Carries Book Reviews

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A Crown Forged By Victory’s Consequence
Aaryanna Abbott & Marlayna James
(The Blackened Tablet Series, #1)
Publication date: January 3rd 2023
Genres: Adult, Fantasy

Three hundred years ago, the sacred tablet granted by their god, Jezabet, turned black, and eight kingdoms broke free, plummeting into the bottomless sea. There was no warning, and no one knows why.

Now, a strange illness plagues Aldersward. Crowned Prince Aedyn’s sisters, Achelle and Annora, his father, and countrymen are desperate and grief-stricken. All hope is lost…

Until someone dreams, and Aedyn leaves behind his mistress and his betrothed to cure their nation. He enlists his friends; a brazen playboy, a gentle strongman, and an ancient mentor. Together, they set out on a perilous journey—few believe they will survive.

This isn’t a fairy tale—s3x becomes currency, murder is ordinary, and love doesn’t conquer all.

Everyone loves a hero—good triumphs evil. But few dare to question how victory ripples into consequences. Explore this exciting concept in the Blackened Tablet Series.

 

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EXCERPT:

Day 132

Division Compound

Crow’s Pass City, Baitsloam

The Alders, strung together, were marched through the torch-lit streets as deafening crowds lined any stairwell, rooftop, or balcony. They shouted, spit, and threw food. Auren could see Bennet’s lifeless body carried by two men. He focused on containing his anger and scrutinised their surroundings. If any hope for escape presented itself, the information would be invaluable.

“Not as brave here, are ye?” A lanky Bait man stepped forward and spit in Auren’s face.

The Alders filled with rage and pulled at the thick restraints wound from their hands to their elbows, wanting to defend their leader, but Auren shook his head, stopping their struggle.

Pointing, children merrily chanted, “We’re going to hang the olive monsters!”

“This was too easy, ye cowards.”

Someone tossed a pail of urine and excrement over them.

“We’re going to kill yer families.” Another vehemently called.

“I’ll enjoy watching ye swing.”

Cackling laughs followed every phrase.

They left the commoners behind as wood rubbing against stone rang out. A massive gate lifted above their heads, and the military men stomped through with their prisoners in tow.

When the gate fell behind them, many Baits dispersed, leaving about fifty to escort the captives. Auren counted the paces as they came to a stone structure. He noted the other buildings and landmarks, then what the building looked like as they pushed him inside.

They planted the Alders, faces first, against a hard stone wall and a wooden door swung outwards, then they tossed Bennet onto the floor.

“Inside.” The first man was hauled forward by his tunic, and the others had no choice but to follow.

The door slammed shut on the windowless dark and musty room. The sound vibrating through to their souls. It felt very final as the lock loudly snapped into place.

In the blackness, Auren’s men fought against the coarse restraints.

What looked like a candle flickered to life between them as Adrian pointed his finger and held it to the slick-coated binds holding them together. As his flame dried the piss, excrement, and other juices, the stench was putrid. Finally, the rope caught fire and burned.

He rushed to Auren, but his solidly tied binds had no give, and as the other men offered their hands with the same outcome, they sat on the cold, damp floor. The ropes were too tight to burn without injury.

Auren waited motionless for the last one to be checked and an internal battle waged between his vanity, self-pity, and honour.

I can’t do this. Wasn’t the wolf attack enough? He stretched out his shaking hands in front of him.

Adrian’s shoulders slumped in defeat as he turned to face their leader.

Women will never let you touch them again. What would Anya think if she knew you stood by and did nothing?

Understanding their leader’s request, Adrian shook his head and escaped backward until his frame was trapped against the cold stone wall.

I can’t lose a limb. Can’t it be someone else’s turn to do the right thing? Do this. Auren strode towards him, throwing his bound hands on the man’s shoulder.

Animated with fear, Adrian shook his head.

Can your body take any more pain? Everyone will pity you, just as when you were a child. You could be their only hope. The leader pinned the man’s eyes with his own.

The pain from it—you’ll never want to touch another woman. Sweat built from fear on Auren’s skin, but he nodded, persuading the gifted man.

Your men are counting on you. I’ll be worthless to our kingdom—to Aedyn.

Adrian lowered his hands, holding them farther from his own body.

Isn’t your day to day hard enough already? You’ll die from this. You’ll be a helpless invalid. Auren dragged his hands down, then jumped up and down a few times, forcing adrenalin to rush through his body.

You coward! You’re weak. It’s no wonder your parents gave you away. He took a deep breath.

You’re nothing but a quitter. You could be Aedyn’s only hope. He lifted his wrists into the flame.

The sweet smell of burning flesh carried through the small room. The men focused on the sacrifice their leader made as they listened to the sizzling meat and his muffled cries of pain.

From somewhere in the darkness, someone hurled himself onto the pair—contact and flame broken.

