Big Giveaway and Interview with Charlene Keel and J. Gabriel Gates

Alexis: Today we have Young Adult Paranormal Romance authors, J. Gabriel Gates and Charlene Keel, visiting us and they will be giving away all three of the books in THE TRACKS series!  Answer their question in the rafflecopter for a chance to win! Surely you have ideas on who could play the characters in this story. They will be picking two winners!

Alexis: Why did you choose this sub-genre of romance?

Char: The YA market is pretty hot right now, and I love anything paranormal. While I’ve worked a lot in genres like romance and erotica I hadn’t done any writing for kids since I had my first short story published in Teen Magazine a couple of decades ago. It was refreshing to write love scenes that were sweet, funny and compelling without having the characters get all sizzling and sweaty.

J:  There was a touch of romance in the books I wrote before The Tracks series, but the truth is I probably would never have written something so romance-centric if it hadn't been for the fact that romance is a must in paranormal YA fiction, and HCI Books and Char insisted that romance had to be a major component in the trilogy. There's a lot going on—supernatural evil, teen angst, magic and martial arts action—but now I can’t imagine the story coming to life the way it does without the pounding heartbeats between Aimee and Raphael, Nass and Dalton and Aimee and Orias.

Alexis: Can you tell us your story of getting “the call”?

Char: We actually made the call. TV producer Herman Rush, for whom I’ve worked on various projects, let me know that he was meeting with Peter Vegso, the head of HCI Books. I asked Herman for an introduction, once he’d completed his business with Peter. Herman set it up for me and after I pitched the project (over the phone!), Peter said, “I love it! I want it!”

J: When I got the call I was living in Canada and doing construction work. I’d already written four novels and hadn't succeeded in getting them published. I had walked away from my TV acting career in Los Angeles to try my luck in Toronto. Getting the publishing deal for The Tracks series was the break I needed. Since then, I've had two of my other novels published—Blood Zero Sky and The Sleepwalkers.

Alexis: Where did you get the idea for this story?

Char: It was J’s idea originally—that’s why his name is first on the cover. Believe it or not, we met on Craig’s List. I was still living in L. A. and pitching projects to people half my age. I was about to put an ad on Craig’s List for a young, hot guy to take with me to pitch meetings (to make that necessary youth connection) when I saw Jake’s ad, looking for advice on how to get his books published.

I got in touch and we met and hit it off. He told me about The Tracks, his concept for a TV series, which was great. It combined all the teen angst of school and parental pressures, getting crushes and falling in love, and it had teen gangs fighting each other with martial arts. I suggested adding a supernatural element, and our proposal came together. But then Jake moved to Canada and I moved to Florida so we never got to pitch it, until Herman introduced me to Peter.

J: The idea came to me in L.A. when I was taking Wing Chun Kung Fu lessons. I got home from class one day and some of my friends were watching Degrassi. I sat down to watch it with them. After a few minutes I said, “You know what would make this way better? A kung fu showdown.” They laughed, but that was the beginning of The Tracks.

Alexis: What made you chose your title? 

Char: Titles are tough. We knew that The Tracks was good for a series but it wasn’t a good book title. We wracked our brains and finally came up with Dark Territory. It’s a railroad term and fits our story perfectly, as much of it takes place on or near abandoned train tracks.

J: The initial title for book 1 was going to be Wheel of Illusion. I liked it, but Char and our publisher were less than thrilled. After a few weeks of head scratching, Char came up with Dark Territory and I was immediately like, “Yes!”

Alexis: What was your first writer’s conference?

Char: The Romantic Times Booklover’s Convention in San Diego in 1992, for which I was the convention coordinator. I also produced the first Mr. Romance Cover Model Pageant for Kathryn Falk. Shortly after, I got an offer to be an editor at Playgirl. Working at Romantic Times was a blast—probably the most fun I’ve ever had in publishing.

J: I've pretty much done my whole career in reverse. I sold five novels, then got an agent. I just attended a workshop back in June, in Orlando, at the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators conference, and it was a blast.  I wish I'd found the money and time to invest in attending conferences sooner, and I do plan going to more in the future. For a writer at any stage of his or her career, the networking opportunities are invaluable.

