Gonna take a break from the Steampunk for a hot second to take part in a blog tour for my buddies over at Stars and Stone Books.

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FOR LOVE THE BELL TOLLS

A Gothic Romance Short Story Anthology

Stars and Stone Books

 

 

Featuring:

Cara McKinnon, Sheri Queen, Read Gallo, Serena Jayne, Kylie Weisenborn, and Heather heldon.

 

 Cara McKinnon – “The Doors Between”

Can love overcome an otherworldly evil?

Sheri Queen – “The Circus Train”

Finding love isn’t easy, especially when someone wants your blood.

Read Gallo – “Blood and Petals”

How much would you change to get what you want?

Serena Jayne – “Kiss Me Dead”

With only the light of their love, Simon and Lila attempt to conquer darkness and death.

Kylie Weisenborn – “Undead Men”
When the dead become unburied, so does the truth.

Heather Sheldon – “Lost Love Found”
A haunted gift flips Mandy’s world on end, and her handsome new neighbor might be her only salvation.

CLICK HERE TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT OUR AUTHORS

What’s Next For For Love the Bell Tolls‘s authors

We asked the For Love the Bell Tolls authors what’s coming next for them in their writing careers.

 Read Gallo – “Blood and Petals”

I’m currently seeking an agent for a very large fantasy novel called Witch, Ghost, Dog, Clone and entering short story competitions.

Serena Jayne – “Kiss Me Dead”

I have a poem in the fall 2018 issue of the Oddville Press. In November, I have a crime/noir story coming out in Switchblade Magazine’s Stiletto Heeled anthology. I’m currently working on several horror short stories as well as a romance for a Stars and Stone Books anthology to be published in 2019.

Cara McKinnon – “The Doors Between”

I really, really, really, really need to finish the fourth book in my historical fantasy romance series. Ideally that will be finished and out in early 2019. Then I’m giving that series a bit of a rest and will be starting a paranormal romance series based on the short story I wrote for the Stars and Stone Books summer anthology this year (2018), Born to Love Wild.

Sheri Queen – “The Circus Train”

Two things: I am buried in research, which I love, for book 3 of my Sleepy Hollow Hunter series. The writing is coming along and I hope to get it out in the next month or two.

The other project I’m excited about is a new series set in a steampunk/gaslight environment and features some very clever women sleuths. I’m also creating mini-dolls of the characters that I’m selling at my craft shows/steampunk shows this year. The series will be out in early 2019.

Heather Sheldon – “Lost Love Found”

I’m currently editing a zombie series.

Kylie Weisenborn – “Undead Men”

My thesis project is a novel tentatively titled Just Breathe. The plan is to sell and get it published upon graduation in January. I’m also looking forward to participating in some other Stars and Stone Books anthologies next year.

 

STARS AND STONE BOOKS: http://starsandstonebooks.com/

GOODREADS: http://bit.ly/2Emfv2B

FACEBOOK RELEASE PARTY 10/30/18: http://bit.ly/2CN0Ig1
TWITTER: https://twitter.com/starsstonebooks

ANTHOLOGY WEBSITE: http://starsandstonebooks.com/for-love-the-bell-tolls

The anthology authors will be answering more questions on this blog tour! To check out all of the stops, visit: https://www.starsandstonebooks.com/blog-tour.

My novella “The Scribbling Windhund” appeared in The Fantasist

Get it free here!

Otto Lang thinks it’s a joke when he’s asked to hear and record the confession of a terrorist in his globally-read Unprofessional Opinion Column. He’s more used to writing about cravats, coats, and men’s trinkets than serious topics like the fourteen-year-old kidnapping of Prussia’s last princess. Yet when Otto meets Karl Schneider, he is immediately impressed by his intelligence, humor, and the very sane way he talks about utterly conspiratorial ideas. As Otto digs beneath the pristine surface into the dark secrets of his perfect world, he begins to wonder if the prisoner is the real patriot.

