rather good pound cake, a succulent fruitcake and a mound of freshly made scones. Phryne was hungry.

She allowed Dot to explain the situation as she made a healthy attack on the cake and loaded a scone or two with plum jam and cream. Mrs. Mason, now relieved of her fears for her nice Mr. Thomas's affections, exclaimed in horror.

'The Johnsons not back! I can't believe it! No warning! No letter! That is not like them, really it isn't,' she said, raising her plump pink hands. Now that she was being nice Mrs. Mason, she had a pleasant, educated, alto voice. 'And the kitchen empty?'

'Not a crumb,' said Phryne, taking over the conversation so that Dot could have her turn at the cake. 'These scones are first rate, Mrs. Mason.'

'Thank you — my cook is very good,' said Mrs. Mason distractedly. 'I really can't imagine what might have happened! The Johnsons were on a week's leave — they should have been back yesterday! But first things first. We shall telephone that nice Constable Dawson. Then we shall telephone Miss Miller, who has the employment agency. She might have a few people on her books, but really, this far into the season, I fear all the good people will be taken. But there might have been a cancellation,' said Mrs. Mason bravely. 'Then of course you will dine with me tonight, and tomorrow the tradesmen will call as usual and you can order replacements. And you say that your daughters are still in the house and not a bite to eat? I shall order a hamper to be sent over immediately. And a bone for the doggie, of course.'

She bustled away. Phryne poured herself another cup of tea.

'I know what you are thinking,' she said to Dot, who was nibbling her second slice of cake.

'Yes, Miss?'

'You are thinking that I attract mysteries,' said Phryne, a little uneasily. She had promised everyone a nice holiday by the sea and absolutely no murders. Though the Johnsons might be alive and well and living on damper (made from Mr. Thomas's flour) on Swan Island, of course.

Dot swallowed and considered.

'Well, yes, Miss, you do. But I don't reckon this was anyways your fault,' she said generously, much restored by tea and pound cake, her favourite. 'We just walked straight into this one.'

Buried treasure and pirate legends bubble to the surface in the seaside holiday town of Queenscliff. Phryne finds herself at the pointy end of a Spanish dagger.

Release Date: September 20, 2013
Release Time: 54 minutes

Cast:
Essie Davis as Phryne Fisher
Nathan Page as Detective John 'Jack' Robinson
Hugo Johnstone-Burt as Hugh Collins
Ashleigh Cummings as Dorothy 'Dot' Williams
Richard Bligh as Mr. Butler
Travis McMahon as Bert
Anthony Sharpe as Cec
Ruby Rees as Jane
Julia Blake as Hilly McNaster
Dan Wyllie as Gerald McNaster
Reef Ireland as Kip
Tony Rickards as Sergeant Baxter
John Brumpton as Finlay Ellis
Jasper Bagg as Wally Stirling

Cocaine Blues  /  Murder on the Ballarat Train  /  Green Mill Murder

Death at Victory Dock  /  Raisins and Almonds  /  Ruddy Gore

Murder at Montparnasse  /  Away with the Fairies  /  Queen of the Flowers

Blodd and Circuses  /  Murder in the Dark  /  Dead Man's Chest

Author Bio:
Kerry Greenwood is the author of twenty-eight novels and the editor of two collections. Previous novels in the Phryne Fisher series are Cocaine Blues, Flying too High, Murder on the Ballarat Train, Death on the Victoria Dock, Blood and Circuses, The Green Mill Murder, Ruddy Gore, Urn Burial, Raisins and Almonds, Death Before Wicket, Away with the Fairies, Murder in Montparnasse, The Castlemaine Murders, Queen of the Flowers and Death by Water. She is also the author of several books for young adults and the Delphic Women series. When she is not writing she is an advocate in Magistrates' Court for the Legal Aid Commission. She is not married, has no children and lives with a registered Wizard.

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Dead Man's Chest #18

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Film

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🎧Audiobook Tour🎧: Promises - The Next Generation by AE Via

Title: Promises: The Next Generation

Author: AE Via

Series: Bounty Hunters #5

Genre: M/M Romance, Suspense

Audiobook Release Date: April 7, 2020

eBook Release Date: August 27, 2018

Narrator: Aiden Snow

Audio Publisher: Tantor Media

Summary:
Duke Webb has run the most successful bail recovery agency in Atlanta for over 20 years. That's because he has a team of trained, competent hunters backing him up to keep his name feared on the streets. But Duke knows that nothing can go on forever. That's what leads him to start his new training program.

