The Heart of the Jungle - Jeremy Pack

The Story Behind The Heart of the Jungle

Cleaning the attic. Ugh.

I am a gay man. I am a gay parent. My attic is like Hoarders meets Antiques Roadshow meets The Island of Misfit Toys. You have to use your hip and a wide stance to muscle the door open. The previous ten years’ Christmas décor strains beneath the herculean crush of everything you never needed for child rearing. 

Where to begin?

My eye was drawn to a lonely banker’s box shrinking in terror in a corner. Somehow, this little guy had been spared the grim fate of its contemporaries. Curious, I clambered over the skeletal remains of my daughter’s recently discarded crib and pulled off the dusty lid. Within were carefully bound piles of yellowing paper. Hmm. Musings and utter nonsense from my idealistic youth—these reams of paper were forgotten shores that I’d long ago abandoned in search of more practical horizons.

The title page of the topmost stack drew at me like a siren’s song. “The Heart of the Jungle”

I vaguely recalled the plot, but it was akin to conjuring the details of a fever dream. Unable to resist the call—particularly in light of the alternative (actually cleaning the attic)—I sat cross-legged on the floor, took up the manuscript, and slipped off the time-hardened rubber band.

“Fate was one twisted bitch, and for some reason, on the night of October fifth, Christian James found himself at the tip-top of her shitlist....” For the next hour, I was held spellbound by this quirky, poorly punctuated text I’d written many years before. I wasn’t enthralled because of the story’s proficiency, but because of its prophecy.

My main character Chris had just lost his two-year-old daughter and partner to an apparent homicide. He’d made a soul-mate connection with a private investigator named Jason Kingsley—a tall, exceptionally handsome fellow with mysterious hazel eyes, a confident demeanor, and a tormented past. (Uncannily like my Jason.) The coincidences grew: From love at first sight, which I’ve since learned doesexist just as I’d described it, to Chris’s uncanny description of the first time he held his daughter—a veritable word-for-word account of how the experience played out for me years later. From the domineering former partner to the anxiety of a courtship happening under less-than-ideal circumstances.... On and on and on.

I could have chosen any of those half-completed manuscripts to take my first, tentative steps into the world of M/M fiction, but “The Heart of the Jungle” spoke to my soul. The novel is fiction—but it’s peppered with truths that I seem to have whispered across time to the Jeremy of the past. It may not be Pulitzer-worthy, but I sure hope it’s entertaining. At least now that you know the “story behind the story,” you can have fun guessing at the bits that actually came true. (Wink.)

My thanks to you for joining me, and to Jadette for giving me the space to share!

Also: The attic is still a catastrophe.

Blurb: The Heart of the Jungle

Chris James is Fate’s favorite plaything. When She took his parents in a car crash, Chris narrowly escaped the grief with his life, and he has the scars on his wrists to prove it. Seven years later, just as his life is finally turning around, Fate smashes his universe once again, taking his partner and two-year-old daughter and leaving behind a bloodbath.

After nearly a year of investigation, with no bodies, no motive, and no clues, the police are giving up. Enter Jason Kingsley, a wickedly handsome private investigator with a troubled past and a disconnected puzzle piece he could never find a place for. Jason has his work cut out for him: his search leads down a road that was never meant to be traveled, where a ruthless and hidden enemy lurks and dark secrets await. With passion drawing them together and sinister forces threatening to tear them apart, Chris and Jason race against time to unravel the mystery and get to the shocking truth that lies behind it all: The Heart of the Jungle.

Excerpt: The Heart of the Jungle

CALLAHAN’S wet lips brought to mind a pair of writhing slugs as they worked over the slimy stub of an unlit cigar. It was a feat of mouth dexterity that the ferociously ugly man’s speech was unaffected.

“Here’s where we’re at.” He splayed the papers in the manila file out as though examining them. “Ten months ago, we get a call from a concerned neighbor. He’s seen some suspicious activity and thinks someone should take a look. A patrol arrives and finds the front door wide open. Inside, it’s a slaughterhouse. There are no bodies but enough blood to virtually guarantee whoever bled it didn’t walk away. With me so far?”

Chris was white and trembling. His stomach lurched as the cloying stench of slobbered tobacco slapped him in the face for the tenth time. Callahan’s barely restrained grin indicated he was enjoying Chris’s discomfort.

