Wednesday, June 20, 2018

If You Wrong Us by Dawn Klehr - Cover Reveal

If You Wrong Us
Dawn Klehr
(Anniversary Edition)
Genres: Thriller, Young Adult
A dark and disturbing thriller that, “reads like Gone Girl through a teen lens.” – Kirkus Reviews
Becca and Johnny become entangled after a car crash steals the lives of two people they love. Officially, the crash is an accident. But Becca and Johnny are convinced: someone did this.
As they plot revenge against the person responsible, a bond–intense, unyielding, and manic–takes hold of them. And in an unexpected turn of events, they fall for each other.
Or so they think.
In an upside-down world where decay is beautiful and love and hate become one, Becca and Johnny find themselves grappling with reality. Nothing is exactly what it seems, including what they’ve come to believe about the crash. Question is: will they learn the truth before it’s too late?
No. The question is: when they learn the truth, will they care?

Author Bio:
Dawn Klehr is the author of the young adult thrillers: The Cutting Room Floor and If You Wrong Us.
She began her career in TV news and though she’s been on both sides of the camera, she prefers to lurk behind the lens. Mostly, she loves to get lost in stories –in film, the theater, or on the page – and is a sucker for both the sinister and the sappy. She’s currently channeling her dark side as she works on her next book.
Dawn lives in the Twin Cities with her funny husband, adorable son, and naughty dog.

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Tuesday, June 19, 2018

The Missing Bouncy Ball by Misti Kenison - Book Review



Synopsis
Emma has lost her favorite bouncy ball in the park. Can our dapper detectives, Fox and Goat, find it for her? Young children will follow their journey through the golf course, past the soccer field, and across the tennis court to the playground as they solve the mystery and learn new concepts along the way. Is the ball small or large, smooth or rough, hard or soft? This toddler's version of Sherlock Holmes is guaranteed to both engage and entertain young minds.

Pre-Order Links
Amazon
B&N
Schiffer Publishing
Book Depository
Indigo
IndieBound
Goodreads

My Review


**I'd like to thank NetGalley and the publisher for the chance to read and review this book**

The Missing Bouncy Ball is an adorable children's book that sends two detectives -- Fox and Goat -- off on a mission to find a little girl's favorite blue bouncy ball. The pair go on the hunt through all sorts of locations, including a soccer field, a tennis court, and even a golf course. Do they ever find the missing ball? Read it to find out!

I thought the book was super cute. The illustrations are entertaining (I loved the fox wearing the sunglasses and peeking out from behind things), and I really liked how the book taught kids opposites such as hard and soft, small and large, etc. It's definitely educational while still entertaining young readers. 

I also liked how the story introduced kids to different sports, as well as guiding them along to help solve a mystery by using their knowledge of opposites, shapes, and colors. That's always a good thing for young minds.

Overall, The Missing Bouncy Ball is a short, fun, cute read that will entertain kids and parents alike. I know my three year old enjoyed the story and the pictures. Plus, my favorite animal is a fox, and my son has taken a liking to them as well, so that made the story even more enjoyable for us. Goats terrify me, but that's another story...

Anyway, I'd have to rate The Missing Bouncy Ball four stars. I really liked it!

Author Bio
Misti Kenison is a web/graphic designer and owner of MK Design. This is the third board book series that she has written and illustrated. Misti, her husband, and their two children live in Little Rock, Arkansas. 

Keep You Safe by C.R. Moss - Book Tour + Giveaway


Keep You Safe
by C.R. Moss
in the Down and Dirty anthology

Genre:
anthology, romance, erotic romance, blue collar

I’m Professor Arianna Perez, and I’ve been asked if I’ll ever trust, let alone love,
another man again. After dumping an abusive boyfriend, I doubted I
would. At least, that’s how I felt until fate had sexy wrangler,
Kian Bishop, reappearing in my life in a way I never expected.

Against my better judgement, I fell hard for the cowboy, believing everything he said,
including how he wanted to treat me like a queen and keep me safe.
Little did I know, though, that the circumstances that’d brought us
together could also tear us apart…and possibly claim my life.




