📖 Publication Day Spotlight and Book Excerpt ~ Steven Manchester

Delighted to welcome author Steven Manchester back to the blog to share an excerpt from his latest novel, Lawn Darts and Lemonade which is published today.

It’s here!!! Lawn Darts & Lemonade is a nostalgia-filled novel about growing up in a whacky family during the 1980s. Boom boxes, leg warmers and Rubik’s Cubes—it’s all there. A hysterical walk down memory lane!

Luna Bella Press
8 March 2022

It’s the summer of 1984, a season of dodging lawn darts and chugging lemonade—or at least the discolored tap water Ma tried to disguise as lemonade.

Growing up is never easy, no matter what era you do it in. For generations, teenagers have suffered peer pressure, bullying, fear of rejection, and a sadistic obstacle course of one unexpected challenge after the next. Three brothers, Wally, Herbie, and Cockroach, learn that the past can be filled with questions—even shame and regret—while the future might be shrouded in worry and fear. But staying in the moment, now that’s where the sweet spot is.

Here's a tantalising taste of what's to come 

in LAWN DARTS & LEMONADE

Armed with everything I needed for a full afternoon of sunbathing—a blanket, a bottle of baby oil, a half bag of Big League Chew and a Capri Sun juice pouch that I found buried at the back of the fridge—I brought the pristine boom box out to the yard. As I set up camp, I realized how significant this investment was. There was no extension cord long enough to reach the house, so I had no choice but to use eight D-cell batteries. At R&S Variety, this meant nearly a four-dollar loss, or a good percentage of my paper route’s weekly wages. On top of that, I’ll have to spend some God-awful afternoon playing the worst video game Atari ever released.

Ma didn’t have any beach towels and she would have screamed her head off if I’d used any of her “good” bathroom towels—which were nothing more than a stack of frayed and ratty cotton cloths stacked in the closet.

Instead, I claimed my territory on an old cowboy-themed blanket that Cockroach had grown too mature for. This certainly wasn’t the first time that same blanket had been used outdoors. I laughed, remembering when Cockroach and I once played Lone Ranger and Tonto, That wasn’t all that long ago. It felt strange, but I was already missing the old days.

The Wild West blanket was badly stained—probably from Pop changing the oil on the station wagon—but it had been washed and was clean. I knew this to be true because I was sharing the laundry duties with Wally now.

As I lay prone on my back, the boom box played one hit after the next: Hold Me Now by The Thompson Twins, I Can Dream About You by Dan Hartman, Electricity by OMD, Sunglasses at Night by Corey Hart, Drive by The Cars, Sister Christian by Night Ranger—one awesome song after another.

Barefoot and carefree, I took a few deep breaths and could feel the sun kiss my skin. The sky was sapphire blue, with a few wispy clouds floating by. A perfect day to get a tan, I thought, before scanning the sky for any sign of killer bees.

Between songs, the only sound was the draft of passing cars on the hot tar road out in front of the house.

Before long, I was sweating profusely and detecting the scent of chicken roasting. That smells good, I thought, my stomach churning. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. And then it hit me. That’s not chicken. That’s my skin burning.

Choosing baby oil over Coppertone, I continued to bake in the sun. The tan will be worth it, I decided, I just need to rough it out for a while.

Although Donna and her friends used Sun In in their hair, my hair was already bleached blonde from several months of relentless sun.

Although I didn’t sleep, I did slip into a trance-like state of mind—perhaps from heat exhaustion, quickly heading toward heat stroke.

Sting from The Police was halfway through their popular song, Every Breath You Take, when I finally tapped out. I can’t take it anymore, I thought. My eyes were stinging from the constant flow of sweat and my lips felt like cracked asphalt stuck to my face. As I got to my feet, my head was swimming. I need to get out of here and find shade. I stumbled a few steps, staggering toward the house like it was some mirage in the dessert. I need water…bad.

Upon returning the giant portable entertainment center, Cockroach conducted a final inspection, removing the D cell batteries from the back. “I don’t want them exploding and corroding the rear compartment like Wally’s did.” He handed the used batteries back to me. “We’re good,” he said. “Just let me know when you’re ready to play E.T.?”

I nodded. “I will,” I said, hoping to push it off for as long as possible.

For all of my time and effort, I suffered the worse sunburn ever. My abdomen resembled a candy cane, striped in different shades of red. The pain was excruciating every time I moved.

“Lather this on,” Ma said, handing me a half-empty bottle of sticky green aloe. “It might be uncomfortable at first, but it’ll cool your skin.”

“Does it hurt?” Pop asked, struggling not to smile.

I nodded, wincing from the cool touch of aloe.

“It could be worse,” he said.

“How?” I asked, panting for breath.

“It could be me,” he said, grinning.

Ma slapped his leg. “These boys are gonna grow up someday and be bigger than you,” she said, teasing him, “and then you’ll be sorry.”

His grin disappeared. “Not matter how big these boys get, they’ll never raise a hand to me.” He looked at me and his smile returned. “They’ve been raised better than that.”

Still applying the cold aloe, I managed a nod. He’s right.

Wally continued to stare at me, shaking his head. “You look like the Heat Miser.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to grimace in pain and add to his joy.

“Poor guy,” Wally said, finally allowing himself to laugh, “I bet his hurts really bad.”

©Steven Manchester

About the Author

Steven Manchester is the author of the #1 bestsellers Twelve Months, The Rockin’ Chair, Pressed Pennies and Gooseberry Island; the national bestsellers, Ashes, The Changing Season and Three Shoe boxes; the multi award-winning novel, Goodnight Brian; and the beloved holiday podcast drama, The Thursday Night Club. His work has appeared on NBC’s Today Show, CBS’s The Early Show and BET’s Nightly News.

