First Kiss and Giveaway with author Nya Rawlyns and her book Acid Jazz Singer

Can you believe it?  This is the last First Kiss post as February draws to a close!  But we are going to go out with a bang! LOL.. Today I have author Nya  Rawlyns and her new book Acid Jazz Singer.  Take it away Nya:

Acid Jazz Singer by Nya Rawlyns

Kindle: http://amzn.to/oT1SDd

Amazon: http://amzn.to/ouo7jv

OmniLit: http://bit.ly/qeypt6

Who was the guy with the lisp? (Dozer, the bouncer)

Her name was RayLee. They called her the Acid Jazz Singer, her sultry voice mesmerizing human and demon alike. She’d been running for three years from her maker and only Travis McKenzie stood between her and the darkness that had become her life.

Travis hunted the hit squads of demons and paid lip service to the Sheriff of the city.

The half-blood had gifts, of the magic, shifting kind—and something more. It made him a stone cold killer and the only thing that mattered in his life was safeguarding the woman he was falling in love with.

Vladimira was the oldest of her kind, an enforcer—a gun for hire to the highest bidder. Vamp, human, demon. It didn’t matter. It was all about the job … until the stakes changed and she found a reason to care.

The singer and the protector had a history. But that history changed when a southern bigot vamp turned Travis’ friend into a travesty—neither man, nor woman … but both.

Travis fell hard for the trannie known as RayLee. He was having a harder time dealing with his best friend, Ray.

Then the game changes, and Travis and Ray have to rely on an assassin with a secret agenda and uncertain loyalties.

When the demon comes to claim Ray, Travis must walk through the bowels of hell to save the only being on earth he cares about.

The problem is … who is going to save Travis from himself?

CHAPTER ONE

The stink got me retching again. You never got used to it. They used terms like coppery or a taste of iron, as if death had a flavor of the week. Metallica clinging like satin glue to my blade. I was tempted, sorely, to lick it clean but Ray’s situation had cured me of that … maybe. The urge was still there and there was, as they say, no accounting for taste.

I had to dial down the buzzing in my ears, incessant tonight, jarring and so far beyond irritating I damn near cried. Instead I doubled over, heaving the last of the tequila over the swarm of maggots flowing in a riot of orgasmic waves over the ragged stack of body parts, what was left of them. The dumpster and the demon pile were the only things occupying the alley behind the club.

I really needed to hire a clean-up crew but Ray and our bartender, Joleen, had blown all our cash on what they called ‘costumes’. You’d think he’d know better by now. We couldn’t keep running forever and this crapola piece of shit he called a nightclub wasn’t paying the bills, not even close.

Ray’s idea of laying low was a little left of too stupid to live, something he’d become the poster boy for ever since we hauled ass from South Beach. We’d ended up in the back of beyond in Camden, New Jersey, across the Delaware River from Philly. My hometown, not his, but at least I knew my way around and there were a few chits I called in to ease the introductions.

“You okay out there, hon?” Joleen’s husky voice echoed behind me, slicing through the haze. She’d be peeking around the screen door, eyes squeezed shut, certain the ‘haints’ had gotten me good this time. Little did our bartender know.

“Yeah, I’m good, go on back to the bar,” I managed to croak past the thick bile still coating my tongue. Going on a bender hadn’t been my best choice for evening entertainment. Not when I knew what was stalking us

“You sure, boy? Because I…” She let the offer trickle off. There was no “I” with Joleen. She’d be less than useful in helping me clean up the mess I’d made, her intestinal fortitude hovering in the zero tolerance range. How she put up with our clientele always gave me pause, considering how some of their outsides didn’t look a whole lot more appetizing than the pile of shit I found myself nudging with my Doc Martens.

The smell wasn’t so bad now, the wards I’d put on the area finally filtering the worst of the contamination away. Having a little magic at my fingertips was handy, even if what I could do was limited. I could hear the scuffling as the one that got away headed south at a limp. It had been nailed but not disabled. I debated whether or not it was worth my time to go after it.

The squeak of the screen door alerted me that two hundred and fifty pounds of attitude and spandex and curiosity were about to complicate my decision process, such as it was.

There was no way I could risk turning around to watch her approach, but I could hear the ragged ffftt ffftt as her flip-flops scrapped the rough macadam, punctuated by a ping, ding, of hard plastic striking the pitted road surface. Acid backwash threatened one more tsunami up my sore throat, finally settling and leaving my ravaged system in uneasy peace. Now maybe I could concentrate on fixing my features into something that wouldn’t frighten women and small children. Or Joleen, though she’d caught glimpses now and again, usually before I lost complete control.

Joleen jabbed the small of my back with the snow shovel handle, staying well away from the disgusting mound in front of me. Shaking my head, I couldn’t help snorting out loud at her ‘oh sweet Jesus, oh dear Lordy Lord’ as she made tracks back to the bar. I assume she looked. Demon hunting was often a messy business.

