Fallen Rose: Book One
Working for the Bureau of Prohibition means facing dangerous criminals, desperate gangsters, speakeasies springing up overnight, a city controlled by corruption, and an employer that can’t be trusted. If that’s not enough, best friends and lovers Harlan Mackay and Nathan Reilly still bear the scars—both seen and unseen—that they earned fighting in the First World War. When a ghost from the past resurfaces to destroy everything they hold dear, it might be the last straw for Harlan and Nathan.
New York City is a war zone, the government is in the pocket of organized crime, and the exposure of their illicit romance is a constant danger. For Harlan and Nathan, it’s not a question of whether they’ll escape unscathed, but of which enemy will get them first….
Buy links: Dreamspinner | Amazon
Cat gives this one 5 Meows with a 3 Purr heat index...
Excerpt...
Chapter One
“THIS STORY has no moral, this story has no end, this story only goes to show, that there ain’t no good in men….”
Why wasn’t he surprised the dance floor was flooded by couples hoofing it to a tune about murder? It said a hell of a lot about the times they were living in. More than Agent Harlan Mackay cared to admit. It was ironic. All this trouble to cleanse the country of its depravity and heathen ways, and instead, the line between law-abiding respectability and delinquency had become blurred to the point of near extinction. Nowadays, even Granny was making a mint from the nice young boys running a gin mill from her basement—something which would have been a step up from this joint.
This particular saloon was an old house converted into a sanctum of illicit activity, where everything from bootlegged liquor to prostitution was not only available, but encouraged. The city had thousands of joints like it, and for every one that closed down, three more popped up—in basements, flower shops, bakeries. No place was sacred. Not churches or funeral parlors. The latter being the worst of them.
The limited space in the saloon was occupied by a makeshift stage, overcrowded dance floor, and a chipped wooden bar stretching from one end of the room to the other, crowded with folks packed shoulder to shoulder, throwing back the hooch. Shoved out of the way into darkened corners and gaps, were little square tables dressed in white tablecloths—a poor attempt to add some class. The cigarette and cigar smoke was so thick, it could have been mistaken for a London fog.
Plenty of well-to-do society folks had come out slumming, dancing the Charleston and the Bunny Hug in fancy beads and frilly feathers. The dames in their Dutch Bob cut and rouged knees drank nearly as much as their beaus, who in their bright colored shirts and ostentatious bow ties were no doubt bursting to share their scandalous exploits with their less-adventurous pals at the office come Monday morning.
If they only knew.
On stage, the fairies and lady-lovers danced, hugged, and kissed. They mingled and teased the crowd in a way that only years ago would have had them all thrown in a wagon and carted off to the hoosegow. If they even made it that far.
America had become the devil’s den, and New York City its garden. Most of the time, Harlan didn’t know what to make of it.
“Why do I let you talk me into these things?” Harlan peered down with a frown at the questionable-looking liquid in his glass. Granted, it had been a long time since he’d had whiskey of any discernible value, but he was pretty certain it wasn’t supposed to be the unsettling yellow-green concoction before him. As he cast a glance over at his partner—Agent Nathan Reilly—his frown deepened. Nathan appeared too amused for his own good.
Nathan gave him one of his cocky lopsided grins. “Because you love my sense of adventure.” In Harlan’s opinion, Nathan enjoyed his job far too much.
“Is that what we’re calling it?” Harlan grumbled, bracing himself as he took a sip of a drink that set him back as much as a week’s worth of dinners at the automat. “Dammit.” He coughed and sputtered, dribbling a good portion of the stuff on his vest.
Nathan didn’t bother holding back his laughter. “That good, eh?”
“Tastes like piss water,” Harlan grunted, slamming the glass on the table and swatting it away from him in case the fumes alone did him harm. Wasn’t bad enough they were selling the rotgut, but they were charging a king’s ransom for it as well.
“That’s probably because it is,” Nathan said with a grin before tossing back the contents of his own glass and shuddering. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary Pickford’s momma, that’ll put some hair on your chest.” The pained look on his face brought a chuckle from Harlan.
Putting the empty glass on the table, Nathan blinked a few times, shuddered again, and called the waiter over to order another. Harlan shook his head. Well, he could hardly let Nathan one-up him. He tossed back the remaining liquid in his glass.
“So how’d you hear about this one?” Harlan wheezed.
“Arty down at Union Square,” Nathan replied, his head tilting to one side as he watched the spectacle on stage. Harlan followed his gaze, and upon further inspection, noticed the fella sporting a pencil-thin mustache and tuxedo was a dame, and the beautiful blonde in the flowing lavender gown and twirling a parasol was a fella.
“The blind guy who’s always sitting around George Washington?” Harlan’s gaze remained on the stage, where the dame was singing “Sweet Lady” to the rosy-cheeked boy.
“He wasn’t always blind.”
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Cat gives this one 5 Meows with a 3 Purr heat index...
I love a good historical, especially what I call more modern ones like 20’s through 80’s.
I felt like I was whisked back into the roaring 20’s with prohibition, the speakeasies and wonderful lingo. Being a big fan of that era movies this was wonderful.
