#BookSale “Stand Your Ground: A Novel” by Victoria Christopher Murray

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From the #1 Essence bestselling and award-winning author of The Personal Librarian comes Stand Your Ground, a novel about two mothers who must grapple with their faith and belief in justice in the midst of a highly charged murder trial involving the death of an African-American teenage boy.

A black teenage boy is dead. A white man shot him. Was he standing his ground or was it murder?

Janice Johnson is living every black mother’s nightmare. Her seventeen-year-old son was murdered and the shooter has not been arrested. Can the D.A. and the police be trusted to investigate and do the right thing? Should Janice take advantage of the public outcry and join her husband alongside the angry protestors who are out for revenge?

Meredith Spencer is married to the man accused of the killing and she sees her husband and the situation with far more clarity than anyone realizes. What she knows could blow the case wide open, but what will that mean for her life and that of her son? Will she have the courage to come forward in time so that justice can be done?

#1 national bestselling and award-winning author Victoria Christopher Murray’s Stand Your Ground is a pulse-pounding meditation on race, motherhood, marriage, and vigilante justice that will have readers spellbound until its shocking end.

1.99 at all online digital retailers for a limited time!

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#Featured “Lessons in Love (Newland Road Series Book 1)” by Linda Leigh Hargrove

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Tender and engaging. A 70s throwback love story set in rural Carolina.

She didn’t know the meaning of real love until he taught her. Will that knowledge be enough to make her stay?

Broke and abused, she was leaving town and never coming back until he arrived with lessons about history, forgiveness, and love that make her question everything. Is he worth giving up her dreams for or is he like her late father — just another rolling stone?

If you like small-town Southern fiction, you’ll enjoy this first installment in a series of romance novellas about the Lawrence sisters. Enjoy their emotionally-charged trials and triumphs, seasoned with a host of colorful characters.

NOTE: This book was previously published under the title History Lessons.

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#BookBlitz “Laugh Clown Laugh” by Penny Haavig

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 Missionary to the Oddballs Series

 

Historical Fiction

 

Date Published: 10-31-2018

Publisher: Book Baby

Insecurity, grief, and scars of the past nip at Violet Pearl’s heels through four decades. The colorful vaudeville stage bolts this riveting story forward. An invisible mask covers the anguish in her heart. A history of mental illness haunts her. Will Violet escape a nervous breakdown?

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About The Author

Penny N Haavig was born in New York City. She lived in upstate, New York for many years. Penny has two grown daughters, and five grandchildren. She resides in Minnesota with her husband, Tom.

Penny loves horses and continues to ride when she can.

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#FREE “Traded: Brody and Kara (Cliffside Bay Book 1)” by Tess Thompson

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She can’t afford to be found. His life is on public display. Will her dangerous past destroy their chance for love?

Nurse Kara Boggs lost everything because she stood up for what’s right. After turning state’s evidence against her mobster father, she’s forced to go underground with an assumed name. But taking a job for a handsome celebrity quarterback could shine a very dangerous public spotlight.

After leading his team to a Super Bowl win, Brody Mullen should be on top of the world. But he’s shocked when his quiet seaside homecoming reveals his mother in a cast, and her housekeeper dying from a brain tumor. Frantic to get the best care for the women he adores, he hires a gorgeous nurse… despite her strange request to stay publicly invisible.

As Kara’s attraction to the charming jock grows, she becomes trapped by her own high-stakes secrets and the constant threat of exposure. And Brody’s famously strict “no women” rule means falling hard for the beautiful woman could ruin his career.

Will they be sidelined by their own rules, or will they complete a pass to passion?

Traded: Brody and Kara is the touching first book in the Cliffside Bay small-town romance series. If you like courageous heroines, steadfast heroes, and heartfelt stories of friendship and family, you’ll adore Tess Thompson’s emotional saga.

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#NewRelease “Murderer At Heart: Julliete Clark Book 1” by Gomer Joseph

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A deranged killer is on the loose. And only one girl can stop them…

Sixteen-year-old Haitian American Julliete Clark has made a name for herself as a popular True Crime YouTuber. But despite her online success, she’s a girl who stands by her conservative Christian beliefs. So she’s shocked and appalled when she discovers that her US history teacher, Mr. Hill, has been murdered.

When it seems like the police have no leads, Julliete decides it’s time for her to step up. She’s determined to put her sleuthing skills to the ultimate test. Sure, she’s researched cases for her YouTube channel before. But she’s never put herself in harm’s way before. And the killer is still out there…

If she isn’t careful, Julliette might just become the next victim…

Can this teen detective figure out who killed her teacher, before it’s too late? Or will her investigation put her in the crosshairs of a deadly murderer?
 