ADULT Excerpt

“You going to join me or not?” I asked, giving Kian a flirty wink. The angel on my shoulder whispered how my grandmother would be worrying her rosary beads if she knew what I was doing. The vixen on my other shoulder told the goody two-shoes that abuela wasn’t here and wouldn’t know.
Kian made short work of removing his briefs and joining me in the shower. He pressed me up against the wall, and once again claimed my mouth. His kiss, full of passion, also demanded submission. My body turned into a live wire from the feel of his hot, slick skin rubbing along mine. My knees weakened.
He broke the kiss and put his lips near my ear. “I want you, Arianna, body, mind, soul. No matter what happens, I want you to know you’ve always been my priority. You’ve always been a part of my heart.”
Despite the warm water washing over us, the wisp of his heated breath sent shivers down the side of my body. “I want you, too, Kian.”
Kian nipped at my earlobe, kissed my neck below my ear, then did the same on the other side. He trailed the tips of his fingers across the top of my chest to my breasts. I gazed down at the hands working my mounds, and when he pinched the nipples, I sucked in a deep breath to keep from melting under his touch.
I closed my eyes. He stretched around me. A bottle clicked open. The pleasant scent of milk and honey filled the small area. Moments later, he soaped my torso, down to my butt cheeks. His strong fingers ran the lather along my legs, then my arms. Every line and curve of my body that he bathed smoldered with lust for him. Heady with desire, I opened my eyes and watched him cleanse himself all over, including his cock, which was as magnificent as I’d imagined it to be.
“Would you like me to help you with that?” I asked, keeping my gaze trained on his shaft and hoping he’d understand my meaning.
“Normally, I’d be happy for some hand and mouth play and say yes, but I’m already hard and ready for you.” Kian pulled down the handheld showerhead. He ran the water over me, then himself. “Spread your legs.”
Doing what he requested created a little ball of need in my pussy, which was rewarded when he turned the stream toward the area. A moan of pleasure escaped my mouth. He chuckled then returned the shower head to its holder. When he turned back, he slipped his hand between my legs, fingered my slit, then slid his fingers into me.
“You’re wet and ready for me, too,” he said.
My whole being sank into blissful relaxation from his fondling. He massaged a breast, caressed my nether lips.
“I want to sink my cock into your moist heat. I want to be with you, Ari, never let you go.” Kian released my breast and slid his hand in tantalizing slowness along my abdomen to my hip while he removed his other hand from between my legs. He shifted, and in one easy movement, he braced me against the wall, with my legs wrapped around him, and had the head of his penis at my opening.
“I’m yours, Kian. Take me.”


Down and Dirty Anthology
Genre: anthology, romance, erotic romance, blue collar

Featuring stories from: 
Lori King, Maia Dylan, Sarah Marsh, Elena Kincaid, Cecile Tellier, London
Saint James, Bella Settara, Rose Nickol, RL Merrill, Ashley Malkin,
Lucy Felthouse, Scarlett J. Rose, Sydney Lea, CR Moss, Samantha A.
Cole, Danielle James, Ava Campbell, Eva Moore, Kimberlie L. Faye,
Sabrina Sol, Nikki Prince, and Mia Hopkins

Get in, get down...and get filthy with these sexy, hardworking,
blue-collar heroes who don't mind when things get a little dirty
while at work or at play. This collection of 22 brand new stories
from USA Today and International Best-Selling authors is full of
scorching hot romance tales that will be sure to leave you breathless
for more. These men work hard, and play even harder. 
From cops to mechanics, and miners to brewmasters, they aren't afraid to
go all in. At the end of the day, when they find the woman who
completes them, they learn that love and life can be just as messy as
their day job...and they wouldn't have it any other way. 



Keep up with Down and Dirty information on the Facebook
Page:
https://www.facebook.com/DownAndDirtyBCHeroes/




Hi everyone, my name is Casey, and I write under the names C.R. Moss for
erotic and mainstream romance and Casey Moss for mainstream dark
fiction (horror, suspense, urban fantasy) and sometimes the stories
have an erotic flare to them. My professional bio for C.R.: An
eccentric and eclectic writer, C.R. Moss pens stories for the
mainstream and erotic romance markets, giving readers a choice of
sweet, savory or spicy reads, usually within a sub-genre or two —
paranormal, sci-fi/fantasy, time travel, or western flare. The bio
for my other persona: Casey Moss delves into the darker aspects of
life in her writing, sometimes basing the stories on reality,
sometimes on myth. No matter the path, her stories will take you on a
journey from the light-hearted paranormal to dark things unspeakable.
What waits around the corner? Come explore…




Links for other authors in the Down and Dirty anthology


London Saint James: https://www.londonsaintjames.com/


Twitter handle for the publishing group, Romance Rebels Publishing:
@romancerebels69



Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts, guest posts and a giveaway!




