About Racing the Moon
Written by BA Tortuga
126 pages / 48000 words
ISBN: 1-93389-69-9
Available file types - html, lit, pdf, prc, paperback
Sonny has a shipment to deliver. Moonshine, the old fashioned way. Too bad some jerk blew up his road in the Carolina mountains, keeping him stuck, high and unfortunately dry.
MJ is on a mission, ridding the world of another environmental threat, shutting down a logging organization. Running into Sonny in the foggy woods throws a wrench in his plans. But it's when Sonny kidnaps him for an impromptu vacation that things go completely awry. Do these two have enough in common to prove they can give the moon a run for its money?
Review
by JL Jensen
You would expect sparks to fly when a California nature lover runs afoul of a redneck hillbilly in North Carolina. In Racing the Moon, the results are explosive, in more ways than one!
The moment they meet, MJ and Sonny rub each other the wrong way; MJ is an eco-terrorist who stumbles onto Sonny's cabin on the way to his getaway car. Sonny detains MJ at gunpoint, wanting to make sure no one knows about his moonshine still until he can get his 'shine out of the woods. Unfortunately, an explosion at a nearby lumber camp, courtesy of MJ, blocks the road that Sonny needs to get his shipment out of the woods. Then, to add to their troubles, the lumber company's goons discover Sonny's cabin while they search for MJ. Their escape from the cabin is the first of many adventures for this pair, both of whom hold little regard for the law, and the story heats up even more when MJ and Sonny realize that they're attracted to each other, especially since they're both tops! I don't want to give away too much of the plot, but I can say that watching these two characters figure out that they're meant to be together is one of the major reasons I enjoyed the story.
B.A. Tortuga has written a non-stop adventure that includes kidnapping, exotic locations, and more than a few explosions, but it's MJ and Sonny who generate the most heat and make this story well worth reading!
Sample
Man, people said the city was foggy. San Francisco didn't have shit on this. MJ was pretty sure that by the time the sun burned all this away, he was going to be a big mass of bruises.
He'd managed to deliver his packages to the Greater N.C. Logging equipment sheds before the fog rolled in, then headed out on foot. That was the problem with using a Jeep to hold a metric fuckton of C-4. The damned things just never handled right after.
MJ grinned and checked his compass. A couple more miles on foot in this up-and-down, full-of-brush bullshit that he was trying to save and he'd reach the little convertible waiting to take him to Wilmington for a couple of days R&R before his next gig. Fucking cool.
He tripped over another fucking root, catching himself on a tree and scraping the living fuck out of his palm. Well, it would be cool in two hours when he could fucking see.
Of course, he didn't have to see to know what the sound coming from behind him was. The sound of a rifle round clacking into place was unmistakable.
Fuck. Him.
He went still, sliding one hand back where the little .38 was resting at the small of his back. No way it was the loggers. They hadn't even seen the damage yet.
''Don't even think about it, buddy. Just take the piece out nice and easy and put it on the ground.'' The voice was about as rough as the rifle, like water over gravel. It came from just above and to the right, telling him the guy was maybe an inch or two taller than him and banking on him being right handed.
Well, that was one lucky break. Go him.
''I don't have anything to steal, man. I'm just hiking.''
''Hiking at the crack of dawn in the worst fog we've had in near a year?'' Okay, there was no way that voice was local, either, at least not originally. It came from the Deep South. As opposed to hillbilly south. Because, obviously, someone like him would know the difference. Christ. ''I don't think so. I know you've got a gun. Get the damned thing out and put it down.''
He held up his right hand, taking a half turn toward the voice. ''I haven't got any beef with you, man. I'm just passing through.''
Fuck, he didn't want to start playing Shoot the Local.
A twig cracked, the sound moving to his left. Fuck, the guy was onto him. Maybe the guy wasn't a stupid yokel. ''I have a beef with you. Take out the fucking gun or I'll blow your goddamned head off and leave you for the possums and the foxes.''
''Fine. Fine. Keep your dick in your pants.''
He growled. He liked that piece. Of course, he liked his head
attached to his body more. Fucker. He slipped the pistol out,
kneeling down to set it on the ground, the knife strapped to his calf a comfort.
''Now up, and your hands on the back of your neck.'' As soon as he complied, the barrel of the rifle pressed against his folded hands, holding them in place. ''What the fuck are you doing out here?''
''I told you, asshole. I'm hiking. Trying to get back to my fucking car so I can visit the beach.'' If he grabbed the barrel and tugged, he might get the rifle free, but if he didn't, he was deeply screwed. ''What? Did I piss on your favorite tree?''
''No. Take three steps to your right.'' The barrel prodded, so hard that if he moved his hands the guy would know in a split second.
He swore, if he fucking died in fucking North Carolina...
He moved, snarling low, just itching to turn around and look at the man.
''I got a hair trigger, so watch it. Now move. Forward. And watch the rocks. Wouldn't want you to slip and fall backward, would we?'' If he guy poked him again, he was going to explode.
''You watch your own footing and I'll worry about mine.'' God damn it.
''Just keep walking, buddy. We'll sort this out, but on my terms.'' He kept on going, because he didn't have a choice, but he was about to do something pretty stupid when he practically stumbled right into a cabin wall of split logs so fresh they still oozed sap.
He moved his hands without even thinking, going to catch himself on the wall. This was motherfucking Deliverance.