Alexis: Thank you both for chatting with us on Happily Ever After Thoughts. If readers want to learn more about this awesome duo, check out their sites:

Char – www.charlenekeel.com

J. - http://jgabrielgates.com

The Tracks Series buy link: Amazon

Author Bios:

Charlene Keel has written over a dozen novels and how-to books. Among her TV credits are Days of Our Lives and Fantasy Island, and her novels include The Lodestone (historical romance), Seventh Dawn of Destiny (action-adventure romance), Dark Territory, Ghost Crown, Shadow Train (YA paranormal romance) and Rituals, which was adapted for TV as the first made-for-syndication soap opera. Keel has also done screen adaptations of books by Patricia Hagan, Rebecca Brandewyne and Peggy Webb and she ghostwrites for celebrities and corporate moguls.

J. Gabriel Gates is a native of Marshall, Michigan. The son of an English teacher, his passion for the written word began at a young age. During college, another passion—for performing—led him to get his B.A. degree in theater from Florida State University. During his years in Los Angeles, he appeared in a dozen national TV commercials and penned several screenplays while laying the groundwork for his career as a novelist. His novels include Dark Territory, Ghost Crown, Shadow Train (The Tracks Trilogy), The Sleepwalkers and Blood Zero Sky.

Excerpt from Ghost Crown:

As she looked up into his eyes all she could think about was how his lips would taste. Abruptly, she turned away from Orias and went to the other side of the room. His presence was overwhelming her, driving every other thought away.

            “Please stay,” he said.

            Only half an hour had passed. If she left now her dad would never let her hear the end of it. “Okay,” she agreed. “But no more of this polite conversation bull crap. I’ll stay—if you answer some questions for me. About your father.”

            “Whatever you want to know.”

            “For one thing, what kind of person—” she began, and then started over. “He didn’t just abduct me, you know.”

            A flash of pain shot through Orias’s eyes, so sharp it surprised her. “What did he do to you?” he asked grimly.

            “For starters, he took me to this really weird place. Then he shot a boy right in front of me. Killed him and made me dance in his blood. What kind of person does that?”

            “Someone who is insane, clearly.”

            “Insane?” she repeated, incredulous. “How does that explain the rest, Orias? How was he able to sprout big black wings—and fly right up into the sky like some kind of demented angel?”

            The contempt Orias felt for his father was obvious. “I can’t believe he let you see that,” he said.

“Well, he did—so what was he? And what does that make you?”

            Disgust showed in his face at her final question—a loathing so strong it was undeniable—and she wondered if he might actually hate Oberon as much as she did.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” he said at last.

            “Try me,” she said. “After what I’ve seen, you’d be surprised at what I’d believe. So tell me, or I’m out of here.”

             “My father was an Irin, Aimee. A Watcher. A fallen angel.” He waited a moment, she thought, for it to sink in.

“Is that what you are?”

            His sigh was so full of despair it almost brought her to tears. “No,” he said. “I am Nephilim. My mother was human. She made the mistake of loving him and it killed her.”

            Nephilim. Aimee had heard the term when her mom took a Bible study course at Middleburg United Church. For a long time, it was all her mom talked about. She’d had pictures and ceramic figurines of angels all over the house. Most of them were beautiful, but the fallen angels were frightening and the Nephilim were horrendous.

            “Do you have wings too, like your father?”

            “I won’t know for a couple of years—not until my twenty-first birthday. Some Nephilim do get them, but only the most powerful.”

            “So you have powers?” she asked.

            “I think that’s why my father didn’t want me around,” he said. “I have the power of an angel and the heart of a human. That could make me very dangerous, indeed.” He looked at her darkly and her heart did a somersault.

“So you’re part human. Does that mean—you have a soul?” she asked.

            “Half a soul, anyway.”

“That’s really sad,” she said. “But . . . with all your power and money, you’d settle for life in plain old boring Middleburg?”

            “From what I’ve heard, it’s not so boring. And you’re here.”

            “You’ve really got to stop talking like that,” she told him. “I’m taken.”

            “So you’ve said.” He reached out and brushed her hair away from her face, and again she wondered what his lips would feel like on hers. “You’re very special, Aimee.” He took her hand and drew her closer to him. “It’s time you realize that. This world can’t hold you.” His voice was low, almost a whisper. “You can slip through . . . be anywhere you want. Tell me, where would you be at this moment, if you could be anywhere in the world you wanted to be?”

Looking for my mom was the first thing that came to her mind, followed by, anywhere, as long as it’s with Raphael. But what came out of her mouth was, “I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.”

