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The release date for my second solo novel with Torquere is July 9th and I'm very excited about it so, although it's still two weeks away, I thought I'd mention it.
This is one I hope to do a sequel to, because I've got more to say about the two main characters -- I want to see what happens to them next for one thing, although the book is self-contained and there's no cliffhanger or anything fiendish like that.
It's a very simple story when it comes to its origin; I flashed on a scene of a young man (Dan; he's 20) caught picking raspberries on a recluse's land, thinking he's in the woods and the berries are there for the taking. It all spun out from there. Tyler, who owns the raspberries, is 34 and not at all pleased to see Dan, but when circumstances bring them together, that changes.
It's a romance, kink-free (but not smut-free :-)) and both Dan and Tyler have issues and angst and troubled pasts but they're just what the other needs. This book pretty much just wrote itself; very much a case of letting the two of them just tell the story.
I'll do a proper post when it comes out, but I just wanted to do a quick heads up.
Here's a short teaser from the beginning:
He found himself walking easier and frowned, jolted out of his absorption with the hollowness of his belly and the red agony of each footstep. He'd been walking with stones shifting under his feet and brambles catching at his ankles; now he was on a narrow path, without being sure how he'd gotten there. He turned and looked back, but the woods had closed behind him and were pushing him on.
The path was no wider than a man's shoulders; a meandering series of bends with short stretches where it ran straight, but it was definitely used; he could see a heel print in what had once been a patch of mud, the shallow depression baked solid. Maybe he was in a National Park? He didn't remember seeing one marked on the map, and there were no trail markers on the tree trunks, but it could be. They'd have places for the tourists; washrooms, people, food.
He felt a faint stirring of hope, and it let him stumble along just a little farther. He rounded a corner and the path ended in a clearing. He moaned; couldn't help it.
Raspberry canes, the bright acid green of the leaves stirred by the breeze to reveal the fruit. He walked forward and snatched at the nearest dangle of berries, heedless of the sharp prickles guarding them. That didn't really work too well; the ripe berries tumbled, lost among the canes, so he forced himself to pick them, one by one, with a hand that shook as it worked. He picked four or five, filling his cupped hand with the light, sweet fruit, and then opened his mouth and crammed them in.
The sun-warmed flesh split against his teeth and juice and seeds spurted out over his tongue. Oh, God, so good, so good. Ravenous now, swallowing saliva from his watering mouth to make room for more raspberries, he picked and ate, until his fingertips were stained red and full of tiny thorns, hair-thin and itchy.
He moved deeper into the canes and reached out eagerly for another berry, almost out of reach inside the clustered brambles. His fingers brushed something -- string -- and he paused, his hunger still acute enough to have blunted his thought, so that reasoning flowed sluggishly, like a silt-choked river.
String? Why would there be --?
The quiet, chilling sound of a rifle bolt sliding home froze him in place, as terrified as a baby rabbit, his breath caught in his throat, his heart thudding fast and sick. Shit. Fuck. His retreat cut off; nowhere to run. Oh, this just wasn't happening to him. He wanted to scream, but that would bring death, sure as taxes, at best a bullet in his leg to keep him from running, so he stayed still and quiet and waited.
A raspberry, dislodged by the weight of his body against the snaking brambles, fell to the ground, the small sounds of its passage through the leaves magnified by the silence. It hit earth and Dan shuddered. As if that had signaled the end of the waiting, in some way he didn't understand, the person holding the weapon finally spoke.
"I was looking to pick those for jam. Did you leave me any, boy?"
He turned slowly, hands held up high, and met the cool, unfriendly gaze of a man with a metal pail at his feet and a rifle in his hands. The man was maybe twenty feet away, no more. For him to have gotten that close, unnoticed, he must walk like a cat, or, Dan reflected bitterly, his own greed had left him deaf and blind. And now he was going to pay for it. Well, at least he wasn't going to die with his mouth empty of anything but the taste of spit.
"I left you plenty, mister." And he wasn't going to beg, neither. "'Sides," he continued, "last I heard, the woods don't belong to no one, so I've as much right eating them as you."
