Tag Archives: Coming of Age

Book Blast: Anticipated Angel by Laura Navarre

Anticipated Angel | Laura Navarre

Astral Heat #0.5

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Release Date: April 1st, 2022

Publishing Company: Ascendant Press

Cover Artist: Kim Killion

Word Count: 20,000

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/u/47QQBE

Add to Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/60394847-anticipated-angel

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Blurb

On an alien world that crucifies men for prohibited desires, two boyhood best friends risk the ultimate punishment to explore a forbidden passion.

Nero: He’s the most intimidating guy at our intergalactic next-gen leaders’ camp, and his psycho galactic tyrant of a dad has a crucifixion fetish. Our two races are deadly enemies, but Dex was my boyhood best friend. Suddenly this summer, he’s all grown up—and suddenly he can’t seem to stop staring at me. I don’t know whether to be afraid that it’s all a figment of my telepathic imagination…or that every dangerous desire we’re forbidden to acknowledge is searingly real.

Dex: I’m one combat-to-the-death away from the imperial command I’ve devoted my life to achieve. All I need to do is keep my dick in my pants. Besides, Ben Nero’s my oathsworn brother. Not to mention the most gorgeous, most maddeningly unattainable, most sought-after guy at leaders’ camp. There’s no way he’d ever look twice at a buttoned-tight, hyper-competitive, compulsive overachiever like me.

Until the night I blundered in on Nero in the shower. Which was a total catastrophic mistake. Because now I’ve seen what he looks like naked…now I’ve heard the way he sounds when he’s moaning my name…how in blazes do I keep him at arms’ length? Because my father crucifies men for loving men.

Which means letting Ben Nero in close, the way I’m burning to do, means risking the ultimate punishment.

For both of us.

Anticipated Angel is a steamy, angsty, friends-to-lovers MM new adult sci fi romance novella and the standalone prequel to the award-winning Astral Heat Romance Series.

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Excerpt

Still damp and dripping under the tunic and breeches he’d dragged over his desperately aroused body, breathless and panting from pounding through the jungle after his frenzied best friend, Ben Nero stood on the step outside Dex’s dormitory cabin and glared at the locked door.

Dex never locked his door. They’d been coming and going from each other’s dorms day and night for three summers straight.

Sure, Dex was arrogant, aggressive, pigheaded, surly, introverted, hypercompetitive, a compulsive overachiever. The golden boy at leaders’ camp. In other words, a typical Mogadon.

Nero had hated him on sight. Until everything changed.

Since the night Dex waded into battle to defend him, Nero had been secretly crushing on the guy.

Now—this summer—their final summer when they both gained their majority and left leaders’ camp behind forever, the sexual dynamic between them had torqued so much tighter. Their unspoken chemistry had condensed into an alchemical compound so volatile it was practically pyrophoric. With Dex grown into something between a deadly predator and a tawny god, Nero knew his secret summer crush stood in acute danger of developing into a connection fathoms deeper.

And far more lethal to his guarded heart.

But given Dex’s inherited battery of hang-ups and all that sexual baggage his best friend was carting around, the state of his heart was one secret Nero fully intended to keep.

Until tonight. Cat’s out of the cave now. Of all the possible, gods-cursed times for Dex to show up for a late-night shower…

For at least the twentieth time, he cursed his own rotten timing. Wryly he admitted the inferno of heat glowing in his chest and scorching his face had less to do with exertion than sheer embarrassment.

No use pretending it didn’t happen. Dex has been pushing me away all summer. What he just saw me doing while I moaned his name will probably finish the job and end our friendship for good.

Especially with their rival planets poised on the brink of war. Nero huffed out a breath harsh with frustration.

The next time I encounter Dex Draven after summer camp will probably be in deep space at the wrong end of a solar cannon.

Grimly Nero jabbed a finger at the entry button—for the third farking time. The chime caroled away like his whole world wasn’t imploding around him. Beyond that door, his psychic senses whispered, Dex was pacing his cabin’s spartan confines, wearing a path in the silica floor.

