The Story of Alexei’s Mouse

AlexeisMouse_432On Friday, May 20th, the fifth book in my Werewolves of Manhattan, Alexei’s Mouse, will be released from MLRpress.com.

Alexei’s Mouse tells the story of a Russian Alpha, Alexei Davidoff, who was Second on the Russian Council. He participated in a demonstration against the government’s anti-gay policies and got thrown into a gulag or labor camp. After enduring three harrowing years, he is released due to the machinations of his friends The Alpha, Armand La Marche, First on the North American Council and Alpha Etienne Daurensbourg, who also serves on the Council of North American wolves. The conditions of his release are a payment of cash to certain parties in the government and his emigration to the United States. In the gulag, Alexei was beaten, tortured and defiled daily so when he is finally well enough to come to his friends in New York he is a beaten man.

The conditions of his release are a payment of cash to certain parties in the government and his emigration to the United States.  His factotum, Boris, saved his money by sneaking it out of Russia and his whole household, Boris and his wife, Katya, his Betas, Grigory and Vasily and his six Enforcers come with him. Now Alexei lives only to build up his strength to go back to Russia and challenge the Russian First, who eats caviar while his packs starve.

Toward this goal, he jogs in Central Park to build up his stamina until one day he finds a young prostitute, Donal Berne, who was forced into drug addiction and prostitution. Donal has a needle hanging out of his arm. Having given up trying to escape the clutches of his pimp, he overdoses. Alexei finds him just in time. Donal is Alexei’s Mate. How can two troubled souls find each other and overcome the psychological and physical traumas induced by their imprisonment?

Alexei’s Mouse will be available on May 20th from mlrpress.com. Come and visit Alexei and Donal in Manhattan and reintroduce yourself to the other Mates from this series. This book may be read as a standalone but is much more appreciated when you read the four before it, His Omega, Remy’s Painter, Scarred Mate, and Marking Kane.

You can buy Alexei’s Mouse at MLR Press at http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=ACKMOUSE

Cover Reveal-Marking Kane – Werewolves of Manhattan Book Four

MarkingKane_432The worst crime perpetrated against an Alpha is to molest his mate. Gabriel Martin, coming home from his pack territory in Atlanta is stuck in a traffic jam down the block from his penthouse in his changing SOHO neighborhood. His beautiful apartment is at Tne Sullivan and down at Twenty-five is a fourth-floor walk-up where teacher Kane Brady resides.

Gabriel, a loup garou council Alpha, was on his way home to the penthouse he kept in Manhattan, from Atlanta and his Southeastern United States territory. There is a terrible traffic jam on Sullivan Street, and Gabriel decides the walk the rest of the block to his penthouse.  As he exits his limousine, he encounters a small human, Kane Brady,  molested by five men, who lay bleeding in the snow with his clothes in tatters.

Instead of just dialing 911, Gabriel, against the protests of his driver and his Beta runs to help the human. He finds the human is his Mate, Kane Brady, a teacher at McClellan High School molested for the crime of refusing to give a token passing grade to a two basketball stars. The molesters are human and therefore, Gabriel can only get relief for his Mate through the human justice system which is sometimes neither just or fair. How can Gabriel expect intimacy from his Mate when his only experience with intimacy is assault.

The Alpha Mates have their work cut out for them, helping to heal Kane and convincing a very frighten Mate to allow his Alpha physical intimacy.

Coming 6/19 – Remy’s Painter Excerpt Follows

Google_RemysPainterThe following is an excerpt from Remy’s Painter, the second book in the Werewolves of Manhattan Series. It will be released on June 19 from MLR Press and Amazon and All Romance shortly after that.

Prologue

Friday, the last week in April

The April rain drizzled down on Ian Sullivan as he stood over the caskets of his father and brother. They were killed in a car accident on their way home near an intersection by the Queens-Midtown tunnel. Ian didn’t think their deaths were an accident. His brother, William Thomas Sullivan, Junior, owed over a hundred grand in gambling debts to Salvatore Ferrara, a loan shark connected with the local mob. Sal and his minions roughed Billy up once or twice, but the last time they told him to either pay up or else. Billy was frightened and told Ian that he was going to ask their dad for the money. Ian could have told him how fruitless an endeavor that would be.

William Senior had refused and reported the transaction to the police. Their dad was with Billy when the accident occurred. The police labeled the accident as suspicious.

Worse, the mob still wanted their money even though his brother was dead. Sal showed up on Wednesday night at the wake. “You, kid, your brother owed me a hundred grand. Somebody needs to pay up, so I’ll be collecting from you.” Sal stared him down.

“I don’t owe you any money. Billy did, and now he’s dead.”