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#BookSale “The Trouble With Love: Faith & Fortune 1” by Toni Shiloh

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I, Holiday Brown, have it all. A platinum record. Multi-million dollar home in Manhattan that I share with my two best friends. Life is looking fantastic until my roommate’s brother decides to bunk in our guestroom while his house gets renovated.

W. Emmett Bell has always been the bane of my existence. He’s annoying, stubborn, a know it all, and just might be the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on. But I refuse to fall for him. But when his sister’s threatened by a stalker, dynamics change. His unwavering faith isn’t quite as self-righteous as I’d always thought, and maybe he has a good side I’ve overlooked all these years.

Or maybe it’s all too much trouble.

The Trouble With Love is the first book in the Christian Chick Lit series: Faith & Fortune.

99c for a limited time!

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#BookSale “Return to Me (The Restoration Chronicles Book #1)” by Lynn Austin

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After years of watching his children and grandchildren wander from their faith, Iddo’s prayers are answered: King Cyrus is allowing God’s chosen people to return to Jerusalem. Jubilant, he joyfully prepares for their departure, only to learn that his family, grown comfortable in the pagan culture of Babylon, wants to remain.

Zechariah, Iddo’s oldest grandson, feels torn between his grandfather’s ancient beliefs and the comfort and success his father enjoys in Babylon. But he soon begins to hear the voice of God, encouraging him to return to the land given to his forefathers.

Bringing to life the biblical books of Ezra and Nehemiah, Return to Me tells the compelling story of Iddo and Zechariah, the women who love them, and the faithful followers who struggle to rebuild their lives in obedience to the God who beckons them home.

1.99 for a limited time!

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#PromoTour “Divorcing Atlanta” by Timmothy B. McCann

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DIVORCING ATLANTA

BY TIMMOTHY B. MCCANN

“(Until…) stands head and shoulders above the rest.” Eric Jerome Dickey, NY Times Bestselling Author

Pastor Lorenzo Richardson’s endeavors to fulfill the calling on his life—which is to change the world, one soul at a time, by starting in southwest Atlanta.

So when he loses people in his circle unexpectedly, the ministry he dedicated his life to fails, and his wife is embroiled in an adulterous public affair with a notable public figure. Pastor Richardson is at the end of his rope and decides to change the world he lives in forever.

Divorcing Atlanta is a moving yet timely account that will resonate with readers who believe in the unyielding power of redemption, choose love and hope over hurt and fear, and fight for what truly matters in their lives.

AVAILABLE ON

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EXCERPT

Chapter One

Lorenzo

After I preached the last sermon I’d ever deliver, I sat in my neon green, Honda Accord, with my dad’s Bible in one hand and a Glock 17 in the other, contemplating how to get away with a robbery. Soon, this gun will make me money, send me to prison or kill me. My once perfect life, has come down to this.

When the sun began its tiptoe across the horizon, there was nothing that triggered such a thought. When you realize that you’ve given your all—yet if you should die before you wake, no one would care; it’s a dark and solemn place to dwell. That’s where I find myself tonight. And after I reconciled the potential jail time due to what I’ve already done, at this point, it doesn’t matter.

I delivered the shortest sermon I’d ever preached. I’m sure the sixteen people in the storefront church appreciated it. Seventeen, if you counted the pregnant white girl twice. It’s hard to minister on fumes. When you’re worried about the here and now, it’s damn near impossible to expound about the hereafter. I’m full in spirit, but in every single other way, I’m empty.

What does abject hunger feel like?

When you’ve gone a week without a decent meal. When starvation trickles up your spine. When it plays tricks on your mind, you hallucinate. Bones appear in your face, in places you’ve never seen before. Instinct compels you to lick your lips for comfort from time-to-time, and before your tongue can settle in your mouth, your lips are dry and need to be re-licked. Then the cramps kick in. That’s abject hunger.

You try to go to sleep. Because if you can just go to sleep, maybe you can find rest. You can find peace. You can awaken and things will be different. But you can’t.

After the church service, I did something my dad would’ve called a moral turpitude. I bought a four pack of wine coolers. I did so to escape—if only for the moment. All I know is this: When you’ve worked this hard to build a church, to be recognized for your endeavors nationally, it’s not supposed to end this way. I wasn’t supposed to be destitute at this point in my life. Wasn’t supposed to lose my congregation the way I lost them—and I wasn’t supposed to be contemplating the unthinkable in this hour.

