Zigzag Girl by Ruth Knafo Setton ~ #Mystery #Thriller ~ @RuthSetton @partnersincr1me

ZIGZAG GIRL

by Ruth Knafo Setton

March 2-27, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

About the Book:

Zigzag Girl, by Ruth Knafo Setton, is a twisty contemporary mystery with a touch of magic, set in Atlantic City and the eerie New Jersey Pine Barrens. Lucy Moon, a brilliant young magician with a mysterious past, works in the town’s theatre, staging performances of enchantment and conjure. But one night, during the ‘Sawing a Woman in Half’ trick, Lucy discovers her friend’s body in the box, dead. As Lucy digs deeper, she uncovers a trail of murders and suspects. With the help of a fierce group of female magicians and mystics, she must expose the truth before she becomes the final act.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Published by: Black Spring Press
Publication Date: March 17, 2026
Number of Pages: 376
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | The Black Spring Press Group

Read an Excerpt:

Chapter 1

Atlantic City
Wednesday October 17
24 years later

Nine minutes to the finale.

Hand me a flower and I’ll transform it into a dove. Shoot me from a cannon and I’ll come out smiling. But lock me in the box and saw me in half, I’ll scream bloody murder.

Unheard of for a Moon – a member of America’s most famous magic family – to be terrified of that creaky old standard, the sawing box. But you’re hearing it now.

In exactly nine minutes, Charlie, our production manager, and Van, my friend and co-star, are supposed to reenact the famous Sawing a Woman in Half illusion as it was performed by Magnificent Morelli and his assistant Cleo West in this theatre during World War Two.

The classic poster hangs in the dressing room: a man with slick black hair and a thin moustache gesturing to a pretty strawberry-blonde who holds a Statue of Liberty torch.

Between them is the infamous sawing box. Black letters slash across the top of the poster:

MAGNIFICENT MORELLI! MAN OF MYSTERY

At the bottom:

NIGHTLY IN THE SCARLET ROOM WORLD-FAMOUS ATLANTIC CITY BOARDWALK

There’s one problem. Van should have been here two hours ago.

My best friend and other co-star, Stormie, and I managed to get through the show to this point because we’re used to working together and because even in the midst of frenzy, Charlie is an oasis of calm. We call it the Charlie effect. He quickly redesigned the order of illusions to make up for Van’s absence.

But Van still hasn’t shown up, so Charlie will saw me in half in Cleo’s original sawing box. This is not the contemporary sleek or transparent sawing box you see on a Vegas stage, but the real thing. Pure old-school; a deep, long wooden container that resembled a coffin. No openings for head or feet. No clamps for neck or ankles. The kind of box in which the magician’s assistant is completely locked inside, head to toe. If that’s not horrifying enough, this is the same box in which Cleo’s murderer placed her body.

Good publicity for a haunted theatre on Halloween, says Charlie.

At five-seven, I’m two inches shorter than the box. Stormie, coming in at a fraction under six feet and 190 pounds, can’t even squeeze inside.

Hanging right next to Morelli is our poster:

HALLOWEEN THRILLS, CHILLS & BLACK MAGICK! REBEL MAGIC
STORMIE, VAN, & LUCY BLACK WIDOW THEATRE, 13TH FLOOR – if you dare! MIDNIGHT CASINO, OCT 17 – NOV 10

Van and I flank Stormie – a magical version of Charlie’s Angels. As if instead of fighting crime, we resolve to change the world, one trick at a time. In the middle, Stormie towers over Van and me in an orange and black dashiki gown, enormous hoop earrings glinting through her copper- black hair that falls in long ropelike locks. On Stormie’s left is Van, a tiny silvery futuristic superhero who sometimes bills herself as ‘Kickass Korean Babe’ – spiked hair, jumpsuit, thigh- high boots with four-inch heels, and a gleaming knife in each hand. On Stormie’s right, I sparkle in my red-hot Miss Scarlett dress and stilettos. That’s me, on the corner of woo-woo and fuggedaboutit – a magic wand in one hand, a cannoli in the other.

Tonight is our opening night, and it means something big to all three of us: our breakthrough as sisters of magic, an opportunity to make our name in the good old boys’ world of magic, and for me, a chance to make my name without the Moons holding me up on stage.

Van wouldn’t miss this for the world.

Her silver jumpsuit is hanging on the wheeled rack, her knives ready for action. She’s not answering her phone, but during the intermission, she left Stormie and me a message: Emergency. Start without me.

Stormie’s golden-brown eyes were huge, her olive skin sallow, making the freckles stand out. ‘Emergency?’ Her voice is shrill. ‘That is not a Van word.’

‘An accident?’ ‘She’d tell us. No, it’s MLD.’

For the past couple weeks, Van has kept her new boyfriend on the lowdown. Boyfriend is normal – Van juggles men like her knives. Keeping him secret is not. Stormie calls him, ‘MLD,’ short for Mysterious Loner Dude.

‘Van would not miss our opening night for a guy, no matter who he is.’ ‘Then where is she?’ Stormie shook her fingers in my face. ‘Look at my hand. The girl’s giving me shpilkes.’ Whenever she’s emotional, Stormie brings out the Yiddish words her Jewish Nana taught her.