Sal shoved Ian against the wall. The funeral home was empty. Ian was the only family member left, so no help was forthcoming.

Ian was scared. “I don’t have any money. The house, the accounts, the business, it’s all caught up in probate.” Ian’s voice was thin, reedy.

“You must have some money, kid. You live at home, you work and have no expenses, I checked. You’re going to get the house and the business, take a mortgage, the interest on your deadbeat brother’s loan is accruing as I stand here admiring your pretty face. I want to be paid.” Not letting go, he squeezed Ian’s arm until Ian knew he was going to bruise badly. Then he went for Ian’s crotch. Ian rotated his hips out of the way of Sal’s hand.

“Billy owed you money. You say I have to pay Billy’s debt. I’ll try, but I don’t owe you that.”

“We’ll see.” Sal leered.

“Please, I told you, everything is in the courts. It will be two months before I see a dime. I don’t have any money. What I had, I spent on the funeral.” Ian started to shake.

Sal stepped back. Ian’s legs were rubbery. He almost fell to his knees.

“I tell you what, kid, I feel sorry for you. You come up with five grand by next Friday as a gesture of good faith.  I’ll wait for the rest until the house sells, but the chip keeps growing, so it better sell fast, or I’ll be taking it out in trade.” Sal put his hand around Ian’s neck and put some pressure on his larynx.

“I’ll be here on Friday, and you already know what will happen if I’m disappointed. I’ll take you instead of the money.”

Ian nodded his head like an automaton. “Friday, I’ll give it to you on Friday.” Sal left with his goons, and Ian sat down trembling with fear.

Ian was a house painter, just like his brother and father. All of their outstanding jobs were completed, and there was only one customer left that needed an estimate. Ian prayed he would get the job, or he would face Ferrara’s goons or worse, Ferrara himself. He didn’t know if he’d make it out alive because he refused to have sex with a man like Sal Ferrara.

Since he was only twenty-one and not his father’s favorite son, his salary from the business was a pittance. His father said he didn’t need more because he lived at home. Now, he was alone with no work scheduled in the coming weeks except the estimate he had to write up tomorrow. He tried to get money yesterday afternoon and was told by the bank that he couldn’t access the bank accounts even for the funerals, so that came out of his pocket.

Ian knew the job that needed the estimate required the type of custom work that very few painters could do. His ability was the reason his father kept him on the payroll after finding out Ian was gay. He was the only one who could work with frescos and faux finishes. He was Sullivan and Sons resident artist, and his artistry was the only reason they got upscale work. However, you would never have known that had you listened to his father complain about his youngest son.

“My son, the faggot,” was how his father referred to Ian. He hadn’t used Ian’s name once since he found out the truth. Billy was a gambler, a drunk, and sometime addict, but he was the good son. Now, because of Billy’s excesses, Ian had to sell the family home and rape the business to find enough money to pay his brother’s debts if he wanted to stay healthy and out of Sal’s clutches.

His father’s will left everything to Billy. Fortunately, he made no provision for the circumstance of Billy’s death. Despite his many flaws, Billy still loved his brother, and his will left everything to Ian. That, however, left everything in probate, and Sal still wanted his money.

He needed the new job, and he was going to have to do all the work himself because he couldn’t afford to pay a helper and still pay off Billy’s debts. He also needed the money to live on for two months and pay the loan shark. He wondered how he was going to eat.

As he threw dirt on both lowered caskets, inwardly, he cursed his brother for his stupidity and himself for not leaving his father’s business and striking out on his own three years ago when he first came out. If he didn’t get the job tomorrow, they would be digging his grave next because he wouldn’t become Sal’s boy toy.

 

Chapter One

Saturday, Last Week of April, Early Morning

Ian pulled up into the alley behind the address his father left. The house was huge. Ian surveyed the five stories plus a walk out basement. He desperately needed this job, and he didn’t think he had the chance of a snowball in hell once they found out there was only one painter instead of three.

His father paid him a pittance for the work Ian did for him. Most of the jobs the painting contractor bid on, they received because of Ian’s skills doing textured walls and custom paint. Ian wasn’t a martyr, however, and had been secretly collecting reference letters from customers who saw how hard he worked and watched his father treat him like shit on his shoes.

He had almost enough money to move out and had put out resumes to find other work before they both died, and now he was sucked into taking care of their affairs. Billy’s stupidity left him with no leeway. He had to get this job.

Gazing up again at the house, Ian sighed. Working by himself, the job would take him twelve to sixteen weeks if the house was empty and he could work twelve hour days, six days a week. And that was only if they wanted plain paint. If they wanted textures or faux finishes, it could take longer. He hoped like hell they didn’t want anything special and weren’t in a hurry, or he would surely lose the bid and maybe his ability to work if Sal Ferrara’s goons got him.

