Bastards and Pretty Boys - K.Z. Snow [Sept 14]

[Maria]

Soon to be released - a new Molten erotic romance book

Bastards and Pretty Boys

by: K.Z. Snow

ISBN: 978-1-59578-618-0

Stay tuned to this topic for all the latest on this new Molten

Blurb:


Charles Larkin is finally happy with his life. For the most part. He’s happy with his new summer getaway—a rustic cottage he just purchased on a small Wisconsin lake. He’s happy that his ex-wife, whom he divorced because he couldn’t play straight anymore, has become one of his best friends. He’s happy he can breathe again.

It’s only Kenneth, Charlie’s boyfriend of five months, who makes this new life less than satisfying. Charlie feels they’ve never been quite right for each other, and Kenneth cements that conviction when he makes a disturbing confession. Charlie knows their time together is quickly coming to an end. Problem is, Kenneth doesn’t know it. And he tends to be rather possessive.

Planning to spend a quiet, relaxing two or three weeks at Cloud Lake—fixing up his place, reading, even attempting to overcome his fear of water—Charlie is less than thrilled to notice that his nextdoor neighbor is one hell of a looker. He doesn’t need that kind of distraction, especially since his issues with Kenneth haven’t yet been resolved. But there’s a ninety percent chance the neighbor is straight, has a wife or girlfriend, and could be leaving very soon. Charlie clings to those probabilities.

Only, Booker isn’t going anywhere, and he isn’t that easily ignored. And neither is his unexpected, none-too-savory baggage. And neither, for that matter, is Charlie's. But when two people care enough about each other, they figure out how to help carry that baggage . . . or cast it aside.

[Maria]

Excerpt: (unedited)


Down to my beach I went, after having spent my first full night in the cottage. It was a night of restless sleep punctuated by chirping crickets, gulping bullfrogs, and eerily creaking trees. I’d dreamt sporadically, and the dreams were vaguely unsettling.

This new environment would take some getting used to.

After three trips to and from the sandy shore, I thought I had what was necessary to get the day rolling—a lawn chair and some implements from a rickety shed on my property, sunglasses and sunblock, a large trash bag, and a thermal mug full of light coffee. I figured I’d sit for a while and charge my batteries with caffeine, then start cleaning the beach. There was already a fire pit, not too cluttered with debris, so I’d just throw all burnable stuff in there and torch it.

As I settled unsteadily into the chair, I felt like the city boy I was. Not landed gentry, not a work-hardened serf, but some laboratory mutant raised beneath fluorescent lights. My legs were so white they gleamed like amphibian bellies.

All that was about to change. Two rakes, a shovel, a swing-blade, and a grappling hook attached to a length of rope lay in a pile to my right. No gym muscles or tanning booth today. I’d be working my way to he-man the old-fashioned way.

“Excuse me.”

I jumped like a jack-in-the-box, the lawn chair creaking and teetering beneath me.

“I’m sorry,” said the same voice—a mild, low voice with a sprinkling of gravel.

Hand on chest, I looked up and to the left. A man stood over me. At least, I assumed it was a man. Or a female wrestler. All I could see was a nimbus of sunlight around a broad-shouldered silhouette.

“Uh...hi.” Squinting, I made a brim over my forehead with my hand and got up. Awkwardly. Aluminum lawn chairs sat none too evenly on sand.

My heart jigged. Definitely a man. And I was almost certain he was my neighbor. A blush heated my face as I remembered yesterday’s round of lovemaking with Kenneth, how this stranger had unwittingly been a part of it. A decidedly bizarre part. And I couldn’t help remembering, too, how I’d stared at him last evening.

Hope he isn’t psychic.

The man seemed to want to smile but seemed not to know how. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I must’ve been lost in thought. It really is quiet around here.”

“Yeah, that’s why I like no-wake lakes. The people who get rowdy and stupid go where they can play with their toys.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I’m in the place nextdoor.”

“Oh.” I could’ve sworn my face looked like a piece of Atomic Fireball candy. “Were you the guy who was swimming yesterday?”

“Yeah, must’ve been.”

I felt a small drizzle of relief. He was on the scruffy side and, if he hadn’t been my neighbor, could’ve been a deranged vagrant. As I regarded him, my relief became short-lived. He might be on the scruffy side but was definitely in the handsome neighborhood.

I extended a hand. “I’m Charlie Larkin. I just bought—”

“I know.” He gave my hand a firm, brief clasp. His expression didn’t change; that incipient smile still seemed locked within his face. “I’m Booker.” He glanced at the top of my head. “Why don’t you put on your shades? You look like you’re in pain.”