Even George MacQuery, the very picture of human composure, seemed unsettled by the recitation.

“Good. Now, in the intervening months, we’ve worked this thing up, down, and sideways. Forensic analysis of the blood at the crime scene positively identified it as belonging to Michael Blake. Minor spatter on the walls was ID’d as the girl’s. Seems like we’ve got a pair of homicides, but we’ve still got no bodies. We’ve got no murder weapon, no stray prints, no suspects, no motive… no nothing.”

George took a deep breath. “Get on with it. You’re suspending investigation. You're closing the case.”

Purchase Link on Dreamspinner Press:

Jeremy's Website & Blog:

http://www.jeremy-pack.com

Goodreads Author Page:

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4784943.Jeremy_Pack

Twitter:

@JeremyPack1973

Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/#!/Author.JeremyPack

Shelter Somerset - On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch

The first word in my novel On the Trail to Moonlight Gulch is “Love.” But love is described as a powerful force, even violent. With the ability to knock one off one’s feet. Smack one in the kisser like a prize fighter. Love, like greedy bandits and loneliness, can cause unrelenting pain. Until honesty nudges aside secrets.

Moonlight Gulch seemed to write itself. I knew I wanted to write a novel set in Chicago during the Gilded Age. The Black Hills always called out my name, and I chose that as my western setting. I didn’t expect to enjoy describing Chicago in the 1880s as much as I did. I almost missed the city once I had the protagonist, Torsten, hop on a westbound train for the Dakota Territory. But when I began to describe Franklin’s homestead and the surrounding granite peaks and ponderosa, I fell in love all over again. There is something magical about the Black Hills, or Paha Sapa as the Sioux call it.

The concept of the “mail-order bride” magazine came to me when I placed myself in Torsten’s boots. If I were living in 1886, where would I find same-sex love, not fleeting sexual encounters found in cabarets? I’d turn to the same means lonely men use today—anonymous social networks. In the 21^st century, we have Internet chat rooms. One hundred fifty years ago, they had Matrimonial News, a well-known matchmaker periodical that brought together forlorn frontiersmen with women around the world. We can only guess that “gay” men might have satiated their dreams through those pages, as well.

Moonlight Gulch ventures beyond same-sex loneliness in an age when it seemed impossible to find. There is another universal and ageless theme I explore. Insatiable greed. Torsten’s pen pal, Franklin, refuses to pan the gold on his homestead, but local prospectors, having long depleted most of the gold from the Hills years before, plot to take possession of Franklin’s land. It’s the age-old tale of the individual versus the ravenous mob.

I hope readers will gain from Moonlight Gulch that which I’d learned while researching and writing it. For one, we humans have changed little throughout the generations. Events and desires, like the oceans’ tides, ebb and flow. We ride them out, over and over, on a timeless journey. Only technology has really transformed through the ages. We still seek love, and use whatever means available to us to find it. I also hope readers come away from the novel questioning their own value structure. Strength in ideals comes from holding them up to the light for inspection. That is how Torsten learns the true power of love… when his long-guarded secret finally spills before Franklin’s feet, and there is no longer any room to sweep them away.

Blurb:
Nineteen-year-old Torsten Pilkvist, American-born son of Swedish immigrants, is searching for same-sex love in the hustle and bustle of 1886 Chicago. Frustrated and forlorn, Tory peruses a "mail-order bride" magazine and is captivated by an advertisement by a lonely bachelor living in the Wild West. Tory and wounded Civil War veteran Franklin Ausmus begin an innocent correspondence--or as innocent as can be, considering Tory keeps his true gender hidden. When Tory's parents discover the letters, he's forced out of his home and, with nowhere else to go, he boards the train to the Black Hills and the one place he feels he belongs--Franklin's homestead, Moonlight Gulch. Can a genuine romance develop once Franklin hires Tory as his ranch hand—all while Tory desperately tries to keep Franklin from discovering his secret?

Links:

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/On-Trail-Moonlight-Gulch-ebook/dp/B007TRWWDU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1335300062&sr=8-1

Dreamspiner Press: http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=2876&cPath=55_419

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/MoonlightGulch

Excerpt: 

He splashed limewater on his chest, dressed in a crisp white shirt, gray pinstripe suit, blue cravat, and felt derby, and jumped on the electric streetcar to go from State Street to the 35th Street cabaret secretly known as a watering hole for men like him. Love was not his aim—he knew that was far from his grasp at a place like the cabaret. He wanted only company, affection, the fleeting kind that might lessen his grief and loneliness, like the way some used alcohol.