‘If by shpilkes, you mean bad vibes, I’ve got ’em too.’

Chapter 2

Seven minutes to the finale.

Backstage, hands trembling, I tug on Cleo West’s very own Stars n’ Stripes gown, slithering into the shimmering satin. Too short for me. Seams fraying – it’s been let out and tightened more than once. Cleo must have gained and lost weight during the war years.

I sit at the vanity, tightly clip my hair and pull on a long reddish-blonde wig. I hate wigs, they suffocate me and give me an instant headache.

Trapped, wrapped and bundled inside the constraints of hair and layers of fabric, my heart staccatos. When did the theatre get so cold? The scent of lavender crawls over my flesh, the sign that the Widow’s resident ghost, Cleo, is in the house. When you grow up with an Irish witch as an aunt, you accept the presence of ghosts. Doesn’t mean you like them, but you come to terms with sharing the space. According to Auntie Maze, ‘Cleo wants us to see the cracks and stains left behind by the past. When she slams doors or turns off lights, she’s saying, “Look! There’s something you’re not seeing!”’

I add final touch-ups to my stage make-up and check my reflection from every angle. I glimpse pinpricks of light in the mirror. Next to my reflection a woman’s face appears, rippling as if she’s underwater. Her fiery-gold hair wavers. Ice-pale eyes meet mine. Two Cleos in the mirror.

I grab the edge of the table. This is the first time she’s shown herself to me! Just in case she’s really there and I’m not losing my mind, I whisper, ‘You’re not real, Cleo. You’re dead. Look, I’m just pretending to be you for an hour, okay? Now please go away.’

She stares at me through the glass. Her lips move. I lean forward, press my face to the mirror, straining to hear.

Cleo disappears, and a large black figure looms in the mirror. Moves closer.

I jolt to my feet and whip around.

A man wearing a black hoodie. At least he’s real, not a ghost. He pushes back the hood. Dark hair falls past his chin.

‘What’s going on here?’ he demands.

Shifting on my feet, I keep my hands low at my sides, ready to punch. ‘You need to leave now.’

He steps closer. He’s half a foot taller, his strong-boned face scowling, his eyes bitter as black coffee. ‘Where’s Van?’

‘Not here.’

‘She said I could come backstage.’

‘Who are you?’ Is he Van’s mysterious guy?

Stormie arrives, breathless. ‘You’re on in five,’ she says to me, and then slits her eyes at the stranger. ‘Elvis Jones! What are you doing here?’

This is Elvis Jones? Definitely not the cheesy overweight Elvis impersonator in a white jumpsuit I imagined when I saw his poster:

Elvis Jones Magic in Hell

Midnight Show No one will be admitted after the door is shut.

I found the blurb pretentious and, on principle, refused to see his show. If I’d known what he looks like, I might have taken a chance. He watches me with a sardonic grin as if he knows what I’m thinking.

‘Hi, Stormie,’ he says. ‘I’m looking for Van.’

‘She hasn’t arrived. Yet.’

He retreats toward the door. ‘I’m outta here.’

Stormie and I watch him leave, and she mutters, ‘What the hell has that girl been up to?’

‘I’m scared for her.’ I hear the words and wish I hadn’t said them.

‘Maybe her phone died, and she’s stuck somewhere. She’s gonna show up.’

***

Excerpt from Zigzag Girl by Ruth Knafo Setton. Copyright 2025 by Ruth Knafo Setton. Reproduced with permission from Ruth Knafo Setton. All rights reserved.

 

Meet the Author:

Born in Morocco and raised in the Lehigh Valley, Ruth Knafo Setton is the author of the novel, The Road to Fez (Counterpoint Press). Her honors include awards and fellowships from the National Endowment of the Arts, PEN, CineStory, Nimrod, Cutthroat, Writer’s Digest, and residencies at Hedgebrook, Yaddo, MacDowell, and the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. She is a multi-genre author whose fiction, creative nonfiction, screenplays, and poetry have won many awards and appeared in journals and anthologies. A former Fiction Editor of Arts & Letters, she has taught Creative Writing and Multicultural Literature at Lehigh University and on Semester at Sea.

Catch Up With Our Author:

RuthSetton.com
Tips, Tricks, & Tea with Ruth (Substack Newsletter)
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads - @ruthsetton
Instagram - @rksetton
Threads - @rksetton
X - @RuthSetton
Facebook - @ruth.setton

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Ghostly Returns (Ghostly Howls, Book Two) by Stephanie Hansen ~ #Horror #Romance

Ghostly Returns 

Ghostly Howls 

Book Two

Stephanie Hansen

Genre: Horror Romance

Publisher: Hypothesis Books

Date of Publication: 2/10/26

ISBN: 979-8245440408

ASIN: B0FSXRJLYY

Number of pages: 113 (novella)

Word Count: 25,000

Cover Artist: Miblart

Tagline: Irish Folklore meets Small Town US

About the Book: 

Strange visitors have appeared in Ethel, their clothes and mannerisms jarring against the familiar rhythm of the coastal town. The woman in Orla and Dave's spare room speaks in archaic phrases and marvels at electric lights, while the silent man staying with Molly and Cormac carries a translucent device that glows with symbols no one recognizes.

