Tag Archives: Ghost

gHost Teaser

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Cyberpunk, BDSM

Date Published: September 27, 2024

 

 

In the 23rd century you can jack into the web, shop at a mall floating half
a mile above the street, kill yourself with the drug of the week, and wake
up in a new body.

The rich can have what they want — and they want immortality. What they
get is gHost, generic Host Somnambulant Transfer. The dead become
re-animated hosts for the living. The trade is controlled by megacorps and
is highly regulated. Getting on the list is the perk for any corporate
ladder-climber. But the price is steep.

Brady Woods is a smart-ass hacker fighting to survive in the dim streets at
the bottom of the canyons between two-hundred-story buildings, where smog
and anti-grav shopping malls block out the sun and predators prowl the
shadowed alleys.

Brady has talent. He can fix anything. And he can surf the web like no one
can. Code is his junk food; blind killers and security bots are his nemeses;
information is his currency and his rush.

Sleen’s girl Deel has eyes for Brady; a battered cat knows its own. Brady
knows what he wants, and he wants Deel. Problem. Sleen thinks he owns Deel,
and he’s not about to give her up. In a barter economy Deel’s up for grabs
— for the right price. But can she be trusted? And how far will Brady go to
make her his own?

 

gHost tablet

EXCERPT

Following Brady as they shouldered through the crowd in the free market at
Temple Square, Jongo asked, “That guy from gHost been around
again?”

“Yeah,” said Brady absently.

Free market hawkers shouted lies and the booths were generally full of
crap, but you could get warm beer and stale burgers for a decent price. If
you had a job. Large people with long arms and heavy truncheons roamed the
crowd. A few stood by jewelry booths and the like, vendors who could afford
the service and needed it.

They headed for the Sky Mall at Nineteenth and Ash. Gravs slid through the
canyons in a solid stream. The sun, where it could penetrate through the
maze of skybridges, the sludge of traffic, the vertical walls of the
superscrapers, and the thick drizzle-fog from the grav exhausts, fell
faintly on the Certified Organic PermGrass. You could roll a P-5 battle tank
over that stuff and every blade would spring right back.

At ground level, most of downtown was a meandering park, with low-light
trees and flower gardens and wandering paths to soften the atmosphere of
crumbling, graffiti covered tenements. Best thing about living here, if you
ignored the fact that it looked like nineteenth century London at midnight,
about which Brady was fairly certain Jongo didn’t have a clue.

“You jacked in again?” asked Jongo, looking askance. Like most
humans, Jongo practically lived to surf, but jacking scared him.
“You’re the only person I ever heard of can jack without an
implant.”

Brady thought Jongo sounded less envious than self pitying. Ordinary
mortals needed an implant and a steady supply of nauseating drugs to make
the necessary mental connection for real jacking.

The reward was the ability to be in the net, to swim with the sharks. The
sort of thing high level corporate IT commandos got paid to do. The downside
for plebes was two days retching your guts out when you checked back in from
the ride. The corporate guys got the good stuff, no withdrawal, but the
brain strain still sent three in ten to the psych ward.

Apparently I’m either immune or already insane.

Deep surfing demanded an out of body experience not compatible with
walking, but Brady could cruise a little.

Ignoring Jongo, Brady chatted with Beezo, who Brady actually knew
personally. Tall angular guy with shadowed eyes who spoke with deceptive
softness and had no known address, or, for that matter, any obvious means of
support. Beezo did mutter occasionally about overthrowing the establishment,
whatever that meant, and was known to drive his environmentally devastating
grav at speeds approaching escape velocity.

Beezo had planned one of his legendary, online/real-time parties, where
he’d take over an entire lower level floor somewhere, spend thousands
painting and decorating, invite three hundred total strangers, and provide
food, beverages and drugs. Entertainment developed through spontaneous
combustion.

Beezo mixed with a different crowd. Brady’d seen a society column online
that had a picture of a big deal party out in the Hamptons and fuck if Beezo
hadn’t been in it. No explanation for that one but Brady always figured
Beezo was some rich family’s black sheep. Black demon sounds closer to
it.