* * *

Rémy Clavier, the new second in command to the North American Council of Werewolves, sat in his new minimally furnished mid-Victorian townhouse on Columbia Heights in Brooklyn waiting for the painter. He bought the house when his friend the Chief Alpha of the council for all of the North American werewolves, Armand La Marche, requested that he take the position of COO of Garou Industries to replace the disgraced La Farge who was probably painting outhouses in Siberia at the tender mercies of the Russian council. So now Rémy, instead of commuting to council meetings from his pack lands in the Catskills for one week a quarter, had to be in New York City at the Garou corporate headquarters two weeks out of every month necessitating a city home.

When Armand first asked him to take the position, he told him, “Please, Alpha, I don’t want it.”

“That’s exactly why I want you to take it, my friend,” Armand said. “You’re not power hungry and will do the best job you can for our people rather than line your pockets and favor your own pack over the others.” Since Armand was one of his dearest friends, he acquiesced.

Armand had found his true mate, Sean, an Omega with the gift of the Voice. Sean and Armand were visiting all of the North American packs where Sean helped the bitches with childbirth because weres had difficult pregnancies and many stillborn pups. Sean’s gift eased the problems the bitches experienced with pregnancy and the birth. The Voice was the reason for most of the live births in the North American packs and the pups, once born, thrived.

Sean was a gifted potter, and he planned to study Native American pottery on their trip from pack to pack so Armand was basically on a yearlong honeymoon and when he returned, since he had a mate, he wouldn’t want to put in all the hours he used to work leaving Rémy to pick up the slack.

Rémy wished he was touring with them instead of staying in the Catskills and Brooklyn. He longed to find his true mate, and he thought touring the packs was the best way to find him.

“You can find your mate at anytime, anywhere,” Armand assured him.

Rémy raised his eyebrow at him dubiously. Armand laughed. “I found Sean on the street running away from a murderous Russian were.”

So far, Rémy hadn’t found his mate on pack lands in the Catskills or in the city. So here he sat, waiting for the painting contractor to give him an estimate to paint the walls of his seventy-eight hundred square foot home when he desperately wanted to be elsewhere.

The house overlooked Manhattan Harbor and was everything you could want in a house, but that was small compensation for Rémy, to give up his hunt for a mate for a five-story townhouse.

The real estate agent told him, “The kind of home you want is rare in the five boroughs and almost impossible to find in Manhattan.”

Rémy persisted. He needed a lot of bedrooms because unless he could buy houses nearby, his Betas would stay in the house with him along with Luc, his factotum, and his wife, Marie Claire who acted as his housekeeper. Luc and Marie Claire would need separate quarters with a sitting room and a full bath. His Betas had to have large bedrooms with a bath attached plus room for a television, an easy chair, and a king sized bed. Wolves were generally not small.

He wanted to be in Manhattan, but when the realtor showed him the house in Brooklyn, he fell in love on sight. If he had to stay in the city, he wanted it to be here. The house was beautiful, with seven bedrooms and eight full and three half baths. There were separate quarters for Marie Claire and Luc and rooms far enough away from his suite for the Betas to live their own lives. The house had a media room and wine cellar in the basement and there was a view of the bay and the Manhattan skyline from two terraces. After he closed on the house, Rémy found out that the rundown house next door was for sale, he bought it for his Enforcers. There were other smaller houses in the neighborhood for sale with four bedrooms each that he was in the process of purchasing so his Betas would eventually have their own homes and the excess bedrooms in his house could be used for visiting pack members or Alphas on the council.

Right now, he was staying in Alpha La Marche’s home in the Village, and he couldn’t wait to move out into his own space. The pack’s house in the Catskills, bought by his predecessor when he moved his headquarters to the Catskills from Quebec, didn’t feel like it was his although he’d lived there for sixty years.

The former Alpha took the main house as his own, modernized on the cheap, and added on to the guest cabins, so that most of the new pack that moved with the Alpha could stay together. He retired to Quebec at the age of four hundred and fifty, and Rémy, as the only Alpha in Training in his territory, took over the pack at a very young age.

As a wolf, he was young to be the Alpha of a region. Rémy was only seventy, but he was well trained for this job by the Chief Alpha himself. It was a tribute to Rémy’s acumen that he was asked to serve on the council as Alpha not only for his pack but also for the Northeastern Canadian and American packs at such young an age. He would have been content to stay as Alpha of the Catskill wolf pack and within his own territory, but destiny and the gods had other ideas. There was no one else to sit on the council and be in charge of the packs. Rémy was it.

