With my hand still in a soft cast, I’m scrambling to put this bad boy to bed before it’s release next Tuesday. It’s going to be a shorter story than I had hoped (so I might be dropping the price), and so far, it’s very, very sexy. So if that’s not your thing—be warned! 🙂
Ty Nolan ignored the nudge against his shin. Last thing he wanted to do was open his eyes. From the already harsh glare burning behind his eyelids, he knew opening them would be damn painful.
“Ty, come on. Wake up,” came a harsh whisper. “Sheriff’s here.”
Sheriff? What the hell? And what was Tank doing in his bedroom? Another moment passed before he realized his mattress was damn flat. Where the hell was he?
“Ty,” came another voice, this one louder and with an irritated edge. “Hate to interrupt your beauty sleep, but I’d like a word.”
Fuck, it really was the sheriff. Which answered the question of why his bed was so damn uncomfortable. He peeked in the direction of Sheriff Josh Penske’s voice—bars stood between them. Oh hell, I’m going to hear about it now.
With his head pounding, he accepted Tank’s hand up.
His buddy grinned. “Never knew you were such a lightweight, bro.”
Ty grimaced at Tank’s wisecrack—and his crushing grip. Tank was built like a…well, a tank. Ty had played football for the defensive team in high school, so he wasn’t exactly puny. It took a few seconds to stuff his shirt back into his jeans, wincing as his bruised knuckles brushed denim. Before he turned toward Josh, he raked a hand through his hair. Josh stood beside the open cell door, shaking his head.
Good Lord, was he about to lose his job? Be suspended?
Josh turned and led the way down the corridor to the station’s bullpen door. Ty was glad he was still too hung over to blush as he completed the walk of shame past his fellow deputies, whose mouths were crimped, no doubt to hold back their laughter. Josh led him inside his office then waved him toward the vacant chair in front of his desk.
Ty slumped into the chair. He was going to be fired, he just knew it.
Josh sat back in his chair and turned his chair to the side, his gaze going to the window. “You know, I thought it was a simple assignment.”
“To be fair, I had the night off—”
Josh held up a hand to cut him off. “No matter whether you’re in uniform or not, your duty is to keep the peace, not start the dang fight.”
At this point, Ty knew better than to try to correct Josh’s impression of what had happened the evening before. He’d only piss him off worse than he already was.
“I don’t know what to do with you…”
Ty wished he’d framed that statement as a question, because he would’ve offered suggestions—short of firing him, of course. He liked his job.
And he needed it. He needed to succeed if he ever wanted to put in his application to join the Texas Rangers. He sat straighter in his chair. He’d take his lumps and move on. Figure out what was next in his life. Life after the Army wasn’t turning out to be the cakewalk he’d expected.
“Can you imagine my surprise when the mayor called to inform me she’d seen you hauled off in handcuffs, along with a dozen other ‘miscreants’—her word?”
The mayor hadn’t been so keen on this weekend’s festivities. He’d had a bird’s-eye view of just how unhappy she was when she’d marched into the station the morning before and asked Josh to lock the fairground gates.
She’d changed her mind about allowing bikers to gather there. “Yes, I know I approved the club’s permit, but have you seen how many bikes are parked all up and down Main Street? Caldera will not be another Waco!” she’d said, tapping her foot.
Ty had grimaced at the mention of the infamous shootout between members of two rival motorcycle clubs, that had spilled out into a restaurant parking lot where cops had violently ended that shit. Ty’s Veterans Posse Club wasn’t like that. Not involved with drugs or criminal activities. Opposed to violence, they did however get pissy about disrespect from any other club. Composed completely of former vets, the club gave its members a safe place to be, with people who had shared similar experiences that most folks couldn’t empathize with or even conceive of.
What had happened last night at Ruby’s Roadhouse had been…his fault. One too many beers and a sneering, snide comment from another club’s snarky member, who shouldn’t have been there in the first place, and he’d waded right into a fight.
“Look, I got the down-low from Ruby at the bar,” Josh said. “She said that guy from the club was being a dick to one of the waitresses, and that when you approached him, he insulted your club…”
Ty opened his mouth, and Josh gave a curt shake of his head, again cutting him off.
“Ruby Tackett’s bar got trashed. I asked her what she wanted to have happen.”
