Showing posts with label suspense. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suspense. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

"Seven Minutes ‘til Midnight" by Sunniva Dee

Seven Minutes ‘til Midnight
(Rock Gods Book 3)
by Sunniva Dee

Seven Minutes ‘til Midnight (Rock Gods Book 3) by Sunniva Dee

Seven Minutes ‘til Midnight, the third standalone book in the Rock Gods series by Sunniva Dee, has just been released and is available for only $0.99 for a limited time. Also available: Walking Heartbreak and In the Absence of You.

Walking Heartbreak by Sunniva DeeIn the Absence of You by Sunniva Dee

This release blitz and giveaway is hosted by Social Butterfly PR.

A legendary drummer. An outrageous music video ... and little me blowing his ever-loving mind in it.
Next thing I knew, my anonymity was a thing of the past.
“Clown Irruption’s smash hit goes from hawt to adult!”— Star Report, April Edition.
The uncensored, all-bared footage was leaked.
And here I was, forced to stare down the same paparazzi lenses the band did.
“Meet Aishe Xodyar, the vixen who made Troy Armstrong reach Heaven on tape!”—Fan Chicks, May Edition.
I cowered behind enemy lines.
Aka joined the band on their worldwide arena tour.
It was another one of my unfortunate miscalculations.
See, Troy Armstrong was formidable.
We were polar opposites, but he still sucked me in like a magnet.
A fragile truce set in between us. Then, a mutual crush.
I had an obsessive nature, but my fixation on him was downright wholesome compared to their new merch girl’s.
“Meet Hailey Pawter, secret stalker, fangirl, and dangerously gifted lookalike.”—Tabloid Minute, June Edition.
As Hailey’s web tightened around us, love in the limelight turned from complicated to impossible.

I hear the roars from the audience as the band members get onstage one after the other. The cheers start in the pit and travel backward, growing into a sea of sound. Troy needs to follow suit immediately. He is, after all, their drummer. I watch the ever-more frustrated Troll bicker with him.
My friend nudges me in the shoulder. “Give him a kiss.” Waris keeps her voice low so I’m the only one who can hear her.
Color crawls up my face. “What? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Just give him a kiss. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but look at him. He doesn’t want to go onstage without something from you.”
My cheeks flame as I stare at him. Still arguing, his hands are in the air, lazily gesticulating. He’s about to cause their tour manager a coronary.
“You think that’s what it is?” I ask.
Waris shrugs. “Test it.”
I walk up to them, interrupting Troll’s repetition of how he’s only doing the exact same thing he always does, and how the hell is Troy worried about his cymbals now when he was fine and dandy during sound check?
“Troy?” My voice is thin with shyness, but he has no problem hearing me. He turns right away. Brave, I slide my arms around his waist. For one horrifying moment, I think he won’t receive me. But then his arms go around me too, and my heart is beating as I hug myself tighter to him than I’d planned.
The hope in his gaze makes my heart constrict. I spread my fingers up his jaw. Tip his face downward while his eyes widen for me.
One soft kiss. Another. I let my tongue out to play too, slipping in between his lips, until he’s cradling my face too.
“Jesus Christ,” the tour manager mutters. “Okay. Time to go. They’re fucking shouting your name out there. What’s wrong with you?”
“Sure thing.” Troy chuckles. His eyes narrow with happy tenderness before he gives me another kiss. “See you after?”
“I’ll be watching from the sidelines.”
His smile is magnificent as he takes a few steps backward and raises a hand in greeting. Then, he turns and jogs to the stage entrance.
Waris and I follow at a leisurely pace. I’m still smiling.
“What a difference, huh?” Waris says, winking at me.
I give her a playful eye-roll as we enter from the left side of the stage and take our seats next to Nadia and Zoe.
The audience discovers him, and the rhythmic shouts of “Troy! Troy! Troy!” dissipate in favor of a wave of cheers.
“Glad you could make it, man,” Emil, the singer, rumbles into the microphone, making us all laugh. “We were gonna be here all night anyway, so you know—whenever.”
[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt.]