Rémy sat in the kitchen. He heard Roland go to the front door only to find the painter had gone to the rear. The painter is here. He seems too young to be able to do such a large job. He’s at the kitchen door. He parked in the alley. Roland told him through the Alpha link.

I’ll answer the door and let him into the kitchen. Young or not, the company comes highly recommended.

Rémy opened the back door and stood by the stairs. Ian Sullivan stuck out his hand to shake Rémy’s. Rémy smelled green apples and cinnamon. They’re fingertips touched and Rémy’s inner wolf said, Mate—Mine.

Coming in June, Remy’s Painter

Portrait of young foreman in roomThe second book in the Werewolves of Manhattan series is due out in June. This story is about Ian Sullivan and Remy Clavier, the second on the North American Council of Loup Garou. Here is a teaser:

Ian Sullivan is in trouble. His father and brother died because his brother gambled and owed money to a mobster. Now Sal Ferrara wants to collect from Ian, even though his brother is dead. If he doesn’t, he’ll take Ian as his boy toy instead. Ian’s only hope is getting a job from an estimate his father had outstanding for a seventy-eight hundred square foot house that Ian has no hope of getting.

Little does Ian know that the house belongs to a Rémy Clavier, a loup garou who meets Ian and knows he’s found his mate. Now all Rémy has to do is take care of Sal Ferrara and convince Ian, a human, to accept both him and his wolf.

 

His Omega Out Today

HisOmega_432coverHis Omega, the first book in the new series, Werewolves of Manhattan, is out today from MLR Press and Amazon.com.

His Omega tell the story of the Head of the North American Council of Wolves and how he found his mate in an unusual manner.

Sean Quinn’s friend Leroy was gutted trying to protect him. He runs for help and stops the first car he sees. Armand LaMarche is head Alpha of the North American werewolf council and was in his limousine on his way home to his Manhattan brownstone. When the wounded boy stops his car, Armand recognizes two things—the boy is part wolf, an Omega with a great gift, and he’s Armand’s mate. Now all Armand has to do is claim his mate and keep him safe from the murderer.

The second book in this series is finished. So with only one more book of Indiscreet left to go, try out the Werewolves of Manhattan for size.

Buy Links: http://www.mlrbooks.com/ShowBook.php?book=ACKOMEGA

Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P9TVWSQ/?_encoding=UTF8&tag=mp0def-20

All Romance:  https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-hisomega-1664098-340.html

 

An Excerpt from His Omega out from MLR November 7th

HisOmega_432coverHe wasn’t sure he wanted to do this; but it was either sell himself or stay out on the street. Sean was frightened; but too hungry to care and enough of a pragmatist to know what had to be done. He had to talk himself into it. Prostitution, simple, he was going to make himself into a rent boy. Tears dropped from his eyelashes and down his high cheekbones. He never understood before why someone would sell themselves for money. Now he knew, rent himself out or starve; those were his choices. Leroy, one of the boys on Chelsea Pier he knew through a friend at NYU, told him that he could make good money at the trade.

“You’re small, blond with fair skin lacking freckles, dude. Your lips are full, your eyes a brilliant green. You look a lot younger than you are. You could make a fortune in this business, the perfect twink, but I think we need to find you a pimp to be safe.”

“This isn’t a life choice. All I want is money to eat and get a place to sleep until I have enough for a bus ticket to Boston. My friend Tony lives there with his wife. He’ll take me in and I’ll get a chance to make a few bucks at an honest job so I can finish school.”

“I’ll watch out for you until you land on your feet. You can crash with me on the sofa; but I can’t afford to feed you.”

“Thanks, I owe you.” They walked down to the pier together.

A huge man lurked at the edge of the pier looking over each boy as he arrived. He appeared dark and menacing.

“Oh shit, we gotta go hide. Run behind that dumpster in the alley and don’t come out until I come and get you. That Russian is into rough trade. The boys he likes disappear and he goes for twinks. If you want to stay healthy, run.”

“What about you?” Sean looked around in a panic.

“He doesn’t want me, so I’m safe. Now go—trust me.” Sean ran. Leroy didn’t have to tell him twice. He was about to prostitute himself, but he was no fool. He hid behind a large green dumpster on the right side of the alley. He pulled garbage bags and garbage in front of him for cover.

“I saw him, the blond. Where’d he go?” Sean listened as the huge Russian interrogated Leroy. “You talked to him no more than five minutes ago so you must know him.” The Russian grabbed Leroy by the front of tight black T-shirt and shook him. “You told him to leave, you little rat bastard.”