As fog rolls in from the sea, bringing with it the now-familiar whispers and cold spots that signal another haunting, the four friends realize they must unravel the temporal mystery before them. The clock tower strikes at midnight, and both past and future hang in the balance.

*Contains mature themes, open door sex scenes, and mature language.

Purchase Links:

Books2Read      Amazon      BN     Apple       Kobo

Read an Excerpt:

Three years ago, the small town of Ethel, VA, was rocked to its core when the lighthouse became a beacon for something an-cient and hungry. Every year since then, we’ve cast a protection spell, tying knots in rope while visualizing a protective shield, at the weathered tower a week before Samhain, our voices car-ried away by the salt-tinged wind. This year’s no different.

Cormac’s slender fingers intertwine with mine as we ap-proach Orla and Dave across the grassy shoreline. We’ve man-aged to mostly heal from the toxic tendencies of the past—the jealousy, the competition, the midnight arguments that left scorch marks on the walls. Magical abilities complementing each other have a tendency to do that, like puzzle pieces finally finding their fit.

The mid-October sunlight glints off Cormac’s long, blonde hair, turning each strand into spun gold against the blue sky. We don’t meet here at night anymore, not since the shadows began to move independently of their owners. She gently squeezes my hand in reassurance, slight crow’s feet crinkling around her eyes with a smile that blooms one of my own in return. She tries to continue her broody exterior by wearing a scuffed leather jacket with silver buckles, but her face is too full of light these days to continue the façade.

“It’s about time you two showed up,” Orla says as she wraps me in a hug, her dark curls tickling my cheek. Her automatic soul-possessing ability takes hold straight away, a warm honey-like sensation flooding through my veins. I feel her anxiety—sharp and metallic—and she feels mine. While hers is about the treacherous events three years ago, mine is about the small vel-vet box burning a hole in my pocket, holding a moonstone ring for Cormac.

I know she’ll say yes; I hear Orla’s thoughts echo in my mind like a whisper in an empty room. To assuage her anxiety, I push forward images of Cormac and me from earlier in the morning. We’d stayed in bed, all consumed with passionate kisses and bodies moving in rhythmic dance together; sheets twisted around our ankles, the taste of her still on my lips.

Okay, okay, you’re excused for being late, Orla sends through the connection, her mental voice tinged with amuse-ment. Then it’s gone as Dave, tall and broad-shouldered in his flannel-lined jacket, gently pulls her out of the hug. He com-plements her power as Cormac complements mine, his deep voice carrying over the crash of waves against the shore.

“Did you actually expect them to be on time?” he asks her, his breath visible in the chilly air.

Orla looks at me, her eyes sparkling, and we snicker like schoolgirls sharing a secret.

“Some of us know how to keep a woman in bed,” I goad Dave, watching his cheeks flush crimson.

Before he can respond, Cormac says, “Guys, I think you should come over here,” her voice tight with tension.

She’s rounding the other side of the lighthouse, her boots crunching on the path. I jog over to her, worried she might be in danger, the wind whipping my hair across my face. Once I’m next to her, I’m struck with frozen terror, my breath catching in my throat. As Orla and Dave’s footsteps catch up, I try to count the sleeping bodies sprinkled around the remnants of a bonfire.

Sprawled across the damp autumn ground lies a peculiar as-sembly of slumbering figures—some adorned in woolen cloaks and flowing medieval gowns; others draped in shimmering flapper dresses and tweed vests and flat caps. The incongruous sight sends a chill down my spine, conjuring memories of that haunted night years ago when phantoms in pheasant feathers and tarnished armor materialized from the mist. Could history be repeating itself? I draw Cormac closer, my fingers tightening protectively around her shoulder. A bitter wind sweeps through the clearing, rustling crimson leaves and stirring the strange visitors from their dreams.

“Oh, halloo,” calls a woman with cascading silver-streaked hair that catches the morning light. Deep laugh lines frame her eyes as she rises gracefully to her feet, brushing debris from her embroidered skirts. Her button nose crinkles above heart-shaped lips as she smiles warmly. “I’m Marie. We weren’t expecting anyone so early.”

“You’re days early for Samhain,” Orla informs her, her voice carrying across the clearing.

“Samhain!” exclaims a younger woman with stylish curls and bright eyes. She leaps up, clapping her hands together with enthusiasm, silver bracelets jingling at her wrists. “I’m Florian. I absolutely adore a proper shindig.”

Another woman glides forward, her tweed vest firmly hug-ging her body. She loops her arm possessively around Florian’s slender waist and extends her other hand, adorned with bangles that glint in the early light. “Kiersten,” she offers, her voice me-lodic but guarded.

“Molly, and this is Cormac,” I reply, mirroring Kiersten’s protective gesture by drawing Cormac against my side, feeling her warmth through her leather jacket.

“Might there be lodgings available in your village?” Marie inquires, her eyes scanning the distant rooftops visible through the thinning trees.

“Not anywhere that could accommodate a gathering of this size,” Dave responds, his weathered hands resting on his leather belt.