“Joleen? Thanks.” Waste of breath, she was long gone, the screen door swooshing shut on uncertain hydraulics.

I leaned on the snow shovel—extra wide, heavy-duty plastic, picked up on sale when we’d hit town. Next to my blade it was the most useful piece of equipment we owned. Ray would dispute that, of course. He’d save his precious cosmetic case first if the joint caught on fire, something I worried about given the primitive wiring,

I was about to start scooping the remains into the garbage can but paused as the air pressure shifted. Fuck, I did not need this constant interruption.

This time I turned around to stare down my intruder. Stare up more like it. I’m big. But Dozer was a force of nature, hovering in the six-foot-six range … and those dimensions were high and wide. Rumor had it he’d wrestled. Wrestled what was anybody’s guess.

Monster, Inc was part of the package deal with the club whose owner was the vamp Sheriff, Manny Ventisi. He’d decided having Dozer on board was a good way to protect his investment, as if this shithole could count as anything but a landfill for the weird and genetically challenged. But he was now our liege, holding Ray under his protection, for what it was worth. In return I performed services because I didn’t mind getting my hands dirty.

I wasn’t in the mood and if I didn’t get cracking, the mess would acid eat its way through the macadam, leaving a pothole of biblical proportions. My piece ’o shit ride was on the other side, at the end of the alley, and until I could afford something better, those Toyota springs weren’t going to hold up to additional road challenges.

I lasered what little phosphorescent glare remained from the shift in Dozer’s direction. He wore his usual smirk. I’d made the mistake of thinking he was dumb as a box of rocks. He set me right, along with a few body parts, and my once pretty face took on what Ray and Joleen called ‘character’. My shifting didn’t improve the look … unless you liked early Neanderthal crossed with alien insect.

Dozer’s smirk morphed into a gap-toothed smile, his teeth startling white in the dim glare of the flood over the back door. That gap was my fault and if I’d had the dough I’d have offered to cough up a donation to his dentist to get it fixed, seeing how I was the one who knocked it out in the first place. It made for a lisp that sent chills up and down my spine.

Dozer didn’t speak much but when he did, it was worth listening.

“Menthath.”

The man was a walking database, a veritable encyclopedia on the strange and bizarre. He was also surprisingly well-read—someone mentioned he had a degree in English lit but that had seemed far-fetched, until now. He was either referencing something from Frank Herbert’s Dune or he was about to detail what the mass of goo at my feet was … or should I say, had been.

I leaned on my shovel and contemplated how to move this along. That I didn’t recognize the species of demon I’d just dispatched was no surprise. Our catalogue of creepies seemed to expand on some exponential curve. Ray had explained to my math- challenged brain that that meant there was a shitload of supers and the pool was getting big … fast. Like I hadn’t already noticed.

Clarification seemed in order. “Mentat?”

Dozer nodded but his eyes remained vague, withdrawn, the pupils in an eerie expand-contract movement that was disconcerting unless you knew why.

The mess needed cleaning and the patrol cops would be by sooner rather than later. I liked to tidy up to avoid official complications. Manny didn’t have a lot of hard and fast rules but avoiding human interference seemed like a good one to me.

While Dozer went into Google Hell, I began scraping the outer bits and oozing goo into a tidier pile. For the thousandth time I grumbled to myself about the size of the garbage can opening in relation to the width of the snow shovel.

What I needed was a shop vac. Some people dreamt about vacations at the beach, maybe a new car. Me? I hungered for the simple things in life—a few tools to make my janitorial duties easier, a bottle or two of tequila, maybe a rare steak.

Ray.

I shook off that thought and scooped a pile onto the shovel.

Dozer barked, “DON’T!”

Maybe ‘barked’ wasn’t the right term. Air horn was more like it. And it stopped me in my tracks, a scoop full of demon goodness suspended between eternity and Waste Management’s weekly pickup.

“Shit, now what? I’m running out of time, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Menthath."

I knew just enough about computers to guess maybe we were on error code 404, but something told me to hold on and wait for … more. The slop on the shovel was surprisingly heavy. With arms in full extension and the damn thing poised on the edge of the can, I could feel myself tipping ever so slightly, letting the first tinge of scarlet gristle ease across the scored plastic.

I didn’t have to wait long. He gasped, “Explosive,” and I knew we were in deep shit.

“How long do we have?” I guessed the answer was ‘not long enough’ and set the shovel carefully on the ground, desperate not to jostle the remains more than necessary, though I’d already done enough damage what with my Hannah Housekeeper, tidy-the-edges effort.