The wind acts as an accelerant, which causes the clouds to roll. The taste of the earth floats on the air, and before I know it, soft sprinkles dot my skin. There’s a zing that teases my nostrils in the darkness of night, in a city bustling with activity—far from ready to fall asleep. An Über crammed with co-eds stops. They spill out.  They’re laughing, half lit; enjoying the first vestiges of a new day.

From a window on the fifth floor, a man screeches profanity at the top of his lungs to a group of young men sitting in their car blasting music.

“Turn that shit down! People gotta go to work.”

He’s ignored, and even if they heard him, they knew he’d never come down. People never come down in neighborhoods like this. They scream, pout, and go back to bed.

If one painted a picture and dubbed it, “Monday Night in Atlanta,” this is what would be captured in the frame. From my viewpoint I see the best and worst of Black America. Morehouse men talking to dope boys. Pinstriped professionals stepping over vomit. Everything one could both love and loathe is confined within three city blocks of a city that will let you call her ugly because she’s far too confident to care. If you closed your eyes in this part of town, you would feel so close to heaven you could hear the key of David being played, so close to hell you’d smell souls frying.

This is where I find myself tonight.

On one side of MLK, there’s a mural of Trayvon, George, Breonna and Ahmaud. The artist has added Rayshard’s smiling face, along with three additional blank spaces and the caption, “U Next?” beneath them. On the other side, twinkles of moonlight shine on crushed takeout cups, Colt 45 cans, and discarded Swisher Sweets wrappers. There’s a homeless man or woman sleeping at the bus stop, and the scent of vomit swings haltingly low to the ground.

I decide if I am going to do this—I need to game it out. In the age of Corona everyone’s face is half-covered, so there’s no need for a ski mask. Check.

I have a Walmart bag for whatever is in the register or stashed behind the counter. Check.

Once I’m out the door, I’ll jump in the car. Then it occurs to me. My car is disabled as well. Plan B—dip into the night and deal with it later. Check.

I’m told that in neighborhoods like this, for insurance purposes, they can’t chase you. If you have a gun and get out the door, they have to let you run.

God, I pray that’s true.

I massage the back of my neck, bite the inside of my lip, reach between the center console of the car, and retrieve a keepsake from my youth—a Kingsman chess piece from my first national chess tournament. I was ranked in the top two hundred players under thirteen. I hold it to reconnect. It takes me back to the south side. But on nights like tonight, I need it for peace. There’s something about the ridges of the crown and the smooth black finish of the base that centers me and forces me to think strategically. It binds the intellectual, spiritual, and emotional man within. Never have I needed this more.

My throat is bone dry in spite of my beverage of choice. I glance at my watch, put the Bible in the back seat, and cover it with my hand.

“Father forgive me,” I murmur, “for what I’m about to do.”

I look across the street. My heartbeat settles. My breathing returns to normal. The king has done its job. I return the chessman to the console. Through clenched teeth I murmur, “It’s time.”

Across the street is the world-famous Busy Bee Café. Next to it, there’s a liquor store, followed by a pawn shop, liquor store, nail salon, comedy club, liquor store and strip club. All except for the Busy Bee are open for business. I know if I pull a gun out in a pawn shop, booty club, or liquor store, light will shine through me before I hit the ground. That leaves two options: rob the comedy club or rob a nail salon.

I exit the car. I hold the half empty wine cooler in the same sweaty and unstable hand I hold the Glock. To balance myself, I lean against my wet-from-the-rain Accord for support. It’s slippery, but it allows me to gain my composure and stop my spinning world. I’m a tad nauseous. Since I haven’t eaten, I dry heave. My body isn’t used to alcohol, even under normal conditions. Nevertheless, I wipe the creases of my mouth and stick the gun in the pit of my back under my belt as if I were on a cop show. Maybe it’s my situation. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but I don’t have a clue as to where I’m going, even if I can get my feet on one accord.

I stagger across the street and see this athletic-looking woman, no more than thirty years old. I blink a couple of times to refocus. She has a high sense of style, making her stand out in the neighborhood this time of night. As she speaks, she moves her hands rapidly and snaps her fingertips from time to time to emphasize a point. Her shoulder-length hair is in what the kids call dookie braids, and she’s dressed in a white pantsuit with a white double-breasted vest and a leopard-patterned ascot and face mask.

The woman turns the street into a runway in Milan as she moves like a model in white stilettos. I watch her walk up to a black Audi, pull down the mask, and if my eyes aren’t deceiving me, they make an exchange. Newsflash: All drugstores haven’t been closed by the virus. She runs to the safety of her pearl white Escalade, forearm over her head to avoid getting too wet. Even though the vehicle is common in this part of Atlanta—there’s something eerily familiar about it as she gets behind the wheel and swiftly closes the door.