A tall woman with anxious eyes approaches Orla hesitantly. A man with sandy blond hair clutches her trembling arm as she nervously smooths out her skirt. Dave and I don’t miss her flinch with his touch, juxtaposing their closeness. It resurfaces memories from when Dave and Orla couldn’t touch. “Hello, I’m Claudia,” she murmurs, “and may I present Alex?” Her delicate fingers twist together nervously while Alex soothingly rubs her goosebump-covered arms.

“Orla and Dave,” Dave announces, nodding curtly. When Alex extends his hand to Orla, Dave intercedes and shakes his hand, so Orla doesn’t have to.

“Um, Orla,” Alex interjects, his deep voice surprisingly gen-tle. “Pardon our intrusion, but might Claudia ask you something rather personal?”

“Of course, what troubles you?” Orla asks, leaning forward with interest.

“Do you perceive others’ thoughts when you make physical contact?” Claudia whispers, her pale cheeks blooming with a rosy flush that spreads to the tips of her ears.

“Perhaps we should escort this assemblage to our home-stead,” Dave interrupts, clearing his throat. “We have several spare rooms. Not sufficient for everyone, but certainly prefera-ble to camping outside.”

“We’d be eternally grateful,” Marie responds, casting a con-cerned sideways glance at Claudia’s distressed expression. “A proper rest would benefit us tremendously after our... unusual journey.”

Meet the Author:

Stephanie Hansen is a PenCraft and Global Book Award Winning Author as well as an Imadjinn finalist. Her debut novella series, Altered Helix, released in 2020. It hit the #1 New Release, #1 Best Seller, and other top 100 lists on Amazon. It is now being adapted to an animated story for Tales. Her debut novel, Replaced Parts, released in 2021 through Fire & Ice YA and Tantor Audio. It has been in a Forbes article, hit Amazon bestseller lists, and made the Apple young adult coming soon bestsellers list. The second book in the Transformed Nexus series, Omitted Pieces, released in 2022. Her debut spicy paranormal romance, Ghostly Howls, released 2023. Her debut historical magical realism, Armored Hours, released 2024. The Armored Hours sequel, Guarded Time, released 2025 and the Ghostly Howls sequel, Ghostly Returns, released 2026. She is a member of the deaf and hard of hearing community, so she tries to incorporate that into her fiction.

https://www.authorstephaniehansen.com/

https://www.facebook.com/writer.stephaniehansen/

https://www.tiktok.com/@stephaniehansenauthor

https://www.bookbub.com/authors/stephanie-hansen

https://www.instagram.com/stephaniehansenauthor/

https://www.pinterest.com/writershansen/

https://www.goodreads.com/writerstephaniehansen

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Samson by Harley Wylde ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #Samson #HarleyWylde #MCRomance #Excerpt

Samson by Harley Wylde

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: March 27. 2026

Some men protect with promises. I protect with possession.

 

Samson: I don’t chase power. I don’t wear rank. I don’t claim women. Until I find her broken, on the edge of Reckless Kings’ territory -- and realize letting her go would sign her death warrant.

Inside the gates, there’s only one way she stays. So I claim her. No waiting. No soft edges. She sleeps in my house, under my name, with my hand always close enough to remind the world she’s not unprotected anymore. The man hunting her thinks I’m just another biker without authority. He’s about to learn commitment is far more dangerous than rank.

Callie: I ran because men like him don’t hear no. They twist it. Punish it. Being claimed should feel like another trap -- but Samson doesn’t cage me. He stands in front of me. Believes me. Touches me like I’m something worth keeping, not something to break.

The danger follows me straight to the compound gates. This time, it meets a man who doesn’t hesitate… and never lets go of what’s his. A dark Motorcycle Club Romance where obsession is protection, love is irrevocable, and justice is served in the most painful way possible.

 

Perfect for fans of Romantic Crime Thrillers and MC Romance.

 

WARNING: Adult themes and content including: intense emotional situations, predatory behavior, motorcycle club -- related criminal activity, trauma recovery and psychological distress may trigger some readers.

Read an Excerpt:

 

Samson

The narrow backroad twisted through Tennessee pines, a black ribbon barely visible in the late evening darkness. I leaned into the curve, my Harley’s engine growling beneath me, the vibration familiar against my thighs. The headlight carved a path through the night, insects dancing in the beam as I pushed toward the compound. Another mile and I’d be on Reckless Kings’ territory. My gaze locked on a crumpled shape at the edge of my light, half-hidden where asphalt met gravel and dirt.

I eased off the throttle, the bike slowing as I approached. My mind ran through possibilities -- discarded trash, dead animal, maybe a dumped duffle bag. But something about the shape didn’t fit any of those. The moonlight broke through the trees just enough to catch the paleness of skin against dark earth.

“Shit,” I muttered, slowing to a crawl.

My boots hit the asphalt as I killed the engine. The night pressed in, but I left the bike’s running lights on, giving me just enough visibility. My hand went to my waistband, fingers brushing the grip of my pistol. Fifteen years with the Kings had taught me caution.

I approached slowly, scanning the tree line for movement. Nothing but night sounds -- crickets, the occasional rustle of nocturnal creatures. The shape resolved into a woman as I drew closer, curled on her side facing away from the road. Her clothes -- what looked like jeans and a thin jacket -- were torn and filthy.