Twitter @authorSteveM

Website

Amazon  Amazon UK

Blog Tour ~ The Evil Within by S M Hardy

Delighted to host a stop on this blog tour

Allison and Busby
19 March 2020

My thanks to the publishers for my ecopy of this book
and the invitation to be part of this blog tour

On the brink of a breakdown, two years after the death of his fiancé, Jim Hawkes quits his high-powered job in the City to rent a cottage in the Devonshire countryside seeking some well-needed rest. But Slyford St James is far from the peaceful haven Jim was hoping for. Almost immediately he is plagued by strange occurrences: a combination lock that won't open, loud noises in the attic, the figure of a little girl always just out of sight. His new village friends, Jed and Emma, are convinced Jim has found his way to the village for a reason, to solve the mystery surrounding the suspicious death of a child. But as Jim is haunted by the ghosts of his past and endangered by a real-world threat in the present, it soon becomes apparent that true evil never dies.

I am thrilled to be able to share with you the exciting first chapter 

of The Evil Within

Enjoy !!

CHAPTER ONE

I squinted at the alarm clock trying to focus on the fluorescent numerals. One-thirty; I’d been in bed forty-five minutes and asleep for about thirty. Two hours less than last night and three less than the night before. At this rate I was going to die of exhaustion. 

I wasn’t sure whether it was the same goddamn awful dream; I could never remember much about it other than I wake up in a cold sweat, my sheets wrapped around me like a shroud. It was getting that I didn’t want to go to bed. 

Dragging myself into a sitting position I slumped back against the headboard and waited for my pounding heart to calm before swinging my legs over the side of the bed and staggering to my feet. I needed to sleep, but I didn’t want to dream, though how I was going to manage that I wasn’t sure. The strongest thing in my medicine cabinet was paracetamol, or possibly Night Nurse. When I looked, I had neither. 

I padded into the lounge and over to what I laughingly called the bar. The bottle of Smirnoff had a dribble at the bottom, the gin had about two measures, but if I drank it, I would be sick to my stomach; gin and I didn’t get along. The bottle of Grouse was fumes only. I should have known I’d be dry. My least-best friend had come to squat two weeks ago and had only left the day before yesterday. Waking him with my yelling two nights in a row had seen him off. I couldn’t say I wasn’t relieved. His constant ‘Jim, it’s been two years, mate, you’re a young, good-looking fella, you need to get back out there, you need to get back on the pony’ had me wanting to shout in his face: ‘Shut the fuck up – what would you know? Have you ever fucked up your life so badly that you’d lost everything that meant anything to you?’ 

Of course he hadn’t. He was a shallow, know-it-all, know-nothing prick and I was glad to be rid of him. Sad to say he reminded me too much of me. Me before I met Kat; me before I knew what it was like to care deeply about someone other than myself. Shame I didn’t realise how much I cared until she was gone. 

The empties went in the bin, which left me with a bottle of Baileys, two years out of date − I didn’t need to look at the label − and a quarter-bottle of Amontillado sherry, probably just as old. 

I sat down on the settee cradling the Baileys in my hands. If she’d been here she would explain the bad dreams away. She’d have made me feel better. I sighed and dropped the bottle down on the floor beside me. She wasn’t here and never would be, so no point getting ‘all my yesterdays’. She was gone, I was here, and I was maybe beginning to face the consequences of my actions – ambitions – life. Hot fuck and buggeration. I didn’t deserve this. 

Feeling sorry for myself was definitely the pits and way down lower than I needed to go. Kat would have been ashamed of me; I was ashamed of me. I wiped my hand across my face, stood up and dragged my sorry self back to the bedroom. 

If I dreamt the dream I would try and take control. Isn’t that what the mind doctors told you? That’s what she used to say. Take control. Yeah right, just like she did, then my eyes filled up and I whispered, ‘Sorry, babe. I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it – right?’ I prayed she knew, and I guessed she did. Didn’t the inhabitants of the hereafter know everything? I hoped so. I hoped she knew. 

And then, for the first time in nearly two years I began to cry, and I felt weak and I felt worthless and I wanted to go to sleep and never wake. I wanted to be with Kat. 

I flung myself down on the bed, our bed, and thankfully I did sleep and there were no more dreams, at least none that I remembered. 

I woke to the alarm. Just as well, I had a meeting. I’d had my best work suit dry-cleaned but forgotten about ironing a shirt. After a frantic throwing out of clothing from within my wardrobe I found a shirt that was clean, relatively unrumpled, but white. I hated white; it reminded me of funerals and I’d had enough of those. 

I searched some more, but white it would have to be. The suit at least wasn’t black but a charcoal grey. Not a lot different, but to me a relief. I didn’t want to be seen as a grieving widower. Not that I was. We hadn’t made it to that one final step. Two weeks and one day it would have been different. 

I looked in the mirror, took a deep breath, blinked back tears and tried to block all the bad thoughts out of my head. I at least looked the part: smooth, slick, a clean-cut, up-and-coming young exec. Today I had to act like one and be sharp and focused. This was what I was paid exorbitant amounts of money for. Two years ago, I’d have said I was worth every penny. 

The meeting went on longer than it should have, but not as long as the clients would have hoped. How you could call businessmen whose legs you were about to cut out from beneath them clients I wasn’t sure. After the meeting I guess they were ex-clients. 

In this case the clients were a small family business. On the surface financially sound, but someone, somewhere within the organisation had decided not sound enough. After months of wrangling and solicitors’ letters this was D-Day. The clients and their representatives walked into the room hoping there was a modicum of a chance of their survival. The suits sitting on the other side of the table, of which I was one, had already written them off. The meeting was perfunctory and for the first time it left me with a sour taste in my mouth. I couldn’t do this any more. 

‘That went well,’ Clement said as we left the room. 

I glanced back over my shoulder at the clients’ shell-shocked faces. ‘You think?’ 

He frowned at me. ‘Well, we all knew it was a waste of time.’ 

‘They didn’t.’ 

His frown deepened. ‘Don’t let Sir Peter hear you say that.’ 

I raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Maybe I should.’ 

‘What the fuck?’ 

