#Book Blitz #A Hospital in the Clouds by Mhairead MacLeod #Historical Romance @Xpresso Book Tours5/8/2023
A Hospital in the Clouds
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo -- EXCERPT: When I saw Tom Austen that March morning of 1918, I knew there was something about him I recognised, something shared. It was in his expression as he let me dress his foot, rotten and black around stumps of cartilage where his toes had been surgically removed. He held in the pain, hissing through clenched teeth. I drew the screen and squeezed a fresh cloth into a warm basin of water. ‘Here, Lieutenant Austen, I’ll help you off with your things.’ His shirt was damp with sweat, his pants soaked with urine. ‘How lucky am I, eh? Shelled with phosgene. Didn’t realise what was happening. Thought I’d landed back home in a vat of newly picked corn – that’s what it smelt like. Didn’t feel it at first, then couldn’t breathe for the life of me. Crawled around, found my gas mask. Got patched up and sent back. Took another hiding from Fritz. Now this bloody trench foot.’ He made his butchering sound like a jaunty boy’s adventure, but I knew the truth. One night when the other men were asleep, I had found him, drawn back into that dark underworld, his body curled into a tight ball, his shoulders shaking. A fly crawled over the bed, attracted by the rot that even disinfectant swabs couldn’t wash out. I flicked it away. ‘Your lungs are healing, Lieutenant. Our tropical weather will help. And you will get better, you hear?’ There was a liver-coloured wound at his neck, fading into scar tissue. At first, I suspected shrapnel damage, but when I looked closer, it resembled the more rounded scar of a bullet. ‘How did you get that?’ He propped himself up on one elbow and looked at me. ‘I can see what you’re thinking. So, don’t say it.’ ‘Say what?’ It was supposed to be a quick wipe down before I changed the basin and cloths for the next patient, but I slowed the process a little, the water wringing and splashing, sponging and soothing the pale landscape of violence. I patted dry the tattooed profile on his bicep. ‘She’s a pretty one. With her dark blue hair flying around.’ ‘On leave with the battalion when I had that done. Got myself blotto. Didn’t have a girl to write home to, so I thought I’d carry one in my arms.’ He gave a chuckle then coughed again. ‘It’s just not the sort of thing … an officer is supposed to do. Is it, nurse?’ I guessed a warning about STDs would embarrass him, especially from someone his own age, and he’d probably have heard the standard lecture many times. Instead, I said with a smile, ‘You’d know how to set a good example, then.’ 
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The Control
Get it FREE on Kindle Unlimited! -- EXCERPT: With two fingers, I lift Mooken’s icy hand from the keyboard, treating it like a disgusting bug I have to touch. I’ve watched enough television shows and read enough mysteries to know better than to disturb a dead body. But I need the letters on his screen to stop. They remind me too much of how Mooken used to make his awkward hmmm sounds in the middle of his lectures when pondering a point his students weren’t getting. Being this close to a dead person, my body revolts at the heavy cocktail of copper, feces, and urine in the room—a combination I’ve never encountered before. Well, once before. But that was so long ago I sometimes wonder if it wasn’t another one of my nightmares. But my stomach tells me the scene in front of me is real. My guts convulse and threaten to spew everything from inside of me, and I swallow hard, choking back my sickness…barely. I bury my nose in my sleeve, breathing through my mouth. Other than the shallow in-and-out of my air, the room is quiet. Inside my head, however, things are very loud. Along with the loud buzzing, my father is telling me to run. Leave now and save yourself, boy. Before they blame you for all of this. I ignore him and stare down at Mooken. After five minutes, his screen starts to fade to black, but I move the mouse, and the screen returns to full brightness. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm I lean over my professor’s body like I’m showing a dead man something he might find interesting. I hold the mouse lightly in my hand and scroll up. There are so many pages of mmmms that the document appears to stand still as I scroll. I climb through a hundred pages of that single, lonely letter before I make it to the substance of the file and slow down to skim its contents. I scan blocks of Mooken’s text, reading snippets from the bottom up. classic signs… early schizophrenia… chronic sleep deprivation… acute depression… disruptions in personal affairs… My head throbs as I continue further up the document. delusions… romantic interest… auditory and visual hallucinations… sleep paralysis… irrational anger and suspicion toward therapist… potential for extreme violence… formal evaluation recommended… I speed to the very top of the document to see who Mooken was evaluating, and my stomach freezes when I read my name. Jim Straub. But this can’t be. I didn’t kill the professor. I know this for certain. Professor Mooken was my teacher and trying to help me. That must be why I came here tonight—to get his help. Not to kill him. The delete key stares at me, cooing, tempting me to erase my name—to fix this. But I can’t do that—not yet, at least. I disable Mooken’s screen saver, stagger to the other side of his desk, and sink back into the leather chair. When I check the clock on the wall, fifteen minutes have passed. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and on reflex, I check it. As happens so often lately, it’s a missed call from my father, who suffers from dementia and calls and texts daily. I love and miss my dad, but I can’t deal with him and his altered, severe personality right now. My present situation is too dire, although there are still a few hours before other professors and students begin entering the building to start their days. I squeeze my eyes shut to help me remember the events that led me here, but when I do, I hear my father giving me advice again, yelling at me, ordering me. Leave. “Not yet,” I say through clenched teeth. “I need to remember what happened first.” 