Auren struggled where he fell, his restraints making it impossible to sit. Adrian rolled on his side and relit his finger.

Bennet towered over them, shaking his head as he pulled at his own ropes. Blood seeped from the friction on his wrists, making the restraints slippery. He sat between them, lifted his heel to his wrists, and used his boot to force the rope over one of his thumbs, freeing his hand. He pulled his gag free, then removed Auren’s as he surveyed the blistered and broken flesh of his hands.

The old man’s voice seethed with anger. “Jordan and Jezabet, what were ye thinking?”

“Getting us out of here. Are you okay?”

Bennet nodded. “Better than ye, I don’t know if I can get ye untied without causing ye pain.”

“Untie another first. Return to me when the rest are free.”

 

Author Bio:

Aaryanna Abbott: This is another of my pen names. For every pen name, I use a different part of who I am. I imagine this is how she looks.

What’s this part of me like?

I was a daddy’s girl. The very epitome of spoilt.

I love to be wild and crazy—experience everything the world has to offer. I’m adventurous and my carefree disposition is contagious.

I’m loyal to a fault and don’t care what expectations or labels society has bestowed upon me. I believe one’s truth is more valuable than anyone’s perception.

This part of me writes for escapism—to be free of my mundane day to day and live in a magical world almost as real to me as earth. Except in my imaginary world, I control all things and it pleases me to no end.

Do you know how happy you would be living there?

Marlayna lives in Canada where she writes romance, erotica, women’s fiction, and fantasy. She loves video games, TV, reading, and writing.

 

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Title: Token

Author: Beverley Kendall

Publisher: Graydon House

Publication Date: January 3, 2023

Page Count:  357

About the book:

She’s brilliant, beautiful…and tired of being the only Black woman in the room.
Two years ago, Kennedy Mitchell was plucked from the reception desk and placed in the corporate boardroom in the name of diversity. Rather than play along, she and her best friend founded Token, a boutique PR agency that helps “diversity-challenged” companies and celebrities. With corporate America diversifying workplaces and famous people getting into reputation-damaging controversies, Token is in high demand.

Kennedy quickly discovers there’s a lot of on-the-job learning and some messes are not so easily fixed. When Kennedy’s ex shows up needing help repairing his company’s reputation, things get even more complicated. She knows his character is being wrongly maligned, but she’s reluctant to get involved—professionally and emotionally. But soon, she finds herself drawn into a PR scandal of her own.

“A smart, sexy rom-com that had me chuckling from the first page. I loved it.”—BRENDA JACKSON, New York Times bestselling author

“Token is a rom-com perfect for our times. I can’t wait to see it on the big screen!”—KAIA ALDERSON, author of Sisters in Arms

Find this book online:

Goodreads  /  Amazon  / BookShop.org / Harlequin  / Barnes & Noble / Books A Million / Apple Books / Google Play

Excerpt:

Looking for a job sucked.

Getting laid off sucked even more.

Three weeks ago, Kennedy Mitchell found herself in both unenviable positions.

While searching for a new job in her field of expertise— marketing and five solid years of it—she’d accepted a four- week receptionist position to tide her over. Hey, student loans didn’t pay off themselves and they couldn’t care less about your employment status. But, as grateful as she was to have money coming in, she hated the part of the job that had her slapping herself awake every five minutes.

That also sucked.

It would be one thing if the place were a bevy of human activity (she generally liked people and they tended to like her back). Nope, that wasn’t even close to what she was dealing with. Per the visitor log, a grand total of six had passed through the first-floor lobby of ECO Apparel in the two weeks she’d been there. Three on one day alone. And during the hours when the employees were upstairs ensconced at their desks, the place resembled a ghost town. Seriously, she wouldn’t be surprised to see tumbleweed roll past the reception desk one fine windy day. Although, for a ghost town, the lobby was sleekly modern, all sharp angles, and glass and chrome.

Glancing down at her cell phone, Kennedy released a long- suffering sigh. How was it possible that only three minutes and not an hour had passed since her last five-minute check-in? This was usually when she prayed for one of two things: the power to control time, or another job.

Since the chances of either happening within the next seventy- two hours were zero to none, she grudgingly resigned herself to her fate and tapped the keyboard, bringing the sleeping monitor back to life, and the email from an interested recruiter back into view. Seven hours to go, and the jury was still out on whether she would make it until noon—much less to the end of the day. The ding of the elevator broke the lonely silence and was soon followed by the click of heels on the faux marble floors. Twisting in her seat, Kennedy spotted Nadine from Administrative Services striding purposely toward her, folder and purse in hand. She hastily closed out of her email and treated

the brunette to a bright smile.

“Hey, Nadine, is it break time already?” The pretty admin assistant usually came to relieve her for a midmorning break at ten. Currently, it was an hour shy of that, and taking a break right now would upset the monotony of her day. How would she cope with the upheaval?