Staring at his own locked door, heart slamming against his sternum like a meteor bombardment. If he didn’t open it…if he didn’t answer…

Nero shoved a mental barrier between them to give the guy a little privacy as a basic matter of telepath ethics. Same way he’d been doing all summer. Fighting like hell to do the decent thing and respect his best friend’s boundaries and stay out of his head.

Now he scowled at the stubborn silence but held tight to his temper.

“Dex?” He pitched his voice to carry. “Let me in. We need to talk. Anyway, you, uh, left your blaster in the shower house.”

The silence stretched between them. A silence tighter than a pressurized airlock, shredded by the shrill scream of a hunting panther. Intuition told him the critter was on the prowl, hunting for blood and savage with hunger. If the cat tracked him to Dex’s doorstep, Nero would have to defend himself. Not with Dex’s blaster, which he’d buckled around his own hips, but with the psi fire he was learning to channel as he honed his rapidly expanding arsenal of psychic powers.

Doggedly he pounded on the door. “Come on, Dex. I know you’re in there. I could feel you fulminating halfway down the path. Open up.”

“No bloody talking. I’m not in the mood.” Dex’s muffled voice sounded surly. And more than a little desperate. “For gods’ sake, Ben, it’s after midnight. Go away.”

Nero squared his shoulders and hardened his voice. “Open this door or I’ll open it for you.”

Violet sparks flared at his fingertips. Fiercely he reeled in the billowing surge of psi fire sizzling through his channels before he lost control and blew Dex’s door through the opposite wall. Tonight he wanted to talk to Dex, not fight him. And a full-out assault would only trigger all those primitive Mogadon instincts Dex was always striving to suppress.

Apparently some god with a fondness for bisexual adolescent telepaths decided to take pity on Nero’s awkward dilemma and whisper a word of reason in Dex’s ear. With a chirp, the maglock released and the door swung wide.

“Finally.” Pushing out a breath, Nero strode into the moonlit darkness. “What the hells, Dex…”

His words stuttered to a stop.

In the narrow confines of the shadowy cabin whose angles and corners he knew by heart, Dex stood silhouetted against the viewport. Wearing nothing but an insubstantial pair of sleeping trousers that clung to his supple hips and spectacular ass.

The light of Paragon’s three moons limned his broad shoulders and corded back and bulging triceps in a way that made Nero burn to sink his teeth in and just nibble his way down the guy’s body. Starlight flamed in Dex’s cropped golden hair and caressed the sun-bronzed skin Nero longed to trace with his tongue.

Nero sucked in a hit of oxygen to clear his damn head and felt his senses spin. He was already half-drunk on lotus pollen, a seductive sweetness like spicy sugar tickling the back of his throat. Now his head was reeling with the potent kick of Dex’s scent—that heady whiff of pheromones Mogadon males exuded that telegraphed aggression, territoriality, or arousal.

Nero ached to know which of those stimuli was driving Dex tonight.

Ferociously he fought back the temptation to shove aside his inconvenient ethics, peek inside Dex’s brain, and find out for himself. And screw his farking ethics and screw his best friend’s privacy.

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About The Author

AUTHOR PIC - Anticipated Angel - Laura Navarre

A long time ago in a galaxy far away, Laura Navarre was an award-winning dark historical romance author for Harlequin, while her diabolical twin Nikki Navarre wrote sexy spy romance.

In a daring bid to escape a global pandemic, armed only with an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction and a professional background in weapons of mass destruction, Laura voyaged through a wormhole to an alternate universe where she crafts turbocharged, epic, hyper-erotic poly science fiction romance starring three sexy bi heroes, one seriously kickass heroine, and plenty of sizzling outer space action.

Interstellar Angel is a steamy, angsty, enemies-to-lovers MMMF poly sci fi action romance and your gateway to the Astral Heat universe, where Star Wars meets 50 Shades by way of The Hunger Games. Outer space adventure just got a whole lot hotter!