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Feeling Ballsy
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Kobo -- EXCERPT: Our gazes split as I pretend to stretch my neck, crinkling the melting bag of ice, and severing a replay of the moment at the fire pit we both refuse to acknowledge. He leans in, and a tiny giggle flutters up my chest and out through my lips. “What?” He asks, pulling his torso back, his voice squeaking high. “Does my breath smell?” Furrowing his brow, he huffs into his palm. With a deep sniff, he shakes his head. I swallow down a larger chuckle. He looks over my shoulder as he bites his lower lip. Do what happened the other night. It’s simple. I cough to cover another laugh and clear my throat. “Let’s try again.” Hawk crosses his arms and tilts his head like a confused puppy. “Are you going to laugh at me again?” I shake my head. “No?” Maybe. “Well, that’s so convincing.” His voice hits a puberty high crack. “It’s only me.” I nod and take in a deep breath. It’s only me? Does he realize what that even means? There is no one I trust more than him. Despite that, this is still new territory. There’s this tiny nag in me throwing up blocks, worried about being tossed aside when he’s bored of me. My lips part and hover close enough to feel the gentle exhale of air from his mouth. I peek open an eye to find he’s staring back at me. Another obnoxiously loud laugh erupts from my mouth, and a pang of worry seizes my heart. I suck in my lips and bite down as I open my eyes. Well, crap. He looks so … confused? “You’re not okay with this, are you?” He scratches at his cheek and glances down. The bag of ice drips on my shirt and ceases the trembling tickle in my chest. “It’s not that. It’s every time I see your face I laugh.” “I’m that horrible looking to you?” His tone suggests a joke, but one drenched in a heavy ouch. “Shut up. You know you aren’t ugly.” I shake my head. “True. I’m in the realm of hideous.” He flashes a wide grin and runs his tongue over his lips. “Would a bag over my head with lip holes help?” “You. Are. Ridiculous.” He covers his face with wide fingers. “Better?” “Stop making fun.” All I want to do is see if the fire pit was a fluke, and forget all the other nonsense. Instead, I can’t stop giggling like I’ve never been with someone before. I lean in, kiss the back of his hand, and lean back. “Oh, baby.” He rolls his eyes back, pulls his hands down his cheeks, and lets out a groan. “This. This is why it’s weird.” A full belly laugh pulls through, filling the air. “You’re, you.” Knowing it’s him kissing me is different from seeing him kiss me. When the structured lines of his face get close, my nerves flare a warning and a protective shyness takes over. “Wildflower, I only want to kiss you. I need to kiss you.” His hands land at his sides with an exaggerated smack and his tone shifts to serious. “Do you actually want to do this?” The way he says “Wildflower” melts me. I nod repeatedly and pout my bottom lip. My chest holds the tingles, the desire, the pull to him. “I don’t know what’s happening. It’s like each time we get near, one of our magnets flips over, shooting us far apart.” “Oh. Talk dirty to me with science. Two poles of a magnet repelling.” He leans back and gives an approving nod. The issue isn’t the repelling, it’s the pull. The thing I’m stuck on from the night we kissed is, he kissed me. He scrambled the natural balance of our friendship, messing with the normally clear division line. We crossed into the unknown and he was burned. Literally. I don’t want to get burned or set our friendship ablaze in a grand bonfire. And yet, I want to be kissed—by him. None of this is logical. 
