Saturday, March 13, 2021

☘️Saturday's Series Spotlight☘️: Agents Irish and Whiskey by Layla Reyne



Single Malt #1
Summary:
The heart’s a resilient beast

Eight months after the car crash that changed everything, FBI agent Aidan Talley is back at work. New department, new case and a new partner. Smart, athletic and handsome, Jameson Walker is twelve years his junior. Even if Aidan was ready to move on—and he's not—Jamie is off-limits.

Jamie's lusted after Aidan for three years, and the chance to work with San Francisco's top agent directly is too good to pass up. Aidan is prickly—to put it mildly—but a growing cyber threat soon proves Jamie's skills invaluable.

Jamie's talents paint a target on his back, and Aidan is determined to protect him. But with hack after hack threatening a high-security biocontainment facility, time is running out to thwart a deadly terrorist attack. They'll have to filter out distractions, on the case and in their partnership, to identify the real enemy, solve the case and save thousands of lives, including their own. 


Cask Strength #2
Summary:
Professionally, the FBI team of Aidan "Irish" Talley and Jameson "Whiskey" Walker is as good as it gets, closing cases faster than any team at the Bureau. Personally, it’s a different story. Aidan’s feelings for Jamie scare the hell out of him: he won’t risk losing another love no matter how heart-tripping the intimacy between them. And loss is a grim reality with the terrorist Renaud still on their trail, leaving a pile of bodies in his wake.

Going undercover on a new case gets them out of town and off the killer's radar. They're assigned to investigate an identity theft ring involving a college basketball team in Jamie's home state, where Jamie's past makes him perfect for the role of coach. But returning to the court brings more than old memories.

As secrets and shocking betrayals abound, none may be more dangerous than the one Jamie’s been keeping: a secret about the death of Aidan’s husband that could blow his partner's world apart and destroy forever the fragile bonds of trust and love building between them.


Barrel Proof #3
Summary:
FBI agents Aidan "Irish" Talley and Jameson "Whiskey" Walker can't get a moment's peace. Their hunt for the terrorist Renaud seems to be nearing an end, until a fire allows him to slip through their fingers—and puts Jamie's life in danger. When Jamie is nearly killed, Aidan learns how many forms loss can take.

Aidan says I love you just moments before learning that Jamie's been keeping a devastating secret about Aidan's late husband. How quickly trust and love can go up in flames. When Aidan requests a solo undercover assignment, Jamie hopes Aidan will find a way to forgive him.

But the explosions are far from over. Aidan's cover lands him in the heart of the terrorist's conspiracy, and Jamie will have to put his life, his career and his freedom on the line to save the man who has become his entire world. Partners, always is a promise he intends to keep.


Tequila Sunrise #4
Summary:
True love perseveres in this Agents Irish and Whiskey spin-off novella from author Layla Reyne

Former FBI agent Melissa “Mel” Cruz spent years skirting the line between life and death, knowing the next assignment might be her last. Back from overseas and eager to enjoy life outside the Bureau, she's ready to give Danny Talley a Christmas Eve he'll never forget.

A proven asset in high stakes missions, Danny's known for having the skill and brains to get the job done. When the Talley Flag Ship is hijacked during the company holiday party, he’ll do anything to save his family, his love, and everything they’ve all worked so hard to build. But their enemies have a secondary protocol—leave no survivors—and that plan is already in play.

Navigating through a tangled web of lies and betrayal, Mel and Danny race against the clock to retake the ship before their future goes up in flames. As the seconds tick down, they're forced to face their greatest fear—losing each other.


Blended Whiskey #4.5
Summary:
You’re Invited
 
Aidan “Irish” Talley
and
Jameson “Whiskey” Walker
together with their family and friends
request the honor of your presence
at their wedding
Saturday, the Seventeenth of March
Two Thousand and Eighteen
at High Noon
Half Moon Bay, California



Single Malt #1
Walker’s hand covered his where it lay on the bar, and Aidan was captivated by its size and warmth, by the blanket of comfort it provided. When he withdrew it a moment later, Aidan instantly missed the contact, not realizing until then how desperately he’d needed it after the awful day. But then Walker turned on his stool, propped an elbow on the bar behind him, and their shoulders brushed, renewing the connection. “This is such a cool place.”

“Been here before?”

“Once, on a date.”

Aidan laughed, and Walker twisted, angling toward him. “Something funny?”

“My first date was here,” he confessed, staring into his bourbon glass. “If you consider a quinceaΓ±era after-party with my family and hers a real date.”

“So you’ve dated both, then—men and women?”

Aidan’s head jerked up, meeting Walker’s curious eyes. Not the question he’d anticipated. It wasn’t a stretch to say they’d become friends, but he didn’t fancy a gossip about his love life with Walker any more than he had with his sisters. Not today, on his wedding anniversary that wasn’t.

“When I was younger.” He intended to leave it at that, then the bourbon got the better of him again. “And you?”

