Monday, September 21, 2015

Grey Daze Blog Tour

Grey Daze Blog Tour

About the Author

Born and raised at the edge of the high desert in Kingman, Arizona, Michael Allan Scott resides in Scottsdale with his wife, Cynthia and their rescue Doberman, Roxie.  In addition to writing mysteries and speculative fiction, his interests include music, photography, art, scuba diving and auto racing. 

Michael’s latest book is the mystery/thriller/suspense/supernatural/paranormal novel, Grey Daze (A Lance Underphal Mystery).
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About the Book:

Title: Grey Daze (A Lance Underphal Mystery)
Author: Michael Allan Scott
Publisher: Independent
Pages: 306
Genre: Mystery/Thriller/Suspense/Supernatural/Paranormal
Format: Paperback/Kindle
GREY DAZE descends.  A fresh murder spins out of control, twisting into new realms of paranormal mystery.

Not for the faint of heart, the third in the Lance Underphal Mystery series, is an interplay of corrupt characters immersed in today’s world. Paranormal twists and fast action in movie-like scenes set the story’s mystery/thriller elements apart from the typical whodunit/serial-killer thriller.

Guided by his dead wife, a reluctant psychic finds himself on a wild ride through a criminal underworld, slamming face first into corrupt police, gunrunning bikers, and a drug addicted killer–not to mention confrontations with the dead.

Layers of plots within plots twist this new thriller into a startling climax.


  Mixture of two different world while reading... Loved how the author collaborated them into one to make an amazing page turner. This book will keep you up all night reading! The characters are lovable and fun as well as the story plot fast paced and twisty! This is a book that you will enjoy!