With my eyes back to human standards, I didn’t have the benefit of seeing any abnormal wavelengths. My hearing was still at the crackle pop stage, enhanced to ultra-high frequencies so the sizzle, hiss, fizz sound was not something I wanted to add to my playlist. Certain species of demons had a physiology—metabolics, whatever it was called—that kept the components separate, locked away in tidy joint capsules. I’d taken the contents of all those containers and dumped them into one huge pile of crap.

Releasing those contents in controlled bursts was a handy defense mechanism, one employed with care because the results were often unpredictable. As usual I’d neglected to think on what I was facing before wielding my blade in all its slice and dice glory. Thinking wasn’t my strong suit when I buried my anxiety in a bottle.

Neither Dozer nor I could qualify as fast but we spun as one and made tracks to the head of the alley, the intense heat ballooning behind us. We weren’t going to make it.

The alley lit for a split second in a soul-scorching glare of white incandescence, the shock wave hitting and driving us against the filthy brick wall, then leveling out, flowing past us to dissipate on the narrow street. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed. What I was … was disconcerted.

Dozer had me pinned against the wall, face first, the rough surface scraping my jaw and palms where I braced against his mountainous mass. He was murmuring an incantation in a language I didn’t recognize, his breath warm, almost delicate on my neck and something stirred deep in my groin.

Hands the size of pie-plates cradled my head, a lover’s caress, his voice deepening and the rhythm of the words changing to a lush, sibilant sound. I was intimate with spells and didn’t understand how he could possibly cast anything given his new speech impediment. Mine were hit or miss on a good day, stone cold sober.

I was going to need to read up on countermeasures because my body was having way too much fun responding to whatever suggestions Dozer was murmuring in my ear. He was grinding my hips into the rough wall, and I knew in that instant my initiation into the Cult of Dozer would not be the pleasant interlude my painful erection anticipated.

When he withdrew without warning, I felt relieved and not a little disappointed. The muted sounds of footsteps, laughter—high girlish followed by a coarse grunt—and the steady beat from whatever canned musak Ray was gyrating to filtered back to us, spreading out and around the mountain of a man blocking my escape.

I eased back from the brick, rubbing my palms on my jeans, and risked an intake of the fetid air. Demon guts, sex, and rotting trash warred with the part of me having the good sense to be afraid, layering thin veneers of terror intermingled with lust in a powerful eau de stupidity.

Ray was going to be all Yoda on me if he found out. I might be immune to his glamour but I sure as hell was susceptible to all manner of naughty suggestions from his clientele. And most times spells weren’t required. We’d been working on that for years. In my youth, trolling for trailer trash, there hadn’t been much of a downside … or consequences. Now I couldn’t afford to be distracted. Unfortunately, celibacy never worked for me.

Dozer licked his lips in that slow seductive way you’d expect some hot babe would do it, corner to corner, top first, then the lower with teeth taking hold in nips and tugs. The air around me buzzed and sizzled, setting up a vibration in my belly that wasn’t stretching my comfort zone at all. I couldn’t see his eyes, they were downcast, staring at my crotch where I was stroking myself, palm curved to receive the denim and sharp zipper swaddling my cock. It hurt, metal to flesh, pain in that good kind of way that makes you feel alive and in control.

Something glinted in the weak light. Odd I hadn’t noticed before. He had a tongue stud, a silver ball he was nestling along his upper lip, and I thought about how that might feel if he took me in his mouth and nothing mattered more at that moment than finding out. The subvocals rattled in my chest, Dozer’s mouth moving now in rapid cadence, drawing me close, closer.

I barely registered the click, so intent on the unholy wash of need coursing through my system, setting nerves afire, skin crawling with sensation as the waves of energy ate through the last of my defenses. He was going to fuck me ’til I bled and I’d beg for more.

“I said, back off, bitch."

Ray? What the hell was he doing out her?

Stacey Danson: Book Review of Acid Jazz Singer

Finally a book that doesn’t resort to cliché driven characterizations. Author Nya Rawlyns has taken the vamp genre and with superb plotting and a pen dipped in an adventurous readers soul she has crafted a tapestry as bloody as it is moody.

The narrator Travis is utterly believable irrespective of the functions of his body … Travis is a cold killer, a complex and totally enjoyable character to get to know. Trust me … know him you will, his emotions are held in check, but never completely hidden. The author has given him a heart and soul, a pulse rate, needs, desires, and lusts that refuse to stay hidden.

Travis is a character that will stay in the mind of the reader, long after “The End” appears on the final page.
We care about this man…in all his forms. I will not spoil the ending for the readers . The book crosses so many genres…it is a Vamp story….yes indeed, yet one the likes of which I haven’t had the pleasure of reading before. It is a love story..a love that is as real and complex as any you will encounter.

How does someone like Travis deal with loving a being that is both male and female? The psychological implications are so well thought out, that you the reader are captured by the passions and confusing eruption of lust, and brought to tears by the unrelenting tenderness of the love Travis has for Ray/Raylee.