Gaze steady, Walker answered, “Only men.”

And Aidan’s world tilted, thrown off balance yet again by Jameson Walker. He’d have fallen off his stool too if Walker hadn’t shot out a hand and grasped him by the arm, keeping him upright. “You okay, Irish?”

“You’re not straight?”

“Nope.” He dropped his hand and looked away. “Never have been, never will be.”

Aidan cast his mind back over the past couple weeks. To how those same eyes darkened tonight as Aidan blatantly checked him out. To Walker’s abrupt movements and deflections whenever Aidan flashed him a grin, to his sharp, inhaled breaths if they passed too close, to the blush that colored his cheeks when Aidan favored him with a compliment, and the wounded look when he called him kid. To the way Walker had dropped his voice and described his eyes that first day together in the cave.

He’d been flirting. Walker was gay. And interested, in him.

And down goes Frazier, he heard Chloe cheer in his head.

Shit. And fuck and damn while he was at it.


Cask Strength #2
The door swung closed behind him and Aidan rounded on Walker. “That wasn’t smart. He—”

The rest of his words were silenced by a searing openmouthed kiss that was anything but smart and everything Aidan needed after the day they’d had.

After another close call.

Walker moved between his legs, the hand at his neck drawing him up while the one on his ass lifted him against his strong, hard body. Powerless to resist, Aidan curled his legs around the backs of Walker’s thighs and, despite the pain in his back, curled his arms over Walker’s shoulders, locking him in a tight embrace. Fingers tunneling through silky brown locks, Aidan scraped his nails over Walker’s scalp, eliciting a growl of a different sort. He licked into Walker’s mouth, tongues tangling, tasting and savoring, swept under by the force of everything in his partner’s kiss.

Relief, life, need, love.

Terrifying love.

Wrenching their mouths apart, Aidan gasped for breath and rested his forehead against Walker’s.

“You okay to leave?” Walker asked.

Aidan nodded, bringing their lips in brushing distance again. “All clear.”

“Good. Let’s go home.”

Aidan’s panic ballooned, making him lightheaded.

Home.

His mind instantly went to the three-story Edwardian in Bernal Heights. Walker’s house, not his. Aidan knew the place as well as his own. Just like his intimate knowledge of Walker’s body. How fingers trailed over his scalp guaranteed a moan. How he liked fingers and teeth sinking into the tattoo on his chest. How he preferred to be taken hard and rough. Walker had the same knowledge of his wants and desires. How he liked to be kissed hungrily, blanketed by a big body, and touched possessively.

Home, body, life, love.

All of it could have been torn away today.

As the chief rightly stated, people had a nasty habit of dying around him.

Nelson and Rollins weren’t the only targets. He had the mottled bruise on his back to prove it.

Three attempts on his life. Two that could have also claimed Walker’s and the tattered remains of Aidan’s heart. He couldn’t go there again.

Time to throw up blockades.


Barrel Proof #3
Aidan snatched his hands away. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“She ordered me not to.”

“Wrong answer.” He rocketed out of the chair, snatched a tumbler off the table by the door and hurled it at the opposite wall, glass shattering.

“Aidan, please, stop.” Jamie used a bedpost to haul himself to standing, swaying. He moved toward his partner, putting as little weight as possible on the braced leg, the pain excruciating but not as unbearable as the thought of losing Aidan. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Aidan grabbed another glass and heaved again, keeping him back. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to break your heart until I knew the whole story.”

“Too late, baby.” He spat the cherished endearment, full of spite and hatred.

The verbal punch landed right where he intended, robbing Jamie of breath. “Irish, please,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’m sorry.”

Aidan shot forward, forcing Jamie back to seated. “I trusted you, with my back and my heart, and you lied to me for months.”

“I’m sorry, I thought I was protecting you.” Jamie reached for him, and Aidan batted his hand away.

“Wrong! We protect each other. Keeping critical information from me about our case, about Gabe and Tom, about my family, is not protection. It’s lying. And me not knowing the full story means I can’t protect them or you.” His shrill voice pained Jamie’s ears.

“Baby, please.”

“Renaud came after my husband, he came after my partner, he came after me. Fuck, Jamie, he keeps coming after me, and now he’s coming after you too. And my brother and my best friend. Maybe even my goddaughter. You didn’t think I needed to know that? I could lose them. I could lose you! I told you what would happen if I loved and lost you.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Jamie stood and reached for Aidan’s arm again.

Aidan wrestled him off, shoving his chest two-handed and sending him splaying back on the bed. “I can’t, Whiskey.” Chest heaving, his harsh breaths and harsher words came out a strangled blow. “I can’t do this.”


Tequila Sunrise #4
The first time Mel tied him up, she did so to make an assessment of her own. 