Selection from “The Scribbling Windhund”

Fri. June 15th, 134 SE
If I had any wisdom, I wouldn’t record a private diary on a contraption where entries can be easily reproduced, but I have neither shame nor wisdom, and I’m beyond lazy about personal discretion. Besides I’m positively bursting with news I legally can’t share with anyone.
Elsie received a letter from Gefängnisturm. Yes, The Gefängnisturm. Vitally important, hideously ugly, black tower prison tower, which provides life and safety to all who dwell in its shadow but mars the otherwise heavenly skyline of Stadtoben.
When she first told me Ben the Stoic had written to me, asking to be interviewed by me, to confess publicly to his crimes of terrorism to me. Well, simply I thought Elsie was joking.
When she insisted, I scoffed. I’m only a fashion writer. It had to be a hoax.
Then Elsie admitted she received the letter nearly a week ago. She hadn’t told me because she wanted confirmation of the letter’s validity from the warden of Gefängnisturm.
I was utterly stunned. Firstly, because Elsie had kept a secret from me. Just last week, I went on record with Rolf Clausen saying it was utterly ridiculous. Won’t I look like a fool, now?
And secondly, what does a terrorist want with a fashion critic? I’ve done my share of human interest pieces, no mistake. Interviewed opera singers and authors and historians for my Friday column. I mean to sit that Pascal Selig down one day and get his story. But a terrorist? That sort of personality doesn’t really suit Rainer Liebling’s frivolous sensibility.
So, Elsie and I went back and forth, about it.
I said it was silly for me to write it.
She said no one else could.
I said I didn’t want to.
She said it would be good for my career if I ever intended on being taken seriously.
I maintained I have no intention of ever being taken seriously.
And here my clever little editor trapped me.
She said, “Well, if that’s the way you feel. It’s probably for the best. The warden at Gefängnisturm wasn’t going too keen on letting a zleute in.”
Oh, wait, that’s incorrect. She said zweiteleute, because Heavens forbid the great Elsie Simper use any kind of slang.
Now, I know Elsie isn’t stupid enough to think she was being subtle. Partly because she knows full well, she doesn’t have to be. That’s a gauntlet I can’t walk away from since there is absolutely no good reason for a zleute to be kept from legitimate journalism if he wants to pursue it.
I took the letter and disappeared into my office to research for the rest of the day, and if it weren’t for Dear Secretary Clara, I would have forgotten lunch with Hans.

Tues. June 19th, 134 SE
Dear Readers of Der Stadtoben Spiegel, I know I promised a discussion on various styles of gentlemen’s wigs, but you’ll have to forgive me for breaking my routine a day early.
It is with deepest and most humble satisfaction that I can, at last, confirm the rumors circulating in the gossip forums (Sorry Herr Clausen, Darling, I had to lie to you). I’ve been taking great delight in watching this debate, knowing but unable to share the truth. As unlikely as it would seem, three weeks ago, I indeed received a request from Prisoner 16 asking to tell his story in my widely read Unprofessional Opinions Column.
Fourteen years ago, Prisoner 16, known in the popular imagination as Ben the Stoic due in part to his notorious refusal to speak, was arrested for his involvement in the abduction of Höchste Tebelde Albrecht, Prussia’s last princess. Though he was found guilty and has been imprisoned for his part in the crimes, without his confession the death penalty is unlawful. That being understood, if the gentleman wishes to face execution in order to tell his story, I would whole-heartedly offer him the pen.
Under my powers, I would have interviewed him the very day I received letter. However, Gefängnisturm, for good reasons, historically bans zleute from entry, even highly lauded professionals such as myself. Over the past three weeks, the staff here at Der Stadtoben Spiegel has been negotiating with the authorities and the man himself in hopes of finding an acceptable way to present Prisoner 16’s story to the public.
While, we offered to send a primäreleute—specifically, the esteemed Frau Elsbeth Simper— the prisoner made it abundantly clear he will speak to no one but me. A dubious honor, to be sure.
Last night representatives at Gefängnisturm officially denied my request for an audience.
I write this specific column to set the rumors to rest and to indicate Der Stadtoben Spiegel’s ongoing commitment “to do our all to report all.” I am not afraid to enter the prison tower, nor to speak to a prisoner. As far as I can ascertain, I am not the target of a madman’s obsession, though I appreciate my concerned readers for their flattery. Nor is the story a hoax presented by Der Stadtoben Spiegel’s staff, our subscriptions are doing quite well, thank you. Nor is there a conspiracy to prevent the ruling families from obtaining new information about Höchste Tebelde’s whereabouts. At least none that I am aware of.
I appeal to Ben the Stoic to reconsider and to speak his truth to Frau Elsbeth Simper.

Owned by the Alpha: Manlove was a best-seller on Amazon in the LGBT Anthology Category.

