Scars and Secrets by Thomas Grant Bruso

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Thomas Grant Bruso will be awarding a $10 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Ralph Ashton gets more than he bargained for when police question him about the death of his ex-boyfriend Elijah Ray, whose body is discovered at the edge of the Saranac River.

When the local police visit Ralph and ask him about a critical piece of case evidence, Ralph becomes a prime suspect. He sets out to learn what happened to Eli the night he left his apartment and is startled to learn about his former boyfriend’s shady past.

As Ralph pursues a dangerous investigation, he discovers things about Eli he did not know while they were together.

Ralph’s life starts to unravel when he loses more people close to him as his mother lies in a hospital bed dying of cancer. Is learning about the truth of Eli’s death worth jeopardizing his safety?

Read an Excerpt

The face of my mother flashes in my mind, and I think about running back to the hospital and staying by her side.

James uncrosses his leg from left to right and changes positions so the side of his face illuminates in a shaft of soft glow from the floor lamp hanging over his shoulder. I want to tell him he looks fucking sexy that way, but I keep quiet. He holds his yellow writing pad, the tips of his fingers turning white, and I dream about what he can do to me with those meaty hands. Touch me in my favorite place, I want to tell him. But I don’t.

I picture him holding my face in his sweaty palms as we lock gazes, staring haughtily into each other’s eyes. The stiffness of my erection knocks against the fabric of my pants. I squirm in my chair.

“What do you mean?” he asks. “Deadness?”

I force myself to blink a few times, snap out of my hazy dream, and look up at Dr. Matheson. His expression is alarming, unblinking. He stares at me, bordering on the threshold of a stalker.

I find a way out of my rut, clawing, digging, and rummaging through a labyrinth of unfathomable responses. “All I want to do is listen to Twenty One Pilots or Nickelback and drink beer. Forget about life, people, and work.”

Except for my mother. My ex-boyfriend, Eli, too.

I want to see him. It’s been a while since he walked out on me and never returned.

Dr. Matheson angles his head to the side, deciding whether to ask his next set of questions. I hear him swallow, and it sounds like he has a dry mouth or is uncomfortable asking me a question from the long list on his pad. He is overthinking, I notice. “How is your mother?” When I don’t answer immediately, he adds, “How are the nightmares?” My reason for being here.

I sigh. I don’t want to talk about what keeps me awake at night, although this past week—year—has been terrifying. “It’s been nonstop,” I say.

“Have you been to the hospital?”

I nod. “Before I came here.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s scary. Seeing my mother in that hospital bed makes me want to die. I hate watching her wither away slowly.”

about the Author

Thomas Grant Bruso knew he wanted to be a writer at an early age. He has been a voracious reader of genre fiction since childhood.

His literary inspirations are Ray Bradbury, Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Jim Grimsley, Karin Fossum, and Joyce Carol Oates.

Bruso loves animals, reading books, and writing fiction, and prefers Sudoku to crossword puzzles.

In another life, he was a freelance writer and wrote for magazines and newspapers. In college, he won the Hermon H. Doh Sonnet Competition. Now, he writes and publishes fiction and reviews books for his hometown newspaper, The Press-Republican.

He lives in upstate New York.

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPJH61CD/ref=sr_1_9
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/scars-and-secrets-thomas-grant-bruso/1146630720
Publisher’s website buy link: https://ninestarpress.com/product/scars-and-secrets/

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Shadows in the Night by Thomas Grant Bruso

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Thomas Grant Bruso will be awarding a $10 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Sequel to Past Sins

Jack Ballinger has seen a lot of horrible things in the six years he’s been a police officer, disturbing images he wishes he could erase from his memory forever. Crime scenes, dead bodies, and the death of his parents dredge up an unsettling time from his past, a tortured childhood he does not want to revisit. But Jack must confront a new waking nightmare that sends him spiraling out of control, down a rabbit hole of indescribable terrors, questioning his existence as a human being, cop, and partner.

Struggling with budget cuts and constantly changing policies within the police department, a cantankerous new police chief, eccentric colleagues, and his on-again/off-again relationship with his boyfriend Steve, Jack must confront an evil entity from a previous life. Grappling with old demons is just the beginning. How long will Jack keep running from the horrors of his past and finally face his fears?

Read an Excerpt

When I step out into the bedroom, dripping water from the shower, I freeze, my heartbeat pulses at the sight of the bedroom door cracked open. “Hello?”