He was feeling smug after his date with a paralegal who’d taken over for one of the suspects on Aidan and Jamie’s case. He’d charmed, he’d distracted, he’d followed Jamie’s install instructions to a T. The next time she logged on to her firm’s VPN server, the files Jamie needed would automatically copy and download to his probably very unsanctioned remote server. 

Give him a secret society badge. He was official. 

What he got instead was a pair of handcuffs hurled at his chest as soon as he walked through the cabin door of his private yacht. His hands shot up, instinctively catching the cold metal cuffs, which were nowhere near as cold as the voice that followed. 

“Chair. Now,” Mel ordered. 

He glanced up and across the main cabin to the eating area next to the kitchen. Beneath the crystal chandelier, Mel sat with her side to the dining table, one elbow resting on the glass top. Dressed in a pencil skirt and sleeveless blouse, miles of flawless brown skin were on display, glowing enticingly under the chandelier’s low, seductive light. Using her foot, encased in a stiletto that should be illegal in all fifty states, she pushed out the wrought-iron chair beside hers. “Daniel!” she snapped, redirecting his gaze from where it’d roamed up her bare calf. “Sit. And cuff yourself to the chair. Now.” 

He smirked. “Kinky, I like it.” 

Mel liked to exert control during sex. He’d expected as much when he’d finally grown the balls to pursue her. And he’d had no objections, the sex being out of this world. But she’d never gone so far as to restrain him before.


Author Bio:

Layla Reyne is the author of the Fog City, Agents Irish and Whiskey, Trouble Brewing, and Changing Lanes series. A Carolina Tar Heel who now calls the San Francisco Bay Area home, Layla enjoys weaving her bi-coastal experiences into her stories, along with adrenaline-fueled suspense and heart pounding romance.


WEBSITE  /  NEWSLETTER  /  KOBO
BOOKBUB  /  AUDIBLECARINA  /  B&N
EMAIL: laylareyne@gmail.com



Single Malt #1
B&N  /  KOBO  /  iTUNES

Cask Strength #2

Barrel Proof #3

Tequila Sunrise #4

Blended Whiskey #4.5


Friday, March 12, 2021

πŸ“˜πŸŽ₯Friday's Film AdaptationπŸŽ₯πŸ“˜: Odd Man Out by FL Green


Summary:

An Irish Republican Army plot goes horribly wrong when its leader, Johnny Murtah, kills an innocent man and is himself gravely wounded. As the police close in on Johnny, his compatriots must make a daring bid to rescue him. But they are not the only ones in pursuit: an impoverished artist, a saintly priest, a sleazy informer, and a beautiful young woman all have their own reasons to be desperate to find him. Meanwhile Johnny wanders the streets injured and alone, trapped in a delirious nightmare, surrounded on all sides by betrayal and faced with the realization that he may die that night with the stain of murder on his soul. As the action unfolds over eight hours of a cold Belfast night, the suspense builds towards an explosive conclusion.

Both a critical success and a bestseller, F. L. Green's masterful thriller Odd Man Out (1945) is best known today as the basis for the classic 1947 film adaptation directed by Carol Reed and starring James Mason. This edition, the first in over 30 years, features a new introduction by Adrian McKinty.

'A spellbinder . . . takes hold before the first shot is fired' - New York Times

'Rarely does a tale about pursuers and pursued reach the intensity of fear, uncertainty and apprehension' - New York World-Telegram

'Of unusual interest and distinction . . . very moving . . . produces effects of high and painful excitement' - Spectator



PART I: THE RAID  
I 
The mill stood in a narrow side-street in the heart of a district characterized by squalor and the numerous streets of a similar sort, as well as by the number of houses crammed in those streets and the multitude of human beings herded in those drab dwellings. It was the third largest linen factory in the world, and it rose like the awful, sheer wall of a canyon along the entire length of one side of the street. Towering above the houses opposite, it confronted the rays of afternoon sunlight which shone in reflection from its upper windows and which gave a rosy hue to the brickwork. That pink blush seemed to pour down the walls and permeate the air between the mill and the row of tiny houses on the opposite side of the street. It was the reflected glory of a sinking sun on a November afternoon, and for a little while it gave a splendid light to that place of murk. 

Shortly before half-past three, when it was the habit of the Cashier to pass a considerable sum of money to the Wages Clerk, a saloon car entered the deserted street and halted at the kerb below the wide flight of steps leading to the mill’s entrance. 

Four men were in the car. They were of about twenty-eight or thirty years and were dressed smartly in the style of managers of departments. Three of them alighted slowly; the two who had occupied the rear seats waiting for the third man who had sat beside the driver. All three crossed the pavement and ascended the steps, their cheerful conversation sounding pleasantly on the quiet air of the street and ending abruptly when the heavy door swung to behind them. 

