Tuesday, January 28, 2020

One Night in Tampa by Angelique Migliore


Blended Worlds Are Better Worlds

 Mari Fuentes is running her first 5K race—dreaming about the grant she hopes to win for her next documentary—when she discovers Convivio "Viv" Ricco—former ordnance soldier, wounded warrior with deadly Italian sex appeal, and notorious smartass—is keeping up with her. Finishing the race together is just the start to her day.

 Viv is new to the Tampa area, and even though he's hotter than the sand on a Florida beach in August and doesn’t need any distractions, Mari agrees to spend the day with him to show him around.

 Viv thinks Mari is the most determined woman he's ever met. But even as her passion bubbles to the surface, he can’t convince her to stay with him. She has an exclusive community event to attend that he isn't allowed to attend. Nevertheless, Viv embarks on a new mission to become the most import celebrity Tampa has ever embraced.

 If Viv can’t steal Mari away for one night, how will he ever steal her heart?

• • •

Mariposa del Pilar Fuentes

I smiled at myself and inhaled a deep breath of pride as I ran along with the thinning masses. Being a slow runner had its advantages as the route along Bayshore Boulevard wasn’t nearly as crowded now as in the beginning. And running my first 5K proved doable as long as I focused on something else—like something other than the sweat tickling its way down in between my tetas. I gave my modest bosom a quick, hopefully inconspicuous, shake to dislodge any other would-be travelers, and I said a quick “thank you” to Santa Maria del Pilar for my no more than B cups. My big ass required enough attention—from care to clothes. I didn’t know how the bigger-breasted girls managed boob sweat in the Tampa Bay humidity. I crossed myself on their behalf. Dios las bendiga, señoritas.

I ran to finish this race, but the excitement of finishing grad school also spurred me on. How much dinero did I need, exactly? I mentally ticked off a list in my brain of everything left to schedule for my final documentary project. Cinematographer. Sound recordist. Van, plus driver. Luckily, I would be the scriptwriter and the editor, so I still had a choice to pay myself a stipend or not. It wasn’t as if I lacked my own money, but that negated the skills required to successfully budget for a documentary.

The stipend decision could wait until after the fundraiser tonight. I already had the production management software, and I would use the university’s studio to edit. The marketing dollars and cents still required calculations, but that part of my graduate project and thesis challenged me the most. More time, however, couldn’t be bought at any price. Grad school completion hung in the cool morning air in front of my face like a fat, juicy carrot.

My first documentary on the homeless population of Tampa Bay exceeded my benchmark for success last year, and I intended to further my investigations this year with an expanded project.

A refreshingly cool early-spring breeze blew over me from the gulf. The sun barely broke the horizon and was peeking through the ‘land of the flowers.’ Foot races around here had to start super early, else the runners dropped like flies when it got too hot. My reward for all this early-morning training and running: tickets to the Strawberry Festival with unlimited strawberries and whipped cream! Also, the beautiful Spanish-tiled houses, towering waterfront palms, and skyline of downtown Tampa painted a picture-perfect running route.

If I weren’t running, I wouldn’t be breaking a sweat, but the weather would change soon. The homeless who were forced to live in the elements would get uncomfortable before long, and it would be harder for me to find them when the weather increased to sweltering. I needed the money to make the documentary sooner rather than later. I swallowed hard and swallowed my pride even harder at the idea of the ball tonight and what I had signed myself up for to make sure I had the money sooner.

I erased thoughts of my impending humiliation out of my mind and took in my surroundings. With Davis Islands and the water on my right and the convention center’s bright blue columns in sight down the boulevard, I heard the finish line nearing as the music and celebrations pounded their way to me. It was time to get my head out of the clouds and back into this race.

Even at my fastest, I still ran pretty slow compared to everyone else, so I stayed to the far-right side of the lane. I adjusted my sunglasses, glanced down at the track, and jumped as if I had been assaulted in a B-rated horror movie.

“¡Mierda!” I screamed at the sneaker as I jumped over it, and as if the sneaker didn’t scare me bad enough, something hung out of the shoe. A foot? Without a leg attached to it? “¡Dios Mio!”

I changed direction, screamed again, and flailed my hands in front of my face in the most pathetic attempt to rid my eyes of the sight. Oh, God, I think I’m going to be sick.