I felt above my forehead. “I forgot they were there,” I said with a nervous laugh.

Once the glasses were in place, I got my first prolonged look at the man. Dark stubble, not too heavy, ran along his jaw and circled his mouth. It matched the clean, tousled black hair that made half-curls on his neck and around his ears. He wore a clingy yellow tank-top that highlighted some of his assets—satiny, sun-browned skin; hard-muscled arms; a well-defined chest topped by nipples that poked the cloth into golden beads.

His unshaded eyes were startling. I didn’t even notice their color, just a faceted brightness and clarity overhung by black lashes. I wondered fleetingly if he was one of those goth types who wore mascara. Only he didn’t look all that gothy. He looked like...I wasn’t sure what. An itinerant mesmerist, maybe. The thought was so absurd it almost made me smile. Then I noticed he smelled good. Could've been his shampoo.

Oh boy.

I hoped he was leaving today, since it was Sunday. Booker was way more of a distraction than I’d counted on. In fact, I hadn’t counted on any.

He did a half-twist at the waist and pointed at the ground behind him. “May I have that?” he asked.

I tilted to look past him. He was a little taller than I, maybe six-one or six-two. “Have what?” I didn’t see anything worth having.

Turning, he took a few steps and snatched up the knot of tape and fishing line I’d earlier kicked aside. “This,” he said, holding it up.

A marble also gleamed from the mass. I blinked at it. Maybe that’s what he was after. Maybe he collected marbles. A lot of people did.

“I’ve been meaning to grab it,” he said.

“Is that your...stuff?” I’d almost said junk.

“No. That’s why I’m asking.”

Embarrassment overcame me. The shabbiness of my frontage must’ve been bugging him. “Hey, I’m sorry about how this looks. I was just going to start clea—”

“No, man, that’s not what I meant.” The smile finally broke through. An amused, disarming smile. “I don’t care what your beach looks like. Hell, this used to be nothing but tall grass and weeds and lily pads. Besides, it’s your place, not mine.” Booker briefly studied the bundle of flotsam as if it might be the missing piece of a puzzle. “I’m asking because I want it, that’s all.”

I shrugged and lifted a hand. “Then be my guest. Save me some work.”

“Thanks. Sorry I bothered you.” Another quick smile, a modest one. “You can sink back into your thoughts now.”

Booker turned and headed toward his cottage—a white clapboard structure. I recalled that in front, by the road, hollyhocks bowed and nodded over a white picket fence, their blossoms like the buttons on a clown costume. The wood of both cottage and fence looked like weathered bone.

I realized I didn’t know if Booker was the guy’s first name or last, and still didn’t know if he was alone at the cottage or not. I realized no wedding band glinted from his left hand and, immediately thereafter, that the lack of one didn’t mean anything. I realized his looks strongly appealed to me, and I was again ogling that luscious, rounded ass as if I’d never seen a man’s ass before.

Damned if he didn’t throw me off-balance more than my tippy lawn chair.


Excerpt 2:


Logic dictated that the rear of my cottage should’ve been the front of my cottage, since it was the side visible from the road. But lake dwellings were often constructed ass backwards, so their faces were turned to the water. I stepped out my back front door and across the trampled yard. My minivan, smears of bug-spatter on the windshield, was parked at an angle to the two-rut driveway. There was no actual parking area, so I and any visitors had to pull into the scrubby, sandy yard. I glanced to my right, where Booker’s property lay, but I couldn’t see much from here. Old crabapple trees and a hodgepodge of bushes pretty much blocked my view.

Crossing the dirt road, I headed into the green cathedral.

It wasn’t a Christmas tree farm, although there were plenty of those in the area, too. The plantation was one colonnade after another of 40- to 50-foot red pines, their lowest branches at least ten feet off the ground. Filtered sunlight patched the trunks.

Cool shade and the mentholated tang of resin greeted me. I paused on the brown-needle carpet and looked around. Every other row of trees had been harvested, leaving squat stumps. Here and there, spindly oaks had sprouted, looking like undernourished dwarves among towering giants. The space was quiet, majestic. And enchanting. At dusk, which was fast approaching, it had a brooding quality. At night, it looked downright spooky.

I walked in farther. Picked up a scaly cone and sniffed it. The sticky residue it left on my fingers was pleasantly fresh and piquant. I was about to sink to the ground and sit there for a while, listening to birdsong and sampling the perfume of pine sap, when I heard a car come down the road. Pivoting, I glimpsed it between the trees.