The man who remained at the wheel listened anxiously to the steady beat of the car’s engine, which was running softly. The car had been stolen earlier in the afternoon; and although he was expert in the handling of vehicles, he had not yet tested the capabilities of this one or discovered its possible faults. He glanced over his shoulder to make certain that the doors were open, after which he peered along the length of the street behind and ahead of him. Except for two women in shawls passing in the distance, and three small children playing on a doorstep at the far end of the street, the place was deserted. He asked himself fearfully how long it would remain so; and he waited with increasing impatience for his comrades to return. 

When he had been assigned his part in this raid, he was pleased that he was ordered to drive the car, for he had driven cars on two expeditions similar to this one. Both had been successful. Planned cunningly after weeks of observation, they had yielded much plunder; and thereafter he had remembered only the swift journey from peril to safety and the considerable sum of money which he and his associates had stolen. But now, waiting in the car, his nervous thoughts remembered former occasions when he had sat like this; and some strange remnant of the hideous tension of those moments returned and attached itself to him like a recurrent malady which he suffered.

Anxiety grew again in him, as before, and found a weakness in his nerves. The anxiety was like a pain which increased to such a degree that he knew he could endure it only for a little while longer. His heart began to beat thunderously from fear that he would be unable to sustain that pain. Time swelled around him, slowly, heavily. His senses became unbearably acute, registering sounds, odours, and the taste of the cold air and the smell of petrol and oil fumes and the metalwork and upholstery of the car, assembling all these impressions into a hard mass that weighed intolerably upon his mind and weakened him. And although he knew that he would recover from this weakness at the moment when his companions appeared again at the door of the mill, he knew, too, that if they did not come soon something in his mind would fracture and admit impulsive, hysterical factors which were already advancing from indefinable sources in his spirit. 

He glanced fearfully towards the mill’s big entrance and wondered impatiently what was happening. His breath fluttered in and out of his dry, parted lips. His hands on the wheel were clammy and weak. And he remembered that this had been his experience on two previous occasions. 

A sense of horror and despair welled like a spasm of sickness in him. His abdomen suddenly contracted as though a blow had struck it. And at that moment it seemed to him that a dread, indescribable factor had entered the affair and ruined it. 

II
The man who had sat beside him was the Chief of the militant Revolutionary Organization to which the others belonged. He was twenty-nine. His name was Aloysius John Murtah. He was known throughout the land as Johnny. 

Fourteen months previously, he had been arrested by the police in Belfast whilst organizing the establishment of arms and explosives in secret dumps within the city boundaries. For years prior to that he had led an outlawed existence. Brought to trial for his activities as a member of the Organization, he was given a sentence of seventeen years penal servitude, four months of which he had served before making a daring escape and going into hiding. A large reward had been offered for information which would result in his capture, and an intensive search had been made for him. All without success. 

Actually, he was living less than two miles from the city’s heart. The net which was to ensnare him was cast far beyond the city, across bog and mountain, border and sea, as though he were a legendary hero able to traverse vast distances without being recognized. He was living all the time in the home of a sympathizer; and in that tiny dwelling he planned this robbery in order to obtain funds for the Organization. 

Except for an hour late on a June evening, and one wild afternoon in September when he had taken a walk along the mountains surrounding the city, this was the first occasion on which he had ventured far into the city itself. He had anticipated this excursion. His body and soul had longed for this activity. Yet during this rapid journey to the mill, he was silent and very troubled; for his senses which had been confined for so long by the walls of the little house in which he had hidden himself were unaccustomed to the width and space which now expanded around him in great ripples of light and colour, movement and noise. Something in him flinched from contact with it all. And his body was weak from months of physical inactivity. And his will could not conquer the subtle influences of that long period of hiding during which his spirit had been nurtured more by idealistic dreams than by the vast actuality of life which now rose on all sides and showed its immense face to him. 

His weakness increased. He could not find the old confidence, the former strength of his fine body, the old belief in it. Something in him was impaired. Nevertheless, he went on trying to resurrect it, although at the moment when he left the car and walked round to join his companions on the pavement and begin the hearty conversation which was part of their ruse, he felt a new and terrible weakness encompass him, as though he were no longer attached to the wide reality of life but belonged only to the tiny, silent room in which he had been concealed for so long. 

When he and his companions entered the spacious hall of the mill, the moment towards which his plans had been projected for the past seven months suddenly enveloped him. And it was like the onrush of something tangible which overwhelmed him. Not only had it the smell of the cold stone floors and walls, and the warm air which gushed from the offices, but the sounds of the pulsating machinery as well, as they echoed and thudded from other floors. It tasted cold, then warm in a sickly deluge. 

A fussy, frowning little man holding a sheaf of papers in one hand and fingering a watch chain across his waistcoat with the other, was standing near the corridor leading to the Cashier’s office. He was addressing in sharp tones a young man who was listening with a deferential, abashed air. He stopped speaking when Johnny and his comrades hurried past; and fastening a stern, pompous stare on them, he waited with that exasperating air of interrogation cultivated by factory executives of senior rank. His stiff, mean little face horrified Johnny, for its expression was that of the mill’s life which was about to be attacked, as well as the face of reality which thundered and frowned and threatened Johnny at that moment. 

