Bobby and Ichi’s Story.
Coming from Dreamspinner Press; December 2014

The interior was mostly faux-Italian, full of sweeping plaster embellishments, lush velvets, and trompe l’oeil vistas meant to whisk theatergoers to a lush Vienna celebration. The balconies were reminiscent of gondolas, toothy woodwork and black with swirling gold curlicues amid a sea of spangled stars and dusky skies. A pair of balconies wide enough to hold two or three people sat near the top of the stage opening, once meant for an operatic chorus to stand in during performances, and it was one of these outcroppings Jae was struggling to get to, using a slender shelf nearly a story up off the theater floor as a bridge.

Someone in the theater’s past bricked off the platforms and removed the access stairs, most likely during its revival as a cinema. If Ichiro could go back in time, he’d punch that someone in the face, because watching Jae inch his way to one was going to give him ulcers.

“Should you be doing that anyway?” Ichiro couldn’t stand it any longer, and he paced down the side of the theater floor, walking down the steeply angled aisle until he was directly below his friend. “You were shot.”

“I was shot months ago, and the doctor said I could resume normal activity—within reason.”

“This is so not within reason.” Ichi’s heart leaped up into his throat as Jae reached the balcony and threw one leg over the balustrade. “I don’t think he’d agree being Batman was normal activity—or even close to reasonable.”

“This is nothing. You should see—oof—what Cole and I—”

“I don’t want to hear that. Not about my brother. Or you. I don’t need that in my head.” He took a few more steps, hovering beneath his friend. Jae’s camera swung from a strap around his neck, and the lens nearly caught against the railing when Jae slid over into the balcony. “I’m not sure I’m going to survive this.”

By Some Demand…. Excerpt from Tequila Mockingbird

Curling up over his thighs and hugging his shins seemed to help, but it didn’t leave Forest with much of a view other than the hospital’s black-speckled linoleum floor. Around him, families ebbed and flowed, some chattering away as if no one was dying a few feet away, bleeding out on unseen surgical tables while their loved ones shivered from the overly enthusiastic air conditioning.

And try as he might, Forest couldn’t remember ever actually being in a hospital for anything other than the cops or CPS dragging him into the emergency room to check him over for damage. Once Frank took him in, he hadn’t seen the inside of a hospital again, although he’d seen doctors and dentists, since Frank’d taken periodic checkups quite seriously.

“Fuck, who the hell is going to tell me when it’s time to get my teeth cleaned?” he muttered at his knees, hating the tears falling from his eyes and soaking into his jeans. “Dad took care of all that shit.”

“Here, sit up and drink some of this,” Connor ordered, and a hot cup of coffee appeared under Forest’s nose. “I got you something to eat too.”

Taking the cup, Forest inhaled its steam, coughing slightly at the bitter in its aroma. He sipped at the sharp opening in the cup’s plastic lid, wincing at the sour sweetness of the hospital’s blend and Connor’s heavy hand with the sugar. Food turned out to be a couple of microwaved green chile and bean burritos, their molten innards leaking out from cracks in the tortillas and spilling onto a scallop-edged paper plate.

“I’m not hungry.” Forest wasn’t feeling the love for his stomach at that moment, especially since it’d been nearly an hour since they’d last heard from someone official about Jules’s whereabouts. He put the plate down on the empty chair next to him. It stayed there for about a second before Connor picked it back up and put it firmly in his lap.

“Eat something. Now,” Connor growled. “Actually, before I forget, put this on and then eat. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

The much-missed leather jacket settled on his shoulders again, and Forest numbly let Connor take the coffee cup from him. Connor’s holster was empty, a dark slash of black leather against his broad shoulders and back. The man’s chambray shirt was old, an obviously well-worn garment used to hugging the Irish cop’s muscular form. Small white patches dotted Connor’s chest, areas rubbed down from his holster, and a thumbnail-sized splash of pink on one of its tails turned out to be nail polish.