“Mr. Mullins wants to see you in his office, and I’ll be filling in for you for the rest of the day,” her coworker announced abruptly.

Kennedy stiffened and her eyebrows rose at the hint of annoyance and resentment threading Nadine’s tone.

Well, good morning to you too.

What the hell happened to the pleasant, chatty girl of not even twenty-four hours ago? And why on earth did the director of Human Resources want to see her in his office? Especially as she, like Nadine, reported to the manager of Administrative Services.

Then Nadine’s folder landed with a splat on the desk near the monitor. Kennedy’s gaze flew to hers and she found herself on the receiving end of a very pointed come on—get a move on, girlie. There’s only one chair and you’re sitting in it look.

That was enough to galvanize Kennedy into action even as her jaw ticked and she prayed for calm. She hurriedly collected her purse from the bottom drawer before surrendering her seat to her visibly impatient coworker.

As if it’s my fault she’s getting stuck down here answering the phone.

Despite Kennedy’s own growing annoyance, she paused and turned before leaving, her shoulders squared, and chin lifted. “Any idea why Mr. Mullins wants to see me?” Her voice was stiff but scrupulously polite.

Since her interaction with him was limited to a brief walk-by wave on her first day during a tour of the offices, she was at a loss. Nadine gave a bored shrug. “I hear no evil and speak no evil.

They tell me nothing. I just go where I’m told to go, and do the work they pay me to do, if you know what I mean.”

Kennedy’s heart instantly softened, and she excused Nadine’s uncustomary churlishness for what appeared to be the frustration that came with being the Jane-of-all-menial-work of the company.

“Believe me, I know exactly what you mean.” They shared a commiserative what we women have to put up with look before Kennedy took the elevator up to the eighth floor.

Honestly, the drawbacks of possessing a vagina were sometimes too much. Giving birth was only one of them. Or so she’d been told. Her turn in the stirrups hadn’t come yet, but she assumed one day it would, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

The company directory alone pointed to an obvious gender bias. Not one woman held an executive, director, or senior- level management position.

Not. One.

And it had been eight years since the previously all-male clothier had ventured into female clothing. One would think that one woman would have made it to the ranks of at least a senior manager position by now. What were they waiting for, a march on Washington?

But wait. If she didn’t think it could get worse, it did. Kennedy had yet to see one Black face of any hue in the parade of employees who walked by her every day—that was, unless she looked in a mirror, and her hue skewed to the lighter shade of that spectrum. She wouldn’t be surprised if that was one of the reasons she’d been picked to grace the reception desk. In the twenty-first century, one would think that impossible. Especially in the city that didn’t sleep, and could be touted as America’s United Nations, every race, ethnicity, language, and sexual orientation duly represented on the postage-stamp

island.

Be that as it may, Kennedy knew better than most that the city tended more toward separate individual dishes—separate being the operative word—rather than one big old melting pot. Once off the elevator, she detoured to the bathroom, where she freshened her lipstick, powdered the shine off her forehead,

and gave her long, thick brown curls a few twists.

With her hair and face in order, she ran a critical eye over her outfit, a purchase of pure indulgence. Although had she even the vaguest idea that she’d be unemployed a week after she bought it, she most assuredly would not have indulged.

But the cream pencil skirt and the baby blue fitted shirt ensemble had called out to her. Buy me. I come in your size. Your body will thank you in the end. And Kennedy, self-proclaimed clotheshorse that she was, hadn’t been able to resist the Siren’s call.

Okay, so maybe due to financial constraints she was more a clothes pony.

After ensuring no visible panty lines ruined the overall effect of polished professionalism and stylishness, she proceeded to Mr. Mullins’s office.

She found him at his desk, the door to his office wide-open. Upon seeing her, a smile broke out across his face. “Ah, Miss Mitchell, come in.”

Kennedy met him halfway, where they shook hands, and she offered a pleasant greeting. He then gestured toward the table and chairs at the other end of the room. “Please sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

Average in height and build, hair graying and thinning at the crown, the man himself was as nondescript as middle- aged white men came. If his smile—wide and genuine—was any indication, she could relax, which she did one vertebra at a time. It didn’t look as if she was about to be let go early. Typically, people didn’t smile like that when they were about to deliver bad news. Unless, of course, they were psycho- paths. No, they tended to furrow their brow, feigning concern and sympathy.

Kennedy took a seat where instructed as Mr. Mullins swiped a sheaf of papers off his desk before joining her. She looked around for somewhere to put her purse that was not on the table or the floor and found nothing suitable. In the end, she simply plopped it on her lap.

Sliding on a pair of reading glasses, Mr. Mullins glanced down at the papers in front of him before directing his attention back to her. “So how are you settling in? Everyone treating you all right? No one bothering you, I hope.”