It had a strange effect. It focussed in itself all the impressions which Johnny’s mind had felt since he had alighted from the car. It became like the fantastic, awful face of a nightmare. He struggled to forget it, to ignore it, to erase it from his sensibilities as he advanced with his two companions. But it remained. 

The actions which he and the others took had been planned and decided months before. They were exact. But they did not produce the result which had been expected. It was like trying to fashion a dream from the substance of another dream. It would not develop. The three men hurried along a corridor and burst their way swiftly into a large office where they pointed revolvers at the clerks who were working there. But instead of rising abruptly and standing apart along one wall, as Johnny and the others told them to do, the clerks gaped at the intruders and flushed and then went pale and looked at one another, and turned to the strangers and started to utter curious exclamations and make idiotic little gestures. Then all at once two of them sped from the office by a rear door. The door slammed behind them. Another clerk shuddered back behind a cupboard. 

At once, the three raiders went through the counter and hustled the clerks into a little group in a corner. The clerks stared at them with the eyes of men confronted by something which they could not quite believe was real. One of the armed men kept them in the corner while the other intruders crossed to the safe. 

Johnny saw the safe door standing open slightly, with a bunch of keys dangling from the lock. He drew it wide open and saw stacks of notes and bags of silver coin. Now the dream became actuality for the few seconds during which he snatched the notes and little bags and thrust them into the canvas sacks which his companion held ready for him. Once, he glanced at the third man who was standing before the clerks and pointing his revolver at them. Johnny saw the big office and the little storeroom into which the two terrified clerks had rushed, and the furniture, and the windows through which the pink flush of departing day shone. 

‘Yes,’ he thought, as one dimly recognizes a familiar figure in a dream, ‘that is Murphy, and he is holding them in the corner. But this is a strange thing I am doing . . . in this office . . . in here . . . and that dreadful little face. . . .’ And momentarily he felt again the loss of some vital, indefinable power in himself.

He continued to thrust the money into the three canvas sacks. He experienced neither fear nor tension as he continued; but he could not understand why that was so. 

‘It is like a dream . . . like the things happening in a dream,’ he thought. 

Then he remembered that for months he had let his mind dwell upon this raid and all the details of it. And the only factor which he had not calculated was his peculiar weakness and the odd effect upon him of the frowning little executive in the hall. 

‘It is all in,’ he muttered, turning from the safe. 

He took one of the sacks, while his companion gathered the others and handed one of them to Murphy who was backing away from the clerks in the corner. All three came together at the door which, at that moment, opened quickly behind them. 

A typist entered. She halted a little way inside the office and stood gaping around. Her lips parted suddenly and she frowned. Before she could scream, Johnny and the others pushed past her into the corridor and hurried towards the hall. They put away their revolvers in the straps below their jackets, still holding their hands upon them in readiness. As they walked, their feet made sounds which echoed in the vaulted corridor. 

Johnny hesitated when they reached the hall. His hands and legs were touched by an insidious weakness, like the limp, light feeling which possesses the body in a dream. The others were at the door, and he hastened towards them because a curious sense of detachment was beginning to envelop him. He overtook them and passed through the heavy swing door with them. They were excited and in a hurry. They were in front of him and already at the top of the flight of steps when he halted again. 

As soon as he emerged from the building, and at the instant when he saw the saloon car and the tense expression on the driver’s face, some vast, impalpable force rose from the daylight, the houses opposite the mill, the pavements, the roar of traffic in the city, and struck his mind. 

It was the actual impacting with the dream which he had re-enacted in the Cashier’s office. It dazed him. He halted. To descend the steps would be like attempting to plunge into a turbulent ocean. Already, his two companions were half-way down the steps. He tried to follow them, but at that instant he heard an outburst of voices behind him. He turned and saw two men. The foremost was a robust, resolute individual whose face had an angry, ferocious expression. He shouted something as he pushed open the door and came out brandishing a revolver. Behind him came a lithe little fellow in a grey suit, and he, too, had an expression of anger and violence on his face. Both men rushed at Johnny and seized him, and for a moment the three of them made a panting, scuffling mass. 

‘It is a dream!’ Johnny thought, struggling to throw them off. He felt neither fear nor surprise; and because of this strange fact he was bewildered. 

‘It is like a dream . . .’ he thought, again.