Get it here from Evernight

Or here from Amazon

My story in Owned by the Alpha is “The Scarf”

When a teenage lioness covered in bites and blood shows up outside his office, Tru, a lone wolf and police consultant, investigates her claims that a wolf pack is sexually assaulting other shifters in Down City. Tru starts with a scarf, used to bandage the lioness’ wounds, and becomes obsessed with the scent of a fox he doesn’t know, can’t trust, but badly needs.

Selection from “The Scarf”

“Do we have the alpha?”
“No. But the lioness says he’s all over Down-City.” Uzegar reaches into his coat to bring out an evidence bag. “Had to wrestle this from her.”
“What is it?” Something sky-blue and blood-brown is inside the plastic.
“Scarf. She got help on her way out. Won’t tell us about it, but…” Uzegar scans his report. “Figure it’s a place to start.”
Joyce’s blood soaks one end of the scarf. Otherwise it’s soft and clean as I bring it to my nose and sniff. That may be the last sane thought I’ll ever have.
The scent strangles me with longing.
Fox. Cedar-rose cologne. Touch of magic. Notes of wine. Clean, deeply arousing fragrance. Not that I have a thing for foxes. Not that I would think twice about cedar-rose cologne—applied sparingly, just enough to mask the animal musk for humans—if I passed a shifter wearing it in the street. Except, if I passed this fox in the street, I’d have to haul him into the nearest dark place and fuck the shit out of him.
Uzegar doesn’t notice. “You done?”
“No.” I breathe deep at the scarf. I’m not giving this back. I need this smell. Need to hold it in my lungs until I can hold that fox. “It’s, uh, faint and … important. I need to keep the scarf.”
Uzegar shrugs. “There’s a history of wolf attacks below Tenth Street.”
I don’t care about wolf attacks. The lioness, her blood, and desperation, are a distant memory. My world has turned into the scent of a fox. He wore this scarf often. Days of his life are imprinted in the slippery silk.
Uzegar is still talking. What about?
“…sniff around Down-City. See if there’s anything to her story.”
My fox is effeminate, the type of man who wears women’s scarves. He needs my protection. Maybe he’s scared … alone. He’ll catch my scent. He’ll want me. He’ll trust me.
“Tru, you listening?”
“Uh…” My head swims and my eyes hurt from too much light. My cock throbs and I’m in awe Uzegar can’t hear my heart banging.
His eyes narrow. “You mad or something?”
Mad? Sure. Stark-raving mad. Wild-animal-who-shouldn’t-live-in-a-city mad. “No, I hear ya. I just need…”
To find and fuck this fox. Right now.

Reveiws from Goodreads:

“Wonderful fantasy world building. Great relationship development. Sex was hot and sensual.”

“The story by Longo was so original – it had the feel of an old Sam Spade crossed with a western with just a dash of steampunk or Mad Max. That’s not the story at all, just the feeling it evoked in me. Dimi and Truman are great characters and work to understand each other in the dangerous and precarious world they live in. I enjoyed witnessing their beginning.”

Hiring the Tiger: Heart of the Mountain 1 is my second novel at Evernight.

Get it here from Evernight

Or here from Amazon

A tiger shouldn’t be picking tea-leaves and carrying luggage, but that’s the only job Navarro sees in his future. He’s learned to be humble since he and his friends, a wolf pack, exchanged their former careers as highway robbers for prison.
Then Lady Jasprite Doughton, a merchant with all the grace of the far East and the wealth of the West, whirls through the village on the back of a dragon and reminds Navarro what it means to want something. With her dominating sexual tastes and her powerful personality, Jasprite challenges his body, his lust, his loyalty to his friends, and his own worth.
After all, is gold enough to buy a tiger?