Social Media

Website: https://www.LauraNavarreSciFi.com

Facebook (Personal): https://www.Facebook.com/LauraNavarreAuthor

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Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/LauraNavarre

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/LauraNavarreAuthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/LauraNavarre

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Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Laura-Navarre/e/B004NG6CTK/

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Release Blitz: The Q by Rick R. Reed

The Q | Rick R. Reed

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Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: February 1st, 2021

Heat Level: 2 – Fade to Black Sex

Pairing: Male/Female, Male/Male, Female/Female

Length: 51,500

Buy Links:

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Blurb

Step out for a Saturday night at The Q—the small town gay bar in Appalachia where the locals congregate. Whose secret love is revealed? What long-term relationship comes to a crossroad? What revelations come to light? The DJ mixes a soundtrack to inspire dancing, drinking, singing, and falling in (or out) of love.

This pivotal Saturday night at The Q is one its regulars will never forget. Lives irrevocably change. Laugh, shed a tear, and root for folks you’ll come to love and remember long after the last page.

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Excerpt

The Q
Rick R. Reed © 2021
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One: Hey Bartender!

Mary Louise hated the term fag hag.

It was demoralizing, conjuring up an image of an older woman, heavyset, with too much makeup and hair that was too big. She would be sitting at home with her two cats, Will and Grace, drinking Cosmos alone and streaming Queer as Folk or Queer Eye while she waited for one of her gay male friends to call to shape and determine the extent of her social life. She’d maybe drink a little too much and laugh a little too loud. She’d play wingperson and watch wistfully from the sidelines as her cohorts paired off for an evening, a week, a month, or a lifetime. She’d tell her friends and family who’d never darkened the threshold of a gay bar that she liked going to them because she didn’t get hit on by predatory losers and she could let her hair down.

She knew the stereotype because for many years she’d been it—well, maybe not exactly, but close enough to make her cringe at the memory.

Sure, she still owned cats (or they her, far more likely), who were Siamese and not named Will and Grace, but Harry and Sally. Her hair had never been big and her idea of great TV was streaming the Golden Girls on Hulu. “Okay, so that’s a little gay,” she heard Sophia saying in the back of her mind. Her drinking taste leaned much more toward beer or a nice glass of whiskey, neat.

She’d broken free of being the wingwoman to the various gay men she befriended. She’d gotten rid of the idea that her happiness depended on a man, gay or otherwise.

She still laughed too loud and probably always would. One of her friends, Mort, delighted in acting out a scene with her from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf when she let loose with one of her ear-splitting laughs. He’d accuse her of braying, and she’d respond, in her best Elizabeth Taylor, “I don’t bray,” and then command him to make her another gin and tonic. He always would comply and would sheepishly respond, “All right. You don’t bray.”

Mort had been gone since 1992, when AIDS took him at the tender age of twenty-eight. Mary Louise still missed him and kept a picture of the two of them, taken while on vacation in Provincetown, a year before Mort was diagnosed. She’d look at that photograph of the two of them, arms slung around each other on Commercial Street, and her eyes would well with tears, even though it had been close to thirty years since Mort had passed in an AIDS ward in a Pittsburgh hospital with only Mary Louise at his side. That loss still was tragic, not only because of Mort’s tender age, but because he was so alone. His partner, Nate, and his folks in Shippingport had abandoned him, the former claiming he couldn’t stand to see him this way and the latter voicing concerns that they might catch the virus. He was your son! She’d wanted to scream at the parents. He needed your arms around him. He needed you to see him. He was your lover! she’d say to Nate. His dying and death wasn’t about you and your fragile feelings.

Mary Louise hoped there was a special place in hell waiting for all three of them.

She’d watched many of her friends succumb to the virus before protease inhibitors came onto the scene, turning what was a death sentence into a somewhat manageable condition. She’d never stop mourning the loss of so many beautiful men.

When the fallout from all this was over, for all practical purposes, Mary Louise found herself bereft of friends. That’s when she decided to pack up and move back to her home town of Hopewell, where her mom and two sisters still lived. There was comfort in coming home to a place where her roots were deeply embedded, even if the area was blighted with poverty. It was still some of the most beautiful countryside Mary Louise could imagine.