He dropped the canvas bag and tried to mass all his strength in his efforts to release himself from his opponents. In the unconscious movement of defence, he drew his revolver. He heard other voices behind him. Suddenly, he found himself prone on the top step, and he could not understand where he was or what was happening to him. The men struck him, but the blows were like those in a dream and did not hurt him. Even when there was an explosion and a flash and his hand which gripped his revolver was jerked violently, he still did not realize what had happened. His body rolled down the steps. The Cashier’s big body made a huge, warm, immobile weight on him until he thrust it away. Now there were loud shouts sounding so close to his ears that he jerked his head aside to escape them. There was another explosion and another flash which momentarily blinded him. He felt pain begin in his left hand and travel like a flame scorching his arm and his body. He screamed because he was afraid and hurt and terrified that the flame would fold on him again. Hands grabbed him and lifted him. He struggled to release himself from them because he imagined that they were those of the two pursuers. As he struggled, the noise of the city, and the pinkish light of the afternoon wheeled across his senses and dazed him. Voices shouted to him, and he recognized them. 

‘It is Murphy and Nolan!’ he thought. 

Then he remembered the whole of the dream: how he and the other officers of the Organization had planned to raid this mill, and how the junior officers and members of the Organization, together with women supporters, had spent months obtaining precise information about the offices, the employees in the Cashier’s department, the time of collection of the money from the bank and its delivery from one department to another, and so on. And he remembered, as well, how the senior officers of the Organization had planned to steal a car and drive to the mill and there alight and enter the premises. 

‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘we decided . . .’ 

But he could not be certain that it had all happened. Had he dreamed it? Or had it all actually happened? And what was he doing here? Why were there voices shouting at him? Hadn’t he been sentenced to seventeen years penal servitude? Then what was this hard ground . . . and whose voices . . . and whose arms? . . . 

He scrambled to his feet, swaying. Hands grabbed at him and rushed him towards the car, and voices screamed at him to get in for Christ’s sake, and other voices shouted that the fellow was killed . . . was killed . . . the fellow was . . . hurry for Christ’s sake there is an alarm . . . can’t you . . . can’t you . . . Christ, he is hurt he is . . . well, drag him in . . . drag him in. . . . 

‘It is the dream,’ he thought, ‘it is awful.’ 

He saw his companions scramble into the car. 

‘Come on, come on!’ they panted, leaning out and grabbing him. 

‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘now I must get into the car. . . .’ 

Then again he remembered the dream which he had yielded to for so many weeks, and which had recurred again.

‘Yes, it is what I dreamed,’ he told himself. ‘After we have made the haul from the safe, we are to drive back to the place I was hiding in. But . . . something has happened. . . .’ 

He put out his arms to grip the car and get in. Again the fierce pain swept through his left hand and arm. He shrieked with agony, and stumbled, gasping and blinking and staring about him like someone recently wakened from a nightmare. 

One of his companions got out of the car and dragged him to the running-board. Johnny saw contorted faces and heard wild shouts. 

‘They are inside the car. . . .’ 

It had started. Already it was travelling at great speed and bumping over the cobbles. It turned the corner at such a pace and so sharply that it rose on the pavement. He swayed. He made efforts to get inside the car, but the pain scorched him again, while the wind rushing past him burst like a flood upon his bare head. 

‘What is it . . . what is happening . . . ?’ he thought. 

Everything wheeled in a swift curve which confused his senses. He closed his eyes. His body was struck violently with such force that the breath was driven from him. He opened his mouth and struggled to breathe, whereupon he tasted dust and smelled the cold stones of the roadway. He lay quite still, panting, looking up at a vast expanse of pink sky. 

‘Morning . . .’ he thought. ‘This is the hard bed, and I am waking from a dream I have had.’

He sat up. Looking about him, he saw houses and some women clustered together and all watching him. He felt afraid. 

‘Something has happened to me!’ he exclaimed. ‘There was the car . . . and Pat and Murphy and Nolan . . . and . . .’ 

Huge visions stormed through his mind. Shooting, screams, faces contorted by fear, two men pursuing him. He got to his feet and stumbled across the road and leaned against a wall. The women were still watching him. And others were running towards them and making a little crowd and chattering and shouting incoherently at him. 

‘I was dreaming . . .’ he thought. 

Because he was confused and afraid, he hurried along the street. Cunning guided him, tracing a way for him. He turned the corner and saw a short, empty street ahead of him. He went on as fast as his weak limbs could carry him; and when he had traversed it, he sped down others, striking deeper into the heart of that bleak locality until he saw ahead of him a little row of air-raid shelters. Some of them had wooden doors that were closed. Others were open, with the doors leaning back. He hesitated. He felt shocked and confused and in great pain. Glancing wildly around him, he saw that the street was empty. He lurched quickly into one of the shelters, stumbling against the door which, presently, he dragged upright after him with his sound hand and set in place. 

Only a thin light from departing daylight remained inside. He stood quite still, breathing painfully. Now dream and actuality were irretrievably mingled together in his consciousness. Nevertheless, he distinguished certain features of the normal world: the damp, fusty smell of the inactive air of the shelter; the glimmer of daylight; the sounds from the city. And they were like thin strands which his senses groped to retain. He sat down, lowering his bruised body, trying to resurrect reason and comprehension upon the slender threads which his senses clutched to themselves. He kept his eyes wide open and did not yield to the dreadful weariness which brimmed from his body. He tried to struggle through the mists of dream. Pain began again in his left arm. Looking down at the hand, he saw that from the fingertip of the third finger to the wrist there was a raw line through which the bones and ligaments showed. And higher up his arm, the overcoat was soaked and discoloured with blood. 