Brady had no idea where Beezo got the money, although the black demon
analogy looked better all the time. There was always serious female talent,
which appeared to be Beezo’s primary interest, but just as frequently the
parties attracted unwelcome legal attention, especially when someone
inevitably jacked in and tried to crack a corporate firewall.

“You in?” Beezo asked by non-video voice link, meaning he was
probably in a session with one or more girls. Brady could never tell
anything by voice alone. Beezo seemed to have Herculean self-control.

Brady had no interest in Beezo’s money or his drugs and he didn’t want to
take a chance on getting arrested, but before he could play the Elena card,
Beezo said, “I can have two good people over there to look after
Elena.”

Brady trusted Beezo that way. “You’re reading my mind. Thanks, but let
me think about it.”

“Way on.” Beezo blinked out.

Beezo had no issue with Brady’s noncommittal attitude, which Brady
understood put him fairly high up the ladder of people Beezo liked. He liked
Beezo in turn, but the party scene had soured for him before it started, in
view of his current situation.

Freddy Lake pinged him, wanting to know who could reverse engineer a
certain program that might perhaps be used to bypass the security system for
a minor third world bank. If one were so inclined.

Brady dropped that one like a dirty bomb, referring Freddy to a vague
acquaintance who had less regard for his own skin. Brady had helped Freddy
out a few years ago with a similar technical issue, before he understood
that Freddy’s profession involved personal intrusion into other people’s
private property.

Rumor had Freddy living in a penthouse in Paris half the year, and an
absolute zero mud hut on Frendel II out at the edge of the galaxy the other
half. No one had any idea what Freddy looked like or where he actually
lived. Brady figured he was a corporate AI construct, built to distract the
masses from their prosaic woes when they weren’t high on the drug of the
week.

Hive flitted by, waving. She used a porn star avatar, totally nude and
rendered in erotically charged detail. Hive liked bondage and D/s, which
request Brady had occasionally obliged, although digital orgasms didn’t do
much for him.

If she actually jacked in we could trade sensory overlays. The idea
appealed on a purely visceral level. But she wasn’t having any, hangover
aside. Sensory overlays were way too intimate for people who spent the
majority of their lives connected to the net.

A corporate cruiser swerved around a corner, riding low and slow, clearly
on the hunt. Amber beams cut through the mist. Jongo stiffened and Brady
knew he had Benedrene or Malzene on him again. The Legacy Corp decal shone
bright yellow on the door of the cruiser. They both breathed out as the long
blue shark glided off in search of other prey.

“Their CFO got iced a couple of days ago,” muttered Brady by way
of explanation, not that Jongo cared. “Probably Freeman Enterprises. I
heard they were making a move on the North Jupiter mines. The guy who got it
was jacked in at the time. Everybody’s saying it was an inside job. Someone
shorted his connection. Their whole online system collapsed, shut down the
entire Jupiter operation for six days. Cost them a bundle.”

Jongo screwed up his face. “Say what?”

“Nothing.” Brady scowled.

Jongo grimaced. “Unassisted Jacking kills more people than smoking,
Brady. Why the hell do you do it? And how do you do it without
drugs?”

“How do you know I don’t use?” muttered Brady,
concentrating.

Jongo waved his hand. “Shit, man, you won’t even blow a Wad. Besides,
I heard it from the dealers… I mean, you know, people talk. They say you
don’t use. Think you’re a loser.” Then, “So why do you do it all
the time, anyway? Jacking, I mean. You practically live there.”

They stopped at Louie’s Floating Food Kart. Jongo got a bowl of nut soup.
Brady bought a soy burger.

“Just curious,” Brady mumbled in reply as he wolfed down the
tasteless, dripping mess.

“You’re always curious,” Jongo muttered.

Brady knew Jongo really didn’t care.

“So what about the gHost guy?” Jongo asked between crunches.
“You think he’ll buy it?”