“Hey,” I called, keeping my voice low but firm. “You okay?”

She flinched hard, curling tighter, a ragged breath escaping her.

I stopped ten feet away, making myself visible in the dim glow from my bike. “Not going to hurt you. You need help?”

She rolled slightly, turning just enough to see me. Her face was a mess -- dirt streaked with tears or sweat, hair matted against her forehead, a nasty cut at her temple with dried blood in a smear down her cheek. But her eyes -- wide with terror -- were what caught me. The look of someone hunted.

“Go away,” she rasped.

I stayed where I was, keeping my hands visible. “You’re hurt. Middle of nowhere. Temperature’s dropping.” I kept my voice matter-of-fact, neither pushing nor retreating. “I can help or I can leave. Your call.”

Her breathing came fast and shallow, the rhythm of someone running on pure adrenaline. I’d seen it before, in Prospects during their first real violence, in civilians caught in club business. The body burning through its reserves before the crash came.

And she was close to crashing.

“What’s your name?” I crouched down to appear less threatening, still maintaining distance.

She didn’t answer, just watched me with those wary eyes. Up close, I could see the exhaustion etched into her face. Early twenties, maybe, though hard to tell through the dirt and fear. Her knuckles were scraped raw, fingernails broken and caked with dirt. She’d fought something or someone.

I glanced back at the empty road, then to the dense trees. The nearest house was miles away. Club territory began just around the next bend, but this stretch was no-man’s-land -- the kind of place bodies got dumped. The kind of place women didn’t end up by accident.

“I’m Samson,” I offered, not using my real name. Nobody outside the club knew Lyle Harker existed anymore. “I’m heading home. But I’m not leaving you out here like this.”

Her chapped lips parted as if to speak, then pressed together in pain. The jacket she wore had ridden up, revealing bruises on her side -- fingermarks, dark against pale skin. Recent, but not fresh. Maybe a day old.

The road remained empty behind me, but something felt off. The birds had gone quiet. I’d spent enough years riding these backroads to know when something wasn’t right. The woman must have sensed it too -- her gaze darted past me toward the trees across the road.

“How long you been running?” I asked, voice even lower.

Her gaze snapped back to me, surprise breaking through the fear for just a second.

“Your shoes.” I nodded toward her feet. The sneakers were shredded at the edges, the once-white fabric now brown with mud and blood. “Those have seen some miles.”

She swallowed hard, her throat working painfully. When she spoke, her voice cracked. “Since last night.”

I spotted the edge of a zip tie mark on her wrist, peeking from beneath her sleeve. Not from police cuffs -- those left a different kind of bruise. Someone had restrained her, and she’d torn herself free. The skin was raw, inflamed.

The night seemed to press closer. Despite the warm evening, goose bumps rose on my arms. Years in the Reckless Kings had honed my instincts. Right now, they screamed we weren’t alone.

I straightened slowly, scanning the tree line again. Nothing moved, but the feeling persisted. Whoever had marked this woman up might be watching. Waiting. The compound was only two minutes away by bike, but even that could feel like an eternity if someone made their move.

“Can you stand?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the darkness beyond the road.

She tried to push herself up and failed, collapsing back against the ground with a soft whimper. Dehydrated, exhausted, probably not eaten in at least a day. The dried blood on her temple concerned me -- head wounds were tricky. Could be nothing, could be a concussion.

I made my decision. The Kings had rules about bringing outsiders anywhere near our territory but leaving her here wasn’t an option. Not with those marks on her. Not with whoever gave them to her potentially closing in.

“Let me help you up.” I stepped closer. “Then we’ll figure out what comes next.”

Her eyes fixed on the patch on my cut -- Reckless Kings in bold stitching. For a moment, fresh fear washed over her face. I knew what she saw -- a thirty-something biker, broad-shouldered and tattooed, offering help more dangerous than whatever she was running from.

But then her gaze drifted back to the trees, and she made her choice.

I kept my hands visible, fingers spread, as I edged closer to her. Club life had taught me how to move without threatening -- a skill useful whether dealing with rival MCs or frightened women on backroads. Her gaze locked onto my every movement, muscles tensed to flee despite her exhaustion. Behind the fear in her eyes lurked something sharper -- calculation, survival instinct. Whatever hell she’d escaped from had taught her to think even when terrified.

“Water?” I asked, I retreated to grab the bottle in my saddlebag. I unscrewed the cap and held it out, still maintaining distance. “Small sips. Too much at once will make you sick.”

She stared at the bottle, conflict evident on her face -- desperate thirst warring with ingrained caution. Thirst won. She reached out with trembling fingers, taking the bottle and bringing it to her cracked lips. Water dribbled down her chin as she drank greedily, ignoring my advice.

“Easy,” I warned. “Been without long?”

She lowered the bottle, gasping slightly. Half-empty already. “Since yesterday morning.”

I crouched down to her level, still giving her space. The dried blood at her temple formed a jagged path down to her jaw. Head wound, but not fresh -- maybe twenty-four hours old. No active bleeding, pupils equal size. Good signs.

“Mind if I look at your head?” I asked.

