Book BLITZ Get Up by Reece Pine (excerpt and giveaway)


Title:  Get Up

Author: Reece Pine

Publisher:  NineStar Press

Release Date: December 25, 2017

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 69500

Genre: Contemporary, LGBT, MM, contemporary, wilderness, child abuse, mental illness, PTSD

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Recently dumped (again) for being cold, Guy gladly accepts his publisher friend’s request to go to a remote hut in wintry Nunavut to find out whether aspiring novelist Cam Campbell is a plagiarist. By agreeing also to help the eccentric ecologist survey wildlife for a month, Guy buys time to assess Cam’s innocence and hear stories about Cam’s late father–Guy’s favorite fantasy writer and the man whose book Cam is accused of stealing.

Guy’s investigation is soon biased by his attraction to Cam and the growing concern about Cam’s odd behavior. At times, Cam dissociates and is icier than Guy could ever be, yet he’s the only one who’s ever recognized, at a glance, the emotions burning beneath Guy’s surface. Guy knows he’s the best person to help Cam abandon the dangerous wilds outside and address those in Cam’s head, but he also knows that he’ll lose the chance if he comes clean about his ulterior motives for getting close to Cam. How can he convince Cam to come in from the cold… and why are they both really out there anyway?


Get Up
Reece Pine © 2017
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

At least he wasn’t nervous about meeting the kid anymore. He’d stopped feeling anything at all besides dread and the wheels of the suitcase he’d slung over his shoulder bruising his numb ass with every stumble. Finally, Guy glimpsed smoke wisping from a rustic pipe chimney a hundred yards farther than the thousand miles he’d already come. His brogues, so iced over they looked like glass slippers, skidded on the porch’s wooden boards. The leather-gloved hand he threw forward to balance himself rattled the doorframe with a thudding knock, sending ice shards showering behind him from the rafters overhead.

“Hell-lo?” he croaked. “Cam-meron C—”

The alluring burst of firelight that greeted him as the door opened was immediately extinguished by someone squeezing the swollen wood shut behind themselves as they stepped forth. Guy was suddenly too surprised to be awestruck over meeting Alessandro De Carli’s son at last. He was glad his frozen eyelids couldn’t blink, because the guy—the specter, presumably Cameron Campbell—might disappear if he did. For a second, he wondered if he’d knocked on the wrong gingerbread house door, only there was no other shelter for fifty miles.

Cameron Campbell was known to be even more reclusive than his late father, but he wasn’t actually supposed to be mythic. The tiny guy blocking the door with sturdy, unlaced boots looked like a wood nymph. Eyes as blue as distant stars stared at him unabashedly. Maybe the reason no journalists had ever snapped pictures of the kid, and why he had no online presence, was because he couldn’t be caught on film.

“Incredible.” Cameron must have read Guy’s mind, and he pressed rosebud lips together in exasperation. “Are you alone? Did you hitch here? There’s no corpse in a cab parked on the highway I need to go rescue? Insane.”

Guy respectively nodded and shook his head, hoping the well-earned insult was aimed at the driver on his way west who’d dropped him at the side of a barely used road, far from the highway. Guy had considered himself lucky to thumb a ride at all out of the tiny settlement of Ipasila, built around a gas station, which was the closest town to Campbell and two hours’ drive from the Hudson Bay hamlet of Arviat in southern Nunavut. In hindsight, the man had been almost as reckless as Guy himself had been for not driving him straight to the police. Instead, Guy had been let out of the relative safety of a truck armed with nothing more than the GPS tracker Guy had brought with him and prayed was accurate.

“C-Cameron…” Not Cameron, Guy revised. A Cameron was a strapping guy—like a Brad or a David—or a blonde woman. This pixie prince was either a Cam or a question mark. His eyes looked magnified behind the lenses of large glasses, the arms of which must have burned cold against his temples because Cam removed them—only for his naked eyes to be comically large. It was still possible he wasn’t even De Carli’s son, since he looked nothing like him. Wrote nothing like him either, which was why Guy was here. “You’re C-Campbell, right? De Carli’s s-son?”

It was Campbell’s turn to draw back in surprise. “Are you from a newspaper?”

“Am I s-selling subscriptions?” Traipsing from cabin to cabin after dark? “D-does it matter? Let me in.” Heat from indoors infused the porch floorboards and bled into Guy’s damp soles, announcing itself as pain in his brittle toes.

“I don’t do interviews about my father.” Cam reached inside the hood of his puffy coat, just a shade lighter than his luminous, creamy skin, to pull a long coil of black hair forward. It hung like gossamer over the gray scarf around his shoulders.