Forest wondered about the woman who’d stained Connor’s shirt, leaving behind a small territorial mark to claim him as her man. Any thought about the unknown and mysterious woman disappeared from Forest’s brain as Connor began to roll up his shirtsleeves to reveal his thickly muscled forearms and strong wrists. A satin-brushed gold ring on his pinkie gleamed dully under the hospital’s florescent lights, its wide surface engraved with fluid Celtic designs Forest thought looked like animals of some kind.

“On, Forest. The jacket,” Connor repeated. “Now.”

He was about to argue—just for the sheer fuckery of it, but one look at Connor’s face stopped Forest in midbreathe, and he tucked his hands into the jacket’s sleeves, sliding it on.

The scent of Connor’s faint cologne and the musk of his skin swaddled Forest immediately, and he reluctantly took the coffee back, wishing its bitter scent wouldn’t drown the Connor out of his nose. Stewing in the lingering heat of the man’s body, Forest sighed and felt the coldness in him  in him melt, slipping away under Connor’s ad hoc embrace.

Releasing May 21 from Dreamspinner Press

Snippet from The Devil’s Brew…

They switched off, passing over a soda for a helping of food, and Miki made a face at Damie’s drenching a pile of fries with rooster sauce. After breaking off a piece from a strip of deep-fried, panko-coated cod, Miki dropped the bite-sized piece onto the paper and blew on his fingers to cool them off.

“You never could wait,” Damien said wistfully.

They felt right sitting there—together—their knees touching and blocking the wind from chilling their hot fish and chips with their legs. Miki’s eyes drifted to the right, where another bench sat waiting for another pair of men who’d never sit there again, and he blinked, wiping away the sting of tears forming in his eyes.

If he listened carefully, Miki could almost hear Dave’s soft, rolling laugh and Johnny teasing the Southern man about the merits of mashed potatoes over grits. They’d both stuck to the fish, even when Felix got his hands on Dungeness crab to make into cakes. Damien’d sworn they were the best he’d ever tasted, but Johnny refused to put anything that came out of a shell into his mouth. Dave just said he was a purist, sticking to what Jesus gave the masses to eat.

Until Damien pointed out draft beer wasn’t on the Jesus menu, and Dave retorted wine was a pussy drink.

Who apparently is having a kick ass time with Dirty Secret.

Greg says: It was a good day in the booth… couldn’t help it. 🙂

Dirty Deeds is out in FIVE days. Book Four in the Cole McGinnis series. Wow. Much fun. And a lot of bloodshed. Some tears. Some sex. Some laughter.

How about an excerpt? A tiny little bit?

When Jae saw me come out of the building, he took one step toward me… a molasses advance that lasted only as long as I blinked. Then his feet grew wings and time slid around us, drawing the space separating us together in a tremendous leap.

The TARDIS would have envied his speed.

I was too busy burying my face in the crook of his neck and wrapping my arms around him tight enough to lift Jae off the ground.

“I’m sorry, baby—”

His mouth on my lips stopped me, and Jae swallowed away any excuse I might have given him for his worry.

He smelled of cloves, stale coffee, and sweat. Worry turned his pretty face ashen, and a cold chill seeped into his hands. Shivering despite the lukewarm breeze pouring over us, Jae held on tight, refusing to give my lungs room to breathe.

I was fine with that. I didn’t want to breathe in anything but him anyway.

The ride home was a blur, more from my body crashing from exhaustion than Jae’s driving. For once. I woke up when he pulled off the freeway and into our neighborhood, the change of the road beneath his Explorer’s tires waking me.

“Do you want me to go through a drive-thru so you can get some food?” he asked softly as I blinked away the fog clouding my brain. “Maybe one of those meat-only burgers from In-N-Out?”

“Veggies are fine. It’s not like they use alfalfa sprouts or that kind of shit.” I grinned at him from across the cab. “Maybe a shake. My wallet’s here someplace. In that envelope.”