Praise for the Book
“Only a skilled author would tackle a story like Troy and Aishe's. Only a great one would succeed. Thank you, Sunniva Dee, for turning the book I didn't know I wanted into one of my top reads of 2018.” ~ Alyson Santos, bestselling author
“Sunniva Dee's writing will have you transfixed, Beautiful, passionate, and mesmerizing this is one hell of a breathtaking read. I highly recommend it.” ~ Cat, Amazon reviewer
“Have you ever experienced that feeling of complete weightlessness? OMG, y'all, this book is EVERYTHING!!” ~ Lager & Lefse Book Blog
“What a fabulous story Seven Minutes 'til Midnight was. I want my own sexy drummer.” ~ Bad and Dirty Books
“A seductive example of character driven romance.” ~ A British Bookworm
“In a year when the ‘#me too’ movement is exploding, Seven Minutes ‘til Midnight takes a refreshing, honest look at male-female relationships and struggles, as well as challenging our perceptions of love, friendship (male and female), sex, celebrities, and the media.” ~ Cafekim, Amazon reviewer

About the Author
Sunniva Dee
So you know I’m a writer. I write literary romances that are full of substance and romance. I tend to write in my head all the time, like when I sleep, breath, pet cats, am forced to make dinner, and even while doing my job as an adviser for students at an art college in the South—
I mean … I—I—I write at other times too.
I love international flights when they’re delayed and my Mac and I can dive into a bar. There’s nothing better than an hour or two lost (too quickly) in pages I didn’t know were waiting for me.
I hate schedules, real life, cross-country skiing, and moodiness not inside of me. Not that I enjoy it in me. I’m just used to it, and it feeds scenes in my books, see?
I giggle at everything. I don’t judge easily. People say I’m kind/genuine/shy/stubborn/annoying/aloof/boring, but above it all, I am passionate. A Dragon of the Chinese zodiac and an Aquarius with all-the-air and the brightest color palette. Incidentally, that last fact could be why no one wants to buy the house I’ve got for sale.
But mostly, I love to write.

Enter the author’s giveaway for a chance to win a signed copy of Seven Minutes 'til Midnight by Sunniva Dee or a $25 Amazon gift card.


Tuesday, August 7, 2018

"See You Soon, Afton" by Brent Jones

See You Soon, Afton
(Afton Morrison Book 2)
by Brent Jones

See You Soon, Afton (Afton Morrison Book 2) by Brent Jones

Author Brent Jones stops by today to share an excerpt from his latest book, See You Soon, Afton. You can also read my review. This is the second book in his Afton Morrison serial thriller. Also available: Go Home, Afton (ON SALE for $0.99; read my blog post). Available for pre-order: Nice Try, Afton, Time’s Up, Afton, and The Afton Morrison Series (Books 1-4).

For more books by this author, please check out my blog post on The Fifteenth of June and my blog post on Fender.

Somebody is watching. Somebody is always watching.
A teenage girl in Wakefield has been abducted, and tracking her down not only tests Afton's moral limits, but threatens her freedom and her life.
Suspected of murder by local police, and under the watch of a menacing figure in the shadows, Afton's search and rescue effort unravels dark secrets from her own past. Familial secrets her mother took to the grave, more than a decade ago.
See You Soon, Afton is the second of four parts in a new serial thriller by author Brent Jones. Packed with grit and action, the Afton Morrison series delves into a world of moral ambiguity, delivering audiences an unlikely heroine in the form of a disturbed vigilante murderess.