A silver subcompact, the same one I’d seen yesterday. It pulled into Booker’s yard and stopped in front of his small garage. A man got out. I couldn’t discern much of anything about him, except that he seemed conservatively dressed and had neatly trimmed, salt-and-pepper hair. As he strode up to Booker’s screen door—wood, painted dark green, the kind I’d imagined it to be—the heavier door behind it slammed shut. Virtually in his face. The visitor’s insistent knocks echoed down the pine rows.

I heard him say something in a raised voice. He wasn’t shouting, exactly, but speaking loudly enough to get the attention of the person within. His words were unclear. I thought I heard “hose” or “hoser.” But that couldn’t be. Mature men didn’t use words like hoser.

The little drama transfixed me. I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was going on between this repeat visitor and my neighbor. They obviously didn’t get along too well. Maybe the guy was Booker’s father or uncle or older brother, and they’d had some sort of falling-out. Maybe Booker didn’t have permission to stay in the cottage. He didn’t seem like the squatter type, though.

The visitor’s knocking became pounding until, abruptly, the inner door swung open. I couldn’t see who stood there. Words were exchanged in tight, low voices. Then I did see Booker. He stepped onto the stoop and closed the door behind him. I heard him quite distinctly, since he was facing in my direction.

“You’re not coming in, Karl. Now leave. Please. I’m sick of talking about it. Can’t you find—”

Booker’s words were apparently cut off by the other man, who grabbed Booker’s arm and seemed to speak in a hurried way.

“No!” Booker barked, simultaneously yanking his arm away. He spun around and went back into the cottage, closing the door with a conclusive thud. I heard the sharp click of its lock.

The other man rapped on the storm door like a frenzied woodpecker as he repeated a string of imploring words. His ruckus elicited no response. Apparently conceding defeat, he turned away and let the screen door, which he’d held ajar with his body, slap back into place. Right after stepping off the small concrete stoop, he whipped around and jabbed a forefinger toward the sealed cottage.

“This isn’t over, my friend!” he shouted.

I stared, frowning in bewilderment. None of this was any of my business, of course, but I liked Booker. The man named Karl went back to his car and just sat there for a few minutes. I was afraid he wouldn’t leave, that he’d camp out in Booker’s driveway until some really ugly confrontation ensued. But that wasn’t his intention. Instead, he got out, went back to the cottage, and seemed to place something between both doors. Then he simply returned to his vehicle and drove away.

There was nothing more to see. I resumed my ramble. My mind drifted.

I soon heard soft, crunching steps some distance behind me. They accelerated into a jog. The strange goings-on at my neighbor’s place had made me edgy enough to turn and see who was coming.

“Booker,” I said, more or less relieved.

“Hi.” He slowed to a stroll as he approached me.

“I took your advice,” I said. “Did you know I was out here?”

He shook his head. “No. No, I just felt like taking a walk. Then I saw you.” His eyes were lowered. He seemed troubled, distracted.

I couldn’t help but notice that he, too, had showered and changed clothes. My gaze tripped along one of his bare arms, from the smooth knoll of his shoulder to the arch of his biceps to the silky flow of dark hair that thinned toward the prominent bones of his wrist.

“You all right?” I asked.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Hands shoved in his pockets, he twisted at the waist and cast a quick look at his yard.

I glanced at it too. Empty, thank God. “I’m not trying to pry, but . . . who’s that guy who keeps showing up at your place?”

His eyes flickered up to my face—lucid gray-green irises rimmed in black. Instantly, they took my breath away.

“Why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “It’s just that, you know, there seems to be some . . . contention there. I hope he’s not harassing you or anything.”

One corner of his mouth jerked into a smile. “I’m a big boy, Charlie. I can take care of it. Don’t worry; no shit’s going to splash your way.”

I felt a blush rise beneath my freckles. “No that’s not what I . . . No.”

Booker’s one-sided smile shrank, but it didn’t entirely disappear. He held my gaze. I don’t know how long we stood there looking at each other—five seconds, maybe, which felt like five minutes—before one of us spoke.

“Do you have some kind of phobia about water?” Booker asked.

“Yes,” I answered without bothering to think.

He nodded. “I had a feeling.” His tongue crept out to moisten his lips. “Maybe I could help. I love the water. Practically grew up on it.”

This budding friendship was increasingly perplexing. More and more Booker seemed like a standup guy, a bit reserved but good-hearted. I’d never had a straight male friend to whom I was strongly attracted, and I wasn’t sure how to handle it. A small voice at the back of my mind nagged at me to come clean with him; another said my sexuality was none of his damned business, because I wasn’t some out-of-control sex maniac who was going to jump him on the beach. Ergo, if I kept my mouth shut, he’d never be any the wiser.