‘Did you not read their file? Didn’t you go through the figures?’ 

‘The account was terminal,’ he said, clearly exasperated that we were still talking about it when as far as he was concerned there was no more to be said. 

‘Only because of our punitive interest rates, yet they’d never missed a payment and in fifteen months the loan would have been paid off. With the loan repaid, on their current turnover, the overdraft would probably have been gone as well within five years.’ 

‘Five years is a long time – too long.’ 

‘When they came to us for help the loan was meant to be a lifeline, now they owe us a great deal less than they did at the outset and even so we’ve gone and pulled the plug on them.’ I shook my head in disgust. ‘I’ve had it, Clem. What we did in there was brutal. Immoral. Even criminal.’ 

‘What we did was our job.’ 

‘Makes it right, does it?’ 

‘The salary makes it right,’ he said and by God he meant it. From his expression he couldn’t see anything even mildly wrong with what we’d just done. 

I looked back down the corridor; the clients were being shown out, shoulders slumped, faces slack, spirits broken. The father, the man who’d started the business over thirty years ago, looked frail, almost as though he’d aged ten years since the beginning of our meeting. When they entered the lift they shuffled around to face me. I had to turn away; I couldn’t bear to see the look of betrayal in their eyes. 

Sir Peter was pleased. The fact he gestured for us both to sit down was the tell. He dropped the phone-book-thick file on his desk and buzzed his secretary. 

‘Coffee?’ he asked us, although didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Pot of coffee and three cups,’ he said as he sunk down behind his desk. 

A seat and coffee? I was surprised and when I glanced at Clem a self-satisfied smile was creeping onto his face. Was he expecting promotion? A pay rise? Sir Pete was hardly going to call us both in together for either of those things. Christ, if you were found to have even discussed your pay scale with anyone else within the company you were out on your ear. 

The coffee appeared, brought in by a tall, slim, tight-arsed secretary, with a plastic smile. She served us and was dismissed with a nod from the great man and something clicked inside my head and it was as though a veil had been lifted from in front of my eyes. This wasn’t what I wanted to do. This wasn’t where I wanted to be. 

Sir Pete started to speak, at least his lips were moving, though I didn’t hear a word he said. All I wanted was to get out of that room, and out of this life. I reached for my coffee, slopping some into the saucer. If I tried to drink it now I was going to drip it everywhere and the suit was fresh on today. Fresh on . . . I put the cup and saucer back on the desk and got to my feet. 

‘James?’ Sir Pete said with a frown as I interrupted his speech. 

‘I’m leaving,’ I heard myself say as I walked out of his office. 

As I reached the lift Clem came up behind me and grabbed hold of my sleeve. ‘Jim, are you OK? Jim?’ 

‘I’m leaving,’ I repeated as I stepped into the lift. 

He stood there glancing about him as though he wasn’t sure what he should do, then, with a sigh, joined me. 

‘You just walked out on the boss while he was in mid flow.’ 

‘So did you.’ 

‘He sent me after you, you jerk. What are you playing at?’ 

‘I’m leaving.’ 

‘So you fucking said.’ 

‘No, Clem, I’m leaving. Resigning, handing in my notice.’ 

‘No fucking way.’ 

‘Yes fucking way,’ I said and I started to grin. ‘Yes fucking way.’ 

Sir Pete couldn’t believe I was throwing away a successful career and was convinced I’d had some sort of breakdown. Maybe I had. The bank’s shrinks certainly thought so. Worried about lawsuits citing work-related stress, I was signed off on long-term sick leave and, if worse came to worst, would be let go after an appropriate period of time with a handshake good enough to deter any claim of unfair or constructive dismissal. Sir Pete’s biggest mistake; he should have accepted my resignation. 

For the first week there were no more dreams and I’d more or less convinced myself they were down to stress. On night eight of my sabbatical they started again. And boy they were full-blown gorefests. 

These I remembered. Nightmares so bloody and vicious and full of rage that after the fourth day I was wondering whether I hadn’t just had a breakdown but was going full-on insane and heading for a long-term stay in the funny farm. 

After a particularly harrowing night when I’d woken screaming Kat’s name and for a moment could almost feel her cold, dead body lying within my arms, I went to see my doctor. Fortunately for me she was a no-nonsense, matronly figure who didn’t believe in most of today’s PC psychobabble. 

‘Mr Hawkes, all you need is a good, long rest,’ she had said, her voice laced with sympathy. ‘You’ve had three major events in your life within as many years. You lost your mother and father, then your long-term partner within a very short period. Having a highly pressurised job hasn’t helped. Now that’s behind you, I suggest you get away somewhere new. Somewhere you can relax.’ 

And that was it. No pills, no potions, just a prescription of rest, rest and more rest. So that afternoon I started scanning the classifieds for a country retreat somewhere. And this is when I found Slyford St James.

About the Author

S. M. Hardy grew up in south London and worked in banking for many years before turning her attention to arboricultural management. She has now given up the day job to allegedly spend more time with her husband; he, however, has noticed that an awful lot more writing appears to be going on. She currently lives in Devon. The Evil Within is her first paranormal mystery novel.

Twitter @SueTingey #TheEvilWithin

@AllisonandBusby

Book Excerpt ~ The Alchemist of Lost Souls by Mary Lawrence

Jaffareadstoo is delighted to bring you this tantalising excerpt

 from  The Alchemist of Lost Souls

Kensington Publishing
30 April 2019

My thanks to the author for sharing this book excerpt

In book 4, The Alchemist of Lost Souls, disgraced alchemist, Albern Goddard, has concocted a new element, “an amalgam of earth and fire.” Once he understands the nature of this lapis mortem, he hopes to win back the favor of King Henry VIII. Unfortunately, the element is stolen. Albern seeks his estranged daughter, Bianca—now pregnant with her first child—for help in finding it.