Chicago had suddenly seemed too big and, at the same time, paradoxically empty. There were so many reminders—the Boystown strip along Halsted, the Baton Club on Clark, the Swedish restaurant Ann Sather next to the Belmont L stop—all of these places and so many more held more painful memories than she could count, even if they had the power to make her smile and laugh. She figured time and distance would transform the painful memories into joyous ones.

But each recollection of a night of drunken revelry out with her boys or a bleary-eyed brunch the morning after, were a hot touch to her grief, a pain that may have softened, but never went away. Mary Louise was grateful—she’d never willingly give up the hurt. She wanted to hold onto these memories of her boys forever. Despite the fact she was a bit of a stereotype and fit the fag hag profile pretty much to a T, the days and nights in Chicago with her circle of gay friends had been some of the happiest days of her life. And she didn’t even realize it at the time. Wasn’t that always the way?

Hopewell brought a sense of quiet, with its looming tree-covered hills—the foothills of the Appalachians and its position on a winding curve of the mud-brown Ohio River.

Moving back had simplified her life, even if it drained a lot of the bustle and color from it. In Chicago, she never walked alone; the streets, no matter the time of day or night, were always busy. In Hopewell, she could wander and never bump into anyone.

It was her mom, at eighty-six, who needed her help with things like shopping, cooking, running errands, and chauffeuring her to doctor’s appointments. Old Trudy, as she and her sisters referred to her behind her back, refused to move in with one of them, or God forbid, the assisted living facility up the road in Newell. Trudy always said, “I live alone because I like it. They say money is the root of all evil, but the truth is it’s people.”

Mom got by with her girls. And Mary Louise, even as she sometimes got nostalgic for the bright lights and hustle of the big city, knew she was doing the right thing. She’d experienced the Chicago skyline on a clear night, Lake Michigan’s blue/aqua/gray waves crashing against the shore, and the vast diversity of people living on its shore, and no one could ever take those memories away.

Even if she was feisty, clearheaded, and mobile, no one knew how much longer Mom would be with them.

At the Q, Mary Louise still could eye the boys, flirt with them, tease them, and play matchmaker in her role as bartender.

Right now, she stood behind the bar in a pair of unflattering black orthopedic shoes. Once upon a time, Mary Louise adored a pair of CFM (come-fuck-me) pumps with four-inch spikes. Oh, how great they made her legs look back in the day! Not that many noticed in hangouts like Sidetrack or Roscoe’s.

Now, midfifties, she needed to be comfortable when she was on her feet all night. Her smile depended on it, and thus her tips.

Currently, she waited for the doors to open, which would happen in about an hour. She was blissfully alone. Well, maybe blissful wasn’t the right word because all the lights were on as she prepped citrus and olives for drinks, washed glasses, polished the bar, and made sure the bottles behind it were stocked and ready to go.

The overhead lights cruelly stole most of the limited magic the Q possessed. And that was too bad. One of Mary Louise’s favorite characters was the tragic Blanche Dubois, from Tennessee Williams’s A Streetcar Named Desire and one of her favorite lines from the show was Blanche’s opinion that she didn’t want realism, she wanted magic. The shadows, soft lighting, and even the disco ball above the dance floor lent a kind of alchemy to the place, transforming it from run down to a setting where anything could happen, where hope lived.

Just before the doors opened, though, the joint looked tired and sad (as Mary Louise herself often felt). The cinder block walls, painted black, possessed a menacing air, like a dungeon—and not a fun one! The concrete floor, stained, showed its grit and the cracks that ran through it. Even the single long rectangle window at the front appeared dusty. Night pressed in on the tinted glass like a monster, hungry for admittance.

Stop it! Now you’re just getting crazy. Mary Louise finished her prep work and allowed herself a moment to sit on the stool she kept behind the bar. It might be her last chance for several hours to relax, if only for a few minutes. She dreaded the coming ache of her feet at evening’s end, orthopedic shoes or not.