Gone by S.H. Love - Book Tour + Giveaway


Gone
by S.H. Love

Genre:
Psychological Thriller

Rory Richards is self-absorbed and suicidal.
Over the last year, he has lost his job, has attempted suicide multiple
times, and has gotten his relationship to the point where it is
heading for divorce. Fed up with everything, Rory has accepted his fate.
When he wakes up from a failed suicide attempt, he learns that his wife,
Maggie, has disappeared without a trace. Her car is found abandoned
on the highway, miles away from home. Her purse and her cell phone
are discovered in the trunk. There is no sign of Maggie.
All Rory can remember about the previous night is that the two had the
fight of a lifetime. The dispute causes him to storm out of the house
and steal prescription pills from his neighbors in an attempt to overdose.
After that, everything is a blur.
Maggie’s sudden disappearance becomes a mystery.
Was she kidnapped? Did she disappear on purpose?
To avoid coming across as insensitive, Rory plays the part of loving
husband and attempts to find his wife. He gives an emotional plea on
television, reaches out to the Missing Persons Network, and even
hires a private investigator to gather information.
All of these actions are to show police that he is actively searching.
Deep down, though, he just doesn’t care anymore. But, does Rory’s
lack of affection mean that he is responsible for Maggie’s
disappearance? Or will he serve as the unlikely hero who finds her?
What happened the night she disappeared?


Get it on Amazon!

