K. Z. Snow, Howdy, Part II
March 10, 2010
Part I of my post is floating around here somewhere.
Jude in Chains, another contemporary novella, will be released next month by Dreamspinner. This book is uniquely important to me. When you read the blurb, you’ll understand why. An excerpt follows.
* * * * *
Hoping further to expose the fallacy of “reparative therapy” for non-heterosexuals, writer Misha Tzerko has enrolled in a week-long program at the Stronger Wings Camp and Conference Center. He’s already lost his long-term boyfriend to the ex-gay movement, and for the sake of his own closure as well as his job at Options magazine, Misha hopes to get an inside look at the nondenominational ministry established by C. Everett Hammer III.
Contentedly gay, Misha has always been a player — except when he committed to his only real relationship. But when Robbie abandoned him for straight life complete with wife, Misha’s promiscuity began to peak as his emotional landscape flattened. Cynicism became his armor.
That’s all about to change. Misha is shocked and dismayed to see another man from his past at Stronger Wings, a man with whom he’d had two brief but captivating encounters. Although Misha knows he can’t save every registrant in the Stronger Wings program, he becomes determined to save Jude Stone.
No matter what it takes.
* * * * *
When I stepped up to the check-in table, I felt as if I were gazing into an egg carton. The six greeters and their wives had an absolute, pristine homogeneity that made them a near-perfect palindrome — they looked virtually the same from left to right as they did from right to left. Fortyish, neat hair, rosy cheeks, clean, trimmed fingernails. The men wore short-sleeved grandpa shirts with button-down collars and blue outlines of little wings all over the white permanent-press fabric. Not a chest hair showed, and white undershirts effectively obliterated any hint of nipples.
Rarely did I pay close attention to women, except the ones involved in my life, and this situation was no exception. All I noticed was a Stepford Wives sameness.
And that C. Everett Hammer III wasn’t there.
“How do you pronounce your name?” brightly asked my intake person after he’d greeted me.
I spoke it for him. Misha with a long “e.” Tzerko with a “ts” sound. “It’s Russian-Polish,” I told him before he had a chance to ask. “Sort of the affectionate form of Michael. I use Mick as a nickname.”
The man nodded politely. I doubted he understood, or cared about, my ethnic-name explanation, but at least he was courteous in his indifference. He proceeded to pore over my registration form. “You’ve chosen the one-week program?”
“Yes.” I could have opted for a two- or three-week stay, but I figured a week was enough time to net what I was after. Besides, this retreat wasn’t exactly bargain-priced.
A plastic tag on the man’s grandpa shirt told me his name was Darren and he was a Mentor, capitalized. I suspected what qualified him to be a mentor was the fact he’d already been turned inside out and upside down and had all the queer germs sanitized right the fuck out of him. Same for the other five dudes.
What a shame. Darren, who appeared to be in his late thirties, had thinning hair but a nice physique. I vaguely wondered if any of these guys were seducable. None of them really tweaked my libido, but corrupting one would be fun.
In a perverse way, they reminded me of the playtime I’d be missing out on this week.
The woman seated on Darren’s right was Darlene, his wife. The mentors’ wives, Darren explained, took care of the “hostess duties,” whatever the hell those were, but the camp had cooks and housemaids to do the drudge work. Of course he didn’t call it that. I had a sneaking suspicion the wives served other, more important purposes. Like maybe keeping their men in line while demonstrating to us infidels that het marriage was the True Road to Happiness and Fulfillment.
It appeared we’d be learning by example as well as through instruction.