Here goes… Ruby was a hardass. She’d turned off the jukebox to read the riot act to all the bikers who’d filled her bar last night—before shit had gone down. “No fights,” she’d said, her arms crossed over her ample bosom. “No hassling my girls. When I say you’re cut off, you’re cut off. No fights! Got it?”
He and his buddies had all grinned and nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” they’d answered.
And still, all hell had broken loose.
“She expects your club to clean up the mess.”
Ty nodded. “Of course.”
“She’s closing the bar for the duration of the convention. But she already has a booth set up at the fairgrounds where she’ll be serving beer in the campground area—to keep the visitors off the road and out of her place. She wants you behind the bar with her.”
“What?” Ty sat straighter. He’d thought the last thing she’d want to do was spend more time looking at his face.
“For the duration,” Josh said with a firm nod. “In the meantime, your buddies are cleaning up her place. And she’ll have a bill you can all divvy up to pay for the damages.” Josh was silent for a long moment.
Ty’s brain was still swimming in tequila, so he was slow to realize Josh was waiting for something. He pushed up from his chair. “That’s it?”
One brow lifted. “Do you want it to be more?”
Ty cleared his throat. “I still have a job?”
Josh rolled his eyes. “Think you’re the first deputy in Caldera to get shit-faced and start a fight?”
Ty rocked back on his heels. “Won’t happen again, Sheriff.”
“I’m counting on that, Ty. Keep the fucking peace out there. Now, get home and get cleaned up. She needs you there by two.”
Ty left the sheriff’s office and strode back through the bullpen, this time feeling as though a weight had lifted off his shoulders. He still had a job and his badge. Things could have gone down so much worse—if Ruby had pressed charges. He had a lot to make up for to get back into her good graces.
“So, buddy,” Tank called out from a desk. “Couldn’t help hearing… You’re gonna be spending time with Ruby?”
Ty aimed a scowl his way. “I’ll be keeping the peace.”
“She’s gonna expect you to be helping her out. You’ll be handin’ out beers and mixin’ Cosmos.”
Ty huffed a breath. “I’ll be protecting her.”
“From behind the bar. Think she’s gonna let you just stand there when her staff is back at her place putting everything back to rights?”
“I’ll do whatever the woman wants. She wants me to mix a damn martini, I’ll figure it out.”
Deputy Roman Perez sat on the edge of the desk Tank occupied. “Sounds like Josh really laid the hammer down—you providing protection to Ruby.” He chuckled. “Maybe the job’s too hard for you, buddy.” He waggled his eyebrows. “If you need someone to show you how it’s done…”
Tank snorted. “Ruby’s hot. How hard can it get?” Then his eyes widened. “Oh.”
Perez laughed. “Yeah, I recommend baggy pants, man. The woman’s built like a brick house.”
Ty narrowed his eyes, not liking the deputy’s sly tone. “Maybe you should keep your comments to yourself…buddy.”
“Yeah,” Tank said, smacking Perez in the belly. “Be respectful.”
“I’m just sayin’…” Perez said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Keeping the peace might be hard when all those guys start crowding around to get a peek at her tits.”
Ty stiffened. “The only one who’s gonna peek at her tits…” He didn’t finish the sentence because he just realized what he’d said and his friends were busting a gut laughing at him.
Yeah, he was toast. And he’d have to look hard to find a pair of jeans loose enough to hide his attraction to the pretty bar owner.
“What do you truly desire?” Lucifer asks in the Netflix series.
As a romance writer, I ask the same question. Of course, I don’t have a suspect at hand, the potential readers of my story are safe at home, so I just ask the question to myself: What would the reader truly desire in this story? Luckily, the answer differs with every story. If I’m writing a cowboy romance, I see tough men, courageous and willing to best the wilderness to save their women. But when I write a romance with something like “behind the mask” as a theme, I see secrets and seduction, subtle smiles and surprises. And I can smell the leather and feel the wind with biker romance and so on.
Ah, writing romance is never boring! It’s always different and trying to get in the mind and soul of the reader, to seduce and titillate – yes even arouse – her (or him… or them) is wonderful. I guess every writer likes to manipulate and surprise the reader a little. I know I do.
I haven’t always been a romance writer, and I still don’t write exclusively romance. Quite a few years ago, I started writing fantasy, science fiction, and horror short stories. In time, I branched out to genres like children’s stories, crime, and thrillers. Although I’m a short story writer at heart, I’ve done five fantasy novels, which had some romance.