Kellam Knight has studied martial arts under his sensei, Quick, since he was 8 years old. A tossed-out reject from high-society, Kell has a problem fighting on the right side of the law. When Quick offers Kell the opportunity to join Duke's training program, he's all in. Except he's not prepared for the straight, over-confident, extremely disciplined, sexy man Brian has recruited to be his partner.

Tyrell Jenkins' world was flipped upside down when his father never returned home from his last deployment. He'd been Ty's teacher, mentor, his guide to living a righteous life as a good man. When Brian King - his father's most trusted comrade - finally comes to him with the truth, he doesn't come alone. He comes with trained men hidden in the shadows...and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to join a brotherhood unlike any other.

Kell paused at the door with his hand on the knob. “Tyrell. There is something I want.”

“Name it.”

“I want to kiss you.”

Ty’s chest expanded. Kell was giving him his gift in return. His thank you for the rare gold lying against his skin.

Ty didn’t stop walking until his entire body was pressed against Kell’s from thigh to forehead. He bent down and placed his lips where he always did. Needing to make eye contact, he brought one hand up and caressed Kell’s cheek tenderly before reaching around and releasing his hair from the messy bun. Kell swallowed loudly. Ty grazed his lips across Kell’s temple and lingered there as he slid his hand into that thick mane, burying it deep until his palm cradled the back of Kell’s skull. His partner whined and rubbed his body against him. So pliant and at his will. Kell smelled like fresh soap mixed with the ginger and apple from whatever shampoo he used. Ty pressed in harder and plunged his other hand in, watching the long strands thread through his fingers. Kell’s hair felt like plush down feathers.

Ty’s joint was ’bricker than brick.

Kell lifted his head higher, aiming those pretty lips where he wanted them to be. Ty hovered his mouth just over his and paused there, inflicting a few more seconds of torture before giving in to what he craved. Kell rose onto the balls of his feet and took their suffering away. He touched their lips together, gently at first, before moaning deeply, tilting his head and flicking his warm tongue at Ty’s lips.

Ty’s composure shattered.

Author Bio:
A.E. Via has been a best-selling author in the beautiful gay romance genre for six years now, but she’s no stranger to MM. She’s been an avid reader of gay lit for over fifteen years before she picked up her laptop to place her own kiss on this genre. She’s also the founder and owner of Via Star Wings Books, having published a couple great new up and coming MM authors.
A.E. has a Bachelor of Arts in Criminal Justice from Virginia Wesleyan College that she used to start her own paralegal firm after she graduated in 2008. She spent five years preparing and filing bankruptcy petitions for struggling blue collar workers who couldn’t afford to file with a lawyer. It was a rewarding and satisfying career… but another path called to her.

Writing.

A.E.’s novels embodies everything from hopelessly romantic to adventure, to scandalous. Her stories often include intriguing edges and twists that take readers to new, thought-provoking depths.

She’s recently celebrated her 20th book anniversary, and is kind of known now for her hardcore, play rough and love hard, bad boy, alphas. However, she does like to push herself to step out of her comfort zone, exploring different tropes, but she won’t push herself into a whole other genre. She’s head over heels for gay romance and she has tons of more hot stories to tell.

Be sure to visit Adrienne on her social media pages and subscribe to her newsletter to never miss another release date! Go to A.E. Via’s official website for more detailed information on how to contact her, follow her, or a sneak peek at upcoming work, free reads, VSWB submissions, and where she’ll appear next.

AE Via

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Book Blitz: Why Can't Life be Like Pizza? by Andy V Roamer

Title: Why Can't Life be Like Pizza?

Author: Andy V Roamer

Series: The Pizza Chronicles #1

Genre: M/M Romance, Young Adult

Release Date: March 30, 2020

Publisher: NineStar Press

Cover Design: Natasha Snow

Summary:
Fourteen-year-old RV does his best negotiating freshman year in a demanding high school, obeying the rules of his immigrant parents, and exploring his budding sexuality

RV is a good kid. So he’ll do his best to keep up in high school despite all the additional pressures he’s facing: His immigrant parents, who don’t want him to forget his roots. Some tough kids at school who bully teachers as well as students. His mean gym teacher. The Guy Upstairs who doesn’t answer his prayers.  And the most confusing fact of all -- that he might be gay. Luckily, RV develops a friendship with Mr. Aniso, his Latin teacher who is gay and is always there to talk to. RV thinks his problems are solved when he starts going out with Carole.  But things only get more complicated when RV develops a crush on Bobby, the football player in his class. And to RV’s surprise, Bobby admits he may have gay feelings, too.