Darren gave me a sheet of paper with a day-by-day, hour-by-hour list of the week’s activities: mealtimes; classes, which were detailed on the reverse side; regularly scheduled group- and personal-counseling sessions; a whole shitload of outdoorsy, sporty stuff, including “casual campfire chats,” and even — I could hardly believe my eyes — wood splitting. Wood splitting! Yikes, shades of Paul Bunyan. In some cases, attendance was optional; in others, mandatory. Since all the attendees were single, the schedule’s coup de grâce was a mixer dance. I wasn’t thrilled to get a name tag, but I was relieved to get the key card to my room. There was going to be an orientation dinner in a few hours, before which all thirty-six registrants would meet their assigned mentors, and I really needed to freshen up and take a nap. I also needed to decide if I should try to set up a personal meeting with Hammer and tell him why I was really there. It was already obvious I couldn’t tell him I was blissfully gay. Any queer not committed to reformation would certainly be banished from the kingdom. I didn’t need a booklet or a mentor to tell me that.
I shuffled on past the sign-in tables and plopped into an overstuffed chair so I could get my bearings before proceeding. There was an auditorium behind the lobby area. Two corridors ran alongside it and terminated in exits, which opened onto paths that led to North Lodge. It housed all the guest rooms, two common areas, a small chapel, and a large dining room and kitchen.
The only rooms that accommodated two people were the ones reserved for couples . . . and not same-sex couples. Stronger Wings also sponsored retreats for husbands and wives whose marriages were foundering in homosexual waters. The rest of the rooms were singles. Of course. And had private baths. Of course. I was willing to bet my secret stash of lube and condoms that each contained a twin bed, not a double or queen.
Tomorrow morning after breakfast and “counseling intake,” we’d attend our introductory class. Then we’d have lunch. Then we’d get a grand tour of the facility. Thinking about it only deepened my weariness.
Until I saw him.
My breath hit a shoal. Breaking one of the camp’s cardinal rules, I stared. I had to make sure. Although his head was turned down as he stood before one of the check-in tables, he was smiling. And there was no mistaking that smile.
I waited, heart thumping, until he walked away from the palindrome and struck out through the lobby toward one of the exit corridors. He held the schedule sheet, at which he glanced occasionally when he wasn’t readjusting the shoulder strap of his carry-on bag.
Oh, yeah. Same lithe body and long, easy stride. Same incomparable ass, looking really fine in those khaki Dockers. I even caught another registrant copping an eyeful.
Getting up from the chair, I grabbed my suitcase and followed him. It wouldn’t look good if I hustled up behind any guy too quickly, so I tried to maintain a brisk but unhurried pace.
Another man — one of the mentors, I thought — jogged past me just as I entered the hallway.
“Hey there!” he called out, but not to me. The mentor sailed right past me and up to my target, who paused in front of the exit. “You left your key card on the table.”
“Oh, sorry to inconvenience you.”
Damn, his voice was made for the bedroom — low and molten, measured, never abrasive. My body was little more than an aqueduct for adrenaline as I approached the two men, who stood with their backs to me.
“I’d better get to my post,” said the mentor with bland geniality. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding your room. Just go down the northwest wing and follow the numbers.”
“Thank you.”
The mentor jogged back in the other direction as I strolled up to the exit. “Hello,” I said in my sexiest voice.
He pulled up short, turned, gave me a startled look.
I smiled. “Long time, no see.”
“Misha?”
“I’m flattered you didn’t forget me or my name.”
“Shit,” he whispered.
Sneakered footsteps squeaked behind us.
Blinking nervously, he didn’t seem to know where to look or what to do. His gaze skittered around for a second or two before he came to his senses and pushed open the door.
Had Robbie turned up at the Stronger Wings Camp and Conference Center, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Well, maybe a little. But I wouldn’t have been stunned.
Only I wasn’t looking at Robbie.
I was looking at Jude Stone.
My stress level for the upcoming week had just been amplified tenfold.
Prayer Waltz by K.Z. Snow
March 10, 2010
Prayer Waltz by K.Z. Snow is now available in eBook.
For eight months, the peculiar circumstances surrounding the sudden death of Steven Brandwein’s lover, an enigmatic ex-priest, have weighted his mourning with mystery. Desperate for emotional closure, Steve makes a journey he’s put off for years: he travels to the town that was once an integral part of his late lover’s life. Steve hopes his pilgrimage will help him better understand Frank, serve as a final farewell, and allow him to move on.