He’d let down his hair, so now Guy could enter, right? “Do I l-look like a journalist?”

“Nah, you look too honest.”

Guy’s brows were too frozen to frown at the sarcasm. He knew damn well he had a poker face. That was the problem; now that he was literally incapable of moving his face he probably looked normal, not dangerously hypothermic.

“I’m with your p-publisher.”

“You’re from Ames? In that case, first, tell Claire she should be fired and charged with attempted murder for sending you. Secondly, and for the hundredth time, I canceled the submission for Close to Home. I didn’t mean to send it to you guys in the first place. Third, stop hounding me about it.”

“Fourth, f-fuck off,” Guy anticipated his next order. “I c-can’t. And I’m from F-Fairbanks Press.”

“Ha! Are you guys even still publishing me?” Cam swept his bangs behind an ear, which was slightly pointed at its tip.

Of course, it is. “You’re the one who n-never answers emails.”

“Internet’s intermittent out here. And there’s nothing wrong with that manuscript that isn’t Fairbanks’ fault.” Cam pursed his lips, which were tinging blue before Guy’s eyes, and nuzzled his chin into his scarf. Guy was torn between thinking it served him right to be cold and wanting to offer his firstborn as passage to the gatekeeper who halted Guy’s shuffle forward by holding up a gloved palm. “Uh-uh, no way. You ought to know the drill, New Yorker. You are, aren’t you?”

Guy was as native a New Yorker as anyone who’d moved there in adulthood and would never live elsewhere. A load of the population was in the same burned boat as him, so yes, he could claim to be from New York, but that was irrelevant while the heat fleeing his eyes stung.


“So the same rules apply here as there,” Cam continued, as though this were a holiday home in Connecticut. “You know, I met a hiker from Texas here who’d never even seen snow before, but he knew enough about it to come in September, not March. Why do you think I can’t get any volunteers to assist me at the moment?”

Because not only did this waif conduct questionable wildlife research in the middle of nowhere while purportedly editing a novel, but he also lived at the end of a spur trail a mile west of an icy road to nowhere.

Cam stamped his feet, blowing into hands he cupped over his mouth. “Come on.”

What did the little sylph want? For Guy to roll a seven? Produce a magic key?

“For God’s sake, guy, you need to strip!” Cam finally twisted the door handle behind him, spilling back into an amber glow. Guy tumbled in after, out of the deadly night air.

Instantly, his coat became the warmest bath Guy had ever had the pleasure of sinking into. Flames in the hearth curled into come-hither licks Guy’s jellied legs couldn’t obey. There was enough ecstasy to be had where he wilted against the closed door. The sensation wrenched him from numb to overwhelmed in a blink, and thrust him the closest to an imminent powerful orgasm he’d been since…he didn’t want to know.

Cam busied himself over at a kitchen counter, ignoring Guy, who stood, shaking in the doorway, suddenly struggling with a boner that had sprung from pure physical shock, surprising and mortifying him. He had to admit he could see how post-hypothermia blood rushing around could cause such a phenomenon, but man, did it have to? Thankfully, melting into a hunch helped hide it when Cam reappeared in front of him wearing only a few layers of sweaters and brandishing two steaming mugs of coffee.

Its intoxicating aroma further confused his senses by going straight to Guy’s cock. Now, there’s a new kink. He failed to convince himself his hand quivering was an aftereffect of the cold, not the sight of the now gloveless, pale hand offering a chipped mug with the handle out for Guy to grab. Cam raised an eyebrow at Guy’s taking it with his left hand.

“Oh, you’re a lefty?”

“I guess,” Guy said, distracted by just how fine Cam’s fingers were…and how Cam’s palm was apparently immune to the hot ceramic he held courtesy of calluses, frostbite, or immortality. “Looks nice….”

“Not too strong?” Cam asked, a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

“N-no such thing.” Guy slurped half the treacly concoction before gasping, “Thanks.”

“Sit.” Cam nodded to a couch piled high with blankets resembling a laundry pile. There was nowhere to sit except on top of them. “And I wasn’t kidding before. You need to strip, like, five minutes ago. Show me some skin.”

“What?” Skin?

“And a business card.”

Shit. Guy had no such thing—he should have made Huw make him a mock-up one before coming. If Cam was astute enough to ask questions like that, it might be hard to deceive him as planned. Plausible excuses whirled in his mind, but were as hard to grasp as the snowflakes he ruffled loose from his hair, stalling for time. He was surprised they hadn’t melted, since his scalp was beginning to burn….

“Of course, I’d prefer skin first. And so would you,” Cam said.

“I’m here to work,” Guy retorted, reinforcing the lie to himself.

“How do you know De Carli was my father?”