Silence.



Between the balcony doors and the east-side windows, the far corner of the room is empty.

No ghosts or visitors. There is nowhere to hide in this wide-open space.

I walk over to the nightstand where I keep my pistol. I look over my shoulder at the clamoring noise of the construction crew setting up their monstrous machines out on the street. Large yellow Cat loaders and pavers growl to life.

I leave a puddle of water behind me when I reach the dresser and pull out my gun. A noise out in the hallway draws my attention to the open door. I unlock the safety and aim the pistol at my side. I amble to the apartment door, my pulse quickening. I must have forgotten to lock it after Steve left last night, I think.

I stare around the small kitchen: nothing, nobody, but a scattering of spilled coffee beans on the floor. Lifting the gun out in front of me, I walk to the door. A stale, warm, musty smell wafts into the room. I stare out into the dark hallway.

Empty.

My grip tightens on the gun.

My skin bristles in the cool, clammy air.

I raise my gun and step out into the hall, pointing the pistol left, then right, down the long corridor. Vacant. I take a deep breath and lean against the doorframe.


 The stairwell door creaks open at the end of the hall. I straighten my shoulders, pointing the pistol into the dark.

I wait.

“Hello?”

No answer.

The door opens again, its hinges groaning.


 I turn to glance behind me in the dark at the two other apartments.

Doors closed.

I stay on the left side of the hall in case somebody is in the stairwell.

I meander down the corridor, moving slowly and turning once to check over my shoulder. I hear noises in the dark, but I don’t see anything. The building settles and shifts in the wind. Forcing myself to keep moving, I slink against the length of the wall to the last door on the floor.

I stop. Wait. Listen.

Alarming stillness.

Machinery clangs outside, and the construction workers’ voices echo like trapped spirits in the apartment walls. I clench the gun’s handle and my index finger grazes the trigger.

Creak.

The exit door swings open, and clangs shut. I jump back a few inches. Stare at the door. Shuffle forward, yell out, “Hello?” and wedge my foot between the doorjamb. I fling the door open with my hand.



The stairwell is empty. I walk onto the top landing and point the gun behind the door. Clear.



I stare over the edge of the staircase, three stories down. Sunlight streams into the open space below from one of the stairwell doors. I hear muffled voices, people talking, the noise of machinery reverberating off the walls and drifting up the stairwells.


I am overreacting, I tell myself, and letting out a deep sigh. I yell down the stairs for somebody to close the door. No response.


I head back into the hallway, muttering obscenities at myself for acting foolish. When I am back inside my apartment, I lock the door. Before I pour coffee, I retrace my steps across the entire 400-square inch area, checking locks and windows, looking behind doors.


I lock the balcony doors, drawing curtains and drowning out the jackhammering sounds coming from outside. As I close the left-sided drapes, something on the balcony catches my eye and sends me into another dizzying tailspin.


Fear settles in my chest like angry bees buzzing. My heart races. My nightmares return at the sight of partial muddy footprints leading over the edge of the balcony.

About the Author

Thomas Grant Bruso knew at an early age he wanted to be a writer. He has been a voracious reader of genre fiction since he was a kid.

His literary inspirations are Ray Bradbury, Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Ellen Hart, Jim Grimsley, Karin Fossum, Joyce Carol Oates, and John Connolly. Bruso loves animals, book-reading, writing fiction, prefers Sudoku to crossword puzzles.



In another life, he was a freelance writer and wrote for magazines and newspapers. In college, he was a winner for the Hermon H. Doh Sonnet Competition. Now, he writes and publishes fiction, and reviews books for his hometown newspaper, The Press Republican.



He lives in upstate New York.

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Book buy link: JMS Books

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Behind the Mask by Thomas Grant Bruso

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Seventeen-year-old Jesse has a babysitting gig at the Linderman’s house on Halloween. He loves watching Christie and Dylan and is thrilled to see them dressed up in cute, creative costumes. When he arrives at their house, Jesse knows it will be a fun-filled night of pumpkin carving and trick-or-treating.

But Jesse quickly realizes Halloween is not only about candy, pumpkins, and scary costumes. It’s known for tricks and ghoulish things and can bring out crazies. While trick-or-treating, he notices a strange person wearing a glow-in-the-dark mask watching him from the shadowy street.

The rest of the night turns into a cat-and-mouse game of survival. Strange things start to happen at the Linderman’s residence, setting Jesse on edge, making him apprehensive somebody might be taking the spirit of Halloween too far.