The taste of charcoal briquettes lined the inside of my mouth. It was chalky, almost sweet, but not in a good way. The charcoal’s texture was thick, pebbly tasting, and difficult to swallow. The sensation remained in my mouth and almost made me puke.
I had just woken up after what seemed like days. Months, really, the time just flew by. Just like that, it was gone. My brain was resting after a lifetime of activity, dreams creeping in, only to disappear again.
Body collapsed, exhaustion forcing me to nearly drift into another blackout, I inhaled quickly in order to stay conscious. Inhaling made my throat sore, the roughness scratching like sandpaper.
In and out, my mind went black, only to resolve to faint lights with warped images. Nothing really resonated inside, the time lapse unknown in my current state.
What day is it?
Where am I?
My eyes opened wide. Dried and strained, they focused on the ceiling. The drop ceiling tiles multiplied in front of me, expanding outward, adding four times the amount. Growing larger and then shrinking in a fast instant, the tiles kept going in and out of focus until they became clear. The mineral fibers absorbed all the ambient noise that surrounded me. Not that it mattered in my case. I was as laid up as one could get.
After a rush of constant blinking, my vision came into focus. The ceiling was again normal. Water stains shaped like countries struck out against the plain white tiles. Italy was to my left. Thailand was to the right. The United States’ forty-eight, it was as if the South had actually won the Civil War and had relocated to Africa. Stretched across one of the corners in the room was a thin spider web. Part of it was unattached and blowing from the air conditioner vent. The cold air pushing out of the vent kissed my face, tickling my cheeks and making them numb.
Looking around my environment, my body depressed in a slow, dragged out sigh.
My tongue worked around my lips, licking the spots where my skin and lips met. The heavy, smoky flavor was all I needed to know to describe what happened the night before. My face began to crease from the burnt charcoal taste within. Caving in, it was a crushed aluminum can bending inward. It was as if someone punched me super hard, my face staying locked in its current position.
The medical staff used the charcoal to absorb the toxins from the pills I had swallowed. All one hundred thirteen of them. In a single sitting, swallowing the enteric-coated pills until my vision faded. One by one by one, I had attempted to take my own life. It was a smorgasbord of poison with various colored pills. Some I had recognized. Others I had not.
There was a bottle for sleeping disorders. There were various prescriptions for pain. One container was filled with Ativan. Another, filled with God knows what. I had no idea.
It was the perfect cure for anxiety, pain, and seizures, for one low price.
Who would have thought that that many pills could be found inside your neighbors’ medicine cabinets? Then again, who would have thought that amount of pills could be pumped out of a human body? Gastric lavage and activated charcoal, these were two procedures that I didn’t recommend.
If you ever need an emergency antidote to combat the dangers of prescription drugs, consider the two-step process of gutting and then grilling your face. The stomach pump was to remove the pills. The charcoal was used as a poisoning antidote, to interrupt the circulation of drugs from the liver to the bile, back into the small intestine, and ending back into the liver. The process was called enterohepatic circulation.
Coming to, I was greeted by a small, empty hospital room. A single bed surrounded by varying degrees of medical equipment. There was a heart monitor near my bed. An overbed table pushed off to the side. A cabinet filled with supplies. All the ingredients were present to revive the damaged soul of a person.
The television hanging from above was turned off, an old tube unit sitting on a shelf that was bolted to the wall. The screen was dirty; it was covered in dust particles from not being turned on.
The thick curtains were closed. Peeking in underneath and on the sides of the curtains’ fabric was a parking lot streetlight. The light from the tall post cast dark shadows into the room; the shadows creeped me out. They were monsters ready to attack, ready and willing to conquer under their master’s order. Whoever their master was, I wasn’t sure.
Swallowing was difficult. There was a tightening in my throat each time I’d attempted. Harder and harder to bring the saliva up my esophagus, I could feel it start in the pit of my stomach.
This was not my first attempt at suicide. No matter how hard I had tried, I could never fully succeed. Three fucking times was definitely not the charm.
My first attempt at offing myself happened about a year ago. My wife and I had begun to feel the effects of money shortfalls.
I had lost my job when the economy crashed and had never really gotten back on track. Sure, there were a few part-time positions here and there. And one full-time job that was so out of my field I had to quit. But there was nothing that had brought in near the same salary, near the same satisfaction, of what I had been living with for years before.
My wife, Maggie, had said that she understood. That working in a job that did not complement your skillset was difficult. Deep down, I knew my not being employed (or as Maggie had put it, sitting around) had still bothered her. She would often throw in sentences such as, “But every little bit helps,” and, “Maybe just stick it out for a while,” ending in, “Well, it’s your decision and I will support you nonetheless.”
She was just going through the motions at that point. This marked the beginning of the end for us. We were heading for a divorce.
The truth was jobs were not that available in our hometown of Rock Island, Illinois. A stagnant population of just under forty thousand, with only a handful of big employers that could provide a decent living. The cost of living was low, but you would have to be in a position that paid well enough. Most of the residents in the area worked at John Deere and the Rock Island Arsenal. Neither of which seemed to ever be hiring. It was almost as if you had to know or be related to someone in order to get your foot in the door. Of course, generations upon generations handed these jobs down like relay runners passing the batons behind them. With so much history between the two organizations, getting a job at either of these places was equivalent to being born into the royal family.
Me, I used to be the operations manager of a manufacturing company. Relative to the size of Deere and Arsenal, our company was small, a blip on their financial scope, a mere footnote in the conversation. But it was big for me, and it was what worked. That was, until I was let go.
We specialized in packaging, various types of packaging and shipping methods. One of our contracts was with John Deere, so you could say that I was a bastard stepson of the prestigious royal family. I was more of a second cousin that hardly came around, one that never saw the photo ops or royal invites.
I oversaw the plant workers at different locations around the area, who spent most of the days boxing items and getting them ready for shipment to wherever it was they were headed. Much of my time was dedicated to streamlining the process in order to cut costs. It took me several months to scheme up the process, paying particular attention to its destinations and what trucks needed to be loaded and at what times. Logistics wasn’t difficult; rather, you had to be on your game to know the shortest routes possible. You could say I was so good at my job that I cut my own salary out of the company. Shipped it out in a nicely packed container. Really, there wasn’t a need for me anymore. A win/lose situation.