The comedy club, Laff-a-LotZ, is free. There’s a line to enter with a group, all wearing red Trap Music museum t-shirts and talking loudly about their visit to “The A.T.L..” If I rob the comedy club, I’ll keep it short and to the point. I’ll just tell him or her, “You know what time it is!” Then I’ll place the gun on the bar. Miss Glock can finish the conversation.

I join the line to enter. For as far as I can see down the street, trees line the road on both sides. For the most part, they’ve grown strong and healthy in the middle of this concrete jungle. I lean against one in front of the club to take shelter from the drizzling rain.

Once inside the small rectangular club, I notice the deep purple–colored walls are checkerboard with mirrors. People are talking loudly, most mouths covered with masks, trying to be heard over the thumping sound of the Mississippi Slide blasting from the speakers, which makes the walls throb. The dance floor is filled with the vibrant energy of line dancers moving as one as if they have practiced the synchronized moves before the club opened. A few people, for some reason, wear their protective masks under their nose, which makes no sense to me. I reach into my pocket and put on my KN-95 to the sound of bottles clicking and laughter all about, just before the comedian comes to the small octagonal stage off the dance floor.

It’s been months since I’ve been around this many people. Tonight, folks laugh a little louder and dance a little harder since it’s the first week A.T.L’ians have been allowed to mingle after the citywide mandatory, night club restrictions. On top of that it seems folks are tired of the daily Trump foolishness, fake evangelicals calling sins wins, Sou-sou money clubs, police killing Black men, gaining weight, R. Kelly, COVID killing everyone, gaining weight, Karen’s going wild, Kevin’s protecting Karen’s, home schooling, missing family, sweat pants, seeing too much of family, Zoom calls, looking for toilet paper, gaining even more weight and then going to sleep; and like Ground Hog Day II, having it happen the very next day.

I’m cold and damp from the rain, so I embrace myself, moving my hands up and down my biceps for warmth. I scope out the joint. That’s what they do on TV. If I make this lick and get to the door, I’ll be able to survive until I can sell another house. This has to work out.

In the murky, dimly lit back of the room, in front of a faded poster of Killer Mike, a woman is selling neon red, battery-powered roses. She moves from person to person and is rejected repeatedly. I watch her unmasked face mouth a few words, receive the rejection, and move doggedly to the next person, unfazed.

The bartender puts a stack of bills as thick as a woman’s fist in a bag. He has my attention. He tucks it in a spot behind the bar. That’s the stash house. Yeah, I used to watch The Wire.

When I move, I notice my reflection in the mirror and it’s jarring. One thing I miss about having a home is brushing my teeth in the morning. Odd, right? It’s not only about hygiene. I miss seeing my face. When your car has become your residence, there are times you forget how you look. Now my face is gaunt, and my clothes don’t fit. My eye is a puffy, but not as bad as I thought it would look. Could have been a lot worse.

When we started the church, which my ex named Compassion Central, my light brown skin—the residue of my deceased Italian father—was smooth. Now it resembles a catcher’s mitt, and my curly COVID fro is salt and pepper, in the spots where I’m not going bald. The soaking wet brown tweed, six-hundred-dollar Hugo Boss sport coat I’m wearing, brings to mind something homeless people would roll up to use as a pillow.

No wonder Bishop said he was praying for me after giving me a five dollar, “love token,” from the offering.

“Screw forty-two, I look fifty-two,” I whisper to myself with a wistful smile. My hazel eyes, which at one time would evoke questions from strangers, “Are they real?” are empty, sullen, and emit darkness. People used to ask me if I had work done on my teeth. I always replied, “I’m blessed.” Now the blessings are dingy and yellow, and when I scratch my beard, flakes of dandruff eject like an eight-track. If a person in this club knew me from when the church was open, they’d walk past without saying a word. That wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen tonight.

I find a stool at the bar, closer to my target—the stash house. A guy one seat over motions to the bartender with two fingers and a jerk of his head upward just like in the movies. Within a few minutes, the bartender, brings out two shimmering drinks. The woman selling neon roses is drawing closer. I didn’t notice her make a sale, but she’s persistent.

The guy who ordered the drinks wears a red doo rag under a spearmint green derby and has a crooked smile that exposes teeth on only one side of his mouth. From time to time, he whispers into the ear of the woman perched between his legs then leans back to peep her expression. She appears to admire every word he’s speaking.

The woman with the roses comes up to him. I can hear her pitch. “Excuse me, kind sir. Rose for the lady?”

He flicks her away with the back of his tattooed hand. And then the woman positioned between his legs removes her mask to sip the drink when he suddenly shouts, “What the fuck!” He pushes her away in disgust as if he has seen her unmasked face for the first time.