His visit to St. Jerome’s Church one snowy, silent night proves more consequential than he’d ever anticipated. Evan McAllister, an unassuming man still grieving over the death of his son, befriends Steve. As their bond grows, they both make startling discoveries—not the least of which, for Steve, is that he’s ready to love again.
Anchors Aweigh by Janey Chapel
March 10, 2010
Anchors Aweigh by Janey Chapel is now available in eBook.
Sequel to Maritime Men
After completing Navy SEAL training, Cooper Fitch and Eli Jones face assignment to different platoons. Since the strength of their mutual physical attraction is exceeded only by their emotional reliance on each other, the idea of being separated for a year or more is a bitter pill to swallow. But missing Eli may be just the beginning of Cooper’s troubles: he’s got an undisciplined man in his platoon, an uptight commanding officer, and his own insecurity about his leadership skills to deal with. Without Eli at his back, Cooper starts to wonder if he really has what it takes to be a SEAL.
Final Exposure by Marguerite Labbe and Fae Sutherland
March 10, 2010
Final Exposure by Marguerite Labbe and Fae Sutherland is now available in eBook.
In the final installment of their story, Angel Ferrara and Sebastian Case bring their relationship full circle.
When Angel walked onto the set of a nude calendar shoot months ago, neither he nor the photographer, Sebastian, had any idea their lives were about to change completely. Free-spirited, a little bit wild, and a lot headstrong, Angel never suspected his submissive tendencies, but sexy, commanding Sebastian brought them out in him, and Angel couldn’t help but want to explore.
Angel doesn’t believe in love or happily ever after, but he does believe in living in the moment and the pleasure to be found in it. Now, however, Sebastian wants more from him and will stop at nothing to get it. As their bond grows, it’s up to him to convince his reluctant submissive to surrender not just his body, but his heart as well.
Read all the Exposure stories..
Hello from K. Z. Snow
March 10, 2010
Thanks for joining me. I’ll try to keep you entertained. Don’t hesitate to entertain me too. 
The Prayer Waltz, my first book for Dreamspinner, is a quiet story that takes place in an unremarkable town in the upper Midwest during a typically snowy February. It features two ordinary men trying to come to terms with a common human event: the passing of a loved one. Although full of optimism, this slice from the life-journeys of Steven Brandwein and Evan McAllister doesn’t come with a full complement of tidy resolutions. Realizing some questions never have answers, and deciding when and how to move past them, can be a form of resolution in itself.
I like scratching the surfaces of ordinary people to find out what makes them extraordinary — because, invariably, something does — and this preference is what characterizes my m/m contemporaries. The Prayer Waltz is my second. Jude in Chains, the third, will be out next month from Dreamspinner (I’ll give you a sneak peek in my next entry), and the fourth is coming in June from another publisher.
Below is a small excerpt. You can of course find the long excerpt on the book’s purchase page at the DSP site. If you hang around long enough, you just might win a download.
Thanks for stopping by!
* * * * *
We continued talking over drinks. There weren’t many customers in the bar, which meant there wasn’t enough noise to camouflage our conversation. We kept our subject matter light. At some point — it was inevitable, I guess — Frank’s name came up. The context was innocuous. We’d been talking about our interests and Evan had mentioned sports. Baseball, in particular.
Some scruffy-looking guy a few stools away peered at us. “You talkin’ about that priest at St. Jerry’s who left town?”
“Yeah,” Evan said. “Frank Connor. He passed away.”
The other man chuffed and took a swig of beer. “Good riddance to bad rubbish. Son of a bitch was queer as a three-dollar bill. Fuckin’ pedophile.”
I felt my face twist. I was off the barstool as if it had just delivered a shock to my ass. The local gave me a stupid look and then lunged at me. Two other patrons made a grab for him. My right arm cocked with a vicious, lightning-swiftness that was uncharacteristic of me, unless I was eager to get out of my clothes, but just as swiftly Evan was on me like the Jaws of Life. His hand locked around my forearm and pulled it down; his other arm twined around my waist and held me tight.