Brady shrugged as if he didn’t much care, either. “The holo’s pretty
good. I jigged the program from a server uptown, jumped six links to do
it.”

Jongo scowled again like he thought that was crap. Even though he didn’t
say anything, Brady knew he was secretly awestruck. It didn’t take much to
impress Jongo. “Yeah, I wondered what the three alarm was all about
last night.”

Brady snorted at Jongo’s attempt to sound like he understood one word of
what Brady had said. “That was the Legacy whorehouse. I mean Sexual
Therapy Clinic. Somebody torched the place. The Moral Mafia is taking
credit.” Brady shook his head in admiration. “Good old thermite.
Nobody’s used that since the War.”

He’d have done it himself, but he had a strong suspicion somebody like
Beezo had beat him to it. Or Freddy Lake, although Freddy was strongly
rumored to have no ideology that did not involve money.

Only five years late, he thought.

“Shit, that’s where your mom died, right? You glad it’s
gone?”

“It’s not gone, just well scorched. Pretty hard to burn honeycrete and
kelvic rebar. Somebody called in an alarm and they evacuated, ran the
sniffers and found nothing, then they’re walking back in and the place goes
up. Security got some singed eyebrows is all.” He smiled. Thanks,
whoever.

They walked on, heading for the mall. Jongo wanted to look at stuff he
couldn’t buy. Brady went along for no particular reason. To get out for a
while.

Brady saw Sleen and four of his ass lickers. Two were sizeable males of the
species, Nix and Jawbone. Brady suspected they shared a single digit IQ but
wasn’t prepared to bet it was that high. The other two were females, one
thin, the other not, neither of whom he knew.

Not-Thin-girl wasn’t actually fat, being built more along the lines of a
Roman Centurion, clad in retro-leather with fake metal patches that carried
the Roman analogy even further. Her dark hair stood out in horizontal spikes
and she had a razor chain wrapped around her left forearm. Brady thought she
could probably run the hundred meters in ten flat with one of him under each
arm. That and her possessive stance near the other girl tagged her as
mistress or owner.

Following his brief cataloguing of the Centurion, Brady shifted his gaze
and immediately forgot her.

Thin girl looked to be about a meter fifty if she stood straighter than she
now did, might weigh forty-five kilos if she ate something. But thin is
relative. Next to the Centurion she looked like a rod, but under her
gray-black second-skin, which looked like it had been sprayed on, because it
had, her ass looked firm and round and her tits stood out like melons, with
spectacular nipples.

Her white-blonde hair had been buzzed. She had light chocolate skin and
wore no makeup, which was clearly not an issue given her physical
attributes. If she had been healthier her sharp face would have been elfin
and intelligent instead of gaunt and flat-eyed.

She stood behind the others. Probably the group whore, but Brady didn’t
judge her. Neither, apparently, did Jongo, whose eyes clearly wished they
were hands.

Sleen wore a jacket that appeared to be made from multi-hued feathers. A
holographic tattoo on his bald head changed color and shape constantly,
depending on his mood. Just now it was a snake swallowing a mouse. Brady
watched the shimmering coils slither around the side of Sleen’s head.

Sleen saw Jongo’s look. He casually backhanded the girl, who turned her
face away with practiced quickness and took the blow on her temple as she
crumpled to the ground.

No one moved, including Brady. Sleen clamped one huge hand on Jongo’s neck,
squeezing lightly and making Jongo’s eyes bulge.

“Forget about her, shitbird. She ain’t for sale or rent and you got
other business right now.”

 

About the Author

By day, Jonathan Wright disguises himself as a retired insurance
underwriter. His family believe him to be supremely cool, though slightly
deranged. In pursuit of his career as a horror/romance/comedy writer, Jon
strives to expand his experiences, in order to relate them to his readers
with authenticity. Skulking through everyday life is not enough for Jon, no,
he pushes the envelope (and everyone’s buttons). He calls this
“research.”