The action sequences are superb, fast pacing, and relentlessly good descriptive sequences have you holding your breath in anticipation, and then sighing as you exhale…expect the unexpected, you won’t be disappointed.

All in all a superb reading experience. I am looking forward eagerly to more of the books in this brand new series. Bravo, Nya Rawlyns!

Sara Curran Ross Reviews Acid Jazz Singer:

Anyone who loves the tv vampire series True Blood or is looking for a new slant on the vampire story or indeed a love story would be hard pressed to find any better than Acid Jazz Singer. This is a must have read.' 

Full Amazon review:

By  Sara Curran-Ross - See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)   

This review is from: Acid Jazz Singer (Hunger Hurts) (Kindle Edition)

I don't think I have ever read a book quite like Acid Jazz singer. An action romance between a transvestite vampire and a half blood Demon Hunter is an unusual combination for my mainstream tastes so I approached it with some intrepidation wondering what I would find.

I have to say that what I found was fresh and original. It was a brave move to take on such a romantic combination but Diane Nelson pulled it off with style. It was a pleasure to read a book that deconstructed the normal urban fantasy novel, putting an intriguing and beguiling spin on the vampire romance.

Raylee teetering on his/her heels in his spandex and all man Travis doing his utmost to protect his vampire lover from her evil maker Slattern, provoke your sympathies immediately. This is particularly the case when Travis's feelings towards desiring and loving RayLee as a woman whilst attempting to maintain his close friendship with the Transvestite as a man become strongly conflicted. The characters are loveable in their own unique ways and quirks. They are brave in their traumatic journey throughout the book making you want to root for them all the way.

Diane Nelson's scene setting is almost HD and her description vivid giving you no problems in losing yourself in the story. The action scenes are plentiful if not a little lengthy at times. However, they balance out the romance element making it an easy read for either a man or a woman. My only real criticism of the novel would be that as a person from the UK some of the language that was used to give a grounded, earthy appeal went over the top of my head. I spent time trying to work out the meaning of the words I didn't understand which spoiled the flow of my reading.

Anyone who loves the tv vampire series True Blood or is looking for a new slant on the vampire story or indeed a love story would be hard pressed to find any better than Acid Jazz Singer. This is a must have read.

Bill Kirton Reviews Acid Jazz Singer:

The popularity of vamp literature means that its stories are becoming repetitive and sometimes appear to be written by people who only know the clichés and not what they represent. On the other hand, there are those with a deeper understanding of the myths and the subconscious urges they represent. Nya Rawlins is one such person. In The Acid Jazz Singer, vampirism is just one of the threads of a gripping, pacey story whose narrator has the sharpness, wit and immediacy of the classic private eye of crime fiction. There's eroticism, shape-shifting (and perhaps its ultimate manifestation - transgendering), all set in a moral context in which good and bad seem negotiable. The action sequences are breathtaking and Rawlins is in complete control of her medium, whichever of the levels she's handling.

And these various threads aren't simply exercises in genre-mixing, they're woven together in a texture which extends the vamp metaphor of draining the essence from another and fuses it with love and its ambiguities. Travis, the narrator, is far from the conventional hero, the characters who surround him are complex beings themselves who resist easy pigeonholing and, amongst the violence, eroticism and mayhem, there's a sweet central tenderness linking him with the transsexual he protects and loves, RayLee.

This is the first of a series and, even as its resolution answers some of the narrative's challenges, it's clear that there are more ahead for Travis and that some of these scenes may be revisited. It's a very satisfying book, an excellent, page-turning read and a story which transcends the limits of genre fiction.

Greta van der Rol Reviews Acid Jazz Singer:

This is gritty, down-and-dirty urban fantasy where good and evil aren't necessarily white and black. If you're looking for Twilight vampires, you're in the wrong spot. But if you want fast-paced action and excitement aplenty, you'll enjoy this book. There's a second on the way. Woohoo.

Links for Acid Jazz Singer

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/80523 

Kindle US: http://www.amazon.com/Acid-Singer-Hunger-Hurts-ebook/dp/B005GVOPPO/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1313233370&sr=1-1

Print: http://www.amazon.com/Acid-Jazz-Singer-Hunger-Hurts/dp/1936827484/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1316654811&sr=8-6

OmniLit: https://www.omnilit.com/product-acidjazzsinger-588651-139.html

Nook: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/acid-jazz-singer-book-one-of-the-hunger-hurts-series-nya-rawlyns/1105160202?ean=2940011479090&itm=2&usri=acid%2Bjazz%2Bsinger

Genre: Dark Urban Fantasy, Paranormal, Paranormal Romance

So what do you think?  It sounds great right?  Well Nya is giving away 3 copies!!  Just fill out the rafflecopter to enter!!!

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