👀Book 2: Why Can’t Summer Be Like Pizza? expected to release end May 2020👀

Why can’t life be like pizza?

I’ve been asking myself the question a lot lately. I love pizza. Pizza makes me feel good. Especially since I discovered Joe’s. Joe’s Pizza is quiet and out of the way and allows me to think. And Joe’s combinations are the best. Pepperoni and onions. Garlic and mushroom. Cheese and chicken. And if you really want that little kick in the old butt: the super jalapeno. Mmmm, good. Gets you going again. And lets you forget all your troubles.

What troubles can a fourteen-year-old guy have? Ha! First of all, I’m not a regular guy, as anyone can guess from my taste in pizza. My parents are immigrants who are trying to make a better life for themselves here in the United States. Besides the usual things American parents worry about, like making money and having their kids do well in school, my parents spend more time worrying about the big things: politics, communism, fascism, global warming, and the fact they and their parents survived violence and jail so I-better-be-grateful-I’m-not-miserable-like-kids-in-other-parts-of-the-world.

Grateful? Ha! As far as I’m concerned, life is pretty miserable already. Instead of thinking about the World Series or Disneyland, I worry about terrorists down the street or the dirty bombs the strange family around the corner might be building.

I don’t know why I worry about everything, but I do. It’s probably in my genes. Other guys have genes that gave them big muscles or hairy chests. I got nerves.

And then there’s my name. RV. Yeah, RV. No, I’m not a camper or anything. RV is short for Arvydas. That’s right. “Are-vee-duh-s.” Mom and Dad say it’s a common name in Lithuania, which is the country in Eastern Europe where my parents were born. A name like that might be fine for Lithuania, but what about the United States? Couldn’t Mom and Dad have named me Joe, or Mike, or even Darryl? My brother, Ray, has a normal name. Why couldn’t they have given me one?

I even look a little weird, I think. Tall and skinny with an uncoordinated walk because of my big feet that get in the way and make me feel like a clod. Oh, yeah. I’ve been getting some zits lately, and I wear glasses since I’m pretty nearsighted. Not a pretty sight, is it? At least the glasses are not too thick. Mom and Dad don’t have a lot of money to spend, but they did fork up the money to get me thin lenses, so I don’t look like a complete zomboid.

What can I do? I try my best, despite it all. I’m lucky because I’ve done well in school, so at least my genes gave me a half-decent brain. Hey, I’m not bragging. It’s just nice to feel good about something when most days I feel pretty much a loser at so many things. When I was in grammar school, there were enough days when I came home from school and cried because some big oaf threatened me, or I got hit in the stomach during my pathetic attempts to play ball during recess….

Okay, okay, I’m getting off track. I want to write about my first day of school. Mom and Dad gave me this new—well, refurbished, but new to me anyway—computer for getting into Latin school, and they keep after me to make good use of it. So, I’ve decided I’m going to write about my new life. My life away from cretins—Lith, American, or any other kind….

Author Bio:
Andy V. Roamer grew up in the Boston area and moved to New York City after college. He worked in book publishing for many years, starting out in the children’s and YA books division and then wearing many other hats. This is his first novel about RV, the teenage son of immigrants from Lithuania in Eastern Europe, as RV tries to negotiate his demanding high school, his budding sexuality, and new relationships. He has written an adult novel, Confessions of a Gay Curmudgeon, under the pen name Andy V. Ambrose. To relax, Andy loves to ride his bike, read, watch foreign and independent movies, and travel.

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Monday Morning's Menu: Absolving Ash by Chantal Mer

Summary:
For the last decade, successful restaurant owner and chef, Ash Ariti, has worked to make amends for the career-ending mistake he made when he was young and allowed anger to consume him. Driven to be worthy of the second chance he’s been afforded, Ash built a life centered around giving back to his community, all while maintaining a low profile. When he finds himself thrust into the spotlight of a bachelor auction to help one of his favorite causes, he never expects to come face-to-face with the sexy man who’s career he destroyed.