‘Then I am wounded!’ he exclaimed. 

He remembered that part of the dream where he had scuffled with the two pursuers and rolled down the steps and felt the ponderous, lifeless weight of that big body upon him, as well as the subsequent moment when his companions in the car had screamed that the fellow was killed, was killed. 

Most vividly and terribly it all recurred to him, finding within his mind its source from which it rose anew to remark that he was wounded, that it had all happened in reality, the robbery, the scuffle, the killing . . . 

His eyes closed and he fell limply to one side. He had fainted.


A wounded IRA man faces betrayal on all sides when the British put a price on his head.

Release Date: January 31, 1947
Release Time: 116 minutes

Director: Carol Reed

Cast:
James Mason as Johnny McQueen
Kathleen Ryan as Kathleen Sullivan
Robert Newton as Lukey, the artist
Cyril Cusack as Pat
F. J. McCormick as Shell
William Hartnell as Fencie the barman
Fay Compton as Rosie
Denis O'Dea as Inspector
W. G. Fay as Father Tom
Maureen Delaney as Theresa O’Brien
Elwyn Brook-Jones as Tober
Robert Beatty as Dennis
Dan O'Herlihy as Nolan
Kitty Kirwan as Grannie
Beryl Measor as Maudie
Roy Irving as Murphy
Joseph Tomelty as ‘Gin’ Jimmy, the cabbie

Awards:
1947 Academy Awards
Best Film Editing - Fergus McDonell - Nominated

1948 BAFTAs
Best British Picture - Won






IMDB  /  AMAZON



AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  B&N

Film
AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  B&N
BFI  /  ALL MOVIE  /  WIKI  /  IMDB  /  TCM





Thursday, March 11, 2021

Blog Tour: Claw of Exile by JK Jones

Title: Claw of Exile
Author: JK Jones
Series: Exiled #1
Genre: M/M Romance, Paranormal
Release Date: February 20, 2021


Summary:

He kills to survive

Exiled.

Cursed. Abandoned. Ryu Suzuki is no stranger to these things.

For years he wandered the Outlands with nothing but his Katana to keep him safe. Kuroi kage—Black Shadow is what they call him. A phantom Omega. He belongs nowhere. He is no-one. Until a vicious disease spreading like wildfire threatens everyone he loves.

After a series of unfortunate events, the game changes. Now he’s forced to go back to his long-forgotten pack, the Silvercrest Howlers. Suddenly, he’s staring at the man who ruined everything in the first place.

The Alpha that betrayed him. The White Lotus.

Micah McCorbyn.

He also happens to be his mate.

Claw of Exile is a dark MM romance series. Each book is a whirlwind experience, high octane and will have you at the edge of your seat. Enemies to lovers, friends to lovers, hurt comfort, gay paranormal romance, gay betrayal romance and so much more. Follow Ryu into the Exiled series and strap yourself in for a wild ride.



Chapter 1
The Outlands
Yokohama Japan 21’
Ryu Suzuki is rotten.

Like all forbidden fruit, they say, he appears lush with deliciousness, but his insides are the color brown, sodden with the foul stench of bacteria. They are black and blue they say, slimy green, covered with rot and deterioration. It’s disgusting to look at.

The fruit is shriveled up, with pus oozing through the thick skin. On the outside he looks perfectly normal, shining—shimmering in the light, deceiving everyone.

Ryu is the picture of ripening fruit, ample with flavor, ready to be tasted and explored by anyone who dared. Conversely, among other fruits, he would never let on his infectious disease until it was too late, and it spread.

They say Ryu Suzuki is indeed rotten to the core.

His bitter hands grip the headboard as the man above moves forcefully. The durable bend and twists of his hips make him choke violently, back arching off the bed, pale skin shining in the moonlight.

His hair sprawls like a black curtain, long and silky in the sheets. Earlier that day, it had been upon him, the slick and fever of desire, so ripe and deep it made him wrench in anguish.

Ryu found the closest Alpha, decent size, large and empowering, and released his intoxicating scent. No Alpha could ever resist. Ryu lured him into his tiny apartment, no more the size of a small box, with the bathroom and kitchen all being in one spot.

The Alpha didn’t ask questions, he tossed Ryu onto the bed, tearing off his clothes in a deep rage that would later consume him in his rut.

No kisses. No words of any kind.

Just lips, teeth, and skin.

Fuck—the man licks down the pale column of his neck, lapping at the skin, tonguing his glans, causing passion to tear through him.