For those who don’t know, I’m Dutch. I live in the lovely old city of Den Haag, the Netherlands. Although I had done a few English stories, back in 2015 I started writing in English in earnest.
Oh my, I felt like a kid in a candy store. The Dutch market for short stories is almost non-existent and very limited to a few genres. But the American and British markets! Wow! So many anthologies, so many genres—woohoo!!!!
I started writing romance stories. Well…kind of. Some anthologies were asking for horror-erotica and I thought: Hey, that’s interesting! Combining two strong emotions—lust and fear.
So I wrote horror-erotica for a while. I’m not really into slasher stuff, so I tried to keep it terrifying and sensual. It more or less came down to BDSM with monsters, which was great fun to do. Vampires yearning for the pain of sunlight, the werewolf wanting to tear apart his human mistress, a dark god doing knife play with two-feet-long fingernails on the body of his acolyte. Creepy and erotic. Trust me.
Through a path of weirder and weirder erotica (tentacle erotica, steampunk erotica, Cthulhu Mythos erotica, furry erotica to name a few) I also entered the field of more general romance/erotica. Stuff that could work in the real world, with real people. And hey, that was great fun, too!
I’ve been asked if the romance I write is based on my own experiences. Well, I wish! But for a part, they are inspired by real life.
I just came back from the dentist and walked back to the bus stop. A new crown, all was well. It was a sunny September day in The Hague, behind the Peace Palace, the neighborhood with all the embassies.
She was a pretty girl. No, a young woman. Slender, blond, some sporty, braided hairdo. Black suit-like outfit, without being really a suit. She was speaking on her phone.
“No, I can’t take public transport; I forgot my mouth masks.”
I turned to her. Shaven head, huge mirror shades, twice her age. But hey, today I wore a nice shirt, nice trousers.
“You want one?” I asked.
It took a short moment for her to realize what I was offering.
She smiled. “No thank you, I’m fine.”
I nodded and walked on.
I heard her say into her phone. “No, this nice gentleman was offering me a mouth mask.”
I smiled. Some courtesy, a nice thank you. All was fine.
The writer in me could think of a thousand different outcomes. Okay, a few dozen, probably. But I was happy with reality.
Offering a mouth mask. It was a nice pick-up line in these Corona times. I guess I wasn’t ever going to use it for real, but maybe I would use it in a story, one day.
Happy I took the bus home. Mouth mask and all.
This happened to me a while ago, and one day, I’ll use some of it for a story. Maybe with a different outcome…
#
You can find my stories in several anthologies, available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/jaapboekestein.com. Of course, there is the lovely First Response: A Boys Behaving Badly in which I have a story about a pair of handcuffs and the importance of keeping track of keys. [Delilah, can we have the cover and a link to amazon here? — Of course! 🙂 DD]
The phrase “return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear” was made famous by announcer Fred Foy, introducing the adventures of the old Lone Ranger and Tonto on radio and television. But for me, it’s a clarion call to lose myself in that wonderful time machine called history.
Twenty-seven years ago, I pastored a small church in the Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn. Nazarene United Church of Christ sits on the corners of Patchen Avenue and MacDonough Street. Often as I walked to do pastoral visits on the other side of Atlantic Avenue, I passed several wooden houses and wondered what they were, who had lived there. I learned they were the remnants of Weeksville, a community founded by free-Blacks in the 1830s. In the three years I served Nazarene, I never once got to visit them.
On my last trip back to New York, I visited the Brooklyn Historical Society and discovered Judith Wellman’s wonderful book, Brooklyn’s Promised Land: The Free Black Community of Weeksville, New York. She transported me back to the thrilling days of yesteryear on streets inhabited by the residents of a thriving Black community of ministers, doctors, landowners and entrepreneurs, streets I’d walked and intersections I’d crossed. The community’s residents strove to develop pride in self and place. It served not just as enclave for themselves but a refuge for many from the Southern violence of slavery in the South or Northern violence like the Manhattan draft riots of 1863. In 1968, a workshop sponsored by Pratt Institute led to the rediscovery of this historical safe haven.