I loved the touch of mystery about Nate and Harlan’s past and would have liked more on this.
I also like how they were hidden in plain site. Of course the sex was perfect as well, not too overdone, but sensual and fitting for these two men.
I am looking forward to the next book.
Excerpt...
Chapter One
“THIS STORY has no moral, this story has no end, this story only goes to show, that there ain’t no good in men….”
Why wasn’t he surprised the dance floor was flooded by couples hoofing it to a tune about murder? It said a hell of a lot about the times they were living in. More than Agent Harlan Mackay cared to admit. It was ironic. All this trouble to cleanse the country of its depravity and heathen ways, and instead, the line between law-abiding respectability and delinquency had become blurred to the point of near extinction. Nowadays, even Granny was making a mint from the nice young boys running a gin mill from her basement—something which would have been a step up from this joint.
This particular saloon was an old house converted into a sanctum of illicit activity, where everything from bootlegged liquor to prostitution was not only available, but encouraged. The city had thousands of joints like it, and for every one that closed down, three more popped up—in basements, flower shops, bakeries. No place was sacred. Not churches or funeral parlors. The latter being the worst of them.
The limited space in the saloon was occupied by a makeshift stage, overcrowded dance floor, and a chipped wooden bar stretching from one end of the room to the other, crowded with folks packed shoulder to shoulder, throwing back the hooch. Shoved out of the way into darkened corners and gaps, were little square tables dressed in white tablecloths—a poor attempt to add some class. The cigarette and cigar smoke was so thick, it could have been mistaken for a London fog.
Plenty of well-to-do society folks had come out slumming, dancing the Charleston and the Bunny Hug in fancy beads and frilly feathers. The dames in their Dutch Bob cut and rouged knees drank nearly as much as their beaus, who in their bright colored shirts and ostentatious bow ties were no doubt bursting to share their scandalous exploits with their less-adventurous pals at the office come Monday morning.
If they only knew.
On stage, the fairies and lady-lovers danced, hugged, and kissed. They mingled and teased the crowd in a way that only years ago would have had them all thrown in a wagon and carted off to the hoosegow. If they even made it that far.
America had become the devil’s den, and New York City its garden. Most of the time, Harlan didn’t know what to make of it.
“Why do I let you talk me into these things?” Harlan peered down with a frown at the questionable-looking liquid in his glass. Granted, it had been a long time since he’d had whiskey of any discernible value, but he was pretty certain it wasn’t supposed to be the unsettling yellow-green concoction before him. As he cast a glance over at his partner—Agent Nathan Reilly—his frown deepened. Nathan appeared too amused for his own good.
Nathan gave him one of his cocky lopsided grins. “Because you love my sense of adventure.” In Harlan’s opinion, Nathan enjoyed his job far too much.
“Is that what we’re calling it?” Harlan grumbled, bracing himself as he took a sip of a drink that set him back as much as a week’s worth of dinners at the automat. “Dammit.” He coughed and sputtered, dribbling a good portion of the stuff on his vest.
Nathan didn’t bother holding back his laughter. “That good, eh?”
“Tastes like piss water,” Harlan grunted, slamming the glass on the table and swatting it away from him in case the fumes alone did him harm. Wasn’t bad enough they were selling the rotgut, but they were charging a king’s ransom for it as well.
“That’s probably because it is,” Nathan said with a grin before tossing back the contents of his own glass and shuddering. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary Pickford’s momma, that’ll put some hair on your chest.” The pained look on his face brought a chuckle from Harlan.
Putting the empty glass on the table, Nathan blinked a few times, shuddered again, and called the waiter over to order another. Harlan shook his head. Well, he could hardly let Nathan one-up him. He tossed back the remaining liquid in his glass.
“So how’d you hear about this one?” Harlan wheezed.
“Arty down at Union Square,” Nathan replied, his head tilting to one side as he watched the spectacle on stage. Harlan followed his gaze, and upon further inspection, noticed the fella sporting a pencil-thin mustache and tuxedo was a dame, and the beautiful blonde in the flowing lavender gown and twirling a parasol was a fella.
“The blind guy who’s always sitting around George Washington?” Harlan’s gaze remained on the stage, where the dame was singing “Sweet Lady” to the rosy-cheeked boy.
“He wasn’t always blind.”
Bringing you stories with heroes, humor, and heart.
Charlie Cochet is an author by day and artist by night. Always quick to succumb to the whispers of her wayward muse, no star is out of reach when following her passion. From adventurous agents and sexy shifters, to society gentlemen and hardboiled detectives, there’s bound to be plenty of mischief for her heroes to find themselves in, and plenty of romance, too!
Currently residing in Central Florida, Charlie is at the beck and call of a rascally Doxiepoo bent on world domination. When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found reading, drawing, or watching movies. She runs on coffee, thrives on music, and loves to hear from readers.
enjoyed reading the excerpt
ReplyDeleteThanks for the great review, Cat. It just confirmed everything I already knew - I love historical and this time period, too, and well, Charlie. Definitely tbr. - Purple Reader,
ReplyDeleteTheWrote [at] aol [dot] com
Thank you for the excerpt and review!
ReplyDelete