The cats, who have unique and appropriate names, but do not answer to them,
and are therefore both known simply as “Cat,” could care less. His
daughter generally forgives him, as long as he remembers to take out the
trash and put the toilet seat down.

 

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

 

Pre-Order Today

 

 

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Ghost Teaser Tuesday

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(Shiva’s Road MC)

 

Motorcycle Club Romance, Interracial & Multicultural

Date Published: March 22, 2024

 


 

 

Ghost — Against my better judgment, I went to Chicago to meet my father.
Instead I find a sexy siren who’s fighting a daily struggle to
survive. I claim her for my own the first chance I get, but that’s
when our troubles really start. She won’t leave without my sister
Rachel, her best friend, and I’m a long way from home and my brothers.
When the bad guys attack, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them
both.

Simone — I need a way out. When Ghost arrives, I take a chance and ask him
for help. But he’s the son of the man who sells my body. I don’t
know how far I can trust him. My life and Rachel’s hang in the
balance. Ghost says he wants me by his side forever. I’m trusting him
with our lives, but can I trust him with my heart?

 

Ghost tablet
 

 

 

EXCERPT

Ghost

“This place is something else,” Beowulf said over the sound of
their idling bikes.

Ghost didn’t respond, knowing his best friend didn’t expect him
to. He just stared at the place his mother had called home for the last
twenty-five years. The McMansion and surrounding grounds presented a vulgar
display of wealth against the suburban Chicago backdrop. The pink granite
drive wound around the two-story house, lit by spotlights in the center of
the immaculately manicured lawn. In bright sunlight, he’d no doubt
need darker shades to withstand the glare of the mica-flecked walls and
white shutters. He’d known about the setup from the intel Bytes had
gathered on his father before they left the compound in Central Ohio, but
seeing it in person shocked the man who had grown up dirt poor in a
single-wide trailer on the Mescalero Apache Tribe Reservation.

“Name,” snapped a male voice from a box built into the brick
column to the left of the wrought black iron gate.

“Lucas Blackfoot,” Ghost replied. His voice sounded rusty, even
to his own ears.

“You were told to come alone.”

Ghost shrugged, sure the security cameras would pick up his response.

After a long pause, the voice instructed, “Park your motorcycles in
the open garage bay. You will be met at the interior door. Do not enter
without an escort or you will be shot.”

“Friendly type, your Pops.” Wulf chuckled.

Ghost let his unease out by revving his old Harley. The Knucklehead
vibrated the ground as the gate with a stylized W in the center pulled back
to allow them entrance. They followed the drive to the right of the house,
moving at a slow pace on the loose gravel, and found the place they were to
leave their bikes without issue.

Almost as soon as they swung their legs over the fenders, a door at the far
end of the far end of the garage opened. A limo occupied one bay. Midlife
crisis cars sat in the remaining two, each of which probably cost more than
Ghost had seen during his entire childhood.

A large, bald man in a black suit he couldn’t button over his flabby
stomach — a security drudge so stereotypical as to be laughable — motioned
them to come closer.

“What do you wanna bet he gets handsy?” Wulf said loud enough
to be overheard.

Ghost grunted. This was gonna suck. He had planned to get in and out as
quickly as possible, having minimal interaction with his sperm donor.

“Which one of you is Blackfoot?” the guard asked as they
approached.

Like that wasn’t obvious. Even a toddler could tell the black-haired
Native American from the Nordic blond. “I am,” Ghost
replied.

“Your… companion… can wait here.” The guard put a
wealth of innuendo into the word companion, still trying to get a rise out
of him.

“No.” Ghost didn’t make a threatening move, but he
wasn’t going into this house alone. He’d never spoken to Donald
P. Willard, never went looking for his parents after his mother left the
Reservation when he was eight. His father should be happy he’d only
brought his best friend for backup. No way in hell would he allow himself to
be separated from Wulf this early in the game.

“You come alone, or you don’t come at all.”

“Fine,” said Wulf, “We’ll be home in our beds by
morning then.”