Yeah, nope! Absolutely not. No way was she falling into that trap. This was the kind of throwaway question people asked when they didn’t want or expect an honest answer.

“No, everyone has been great.” She certainly wasn’t going to tell him that two of the managers had asked for her number and the head of IT asked her out for dinner. As someone person- ally opposed to mixing business with pleasure, and that included dating coworkers—been there, regretted that—invitations like that were shot down faster than a clay pigeon at a skeet shooting competition.

“Good, good, good. Now, I’ve just been looking over your résumé—” he paused, glanced at it and then back at her over the rim of his glasses “—and by the looks of things—your previous experience and education—it’s apparent that you’re overqualified for the receptionist position. Any receptionist position, for that matter.”

For the measly sum of two hundred and fifty grand—the majority of which had been covered by scholarships or else she wouldn’t have been able to afford a school like Columbia—for both her undergraduate and graduate degrees, she sure hoped she was overqualified for the task of greeting visitors and for- warding calls.

“Yes, but this wasn’t supposed to be permanent. The agency said it was a four-week assignment.”

Mr. Mullins nodded. “That’s right. I’ve been told Nancy should be back in a few weeks.” He lowered her résumé, but still held it loosely between his fingers. “Does that mean you aren’t interested in a permanent, full-time position? I might have thought you’d prefer something in Marketing.”

Kennedy watched as he turned the situation over in his mind. He seemed determined to solve the mystery of the overqualified temporary receptionist. But this wasn’t Agatha Christie-level stuff. No amateur sleuthing required.

“I was laid off and this just sort of fell into my lap. The right job at the moment,” she stated simply.

There were layoffs and then there were layoffs. Hers had been the latter, as she’d been assured she’d keep her job after the merger. The following week, she’d walked into the offices of Kenners in the morning and was carting a box with every personal item she’d accumulated over the course of five years—including a dazzling pink slip—out the front door by the time the clock struck noon.

Just like that, five years of job—no, financial security— ripped out from under her. And to add insult to injury, two weeks of severance was all she had to show for years spent busting her ass putting in fifty- and sixty-hour weeks.

God, how she hated them, pink slips, which shouldn’t be pink at all. They should be black like the hearts of the people who played favorites with other people’s livelihoods.

“Completely understandable,” he replied, nodding. “Now, getting to the reason I wanted to speak with you. I assume you’ve heard of Sahara, right? She’s a singer. Won several Grammys. I believe she’s recently gotten into acting. Really a lovely young woman.”

Have I ever heard of her?

Almost everyone on planet Earth had heard of Sahara, and she wasn’t just some wannabe actress. Her first role garnered her an Oscar nod. Not too shabby for a small-town girl from New Jersey, who bore such a striking resemblance to Aaliyah, some people in the music industry called her Baby Girl. Rumor had it she hated the name with the fires of a thousand suns. If true, Kennedy didn’t blame her.

She’s a woman. Call her by her stage name, dammit!

Ironically, her real name was Whitney Richardson, a name she decided not to use professionally, fearing it would invite certain comparisons. One Black superstar singer named Whitney was enough.

“That’s a pretty sound assumption.” Especially since her songs were on heavy rotation on every major radio station in almost every major city in the country. “She’s very popular.”

Popular was an understatement. Sahara was huge. As big as Beyoncé but with first-rate acting chops. And her social media game was, bar none, the best Kennedy had ever seen. Her fans called themselves the Desert Stormers and congregated at OASIS, an online community, to discuss everything Sahara. And God forbid anyone say one bad word about their Desert Queen, they went after them guns blazing.

“I had a feeling you would,” he said with a smugness Kennedy found hard to fathom. It wasn’t as if he’d discovered Jimmy Hoffa’s remains or the identity of Jack the Ripper. “Well, this afternoon we are going to have the pleasure of her company. She and her representatives will be meeting with our executive team.”

“That’s…wonderful.” She didn’t know what he expected her to say. Was he looking for tips on how to interact with young Black women and assumed she was an expert on the subject? Should she tell him she hadn’t yet read this month’s issue of The Secret Guide to the Black Female Mind?

His expression became earnest as he leaned forward, bringing his face closer to hers. “The CEO of the company would like you to attend.”

Her jaw dropped. A sound escaped from her suddenly dry throat.

Okay, that she hadn’t seen coming.

She reflexively convinced herself he couldn’t have meant what she thought he did, since she was certain she’d heard him correctly.

“Do you mean attend the meeting? With Sahara?” She needed to make sure they were reading from the same hymnal.

His mouth twitched. “Yes.”

Her fingers curled around her purse strap. “Why would Mr. Edwards want me there?” She was a temp. How did the CEO of the company know who she was? Or that she even existed? She only knew his name because it was at the top of the company directory. She couldn’t say for sure she’d actually seen him in the flesh, and if she had, he certainly hadn’t introduced himself.