The instant Tory stepped inside the cabaret, the usual stares burned holes into him. He disliked the scene, yet he knew of no other place like it in Chicago. Many of the young men, both Negroes and whites, came for “business.” They congregated at the bar and the small standing tables, some selling, others buying. The regulars recognized him as one who seldom interacted with the locals, especially those known as “renters.” A few of the renters dressed as women, which Tory found both entertaining and distasteful. The older men from out of town ogled him. They often mistook him for a renter. He avoided eye contact to communicate his disinterest.

A player piano rolled out tunes in the corner. Some of his favorites, “Oh, Dem Old Golden Slippers” and “American Patrol,” lightened his mood. The cabaret, less crowded than usual for a Monday evening, ebbed and flowed with a sluggish apathy. Since it was the day after Easter, most of the regulars who often stopped by after work for drinks had likely remained at home with their wives and children. Not many out-of-towners had scheduled trips away from their families during the holiday.

The two bouncers appeared more relaxed than usual. Tory never learned if they were like the men who patronized the cabaret. They seemed disinterested in the goings-on, their eyes always narrowed with vigilance.

A boy of about fifteen, the cabaret owners’ youngest son, served drinks behind the bar. With a thin cigar clenched between yellowing crooked teeth, he poured and poured, his face lined with labor. The slightest spill of the liquor and his father, Mr. Levitzki, the stony-faced proprietor with the cannon-like voice, who roamed the cabaret like a grizzly bear, would slap the back of his head. The father’s temper was enough for Tory to want to leave the place, but there was no establishment as safe when looking for companionship.

Tory found an empty bench against the far wall. He kept his derby on, for it gave him the extra furtiveness he liked while at the cabaret. With his hands balled in his lap, he peered around under the short brim, taking note of anyone who resembled a gentleman. Weekdays were often more rowdy than weekends. During the week, drunken construction and railroad workers would come in to make “dates” with some of the younger men. The owners tolerated the flood of teamsters until their pockets came up empty. Afterward, Mr. Levitzki would give a subtle sign—two fingers tickling under his chin—and the bouncers would dispatch to their duties and herd the rowdies like cattle and toss them out the door.

Tonight, the holiday kept most of the heavy drinkers away. Tory enjoyed the dim calmness. Disorderly crowds and obnoxious noise were not what he searched for. Light from the setting sun oozed through the stained glass above the bar. A reddish blue hue, mixed with the pipe and cigar smoke, floated around the establishment. A Negro boy in women’s clothing swaggered by him. The bustle on his skirt protruded clownishly. Not even a stage actress would paint herself with so much makeup, Tory imagined. His contemptuous smirk brought a grunt from the faux woman, and he strutted off.

Some of the patrons held hands and nuzzled while sipping their drinks. Mostly they were renters and buyers. Another couple danced cheek to cheek to the high-pitched music streaming from the player piano. Tory watched, fascinated, as a couple kissed passionately in a dark corner. Even to him, overt displays of romantic affection between men in public seemed shocking.

A man walked into the bar. From across the dimly lit cabaret, Tory saw that he held his breath when he glanced around. He appeared as out of place as Tory felt, but his Panama skimmer and bamboo walking stick gave him a debonair quality. Clearly an out-of-towner on Chicago business. Men like him filled Chicago during the week, working all day, playing all night, looking for brief companionship. Tory watched as the two renters who had been sitting at the bar, including the Negro with the caricature-like bustle, circled him. They could spot an out-of-towner with money like an alley cat sniffing out fish carcasses. The competing boys grimaced at each other, their eyebrows arched high. The white boy nudged out his shoulder, indicating he was willing to fight. The renter in women’s clothing appeared ready to counter, but then his painted face fell. Slump-shouldered, he trudged back to the bar.

As if relishing his victory, the white boy grinned and rubbed against the man, flirting like the coquettish females in burlesque shows. Curious, Tory took mental notes of the out-of-towner’s reaction to the renter. Were his initial perceptions of the dark-featured man with rounded spectacles accurate? The man’s gaze remained fixed on the dartboard along the far wall. Suddenly the man turned to the boy. His lips moved. A second later, the boy’s smile transformed into a scowl, and he stomped off to stand next to his companion by the bar. Inwardly, Tory smiled. He had been right. He was a gentleman. But a married gentleman, no doubt. And a nervous one, at that.