Then there was the faint echo of a third voice, my ex-wife’s voice, saying, “Jesus, Charlie, why do you have to overanalyze everything?”

“That friend of yours,” Booker said, interrupting my thoughts. “Ken?”

A worm uncoiled in my belly. “What about him?”

“I saw the two of you standing beside your deck yesterday.”

My pulse began a rapid tapping at the skin of my throat. He must've seen Kenneth kiss me. “And?”

“Are you . . . in a relationship?”

No answer came out at first. For one thing, I was afraid my voice would crack. For another, I didn’t know why he’d brought it up.

After a hard swallow, I said, “Yes.”

Looking down, Booker nodded thoughtfully. After a moment he turned up those mirror-bright eyes without lifting his head. “Committed?”

I didn’t feel like the same man I was ten minutes ago. I felt reduced to a pair of stuck-open eyelids perched on a thudding heart. “No,” I whispered.

Booker took two steps forward, backing me against one of the red pines. His gaze never left my face. Maybe, I thought, he is a mesmerist. Or maybe he’s some redneck who hates "fags," and he’s fixing to pound me to a pulp. Then I stopped thinking. His arms rose on either side of my head, making a loose vise. I heard a dry crackle of bark as his hands flattened on the trunk above me.

“I’m really attracted to you,” he said.

His nearness weighted my limbs and filled my head with air. Damp heat scented with bath soap radiated from his body and lapped against mine. Had we been breathing more deeply, our chests would’ve touched. But our respiration was shallow, a rapid counterpoint of intake and outflow between slack, parted lips.

Booker wasn’t trying to intimidate me; he was letting me gauge the depth of my desire for him. The openness of his invitation stunned me. I accepted it, exploring him with my senses.

Close up, he was both more feminine and more masculine than at a distance. I noticed the intricate facets of his irises, like a luminous ivory and jade mosaic; the sweep and thickness of his jet-black lashes; the pale blush and delicate texture of his lips. But I also saw the lightning line of a scar through one eyebrow, a chipped tooth, a few bristles of nose hair. Beneath the soap he smelled thoroughly masculine, too, and the tight stretch of coarse-grained skin over chiseled bone was worthy of a superhero.

“Do you want this?” he asked without a hint of pressure. Even his balmy breath felt tentative as it touched my mouth. But his voice, barely above a whisper, was roughened.

Do you want this? Do you want me? Holy Mother of Unexpected Blessings.

I knew he’d back off and apologize if I said no. I knew that as surely as I knew my name. But I knew something else far more important.

I’d sealed up many a font of need throughout my life, and especially throughout my four-year marriage. I’d stitched each gaping mouth as it appeared and made its raw interior invisible to the world. When I finally gave up the marriage, I thought I was giving up this desperate exercise along with it. But I wasn’t. I was still drawing taut those meticulous loops while I was with Kenneth, or any time I merely settled for something or somebody, because I figured settling was the best I could do.

It was the settling that put needle and thread in my hand, not the pretense of straightness.

“Yes, I do. Very much.”

Booker closed the small space between us. The press of his mouth was slow and sure and exquisite.

[K. Z. Snow]

Well, imagine my surprise! Thanks, Maria. I just had a new release elsewhere today, so I'll be sure to hustle up ye olde blurb and excerpt ASAP.

I can tell y'all this much. Bastards and Pretty Boys is a stand-alone M/M contemporary.

[Mima]

what a FUN title!

[Trina M Lee]

The title definitely drew me in. Love it!

[K. Z. Snow]

Thanks, guys. I'm rather fond of the title, too. And it fits!

[Mike]

Hey Flaky, Roscoe and I have been contacted for the lead roles.

Wonder who they'll get for the Pretty Boys?

[Alanna Coca]

You'd better read your contract again, pretty boy.

[Cameron Dane]

Love the title! Looking forward to the blurb. --CD

[K. Z. Snow]

Originally Posted by Mike

Hey Flaky, Roscoe and I have been contacted for the lead roles.

Wonder who they'll get for the Pretty Boys?

Hey, Mikey, you and Roscoe can't be the B-boys. Those are "grudge roles" reserved for ex-boyfriends and ex-bosses. Now if you step on my toes enough . . .

[Olivia Brynn]

Great blurb K.Z. I can't wait for the excerpt now!

[K. Z. Snow]

Thank you, Olivia. The excerpt . . . yes, I know. My bad! You've piqued my conscience, though, so maybe I'll post one tomorrow.

[Davida McLea]

Great excerpt- and add me to the list of fans of the title!