She flinched back. “Don’t touch me.”

I nodded, respecting the boundary. “Fair enough. Can you tell me your name?”

A pause. She took another drink. “Callie.”

“Callie,” I repeated, keeping my voice steady. “You got somewhere safe to go, Callie?”

Her laugh came out hollow, more air than sound. “Nowhere’s safe.”

“Someone after you?”

Her gaze darted back to the road. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. The zip tie marks, the bruises, her terror -- they told enough of the story.

“How bad are you hurt? Besides what I can see.”

She shrugged one shoulder, wincing at the movement. “I’ll live.”

“That’s a low bar.”

Her eyes met mine, surprising me with a flash of defiance. “Higher than it was yesterday.”

I found myself respecting her -- the spark still burning beneath all the fear and pain. The Kings valued resilience. This woman had it in spades.

“What happened to your head?” I asked, nodding toward the wound.

She touched it gingerly. “I’m not sure. Not the first time, though. This one isn’t as bad as the first time I tried to run.”

The casual way she said it raised the hair on my neck, like getting hurt counted as just another Tuesday. I’d seen that kind of detachment before in people who normalized violence to survive.

“You need a hospital?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

She shook her head vehemently. “No. They’ll look there.”

“They?”

Her mouth clamped shut, fear returning to her eyes.

“All right,” I said, backing off. “No hospitals.”

Wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and something else -- the metallic tang of coming rain. The temperature had dropped another few degrees. Callie shivered, her thin jacket providing minimal protection against the night air.

I glanced at my watch. Nearly midnight. The compound was close but bringing her there would mean questions. Hard ones.

“Let me see your hands,” I said.

She hesitated, then extended them. She’d need medical care.

“You fight back,” I observed.

A small, grim smile. “Always.”

I respected that too.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

She shrugged again. “Not sure.”

“Can you stand?”

She tried, bracing against the ground. Her legs wobbled, threatening to collapse. I reached out instinctively, stopping just short of touching her.

“May I?”

She nodded, reluctance clear in every line of her body. I slipped an arm around her waist, supporting her weight as she found her footing. She felt too light, bones sharp beneath skin meant to hold more weight. Malnourished, and not just from two days without food.

“You’re not cops,” she said, nodding toward my cut. “But you’re something.”

“Something,” I agreed, not elaborating. The less she knew about the Kings, the better -- for her safety as much as ours.

She swayed on her feet, and I tightened my grip slightly to keep her upright. She flinched at the pressure but didn’t pull away.

“I need to get you somewhere safe,” I said.

“Nowhere’s safe,” she repeated, but with less conviction.

“Safer than here.”

A distant sound pierced the night -- an engine, far off but approaching. Callie’s entire body tensed, her breathing accelerating into near hyperventilation.

“That them?” I asked.

She nodded, panic overriding caution.

Decision time. I knew taking her to the compound would have consequences. Was I prepared to face them?

“I’ve got a place,” I said, making my choice. “People who can help. But you need to trust me, just for tonight.”

“Why would you help me?” she asked, suspicion threading through the fear. “You don’t know me.”

A fair question. One I’d asked myself.

“Because years ago, I was on the wrong side of some bad men,” I said simply. “Someone helped me then. Sometimes that’s reason enough.”

Not the whole truth, but enough of it. The Kings had saved me from a life heading nowhere fast, given me purpose, family. Some debts you pay forward.

“I don’t have another option, do I?” she asked.

“You always have options,” I said. “Right now, they’re just all bad ones. I’m offering the least bad one I can.”

She glanced toward the sound of the approaching engine, then back to me. Weighing unknown dangers against the devil she knew.

 

About the Author:

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.

 

Author on Facebook, Instagram, & TikTok: @harleywylde

 

Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress

Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15

 

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Circus Bim Bom by Cliff Lovette ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #CircusBimBom #CliffLovette #HistoricalFiction #Excerpt

Circus Bim Bom by Cliff Lovette

 

A Cold War Adventure

Historical Fiction/Cold War Fiction (w/romance subplots)

Date Published: 03-01-2026

Publisher: Bim Bom Books

"There are no accidents in life, only opportunities wearing different clothes."

About the Book:

When the first privately owned Soviet circus arrived in 1990 America as the Soviet Empire unraveled, its elite performers expected to build cultural bridges through spectacular shows. Instead, this prestigious troupe faced a perilous journey through Cold War America.

Circus director Yuri had to navigate treacherous waters where American mobsters, Soviet agents, and political forces circled like predators. Young aerialist Anton dreamed of becoming a clown against his family's wishes, while forbidden romances and unexpected connections bloomed between Soviet performers and Americans who saw past the ideological divide. As high-stakes conspiracies threatened to tear the circus family apart, they had to choose between the authoritarian chains of home and the uncertain promise of freedom.

As The Ringmaster reminds us, "The best Soviet stories are like vodka—they burn with suffering, intoxicate with conflict, keep you stewing in reflection, and yearning for your heart's desire." This genre-bending tale explores whether human connection can transcend ideology—and whether storytelling can bridge the divides that separate us.

Read an Excerpt:

Evil Angel lounged against a Hershey’s Kisses lamppost, smirking. “Relax, Maria. He’ll get his sugar fix soon enough.”