Will Jesse survive the things that go bump in the night, or will he become just another tall tale this Halloween?

Read the Excerpt

I leaned my forehead against the doorframe and closed my eyes, waiting a beat. When I opened my eyes, I watched the vehicle reverse and slowly pull out into the street, braking for children running by. The headlights bounced up and down as the vehicle's wheels rolled downhill along the raised trajectory of the driveway.

As I watched the car drive off, its red taillights blinking as if in warning, my chest tightened like a clenched fist for some indeterminate reason, and an uncomfortable heaviness settled inside me. I let the curtain fall from my slippery fingers back into position, and I leaned against the wall to catch my breath and bearings.

I climbed the stairs and relieved Christie, telling Dylan he had to dry off, dress, and get into bed. He turned on his brotherly charm and debated with me about bedtime. “Your mom and dad were strict about what time you had to be in bed,” I told him.

“Just go to bed, Dylan,” Christie yelled from her bedroom.

Dylan sat on the bathroom floor, pouting and wrapped in a towel, as I drained the tub and put away his toys. “I’ll read you a story before I turn out the light,” I said.

“Batman, please,” he begged.

“Dry off and get into your pajamas.”

He stood and stomped out of the room.

“Stop being a baby!” Christie yelled from down the hall.

“I ain’t a baby!” Dylan shot back.

“I’m not a baby,” his sister corrected him.

I stepped out into the hall to referee their sibling mudslinging. “I can skip story time,” I said to both of them. “Is that what you want?”

A unison of “Nos!” shot out into the hall from their open bedroom doors, the only unanimous decision they’d made as brother and sister that night.

...

I read to Christie, who couldn’t keep her eyes open for more than five minutes. I gave Dylan a glass of water and set it on his night table. I ran my hand through his floppy brown bangs that had been spared from the vomit, and he fell fast asleep from the steady, relaxing raking gestures of my hand in his hair.

As much I enjoyed story time with the kids, I couldn’t wait to delve into my quiet corner of the house with a cup of tea. I wanted to start on my homework, especially after Dylan’s stomach-churning episode.

I pulled the comforter up around his back and reached over to shut the lamp off. I left the Godzilla nightlight lit up across the room and cracked the door open ajar. I checked on Christie one last time before heading downstairs. I poked my head into her room to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. After I’d finished reading Dr. Seuss to her, she told me that she didn’t sleep well when her parents were not home.

I told her that I’d be downstairs, and if she woke up scared to come down, I’d fix her a glass of milk. She felt safer with the door wide open, she told me. I wished her goodnight and crept downstairs to the kitchen.

I microwaved a cup of water and brewed one of Mrs. Linderman’s decaf black tea bags for five minutes while I rummaged in my bookbag for my math homework. Before sitting at the kitchen table, I plated three chocolate chip cookies from Mrs. Linderman’s fresh-baked stash.

I blew on the hot tendrils of steam wafting up from the teacup and dunked a cookie. My empty stomach growled at the aromatic chocolaty smell. I looked around the silent kitchen, chewing and dipping. Peace and quiet, finally, I thought, resting my elbows on the tabletop and sitting hunched forward under the yellow globe of light from the stained-glass ceiling lamp hanging overhead, savoring the deliciously sweet dessert.

Without Christie and Dylan talking and nagging and carrying on about something, I felt my thoughts winding down, the wheels in my mind slackening to the speed of a snail. My heightened anxieties dwindled like the setting sun. I worked on the half dozen Algebra questions for class, showing my work on separate pages in my notebook, and struggling with a few questions when a sound from outside jerked me out of my reverie.

I looked up and stared down the hall leading into the living room. Shadows danced beyond the drawn lace curtain on the front door. I thought I heard footsteps on the porch steps, but it was the wind tugging on the screen door, yanking it open, and slamming it against the side of the house.

I thought I had locked it.

About the Author:

Thomas Grant Bruso knew at an early age he wanted to be a writer. He has been a voracious reader of genre fiction since he was a kid.

His literary inspirations are Ray Bradbury, Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Ellen Hart, Jim Grimsley, Karin Fossum, Joyce Carol Oates, and John Connolly.

Bruso loves animals, book-reading, writing fiction, prefers Sudoku to crossword puzzles.