An evil laugh—no, a hysterical laugh—belted out beside me. I found the owner of said laugh, and all I could see was a neon green racing shirt which, not coincidentally, matched the one I wore. The race shirt spread taut over a chest as wide as Cuba with a thick arm on either side, and its owner leaned up against a streetlight pole with one hand and held his gut with the other, as he all but pointed and laughed at me.

• • •



While in her third year of French at high school, Angelique was forced to journal every day. Never the lover of her own personal diaries, she instead rewrote Romeo and Juliet, en Françias. Except that Romeo was a duck-billed platypus, and Juliet was a strawberry. It was a doomed, albeit deliciously sweet, relationship from the start.

Long before that, Angelique wrote and performed ridiculously caddy commercials in grade school with her best friend Shannon. Ever the optimist, she believes the best is yet to come, sharing a meal is the quickest route to peace, and love conquers all. Although she was born and raised in the paradise that is the Emerald Coast of the Florida Panhandle, not traveling has never been an option for Angelique.

Today, Angelique writes character-driven love stories of various heat levels in settings from Earth to the nearest Black Hole which range from the Cosmic past to the Inter-galactic future. She also loves rugby. And champagne. With fresh raspberries, if you please.

• • •

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Tuesday, January 21, 2020

Lacey Goes to Tokyo by C.H. Lyn


International travel means international danger.

 Lacey Devaine is a four-year veteran of a spy ring which fronts as an exclusive escort service, Miss Belle's Travel Guides. Maintaining her cover is Lacey's number one priority to protect the integrity of the operation she works for.

 While on assignment in Tokyo, a nosy newspaper reporter threatens to blow the lid off a scandal that will put dozens of innocent lives at risk. To protect her cover, Miss Belle is called in to act on intelligence Lacey has uncovered.

 Can these beautiful, intelligent, and deadly women complete this assignment in time and emerge unscathed? Or will this mission be their last?

• • •

Lacey
Layovers are a Hassle

I hurry through the massive food court, focusing on the coffee shop ahead of me, rather than the dozen or so different scents forcing their way into my nose. The sweetness of sugary glaze you can almost taste on the back of your tongue; the thick, salty, warmth in the air from the multitude of fryers; the weird, cold smell that accompanies cheap sandwich meat… I march through them all to order my drink and then sink into a plush armchair in the far corner.

My fingers curl automatically around the small blue and green orb dangling from a silver chain around my neck. I lean back, take a deep breath, cross my short legs, and sigh. Four hours. There are now four hours to burn in Heathrow, one of England’s largest airports.

Miss Belle is a mess. The poor woman’s been working for weeks with no break. She set up my assignment in record time. When the congresswoman called, we only had a week to get things together. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to be placed on this assignment. It’s one of the more important ones I’ve done lately, and I get to see Nathan again. It’s been a long time.

I haven’t seen him since my old life.

The barista brings me a small Americano. I flash her a smile and take a sip before pulling out my little black book.

I need to call Chang and have him set up the room. The Park Hyatt isn’t my favorite hotel in Tokyo (it’s a little far from any of the national gardens for my taste), but the Auto Manufacturing Leaders conference takes place there this week. It makes sense that the CFO of the second most productive car manufacturing company in the United States is staying in the same hotel.

The phone rings once, twice, three times. I glance at the round silver watch on my wrist and realize it’s three in the morning in Tokyo. I wince and go to hang up when a sleepy voice barks, “Who the fuck is this?” in Japanese.

“I’m so sorry, Chang,” I respond in the same language. “I didn’t realize what time it is there. It’s Lacey.”

His tone immediately changes, and it’s clear he’s woken up at hearing my name. It’s been that way since high school. Men try to be charming around me.

“Lacey!” Heavily accented English this time. “How wonderful to hear from you. What can I do for you?”

“I’m headed out your way for some business. I planned on getting there four hours before my appointment, but I got stuck with a delay and won’t be leaving London for a while.”

“Oh, no.”

I hear the grin in his voice. He didn’t know I was heading to Tokyo. Miss Belle must have been serious about cutting him out after the last Japan trip.

“What can I do to help? You know I’d do anything to help one of Miss Belle’s girls.”

I let out a silent chuckle. Miss Belle is the only one allowed to call us “girls.” I’m fairly sure it’s one of the reasons for the cutting out. “I need you to set up my staging room. I’ll email you the details. It’s a normal set up, but no video this time. Just audio and emergency equipment. Do you still have my bag?”

“Of course!” There is a shuffle on the other end of the phone. “I’ll have it all taken care of before you arrive. I’ll be waiting for your email.”

“Thanks, Chang. I owe you one.”