“I’ve got it.” He pulled into the line at the drive-thru. Despite the late hour, the California burger joint was still hopping, because we were at least ten cars back from the employee taking orders in the parking lot. “And I dunno about a shake. You fart when you have milk in the middle of the night.”

“It’ll drown out the raw onion taste if you kiss me,” I finagled. “And you can get one too.”

“Then we’ll both be farting.” Jae laughed. “Chocolate?”

“Yeah.” I eyed him. “You haven’t yelled at me yet. Waiting for us to get home?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Maybe I’m waiting for you to yell at me. I gave Mike your guns.”

“Good thing to do.” It was a concession I was more than willing to make. “I’m okay with it. I am, babe. Honestly? Yeah, I’m scared shitless that something’s going to happen to you, but….”

“We can’t live in fear of maybes, Cole-ah,” Jae said in his soft, husky murmur.

“Yeah, that.” I leaned over to kiss his mouth, tracing its plump lower curve with the tip of my tongue. “You sure you’re okay?”

“More than okay.” He sighed into my kiss, and the car behind us beeped its horn. I was about to tell the guy to fuck off and I could kiss my lover whenever the hell I wanted when Jae nudged me in the ribs. “Shut up. He’s telling us we can move forward. Not everything is about you, Cole.”

The line ahead of us had moved forward enough that there was now a semi-truck wide gap between the Explorer and the car in front of us.

“You don’t have to fight everything, agi.” Jae moved the car forward until we were once again holding our place in line. “Sometimes it’s okay to let things go.”

“Yeah, I’m working on that.” I caught his sharp glance. “No, really. Look at me. I’m dressed like a low-rent Smurf, and I still kind of reek—”

“I wasn’t going to mention it, but yes, you do,” he broke in.

“And you kissed me anyway,” I reminded him. “Hugged me too.”

“Your stench is like the onions. We will both have it on us.” Jae chuckled. “The milk shakes too.”

“I love you, you know.”

“I love you too. Onions and all.”

Dirty Deeds by Rhys Ford (Book 4 in the Cole McGinnis Series)
Sheila Pinelli needed to be taken out.

Former cop turned private investigator Cole McGinnis never considered committing murder. But six months ago, when Jae-Min’s blood filled his hands and death came knocking at his lover’s door, killing Sheila Pinelli became a definite possibility.

While Sheila lurks in some hidden corner of Los Angeles, Jae and Cole share a bed, a home, and most of all, happiness. They’d survived Jae’s traditional Korean family disowning him and plan on building a new life—preferably one without the threat of Sheila’s return hanging over them.

Thanks to the Santa Monica police mistakenly releasing Sheila following a loitering arrest, Cole finally gets a lead on Sheila’s whereabouts. That is, until the trail goes crazy and he’s thrown into a tangle of drugs, exotic women, and more death. Regardless of the case going sideways, Cole is determined to find the woman he once loved as a sister and get her out of their lives once and for all.

Dirty Deeds may be purchased at: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=4780

Excerpt from Dirty Deeds

We went to bed that night and lay on opposite sides of the bed for about fifteen minutes. Then, I rolled over to reach for him and Jae was already there, folding his arms around my body and kissing my face. I’d needed to touch him, to know he was there, and I’d moved without even thinking about it.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured into his neck. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Cole-ah, some days you hurt me simply by breathing.” His words were quick, short jabs, but they found their mark, leaving me bleeding out through a thousand shallow cuts. “And then there are days when I love you so much I don’t mind the pain.”

His kiss healed anything left over after the initial volley, and I cuddled him close, reveling in the feel of his skin on mine. We often slept naked, a risk sometimes, especially if one of us forgot to trim Neko’s nails, but he felt damned good on me, a satiny length of sensual comfort on my rough emotions.