“Well, you see, Kennedy, I believe the collective thought was that you represent exactly the type of young woman Sahara will be targeting with her clothing line, and having you in the meeting would make her…more comfortable. Put her at ease.”

Ah, yes. She got it, all right. As clear as glass.

“I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean. What type of woman is that?” she asked, all wide-eyed and guileless.

Surely, he meant intelligent, professional, ambitious, and highly educated?

Yeah, right.

The crests of his cheeks reddened, but he was stalwart in his determination to hold her gaze. “Well, you’re a beautiful young woman with an obvious eye for fashion, and her line hopes to encompass all aspects of work, life, and play.”

Nice save, bub. But not good enough.

“And the fact that I’m Black didn’t have anything to do with the decision? Not even a little?” she coaxed, doubting anyone had ever taken him to task on the subject of race this directly, if at all.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Well, yes, there is that too.” No, there was no too—that was the whole of it.

Suddenly, his expression turned apprehensive. “I hope that didn’t offend you. With this whole #MeToo movement, I’m not sure if I just crossed the line. Am I still allowed to compliment you on your looks?”

Oh dear lord, shoot me now.

Did this man not interact with any women in a professional capacity? A sensitivity class or four wouldn’t go awry at this company.

“No, I’m not offended.” At work, she generally took such compliments in stride. As long as they weren’t accompanied by a suggestive leer and a hotel room key card pressed into her palm during a handshake. True story. That had actually happened.

“Things have changed so much lately, sometimes it’s best to ask, or the next thing you know… Well, who knows what will happen,” he finished, f lashing her an awkward smile.

“Anyway,” Kennedy said, eager to get back to the subject at hand, “about the meeting. As much as it would be a thrill to meet her, I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with that. I don’t know very much about the inner workings of the company. I’m probably not the right person—”

But Mr. Mullins was having none of that, bulldozing her objections with, “For your additional responsibilities, you’ll receive five thousand dollars.”

Kennedy had to steel herself from physically reacting. On the inside, however, it was nothing but fits of jubilation. Cart- wheels and back handsprings that would make the women’s Olympic gymnastics team proud.

Five thousand dollars! Found money, all of it. And to think of how happy she’d been last month when she found a twenty between the cushions of her sofa and last year when she’d dis- covered a ten spot in the pocket of an old pair of jeans.

Careful to calibrate her response, she began slowly, “That is—”

“No, no, my mistake,” Mr. Mullins interjected again, his eyes darting from her face to the paper in front of him, which he proceeded to tap repeatedly with his finger. “I meant seventy- five hundred. An additional seventy-five hundred.”

Kennedy sat there utterly gobsmacked. “Mr. Mullins—” “Ten thousand.”

Another minute and Kennedy was certain the strain in his voice would give way to full-blown panic.

Ten thousand dollars for one meeting? Oh my god, that’s wild.

But the best kind.

With dollar signs flashing like a bright neon sign in her mind, she smiled. “What time should I be there?”

Excerpted from TOKEN by Beverley Kendall © 2023 by Beverley Kendall, used with permission from Graydon House/HarperCollins.

Q&A with Beverley Kendall

1. Please describe TOKEN in your own words.

Whether in academia or corporate America, beautiful Kennedy Mitchell has always stood out…as the token black person in the room. She’s used to that. But when the company she’s temping for discovers their chance at a contract with a megastar, singer-actress is in peril due to lack of black representation, they make Kennedy a ten thousand dollar offer she can’t refuse. And that’s the push she needs to make her dream of owning her own business a reality. Teaming up with her best friend, Aurora, they launch TOKEN, a boutique PR agency whose motto, We’re here to fill your diversity needs, personal and professional, is also their mission statement.

Nate Vaughn, Aurora’s older brother, is CEO of Constellation, the most diverse tech company in the industry, an achievement he’s rightfully proud of. When his company is slapped with a discrimination lawsuit, Nate turns to Kennedy for help. Unfortunately, it’s a plea she must refuse, that is, until circumstances push them into a faux relationship. And soon what started as damage control begins to feel all too real, which includes explosive passion and heartbreaking betrayal. 

2. What is at the heart of a rom-com?

To me, the heart of a rom-com is the romance between romantic couple and making sure that humor and heart carry the day. I strived to ensure that the social commentary was infused with a certain amount of humor, and in Token’s case, it lends toward tongue-in-cheek satire. But through it all, the romance must shine through and remain at its center. 

3. Do you plot your novel or are you a pantser?

I am definitely a plotter. There’s nothing I can’t stand more than staring at a blank screen, not knowing what to write next. I’m the kind of writer who needs a roadmap before I sit down in front of my computer. 