[Rosemary Gunn]

Whew...[fanning self] loved the excerpt!

Totally laughed out loud at: “Is that your...stuff?” I’d almost said junk.

Sounded exactly like something I'd do!

[K. Z. Snow]

Thanks, Davida and Rosemary. Isn't it wonderful when the title fairy slips a good one beneath the ol' pillow?

Forgot to mention -- that was one of the book's tamer excerpts. Very tame, in fact. ;-)

[Jeanne Barrack]

Great excerpt and KZ, you owe me big time for you know what!

Jeanne

[K. Z. Snow]

Here, Jeanne. Just a small token . . .

[Jeanne Barrack]

Jeanne

[Gem Sivad]

Oh, K.Z. this is going to be so much fun to read. Can't wait.

[K. Z. Snow]

Thank you, Gem. It does have some heavier moments, though.

[Hailey Edwards]

Loved the excerpt. "My legs were so white they gleamed like amphibian bellies." That I enjoyed probably more than I should have

[Serena Shay]

Great blurb and excerpt! Can't wait to read!

[K. Z. Snow]

It's so gratifying to get this kind of feedback, Hailey and Serena. (As if you didn't know that from experience!) Thank you both. Now I'm worried about the rest of the story meeting people's expectations!

[Hailey Edwards]

Originally Posted by K. Z. Snow

Now I'm worried about the rest of the story meeting people's expectations!

I'm hooked. I have faith if such a small excerpt grabbed my attention, that the rest of the book can only be more of the same.

[K. Z. Snow]

Thanks for the vote of confidence, Hailey!

[Cat Kane]

Great title *grin* and an awesome excerpt -- love Charlie's voice, he's just so engaging! Definitely picking this one up when it's out!

[K. Z. Snow]

You made me blush, Cat. Thanks so much for the kind words.

[K. Z. Snow]

Progress report: edits are finished. Now I can't wait to see the cover LSB's wonder-workers come up with!

[K. Z. Snow]

See? Here it is! (The listing, I mean. Not, alas, the cover.)

[Rebecca Royce]

That is an incredible title. Looks wonderful!

[K. Z. Snow]

Thanks, Rebecca. My upcoming WIP (once I wrap up my current WIP) is tentatively titled Jude in Chains.

It's an odd phenomenon, but the titles that come to me before I actually start writing are always the best ones.

[K. Z. Snow]

Cover should be up very soon. Lyn did a beautiful job. As was the case with InDescent (although Amanda did the cover on that novel), you'll know what the characters look like when you see it.

LSB's artists must be mindreaders!

[Mike]

Originally Posted by K. Z. Snow

Cover should be up very soon.

Oh look, Lyn's pretty boys.

[Jambrea Jo Jones]

Ohhh...very nice cover!

[Alanna Coca]

I love it!! They're both pretty. Which one's the bastard?"

[Cat Kane]

Oh, very pretty! *g*

[K. Z. Snow]

YAY, it's up! Many, many thanks to Lyn for her beautiful work, and for her persistence in finding just the right "boys."

They're both pretty. Which one's the bastard?

Neither, Alanna, although they're far from perfect. There are a couple of other bastardly characters. (Mike and Roscoe know what they look like. )

[Maria]

Release Date: September 14.

[K. Z. Snow]

Man, I am so happy about this!



(I'm still trying to figure out how to project myself into that cover!)

[Jambrea Jo Jones]

lol Congrats and good luck with that. Can I come? heehee

[Rebecca Royce]

Have I mentioned how much I like this cover?

[K. Z. Snow]

Thanks, Jambrea. I'm afraid I must deny your request, though. When I determine what magic will get me into that cover, I'm entering solo!

Rebecca, how could any red-blooded female (or gay male) not feel that way?

[Jambrea Jo Jones]

Originally Posted by K. Z. Snow

Thanks, Jambrea. I'm afraid I must deny your request, though. When I determine what magic will get me into that cover, I'm entering solo!

Well...would you be willing to share the magic. I might want to jump into my cover when i get it. heehee

[K. Z. Snow]

There's a different "formula" for every cover.

[Jambrea Jo Jones]

I guess I'll have to figure out my formula...because I want in! lol

[K. Z. Snow]

Could be we're just plain selfish, trip-J. Maybe we should leave these happy people alone!

[Jambrea Jo Jones]

Never! lol They love us too. heehee

[K. Z. Snow]

I think they love each other more . . . that is, if we did our jobs right!

[Jambrea Jo Jones]

True...but we should still be able to jump in...every now and again. heehee

[Jambrea Jo Jones]

Hey...we have the same cover artist.