When a woman’s body is found behind the Dim Dragon Inn, an eerie green glow issuing from her mouth, rumors circulate about how she died. Bianca traces the element to a dead-end believing it is lost and no longer a threat. But when John, her husband, is conscripted and the element turns up again, Bianca risks her life and that of her unborn child’s to prevent it from being used against the king’s army. 

Excerpt:

This tale begins with a rascally lad and a disgraced alchemist. One sought allowance with a group of puckish boys, and the other wished forgiveness from his petulant king. The two crossed paths one spring day when the air puffed warm against their cheeks, calling to mind the hope of renewal that comes with the lengthening days and appearance of green tips on trees. 

Albern Goddard wore his best woolen gown, one he’d bought from a fripperer back when he was in the king’s good graces. The clothes dealer had gotten it from the widow of a barrister who had been stabbed in the back--a fitting end to any lawyer, thought Albern. The rip had been mended and the blood stain scrubbed clean. No one was the wiser, and he himself barely remembered the gown’s tainted history as he strode triumphantly down Thames Lane. 

His coif did not hide the lift of his chin; the scholarly garb accentuated his proud posture--for here was a man basking in the ticklish glow of divine favor. A smile strained the muscles around his mouth; his usual expression was one of stoic indifference. And that was on a good day. 

He may not have discovered the philosopher’s stone--the coveted agent of transmutation capable of turning base metal into gold; instead, he had discovered a substance of unplumbed worth. Of this he was certain. Months of collecting and fermenting the golden stream--his golden stream in urns stinking up his alchemy room--had eventually wrought a substance so astonishing, so exceptional, that he could hardly keep from whooping and dancing down the street. 

However, unbridled enthusiasm can easily turn a man into a fool. The alchemist knew this; he had eaten from fate’s fickle hand before. So, he quashed the smile on his face, replacing a cheerful expression with one more solemn. Ahead of him lay several days of careful analysis to prove his discovery’s importance. 

Meanwhile, on the street ahead, there lay an ambush in the form of a gaggle of gamins. Their winter boredom had festered, so that this day of sun and warmth was like a needle to their boil, releasing the hellions to run free. 

What boy can resist the call of his friends’ mischief? After a winter of trudging through cold wet lanes lugging home bundles of sticks for his mother’s fire, of being cooped up with his siblings like chickens kept from wolves, of listening to the constant wails of younger ken, what lad of any spirit could suffer another moment staring at four cracked and soot-grimed walls? So it was that on this day, a boy with thread-bare britches and raggedly hair wandered farther than was his usual habit. 

He hitched himself to a group of boys kicking a pig’s bladder stuffed with hay. Other stragglers left their chores to join in, and soon there was a mob of exuberant, yelling imps tripping over one another and upsetting geese, pushcarts, and pedestrians. They raced around, calling each other “lead-legged”, and “beetle-brained buzzards”. They ran down Bread Lane and exited onto Thames Street just as Albern Goddard was crossing it. The ball rolled to a stop inches from the alchemist’s shoe.

About the Author

Mary Lawrence lives in Maine. Her debut mystery, The Alchemist’s Daughter (Kensington, 2015) was named by Suspense Magazine as a “Best Book of 2015” in the historical mystery category. Her articles have appeared in several publications, including The Daily Beast. Other books in the series include Death of an Alchemist, and Death at St. Vedast.

Website

Twitter @mel59lawrence

Facebook

Purchasing link

  

Blog Tour ~ Poetic Justice by R C Bridgestock

Jaffareadstoo is delighted to host today's stop on the Poetic Justice Blog Tour

The Dome Press
28 February

My thanks to the authors and publishers for my copy of this book and the invitation to be part of the blog tour.

When Detective Jack Dylan heads home to his wife after a residential course, he has no idea that an extraordinary succession of events is about to turn his life upside down.

A vicious, unprovoked personal attack is just the start. The discovery of his wife’s death in a road accident also reveals her affair, and his step-daughter is being expelled from university for drug use. Professionally, two teenagers have gone missing and one is soon found dead.

An ordinary man might break under the strain, but Dylan is no ordinary man. He knows that his survival depends on him carrying-on regardless, burying himself in his work, relieved by the distraction of newcomer to the admin department, Jennifer Jones.

His determination to pursue the criminal elements behind the events – both personal and professional – is to be his salvation, and his relationship with Jen, his ‘Guardian Angel’, will turn out to be the mainstay of his future, both within the Force and at home.

Life may have changed, but nothing will stand in the way of Dylan’s determination to seek justice

On today's Blog Tour stop I'm delighted to be able to share

 this tantalising excerpt from Poetic justice

Frank Bland’s hand trembled as he fumbled for the phone. The receiver felt too heavy as he lifted it. His heart was pounding in his chest; his shoulders heaved with the effort of running; his legs felt like jelly. When he breathed in, the cold air froze his throat and lungs. Leaning heavily against the door, Frank dialled 999 and, while he waited for someone to answer, he closed his eyes and left a prayer on God’s answering machine. An angel in the mortal guise of a BT operator answered.

‘Emergency, which service please?’

Shock, it appeared, had rendered him dumb. The controller sought to get him to speak, listening all the while for background noises, ruling out a kid’s prank. Frank licked his lips; his tongue felt like sandpaper. 

‘Can you tell me your name? Where are you ringing from?’

When the line remained soundless the operator persisted. ‘Can you cough or make another audible sign to let me know that you are in need of assistance?’

He could see his breath spiral upwards out of his mouth. He tried, and tried again, but he couldn’t make a noise. A rush of adrenalin caused a burning sensation to run through his veins and, as his panic loomed larger, he could feel the perspiration run the length of his spine. 

The operator persisted. ‘Dial 55 if you are in danger.’

Fleetingly, Frank looked at his right hand, the skin pale grey in the moonlight that shone through the window of the call box. He was shaking, and not from the cold; sweat stuck his shirt to his back. He extended his quivering fingers and, as quickly as they’d allow, dialled 55.