This is one I hope to do a sequel to, because I've got more to say about the two main characters -- I want to see what happens to them next for one thing, although the book is self-contained and there's no cliffhanger or anything fiendish like that.
It's a very simple story when it comes to its origin; I flashed on a scene of a young man (Dan; he's 20) caught picking raspberries on a recluse's land, thinking he's in the woods and the berries are there for the taking. It all spun out from there. Tyler, who owns the raspberries, is 34 and not at all pleased to see Dan, but when circumstances bring them together, that changes.
It's a romance, kink-free (but not smut-free :-)) and both Dan and Tyler have issues and angst and troubled pasts but they're just what the other needs. This book pretty much just wrote itself; very much a case of letting the two of them just tell the story.
I'll do a proper post when it comes out, but I just wanted to do a quick heads up.
Here's a short teaser from the beginning:
He found himself walking easier and frowned, jolted out of his absorption with the hollowness of his belly and the red agony of each footstep. He'd been walking with stones shifting under his feet and brambles catching at his ankles; now he was on a narrow path, without being sure how he'd gotten there. He turned and looked back, but the woods had closed behind him and were pushing him on.
The path was no wider than a man's shoulders; a meandering series of bends with short stretches where it ran straight, but it was definitely used; he could see a heel print in what had once been a patch of mud, the shallow depression baked solid. Maybe he was in a National Park? He didn't remember seeing one marked on the map, and there were no trail markers on the tree trunks, but it could be. They'd have places for the tourists; washrooms, people, food.
He felt a faint stirring of hope, and it let him stumble along just a little farther. He rounded a corner and the path ended in a clearing. He moaned; couldn't help it.
Raspberry canes, the bright acid green of the leaves stirred by the breeze to reveal the fruit. He walked forward and snatched at the nearest dangle of berries, heedless of the sharp prickles guarding them. That didn't really work too well; the ripe berries tumbled, lost among the canes, so he forced himself to pick them, one by one, with a hand that shook as it worked. He picked four or five, filling his cupped hand with the light, sweet fruit, and then opened his mouth and crammed them in.
The sun-warmed flesh split against his teeth and juice and seeds spurted out over his tongue. Oh, God, so good, so good. Ravenous now, swallowing saliva from his watering mouth to make room for more raspberries, he picked and ate, until his fingertips were stained red and full of tiny thorns, hair-thin and itchy.
He moved deeper into the canes and reached out eagerly for another berry, almost out of reach inside the clustered brambles. His fingers brushed something -- string -- and he paused, his hunger still acute enough to have blunted his thought, so that reasoning flowed sluggishly, like a silt-choked river.
String? Why would there be --?
The quiet, chilling sound of a rifle bolt sliding home froze him in place, as terrified as a baby rabbit, his breath caught in his throat, his heart thudding fast and sick. Shit. Fuck. His retreat cut off; nowhere to run. Oh, this just wasn't happening to him. He wanted to scream, but that would bring death, sure as taxes, at best a bullet in his leg to keep him from running, so he stayed still and quiet and waited.
A raspberry, dislodged by the weight of his body against the snaking brambles, fell to the ground, the small sounds of its passage through the leaves magnified by the silence. It hit earth and Dan shuddered. As if that had signaled the end of the waiting, in some way he didn't understand, the person holding the weapon finally spoke.
"I was looking to pick those for jam. Did you leave me any, boy?"
He turned slowly, hands held up high, and met the cool, unfriendly gaze of a man with a metal pail at his feet and a rifle in his hands. The man was maybe twenty feet away, no more. For him to have gotten that close, unnoticed, he must walk like a cat, or, Dan reflected bitterly, his own greed had left him deaf and blind. And now he was going to pay for it. Well, at least he wasn't going to die with his mouth empty of anything but the taste of spit.
"I left you plenty, mister." And he wasn't going to beg, neither. "'Sides," he continued, "last I heard, the woods don't belong to no one, so I've as much right eating them as you."
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