Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Conning Colin by Brad Vance- Blog Tour & Giveaway

Title: Conning Colin

Author: Brad Vance, Elsa Winters

Publisher: Zirconia Publishing, Inc.

Release Date: 6/2/17

Heat Level: 4 - Lots of Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 60,000 words

Genre: Romance, LGBT

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Hamilton Dillon is a high class Manhattan escort, polished, well dressed, and cultured. Colin O’Neill is recently divorced, questioning his sexuality, and disappointed by his first fumbling gay hookups. So he figures, why not hire the best of the best to show him the ropes? What he doesn’t know is that Hamilton Dillon is really Henry Davis, yet another New Yorker living on the financial edge, cobbling together several jobs to make a living. “Hamilton” has one great suit he can wear on an overnight date, but Henry’s got a good friend at GQ who makes a nice side income renting designer men’s wear for weddings, job interviews, and oh yeah, high end escorts on long weekend assignments. The “top agency” that represents “Hamilton” is really just a smartass lady in India with a Skype account, whose face Henry’s never seen. Oh, and Henry’s also the gruff and very unpolished New York Straight Man “Dillinger,” a solo porn star. In other words, he’s not at all who Colin thinks he is. Which is just fine, until their relationship gets… complicated.

Hi, I’m Brad Vance, author of Conning Colin. Here’s a little “character interview” I cooked up for Colin O’Neill, one of my two MCs. 

1) What’s your job like?
My job as a voiceover artist is a bit lonely, but you know, safe. I’ve got stage fright, and when you’re in a box in a closet in your apartment, there’s nobody to laugh at you. And it’s my way of being anyone I want to be, someone who wasn’t shy, wasn’t nervous, because as long as I project that person with my voice, I am that other person, at least for a while.

2) Would you rather be respected or feared? Why?
Oh, respected. There’s not much about me to fear. The only people I know in the acting profession who are “feared” are really more despised, for diva-like behavior that only ruins everyone else’s day.

3) What’s your favorite book?
It sound like of eggheady, but Uta Hagen’s Respect for Acting. I love books on the theater, movies, actor bios. I’m pretty obsessed with the craft, even though the stage fright keeps me from doing as much as I’d like.

4) If you could go anywhere, all expenses paid, where would you go?
London. Again, because of all the theater – the National Theatre, the West End, the Globe, all that. I’d just soak in it. Living in New York I see a lot of theater but I’d love to see what it’s like to see great Shakespearean actors in that environment.

5) Tell us a bit about yourself.
Oh boy. I’ve just recently realized I was gay. I was in a marriage of convenience with a woman who needed a spouse for her career. But I knew I had to leave that marriage (amicably) if I was going to find out who I really was. Getting up the nerve to call Harrison Dillon’s escort ad was the boldest thing I’ve ever done, and what comes of that, we’ll see…

Colin O’Neill hung up the phone, dizzy with excitement and fear. He’d done it. He’d called the number, talked to the agency, and booked a “date” with Hamilton Dillon. He’d looked at Hamilton’s Rentmen.com ad a hundred times, at least, over the last three months. He’d looked forward to new profile photos the way a kid keeps an ear cocked for the ice cream truck. Even though all the profile pictures had been beheaded for discretion, it didn’t matter. Hamilton Dillon had a way of posing that expressed more personality with his body than most other guys ever did with their faces. The way he sat on a park bench in nothing but a pair of running shorts and Nikes, shirtless, manspread, his arms thrown over the back of the bench, his strong graceful neck taut, telling you that the face just out of frame was tilted up towards the Central Park sunshine, that the man was reveling in his easy beauty, the unique joy that comes from being young and hot and free in New York City… Then the way he floated in the air in those same shorts and Nikes, leaping for a football, the camera capturing him from behind in the moment the ball touched his fingers, the imminence of his success apparent, ordained, the muscles in his back bunched, the mass of his shoulders gathered together, sweat flying off his brown hair, in the seconds before you knew he landed on the lawn, arms curled around the ball, surely to rise in triumph and be slapped on the back by all his equally hot and shirtless buddies… The way he sat at a cafĂ© table, in a slim fit navy blue polo shirt, one of his sculpted vascular arms holding open a well-worn copy of The Fortress of Solitude and the other just toying with a cup of espresso as if it was the back of another man’s hand… Colin often did something that very few men did anymore, which was to masturbate furiously and successfully to a series of still photos. And with no penises in sight, to boot. He’d done it so often over the last three months that he’d stopped donating his old t-shirts, because he needed them for cleanup duty, at least until they became hopelessly stained. He had been divorced for six months now, amicably, from a wife who’d pretty much always known he was gay but had decided to let him figure it out for himself. Elspeth was a career woman whose need for a husband was seasonal, from the company picnic in July to the company Christmas party in December, with various client dinners in between. He was twenty seven years old, and had engaged in sexual intercourse with one woman and two men. Intercourse was pretty much the word for it, he thought. It sounded less like passion and more like, well, cars merging on the freeway, and all three partners had been just about that exciting. (Actually less so, since on the freeway there was always the thrilling risk of death at the hands of someone who’d rather kill you than let you merge.) Then one night, half drunk and inhibitions lowered, he’d thought, Fuck it, let’s hire a professional and see how it feels when it’s done right. He’d paged through the escort ads on Rentmen, hundreds of them in Manhattan alone. It was mind numbing, the diversity, and it was overwhelming, the number of choices. He knew he didn’t want to visit Master Bob in his safe and private play space, and he knew he didn’t want to party with Anaconda Joe. The ones who caught his eye were, well yeah, the ones who looked… classy. The one thing he knew he didn’t want was to get ripped off. And he didn’t want it to feel... He didn’t want to feel like he’d got a burger in a fast food drive through. He wanted it to be special, if that was really possible with a paid companion and not just something that happened to teenage boys in Hollywood movies. But even the upscale-looking ones, well, there was something about them that… He knew it was good business, to offer yourself up as “versatile,” and available for “mild to wild,” but… Well, the more he saw what he didn’t want, the more a picture began to form in his mind of what he did want. He didn’t want someone who looked like an investment banker but whose profile also said, “Hey I look classy but I can drop it if you just want a dirty pig fest and you’ve got the money for it.” No. He wanted someone who was one thing. Who wasn’t whoever you wanted him to be. But who was what he said he was. Classy, for real. Not “up for anything.” And then he found Harrison Dillon.

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Meet the Author 
Brad Vance writes romance stories and novels, including the breakout hits "A Little Too Broken" and "Given the Circumstances." Keep up with Brad at BradVanceAuthor.com, email him at BradVanceAuthor@gmail.com, and friend him on Facebook at facebook.com/brad.vance.10.
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