They arrived at the carousel, where lights from hundreds of hand-blown bulbs reflected off brass poles and mirrored panels, piercing the evening mist. Evil Angel released a long, low whistle, his eyebrows raised in grudging admiration.

CJ gestured to the carousel, his voice swelling with pride. “This beauty is a moving piece of our nation’s history. Thousands of hours went into hand-carving and painting these horses. Five hundred hand-milled pieces run this masterpiece, and hand-painted Miss Liberties and gilded American Eagles commemorate our victory in WWI.”

The carousel’s wooden platform creaked beneath their feet as CJ touched a carved horse’s mane. “Listen,” he whispered. “Every sound tells a story—the craftsmen who carved these horses, the families who’ve ridden them. Even the squeaks have history.”

As Raisa circled the platform, she ran her fingers over the glazed black mane of a galloping circus jumper. The stallion’s muscles gleamed under the carousel lights, its tail streaming behind like a banner—a frozen moment of equine grace. Its circus-themed saddle blanket was fringed in bright yellow and adorned with stars and stripes. Its mouth gaped, as if gasping for air.

CJ pointed out the hand-painted murals by post-war European artisans: Rotterdam’s bustling port and Bavaria’s idyllic landscapes—snapshots of a world forever changed. His voice carried the pride of twenty years of stewardship.

Evil Angel rolled his eyes. “Here comes another history lesson.”

“The artists painted scenes inspired by their homelands: a mother and child, a man with his ladylove, a Bavarian family, and a matador in a bullfight. With twenty mirrored panels and a thousand hand-blown light bulbs, the designer spared no expense.”

CJ shook his head. “Today’s merry-go-rounds are made of aluminum and plastic. Beauty nourishes the soul; expediency breeds indifference. For most visitors, it’s just another ride.”

Raisa and Stallion studied each panel, pointing out the historical details as if they were in a living museum.

As they approached a Wurlitzer organ, CJ’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “This handcrafted, self-playing machine is one of only a few military band organs powered by a hidden steam engine.”

“It’s a Wurlitzer with a hundred and sixty-four pipes, fifty-four keys, sixteen bells, a trombone, trumpet, violin, and cello, plus a glockenspiel and wooden flute—rich, like an orchestra. You can’t replicate its sound with a synthesizer.”

The Wurlitzer’s brass pipes gleamed like a miniature cathedral organ under the carnival lights. “They stopped making these in the ’50s—modern rides play CDs.”

Stallion lifted Raisa onto her circus horse, his hands lingering on her waist as he stood beside her.

As steam hissed from the pipes, the first notes of a Parisian-themed waltz, “Ekaterina,” floated out—first violin, then piano, and finally the whole orchestra. The mechanical heart of the carousel ticked beneath their feet, counting down to magic (14).

Raisa’s circus-trained balance found its rhythm as the carousel stirred to life—the jumper rising and falling in perfect tempo. With her red heels resting in the stirrups, Raisa recalled a creaky old metal carousel horse in Leningrad. Nothing was as extravagant as this. She hummed along with the melancholy tune, Stallion feeding off her smile.

After several turns, the Wurlitzer picked up the tempo with Shostakovich’s Second Waltz, and Raisa’s horse cranked up and down in a faster gallop. She remembered dancing this Russian waltz in circus school.

Raisa looked down at Stallion’s dark, wavy hair and up at his broad chest as her steed pumped up and down. Their eyes locked. Swaying with one hand on the saddle and the other on the horse’s neck, Stallion enjoyed the Russian waltz, though he preferred the Viennese (15).

The Wurlitzer shifted from Shostakovich to Strauss, its steam-powered valves opening like mechanical lungs. The “Voices of Spring” filled the night air.

As the tempo quickened, Raisa’s horse pumped faster, and her fingers tightened around the brass shaft as her horse rose and fell. Stallion recognized the “Voices of Spring” and could no longer remain idle. His hands found Raisa’s waist, and he swung her side-saddle and lifted her from the horse to the carousel’s edge.

Muscle memory took over: his right hand grasped her left, their fingers intertwined, her hand curling over his shoulder. With his free hand on her back, he led her into a waltz. Raisa’s spine straightened, each instrument joining the symphony like another dancer entering their spinning world. The Viennese tempo spun them outward as the carousel sped up.

They swung gracefully in swift circles against the carousel’s rotation, defying physics with every spin. The platform’s momentum battled their steps, threatening to hurl them outward as they twirled inward. Laughing breathlessly, their hearts pounded as they resisted the carousel’s centrifugal force. Their synchronized steps kept them balanced on the edge of a spinning world, aware that any movement could fling them off the ride.

Each turn showcased years of dance training: her flawless arabesque, his confident lead, their shared rhythm. Their bodies remembered steps learned in different worlds—his in UCLA’s dance studio, hers in Moscow’s circus school.

Evil Angel conducted an invisible orchestra while Good Angel desperately clung to the brass pole, her apron fluttering, muttering Italian prayers.

Beneath the platform, hand-milled gears meshed, their precision concealed by carved panels. Each revolution sent the dancers gliding past mirrors, their reflections multiplying into infinity. The hand-blown bulbs illuminated their dance in amber and gold, while starlight glimmered in the horse’s glass eyes.