How odd that I, who grew up in the Brooklyn neighborhood of East New York, chose to write historical romance about Blacks in the far West when Blacks west of East New York were much closer at hand. From my research done at the Brooklyn Historical Society, the Schomburg, and through Wellman’s book I wrote the novella Light The Fire Again for the Fireworks: A Passionate Ink Romance Anthology. Fred Foy’s call to return now to those thrilling days of yesteryear in the West, draws me west to Weeksville and to the thrilling stories Weeksville inspires me to write. A reimagined Gilded Age Weeksville is now the setting of my women’s fiction series of novels that I’m adapting from Wagner’s Ring cycle operas.
I didn’t get to visit the Weeksville Heritage Center last October. There’s always next year, I thought. I’ll be glad when I can tour Weeksville in the flesh, not just on the Heritage Center’s website: https://www.weeksvillesociety.org/.
I hope you will tour the original Weeksville houses and listen to one man reminisce about his childhood home there on the videos listed below:
Thanks for letting me share. Now, how about you share in the comments what you’ve learned about the history of your people or your neighborhood or your family. Everyone who does will be entered into a drawing for a $10 Amazon gift card.
Light the Fire Again
One night in 1896 between delicious rounds of oral sex, Adelaide Hanson and Hero Williams shared their hopes and dreams. She to be an artist like Edmonia Lewis. He to amass great wealth. Hero went off to start a fireworks business. Adelaide remained in Weeksville hampered by a ruined reputation until a doctor’s examination proved her still a virgin.
Two years later, Hero, now a self-made millionaire, returns to share his wealth with the community that sheltered his family from the violence of the Post-Reconstruction South. He has also returned hoping to ask Adelaide for her hand. She, however, is anticipating a marriage proposal from the son of one of the Black community’s most prominent families, despite his mother’s disapproval. Hero begs for a chance to change Adelaide’s mind. Although still in love with him, she is unwilling to risk her heart and societal opprobrium again. Then Hero makes an offer he hopes she won’t refuse: a chance to revive what they shared two years ago by viewing a private fireworks display designed especially to light the fire between them again.
Light the Fire Again is one of seven steamy fireworks-featuring romances in the Fireworks anthology, proceeds from which will go to ProLiteracy, an adult literacy organization. So enjoy some great sex while supporting a great cause.
Red and white checkered tablecloths fluttered gently in the warm July breeze. Summer sunlight glinted off glass pitchers brimming with iced tea, lemonade and water. The event attendees had filtered out of the hall and were lining up at the collation tables. Everyone grinned and smacked their lips as the delicious scents of collards, cornbread and fresh-baked biscuits, sweet potatoes, and chicken, both baked and fried, filled the air.
Adelaide’s stomach growled. She pressed a fist against her gut to quiet it. She hadn’t had breakfast and regretted offering to help serve.
“Hurry up Adelaide,” Emmaline Thompson barked. “Set those platters beside the others, go back for the last tray then be ready to serve.”
Adelaide bristled, tempted to deliver a tongue lashing of her own but kept silent and complied.
Reverend Johnson, Hero and several clergy and civic leaders headed for a white linen-covered table decked with red, white and blue ribbons set aside for the guest of honor.
Hero glanced her way, catching her eye. He smiled. Not a broad enjoy-your-day smile, but a narrow I-remember-you grin.
She remembered him too.
Her stomach growled again, this time from a different hunger.
She speared chicken on to plate after plate, forcing a smile with every “You’re welcome” she said to each guest served. The letter in her pocket gave her no reason to smile.
Reverend Johnson had given her the envelope in his office. She recognized Hero’s handwriting immediately. If Reverend Johnson hadn’t been present she’d have ripped it up. She’d shoved it in her pocket, planning to do just that when the minister asked her to please open it then and there.
The envelope contained two pieces of paper: one an article from the Brooklyn Eagle announcing the reason for Hero’s return to Weeksville. His family, known for their generosity to causes dedicated to uplifting the Negro race, had several monetary gifts for their former neighborhood. The reporter recounted the family’s harrowing escape from the South then chronicled their rise to wealth. Their most recent success was attributed to the series of fireworks Hero had designed over the last two years. The article ended by quoting Hero.
“Yes, God has blessed us with success, but I’ll be forever grateful to a muse who inspired me late one August night.”
Adelaide re-read the quote several times. Just seeing the words “August night” set her sex pulsing. She laid the article aside and read the second piece of paper. A hot fist of awakening curled low in her belly as she mouthed its simple words.
