We welcome Rhys Ford to Moonbeams over Atlanta with a guest post! The review of Tequila Mockingbird is here.
And now for Rhys…
Smooches and thank you for having me! I appreciate it muchly. In doing these umpteen blog posts, I’ve realized I’ve only shared an excerpt only in one place. And I usually find them kind of fun. Or at least it helps me kind of get a taste of what the book’s voice is. A very important thing when tasting a book.
Or at least I think so.
So if you will oblige me, I’d like to share a bit of Tequila Mockingbird with you in the hopes it will tickle your fancy. But let me tell you, so many fantastic authors out there. God, I could fill pages with names. I encourage to taste each and every one of their voices and find the ones that satisfy you. Always explore. I wholeheartedly endorse that.
And now an excerpt from Tequila Mockingbird
The blond fought to stay awake when Connor came home, but healing took a lot of out him, and he often nodded off before Connor could shower off the day’s dirt from his body. What little time they’d had was spent together, Forest leaning against him, often falling asleep on Con as he caught up on games he’d missed while working.
The man’s hands were never still, always tapping out a rhythm, sometimes even as he slept, slack-jawed, loose-limbed, and sprawled over Connor’s lap. It was like owning a cat in some ways, Connor thought once as he petted Forest’s soft blond hair. Someone to come home to who was happy to see him but then immediately curled up into a ball and snored whenever Connor offered his lap.
Except for this time—this now—because Forest sat up and pushed the hair from his eyes, smiling sweetly as he rubbed the sleep from his face.
“Hey.” He yawned, catching himself with a hand over his mouth. “Sorry. Shit, it’s late.”
“How’s the head?” Con asked, feeling the top of Forest’s skull.
The man laughed, pushing Con’s fingers away. “That’s not even where it was cracked.”
“Yeah?” he retorted, twisting over Forest’s long body and sliding his still chilled hands up under the man’s borrowed shirt.
Forest yelped and laughed, a hearty, sweet near-giggle. Then he pulled away, burrowing deeper into the couch cushions.
“I brought Vietnamese. Sandwiches, you said you like those.”
“Yeah, I do.” Forest stared up at him—those damnable all-seeing eyes drinking in Connor’s every expression. He bit his lip and then reached for Con’s hand. He pulled it against his stomach, cradling its warmth. “We okay? I mean, you and I? We haven’t talked about anything since—haven’t had time, and I’ve just been fucking sleeping my life away.”
“We’re more than okay,” Connor promised, leaning in to give Forest a gentle, brief kiss. Those were the only kind of caresses he was allowing himself, and he lived for each one, keeping them tallied up in his mind so he could remember them when his day lagged.
“Kiki have any leads? On anything?” Forest rubbed at his nose, scratching an itch.
“No, not yet,” Connor admitted. “No one’s seen anything. Biggest problem is that your places there have so many different people coming in an out of them, people don’t know who belongs there or no. And we can’t find a nosy old lady who watches the street with binoculars. Those are mighty handy a lot of times, I tell you. They’re a dying breed. Now they’re all out doing spin classes and the such.”
“Then we’re shit out of luck?”
“No, they’re going through the footage from the bank, and they’ve tapped another feed from down the street. The Canadian couple didn’t see who ripped off their van, but we’re hoping someone else did. Kiki’s arranging for interviews around the motel they were staying at. A lot of it is leg work.”
“I feel like a sitting duck or something.” He was bitter, and Connor didn’t blame him. “Fucking hell.”
“Hey, we’ll find him.” He kissed Forest, gently but insistent. “The bastard’s leaving a trail of dead bodies, and I’m not scared to admit it, but I’d rather you not be one of them. We’re all after this guy. Boys in blue are going to nail his ass. Pissed us off something fierce.”
Forest stared into his eyes, searching for something. Connor was content to let him, enjoying the feel of the man’s hard body against his. His own cock was debating going to a full-blown salute, and from the press of heat he felt on his thigh, it appeared Forest’s dick was of the same opinion.
They kissed again. Deeper, longer, and their bodies rubbed together, creating a lingering friction between them. Connor sighed after a few minutes, wondering if he had the strength to get up off the couch and take a cold shower.
Copyright © Rhys Ford
Tequila Mockingbird
Sequel to Whiskey and Wry (and The Devil’s Brew)
Sinners Series: Book Three
Lieutenant Connor Morgan of SFPD’s SWAT division wasn’t looking for love. Especially not in a man. His life plan didn’t include one Forest Ackerman, a brown-eyed, blond drummer who’s as sexy as he is trouble. His family depends on him to be like his father, a solid pillar of strength who’ll one day lead the Morgan clan.
No, Connor has everything worked out—a career in law enforcement, a nice house, and a family. Instead, he finds a murdered man while on a drug raid and loses his heart comforting the man’s adopted son. It wasn’t like he’d never thought about men — it’s just loving one doesn’t fit into his plans.
Forest Ackerman certainly doesn’t need to be lusting after a straight cop, even if Connor Morgan is everywhere he looks, especially after Frank’s death. He’s just talked himself out of lusting for the brawny cop when his coffee shop becomes a war zone and Connor Morgan steps in to save him.
Whoever killed his father seems intent on Forest joining him in the afterlife. As the killer moves closer to achieving his goal, Forest tangles with Connor Morgan and is left wondering what he’ll lose first—his life or his heart.
Purchase Tequila Mockingbird at: Dreamspinner | Amazon | ARe (links will be added when live)
Also available on Amazon, Are and other online book stores.
Rhys Ford was born and raised in Hawai’i then wandered off to see the world. After chewing through a pile of books, a lot of odd food, and a stray boyfriend or two, Rhys eventually landed in San Diego, which is a very nice place but seriously needs more rain.
Rhys admits to sharing the house with three cats of varying degrees of black fur and a ginger cairn terrorist. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep a 1979 Pontiac Firebird, a Toshiba laptop, and an overworked red coffee maker.