The call was immediately transferred to the police operator. His voice was deep, calm and soothing, but at the same time authoritative, just what Frank needed at that moment. He felt the blood rush back to his brain and control come sliding in. 

‘If you’re in danger please dial a number,’ said the police operator.

Frank forced his voice out through his lips. His throat felt so constricted, he marvelled that he could breathe. His words came out in a rush, as if they’d been suppressed in a bubble. 

‘There’s been an accident. The car in front of me, it went off the road and vanished down the ravine.’

His frantic, breathless words, as the only witness on the road at the time heading in the same direction towards Harrowfield Town, were recorded.

When the police operator ended the call, Frank slammed the receiver down and, backing away, pushed the heavy red door open and went out into the darkness. As advised, he returned to the scene. 

He followed the reflective road studs that lined the sweeping highway, which weaved and stretched for miles ahead across the Pennines. The sky was clear and the moonlight softened the darkness. The mild, dry conditions were a complete contrast to the previous weekend, when winter had arrived overnight, as it often did in the north of England. It seemed too calm for what he had seen to be real.

Hands in his pockets, and still trembling from shock, he watched the hazard lights on his car flashing rhythmically. With only a little light from the sky, he stood on the grass verge, still struggling to believe what he had seen, and peered down into the blackness of the ravine. All was quiet and still. His heart was beating painfully fast in his chest, after the exertion of the uphill hike. He struggled to catch the tight, hard breaths inside him and forced them out slowly instead, to make himself calm down. 

He looked about him. The lights of the M62 were behind him, but neither they nor the reflective road studs were any use in his attempt to follow the numerous sheep tracks that led down into the abyss. If only he were younger and fitter, he’d have been down like a flash. He looked up to see a swirling shape appear, shimmering like the folds of a curtain in the sky, stirred by the wind in an eerie silence. But this was no divine intervention come to help those in the crash; it was smoke rising from the vehicle - a sign, he feared, of worse to come. 

Frank looked from left to right, unsure from which way the emergency services would come, straining to hear the sirens approaching, hoping and willing another vehicle to come along to bring him support on the isolated stretch of moorland road. He felt useless, he felt vulnerable, he felt extremely scared.

In the stillness, and with little else he could do, he berated himself for not listening to his daughter, who had begged him, on the death of his wife, to get a mobile phone. ‘What if the telephone box had been vandalised?’ he could hear her say. He shuddered to think what he would have done then.

My thoughts about POETIC JUSTICE..

It’s been a long time since I read a police procedural novel in one sitting but Poetic Justice has been such a great introduction into DI Jack Dylan’s world that I had difficulty leaving it for any longer than it took to make myself a restorative cup of tea, in my #Team Dylan Mug.

 

For those who have already read the series, this prequel into how Jack Dylan’s literary life began will be a lovely bonus as I am sure regular readers will already be acquainted with what makes this enigmatic Detective Inspector tick. However, for those readers, like me, who are completely new, this is a grand introduction to a series, which is, with the publication of Poetic Justice, already nine books in. I really can’t wait to get my hands on them all!

The story opens with a dreadful accident, the bleakness of the scene, and the only witness account as he telephones for help is quite chilling, bringing the cold air of a winter night sharply into focus. The results of this accident will have far reaching consequences, not just for the police team leading a complicated investigation, but also for Jack Dylan who is intimately involved with one of the accident victims.

Poetic Justice is not all about Jack Dylan, and even though he does play a major role in events there is a limit to just how much sadness one man can cope with, and Jack Dylan certainly has his share of heartache. So it was refreshing for the investigative team to have other cases to work on, and one involving a local children's home and two missing children adds an interesting complexity to an already complicated story line. As I would expect from two writers who have spent most of their time working within a major police force, the police procedural aspect is particularly well done. What comes across is the banter between colleagues, which is often jokey and irreverent but always clever and precise, showing just how the police service, when under pressure, allow the professional to take over from the personal.

I absolutely loved this story from start to finish and, I think, what struck me most as I read along was just how visual the story was, because even as the words were being processed in my brain, I already had a clear visual image of events, rather like I was watching a TV drama unfold.

Having read Poetic Justice, I have to say that Jack Dylan is now my new hero, and as the writers so cleverly maintain, “If you had to choose to be on anyone’s team, you’d want to be on Team Dylan any day of the week”....I couldn’t agree more!

About the Author

RC Bridgestock is the pen name of writing duo Carol and Bob Bridgestock. Between them they have nearly 50 years of high level experience in West Yorkshire Police. The couple are story-line consultants on Happy Valley and Scott and Bailey and appear regularly on TV, radio and in the press.

Website 

Twitter @RCBridgestock #TeamDylan

@DomePress

Amazon UK

Summer Read 2017 ~ The Big Dreams Beach Hotel by Lilly Bartlett

I am delighted to be able to feature this latest book by Lilly Bartlett and to share the first chapter of The Big Dreams Beach Hotel

Harper Impulse

* Published 18th August*

Start reading the romcom that Debbie Johnson calls “absolutely gorgeous!”

Three years after ditching her career in New York City, Rosie never thought she’d still be managing the quaint faded Victorian hotel in her seaside hometown.

What’s worse, the hotel’s new owners are turning it into a copy of their Florida properties. Flamingos and all. Cultures are clashing and the hotel’s residents stand in the way of the developers’ plans. The hotel is both their home and their family.

That’s going to make Rory’s job difficult when he arrives to enforce the changes. And Rosie isn’t exactly on his side, even though it’s the chance to finally restart her career. Rory might be charming, but he’s still there to evict her friends.

How can she follow her dreams if it means ending everyone else’s?

The Big Dreams Beach Hotel

Lilly Bartlett

Chapter 1

New York is where I fell head over heels for a bloke named Chuck. I know: Chuck. But don’t judge him just because he sounds like he should be sipping ice-cream floats at the drive-in or starring in the homecoming football game. Rah rah, sis boom bah, yay, Chuck!