The Forgotten Brotherhood is my latest series. This is a truly diverse group of characters. It’s been challenging, maddening, and downright fun at times to watch their stories unfold. Now BURNING ASH, book three of the series, is finally here!
Who are the Forgotten Brotherhood? They’re a group of paranormal assassins, the misfits that other paranormal creatures fear. They aren’t the monsters lurking under the bed. They’re the ones that kill them. They live by a strict code: Kill only those that truly deserve it and let their gods sort them out. Kill them before they kill you. Never, ever betray a fellow assassin.
Burning Ash
Forgotten Brotherhood, Book 3
No one is more surprised than Asher, one of the oldest vampires on Earth, that he’s attracted to vamp hunter Jo Radcliffe. She’s smart, a talented slayer, and she’s gorgeous. Something about her pulls at him, like no one ever has before. For a man, whose name strikes fear in everyone––this is something new and intriguing. And quite possibly deadly, if she discovers his secret.
Jo has two things in common with the handsome Asher––they are both slayers and someone is messing with them in a very-much-trying-to-kill-them way. She’s not so happy about joining forces with a dude she doesn’t know. But he’s sexy as hell and really good at his job as one of the Forgotten Brotherhood, whose business it is to execute misbehaving paranormals.
She knows she’s bait in a larger plot to harm Asher and the Brotherhood. And there is nothing he won’t do, no line he won’t cross, to keep her safe––which may be the weakness that destroys them both.
Excerpt from Burning Ash…
“Who the hell are you?” she demanded of the tall, lean man who was still mostly in the shadows. Whoever he was, he was dangerous, maybe even more so than the creature she’d just beheaded. He’d come out of nowhere and snatched the crossbow bolt out of the air like it hadn’t even been moving.
A shiver raced down her spine.
Dressed all in black, he blended with the dark. She hadn’t known he was there until he’d deliberately come forward. And she always had total situational awareness. It was a matter of survival.
Her profession had a very high mortality rate.
A nudge of his foot sent the vampire’s head rolling back toward the body. The undead would need to be burned if he didn’t start disintegrating soon, but she was keeping her distance from the man in black.
“Asher.” He gave her a half bow. “And you are?”
A quick shake of her head. “You don’t need to know.”
“That hardly seems fair considering I saved your life.”
“It didn’t need saving,” she asserted. “I’d already moved.”
“True,” Asher conceded. “You’re fast, but I didn’t know that. I should get points for the attempt.” He sauntered out of the dark and fully into the candlelight. The flames flickered over his face, exposing a strong jaw, straight nose, and high forehead. His blond hair was pulled back in a short tail at his nape. His skin was olive-toned or tanned, hard to say. Piercing brown eyes stared at her.
Good looking was much to tame. Handsome didn’t fit either. There was something dangerous and predatory lurking beneath the surface. Primal. Compelling. Yeah, that was it.
It was time for her to leave.
“While I appreciate the assist, I’ve got this.” She jerked her head toward the door, hoping he’d take the hint.
A ghost of a smile flickered on his full lips before it disappeared. “I’ve got nowhere I need to be.”
“Great,” she muttered.
His laugh slid down her spine, a whisper of heat. Her nipples puckered and rubbed against her bra. Uh. No. The last thing she needed was some kind of fatal attraction. Because he was one of two things—a fellow hunter or another vampire. Neither of which were good for her.
“Come now, I’ll help you clean up this mess. Then we can get a cup of coffee somewhere, maybe talk.”
“It’s almost one in the morning. Nothing around here is open.” God, she was tired. She just wanted to fry this vampire and leave. Usually they disintegrated fairly quickly. This one was taking his sweet time. He either wasn’t truly dead yet or he was very young. The older they were, the quicker they turned to ash.
N.J. Walters is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who has always been a voracious reader, and now she spends her days writing novels of her own. Vampires, werewolves, dragons, time-travelers, seductive handymen, and next-door neighbors with smoldering good looks—all vie for her attention. It’s a tough life, but someone’s got to live it.
I read my first BDSM novel not long after getting my first e-reader. Annabel Joseph’s novel, Molly’s Lips, changed my life. I was pulled into the world of dominance and submission through the extreme Master/slave relationship between Molly and Mephisto. Needless to say, I bought the first book in the series and subsequently the final book in the trilogy. Then I went on to buy every book Annabel has ever written. I wasn’t just a fan, I was a superfan. I even got to meet Annabel in person—a meeting that changed my life.