But, oh, how she looked forward to seeing everyone! Every Saturday night was a party, and she was the hostess with the mostess.

Despite how some of the regulars could try her patience down to its last reserves, it brought her joy to watch the revelers, to serve them, to offer oblivion in a glass or a bottle. Even though her dancing days, mostly, were well behind her, she loved seeing everyone out there, bodies gyrating and spinning. Some were great, others awkward, others downright embarrassing, but to witness them cut loose after a long week was a thing of beauty, no matter their level of expertise or coordination. She especially loved some of the older patrons, who would bring their shakers of corn starch in to sprinkle on the floor, making it easier to slip and slide to the pulsing dance beat.

Gracie, Rose, and Liz were a lesbian trio that she particularly adored. Even though she’d never had much conversation with them, other than to take their drink orders, the three seemed so well-adjusted and happy, despite never once pairing off, as half the bar expected them to do. And Mary Louise, who considered herself a pretty astute observer of human nature, could tell from a mile away that Gracie was in love with Rose. So obvious! Why couldn’t Rose see it? Or did she simply not want to? Mary Louise had wondered if maybe they were a throuple, but everyone she talked to about that particular suspicion shot in down. “They’re best friends, that’s all.”

She turned as the door squeaked open. There stood Billy Breedlove, her barback and bouncer when needed (not often) in his usual garb—black combat boots, black cargo pants, and a black T-shirt that appeared to be painted on his beefy physique—looking worried.

Mary Louise was taken a little aback. For one, her breath always did a little catch in her throat when she saw him, accompanied by a skip of a heartbeat. He was a beautiful man with his muscles, his bleached-blond buzz cut, and the tattoo sleeves, wildly colorful butterflies and birds that ran down both arms. The fact that he was unattainable made him even more attractive.

And then she’d chide herself. That young man is a good twenty years younger than you, if not more. Cougar. Shame on you.

He’d once told her, when the doors were closed and the lights back on, as they concluded the evening’s business and everyone had headed home, that he was a volcel.

“What the hell’s that?” Mary Louise had asked, mystified.

“I’m an ace,” he’d said, only confusing her further.

“Voluntary celibate, asexual,” Billy told her. “I’m better off without the nasty, you know. I just don’t want it. It would be hard, no pun intended, if it didn’t work for me. But honestly, I never think about sex. Call me weird, but it works for me. And that’s all that matters.”

On hearing those words, she laughed, disbelieving. She fully expected him to laugh, too, maybe slug her in the arm for being gullible. When he didn’t join her in her laughter, her heart broke for him because she knew he wasn’t kidding. She’d pined with unrequited love for gay men most of her adult life and here was one who was most likely straight. And wouldn’t you know it? He’d sworn off sex.

The world was a hopeless place.

He’s too young for you anyway.

The second reason Mary Louise was taken aback was from the worry stamped on Billy’s face.

“There’s been an accident,” he called over. “It’s bad.”

“Oh no.” Mary Louise stood. “What happened?”

RickRReed-524x749

About the Author

Real Men. True Love.

Rick R. Reed is an award-winning and bestselling author of more than fifty works of published fiction. He is a Lambda Literary Award finalist. Entertainment Weekly has described his work as “heartrending and sensitive.” Lambda Literary has called him: “A writer that doesn’t disappoint…”

Rick lives in Palm Springs, CA, with his husband, Bruce, and their fierce Chihuahua/Shiba Inu mix, Kodi.

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Blog Tour: The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow by Jeff Jacobson

The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow | Jeff Jacobson

Broom Closet Stories #3

BANNER 1 - The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow

Release Date: December 7th, 2020

Buy Links:

Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon CAN

COVER - The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow

Blurb

What If an Evil Witch Was Controlling Your Thoughts Without You Knowing?

Soon after being whisked away to Seattle to live with an aunt and uncle he barely knew, Charlie Creevey learned that he hailed from a family of witches. After settling into this unfamiliar life, his feelings toward his new friend Diego Ramirez began to grow into something more serious. And if that wasn’t enough, he failed to stop the nefarious witch Grace and her cohort from using the dreaded deathcraft and killing his mentor Malcolm.

