Hi guys, we have Varian Krylov stopping by today with her new release The God of Jazz: Fugue, Concord, we have a fantasic exclusive excerpt and a brilliant giveaway, so check out the post and leave a comment to enter the giveaway! <3 ~Pixie~

The God of Jazz: Fugue, Concord

Varian Krylov

After years struggling to realize his dream of directing a feature film, on the final night of his fundraising campaign Godard is on the cusp of having everything he ever wanted. The man he loves is upstairs waiting for him, and he’s just a few dollars short of his GoFundYourself goal.

Then everything falls apart.

His personal and professional life in ruins, when his old nemesis from film school offers to fund his dream project if he’s willing to shoot it in Spain, Godard knows it’s a deal with the devil. But he also has nothing left to lose.

Among the labyrinthine streets of Barcelona’s Barrio Góthico, the city’s vibrant music scene, and the sun-gilt beaches of the Costa Brava, Godard begins making shooting his dream project and putting his life back together, largely under the domineering gaze and deft touch of Ángel, the god of jazz.

But Ángel is keeping a secret, and a deal with the devil always comes at a price.

I was actually nervous. I kicked the A/C up a couple notches and poured myself a glass of Four Roses Small Batch over ice and put on the Blow-Up soundtrack. Too frenetic, a damned phonetic catalyst to my escalating tension. The Taxi Driver score was worse. Virgin Suicides? Ugh, no. The opposite of sexy. Was A Streetcar Named Desire a too obvious? Probably, but that was me.

Maleducado. Greedy. Impatient.

Why was I so strung out over a little tryst? Yeah, the guy was sexy as hell, but so what? Other guys just as hot had chased me in L.A., I’d even bedded a couple, before Michael. This was no big deal. He’d come over. We’d fool around (hopefully he’d actually fuck me, this time). He’d go. Nothing to be so freaking twitchy about.

But something else had me wound up. When Ángel had called, my suspicions about Alistair had evaporated. After we hung up, though, the doubts came creeping back. Were they lovers? Were they dating? Were they more? A couple? Married?

Heat flared over my face at the memory of giving Alistair the coaster with my number to pass on to Ángel as it merged with the brutal idea of Kurt casually asking me if I’d mind if he fucked Michael.

Even though it was cooler inside with the A/C going, I went out on the terrace. The sun was almost down and a breeze was blowing in from the sea. A low din of scattered voices merged with the marimbas and piano bubbling from the living room speakers.

By the time the front door buzzer chimed, my glass was empty and I’d shaken off some of my fretful anticipation. I buzzed him in, then waited an interminable half minute for the elevator to deliver him. Even his soft knock at my door resonated like a tease. I wanted to laugh at myself, building up what was basically a booty call into some momentous assignation. All my mirth burned away when I opened the door, though. There was nothing funny about how that gaze ran me through like a sword.

He smiled. “Buenas tardes.” My heart seized for a moment as he stepped close and I waited for his lips to touch mine, but he just breezed past, trailing a light caress along my waist as he slipped by. He looked around the space for a moment, as if he was inventorying any subtle changes to the arrangement since his last visit. He drifted to the open book shelf that suggested rather than created a divider between the large, open living room and the den, pausing by one of the Bluetooth speakers for a moment, then nudging it an inch or so to the left. Amused, I wondered if he was improving the acoustics, or making a show of asserting his authority (Over all things musical? Over all things mine?).

“So. Are you a very devoted aficionado of jazz?” The way he emphasized aficionado. Ángel was mocking me. Teasing me with proof the bass player had reported our entire conversation to him.

“Everything I know about Jazz I Learned from Michelangelo Antonioni.”

“Ooh, do I have a cinephile on my hands?”

“Not yet,” I teased.

His low, flirtatious laugh went straight to my crotch. “It would explain your name. Or were your parents the ones obsessed with the Nouvelle Vague?”

I scoffed. Caddyshack and Scary Movie were about as arty as my parents could go, when bravely venturing beyond the small screen. “It’s a nickname. From film school.”

He laughed again. A little derisively, this time. Or maybe I was just being sensitive. “Good for you. Modesty is overrated.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” I said, my tone a little too defensive. “A friend of mine starting calling me Godard as a joke, to tease me because I was always nagging our gang to watch at least two films a day, like Godard and Truffaut did, to teach themselves to make and critique films.” I laughed. “And I may have worn a pair of glasses like his. And dressed like him.”

“And the nickname stuck?”

“By the second semester, no one called me anything else. Now the only people who call me by my given name are my parents and sisters.”

He didn’t ask what that given name was, or where in the U.S. I was from, or if I was still a filmmaker. I wanted him to. I wanted to tell him about my film, without having to bring it up myself. If he knew I was directing a film I’d written, maybe he’d see me as a fellow-artist, instead of a groupie or tourist, or whatever impression he had of me. But part of me was relieved he didn’t ask. There was still a shadow of doubt, darker some days than others, that Jordi’s quarter of a million dollars would suddenly evaporate and I’d be left with an impossible debt for space and equipment rental instead of a film.

“Well, I’ll tell Alistair you’re not as pretentious as he suspects.” Ángel moved in close and reached for the top button of my shirt.

I caught his wrist. Hearing the bass player’s name on Ángel’s lips poked my dormant doubts. My jealousy bared its teeth and growled. “Is there something going on between you and Alistair?”

Ángel gave me a cryptic smile. “Is that why you invited me here? To talk about Alistair?”

“You’re the one who brought him up. And I didn’t invite you. You invited yourself.”

“Would you like me to leave?”

“I’d like you to answer.”

“So possessive already? After one night playing with me?”

I huffed out a frustrated laugh. “I don’t like being used to cheat on someone.”

“What a noble boy.” Ángel pried my hand from his wrist. “Alistair is not my husband.” Taking a step forward, he drove me back against the book case. The sultry, bittersweet notes of Four Deuces slid over us. “Alistair is not my boyfriend.” I didn’t resist as he pushed my arm down and back, pinning my wrist against me at the base of my spine. “Alistair is not my lover.” Insinuating his leg between my knees, nudging my thighs apart, he brought his mouth to my ear, his voice low and sibilant has me murmured. “I have no husband. I have no boyfriend. When I kiss you, when I touch you, when I make you come, I will not be cheating on anyone.”

About Varian

Growing up near Los Angeles, I spent much of my time frolicking in the Pacific Ocean and penning angst-twisted poetry. Now I’m living in sunny Spain writing pathos-riddled fiction. Ironically, two of my favorite things are traveling, and swimming in the ocean, despite increasingly intense phobias of sharks and flying.

I’ve always loved the music and substance of words, always loved writing in well-worn notebooks by hand, tapping at the keys of the computer, and, of course, conjuring up stories.

And from my earliest memories, I’ve always been fascinated—maybe obsessed?—with sex and sexuality.

In my writing, sex is the medium, the expression, and the tool of discovery for my characters’ insecurities, the needs that drive them, the comfort they can’t live without, the joy and relish of life that makes each of them intense, strange, and alluring.

:: Facebook Page :: Twitter :: GR Page ::

Giveaway!

Win an ecopy of The God of Jazz: Fugue, Concord! 

(one lucky comment winner on each blog on the blast)