Selection from Hiring the Tiger

Nav worried she wouldn’t like the look of the bands, too dirty, too bold. Then he scoffed because he didn’t give a damn if she liked the look of them. Then he worried she’d decide he was a frivolous expense.
Fuck the bet, he’d take for her free. Now, he wanted her.
Now she was here.
He smelled her in the hallway, potent and sexual. She walked with quick long strides and opened the door before he could decide if he ought to be found in the balcony or on the bed.
Jasprite locked the door after she entered, then dropped the key into her front vest pocket. She grinned at him, the kind of leer men give the village girls washing their clothing at the river. It made him feel curiously misplaced.
“So, the captain was wrong. The chest was delivered safe and whole. You didn’t even open it.”
“I didn’t have the key.” He’d resisted the desire to pick it. “Ramsay also said you ought to hire a soldier to do this work.”
“A miscreant will do the job more thoroughly.” She pulled off her suit jacket and hung it on a wall hook, never taking her eyes from him. “Though, I’ll be honest, I don’t like animals. Especially large ones. They don’t take direction well. Your witch said—”
“Yenna’s not like that.” He wasn’t some creature who belonged to another woman and had been cast aside. It was vitally important that she know. “She never—”
“Don’t interrupt me.”
Nav’s lip curled before he could control his face.
“Ms. Yenna said you’re a tiger.”
Nav grinned. “She’s not wrong.”
The lady’s eyebrow rose with annoyance. He wasn’t playing properly. He tried to be timid again. “Did you want proof, Lady Doughton?”
“Never had a tiger for hire.” She grinned at her name then pulled the string of jewels out of her bun, plucked something from the string, and tossed something over to him. He caught a key. “Open the chest.”
He knelt and opened the red chest with a game smile.
The smile left quickly. “Holy Hades…”
Under the layers of cotton were shackles, collars, whips. Long thick phallic statues of carved and polished wood, glass, and shining metal molded for a very specific purpose. Gags, hoods, dozens of other toys he’d never seen even in the most wicked books.
She chuckled, not a pleasant sound. “I knew you wouldn’t be ready.”
“Uh…” He looked from the box to her. He wanted her strong thighs, those tempting breasts, her cruel smile. But the box … men were supposed to use toys like that, not women.
“You like my collection?”
“I don’t know, actually.”
She hummed, unimpressed with his answer. She sauntered over and peered with him into her box of deviance. Her thighs were level with his face, and he inhaled the rich fresh wetness between her legs. He wanted her so much.
Nav swallowed, uncomfortable on his knees. He should have been the one staring down at her. She should have been the one to feel small and desired. Instead, she’d made him nothing more than his throbbing cock and his wordless mouth.
“Yes, this is exactly my problem with large animals. Especially ones that belong to other women.” She gripped his chin.
“I don’t belong to Yenna.”
She grinned. “I know who you belong to.”
Nav shivered a little at the ownership in her confidence.
Jasprite let him go. “I do like a pretty face though. So, I’ll make an exception for you, tiger.”
She could still tell him no? He wasn’t sure he had the option himself.
The woman unbuttoned her vest. “Pick out what you’ll let me use on you and I’ll tell you what you’re worth.”

Review from Goodreads:

“If a story laced with heavy doses of kink (erotica) is your thing, then you’re going to most definitely want to purchase Hiring the Tiger.”

My first novella with Stars and Stones Publishing

Get it here from Stars and Stones

Or from Amazon

My story is “Seaweed and Silk”

Svildna is not type of mermaid who suns herself on the ice all day. She can kill a shark, scour a keel, and patch a sail as easy as they comb their hair. So she’s more than capable of escorting The Apple Jack and its crew to the warmer southern waters. When a storm blows the ship off course, she finds herself in dangerous waters, under suspicion, and falling in love with the last man she’d expect.

Selection from “Seaweed and Silk”