4. What’s something you want readers to take away from your novel? 

One of the things I’d like readers to take away from this book is that they are enough. That they are worthy of love and respect and all the wonderful things life has to give, no matter what each person brings to the relationship. I also want them to close the book with a huge smile on their faces knowing that love always wins in the end. At least in my books. 😉 

About the author:

BEVERLEY KENDALL published her first novel in 2010, a historical romance with Kensington. She has since published over ten contemporary and historical romances. She also manages the romance review blog, Smitten by Books (smittenbybooks.com). Bev now writes full-time while raising her son as a single mother. Both dual citizens of the U.S and Canada, they currently call Atlanta home. http://www.beverleykendall.com

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Bratva Jewel
Sabine Barclay
(The Ivankov Brotherhood, #6)
Published by: Oliver Heber Books
Publication date: January 24th 2023
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Mafia, Romance

I can’t resist her. I don’t want to…

She’s tried to leave our life behind, but no one walks away from the bratva.

She can run, but she can’t hide.

I’ll be the one to catch her when she falls. And she will because she’s walking a fine line.

I’ll be there because she’s mine.

I’ll go to the ends of the Earth for her. She’ll discover her limits and realize only I can please her.

She’s my soulmate, and I’m hers. Heaven help anyone who gets in the way.

Bratva Jewel is an interconnecting, standalone Dark Mafia Romance with a HEA and no cliffhanger. It contains extra-steamy scenes that will make your toes curl and your granny blush. This is book six in The Ivankov Brotherhood, a six-book series that’ll keep you warm at night.

 

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Author Bio:

Sabine Barclay, a nom de plume also writing Historical Romance as Celeste Barclay, lives near the Southern California coast with her husband and sons. Growing up in the Midwest, Sabine enjoyed spending as much time in and on the water as she could. Now she lives near the beach. She’s an avid swimmer, a hopeful future surfer, and a former rower. Before becoming a full-time author, Sabine was a Social Studies and English teacher. She holds degrees in International Affairs (BA), Secondary Social Science (MAT), and Political Management (MPS). She channels that knowledge into creating engrossing contemporary romances that will make your toes curl and your granny blush.

 

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Whiskey
Sybil Bartel
(The Alpha Elite, #7))
Publication date: May 23rd 2023
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense

Mercenary.

Navy SEAL.

Unconventional Operative.

I didn’t join the Teams. I was recruited. They called me the Specialist. They said I had a unique skill set. I knew who I was.

For eight years, the Navy tried to rein me in with their tactics, techniques and procedures—operations, missions, objectives—they told me to adapt and overcome. I didn’t adapt. I did my time.

Now I worked for Alpha Elite Security. If you called me Specialist, I’d eliminate you before you took your next breath. If you recognized me, it was already too late. I lived by my instincts, and used the resources around me. No target was out of my scope…until my boss unknowingly handed me the only assignment that was.

The one woman I couldn’t kill.

Code name: Whiskey.

Mission: Eliminate.

WHISKEY is a standalone book in the exciting Alpha Elite Series by USA Today Bestselling author, Sybil Bartel. Come meet Will “Whiskey” Damien and the dominant, alpha heroes who work for AES!

 

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Author Bio:

Sybil Bartel is a USA Today Bestselling author of unapologetic alpha heroes. Whether you’re reading her deliciously dominant mercenaries, bodyguards or military heroes, all of her heart-stopping, page-turning romantic suspense novels have sexy-as-sin alpha heroes!

Sybil resides in South Florida and she is forever Oliver’s mom.

To find out more about Sybil Bartel or her books, please visit her at:

 

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Title: The Wrong Kind of Weird

Author: James Ramos

Publisher: Inkyard Press 

Publication Date: January 3, 2023

Page Count:  286

About the book:

A high-energy YA contemporary love story, following multicultural geek and nerd club member Cameron Carson… and his secret relationship with school queen bee Karla Ortega.

Cameron Carson has a big senior-year secret. A secret with the power to break apart his friend group.

Cameron Carson, member of the multicultural Geeks and Nerds United (GANU) club, has been secretly hooking up with student council president, cheerleader, theater enthusiast, and all-around queen bee Karla Ortega since the summer. The one problem—what was meant to be a summer fling between coffee shop coworkers has now evolved into a clandestine school-year entanglement, where Karla isn’t intending on blending their friend groups anytime soon, or at all.

Enter Mackenzie Briggs, who isn’t afraid to be herself or wear her heart on her sleeve. When Cameron finds himself unexpectedly bonding with Mackenzie and repeatedly snubbed in public by Karla, he starts to wonder who he can truly consider a friend and who might have the potential to become more…

Find this book online:

Goodreads  /  Amazon  /  Changing Hands  / BookShop.org / Barnes & Noble / Books-A-Million 

Excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

“It’s a simple, undeniable truth,” Jocelyn said matter-of-factly, “if you watch dubbed anime instead of subbed anime, you are garbage.”