“Let it go,” he said in a growly voice near my ear.
At that point, I had no choice. He was strong. The most movement I could’ve managed was pushing my ass against his crotch, but I was too enraged to be amorous.
“You need to learn some respect, Mueller,” Evan snarled as he hustled me toward the door. Then he sort of flung me out of his grip and charged up to the homophobe, his arm and forefinger extended. “Frank Connor was a priest. And a damned fine man. You don’t know squat about him, you brain-dead lizard. He had more character in one earlobe than you have in your whole worthless body. If you ever start talkin’ shit again and defaming good people, I’ll decorate your fuckin’ boots with your teeth.”
Evan wheeled past me and flat-handedly slammed the door open. “Let’s go. The air is bad in here.” He grabbed my coat sleeve and ushered me outside.
I still wanted a piece of that cretin, so I yanked my arm away. “Don’t order me around like a kid. I can handle myself.”
“I’m telling you to let it go, Steve, before I either have to scrape you off the ground with a goddamn shovel or bail your ass out of jail.”
Grudgingly, I took his advice. We walked the length of parking lot and turned left. Evan’s truck still sat by itself, its grill leering at a pile of snow.
Fury and despair had balled into something painful in my throat — a knot of sobs, probably. But it was a dud, a grenade with a broken pin. It wouldn’t disintegrate into tears; it wouldn’t explode into roars. Each emotion had a stifling effect on the other.
“Queer as a three-dollar bill . . . fuckin’ pedophile . . . faggot . . .”Mueller hadn’t spoken the last word, but he’d been thinking it, was on the verge of spewing it.
And then I realized Evan himself had all but branded Frank a child molester, or at least had entertained the notion.
As soon as my butt hit the cold upholstery of the truck seat, I curled forward. My throat was so constricted, the most I could manage were strained groaning noises. I tried to muffle them but couldn’t still them. Then a word sounded — “Why?” — and sounded again. I didn’t know what the question meant. I just kept grating it out.
Stay up with Dreamspinner’s Blog!
March 8, 2010
Stay on top of all the news by adding Dreamspinner’s blog as an RSS feed. The first person to comment and tell us you’ve signed up will win the eBook of you choice!
Join us on Wednesday for a book release party with K.Z. Snow!
March 8, 2010
K.Z Snow will be here on our blog on Wednesday, March 10, from 5-9 EST, chatting about her new release, her upcoming projects and holding a contest or two. Hope to see you there!
State of Mind by Libby Drew
March 8, 2010
State of Mind by Libby Drew is now available in paperback and eBook.
Grier Crist works for the Organization—a group of Gifted “agents” who use their powers to keep peace, help those in need, and combat criminal influence around the globe. When a suspicious bombing drives Grier to break his ties with the group and go into hiding, the head of the Organization sends model agent Alec Devlin after him, claiming Grier is a murderer and traitor to their cause.
Grier manages to turn the tables and take Alec hostage long enough to convince him that the Organization is lying and hiding something sinister. The two strike a bargain: amidst enemies who want them dead, friends with their own agendas, and the growing passion between them, they’ll work together to bring down the Organization in order to protect the world… and each other.
Whipped Cream Reviews nominate To Keep and to Love for book of the week
March 6, 2010
My novel To Keep and to Love received a very nice 5-cherry review from Whipped Cream Reviews last week. You can read it here:
Now it has also been nominated for book of the week! I would appreciate it if you’d consider dropping by to give it your vote:
http://www.longandshortreviews.com/WC/recentrev.htm
Thanks for your support!
Serena
www.serenayates.com
Goodnight!
March 5, 2010
It was great chatting with you all today. I love to hear from you, so feel free to visit my site and ask questions or leave comments.
Happy reading from Zach, Angelo, Matt, Jared, and (of course) me!
Marie Sexton