*Received for an honest review*

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Please Note: this book “R” rated and is intended for adult readers.
Book Excerpt 1:
Nerves jangling like downed power lines on a storm-soaked street, she turns off the cracked pavement into the rain-slick drive. As she chews her bottom lip, the new Ford Edge glides under the ancient leafless elm at the curb, its gnarled trunk overgrown with ivy fluttering in a gusty wind. Her mind races, fearful of all the things that could go wrong, trying to anticipate every move, grasping at the big score and how it will all be worth it.
            Tires roll up the narrow drive, gently thumping on fractured concrete. They’ve never gone this far before. And that asshole Denny crapped out at the last minute, forcing her to take care of business. As she parks on the side of the dumpy little house, a sneer twists her full lips. She’s not sure why this time would be any different, he always makes her do the dirty work—always there to grab the lion’s share of the score. Him and Moon. Worthless assholes.
            The wipers stop as she shuts off the ignition. She stares through the drizzle streaking the windshield, screwing up her courage, telling herself there’s no way she’ll get caught, the plan is perfect. They’ve been working at it for months, getting everything set up. Now it’s time. Only one thing left to do and they’ll be home free. If only she could get her hands to stop shaking.
            Elbowing the door, she squirms thick hips out of the seat, the new-car smell fading as she climbs out into the cold. She scurries across the drive and up the crumbling concrete steps, thumbing the remote to lock the Edge with a flash and a chirp. Twisting the key, she opens the weather-beaten back door, stepping in out of the swirling rain and into Hell for the last time.
            Dark and close, it hits her like a blast of sewer gas, though she should be used to it by now. Dim in the grey light, the foul reek of decay and excrement is stifling, crinkling her nose. She fumbles with her keys, finally managing to twist the backdoor key off her key ring as she heads for the kitchen sink. Grabbing a dishrag, she wipes down the key. Careful to hold it with the dishrag, she drops it into the disposer. She digs a pair of latex gloves out of her purse, working them on over sweaty fingers, then hits the switch. The disposer jumps, coughing and clattering as she adds water, mangling the key. She knows, one way or another, she’ll never be back.
            She cringes as all the disgusting things she’s had to do twist up in her head. Dirty little thoughts that won’t leave her alone, like the vicious sting from one of her grandfather’s beatings. She’d show that old asshole, if only he could see her now. Stupid little man. But first she has to get through this.
            She turns off the disposer and stumps into the dingy little living room as roaches scuttle for cover. Crossing to the old sofa, she sits gingerly as the ancient vinyl crackles beneath her broad rump. She contemplates the next few minutes, fanning the flames, feeding the beast. The puto has it coming. Fixing his meals, cleaning up his messes, listening to his constant babbling, going on about how smart he is and how she needs to listen, insinuating she’s stupid. Treating her like his slave. The things she did—unspeakable. Her stomach clenches as flickerings fire her mind. Bathing his vile flesh by hand, hairy and wrinkled—disgusting. The horrid stench of excrement on desiccated haunches. The pasty feel of his flaccid penis, even through the gloves . . . watching him writhe as he came, oozing sticky yellowed sperm. She shudders as shivers run down her spine. She’ll show him how stupid she is. She smiles wickedly as her eyes narrow. He still has no idea. Never saw it coming. And now, it’s too late. Muy estupido.     
             Fury firing her blood, she pushes off the couch and tromps out of the room, the ancient crusted carpet crunching under her biker boots. Clumping through the short hall and into the back bedroom, she slows, walking quietly as if she’d wake him. What am I doin’? She shakes her head. He’s not waking up any time soon, she made sure of that—he fainted dead away when she tripled his heart meds. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours. Blood levels should be back to near normal, well within limits for any toxicology reports.
            Her broad nose crinkles with disgust, her lips curling into a snarl at the mere sight of him. She’s always hated old men. And with good reason—look at him. Lying there under that ratty old bedspread, too cheap to buy a decent blanket. All that money rat-holed away, rotting like his ancient carcass. His limbs like sticks, tacked onto a distended belly. His eyes pinched shut at the bottoms of deep hollows. His sunken mouth a ragged hole, white spittle crusting thin cracked lips. His head a shrunken skull, wrapped in papery skin stretched tight, dotted with patches of wispy white hair. If it wasn’t for his phlegmy breaths, he could already pass for a corpse.
            She crosses quickly to the bed, gritting her teeth, holding her breath. Jerking the stained pillow out from under his head, she flips it up into both hands, leans over and presses down hard, mashing it on his face. A slight tremor runs through his withered limbs. Cadaverous claws scrabble at her hands, her wrists, her arms. She gasps, horrified, turning her head, pressing down harder. A muffled wail seeps out from behind the pillow—inhuman. She moans as tears leak from her squinted eyes. She can’t take anymore. And just when she starts to lift, he goes limp, his heaving chest stills. She feels what little life he had left rush past her—a final huff of foul breath and he’s dead.
 Book Excerpt 2:
A sky of purest blue. White castles of cumulus reaching to the heavens, drifting in a lazy parade of ever-changing atmospheric splendor. Purpled peaks thrust out of distant horizons like worn teeth in an eroded earthen skull. Across a rugged mesa, sudden gusts twist clumps of waxy green leaves on the sparse creosotes’ scraggly limbs. A lone double-wide hunches on a flat spot scraped out of the rocks and cacti, its battered haunches weathered by sun and wind—thousands of Earth’s relentless rotations taking their toll. Soleri windbells and a hummingbird feeder’s brass flowers twirl from the porch’s rough-cut eaves as a light wind wheezes through the window screens. Its dry breath carries the spicy scent of a dusty desert day, fluttering the open pages of a dog-eared Popular Photography on the counter.
            Snoring in my plush recliner, I’m blissfully unaware of life’s mysteries unfolding.
            Dreaming: 
            It’s all white except for naked trees and grey light. Still and frozen like a perfect image etched in frosted glass. The snow, crystalline powder piled up in mounds, spreads along the riverbanks like a sparkling blanket of diamonds—the river, a mirror of blue ice. A hush as thick as the snow. Tiny flakes of icy fluff fill the air before my eyes. The only sounds are the hiss of my blades slicing virgin ice and my lungs pumping frosty breaths into a streaming cloud behind me like a quietly thundering locomotive. Pushing, my eyes water with the cold, blood pounding in my ears as my thighs burn. I glide into its beauty, nature’s elements in perfect balance, exhilarated as I rush into the outstretched arms of God.
            Smiling and spent, I circle back and head for home, convinced this is as much of God as I’ll ever know. I soon see our cabin up ahead, buried up to the window frames in drifted snow. Its roof, a steeple of purest white—a curl of smoke drifting up from its chimney to disappear into the haze. It’s early, I wonder if she’s up yet. I want to tell her how beautiful it all is. Beaming, I lean into it. Can’t wait to see her.
            I quietly hang my skates on a peg in the mudroom, careful not to wake her. Cringing as the hinges creak, I try to be quiet. Something’s wrong. As I pad softly across the cold flagstone, I hear her weeping. She’s on her knees, hunched over in the middle of the room, her back to me, facing the fireplace. Something’s very wrong. I want to rush to her, but I can’t. I force myself to take a step closer, then another. In a hoarse whisper, I say, “Callie?” She lets out a mournful wail from deep within as she turns to me, our infant son in her arms, blue and still. I reel from the blow. How can this be? We don’t have a son!
            Then I hear it, a faint refrain from Joni’s “River” . . . “I could skate away on.” Slowly, it sinks in, penetrating the waves of grief, pulling me up from the depths to wakefulness—the ringtone on my new smartphone. And I’m back to square one, smarting from the nightmare vision, knowing that it’s more than just a nightmare as I reach for the phone.
 
Interview on NBC Daytime:
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