The dumbass reached out to grab Ghost by the arm. “I said
–”

Ghost grabbed the guard’s hand by the thumb and bent it back. When
the man tried to twist out of his grip, Ghost held on long enough to make
sure the man knew Ghost was choosing to release him.

Another man, this one a little older and in better shape than the first,
appeared in the doorway. “Problem?”

“He doesn’t want to come quietly, boss,” Dumbass
said.

“Let him bring his little friend if it makes him feel better,”
the new arrival replied. “I’m sure they won’t cause any
trouble. Right, boys?”

“We’re housebroken,” Wulf assured him. “Can’t
say the same for your team though. Need a lesson in manners.”

“Boss” stared at them for a few beats, then turned on his heel
and walked back into the house. His lapdog followed, leaving Ghost and Wulf
to take up the rear. As soon as they cleared the doorway, another man came
up behind them, closing the door and walking practically on their heels.
They moved through the mostly dark house in that formation until they
reached a closed door with soft light spilling through around the
cracks.

A knock on the door received a curt, “Enter.”

A hand on his back pushed Ghost ahead of Wulf into the room. No less
opulent than the rest of the house, the study had dark built-in shelves at
the back wall and thick, velvet green drapes bracketing the floor-to-ceiling
windows along the side. Donald P. Willard sat behind a polished walnut desk.
A Tiffany desk lamp illuminated Donald’s thick features and extremely
short-cropped, graying hair. His hands were laced together in front of him,
resting over a sizeable belly straining the buttons on his tailored shirt.
His blue suit jacket hung on the back of his leather executive chair. The
picture of a prominent light-skinned black businessman, surrounding himself
with obvious signs of wealth and opulence. Ghost was pretty sure it was all
a front, meant to impress.

“Son, please have a seat. The rest of you are dismissed,”
Donald said.

The three bodyguards tried to grab Wulf to remove him bodily from the room,
but he evaded their grasps and sat down on the green leather sofa which
rested against a creamy damask wallpaper. “I think I’ll stay. I
like it here,” Wulf said mildly.

“This is a private conversation between my son and myself. Please do
us the courtesy of letting us have this family moment,” Donald
replied.

Wulf looked to Ghost, who gave him a slight nod. Beowulf could take care of
himself, and it didn’t seem like anyone was going to talk in front of
his friend.

“Come on, boys. Show me the kitchen. I could use a snack after the
long ride.” Wulf jumped up from the couch and led the way out into the
hall.

Once they were alone and the door shut, Donald gave Ghost an appraising
glance. “You look like your mother.”

Ghost knew what he meant. His father’s African American heritage
didn’t show much in Ghost’s features. There didn’t seem
much point in replying so Ghost didn’t bother.

Donald sighed. “Have a seat, son. We have a lot to talk
about.”

Ghost sat in one of the chairs in front of Donald’s desk that matched
the leather sofa. It was as uncomfortable as it looked. Still, he said
nothing. He’d learned a long time ago prolonged silence had a way of
getting people to start rambling just to fill the void.

“I have to say, your existence came as quite a shock to me. In all
the years I’ve been married to Caroline, she never once mentioned you.
Do you know why?”

“No.”

“Has she ever contacted you since she left the
Reservation?”

“No.”

“I’ve always wanted a son to carry on my legacy. Surely, she
would have known I’d have welcomed you with open arms.”

Ghost shrugged. His mother had signed over custody of him to his
grandfather when she left, giving no explanation. His memories of her were
happy, but dim. He couldn’t say why his mother did what she did, and
wouldn’t tell this man even if he did know. He owed this man
nothing.

“Did she tell you anything about me before she left? Anything at
all?”

“No.” Ghost knew he sounded like a broken record but really
what was there to say? He’d received word of his mother’s death
from a lawyer, closely followed by a summons from Donald P. Willard to
discuss her “affairs.” Ghost already regretted his decision to
come here and couldn’t wait to get the fuck out.