In Book 3 of this riveting series, Charlie discovers that Grace has gone into hiding and is acting behind the scenes. Able to influence minds in ways that were previously unheard of in the witching world, Grace compels Charlie to unwittingly do things like taking on the bullies at Puget Academy and lying to his family. The more Charlie believes he is acting of his own accord, the more Grace secretly rebuilds her strength and plots her comeback.

Will Charlie ever be able to overcome Grace and her coven? Or is Charlie destined to live life as a gay teen witch, shrouded by the evil veil of the deathcraft? And can he ever share his secret with Diego—or will he have to keep his identity as a witch hidden in the broom closet forever?

Find out in The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow.

MEME 1 - The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow

Excerpt

With a shrug, Diego set the tray down on the coffee table and sat down next to Charlie, who leaned into the taller boy’s warmth.

“That,” said Diego, looking about in wonder as he draped his arm over Charlie’s shoulder, “was epic. That was the most epic party I’ve ever been to.”

Amos came walking into the living room and pushed on Randall’s arm, indicating that he was ready to be petted.

“Are you glad they’re all gone, boy?” asked Charlie’s uncle. In reply, Amos’s tail thumped the floor, and the groan of pleasure that escaped his throat seemed answer enough as he leaned into Randall’s hand.

“I’m glad you liked it, Diego,” said Beverly. She held a mug of tea in her hand. The expression on her face seemed to be a mix of wistfulness and pleasure—or maybe something else. Charlie often couldn’t tell with Beverly.

“I thought that the trick-or-treaters would never end,” said Randall, shaking his head. “I worried we’d run out of candy. Just when you thought it was over—”

Amos barked once, sharp, then ran over to the north-facing wall, looking up at the small picture window high up near the ceiling, wagging his tail.

A yellow cat sat on a bare tree branch, peering down at the people in the living room as if holding court.

“Holy feline, that scared the crap out of me!” shouted Diego, clutching his chest.

Charlie snuck a glance at his aunt and raised his eyebrows. Was that a cat from the network? Or just some stray prowling around on the trees out front?

The slight shrug of her shoulders and the way she narrowed her eyes told Charlie she didn’t know.

The doorbell rang.

Amos barked again, then ran over to the front door. Randall and Diego jumped.

“I’m gonna have a heart attack!” Diego declared.

Charlie and Beverly looked first at the front door, then back at each other.

“Who the hell could that be?” asked Randall, starting to stand up. “Even the older kids should be done for the night.”

“Let me get it,” said Beverly, placing her hand on her husband’s knee before coming to her feet. Charlie knew it was a command, not a suggestion. Upon her secretive glance to him, he shrugged off Diego’s arm and followed his aunt to the foyer.

Two small figures stood on the front stoop, bathed in the yellow cone of light from the lamp above the door. They were dressed as ghosts, with pure white sheets stretched over their small bodies, ghoulish eye and mouth holes drawn in overly large ovals. Red droplets of paint, to mimic blood spatter, speckled their heads and upper bodies. As an added touch of the grotesque, twin ropes with frayed ends encircled their tiny necks.

Charlie’s skin prickled.

“Trick or treat!” cried the figure on the right, a boy’s voice. He couldn’t be older than five or six. The figure next to him, only an inch or two taller, stayed silent but held out an empty, plastic jack-o’-lantern. There was something demanding and greedy in its gesture.

“Oh,” said Beverly. “Hello. Isn’t it a little late for you to be out?” She craned her neck, and Charlie guessed she was looking for an adult standing beyond the front gate. The sidewalk appeared empty. “By yourselves?”

“No,” stomped the figure on the left. A girl. “We don’t have a curfew.”

Charlie watched as his aunt’s eyes widened before softening. “Well, I see. Charlie, do you think we have any leftover candy?”

“We won’t eat it. We just—” said the smaller boy.