I’d spent the better part of the last ten years determined to commit murder. And that meant that someday, I might find myself being interrogated by authorities. I’d practiced giving a convincing denial in the mirror at least a thousand times. But as it turned out, there’d been no need to rehearse. I really hadn’t killed Kenneth Pritchard, but that didn’t stop two uniformed officers from showing up at my apartment door a couple of days later. It was never a question of if they’d come knocking, but when. I wish, however, that they’d given me a chance to finish my breakfast. What a waste of fresh peach slices.
I’m not sure what I expected, to be honest, after arriving at the police station. I’d pictured a large interrogation room, with walls of stone, or concrete blocks, perhaps. Its temperature would be on the frigid side, and there would be an echo whenever somebody would speak. There would be a table in the center of the room, too. Long, rectangular, its surface a cold brushed steel. There would be two detectives, both dressed in expensive suits, except one of them would have his tie loosened, jacket off, and sleeves rolled up. He’d pace the room, pausing every so often to loom over me, his face a few inches from mine. And when I would profess my innocence, he’d pound his fists on the table, shouting about how I was dead to rights. There’d be a huge mirror, too, and a whole panel of interested parties on the other side, keen to dissect my statements and reactions.
But this was Wakefield, a town of no more than ten thousand. And its police force, men that had allowed Kenneth to carry on raping women with impunity, turned out to be nothing like what I’d seen in movies. I was seated in a small corner office, no bigger than five by eight feet, and sweltering hot. It was saturated with fluorescent lighting, humming overhead. The walls were a taupe color that might have been stylish decades ago, before I’d been born. There was no mirror, either. Just four walls, a door, a wooden table with chips and uneven legs, and a bumbling idiot sitting across from me.
I’d seen this nut sack on television last Wednesday night. I’d suspected then that he was the chief of police, or something like that, and it turned out, I had been right. Except today he didn’t sport a uniform with extra decorations and frills. He wore a dark polo shirt, much too small, hugging a massive gut that flopped onto his thighs. Casual attire on Saturdays, I guess. Poking out the top of his shirt was a round head. Red, nearing purple, beaded with sweat, and home to an unkempt gray mustache. Whatever scent he was wearing reminded me of gingerbread, which made it that much harder to take him seriously.
“You’re telling me, you’ve never met Kenneth Pritchard before? You’ve got no idea who he is?”
“I’ve never met him, no.” Does stalking count? “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen him, either, at least not until you, ah— wait, sorry, what did you say your name was?”
“Wallace Banks.”
I continued, but not before letting half a second of silence elapse, just to demonstrate that my answer hadn’t been premeditated. “Right, ah, Chief Banks. Well, I’d never seen him until, ah, I think it was you, sir, that I saw release him from custody on TV.”
“You sure about that?”
I concentrated on keeping my breathing neutral, and made sure not to touch my face. It wasn’t like me to fidget, but just to be safe, I kept my hands folded on my lap. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
He gave a single shallow bob of his head before turning his attention to a manila folder, and I had a feeling I knew what he was about to show me. He slid me a photograph, and I made every effort to keep the muscles in my face at ease. He’d be watching my reaction, of course. It was difficult to do, though, because I was excited to return to Kenneth’s bedroom, the scene of the crime. Thrilled, aroused even. I almost wished he’d shown me a photo of Kenneth himself, dead, throat gouged and raw and bloodied. But instead, it was a high-resolution photograph of the bedroom wall, featuring the words that had come to haunt me: GO HOME AFTON.

Praise for the Book
“When I finished this book I was freaking out!! I don’t even think I could have formed complete sentences to write my review! This book!!! It was EVEN BETTER than the first book, which was awesome!!! If you haven’t started this series, you really need to!!” ~ ~ Donna
“Woah! I read this book in one day and literally couldn’t put it down. The first Afton book was a warm up for the mystery, intrigue, and action in this second part of the series. […] I loved the suspense of it all and I’m excited to see how Afton fixes this mess in the next book.” ~ Andrea Jones
“Holy smokes! Book 2 literally sets the plot on fire with the dark and desperate attempt by Afton to find and save little Kim. […] This series is recommended for those who enjoy a fast, spicy adult thriller mix of crime, mystery, action, and suspense.” ~ Stanley McShane
“It’s hard to put this book down. But you don’t need to. This short novella will have you hooked, and in no time you’ll be left perching on the edge of your seat … waiting for Part 3.” ~ David H
“Afton cracks me up. She’s a smart ass librarian and I love her. […] I love how Brent Jones writes this character. Sure she has a foul mouth and she has an urge to kill people, but only people who deserve it. That’s logical to me, lol.” ~ Amanda, Write Where I Read

My Review
I received this book in return for an honest review.

By Lynda Dickson
With Kenneth out of the way, Afton sets her sights on The Man in Shadows, who has kidnapped Kim and is now taunting Afton. What does he want? And what is the big secret from Afton’s past?
The short, punchy chapters keep you reading, and the author maintains a brisk pace to ramp up the suspense. We find out more about Afton’s past and the origin story of her alter-ego Animus. While Animus doesn’t have as great a presence in this installment, it’s nice to see that Afton is no longer a loner but now has the support of her brother Chris, his girlfriend Tia, reporter Jared, and even library volunteer Kim.
Be warned, this is a serial novel, and you will have to read the rest of the series to get the complete story. I’m looking forward to finding out how Afton gets out of the situation she finds herself in at the end of this book.
Warnings: coarse language, sexual references, graphic violence.

Some of My Favorite Lines
“Ever the white knight. A single kiss on the cheek, and now he’s my sworn fucking protector.”
“He was trying so damned hard to be gallant, and I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not.”
“He was an asshole, sure, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered, at least not according to the standards I’d set for myself.”
“I responded with the flattest tone and blankest stare I manage. Resting bitch face, I believe it’s called.”

About the Author
Brent Jones
From bad checks to bathroom graffiti, Brent Jones has always been drawn to writing. He won a national creative writing competition at the age of fourteen, although he can’t recall what the story was about. Seventeen years later, he gave up his career to pursue creative writing full-time.
Jones writes from his home in Fort Erie, Canada. He’s happily married, a bearded cyclist, a mediocre guitarist, and the proud owner of two dogs with a God complex.

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The Matchbook by Brent Jones