Believe me, I didn’t plan for a Chuck in my life. But that’s how it happens, isn’t it? One minute you’ve got plans for your career and a future that doesn’t involve the inconvenience of being in love, and the next you’re floating around in full dozy-mare mode. 

I won’t lie to you. When Chuck walked into our hotel reception one afternoon in late October, it wasn’t love at first sight. It was lust. 

Be still, my fluttering nethers.

Talk about unprofessional. I could hardly focus on what he was saying. Something about organising Christmas parties. 

‘To be honest, I don’t really know what I’m doing,’ he confided as he leaned against the reception desk. His face was uncomfortably close to mine, but by then I’d lived in New York for eighteen months. I was used to American space invaders. They’re not being rude, just friendly. And Chuck was definitely friendly. 

‘I only started my job about a month ago,’ he told me. ‘It’s my first big assignment, so I really can’t fuck it up. Sorry, I mean mess it up.’ His blue (so dark blue) eyes bore into mine. ‘I’m hoping someone here can help me.’

It took all my willpower not to spring over the desk to his aid. Not that I’m at all athletic. I’d probably have torn my dress, climbed awkwardly over and landed face-first at his feet. 

Keep him talking, I thought, so that I could keep staring. He looked quintessentially American, with his square jawline and big straight teeth and air of confidence, even though he’d just confessed to being hopeless at his new job. His brown hair wasn’t too long but also wasn’t too short, wavy and artfully messed up with gel, and his neatly trimmed stubble made me think of lazy Sunday mornings in bed. 

See what I mean? Lust. 

‘I noticed you on my way back from Starbucks,’ he said. 

At first, I thought he meant he’d noticed me. That made me glance in the big mirror on the pillar behind him, where I could just see my reflection from where I was standing. At five-foot four, I was boob-height behind the desk in the gunmetal-grey fitted dress uniform all the front-desk staff had to wear. My wavy dark-red hair was as neat as it ever got. I flashed myself a reflected smile just to check my teeth. Of course, I couldn’t see any detail from where I stood. Only my big horsy mouth. Mum says giant teeth make my face interesting. I think I look a bit like one of the Muppets. 

‘Do you have the space for a big party?’ he said. ‘For around four hundred people?’

He didn’t mean he’d noticed me; only the hotel. ‘We’ve got the Grand Ballroom and the whole top floor, which used to be the restaurant and bar. I think it’s even prettier than the ballroom, but it depends on your style and your budget and what you want to do with it.’ 

Based on his smile, you’d have thought I’d just told him we’d found a donor kidney for his operation. ‘I’ve been looking online, but there are too many choices,’ he said. ‘Plus, my company expects the world.’ He grimaced. ‘They didn’t like the hotel they used last year, or the year before that. I’m in over my head, to be honest. I think I need a guiding hand.’

I had just the hand he was looking for, and some ideas about where to guide it.

But instead of jumping up and down shouting ‘Pick Me, Pick Me!’, I put on my professional hat and gave him our events brochure and the team’s contact details. Because normal hotel receptionists don’t launch themselves into the arms of prospective clients. 

When he reached over the desk to shake my hand, I had to resist the urge to bob a curtsy. ‘I’m Chuck Williamson. It was great to meet you, Rosie.’ 

He knew my name!

‘And thank you for being so nice. You might have saved my ass on this one. I’ll talk to your events people.’ He glanced again at my chest. 

He didn’t know my name. He’d simply read my name badge.

No sooner had Chuck exited through the revolving door than my colleague, Digby, said, ‘My God, any more sparks and I’d have had to call the fire department.’

Digby was my best friend at the hotel and also a foreign transplant in Manhattan – where anyone without a 212 area code was foreign. Home for him was some little town in Kansas or Nebraska or somewhere with lots of tornadoes. Hearing Digby speak always made me think of The Wizard of Oz, but despite sounding like he was born on a combine harvester, Digby was clever. He did his degree at Cornell. That’s the Holy Grail for aspiring hotelies (as we’re known). 

Digby didn’t let his pedigree go to his head, though, like I probably would have. 

‘Just doing my job,’ I told him. But I knew I was blushing. 

Our manager, Andi, swore under her breath. ‘That’s the last thing we need right now – some novice with another Christmas party to plan.’

‘That is our job,’ Digby pointed out.

‘Your job is to man the reception desk, Digby.’

‘Ya vol, Commandant.’ He saluted, before going to the other end of the desk. 

‘But we do have room in the schedule, don’t we?’ I asked. Having just come off a rotation in the events department the month before, I knew they were looking for more business in that area. Our room occupancy hadn’t been all the company hoped for over the summer. 

‘Plenty of room, no time,’ Andi snapped. 

I’d love to tell you that I didn’t think any more about Chuck, that I was a cool twenty-five-year-old living her dream in New York. And it was my dream posting. I still couldn’t believe my luck. Well, luck and about a million hours earning my stripes in the hospitality industry. I’d already done stints in England and one in Sharm El Sheikh – though not in one of those fancy five-star resorts where people clean your sunglasses on the beach. It was a reasonable four-star one. 

There’s a big misconception about hotelies that I should probably clear up. People assume that because we spend our days surrounded by luxury, we must live in the same glamour. The reality is 4a.m. wake-ups, meals eaten standing up, cheap living accommodation and, invariably, rain on our day off. Sounds like a blast, doesn’t it?

But I loved it. I loved that I was actually being paid to work in the industry where I did my degree. I loved the satisfied feeling I got every time a guest thanked me for solving a problem. And I loved that I could go anywhere in the world for work. 

I especially loved that last part.

But back to Chuck, who’d been stuck in my head since the minute he’d walked through the hotel door. 

I guess it was natural, given that I hadn’t had a boyfriend the whole time I’d been in the city. Flirting and a bit of snogging, yes, but nothing you could call a serious relationship.