Meanwhile, I started to do research into the BDSM lifestyle. I was fascinated, and somehow knew, this was more than just a passing interest. I wrote my In Their Eyes trilogy before I’d ever heard of Fifty Shades of Grey.Amber Eyes is the first book in the trilogy, and I don’t think I ever believed the book would be published.
In January 2015, I went to my first munch. A munch is a vanilla event for kinky people. You go to a restaurant wearing street clothes, but hang out with people who are curious about or into BDSM. Although I was nervous, I also was instantly comfortable, sensing I had met my people. I met a woman who became my protector. She watched out for me and guided me as I moved further and further into the lifestyle. Pretty soon, I was attending conferences and dungeons. Eventually, I got involved in scenes.
Shhh. My parents don’t know.
Eventually, I revisited the trilogy I’d written, and I realized there were scenes needing to be rewritten. Personal experience, as well as discussions I’d embarked upon, had opened my eyes. Now, I knew what it was like to, uh, partake in scenes. I’ll leave it to your imagination, but there are several scenes in my book that come from personal experience.
After all the changes in the book, and after extensive edits, I found a home for the book at The Wild Rose Press. I found an editor who understood my vision, and who saw the potential in the story. I owe her for helping me make it a better book. One I hope readers will enjoy.
So now you know my secret.
Amber Eyes
She needs a firm hand. He needs a challenge.
School principal Gage Clayton is still grieving the death of his wife and submissive, yet he can’t ignore his Dominant needs. As he enters Club Kink, he’s inexplicably drawn to a newly released sub with an intriguing proposition and the most captivating amber eyes. But she has disturbing baggage and her expectations prove quite a challenge, one that would necessitate a commitment he’s not ready for.
Rielle Reid needs a Dom while she waits for her former Master to return. When she invites a handsome stranger to her home dungeon for a night of play, she’s surprised at his gentle dominance—and her response to it. But in the light of day, his demand for equal footing confounds her. After living four years as a twenty-four/seven slave, she has no concept of how to be anything other than property.
Gage must find a way to master Rielle to free them both from the shackles of the past.
Exclusive Excerpt
She released his hand, rose, and stretched. Leaning down, she placed a kiss to his cheek. “Come to bed soon. You’re looking as tired as I’m feeling.” Then she was gone.
In her wake, however, a wave of desire swept over him.
Come to bed soon, she said. As in, come to our bed soon? There had been no talk of sleeping arrangements, and the room she’d used the previous weekend had been cleaned, sheets laundered, everything put to rights. Sex was out of the question, but sleeping with someone? For the whole night? That held almost as much appeal.
Almost.
Cleanup was simple, and within a few minutes, he headed to the bathroom. The steam from her earlier shower had dissipated, but her scent lingered. He’d yet to put his finger on the exact scent of body spray she used, but he liked trying to guess. He loved the mystery and allure that came with the not knowing.
When he stepped into his bedroom, one of the bedside lamps was on, casting the room in shadows. She was already in bed, covers pulled up. He stripped out of his clothes and slid in beside her, cradling her against him, spoon-style. She extended a hand to switch off the light, and he stopped her.
“I don’t mind sleeping with the light on.”
“With you next to me, I don’t need the light.”
He was moved almost to the point beyond words. “I’ll always protect you. You know that, right?”
Instead of responding, she cuddled closer to him, burrowing herself under the blankets. It wasn’t long before her breath evened out and even less time after that before his did.
Even though Gabbi Black is a firm believer in happy endings, she makes her characters work for it in every romance she writes, no matter what the genre. From contemporary to BDSM, they are penned late at night in her home on a beautiful British Columbia mountain surrounded by magnificent trees and every conceivable woodland creature—including bears. She also writes gay romances as Gabbi Grey.
One great thing about attending the public school system in NYC as I grew up was all the museum trips I took. The Museum of Natural History and the Hayden Planetarium were annual stops. Yet none of my school trips had taken me to Hamilton Grange even though it was designated a national historic landmark in 1960 and put on the national register of historic places in 1966. I didn’t discover the Grange until I did an internship year in seminary in 1982.