Guy blinked. “Isn’t he?”

“My pen name’s Cameron Stewart. I know my real name’s on the contract I signed with you guys, but that’s Cameron Campbell.”

“That’s De Carli’s son’s name.”

“It’s also as common as mud. How do you know I’m him?”

“Because…” Heat surged through Guy’s veins, and flashes from the fireplace in his periphery blinded him. Flames shot up his spine, turning his thoughts to smoke. His erection stirred as he willed it to subside. Instead, his heartbeat faded, which was a lot more alarming. “Because…”

Struggling to balance his tilting mug on the surging, damp footwell he slumped down upon, Guy bit at his glove to peel it from his roasting hand. It dangled from his lip, and he batted it away to better claw at his collar, trying to escape its stranglehold. Sweat made it slippery in his shaking hands, and he panted more feverishly than he had while staggering outside, where everything was white—as white as everything was turning now.

“Hey, stay with me, guy.” Cam rose from his slouch against the back of the sofa, surrounded by a blizzard of stars that swarmed Guy’s vision. He was warmth personified, the most enchanting thing in the dreamscape Guy had navigated to get here, and he was still miraculous, even now that everything had become a nightmare. His own sharp intake of breath echoed from afar as Cam lunged toward him through the static.

“I hoped you were him,” spilled in a murmur from Guy without his control. Strangely, Cam seemed to slip farther away the closer he got, as Guy sensed himself falling. It looked like he wouldn’t manage to save De Carli’s son after all. Well, he thought as all light vanished, at least he’d managed to meet him. And he got to die in the arms of a beyond-beautiful man.

No, forget that, his consciousness broke through. De Carli’s son was stunning, strange, and fascinatingly all the way out here. Never mind the fact Guy couldn’t write, he was going to live and find out what made Cam tick if it was the last thing he did.


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Meet the Author

Reece is allegedly a descendant of Ann Boleyn. If you have any ancestors who were in England circa 1500, then there’s a 50% chance you too are distantly related to Anne Boleyn. In fact, if you’re of European descent, then you and everyone else of European descent share a single ancestor, who lived around 1400. And in 3,000 years’ time, all of humanity will be able to trace their lineage back to someone who is alive today. Reece thinks it would be cool if that person was G-Dragon.

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Reece Pine on ‘In Your Court’, A Dreamspinner Press World of Love story (DSP GUEST POST)



In Your Court (World of Love) by Reece Pine
reamspinner Press

Cover Artist: Garrett Leigh

Available for Purchase at


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 Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words is happy to host Reece Pine here today to talk about her release, In Your Court.  Welcome, Reece!

Hi and thanks for letting me introduce In Your Court, part of Dreamspinner’s World of Love series, which sees Californian college grad Ray in Vietnam for a week teaching basketball and English to elementary-age kids. For Ray, the chance to hide his (often) invisible physical disability while he’s far from home is a way to have a holiday from what he hates most about it, which is being unable to play basketball anymore. So although he knows that doing a lot of physical activity all at once is a bad idea, he plans to indulge himself for as long as he can until his chronic pain catches up with him.

Translator/businessman Xin considers himself a pro communicator – he takes pride in patching up communication gaps between other people, and is frustrated when he can’t help people fulfil their desires. Secretive Ray is a tough case for him to handle, but their shared interest in seeing Ho Chi Minh’s sights and in the Vietnamese language lets him scratch Ray’s surface and get him to begin to open up. The hard part is Ray already knows that communication is the key to getting what he wants, but first he and Xin both have to figure out what they want and can realistically have in a relationship and in their futures.

The inspiration for the book came from a weird, jealous, nostalgic thrill I felt watching a lot of basketball while being myself laid up with a condition. It’s one thing to fully understand the limits physical disabilities impose, but another thing to actually obey them, so I’m sure Ray’s not the first character (or person) to want to push such limits to their breaking point for the sake of enjoying a sport. The on-court atmosphere of a tense basketball game has a lot in common with the bustling, humid streets of Ho Chi Minh, so I jumped at the chance to set the story there, since Vietnam and Singapore (which is also seen in the book) are also incredibly scenic and romantic cities. I hope you check it out, or any of the other beautiful places represented in the World of Love series.



With a shot at happiness in sight, it’s no time to drop the ball.

A back condition ruined Ray’s basketball ambitions, but he wants one last opportunity to play before hanging up his sneakers. While volunteering as a coach at a special needs school in Ho Chi Minh, Vietnam, he meets Singaporean Xin, who works matching wealthy corporations with compatible charities. Xin helps the American navigate the local customs in order to see the smile Xin fell for at first sight, but Ray makes sure no one sees how hard it is for him to keep upright, let alone keep enjoying Vietnam and playing the sport he loves.

