Editor’s Note: I’m a part of a new anthology coming out on 8/18 from Dreamspinner Press: A Taste of Honey. And while the book is not Fantasy, Sci Fi or Paranormal per se, some of the stories in it include magical realism or present-day fantasy. I hope you’ll indulge me as I share the intros to a number of these stories in the lead-up to the book’s release. :) –Scott
Coming from Dreamspinner Press on August 18th – A Taste of Honey – the ultimate bear romance anthology. Guys don’t have to be in their twenties, perfectly sculpted, and hairless to be hot. Bears are real men with real bodies–and that doesn’t always mean a perfect six-pack or an immaculately smooth chest. With bears, it can mean more man to love. The men in this anthology are chubs, cubs, grizzlies, pandas, polar bears, and more–all looking for a connection. And beneath their burly physiques are hearts of gold. Explore the bear scene and beyond with these big, hairy guys and the men who find them irresistibly sexy.
Leading up to the release date, we’ve got a bear-a-day – the intro to each of these stories to whet your appetite for more.
Today’s Excerpt: “Amped” by Zoe X. Rider
Toby shouldered through the crowd, heading for the back of the arcade-turned-heavy-metal-club. A local band was on stage, and they sucked. Hell’s Hornets, or some crap. A month ago, they’d been calling themselves Masters of the Disciple. In between the two names, they’d broken up, reformed with a different guitarist and drummer, replaced the guitarist with the original jerk-off, and kept on going, without the music getting much better along the way. Just faster, with more jarring rhythm changes. Next up would be Scar Horse, the band supporting the headliner. Them he’d never heard of. And after that, the band everyone had come for–Firesiren. Toby couldn’t give a shit less about any of them. At some point in the evening, he’d tripped and fallen into a rotten mood.
Dickhead at the beer table refusing to sell to him hadn’t helped.
Dickhead at the beer table refusing to sell to his twenty-three-year-old friend Max because he (rightly) suspected that Max would turn around and hand him the beer had only made it worse.
One fucking month. Not even–twenty-nine days. You’d think a guy could give you a break.
He found Wolf on the back wall, elbow propped on a video game console that had been unplugged and shoved out of the way to make room for the show.