Isaiah Blake has spent a lifetime proving he’s deserving of what he has. After a hit on the ice prematurely ended his NHL career, he committed to becoming a better version of himself. Now, he’s living an open and honest life. So, when he has an opportunity to interview bachelors participating in the Hockey Allies auction for the Hockey Network, the only thing he’s hoping to gain is exposure for his non-profit. That is, until his former rival Ash, steps onto the auction block. Isaiah sees an opportunity to make amends for the suffering he caused ten years ago. Unfortunately, Ash is wary of Isaiah’s motives, and soon Isaiah realizes there is more to Ash’s cautiousness than the history that binds them.

Attraction takes hold as Ash and Isaiah begin to build a new professional alliance and friendship. They must learn to forgive each other, and most importantly, themselves. With outside forces and public opinion hawking, will their relationship be over before it begins? Or will they discover joy and redemption in each other, and find their happily ever after?

For once I'm going to start out at the end😉.  This is the third entry of the Hockey Allies Bachelor Bid series I've read and I just want to say how much I love the epilogues of each one and Absolving Ash is no different.  Now I won't give anything away but I just needed to put it out there because, epilogues can be tricky, if not done right then they appear as a quick way to wrap up or guarantee a HEA, but when done right . . . well, when done right they are a perfect conclusion that doesn't have to be a be-all-end-all, there's always room for more if the characters wish to tell more.

As for Ash and Isaiah, what's not to love?  They both did things wrong and then never took the chance to resolve it until 10 years later when fate stepped in, fate always finds a way.  What these two have together is unmistakable and energetic, that's not to say it's all unicorns and roses but it's definitely deliciously entertaining.  One thing I really loved, despite the horrible reasons why they had to, was the fact that both characters found a satisfying life after hockey, not something we often see in sports romances and that element made this story even better for me.

Chantal Mer is a new author to me, which for some people that can be a scary notion, for me it adds an extra layer of adrenaline rush.  I was not disappointed.  Chantal Mer is definitely going on my authors-to-watch list.  Some might call Absolving Ash a second chance romance but I call it a second chance at life journey.  A winning gem not to be missed.

RATING:

PROLOGUE 
Asher 
Sweat stings my eyes as I tear off after the center of the Buffalo Bedlam. We’re down by one with only forty seconds left in the period, and I’m going to make sure the Hellfire put the puck in the goal. I slam into Karnovich, steal the puck, and slice it to my teammate Christoph Côté. Topher sprints over the ice, passing the puck to Kaas, who shoots it by the Bedlam’s goalie’s outstretched leg and into the net.

YES! I punched the air as the Houston crowd goes wild. An air horn blasts while “Hellfire,” by Joe Louis Walker, blares over the speaker system. Electricity fills the rink, and with thirty seconds left, we still have a chance for another goal.

“You’re not gonna win, Delacroix.” This comes from the biggest trash talker in the league, which is saying something. But being the kid of Booker Blake, one of the best players in the sport— turned annoying as hell commentator―― has made Isaiah Blake an asshole.

“Believe what you want, jackass. The Bedlam are going down.” When I take off to get away from the guy who’s more talk than talent, he’s on me, ramming into my shoulder. “What the fuck, asshole?”

“What?” He smiles around his mouth guard and pushes again.

I’m not gonna lie; I’m itching for a fight. Slamming my fist into someone’s face, feeling the crunch of cartilage as my knuckles make contact. The woosh of breath and a grunt from a right jab to the ribs. The cheers and jeers of the crowd and shouts of my teammates. All of it would make the excruciating emptiness that comes with the anniversary of my sister Serena’s death feel less real.

If only for a few blissful seconds.

Another push.

My fingers tighten and flex in my gloves. “Keep it up, and I’ll fucking take you out.”

“Big talk from a big pussy.” Isaiah is in my face, taunting like he wants to prove something. “Do you even know what a pussy is? Should I speak in terms, you know? How about big talk from a big dick?”

It’s not the first time, nor will it be the last that I get crap for being gay and out. But I promised myself and Serena’s memory that I wouldn’t let small-minded assholes, as she put it, make me feel less, nor would I hide who I was.

“Real original.” I shove back and then hit him with what hurts insecure jackasses like Isaiah Blake the most. “Hang up your skates. You’ll never be as good as your daddy.”