Coming from a seminarians’ meeting at Convent Avenue Baptist Church, I decided to visit my aunt who lived on 141st Street and Eighth Avenue. Instead of going down 145th, I walked along Convent to 141st. A sad-looking house caught my eye. It sat behind a locked black gate nestled between an apartment building and an imposing church. On my right was a statue of Alexander Hamilton. I later learned the house had been where he lived from 1802 until his death in 1804.
All I knew about Hamilton—he was on the ten-dollar bill, had founded the New York Post, and was killed in a duel by Aaron Burr. Decades later, thanks to Lin Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton, I’d learn the sad circumstances of the song, “It’s Quiet Uptown.” That day, however, only the house and not its owner’s history intrigued me. It looked so out of place with the Harlem I knew: cracked concrete sidewalks, bus exhaust, fish frying from a small hole-in-the-wall shop on St. Nicholas Avenue, my aunt’s Drew-Hamilton housing projects down the hill. Yet the Grange was part of the original Harlem Heights, the suburb to which the New York swells retreated from the hustle and bustle of lower Manhattan. Why had the school system never taken me there?
Fast forward to 2012. I now worked with St. James Presbyterian Church two blocks down the hill from the Grange. On my strolls along Convent, I stopped and peered through those gates. No longer troubled by the holes in my public school education, I enlisted my history-inspired romance-loving writer’s muse. I drafted an erotic ghostly encounter with Hamilton entitled Permission. Was I channeling the ghost of Maria Reynolds three years before Lin Manuel Miranda penned “Show Me How To Say No To This”?
When the Grange was relocated to St. Nicholas Park, I snapped a picture of the vacant site. In my writer’s eye, I continued to see the house fading in and out Brigadoon-like in that location and penned an equally erotic ghost story entitled “10,000 Midnights Ago”. In 2018 I got to visit the Grange, read the placards the National Parks Department created, snapped pictures, took notes, fed my muse and revived my ghost stories. Both will now have a home in my Haunted Harlem series of novellas.
Uptown was never quiet for me, but for Alexander Hamilton, it was. In the quiet of those rooms, I heard for the first time how quiet uptown could be.
Haunted Serenade
All the women in Anora Madison’s family have lived as “Poor Butterflies:” women still longing for – but deserted by – the men they loved. Determined to be the first to escape a life of abandonment, she fled Harlem for Brooklyn, severing ties with both her mother and with the man who broke her heart, Winston Emerson, the father of her child.
Six years later, Anora returns to make peace, but a malignant spirit manifests itself during the homecoming, targeting her mother, her aunt, Winston and their little girl. Determined to stop the evil now trying to destroy all she loves, Anora must finally turn to Winston for help. But will their efforts be too little too late?
I unlocked my apartment door and gestured toward the bedroom. He carried Cammie inside, laid her down on the bed then stepped back and watched while I helped her into her pajamas. She blinked awake.
“I didn’t brush my teeth or say my prayers.”
I kissed her temple. “Missing one night won’t hurt.”
She pouted. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
She looked at Winston from beneath half-lidded eyes and smiled at him.
“You pick me up tomorrow, okay Daddy?”
He shook his head. “No, baby. Mommy will bring you to Grammie Angela’s straight from school. I’ve got to go get our pumpkins.”
“Oh, okay. Pumpkins and party and Sammy,” she whispered and turned over, already asleep.
“Night, night, baby,” he said then kissed her.
I walked him to the door, resolved to say good night and for once not mean goodbye. I didn’t want him to go.
“Stay.” I laid my head against his chest. “We can sleep on the Castro.”
His shudder was rewarding.
“If you only knew how long I’ve wanted to hear you ask me. Jesus.” He laughed, a shy embarrassed sound that gladdened my heart. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this.” He took a deep breath. “We shouldn’t. Not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not sure we’d be doing it out of love.” He looked at me with a question in his gaze. “I don’t want us to make love because we’re afraid.”
I frowned, my heart heavy, my spirit desperate to disagree, but unable to.
“Okay.” I sighed, but still clung to him. “Not tonight. But soon. And for the rest of our lives.”
“Soon. And for the rest of our lives.”
He cupped my face in both his hands then kissed me in our mutual agreement. Equal parts of nervousness and desire quivered in my belly. I liked the sensation, felt warmed as I imagined what soon would be like.