As the gears clicked faster, their waltz matched the acceleration—one-two- three, one-two-three—until the painted horses and chariots blurred into streaks of gold and crimson, galloping at Cupid’s hand. Keeping pace, Stallion and Raisa moved with a precision that only trained bodies could achieve.

The world contracted to essential points—her hand in his, shared breath, perfect timing. Their finesse showed in every effortless turn. Everything else faded, disappearing into their locked gazes.

Memories flickered through Raisa’s mind—rigorous training, the thrill of dancing to forbidden Western records. But this was a magic she had never known: raw and free, unfettered by state-approved choreography.

Evil Angel marveled at how one would be flung off the ride if the other let go. He clipped his cigar: “An unusual predicament for a budding relationship— let alone a first date.” Nothing he said could distress Good Angel—she was enchanted, dabbing the corner of her apron against her teary eyes.

Steam rose from the Wurlitzer as the last notes of Strauss lingered. Thecarousel’s spin slowed like a music box winding down. Evil Angel straightened his tie; Good Angel blew into her hanky, while dust motes danced in the soft light.

Still immersed in the waltz’s rhythm, Raisa’s red heels found solid ground as Stallion’s hands steadied her waist.

As they caught their breath, CJ led them on, his voice softening. “Back then, the waltz shocked society—it was the first dance where men and women held hands. They called it The Forbidden Dance. Churches condemned it as sinful. Religious zealots threatened composers and instructors with death.”

“The Times of London wrote, ‘The waltz involves the voluptuous intertwining of limbs and close compression of bodies, in ungodly violation of ladies’ decency and morals.’ Fathers were warned against exposing their daughters to such a contagion. In the end, though, the teenagers won the day.”

Evil Angel tugged on Good Angel’s apron. “Wasn’t that what happened to Elvis?”

CJ shook his head in admiration. “Wow! I think you both deserve some chocolate. Follow me to Hershey heaven.”

Night settled deeper over the park. The string lights cast warm pools of light, while shadows thickened between them as they headed to the Chocolate Emporium. A breeze carried the sweetness of chocolate and candy floss from nearby confectionery tents.

CJ led them beneath a massive neon sign that flashed: ‘Hershey’s Chocolate Emporium.’

The emporium rose before them like a temple of chocolate. Raisa’s eyes widened as she took in the lavish displays, a stark contrast to the bare shelves and endless queues of Moscow’s government-run stores.

Footnotes:

(14) Listen to “Carousel (a French Waltz)”, from composer and artist Ekaterina.

Visit: https://bimbombookclub.com/Ekaterina-Carousel-French-Waltz


(15) Listen to the “Suite for Jazz Orchestra No. 2” by Dmitri Shostakovich

Visit: https://bimbombookclub.com/dmitri-shostakovich-waltz-no-2


(16) Listen to “Voices of Spring Waltz” composed by Johann Straus

Visit:https://bimbombookclub.com/voices-of-spring-johann-strauss

About the Author:

 

 Cliff Lovette is a father, storyteller, and dog lover living in Sandy Springs, Georgia. For over 40 years, he practiced entertainment law, serving as Senior Vice President at LaFace Records and representing artists including Usher and Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes. His passion for bridging historical divides led him to co-produce a groundbreaking reconciliation event between descendants of Buffalo Soldiers and Lakota Native Americans. In 1990, when Bobby Liberman—road manager for the first privately owned Soviet circus touring America—became his client, Cliff discovered the true story that inspired this debut duology.

Contact Links

Website

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TikTok: @ringmaster606

YouTube: @TheRingmaster-n7y

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Author's Edition 

books.by/bim-bom-books 

The Author's Edition comes with:

• Signed bookplate

• Digital circus poster

• Charter Bim Bom Book Club Membership

• Exclusive access to "Rabbit Hole" chapters

eBook and Paperback

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Deconstructing America by G. H. Spears ~ @RABTBookTours #RABTBookTours #DeconstructingAmerica #GHSpears #PoliticalNonfiction

Deconstructing America by G. H. Spears 

Political Nonfiction

Date Published: January 21, 2026

Publisher ‏: ‎ Seacoast Press

About the:

In recent decades, most of us have witnessed increasing social and political strife, tearing apart the very fabric of American society. This polarization stems from decades of shifting ideologies, moving from a foundational center-right perspective toward the left. Acknowledging the root causes of this cultural shift and recognizing the depth of the problem is the first step toward addressing it.

The divide we see today is largely driven by ideas that contradict the founding principles of the United States. Deconstructing America explores these forces through a series of interconnected, fact-based narratives, revealing the key moments and influences that have contributed to America's decline.

 

About the Author:

After a long career as an entrepreneur working in the cycling and fitness industry managing, owning, and consulting for numerous retail establishments, it became natural to study the people, cultures, and social environments in and around my working life. Once retirement became imminent it afforded me the time and vigor to completely immerse myself in the social sciences, including anthropology, sociology, social psychology, and history in furtherance of understanding and writing about the complex world issues that humanity faces.

Contact Links:

Website

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