The girl elbowed him so sharply that the boy teetered backwards. “Ow!” he shouted.

Charlie reached out and grabbed the bony shoulders of the ghost boy before he could topple off the porch, releasing his grip only when he was steady on his feet again.

“You’re not going to eat it?” asked Beverly.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Anyway, about that candy,” demanded the girl.

Something isn’t right about this, Charlie thought. But it was Halloween, right? You were supposed to give out candy to anyone who came by. Wasn’t that the unwritten rule?

He glanced up at the upper branches of the trees but could see no yellow cat.

“Charlie, wait here while I check to see if we have anything left,” said his aunt, turning around and walking back into the house.

Charlie, guessing that his aunt was up to something besides looking for leftover candy, did as he was told.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked the small figures.

The two ghosts stood still and remained silent, their black, oval eyes staring up at him—more chills over his skin. There was something downright frightening about these two little kids, standing side by side in their macabre costumes, saying nothing.

A strong gust of wind blew overhead, and the massive trees surrounding the house bowed and straightened, bowed and straightened. A car door slammed somewhere down the street, and he heard what sounded like a group of teenagers laughing and shouting.

“We just had a really big party,” he said. “Lots of people. Lots of kids.”

More awkward silence.

Charlie summoned a Word and cast it outward, double-checking that the extra-strong wards his aunt set to run the perimeter of their property were still intact.

His Word bounced back to him, healthy and intact. Nothing breached.

Now that he thought about it, that was silly. Charlie could tell that these two little kids were neither witches nor Echoes. Plus, if they had broken through the wards, Beverly wouldn’t have left him alone with them on the porch.

Then why were the hairs on the back of his neck static with electricity?

“Here we are!” said his aunt, stepping next to him on the porch. She held a small, clay bowl in her hand. In the bowl sat three ridiculously fat chocolate bars, wrapped in shiny black paper and tied with ornate orange ribbon. They definitely did not come from the trick-or-treaters’ stash they’d been using; he’d never seen them before.

“Only take one each, now,” said his aunt, leaning over and holding the bowl down at eye level with the children.

BANNER 2 - The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow

About the Series

High school life as a gay teenage witch is never easy. Ask Charlie Creevey, the boy who’s busy developing his witchcraft abilities while navigating romance with Diego Ramirez.

Forget about focusing on schoolwork, too, thanks to an evil witch and her ilk who will stop at nothing to destroy everyone around them, including Charlie and his family, for power. All he wants is some normalcy… but will Charlie ever be able to share who he really is? Or must everything remain a secret?

From paranormal adventures and a whirlwind romance, to battling evil witches and a gripping conclusion, enjoy all the thrills and excitement, in the supernatural world of the Broom Closet Stories.

AUTHOR PIC - The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow - Jeff__ Jacobson

About The Author

Jeff Jacobson was born and raised in Seattle and graduated in 1991 from the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma, Wash., with a degree in Asian studies and a minor in Chinese language (Mandarin). He works both as a coach and a trainer of coaches, and is passionate about how evolved leadership can help transform organizations, their clients, and even the world.

The Broom Closet Series emerged from a challenge/dare after Jeff Jacobson criticized other books for how they depicted witches (“Windswept hair… spells, always in Latin…” no, no, no). The friend he made these comments to called him out on his critique, noting that the authors wrote their books, not Jacobson’s. Could he write his own witchy books? In 2008, Jacobson decided to find out.

Already top sellers on Amazon, The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Straight and The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Home chart teenager Charlie Creevey’s double coming out – as a young gay man, and as a witch. He lands in the hamlet of West Seattle and becomes part of the local coven, which he needs in order to fight off Grace, a murderous villain who’s killing teens to fuel her power and control. Jacobson picks up the thread yet again in The Boy Who Chased After His Shadow as Charlie’s feelings for classmate Diego Ramirez deepen, and Grace’s pitiless murders terrify and threaten the community.

Author Website: http://www.jeffjacobsonworld.com

Author Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/jeff.jacobson.528

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