“Yes.” His tone goes dry. “Perhaps you will speak to Miss Belle on my behalf? I notice I do not get a call from her as often as I used to.”

This time my chuckle is loud. “I’ll see what I can do. And I’ll call you when I fly in.”

“Thank you, Lacey. It is always wonderful to hear from you.”

I hang up and set down my phone. I sip my Americano and gaze around the bustling airport. A row of fluffy teddy bears with Britain’s flag line the edge of the coffee counter. Twin little boys keep pulling one down while their mother (I assume) exasperatedly tries to order a drink.

Men in suits, women in heels, and tourists with their camera phones clicking away furiously pass me in a sea of faces.

Miss Belle always says I sit too still. She says I have too much patience. She and I were in line at Starbucks, and the people in front of us took about five minutes ordering. By our turn, she was cursing under her breath and stamping her foot hard enough to break a heel.

My gran always said we need to have patience and understanding for those around us. She taught my foster siblings and me the meaning of a deep breath and the value of a calm mind. Those lessons helped a lot after she died. I learned to be still, at peace when fire raged around me.

It’s not a lesson any sixteen-year-old should have to learn. But it was Amanda or me, and she was only ten. I told Miss Belle when she found me, I knew what I was doing. I’d have done it again.

I shake my head and focus on something else. Gran passed a long time ago, but it still burns to remember she is gone.

I buy a New York Times from the barista, offering a smile to the twins as I sit back down. Their mother glares.

It’s probably the shirt. Or the pants. Or the belly ring. Or the whole combination. I used to mind when people looked at me that way. Now it barely grabs my attention.

I settle back into my chair and flip open the paper. I should do some research on Nathan’s security team, and on the other guests at this week’s event, but I’ll have time for that on the flight. Now, to catch up on current events. Another chuckle escapes my lips. If the paper knew half the current events I know about, a lot more people would be reading it.

• • •


C.H. Lyn grew up in a small town in Northern California and still loves visiting her hometown. Her obsession with books cannot be overstated. She grew up reading on the playground, writing during her classes, and sneaking that next chapter with a flashlight underneath the covers, long after she was supposed be asleep. Now, she works part time at a bookstore while following her husband around the world during his time in the U.S. Air Force. With a beautiful little girl, and a giant German Shepard, their family looks forward to experiencing new people, places, and cultures.

C.H. Lyn has been lucky enough to have friend and family who constantly provide all the support she could ask for. It is her hope that the strong and diverse female characters she writes will have a positive impact, and help to motivate young women to do everything they want with their lives.

• • •

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Tuesday, January 14, 2020

Earthbound by Melora Johnson


Ally Reynolds is a veterinarian specializing in raptor rehabilitation in New Hampshire. Other than one horrific incident in her childhood and a little extra “spark” for healing in her hands, both of which she has kept secret from even her best friend, her life has been singularly boring. It has also been extremely lonely. Ally longs for someone to share her life with, but how can she trust someone with her secret?

Matthew Blake, an ornithologist at Cornell University, calls Ally, asking for her help with an injured raptor. Matthew grew up in New Zealand and has lived around the world. He has read about Ally’s high success rates in raptor rehabilitation and suspects there is more to it than is generally known.

Matthew has some secrets of his own; he is a demon hunter. He suspects Ally’s healing powers could benefit him. He wants her to join him and thinks they’d make a great team.

Can Ally trust him or is he just using her? Matthew definitely has more secrets, and some of them are about her.

• • •

“Doctor Reynolds,” a male voice called out from across the room, pulling me back to the present. It sounded somewhat familiar.

I looked up, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun shining in the front window as a male figure strode toward me, blond hair haloed by the light. He stopped in front of me.

Startled, I rose to my feet and looked into a chiseled face, his eyes the indeterminate blue green of sea glass like I’d collected along the shoreline once as a teenager. His dark golden blond hair was short and spiky, his lopsided grin pure perfection. He was gorgeous.

In my experience, gorgeous men were not to be trusted. Well, no men really were. Oh, all right, no one was, period.
“Doctor Allyson Reynolds? I’m Doctor Matthew Scott Blake. I’m honored to have you join us. I’ve read your articles in the Raptor Rehab Newsletter.”

He held out a hand, but when I put out mine to shake it, he simply captured mine in his and placed his other hand over it. His eyes flashed green with golden flecks in the sunlight.

“I’m glad to be here,” I said, not at all sure I was anymore, as my pulse sped up. “Please, call me Ally.”