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Enter to win one of three paperback copies of Feeling Ballsy!
To enter, people need to follow @beckerixsonauthor, RT, and comment using the hashtags #feelingballsy AND #loveisawkward between 7/28/2023 and 8/8/2023!
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Summer Veil
-- EXCERPT: She let him live. No one was more surprised than Ina, and the beautiful blue sky seemed to mock the foul mood her choice had created. Yesterday, she’d almost killed the necromancer, but even though he deserved to die for the suffering he’d caused, the witch wasn’t sure she could make a rational decision when it came to Rurik. Her night terrors were back, and the visions of a desolate desert with bleached bones lying under a crimson sun robbed her of sleep. Add to that her guilt at not dragging Rurik to Osterad and the even more disturbing desire to tear the magic from his soul meant Ina was closer to breaking than she’d ever felt before. The possibility of becoming a world breaker worried her the most. Without Mar and Ren to help, something inside her soul was eroding, and she lost her temper more and more. First, she’d caused the storm, and then her hold on chaos had slipped in the alchemy workshop. If not for Velka’s intervention, Rurik would be a sad, wet mess splattered across the room. The quest to restore her bond was no longer about the ability to control her magic, but about survival itself. You never know how much you rely on something until it’s gone, she thought, rubbing her chest. The safety of the bond and the power of two stones made her reckless—arrogant, even. Now, she was worse off than before that hairy oaf was dumped on her doorstep. At least then, she’d had a modicum of control over her emotions. Thankfully, the situation wasn’t a complete loss. With Rurik’s confession, his plotting, at least its core, was laid bare, and without his interference, Liath and the South were as safe as they could be. The threat of invasion by the Iron Empire had terrified the necromancer enough to lock himself away and seek the oblivion of intoxication. That left Ina with a dilemma: did she travel to Osterad and warn the king of this latest threat, or try to repair her bonds so she could help defend the country from invasion? ‘Right, let’s try to fix my magic first. There’s no point in warning Rewan of an invasion if I lose my mind and kill everyone,’ she said, before turning from her inspection of the ceiling and sitting up. Ina looked at her clothes. Ayni’s armour and the simple dress she used to cover it were all she had, but for the alchemy workshop, she needed clothes that were easily replaced after any of her usual accidents. Her gaze fell on the storage chest next to the bed, and determined to find some work clothes, Ina opened the trunk to find a violet dress with lots of frills and puffy sleeves, which had been fashionable before she was born. The witch looked at the monstrosity, grinning at finding perfection for her messy experiments. It took her a moment to push her bosom into the dress, but Velka’s horrified gasp was well worth it when she saw her at the top of the stairs. ‘Do you like it?’ Ina asked, twirling extravagantly before Velka grasped her shoulders. ‘So it finally happened. The last thread of sanity abandoned your wretched soul, and now you think you’re the Empress Sowenna. Ina, what happened yesterday? Could I have saved you from this if I’d stayed?’ she asked, shaking her friend frantically. ‘Don’t be silly, Velka. I just found some old clothes I can ruin without worrying. I’m sorry for scaring you last night, but I promise I’m calm enough to focus on repairing my bonds now.’ Understanding brightened Velka’s eyes. During their university days, Ina had always returned from alchemy class with stained, ripped, or burnt clothes; sometimes all three. ‘Damm it, Striga, you should have told me. I thought you’d lost your marbles after yesterday’s discussion with Rurik.’ Velka relaxed her grip, laughing with relief. ‘So you can face me down when I’m about to destroy the world, but one look at me in a dress, and you’re terrified?’ Ina enjoyed the absurdity of the moment before sobering. ‘I will be in the workshop. If you see Rurik, send him up. I’ll need his help to find out what poison Mirena poured into me.’ 
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