My job, my life, my marriage, they were all packaged and ready to be shipped out. And to be honest, I didn’t care anymore. To be frank, getting divorced was the only true thing I had looked forward to.
Lying on the bed, my head facing the ceiling, I moved my eyes left to right, and screamed, “NO!” Clenching my teeth until my jaws hurt, bringing my voice down to a hush, I whisper-screamed, “FUCK YOU!” I had convinced myself that I had wanted to die this time. Deep down to the depths of my soul, I wished that I was dead.
All the while, the chair shadow creature was lurking in silence, staring in my direction.
The angled door monster sat mocking me. A malicious grin on its face, it could turn on me at any moment.
My body tightened until I turned bright red. Holding my breath in a weak attempt to suffocate, hopes of passing out to prevent my brain from picking back up again, my mind started racing. Through the half-closed blinds leading into an illuminated part of the hospital, two detectives were talking to a doctor. They were in mid-discussion ever since I had come to. The doctor was, on occasion, looking into my room while he continued to speak.
Struggling on the bed, kicking my legs under the sheets, the jerking of my body like a possessed demon, I was vying for their attention. Whipping my head side to side, the air from the vent reminding me that I was alive and well, I screamed inside, my mouth wide open, stretching until my cheeks became sore.
The officers looked serious, their bodies stiff and alert. Staring with intent into the doctor’s eyes, one of the policemen leaned in closer. A concerned look on his face, the detective nodded in agreement to whatever it was the doctor was discussing.
The window made it difficult to make out what they were saying. The light, reflecting off from the other side, made the men appear translucent. Squinting with a brave optimism that I could read their lips, I saw the policeman with the crew cut on the right side crane his neck toward me and then slowly return to the doctor.
Leaning in closer to the door, my head pulling forward, a sharp pain ran up my spine and into the nape of my neck. My body tightened into a crunch, my abs flexing for the first time in years. The balls of my feet were blistering for some reason, as if I had been on them for days. The soreness caused me to straighten, and before I could readjust my body, the door opened.
Flipping the light switch, the doctor, wearing multi-colored scrubs and a white smock, entered with the officers in tow. The shadow demons, they disappeared into tangible objects. One became the sink faucet. Another transformed into the tissue paper box. In an instant, the monsters assumed their positions in the real world. Their master, so it seemed, signaled them to be calm. It only took a second for my eyes to adjust to the bright light. My brain was still disordered. My recollection, it was groggy to say the least. The three men came into focus as they approached me.
“Mr. Richards,” the doctor said, his eyes scanning the paperwork on his clipboard, never making eye contact. Nodding his head, his lips curled downward. Skimming the chart before speaking again, he mouthed some words to himself. He then looked up, rejoining the conversation, and said, “I’m Doctor Wynn.”
Dr. Wynn was a skinny Asian man, his hospital garb baggy off his legs. He was a middle-aged gentleman, mostly wrinkle-free with not much grey. He had a full head of hair. Crow’s feet branched out from his half-opened eyes when he spoke. I could tell that he laughed a lot. Other than that tiny flaw, he was well put together.
I pegged him for having a trophy wife, brunette and much younger, and driving a convertible Mercedes-Benz. Aside from announcing that he was a doctor, his pickup line could have been, “If you go out with me, it would be a Wynn/Win.” And then a sparkling smile filled with whites. Who wouldn’t fall for this? Hell, I was beginning to fall in love with him. But that could just be the medication.
Reading through my charts more in-depth, his lips moving slightly, he scanned the file and then re-addressed me.
Tilting his head, he smiled, flashing his medical school teeth. “And how’re you feeling today?” His cadence was quick and with crisp enunciation. He displayed a charming politeness to his audience when he spoke.
Before I could answer, the doctor said, “You’re very lucky, Mr. Richards.”
Was I? Tracing the words with his index finger, he said, “You swallowed a lot of pills.” He was lecturing me like a third grade teacher would do to one of her students—“Do you know what happens when you don’t finish your assignment?” I was waiting for him to put me in the corner, but I guess this was close enough.
The officers stood stoic, hearing the diagnosis from the medical expert. Each was attentive for the most part, often looking down at the floor or around the room to inspect the potential sleeping monsters.
Casual demeanor, reading the shorthand notes scribbled on the paper, Dr. Wynn gave an inappropriate smile. He said, “Over one hundred.”
One hundred thirteen to be exact.
He looked me in the eyes and said, “How do you feel?” The doctor was full of questions. For someone who was a supposed expert, he was definitely curious. “Does your throat hurt?” he said.
The large thirty-six gastrostomy tube that was jammed into my esophagus was, to be very thankful, lubricated. Just because I had tried to kill myself did not warrant a dry throat fuck. Leaning in toward me, he said, “You were administered two hundred milliliters of warm tap water on a repeated basis in order to be fully drained.” His crow’s feet, they branched out as he emphasized certain syllables. He said this as if this was an everyday occurrence, as if he saw attempted suicides all the time.
A cop, the one with shaggier hair of the two, glanced at the doctor’s clipboard, squinting at the small lettering. The other, staring through me, stood statue still with his eyebrows lowered. He was thinking, or waiting his turn to speak, one of the two, or both. Dropping the clipboard down toward his waist, cupping it in his hand, Dr. Wynn said, “I recommend getting some rest. Your body blah! blah! blah! gone through some blah! blah! blah! and you’ll need some time to recover. And then we’ll have—”
The toll on my body caused me to almost crash out. My attention drifted with quick ambition with every other word the doctor said. I could hear the voices in the room, consulting each other, but the dialogue was incomprehensible. It was as if I was sitting next to Charlie Brown in school. At this stage, I wasn’t even sure it was happening.
Then, my head fell backward, my mind going blank.
Before I went under, the room spun out of focus. The countries on the ceiling tiles began to swirl, spinning around in a clockwise motion until they transformed into something else. Slowly, the shadow creatures came out of hiding, taking their positions as the hand sanitizer and drawer handle. My eyes wandered, attempting to escape their reach.
The voice of Dr. Wynn dissolving, I fell into a deep sleep.

S. H. Love writes mysteries and thrillers. S. H. Love is the psuedonym
of a critically acclaimed author.




Follow the tour HERE for exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!