4 Star Review for Nether Regions!

Yep, you heard right!

My Lesbians Vs Zombies received a 4 star review from Hearts on Fire Reviews.

You can check it out here:  Hearts on Fire

In the age of Amazons, fighting spirit and a courageous heart revealed a warrior’s true strength.  Threso proved her prowess a decade earlier, in an epic battle against invading Spartans.  Now, as she enjoys the continued peace, she looks forward to a possible future with her young recruit, Kreousa.   But the gods lay a challenge to discover who has the strongest warrior spirits: Amazons or Spartans.  Because the gods have a wicked sense of humor, the Spartans are undead.  To make matters worse, they have chosen the unseasoned Kreousa to accompany Threso.  Will Threso lose the one woman who has instilled a song of love in her?

Jadette Paige

Review: A Tryst with Fate - H.C. Brown

A Tryst with Fate by H.C. Brown

The first time I read the blurb to this novel, I wanted to read the book.  It so sounded like something I would love.  I happen to adore time travel romances. What better than a time travel male/male romance.  Be still my beating heart!

From the first page, I was completely immersed in Alex's and Colt’s story.  The novel begins in the present with Colt buying the portrait of Lord Alexander Swift.  He has inherited Alex’s home and has restored it with the painting being the final touch.  Colt runs into a stranger after the auction who has written a book concerning Alex and his lover.  The lover turns out to be a man who also happens to be spitting image of Colt. During the time Alex lived, any kind of man love was strictly forbidden with a sentence of death to anyone caught in the act. 

Through information given to Colt by the author, he decides to inspect the cellar. Seems one day Alex went into the cellar and disappeared with his cousin.  Colt believes he might discover Alex's remains there.  So begins the incredible journey of two men meant to be together.  Their love spans hundreds of years. 

I loved the reactions of both men at this time.  The excitement and uninhibited love Colt had for Alex. At first, Alex is amazed at the things Colt tells him but within no time he comes to believe in him.  Their love grows even more.  If you want a story to become immerse in, then A Tryst with Fate is the book. The details, emotions, even the dialog are realistic and believable.  I highly recommend this book to anyone

Blurb:

After inheriting a Georgian house in Berkley Square, London, Colt Daniels, millionaire art dealer, finds himself obsessed by a portrait of the home's former owner, Lord Alexander Swift.

During a conversation with author, Jake Williams, Colt discovers Lord Swift and his cousin had mysteriously disappeared from the cellar one evening, shortly after Alexander's illicit affair with the rogue, David Fitzhugh. Jake reveals Colt bears a remarkable resemblance to Fitzhugh.

Colt decides to investigate Alexander's strange disappearance and ventures into his cellar late one night to look for a secret passageway. When his flashlight fails, Colt finds himself transported back in time to 1775 and there he comes face to face with the man of his dreams— Lord Alexander Swift.

Watch the book trailer here: http://youtu.be/mXBJiwPw-dE

Purchase Link:  https://spsilverpublishing.com/product_book_info/coming-soon-c-2/a-tryst-of-fate-ebook-p-744

Aleks Voinov's Dark Soul #4

In “Dark Rival I,” the noose tightens around Stefano Marino’s neck. While Silvio and Franco are off taking care of the Russian problem, mutiny brews in Stefano’s crime family. It soon becomes clear he can trust only one man in his life, but whether he can hold on to Silvio—and what it might cost his marriage—are questions for which he has no answers.

In “Dark Rival II,” Silvio returns from his mission. Job done, threat gone, Stefano knows Silvio has no reason to stay. Or so he thought, anyway, until Silvio makes his move. It seems Silvio wants only sex, but Stefano is well aware there’s much, much more on the line. Including Donata, whose suspicions of a mistress in Stefano’s life are uncomfortably close to an even more uncomfortable truth.

Hopeless and helpless as his life crumbles down around his head, Stefano gives in to his desires in “Dark Temptation.” He isn’t any closer to understanding Silvio—and he’s farther from Donata than he’s ever been—but at least he’s come to understand his own needs. Now if only he could figure out how to be himself without hurting the ones he loves the most.

This title is #4 of the Dark Soul series.