There wasn’t any time, really, for a social life. That’s why hotelies hang out so much with each other. No one else has the same hours free. So, in the absence of other options, Digby and I were each other’s platonic date. He sounds like the perfect gay best friend, right? Only he wasn’t gay. He just had no interest in me. Nor I in him, which made him the ideal companion – hot enough in that freckle-faced farm-boy way to get into the nightclubs when we finished work at 1 or 2a.m., but not the type to go off shagging and leave me to find my way home on the subway alone. 

‘I hope you’re happy,’ Andi said to me one morning a few days later. The thing about Andi is that she looks annoyed even when she’s not, so you’ve got to pay attention to her words rather than the severe expression on her narrow face. Nothing annoyed Andi like other people’s happiness.

But I had just taken my first morning sip of caramel latte. Who wouldn’t be happy?

‘You’ve got another assignment,’ she said. ‘That Christmas party. You’re on it.’

‘But I’m on reception.’ My heart was beating faster. She could only be talking about one Christmas party. 

‘Yes, and you’re not going to get any extra time for the party, so don’t even think about it. I can’t spare anyone right now. You’ll have to juggle. He’s coming in at eleven to see the spaces and hopefully write a big fat cheque, but I want you back here as soon as you’re finished. Consider it an early lunch break.’

Even though my mind warned me to stop questioning, in case she changed her mind, I couldn’t resist. ‘Why isn’t Events handling it?’ 

‘They would have if he hadn’t asked for you especially. It’s just my luck that it’s a huge party. We can’t exactly say no.’

‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘Then wipe that stupid grin off your face and next time try not to be so frickin’ nice.’

‘I need to use the loo,’ I told her.

‘Pee on your own time,’ she said. 

I didn’t really have to go, despite the industrial-size caramel latte. I just wanted to put on some make-up before Chuck arrived. Instead he’d see my green eyes unhighlighted by the mascara and flicky eyeliner that I rarely remembered to use. Pinching my cheeks did bring up a bit of colour behind my freckles, at least. 

Every time the revolving doors swung round, I looked up to see if it was Chuck. 

‘You’re going to get repetitive strain in your neck,’ Digby pointed out. ‘And you know our workmen’s comp sucks, so save yourself the injury. Besides, you look too eager when you stare at the door like that.’

‘I’m putting on a convivial welcome for our guests,’ I said. ‘Just like it says in the Employee’s Manual.’

He shook his head. ‘There’s no way that what you’re thinking is in the manual.’

The weather had turned cold, which was the perfect excuse for woolly tights and cosy knits or, if you were Chuck, a navy pea coat with the collar turned up that made him look like he’d been at sea. In a suit and dress shoes. 

‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘I hate wasting people’s time.’

‘It’s not a waste,’ I told him. ‘I’m just working.’ I caught Andi’s glare. ‘I mean, I’m on reception. I can show you the rooms any time you want.’

Anytime you want, Digby mimicked behind Chuck’s back. Luckily Andi didn’t catch him.

‘Thanks for agreeing to take on the party,’ he said as we shared the lift to the top floor. ‘Not that I gave your colleagues much of a choice. I told them I’d book the party if you were the one organising it. I hope you don’t mind. It’s just that you seemed … I don’t know, I got a good feeling about you.’

‘No, that’s fine,’ I said, willing my voice to sound calmer than I felt. Which meant anything short of stark raving mad. ‘Once you decide which room is most suitable, we can start talking about everything else.’ 

‘I knew you’d get it,’ he said. 

The lift doors opened on the top floor into the wide entrance to the former restaurant. ‘As you can see, there’s still a lot of the original nineteen thirties decor,’ I said. ‘Especially these art deco wall sconces. I love them. Ooh, and look at that bar.’

I’d only been up there a few times, so I was as excited as Chuck as we ran around the room pointing out each interesting feature, from the geometrically mirrored pillars to the sexy-flapper-lady light fixtures. 

‘I’m such a sucker for this old stuff,’ he said. ‘I grew up in a house full of antiques. Older than this, actually, in Chicago.’ Then he considered me. ‘You probably grew up in a castle from the middle ages or something, being English.’

‘That sounds draughty. No, my parents live in a nineteen fifties semi-detached with pebble-dash.’

‘I don’t know what any of that means except for the nineteen fifties, but it sounds exotic.’

‘Hardly. Let’s just say it looks nothing like this. Will this be big enough, though? You said up to four hundred. That might be a squeeze if we want to seat them all.’

‘My guest list has halved, actually,’ he said, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. ‘The company isn’t letting spouses and partners come. Isn’t that weird, to exclude them from a formal social event like that? It’s going to be black tie with dinner and dancing. They were always invited wherever I’ve worked before.’

The painful penny dropped with a clang. Of course he’d have the perfect girlfriend to bring along. A bloke that cute and nice wasn’t single. 

‘Which company?’ I asked, covering my disappointment. ‘Your company now, I mean.’

‘Flable and Mead. The asset managers? Sorry, I should have said before.’

Of course I’d heard of them. They were only one of the biggest firms on Wall Street. No wonder Andi had to say yes when Chuck made his request. We were talking big money. 

And big egos. ‘I’m not surprised that other halves aren’t invited,’ I told him. Surely he’d worked out why for himself. ‘They usually aren’t invited in the UK either. The Christmas do is your chance to get pissed and snog a colleague.’

Chuck laughed. ‘I’m really glad I’ve seen all those Hugh Grant movies so I know what you’re talking about. So maybe it’ll be everyone’s chance at Flable and Mead to snog a colleague too.’ When he smiled, a dimple appeared on his left side. Just the one. ‘And as you’re working with me to organise the party, I guess that makes you my colleague, right?’

Did he mean what I thought he meant? The cheeky sod. ‘Come on, I’ll show you the ballroom.’

But the ballroom had nowhere near the ambiance of the top floor, and I knew before Chuck said anything that it didn’t have the right feel. Whereas upstairs had character and charm, the ballroom had bling. I’d only known Chuck for a matter of hours, but already I knew he wasn’t the blingy type. 