She flicked her hot-pink hair as she leaned over the 3D printer, which was about two-thirds of the way through making the barrel of her buster rifle.

“Bullshit,” D’Anthony fired back from the beanbag he was lounging in. He licked his lips and pushed his glasses back into place without looking up from his Game Boy Color, the one he’d borrowed (or perhaps stolen) from one of his older brothers. He’d been on this vintage game kick for the past few months; he was working his way through Pokémon Yellow now. “Watching subbed anime doesn’t make you more sophisticated, it just makes you more pretentious.”

I glanced at my phone for about the eighth time since Jocelyn and D’Anthony had started their argument five minutes ago. Those two were always bickering about something; their tastes were what you could call diametrically opposed, especially when it came to anime. Ordinarily it was my job to end the debate by choosing a side, but right now I was too preoccupied to keep up.

Still no messages.

I set my phone down on the table in front of me, screen down, and started thumbing through my worn copy of Trigun, a space Western about a legendary peace-loving sharpshooter set in a semi-dystopian future. It was one of my favorite manga, but right now I couldn’t even concentrate enough to read the words.

From 1:15 in the afternoon until 2:10, the third-floor tech lab belonged to G.A.N.U.—Geeks and Nerds United, Hilltop High School’s one and only nerd culture club. Jocelyn, D’Anthony, and I were its founding members. The room was a makerspace, the walls lined with workbenches, the interior dotted with hexagonal workstations and multicolored stools, chairs, and beanbags. There were a pair of 3D printing machines in the back, where Jocelyn had set up shop. The wall next to the door was a projection dry-erase board.

The text I was waiting for should have come by now, and I was only growing more anxious by the minute. I closed my book and checked my phone again.

“Hey, Cam, are you alright?” asked Jocelyn. “You look like you need to take a shit.”

The pink hair was new for her. Up until last week it had been cotton candy blue. Her look lately was what she called “Kawaii Wednesday Addams”—today she wore black overall shorts and a floral print high-collared shirt. She was hardly five feet tall, but her chunky black boots gave her an extra four inches of height, not that she needed it. She had one of those personalities where she just seemed taller, somehow.

“You do seem a little keyed up,” D’Anthony added, again, without looking up from his Game Boy. He was a firm believer in the fact that high school was not a fashion show and that he wasn’t here to impress anyone, and so he usually opted for comfort, like rugby shirts and old skate shoes. Although, he always had a pick with him to maintain his immaculate afro.

“I’m fine,” I said.

I hated lying to my friends, but this wasn’t something they’d understand.

The PA system crackled, and Principal Standish’s nasally voice rattled through the speakers. “Good afternoon, Hilltop Hawks!” he proclaimed. “I want to wish everyone a safe and happy Friday. Get out there and enjoy this beautiful weather before the snow hits. And now, just a quick message from our student council president, Karla Ortega.”

I released my viselike grip on my phone. That explained that, at least.

“Hey, everyone,” Karla said in her usual chipper voice, “just a few quick reminders. Yearbook Committee starts at the end of the month. Seniors, it’s time to start thinking about your senior pictures.” She paused between sentences, and you could feel the smile she punctuated them with. “Also, if you’ve got an idea for a superlative, be ready to turn it in to any member of the committee or student council. We love to hear from you.” Another smile. “Lastly, this year’s winter production is Jane Austen’s classic, Pride and Prejudice. If you’d like to be considered for a role, auditions begin Monday after school in the auditorium and will be held until that Friday. Thanks, guys, and have a great weekend!”

“Ugh. Karla,” Jocelyn muttered. “Could she be any more fake? And did you guys see what she was wearing today? Those tights, and that skirt? She’s definitely appealing to a very specific demographic ever since she won the election.”

“What, the every-allosexual-person-ever demographic?” D’Anthony laughed. “Yeah, of course I saw her. She’s living, breathing fan-service, and that’s why she won the election. Hell, I voted for her and I don’t even like her. I may not care for sex, but I do understand sex appeal. Sometimes. I think.”

“Guys, can we not?” I groaned. “Gross.”

“Right, I forgot, Cam hates Karla,” Jocelyn said teasingly.

“Remind me again what you have against art?” D’Anthony asked with a smirk. 

If there was one thing those two could agree on, it was teasing me about Karla. They liked to do this bit anytime she came up in conversation or in real life, and seeing as she was Hilltop High School’s premier golden girl, she came up a lot. “I don’t hate her,” I explained for about the thousandth time. “I just don’t see the hype. Yeah, sure, she’s good-looking—”

“Understatement,” Jocelyn interjected.

“But, people act like she walks on water when she totally doesn’t. Not to mention, she’s super conceited. Every year she gets more and more selective about who she deigns to speak to.”