“He asked me for a joint then, disappeared.” The big man slapped Leroy then held his fist out menacingly. “Okay, Okay. I know him from NYU. He’s green. Look, he isn’t in the trade. He has no experience, you wouldn’t want him.”

“I saw him and I want him, tell me where he went, or I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

“He went over there, toward the pier,” Leroy said, turning way from where Sean hid behind the dumpster.

The Russian went into a rage. “What? You think I’m a fool? He slid into that alley.”

“No, no, he went back home. He’s not into this. He’s uh…waiting for someone else, he made an appointment.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t for rent. You’re fucking with me Leroy. I don’t allow anyone to fuck with me.”

Sean heard and watched in horror as the big man pulled a knife and shoved it into Leroy’s gut. Too frightened to call out, he saw Leroy fall to the ground. The man moved away from the alley, down toward the dumpster; for a minute Sean thought he saw the guy’s eyes turned red.

“I know you’re out there,” the man shouted. Sean watched as he waved his knife around in the air. The Russian saw him behind the dumpster and ran toward him catching the edge of his torso with the knife. Sean clutched his side. He ducked and tried to run. The Russian grabbed the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The knife grazed his temple. Sean screamed. He tried to pull Sean up but slipped on a half head of brown lettuce and lost his hold on Sean’s collar. Sean ran toward West Street. The man stopped and sniffed the air. He didn’t follow Sean but turned away from the alley to the loading platforms on the street.

Sean saw him sniff the air again. Sean covered himself in more garbage crouching down behind a second dumpster. He peered out and got a good look at his face. The Russian began checking doors. One of them opened and he disappeared into the building. Sean, holding his side ran over to Leroy. Leroy was gutted. Having no cell phone; he raced down the alley toward West Street looking behind him, expecting the Russian to find him at any minute. He stopped the first car he saw.

* * *

Armand La Marche sat in the back seat of his black limousine. He had a long day. Mondays were always difficult. As Chief Alpha of the Loup-garou Council of North America, he traveled to New York City frequently on pack business. On the second Monday of every quarter, they held a full council meeting and it was at this time that they arbitrated disagreements among the packs, settled border disputes and planned events to encourage wolves to find their true mates, but all the bickering made him tired and growly. He looked forward to getting back to his city residence.

His pack holdings were in southwestern United States, Mexico and California. He kept his residence in Northern New Mexico except when he flew to New York on pack business. Armand hoped to be able wrap up council affairs by the end of the week. He sighed, tired from seven days of dealing with the fractious Alphas who reported to the High Council in addition to the new trouble reported by Russian Federation. Armand needed to stand strong to defend the rights of the North American Packs..

“Alpha, there is a bottle of Courvoisier in the bar.”

“Pierre, is it impossible for you to call me Armand?” he asked wearily, having had this conversation one hundred times before. “The French Revolution ended the monarchy. Our branch of the family, being what we are, would not be suited for any throne despite our bloodline. We now have economic power which in this age is all that matters, the title of Alpha is passé and unnecessary.”

He sighed, opened the hinged bar in the back of the limo and indulged himself in the excellent brandy rolling the amber liquid around in his glass. They stopped for a light. He picked up a scent in the air strange for the city…vanilla, fresh linen? He lifted his head to sniff the air again and started to open the window. As the light began to change, a young man ran out of an alley onto West Street and plastered himself to the passenger side door of his limousine knocking frantically on the window. He held on to his side while his head bled profusely down the side of his sweatshirt. The blood transferred to the pane of glass.

“Stop the car,” he shouted to his driver as he fully opened the rear window.

“Please…please call 911, my friend was knifed in the alley.” The boy slumped along the edge of the door grabbing the open window for purchase, then he dropped to his knees. A clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning roiled in the distance the sky opened up with heavy rain.

“Pierre,” Armand shouted to his driver, “Call 911. Check the alley for a body and come back and report to me.”

He opened the door as the boy fell over into the mud. Armand seized him by his shoulders and hoisted him up. The boy swayed on his feet. Armand took hold of the open car door using it to steady himself while he put his arm under the boy’s shoulder so he didn’t fall back down to the sidewalk and the mud. Armand swung the boy to face him and grabbed both arms sitting him in the backseat of the limo.

He knelt down next to the now sitting boy. “You’re bleeding. Let me look.” The boy was covered in dirt and refuse, shivering with shock and cold. Suddenly Armand’s senses fully awoke, assaulted with the smells of vanilla, clean linen, cinnamon, and nutmeg under the stench of the garbage. Armand’s legs grew weak. He slid the young man over on toward the opposite door of the limousine and followed him inside. The part of his brain that was lupine, screamed, “Mate. Mine!”