In another life, he was a freelance writer and wrote for magazines and newspapers. In college, he was a winner for the Hermon H. Doh Sonnet Competition. Now, he writes and publishes fiction, and reviews books for his hometown newspaper, The Press Republican.

He lives in upstate New York.

Buy Links:

Amazon
Barnes and Noble
JMS Books

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Summer Storms by Thomas Grant Bruso

This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Thomas Grant Bruso will be awarding a $10 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Sixteen-year-old Earl Layman is going stir-crazy. Secluded with the flu inside the four walls of his home and only the escape of his video games to help him through, Earl is struggling to keep his sanity.

That is until he notices the boy next door, seventeen-year-old Rex Chambers, raking leaves in the adjacent yard.

Earl’s summer is about to change. Before another torrential rainstorm hits the small upstate New York town of Betham County, they meet during an awkward cell phone exchange. As they start to connect through occasional texts, Earl and Rex enter the throes of adolescent lust.

In the early stages of forging a lasting connection, their family situations threaten to destroy all they are working for.

Read an Excerpt

The walls of Earl’s bedroom rumbled from the vibrations of the motorcycle. Rex turned and waved. Earl lifted his hand and returned the favor, watching as Rex the Wonder Boy fled out of the yard into a string of traffic on Bauer Street.

A sharp knock on his door surprised Earl, parting the cobwebby thoughts building in his brain as Rex disappeared from his line of vision.

“Honey? May I come in?” his mother asked, poking her head inside his cluttered, smelly bedroom.

“Yeah.” He turned away from the window and looked up at the sweet expression on his mother’s face.

“You talking to someone? I thought I heard voices.”

Earl looked out the window at the neighbor’s empty backyard and shook his head, shuffled back into bed. “Just talking to myself.”

“Well, breakfast is ready.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat.”

Earl sighed. “What did you make today?”

“Chocolate chip pancakes. Your favorite.”

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging. “I’ll try some.”

“Are you feeling any better?”

“A little.”

She walked into the room and touched his forehead with the back of her hand. “You don’t feel as warm as you did yesterday.”

“I slept a lot.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to go back to school tomorrow?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“How about I fix you a plate and bring it up to you?”

“I’ll be down in a few minutes. I need to get out of this room.”

She stopped and stared, studying her son. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Earl looked up from his cell phone and shook his head. “Nothing.”

Paula wagged a finger, went to the empty chair at his writing desk, and sat. “I know that look.”

“What look?”

“That faraway, disconnected gaze.”

He got up and walked to his closet. He stared at himself in the dusty mirror on the back of the door. “I didn’t realize that’s how I looked.”

“Trust me. You do. Mothers know.”

He padded back to his bed and plopped down. He sighed and stared up at the low, sloping ceiling.

“What’s on your mind?” Paula asked, giving him all her attention.

Earl glanced in her direction. “I don’t know why, but I was thinking about Shells and Uncle Fred.” He gestured to the photo album spread out across his ruffled video-game-printed bedsheets.

Paula fingered the album and stared down at the familiar faces of her family. “What made you think of Shells and Uncle Fred?”

“What else am I supposed to do in here all day?”

She smiled. “Come on. You can tell me. Why are Shells and Uncle Fred on your mind all of a sudden?” She tapped the leather-bound photo album.

“Something that you told me many years ago about the importance of loving and caring for others.” He shrugged. “I just miss Shells. She was a good cat.”

“I miss her too. She was a crazy cool cat.”

About the Author: Thomas Grant Bruso knew at an early age he wanted to be a writer. He has been a voracious reader of genre fiction since he was a kid.

His literary inspirations are Jim Grimsley, Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, Karin Fossum, Joyce Carol Oates, and John Connolly.

Bruso loves animals, book-reading, writing fiction, prefers Sudoku to crossword puzzles.

In another life, he was a freelance writer and wrote for magazines and newspapers. In college, he was a winner of the Hermon H. Doh Sonnet Competition. Now, he writes book reviews for his hometown newspaper, The Press-Republican.

He lives in upstate New York.

https://www.amazon.com/Thomas-Grant-Bruso/e/B00OGMHLW8
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8591689.Thomas_Grant_Bruso
https://www.instagram.com/thomasgrantbrusoauthor/
https://twitter.com/thomgrantbruso

Buy links

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B09GHBP492/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tkin_p1_i0
Ninestar Press: https://ninestarpress.com/product/summer-storms/
Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/summer-storms-thomas-grant-bruso/1140168619

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