“Maybe because everybody she speaks to is trying to jump her sexy bones,” Jocelyn pointed out.

I scoffed, but before I could respond the door burst open, and Mackenzie Briggs sauntered in like a cowboy stepping into a saloon. “Sorry I’m late,” she announced in a tone that made it clear she was not at all sorry. She dumped her backpack on the ground, slumped into a chair at the workstation across from mine, and kicked her feet up. “What’s up, dork?”

That part was directed specifically at me.

Mackenzie had transferred to Hilltop High from some art magnet in Minneapolis, which, if you asked me, was an egregious error on the part of her parents, her advisers, and whoever else was involved in making that decision.

“Hello, Mackenzie,” I said coolly. “I see you got dressed in the dark again.”

It could very well have been true, that or she just threw on the first thing she yanked out of her closet. Today she had on high-top red Converse, green camo pants, a black hoodie, and a weathered jean jacket. She looked like a homeless hipster.

She sat up, curling her legs underneath her, and sniffed the air. “Hey, Cameron, did you know you’re supposed to wear your deodorant, not eat it? It works better that way. Although, with all the shit you talk I guess you could do both.”

I closed my book and set it down.

Here’s the thing. I did not like Mackenzie. I didn’t like her big curly hair or her pointy nose or the way the edges of her lips were always curled just enough that she looked like she was smiling at some secret joke and you were the punch line. I didn’t like the languid, I’m-so-over-it way she walked, like she was so much cooler than everyone else, and even though she was sort of G.A.N.U.’s fourth ranger, floating in and out of our meetups whenever she felt like it, she made no secret of the fact that she didn’t like me, either.

“Wait a second,” I said. “You know what deodorant is? That’s strange—do you put yours on before or after bathing in the blood of innocent virgins?”

“If I bathed in the blood of virgins, I would have killed you for yours a long time ago.”

“Goddamn,” Jocelyn said under her breath.

“Flawless victory,” D’Anthony added.

My phone finally buzzed. I snatched it off the table faster than I should have.

Meet at our spot? XOXO

Fucking finally.

I was up before I’d finished reading the text. “We’re still on for movie night tonight, aren’t we?” I asked as I made for the door.

“I’m busy tonight,” Mackenzie said.

“No one cares. You never show up anyway.”

“Where are you going?” Jocelyn asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

“I, um, gotta take a shit.”

“Gross,” Mackenzie said, but I hardly heard her, because I was already halfway out the door.

The only two things you needed to know about Hilltop High School were:

1. The school was not, as its name implied, on a hill. If anything it was a knoll, and barely that.

2. From above (or on any campus map) the school, with its rectangular main building that connected to a pair of smaller, circular buildings, looked like a giant penis. It was common to hear someone say they had to get to their class in the shaft, or to meet up on the third floor of the southeast testicle—much to the consternation of our principal and the handful of teachers who didn’t have a sense of humor.

The tech lab was near the base of the shaft, south of the gymnasium. I headed south, through the enclosed breezeway that connected the dick and the balls, then hit the stairwell and descended to the basement level, where the lights were dim and the air was always just a little dank, and it usually smelled like cheese and old socks. I made my way deeper into the bowels of the building. That’s where the old library was. It hadn’t seen much use since the new media center had been built; the stacks were covered in dust and the old reference books on them were ratty and moth-ridden. But I couldn’t wait to get there. Each step I took sent a surge of electricity coursing through me, and I was drawn like a magnet toward my destination, and who was meeting me there.

I meant what I’d said about Karla. Thing is, Karla’s crowd and my crowd didn’t exactly mix. Her friends were the overachievers. Student government types, theater snobs, the kids who thought they were better than everyone else because they could quote Shakespeare and had perfect 4.0 GPAs and took AP courses. It was a very exclusive club, almost like a cult, or a hive mind, where who your friends were, who you dated, and who you were seen with were all dictated by the group. Karla wasn’t mean, per se, not like some of the others, but if you weren’t part of the group she was happy to pretend you didn’t exist.

Which was why I still had no idea why we had been hooking up since this summer.

Excerpted from The Wrong Kind of Weird by James Ramos, Copyright © 2023 by James Ramos. Published by Inkyard Press.

About the author:

James Ramos (he/they) is a nonbinary, unapologetically dorky Minnesota native who now calls Arizona home. Weaned on a steady diet of science-fiction, comic books, and classic literature, James wrote his first story at eight years old and hasn’t stopped writing them since. He counts Jane Austen and Frank Herbert as his biggest literary influences, and believes in the unifying power of the written word. James is passionate about storytelling, particularly stories that give voice to marginalized people, especially those within the LGBTQ+ community and people of color. When he isn’t writing he can usually be found cosplaying with his friends or surrounded by his amazing family of cats.

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