“All right, Ally it is.”

I want to climb him like a tree. I swallowed, aghast at my own thoughts. I’d only known him a few minutes.

His hands were so warm. My mother’s voice played in my head, Gorgeous men are dangerous, arrogant, and being involved with them will lead to no good. I frowned.

“It’s so good to see you…” he said. At my expression, he faltered and cleared his throat. The wattage of his smile dimmed significantly. “I mean, to meet you. I’ve been following your work since I arrived in the States, in the newsletter.”

He turned, drawing my hand through his arm. “Please, let me show you around the facilities here.”

“Uh, thank you,” I murmured, wondering how to tactfully withdraw my arm. My attraction to him was overwhelming. At the same time, his overly familiar attitude seemed a little odd.

A tall woman, her long, brown hair in a ponytail, appeared at the doorway through which Matt had arrived. She positively glowered at my arm through Matthew’s. She wore work boots, khaki shorts, and a sand colored polo shirt with the university logo, so I assumed she worked there as well. She approached us and stopped several feet away, then turned a bright smile on Matthew. “Hi, Matt. What brings you down from the Ornithology Lab?”

“This is Doctor Allyson Reynolds, the veterinarian and raptor rehabilitation specialist I suggested to Rick we bring in to help with the injured eagle from Sapsucker Woods.”

Shelly took one more look at my arm entwined with Matthew’s then smiled again at him. “Would you like me to show her around?”

He paused a moment before replying. “That’s okay, Shelly. I can handle it, I know my way. No need to take time out of your busy schedule. I’ll just show Doctor Reynolds around, then bring her to meet Rick. He’s the one overseeing the care of the eagle. Oh…” He turned to me. “This is Doctor Shelly Madison, she’s a clinical associate professor in zoo medicine.”

I saw my chance and pulled my arm out of his, ostensibly to shake Shelly’s hand. I murmured hello. She responded stiffly. Her behavior made more sense to me than his. Why treat me like an honored guest? I was just a vet who specialized in raptor rehab. I had been so anxious to get out of town I’d jumped at the chance, but now there was one question paramount in my mind—why had he called me? They were the experts here.

“Now, let’s show you around the animal hospital here.” His hands clenched, his bicep bulging under his short sleeve as he tugged the inner door to the offices open for me.

I fought the urge to retreat a step. Here stood a warrior from medieval legend. It would have been more appropriate for him to be dressed in leather armor than a button-down, short-sleeved khaki shirt, but he grabbed my hand and drew me around Shelly. “We’ll start in the library.”

As we walked, I had a stern conversation with my subconscious. Go to Ithaca, you said. You’ll get away from anyone Jen wants to set you up with, you said.

Matthew squeezed my hand. I looked up to see him beaming at me. My stomach lurched. I was out of the nest and free falling.

• • •



Melora Johnson grew up in a small town in Upstate New York, and still lives in the state with her husband, daughter, a black cat, and quite a few chickens. She writes poetry, horror, science-fiction & fantasy but dabbles in other genres and daylights as a librarian because that is where she hears the best stories. She also runs a thriving writers group. Of course, into every life a little rain must fall, as well as the occasional tornado, but you'll find that amply covered in her writing.

• • •

Find Melora Online:

Website - http://www.melorajohnson.com
Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/MeloraJohnson.Writer
Goodreads - http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18209725.melora_johnson
Instagram - http://www.instagram.com/melorajohnson
Pinterest - http://www.pinterest.com/melorajohnson
Blog - http://melorajohnson.wordpress.com
Tirgearr Publishing  - http://tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Johnson_Melora




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Monday, January 13, 2020

ABOUT TIRGEARR PUBLISHING

ABOUT TIRGEARR PUBLISHING
Tirgearr Publishing is a small independently-owned publishing company of commercial adult genre fiction.
We work with authors on a one-on-one basis through editing and cover design stages to ensure each book we publish is of the highest quality.

Using our expertise in the publishing business, we work side-by-side with our authors to develop effective marketing plans and promotional programs, advising on career choices and forward career planning, and assist in setting up the author's overall image.
Diversity & Inclusion: See Yourself in Our Books
At Tirgearr Publishing, diversity is welcome and celebrated. Books reflect our history, culture, and identity, and we equally value all readers and authors. We strive to create an inclusive spirit and reflect the real world as we share our stories.

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Wednesday, January 8, 2020

Happy New Year from Tirgearr Publishing!


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