When Ray’s back pain becomes too great to hide, Xin accommodates him in Ho Chi Minh and in Singapore—and in bed. Ray wants to imagine a future for them but fears he’s damaged goods, and Xin’s obligations in Asia aren’t easily forgotten. Ray won’t be another charity of Xin’s, especially when Xin also needs someone by his side. Their romance will be cut as short as Ray’s basketball dreams unless he can close the Pacific-sized distance between them.

World of Love: Stories of romance that span every corner of the globe.



Gray dawn and blaring big-band music that sounds like it’s been filtered through three DIY crystal radios creep in on the draft spilling under our door. The electro-pop communist march song is an effective call to arms in that I’m up and swearing, just not in allegiance.

“Good morning, Vietnam,” Xin mumbles, rolling over on his creaking cot and snaking a hand under his thin cotton sheet to scratch his stomach. A pirated copy of The Quiet American, the kind of photocopied book I saw street stalls selling yesterday, sticks out from beneath his pillow. I loved the movie they made of that. Good Morning, Vietnam too.

I have six days left. Still in yesterday’s stinking jersey and slacks, hair damp with old or new perspiration, I peel myself off my mattress to start my usual routine of push-ups on the floor between our beds. In no time, sweat drips Rorschach splatters on the concrete, on which I try to focus rather than on the dude beside me moaning as he languidly stretches his body to its full horizontal height.

“Aren’t you energetic?” He sits up, head tilted to match his half smile, and lazily reaches for my shoulder. “If I sit on your back, will that help—”

Don’t,” I snap, wrenching straight up and crawling a step away. My morning voice rattles in my throat and in the heavy air, so I clear both with a cough before spreading my hands on the floor and recovering my rhythm within two push-ups. My lower back’s familiar ache is waking up too, but it has yet to seep into my hips. I shouldn’t have played yesterday after so long sitting in a cramped airplane chair. Not that it was that cramped for little old me, but it was too rigid, and I didn’t pace the aisle as much as I should have.

In the corner of my eye, I watch Xin quietly unlatch his hefty wheeled suitcase  to  extract  linen  shorts  and  a  long-sleeved  raglan  tee.  He looks comparatively casual today, but the outfit’s clearly styling. The cotton shirt is luxuriously creamy in color and texture and spills down his pale back as he dresses, eyeing me warily. “Are you against queer folk?”

I laugh. “When I’m lucky.”

Xin pauses, silent.

Shit. Did he just come out to me? Did I just come out to him? And did I imagine him calling me cute last night? Probably. “You’re queer?”

An automatic smile pulls at my lips. I stop doing push-ups at the count of a hundred and the sight of Xin’s calm expression probing my hard-to-hide relief. “’Cause I am.”

“Are you touch-averse ace or anything? Because I’ll let people know if you need. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“No, I’m gay. You planning on making me uncomfortable?”

“No, I’m gay,” he parrots, preening his short hair with a black lacquer comb. I can’t tell its fine teeth from the shining hair it parts. “Just… that was a pretty strong shutdown to being nearly touched, Ray. This is Asia. Guys are going to touch you, no sex implied.”

Oh wow, after being possibly called ‘cute’ last night, I’ve been shot down before my eyes are even properly opened. ‘No sex implied’—well, at least I know where I stand with him today. “Is it an Australian thing too to touch up your… mates?”

Xin laughs. “Fuck, no. There it’s only cool for men to slap around butch, strapping athletes like you, especially when you’re panting and glistening.”

It takes me a second to get that the lascivious wink he hits me with is a sarcastic stand-in for ‘Apology accepted.’ He didn’t take my snapping personally. “Do even Australians get Australian humor?”

“When we’re lucky. Shower’s three doors down on the left. It’s a faculty one, but all the teachers who live here are housed in another block, so we don’t have to share it.”

“Except with each other,” I mumble into the tangle of clothes I’ve gutted from my backpack.

“Thanks for the invite, but right now it’s all yours. Mate.”

“I take back yesterday’s request. You’re the last person whose job it should be to rein me in for stepping out of line.”

“Then I’ll just have to do it for fun.”


About the Author

Reece is a human pinball who’s moved around the world 20-odd times in the last 15 years. At the moment she’s in Australia, ignoring her handful of degrees in law, science and other subjects in order to make things up instead. She loves genre-jumping when writing and reading, and seeing diverse characters appear everywhere, as in real life. Although she’s a big fan of twists and drama, good representation of genders, sexualities, and disabilities remains as important to her as ensuring all of her stories end well, because we all deserve a happy ending.

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