“Gonna be a bitch of a storm.” Gekko grumbles above me at the bow of the Apple-Jack.
The sunrise, redder than a seal pup’s blood, bathes the ice flows and turns the sea black. The ice and salt shatter on the hull and water flares around my tail in chilly splashes. I grab hold of the bowsprit and lean out of the merrow-bench to see the goblin.
Gekko shivers on deck, bundled to her long green nose in her over-sized quilt.
I smile up at her. “G’ mornin’, Ms. Wizard. Never saw you awake this early. Will you disappoint the wolves and take your share of breakfast today?”
I’m not sure what a wolf is. Four of the crew—and there’s only eight of us on this empty freighter—are wolves. The leader of them, fella named Nick, told me a wolf is a kind of animal. Sounded like a shark, only one that travels on land and in schools.
The wind-chill reddens the tip of Gekko’s nose and floppy long ears. A goblin from the tropics, even a wizard like her, has no business this far north. “Can you feel that storm, Seaweed?”
“I’m a mermaid, ain’t I?” I don’t expect the crew to speak my name. Svilnda is apparently too hard for land-dwellers. “Told Captain about it last night. By the course he set, he means to barrel under it before it breaks.”
“Hope we’re fast enough.” Gekko clutches her blankets tighter.
To soothe her, I make a show of my magic and move a chunk of ice away from the bit of iron, canvas, and wood keepin’ us afloat. “Captain knows what he’s doing.”
“More than you certainly.” The goblin plops down at the rail and glares at the wild water.
Waves chop across the horizon. Little mountains of white foam with occasional towers of ice to break the endless ripple of water. Below the surface, a whale keens for her calf; I hear the gentle giant in my mind. They’re runnin’ from the storm.
“Did you talk to Tan about it?” Gekko wants to know.
Thoughts of the storm disappear, as if the danger of tumultuous skies cannot coexist with Tan and his warm smile.
It’s a funny thing about Tan and his smile. He’s fierce ugly when you don’t know him. The fella is enormously tall and made of stone. I don’t know about his race—it’s sure not one I ever heard of, though I suspect stone-people don’t make a habit of swimmin’ in deep water. My point is, between the pebbles across his face, and the way his big arms grate when he moves, and the way he never covers the wide swathes of stone sheets that make up his chest, Tan should not be a pleasant man to behold. But once he smiles—and he’s always smiling as soon as he notices there’s people to smile at—you hardly notice the strange hardness of him. Soon, Tan’s tellin’ yarns in that lovely deep voice of his, or whistling soft, sweet melodies, or laughin’ because he thinks it’s funny that you don’t know to call what he wears an ‘apron’ and not a ‘dress.’ It’s hard not to like him.
The name Seaweed is Tan’s fault, but I’d never hold it against him. He likes to tease and he thinks it odd that I wear woven kelp instead of seashells. Seashells are for the mindless rich maids who sun themselves on the ice all day and comb their hair and flirt with sailors and other idle fools. I’m not pretty, or rich, or idle. I’m a merrow who can scour your keel, weave you a seaweed shirt, or patch your sail. I can tan a seal skin and kill a gurry shark better than I can comb my hair.
No, I’m not pretty. I’m part of the crew. Though, Tan, when he smiles… well, that would make anyone feel like she was wearing silk instead of seaweed.
“Mermaid! Did you—”
“Why would I talk to the ship cook about the storm?” Of course, a fella’s smile ain’t a good reason to ignore a goblin wizard waiting for your half of the conversation. “What’s he gonna do? Bake it away?”
Gekko snorts. “Don’t be nasty, mermaid. Tan’s got more experience with ships than you ever will. Knostman only hired you because you were cheaper than any other merrow. It was a mistake and I’m not much interested in being aboard the ship that suffers from a water-witch’s learning curve.”
I stare hard at the sea until I’m sure I’ve swallowed my pride. No sense in annoying a wizard. Not when she’s right.

The Dishonest Lover was my first novel with Evernight, an Editor’s Pick, and ARe bestseller.

Get it here from Evernight

Or here from Amazon

When a dangerous gang threatens his family, Irish thug, George Morrison is forced to abduct a fleeing con-artist and hold him over the Christmas holiday. But Roy, the escaping American, turns out to be the most charming and seductive man George has ever met.
With only a few hours until the gang shows up to kill Roy, George has to earn Roy’s trust and come up with a plan to save him or they might both end up dead.