“What?” she asks. The bartender drops another thick, rubber-banded stack of bills in the burgundy bank bag. He’s getting sloppy.

The patrons banter back and forth, and my mind is on one thing. Like a heavy-handed timpani player, my heart pounds in my chest as I bounce my fist against my knee. The fact that I’m here, in this situation and facing such a dilemma is abhorrent. Can’t dwell on that now. I’m down to my last—and I’ll do what I have to do.

Slowly I stand.

The bartender walks behind the shelf of drinks and into a storage room behind him. I played basketball in high school. Even at my height I could easily jump across the bar, grab the bag, and run out. There’s no way they’d fire a gun in a club this crowded. No flipping way.

I grasp the edge of the bar and steady myself. Then, the voice poses the question.

“Just because you don’t understand, this is what we’re going to do?”

I look back toward the door. The one bouncer is on the other side of the room and although crowded there’s, there is a path to get out of here.

I bend my knees.

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ABOUT TIMMOTHY B. MCCANN

Timmothy McCannTimmothy B. McCann was born to tell stories. What began as penning love letters for a fee, grew into his national bestselling debut entitled, Until. Since then, he has amassed an insatiable and dedicated worldwide readership.

The former collegiate football player, educator, and owner of a financial planning firm is now a commercial real estate broker. In 2018, he founded First Day Christian Center. A ministry dedicated to helping those in need in Atlanta.

In his downtime, Timmothy is a self-proclaimed political junkie, golfer, movie buff and community activist who also loves spending time with the two most adorable grandchildren in the world.

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#BookSale “Never As It Seems: Never As It Seems Serial Book 1” by Gomer Joseph

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A murdered doctor. An angry ex-wife. A defense attorney must uncover the truth…

Defense Attorney Kevin Auguste has devoted his life to the pursuit of justice. An immigrant from Haiti, he has seen first hand the corrupting influence of money and power. Now he fights to be a force for good in his community, and to ensure his children grow up in a better world than the one he left behind.

But when late night police sirens disturb his sleepy neighborhood, Kevin is shocked to discover that his neighbor and client, Dr. Delroy Davidson, has been murdered. And Delroy’s ex-wife has come to town demanding her share of the inheritance…

When a reading of Delroy’s will reveals that another woman will receive half his wealth, Kevin finds himself drawn into a deadly dispute that threatens both him and his family. Torn between protecting his loved ones and revealing the truth, Kevin must outwit mafia thugs, scheming widows, and vindictive families.

But can Delroy’s killer be forced out of hiding, before Kevin becomes the next victim?

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#BookBlitz “Transformation: 30 Years” by Julie Cull



Christian Fiction

Publisher: Outskirts Press

Transformation: 30 Years is an autobiographical yet fictionalized account of a young woman’s journey through many facets, or serious issues, of life such as racism, domestic violence, bullying, eating disorders, lost love, alcoholism, low self esteem, poor self image, overcoming poverty, stereotypes…These are just some of the issues that are addressed in this book. The protagonist resents her “overprotective” mother keeping her from the “fun and mystery” of the darkness. When she finally “escapes” to college and has the power to “live life her own way” she experiences some of the lowest points of her life. Had it not been for the Grace of a Risen Savior, she would have perished. She was, “Saved by Grace.” The book is an easy, quick read that speaks to varying age groups. There is something in the book for anyone who reads it. The book is a ray of hope for those going through various struggles in life to be “tenacious,” and have hope because your Transformation is on the way!!!

The rampant partying continued even after classes had started. Even after a couple of years had passed. Even after it all became unfun. Partying and drinking had become a lifestyle that got in the way of the intended purpose of being there to learn and pursue a degree leading to a career. Jenny had frequent bouts of home sickness and was sinking deeper and deeper into depression. The late nights had become unfun; the hot wings, steamed oysters, and the pitchers of beer had become unfun. The frat parties with their free kegs and anything-goes antics had become unfun. The stories of drunken stupors, hellacious hangovers and promiscuous hook ups had become unfun. Depression was beginning to overtake her to the point of having suicidal thoughts. If life was going to be like this, why live?…


About The Author


Ms. Julie Cull is a born again believer in Jesus Christ. She earned a B.A. in English from the University of Florida and a Master’s in Education from the University of Phoenix. She resides in the Sunshine State, Florida. Ms. Cull loves reading, writing, and going to the beach. She has a daughter and a grandson. She believes in the power of transformation because of the adversities she experienced in her own life. Going through life’s trials can lead you to a personal relationship with Jesus that can forever change your life!!


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