‘Definitely upstairs,’ he said. ‘So it’s done. We’ll book it. Now we just need to plan all the decorations, the food, the band, DJ. I guess the fee goes up depending on how much in-house stuff we use.’ He laughed. ‘I’m sorry, I really am in too deep here. I talked my way into my job. I have no idea how. My boss is a Northwestern alum like me and that must have swung it for me. Before I only worked organising conferences and a few parties at the local VFW hall. This is the big time.’

I knew exactly how he felt. When I first started at the hotel I had to pinch myself. There I was, about to live a life I’d only seen on telly. All I had to do was not muck things up. Digby had been on hand to show me the ropes when I needed it. So the least I could do for Chuck was to help him as much as I could. 

That’s what I told myself. I was paying it forward.

‘We’ve got a range of decorations we can do,’ I told him, thinking about how much I was going to get to see him in the upcoming weeks. I could really stretch things out by showing him one tablecloth per visit. ‘And we work with a few good catering companies, who I’m sure can arrange anything from a sit-down meal to a buffet. One even does burger bars, if you want something more quirky.’

‘What I’ll want is for you to help me, Rosie. You will be able to do that, right?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Whatever you need. It’s a whopping great fee your company is paying. That buys a lot of hand-holding.’

‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ he said. ‘The second I came in and saw you, I knew this was the right choice. We’re going to be great together, Rosie.’

I was thinking the exact same thing.

Pre-order The Big Dreams Beach Hotel to land on your eReader on August 18th!

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Huge thanks to the author for permission to share this extract in advance of the book's publication

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Blog Tour ~ Ginny Moon by Benjamin Ludwig

Jaffareadstoo is delighted to host today's stop on the Ginny Moon Blog Tour

It's a real pleasure to be able to share this second excerpt from the fabulous Ginny Moon

You can read the first part of the chapter at On My Bookshelf and then read the rest here

HQ Stories
1 June 2017

Everyone is looking at me. All of them. My Forever Mom next to my Forever Dad on the other side of the table with her hand on her big round belly. I don’t know what strikes and shakes are but no one asked a question so I keep my mouth shut very tight.

My Forever Dad takes out a piece of paper. “The computer said the doll was hit eighty-three times and shaken four,” he says. He puts the paper down. “Ginny, did you hit the baby?”

“The plastic electronic baby,” I say even though it’s a rule that We do not correct.

“It doesn’t matter whether the baby was real or not,” he says. “We asked you to try taking care of the baby. We can’t—”

“Brian,” says my Forever Mom. Then to me she says, “Ginny, it’s not okay to hit or shake a baby. Even if the baby isn’t real. Do you understand that?”

I like my Forever Mom a lot. She helps me with my home­work every night after supper and explains things when they don’t make sense. Plus we play Chinese Checkers when I get home from school. So I say, “When I was in the apartment with Glo—”

“We know what happened in the apartment,” she interrupts. “And we’re very, very sorry that she hurt you. But it’s not okay to hurt babies, ever. So we need you to start seeing Patrice again. She’s going to help you get ready to be a big sister.”

Patrice is a therapist. An attachment therapist. I haven’t seen her since the adoption in June. I lived with my Forever Parents at the Blue House a whole year before that. That was when I started going to my new school too.

Which reminds me again that Gloria is on her way right now. I don’t know how long it will take her to get here. I don’t know if she’ll get here before I go to see Patrice. And that’s impor­tant because I need to know when things are going to happen so I can count and check my watch and make sure everything works the way it’s supposed to.

I pick hard at my fingers.

“When will I see Patrice?” I ask.

“We’ll call her on the phone today and see when she’s available,” says my Forever Mom. “Probably early this next week, if she has some time in her schedule. I bet she’ll find an opening, for you.” 

Ginny Moon by Benjamin Ludwig is out now! [Hardback, £12.99]

What did I think about it...

There's so much I want to say about Ginny Moon. How she's tough and strong, and yet as vulnerable as a kitten. That she's feisty and funny and will make you laugh out loud, but be warned she will also make you cry so many tears that your hanky will be all screwed up and soggy in your hand. She's special in so many ways but to tell you even a smidgen more would be to spoil Ginny's story forever.

So what I will say is that from the very start of the story, as Ginny settles in with yet another forever mum and dad, is that there are still elements of the lost child about her. A child made wise beyond her fragile years, and who once had more responsibilities heaped upon her vulnerable shoulders by an errant birth mother who should have known better.

I loved Ginny; I wanted to bring her home to live with me. I wanted to give her grapes and milk. I wanted to make her safe from all harm and more than anything I wanted life to be kind to her and for her to find a proper place with people who loved her just for being her quirky little self.

It's a very clever author who has the ability to instill such a sense of character whilst still maintaining the absolute integrity of the novel. I believed every word that Ginny uttered, her voice is strong, her personality cleverly controlled so that she never becomes a caricature of the quintessential 'troubled' child. Her forever parents are another matter altogether, but there again, I'll let you find out for yourself, about just how they all cope as their lives start to fall to pieces.

Ginny Moon will stay in my heart for a good long time. I hope that she can stay in your hearts too...

Best Read with...nine grapes and a glass of milk...

About the author

Benjamin Ludwig is a middle school language arts teacher, who has been teaching both children and adults since 1997. He believes strongly in supporting the voiceless and the displaced, especially their need for attachment. Shortly after he and his wife were married they became foster parents, and adopted their first placement: a teenager with autism and developmental disabilities. 

Ginny Moon was inspired in part by conversations he had with other parents at Special Olympics basketball practices. He hopes to adopt again after his daughter transitions into adulthood. Benjamin lives in New Hampshire.

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Follow on Twitter @BILudwig #Ginny Moon

My thanks to the author and also to Samantha at Midas PR for the invitation to join this blog tour and their kind permission to feature the excerpt from Ginny Moon.

Blog Tour Runs until the 8th June, so do visit the other stops for more exciting content

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