He comes again for the fifth time that evening, soaking the Alpha and the sheets. This goes on for several more hours. When it’s over, they are both covered in sweat, the stench of sex and freesia filling the room.

The Alphas knot dies down.

And Ryu knows what’s coming next. The Alpha stands, barely letting the air cool around them, throwing on his tight white t-shirt and jeans, his physique muscular, arms rippling and straining against the fabric.

He isn’t bad looking.

Just not at all Ryu’s type.


“You got a mate?” The Alpha asks.

They all did. Ryu ignores the question, lazily stroking his flat stomach, noting the sharp arch of his hip bones. He hasn’t eaten in days.

“Silent type eh?” The Alpha probes. “Look…. I only did this because you seemed desperate.”

That’s what they all say. Ryu wants to crackle in maniacal laughter. He doesn’t though, his eyes watch coolly, like a feline.

“You have a mate,” he continues. “I can tell. Your Māku is strong, very strong. He must be a powerful Alpha. You shouldn’t be wandering around here without him. Whatever happened between you two… it doesn’t matter…the stench of another Alpha on his Omega is enough to drive one mad…”

Isn’t that what Ryu wants? To drive his Alpha mad? He turns his head away dismissively. This conversation is over.


What is the biggest influence/interest that brought you to this genre? 
The biggest influence that brought me to this genre is wanting to write something completely out of the box. Very few authors these days are willing to go outside the status quo, I think it is fascinating how many authors don’t write outside their comfort zone. 

When writing a book, what is your favorite part of the creative process (outline, plot, character names, editing, etc)? 
My favorite part is creating a character from scratch. Building a character from the ground up is the most exciting part of the writing process. I enjoy imagining what the character will look like, sound like, character flaws or ticks even down to the way that he might walk. Once I develop the physical and mental characteristics I find the plot falls into place. For me, it's easier to outline around my characters rather than structuring the plot. 

When reading a book, what genre do you find most interesting/intriguing? 
All things literary fiction.

If you could co-author with any author, past or present, who would you choose? 
That’s a tough one, but I guess if I had to choose between authors it would most definitely be Ann-Marie MacDonald. 

Have you always wanted to write or did it come to you "later in life"?
I’ve been writing since high school. There really hasn’t been a time in my life when I wasn’t interested in writing.





Author Bio:

Heaven and hell, demons and angels. J.K Jones has always had an affinity for otherworldly things. From her debut novel, it’s easy to see she loves all things crawling in the shadows. As it so happens, J.K Jones is the author of a gritty, fun, action-packed, soul-rending novel. Her characters are so dark and twisted they defy the dimensions of this world. She does not believe in HEA, she does believe in writing a suitable ending for her characters. Never will you read any of her works where the characters ride off into the sunset together. Not going to happen. There is nothing J.K. Jones loves more than a tragic ending. She is an avid reader, poet, and LGBTQ activist. She is a University graduate with a BA in Sociology, also has a TESOL certificate for teaching English as a Second Language.


EMAIL: j.kjones@gmail.com



Claw of Exile #1

Series

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Tuesday, March 9, 2021

🎧Audiobook Tour🎧: Song of the Night by Zoe Burgess

Title: Song of the Night
Author: Zoe Burgess
Genre: M/M Romance, Paranormal
Audiobook Release Date: September 30, 2019
Narrator: Don Warrick
ebook Release Date: April 22, 2019
Publisher: Britain’s Next Bestseller

Summary:

‘I call it lust, or obsession. I’m too old to remember the meaning of love. This obsession is the closest I can come.’
 
A tormented boy.
A cursed man.
A love so dangerous it will change them both… forever.

Yue-ren is a young boy, confused about his identity and trying to find his place in the world. Ignored by his mother, who wished for a girl, Yue-ren decided to become one.

He succeeded too well.

Cain has been a vampire for as long as he can remember.
He has seen much, seduced many and killed more.
He has never known love.
Until he meets Yue-ren.

An obsessive love, threatened by those around them, Cain and Yue-ren will have to fight to be together.

Whether Yue-ren will be with his love as human or vampire, remains to be seen.

‘Song of the Night’ is an erotic love story with a paranormal twist.



Author Bio:

Zoe Burgess is an upcoming author inspired by the works she has read and the genres she loves. Zoe spent her University years studying Media, Japanese Creative Industries and holds two Masters in this field, specialising in Gender and Sexuality in anime. This led to expanding her love of manga and anime, presenting research at conventions and conferences, as well as setting up her own art business. The stories and worlds discovered during this time was what inspired her own writing. Zoe realised that her passion for fantasy, her imagination and desire for non-heteronormative story telling could be explored in the fictional worlds she creates.

Now she writes the stories that she herself would love to read and explores themes and genres close to her heart.


Zoe Burgess

Don Warrick(Narrator)
FACEBOOK  /  BLOG  /  AUDIBLE
EMAIL: donwarrick@yahoo.com





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