Excerpt from Clockwork Tangerine (Standalone steampunk novella) by Rhys Ford
Release Date: Feb 19, 2014 by Dreamspinner Press

The stink of St. Francisco crept into Marcus’s nose and stayed there, an unwelcome sensory vermin plaguing him at every step. Fog hung in the alleyways, catching on the corners of buildings and shrouding Little Orient’s arcane-fueled street lamps. The faint orange glow they cast was barely enough to see by on a clear night, and once a heavy soup rolled in off the bay’s murky water, the ill-maintained orbs were dimmed to a pale tangerine wash.

Definitely not enough light to see anything other than dark, slinky shapes at the edge of his vision but certainly bright enough to warn off any cutpurses lurking in the pea-soup thick shadows beyond. He’d been a fool to come down to Little Orient near dusk, but his grandmother had begged, something she rarely did.

Well, unless she thought she could get away with it.

“I thought I had enough.” Her soft, round face sported few wrinkles, and her cotton-floss hair was suspiciously bright gold, but the elderly woman wore her age well. “Please, Marcus. It would be such a disappointment if it wasn’t served.”

She’d been his only maternal influence after his own mother fled the Commonwealth to head back to London, and Marcus hated disappointing her. Hosting afternoon breakfasts for the West Commonwealth’s society were the highlight of his grandmother’s week, and if she needed a particular jasmine tea for it, he would damn well get it for her.

Now in the misty shadows of the district’s spice and sewer perfumed air, Marcus wondered if he’d not made a mistake, and he would have been better off popping down to Woolworth’s Tea Emporium for a more mundane leaf.

“She would know,” he reminded himself, hefting his sword cane up and checking the fill of his pocket where his pistol hung heavy in his overcoat. “She always knows.”

The package of tea was light enough in his other pocket, not enough of a weight to trouble him, but it seemed to weigh him down with every step. Obligations. Family obligations. That was what the tea represented. The need to produce… to succeed in order to further the family line. Even if he was only the third son and a poor representation of the dukedom.

A chance quirk of filial bloodlines gifted him with a title, a viscount to put in front of his name, but it felt awkward hanging on his shoulders. He felt more at home in the boxing ring, schooling lesser men on the proper ways to defend themselves, or even riding with the hounds, chasing after a metallic gewgaw covered in rabbit fur rather than the traditional Reynard.

The industrialists made their mark in odd ways, filling the skies with bloated tick-like balloons strong enough to carry a man across oceans or steam-driven contraptions loud enough to frighten a sensible horse on the roads, but strangely enough, it was the faux fox that angered arcanists the most.

“It’s a violation of the natural order! They’ll be the death of us. The death of the British Empire!” His father harrumphed more than once as he read the Post at the breakfast table. He’d been a walrus of a man, bristling with a thick mustache and even thicker eyebrows, his ever-increasing belly popping more than a few buttons on his waistcoat when he blustered his opinions at the Commonwealth’s House of Lords.

In the end, the duke was right in his own way. It’d been a skitter that killed his father, a hand-sized mechanical leftover from the Society’s attempted coup against the newly crowned Queen. Hidden in the Lords’ Hall voting chambers, the spindly legged mechanism somehow activated and attacked the man nearest to its hiding place, his blustering but large-hearted father. The Duke’s last words as he lay dying on the House floor were of his family and to curse the industrialists who brought doom to the British Empire.

If you missed today’s chat, it was mostly me croaking out a few readings. If you start with the Q&A and work down to Tequila Mockingbird, you can hear my voice going 😀

It’s like a spectrum! 😀 Just click on the link and you’ll get a sound file you can play without downloading.

Rhys Ford Q&A
https://soundcloud.com/rhysford-1/rhys-qa

Fish and Ghosts
https://soundcloud.com/rhysford-1/fish-ghosts

Clockwork Tangerine
https://soundcloud.com/rhysford-1/clockwork

Dirty Deeds
https://soundcloud.com/rhysford-1/dirty-deeds

Tequila Mockingbird
https://soundcloud.com/rhysford-1/tequila

And don’t forget there’s a special Fish and Ghosts discount this weekend! It also applies to all urban fantasies on DSP’s site . http://dreamspinnerpress.com/