#COVERREVEAL Blood Reigns (A Yuri Sorenson Mystery #2)

Cover Reveal & Preorder Announcement

Blood Reigns
(A Yuri Sorenson Mystery #2)
J.M. Dabney

Genre - Gay Mystery & Suspense/Gay Fiction

Publisher - Hostile Whispers Press, LLC

Length - Novel (50k+)

Release Date - March 17th, 2020

Cover Model - Kevin R. Davis

Cover Photographer - Golden Czermak (FuriousFotog)

Cover Designer - Hostile Whispers Designs

Blurb - 

Nothing ever unsettled P.I. Yuri Sorenson. As a former federal agent, he'd thought he'd seen it all. That was until a new client sashayed into his office and asked him to find her missing husband. Missing person cases weren't usually his thing, but when he learned it was her fourth husband to disappear, his curiosity took over.

He didn't know if he was searching for a body or just a wealthy man trying to escape a marriage he didn't want. When his search took him from underground BDSM clubs to the echelon of the city's high society, he didn't know who to trust or believe.

Finding out the truth wouldn't be as easy as he'd first thought and wondered if the consequences were worth the risk to his most prized possession—Josh?

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Author Info and Stalker Links

J.M. Dabney is a body positive/diverse multi-genre author who writes mainly LGBT romance and fiction. They live with a constant diverse cast of characters in their head. No matter their size, shape, race, etc. they live for one purpose alone, and that’s to make sure they do them justice and give them the happily ever after they deserve. J.M. is dysfunction at its finest and they makes sure their characters are a beautiful kaleidoscope of crazy. There is nothing more they want from telling their stories than to show that no matter the package the characters come in or the damage their pasts have done, that love is love. That normal is never normal and sometimes the so-called broken can still be amazing.

Stalker Links

Don't Use Me as an Example: A Short Essay

Although, I’ve done this publishing thing a time or two, but I’ll tell everyone, or anyone who asks don’t use me as an example for this writing game. Everyone has their process—what works for them. I’ve told the story before, but it bears repeating, when I was eight I wrote the worst poem in literary history, but my love of writing formed. My mother wanted me to grow up to be an investigative journalist. We both quickly realized I wasn’t diplomatic enough for it. Although she was sure she’d see me on TV one day she just hoped it wasn’t in handcuffs. My Evil One aka Mommie Dearest aka Lifegiver always had the sweetest opinion of my personality.

But I digress. I grew up loving the written word, the way authors compose these perfectly imperfect symphonies of words, sentences, and paragraphs. Authors who paint mentally picturesque landscapes for us to disappear into. I’ve written before that I jotted down short stories in my notebooks with the dream of publishing a story someday. Anne Rice, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Patterson, I wanted to see my name on the cover of a book gracing the shelves of a bookstore. My dad’s parents were voracious readers and I spent weekends at their house growing up. Every night it became a habit to curl up before going to sleep and read. I read everything from pulp detective novels to true crime serial killers. I was way too young for those types of stories, but my love of reading wasn’t stilted because of that.

Romance Body Positivity and Diversity in 2020: a Short Essay

Let me back up a few years and tell you where it all started, I came out as lesbian later in life. I lived with my internalized homophobia. I lived with these words in my head it’s good for everyone else but that’s just not me. While I choked on my jealousy of others being out and proud. I self-destructed on whatever drugs I could make disappear up my nose or however much alcohol I could get down until I reached the bliss of blackouts. I make no apologies for the past. I can’t change what I’ve done; all I can do is accept it and pledge to myself to do better.

For decades of my life I was too fat, too depressed, too manic or whatever the fuck the weekly stigma was to elicit self-loathing. I wrote my dreams on the lined pages of well-worn notebooks. Swearing to myself that I’d never share the stories I hid. Then one day I started posting them anonymously online. Saving myself from the inevitable trolling that the internet is famous for.