Selection from The Dishonest Lover

“Another beer, cutie?” The man behind the counter sashayed and winked at him.
George nodded trying not to see the bartender.
“Sure I can’t interest you in something hard? We serve great cocktails. Sex with the bartender is my favorite.”
George shut his eyes and blocked out the suggestive remark. “No, but thanks. Just another Guinni.”
The bartender went away and George could breathe again. He had to figure out a way to get a hold of Dizie and get Roy into his car. Had to stop thinking about sex.
How to do that? When right there was the dance floor. Male bodies grinding. George had no idea there were that many gay men in Galway, though with the tourists…
Boyish cheeks leaned against neatly trimmed beards. Lips on ears. Bulges in tight jeans or tenting pressed trousers, over here rubbing against the firm globe of another man’s ass, over here against a stranger’s thigh, then his hand. Sex just there for the asking. All George’s dirty DVDs came to life and surrounded him in this prissy club, suffocating him with the heat and promise, drowning him in the scent of wine, sweat, and his own desire.
Then Roy stumbled out of the crowd, smiling, laughing at someone else’s joke or maybe his own happy thoughts.
Roy grinned wider seeing George. “You’re still here! Merry Christmas Eve to me.”
His eyes shone with too much liquor and he staggered toward George, then fell into his chest. Instinctively, George caught him under his arm to bolster him. He’d caught many falling drunks in order to sit them down and call a taxi.
But Roy was different. For one thing, Roy hugged him.
George’s breath sucked out of him. Accident of gravity, sure. Just a faltering step, sure. But the look in those big brown eyes, the way his fingers lingered to trace a circle over the flannel of George’s shirt, made George’s cock lunge.
“Hello there.” George tried to steady the American on his feet. “I think you’re drunk, mate.”
Roy closed the gap between them. No accident. Not in the way the American pressed his lean body against George’s mass and squeezed away any space between skin and muscle. “As an otter in a Kansas cornfield.”
“Is that a real expression ’cross the pond or just drunk nattering?”
The bartender returned with George’s beer and cooed with approval.
“No! It’s not like that. He’s just—” George tried to step away from Roy, but the bar prevented him and besides Roy was … Roy took his hand.
George was aware he was stronger, that he could easily break the drunken hold on his wrist and pull away, but his hand went obedient and limp where Roy lead it. His fingers settled on the swell of Roy’s ass. George trembled weakened by the wave of desire.
“What’re you doing, Roy?”
Roy was smiling. “It’s yours for the asking, Cowboy.”
Fuck.
George stared at him, lacking the strength to move away. Instead, he found the fresh beer and drank half in one gulp. “You’re … paralytic drunk, man.”
“Can we anyway?” Roy’s entire weight hung on George’s arm, so much trust, so poorly placed.
George sipped the beer. It was a way to get him to his car, to keep him close until Dizie could tell him what to do. Take him home. Be a gentleman, put him on the couch. Yeah. That was the way.
“I don’t care that you’re into girls.” Roy rubbed his body against the boulder in George’s trousers, spoke near his ear. “I just want you.”
On its own volition, George’s hand squeezed Roy’s ass. So taut. That’s what was meant when they talked about a juicy bottom. The music, some British bitch crooning over and over again “take me, take me home”, pulsed through his body. His blood matched the beat and his cock hammered along.
“Fuck…” George muttered.
“That’s the idea.” Roy’s lips moved at George’s ear, then lower and Roy kissed him.
Not just a little peck, either. A mouths-parting, tongues-tangling kiss. It stole George’s breath, will, and senses.
A kiss from a dead man. Fuck.
George was undone. Before he could think to stop, before he could reorient himself and this man he intended to betray, George grabbed Roy’s ass with both his hands. He squeezed the soft mounds tight and jerked him even closer.
“You have no idea the hurt you’re in for, riling me up like that, you fuckin’ slut.”
Roy’s mouth opened in a kind of happy shock.
“But if it’s cock you’re after, you’ll get it.”

Reviews from Goodreads:

“IIf you’re looking for a Dark Romance Look no further! When Roy decides to sneak out after his roommate comes home with a crazy plan, he doesn’t realize that he will be in danger. George, aka, Cowboy, has been forced into kidnapping Roy during Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. After meeting George, Roy convinces him to go clubbing with some of his friends. Roy seduces George and George takes him home to his apartment. When the two get together, it is hot. The scene in the warehouse contains some pretty hot role playing.”

“No good can come from crossing the mob, right? Well if you answered yes then you would be wrong. Roy is on the run from the Silent Skulls, the German mob. He has something they want, 20,000 euros. To get it back they have hired George Morrison to abduct him and find their missing loot. George does in fact find their money but, more importantly, he found something more valuable. Passion. Love.
In a small span of time, these two men shared a passion neither has every experienced with another. To say their scenes were simply hot would be putting it mildly. L.J. Longo designed some extremely kinky scenes. So kinky, at times, chains were included. One bondage encounter had almost pushed my comfort limits but it turned out for the best in the end. Both men were okay with the extreme play. Ropes, chains, it’s all good in my book as long as every party is consenting to the act.”

“Intense, gritty, and a little crazy from start to finish, but oh, so good. Roy’s version of his Peace Corps duty lands him in a fastly escalating bad situation. He makes the decision to run, trying to make his way home from Europe without being caught by the bad guys. Only, in this story, there are only bad guys. Sure, there is a scale running from what might be called aiding and abetting to the more hardcore human trafficking and murder, but all primary characters fall somewhere on that scale. That doesn’t stop me from becoming invested in Roy’s plight or George’s dilemma, from hoping for a solution, or from rooting for their success. I truly wish their story was longer or maybe continued, kind of like after a delicious meal where you find you really want a second helping.”