Ever since I was a kid, I have loved music. I remember having a radio in my room and being amazed at the new songs I heard. I noticed how each song told a story with not only words but rhythm and instruments as well. When I got a tape player, I listened to “Africa” by Toto over and over. It’s still one of my favorite songs. More than anything else ever has, the notes of a song can soothe me when I’m upset. A good, fast-paced song can energize me when I need to get things done. I can turn up the volume and sing when I’m alone, especially when I’m driving down the road. The energy of a crowd at a concert can be inspiring. The connection to everyone around me singing the same song is incredible and beautifully impermanent.
The soothing power of music is an important part of Tiger’s Last Chance. In the story, Sean Whitman had a rough childhood and endured a brutal interrogation that tore apart his life and career, but he survived. In spite of everything he endured, his empathy for others never faltered. But he’s not perfect either. He is a recovering alcoholic and music is his lifeline when things get too intense for him to bear.
The song “Ball and Chain” by Social Distortion is playing in his truck in the first chapter of the story because that song kept popping up in my head as I wrote his character. For Sean, music is the temporary armor that gave him strength and peace while he healed. I think music is a temporary armor for many people. The rhythm and sound give us joy and comfort in the darkest times.
Tiger’s Last Chance
While working a case, Sean Whitman is tortured for information, drugged, and bitten against his will by a shapeshifter. The fallout leaves him jobless, friendless, and dumped by his girlfriend. Needing a fresh start, he leaves town and opens a private investigation business. Learning to live life sober isn’t easy, but he makes it to the two-year mark.
When Detective Nikki Jackson with the Great Oaks, Virginia Police Department calls him, accusing him of breaking into his ex-girlfriend’s house, Sean can’t help but like the sound of her voice, despite her ridiculous accusations. He’s shocked when she calls him back with an apology then asks for his help as a consultant on a case. On the phone, her sweet, slightly Southern voice captivates him. In person, she’s unlike any other woman he’s encountered, and nearly impossible to resist. But could the sexy detective ever want a man like him?
After Nikki’s last dating disaster, the mountain lion shifter has sworn off men. Then she meets Sean, and with every second she spends around the tall, dark-eyed man, her resolve crumbles. But for some reason, despite the undeniable attraction between them, Sean seems determined to push her away.
An investigation into missing refugees leaves Nikki with more questions than answers. Her refusal to let the matter drop leads her to the discovery of a radical political group’s horrifying plot for dominance. Traitors are embedded within the very organizations meant to keep shifters safe. As the list of people she can trust dwindles, Nikki calls on Sean to help her unravel a web of deceit.
As Nikki and Sean fight for survival, his fear of losing her could become a reality. Will he get one last chance to show her he loves her?
For the briefest moment, Nikki felt the depth to which Sean might be capable of pushing her. His kiss was crushing and brutal. His tongue pushed past her lips and his grip in her hair tightened. If desire were a vine, it would have wrapped itself around her veins and encased her heart. The heat between them flooded her. There was a sweetness, too, in his kiss, and the sweetness made her burn hotter.
A polite cough from inside the waiting car put a quick end to things. Sean pulled away and met her gaze. No words, but she got the message. She wasn’t alone. Comfort and friendship; he’d probably meant the kiss to comfort her and had gotten carried away in the heat of the moment. He’d carried her away with him, and she wanted to take him so much further into the unknown.
With each second, each step towards the waiting car, she tried to find reasons and more reasons to ignore her growing attraction to Sean. The number one reason to forget about the kiss they’d shared—relationships were trouble. She had plenty of other amazing things in her life, including her career, her volunteer work, and her band, even though the band rarely played anywhere because the members had trouble aligning their schedules. She didn’t need a man. Besides, he was probably still messed up over Sydney. Also, he was a regular. Or mostly regular. Not to mention he lived over a thousand miles away in Texas. She should tell him the kiss was a mistake. One look at him and she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. The kiss they shared had been anything but a mistake.
“What do you truly desire?” Lucifer asks in the Netflix series.
Even though Gabbi Black is a firm believer in happy endings, she makes her characters work for it in every romance she writes, no matter what the genre. From contemporary to BDSM, they are penned late at night in her home on a beautiful British Columbia mountain surrounded by magnificent trees and every conceivable woodland creature—including bears. She also writes gay romances as Gabbi Grey.
