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Hi everyone. Give Charley a big welcome. She's here to talk about her story in Dreamspinner's Advent calendar!

Things you won’t learn about Ian by reading “Toy Run”

Thanks, Jana, for having me, and Happy Holidays!

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I’m visiting some of my wonderful friends to talk about my holiday story “Toy Run” and give away some goodies!

“Toy Run” was my contribution to the 2013 Dreamspinner Press Advent Calendar, Heartwarming. “Heartwarming” isn’t always easy for me—my stories usually veer off into darker, more angsty territory fairly quickly. That’s why I kept “Toy Run” short. The only problem with short stories is they don’t have a lot of room for backstory. Here’s a little taste of Ian Bowen’s backstory.

But first, a little about the giveaway! The Rafflecopter will be open through December 19th, and it’s packed with prizes—two gift cards, a hand-knit wool hat, and, of course, books!

1. When Ian was three, his mother dropped him off with her father and didn’t come back for him. He never met either of his parents.
2. Ian never felt he missed out on anything because he was raised by his grandfather. He does wish he would’ve come out to him before he died.
3. Ian’s grandfather was a Vietnam veteran and diesel mechanic. He rode his Harley with a fairly large group on a regular basis, but none of them were affiliated (no Sons of Anarchy-type drama for those guys ).

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“Toy Run,” by Charley Descoteaux
Former physical therapist and reluctant loner Ian Bowen has spent the three years since his grandfather’s death searching for a man to inspire him to park his Harley for a while—without much hope of finding him. On a whim, he shows up for a Toy Run and meets Ed Gonzalez, another loner with a pile of toys lashed to his bike. A few beers at the end-of-the-run party turn into an invite to Ed’s for homebrew. But instead of a night of fun, the unseasonable cold renders Ed immobile with pain. When he tells Ian he just needs meds, Ian does one of the things he does best—he massages Ed’s pain away, allowing him a rare restful night’s sleep and creating intimacy neither wants to lose. Ian thinks two men have to follow certain rules to be together, but Ed’s prepared to show him how wrong he is.
IT WAS a terrible idea, riding north. For the same five hundred miles I could be in Vegas or San Diego—but terrible ideas were sort of my specialty. Besides, if it all went to hell, I’d just keep moving. Another specialty.

I backed up to the curb, killed the engine, and sat leaning against my pack. Hours early, again. It’s not easy to arrive fashionably late when you have nowhere else to be. I flipped the helmet visor up, and glare from the fog and mist made me want to flip it back down. It was dark when I left Ashland two hundred and fifty miles ago. I missed full dark, but by then the only dark to be found was somewhere over the Pacific. As it was, I could almost see the reflection of the floodlight bouncing off my helmet. Being black didn’t help that thing. Being wet probably didn’t either, but that was what I got for riding into Oregon in December.

A growl in my stomach kicked the rest of me into gear. A moment later my two-ton helmet sat where my ass had been, and I headed toward the truck-stop diner, leathers creaking like my knees would be by the end of the day if it didn’t warm up. Birds know what they’re doing, flying south for the winter.

Every head turned when the bells hanging on the front door slapped against the glass. The smell of toast and coffee and the warm air were welcoming enough. They watched me every step of the way, the redheaded stepchild coming in after curfew. They were half right.

I nodded to the man sitting beside the only empty stool at the counter and shrugged my jacket off before easing onto it. The stool on the end—things were looking up already. He nodded back and extended his hand.

“Ed Gonzalez.”

We shook.

“Ian Bowen.”

I grabbed a menu from the holder in front of me, but my stomach had gone from rumbling to shivering. In the space of one handshake, eating became less important than getting out from under his gaze. It usually took a lot more than a pair of dark eyes for me to give up my full name, but those weren’t just any eyes. So brown they were almost black, and full of the promise of rough sex.

Or an ass kicking. Hard to tell. Knowing things like that was not a specialty of mine.

Buy Toy Run: here

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Where and When:
Nov. 29: Tempeste O’Riley
Dec. 1: Grace R. Duncan
Dec. 8: Jana Denardo
Dec. 10: Kim Fielding
Dec. 11: Amber Kell
Dec. 16: Anne Barwell
Dec. 18: Skylar Cates

Charley Descoteaux has always heard voices. She was relieved to learn they were fictional characters, and started writing when they insisted daydreaming just wasn’t good enough. In exchange, they’ve agreed to let her sleep once in a while. Charley grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area during a drought, and found her true home in the soggy Pacific Northwest. She has survived droughts, earthquakes, floods, and over a decade living in an area affectionately known (in her strange little world) as Portland’s middle finger, but couldn’t make it through one day without stories.

Rattle Charley's cages—she'd love to hear from you!
Blog: http://cdescoteauxwrites.com/blog/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/charley.descoteaux.3
Twitter: https://twitter.com/CharleyDescote
Goodreads: http://tinyurl.com/aqe7g7r
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/charleydescote/
e-mail: c.descoteauxwrites@gmail.com
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Banner by A.J. Corza

Date: 2014-12-09 12:33 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] http://openid.aol.com/vitajex (from livejournal.com)
So much fun to learn more about Ian!

Trix, vitajex(at)Aol(dot)com


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