“Man of few words, eh? I can respect that. Too many people
don’t stand by their word these days. I’m not one of those. Old
school to the core, just like my daddy.” He probably practiced his
“trust me” smile in the mirror. Ghost wasn’t falling for
it.

“Why am I here?” He knew why, but he wanted to see how the
other man would spin it.

“I wanted to meet you, talk to you. I am your father, after
all.”

“Are you sure?” Ghost was. Bytes had done the research.
Donald’s name wasn’t listed on his birth certificate, but his
mother had left a letter with his grandfather. The old man never said a
word, but the document had been among his things given to the tribal leaders
upon his death. An old friend read it to him over the phone. His father had
been a high roller at one of the casinos on tribal land. His mother worked
there and caught his eye. Eventually they started a relationship. She got
pregnant. Eight years later, she left the Reservation to be his wife.

“Of course, I am. Your mother was faithful to me, even before we
married. Or are you trying to tell me you know otherwise?” The thought
seemed to anger him.

“No.”

“Well then, there you are. You’re my son. And I’d like to
think we could have a good relationship now that we know about each
other.”

Ghost almost said no again, just to see what the other man would do, but
managed to stop himself. Instead, he changed tracks. “Your letter
promised legal action if I didn’t show. That’s not very…
fatherly.”

“That was before I got to know you. My security team did a little
digging. Can’t blame a man for wanting to get to know all about a son
he suddenly finds out about, can you? And now I know you’ve served
your country well, but you’ve fallen on hard times. That motorcycle
club you’re with, well, I’d like to see my son socializing with
a better class of people. I can and will help you there.”

“No.” The word came out fast and emphatic. Shiva’s Road
MC was his family now. Not this man.

“OK, OK, I can see I’m moving too fast for you. A habit in my
business. You don’t make money letting grass grow under your
feet!”

Donald’s business, according to Bytes, barely paid the mortgage on
this eyesore these days. Donald’s father had been a solid contractor
for large scale buildings in downtown Chicago. But cutting corners to
underbid other contractors, shoddy supplies, and other bad business
practices had given the family business a bad name. Donald scrambled to
cover his monthly debts and if he didn’t hire better lawyers,
he’d be facing jail time. Then there was the little matter of his
gambling debts…

Instead of replying right away, Ghost let his attention drift around the
office. There were business books, decanters containing various kinds of
alcohol with the usual glasses, and several framed pictures. One of the
pictures caught his eye. Two young women were laughing with their arms
around each other in front of a fountain. One had black hair, dusky skin and
a more than passing resemblance to Donald. She must be Rachael, his
half-sister.

The other woman — he didn’t recognize her — was nothing less than
stunning. Platinum-blonde hair surrounded her tanned face in a halo as the
sunshine poured down on her, seeming to illuminate her from within. The red
top she wore hugged her more-than-a-handful breasts and rode up enough to
show a strip of her belly. The matching skirt flared out from curvy hips
that begged to be gripped with his large hands and held onto for a wild
ride. Though he couldn’t tell the exact color of her eyes from the
photograph, they seemed to sparkle with mischief. And her full lips, painted
the same red as her shirt, were a form of temptation all their own. He
wanted to lick and suck and taste every inch of her. His cock came to life
behind his zipper as he studied the image. He’d never had such a
visceral reaction to a woman, let alone one he’d seen only in a
picture, in his life.

About the Author

Every book is a mystery to Dana. Whether it’s writing one or reading
one, she delves into the who, what, when, where and why with a thirst for
knowledge. Getting to know the characters and following their journey as it
unfolds gives her a thrill she hasn’t been able to duplicate in any
other activity. She’s been known to devour as many as three books in a
day, and would write until her fingers bled if her muses allowed.

Although Dana is just getting started on her publishing career, please join
her on Facebook and Goodreads, and visit her website often as her MC
collection grows to see what Dana has in store for her readers next!

 

Contact Links

Author’s Website

Author on Facebook

 

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

 

Pre-Order Today

 

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