Seeing an opening, if I make one, I fly over to the winger and knock him into the boards, freeing the puck. But before I can move, fucking Blake plows into me, a well-placed jab in my back.

His head is pressed to mine. The words low and sinister. “If you’d shown your sister how to suck dick, she would have been chugging cum instead of vodka.”

As quickly as he was there, he’s gone.

I’m paralyzed, pressed to the glass. Everything stills and goes black. The heat of Isaiah’s words sears my organs, my skin, my fucking soul.

“C’mon, Delacroix.” My alternate captain, Topher, bumps me as he skates by.

I rush my target.

The cheers and shouts of the crowd grow silent as my vision tunnels with rage. At the age of seventeen, Serena made the worst mistake, which caused the paralysis of one of her friends, her own death, and the heartbreak of too many people to count. But no one— NO ONE— is going to sully her memory because she was dumb enough to get behind the wheel, drunk.

“FUCK YOU.” The buzzer sounds, and a moment later, I make contact, slamming my shoulder into the disrespectful asshole’s back and launching him into the boards. Numb satisfaction floods me as I witness the cocky sonofabitch’s head ricochet off the glass. His helmet flies through the air as his body crumples to the ice.

In what seems like slow motion, I watch his head hit the cold, hard ice, bounce up, then collide again.

Horror and dread overwhelm me, and I force my legs to skate closer.

There is a collective gasp from everyone in attendance before chaos erupts. Whistles blowing, refs pointing and yelling. I don’t bother to brace myself when every Bedlam player not at their teammate’s side charges me, fists pummeling. I collapse, moving my head only to try to locate Isaiah. And when I spot him before my left eye has completely swollen shut, I swallow back the acid bile.

The doctors and medical staff surround him. The spinal board is brought out.

A tap on my helmet and I turn my attention to Topher, who shakes his head in disappointment and grabs my hand to help me up. Hellfire players hold back Bedlam players and try to talk them down, but they aren’t ready for the brawl to end.

I wipe my mouth and run my tongue over my teeth. Only two loose, not bad.

My legs are jelly as I skate toward Isaiah, but I can’t get close enough to see him. Dropping to my knees behind the medical staff I catch glimpses as they move and bend, attending to the man I just bashed. His eyes are closed, and he’s not moving. The medics are talking to him, but there’s only eerie stillness. Rivets of blood drip from my nose, covering the snow-colored ice with dots of red. Orders are being shouted back and forth from medic to trainer to medic. Refs huddle together in conference. In one fluid movement, Isaiah is lifted onto the board and strapped down. The crowd is on their feet. A woman in a Hellfire jersey holds her hand to her mouth. A guy in a gray puffer jacket and black skull cap watches with arms crossed over his chest, his face sullen. On the jumbotron, the scene plays out, as the medical team wheels Isaiah off the ice.

Game over, fans quietly shuffle out as a foreboding blankets the rink, stifling any merriment that was present moments before.

Hands on my knees, I let my head drop, and my shoulders droop. Specks of red have bled together, creating a morbid painting on the thick canvas of ice. Tracing the design with my eyes, I freeze when they reach the splotch of ruby where Isaiah’s head lay only moments before. I squeeze my good eye shut, but when I open it, the spot is still there, shouting and screaming at me for letting anger consume me.

Questioning how I could lose control.

Blaming me for unknown injuries.

Demanding how I could place my parents in a position of shame, again.

After everything we’ve been through. Everything they’ve endured.

What the hell did I do?

Hot hockey players on the auction block…

Win a date with a professional hockey player during All Star weekend in Chicago. From leading scorers to fan favorites to guys you love to hate, watch the players strut their stuff in support of the Hockey Allies charity. 

Place a bid. You just might find someone to keep you warm.

Guarding Garrett by RJ Scott(Review)  /  Loving Layne by VL Locey(Review)
Keeping Kyle by Jeff Adams  /  Scoring Slater by Susan Scott Shelley

Author Bio:
Chantal Mer is an author and optimist. Her stories explore relationships and what it means to be family. When she’s not writing about strong women, strong men, and strong love, she can be found walking her adorable dog, volunteering at her kids’ school (in the library, of course), teaching at the local university, and reading.

Chantal lives outside of Philadelphia with her husband, kids, Toffee the Wonder Dog, and vicious cat, Gracie.

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Absolving Ash #5

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