“Think about it, then,” he said softly. He reached out to caress her cheek.

Stop letting him do this, she told herself; stop letting him touch you. She should step away from him but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to.

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Guest Author: J. Gabriel Gates

Okay, so people might look at me a little funny when I tell them I’m a writer of teen paranormal romance books.  That’s because I’m a 32 year old guy.  Sure, I have fairly good personal hygiene and I’ll let myself get dragged into the occasional “Forever 21,” but aside from those qualities, I’m not exactly the prototypical romance writer.  That’s okay, my stories aren’t the prototypical romance stories, either.  My teen romance series “The Tracks” features storylines including a gang battle in a small town, a search for a supernatural treasure, a father-son grudge match between a fallen angel and a Nephilim, and a bad-boy main character who uses his kung fu skills to beat down baddies and stir up trouble.  

Beginning with book 1, Dark Territory, this troublemaker from the literal wrong side of the tracks named Raphael falls in love with the heroine of the story, a girl named Aimee, who just so happens to be the sister of a prominent member of Raphael’s rival gang.  The result is a classic tale of forbidden, star-crossed love with a supernatural twist.  

In book 2 Ghost Crown, things get even more interesting when Aimee gets seduced by a sultry, surly, charming Nephilim named Orias and Aimee’s best friend turned arch-enemy, Maggie, sets her sights on Raphael .  And as for what happens in book 3,  Shadow Train … well, let’s just say you’ll have to wait until that book comes out in the spring of 2013 to find out about the big finale.  

The question is, how did a guy like me end up writing romance in the first place?  Let’s be real, even though we might act macho about it, the truth is that most men desire love just as much as women do.  We might not be as vocal about our feelings, or as good at expressing them, but they are there, none the less.  For a guy, writing romance requires that you take off your “dude hat” for a while and bare your emotions to the world.  I think that creates some interesting dynamics, too.  In “The Tracks” series, my co-author Charlene Keel and I portray several relationships, each of them marked by their own challenges, their own beautiful flaws, and their own rewards for the characters engaged in them.   Perhaps because of my male influence, there is an undercurrent of not-completely-expressed longing that, I think, not only draws the characters through the trials of their relationships, but also creates an undercurrent of desire that drives the plot forward.  The more “testosterone-filled” fight scenes also serve as a marked contrast to the tale’s more amorous moments, and heighten the urgency of each romantic interaction.

I mentioned my co-author, Charlene Keel.  Like many men who can’t get along without the help of the fairer sex, I must admit that Charlene was a great asset as we co-wrote these books.  Not only is she a seasoned author and TV writer, she’s also an expert in the romance genre.  Whenever I was too squeamish to add that detail about how delicious Raphael smelled or how chiseled his abs were, Charlene was there to flesh the passage out, thoroughly and brilliantly.  

Readers seem to be enjoying the series immensely.  A lot of that has to do with the many interesting characters, the unique, genre mash-up, action-filled plot, and of course the dramatic tension of the tale’s star-crossed love.  But I tend to think that some of it comes from the  differing influences of the series’ two writers, the confluence of the male perspective, and the female one.  It’s a combination that makes for great romance on the page, just as it does in real life!

J. Gabriel Gates is the author of Dark Territory: The Tracks Book 1, Ghost Crown: The Tracks Book 2, horror novel The Sleepwalkers and upcoming dystopian sci-fi novel Blood Zero Sky.  For more information on J. Gabriel Gates and his work, please check out his website: www.jgabrielgates.com, find him on Facebook, and follow him on Twitter: @JGabrielGates

Excerpt from Dark Territory.

Ignacio Torrez stepped into the Middleburg High School cafeteria
at high noon, five minutes before the fists started flying.

It had already been one of the worst days of his life. His right foot had landed in a puddle as he stepped off his front porch that morning, and one of his sneakers, a brand-new white Nike Air Jordan Retro, was now stained a funky shade of gray. His mom had taken his iPod during their drive to his new school, with the excuse that she didn’t want him to listen to it in class and have one of his teachers confiscate it. His argument that it was ridiculous to confiscate something in order to keep it from getting confiscated had no effect on her. Few of his arguments did. She had simply muttered to herself in Spanish and continued driving, ignoring him.

Things only got worse when they reached the school. Since Amelia Torrez was such an education nut, she made sure that they arrived in the principal’s office a full half hour early. The woman at the reception desk, surprised to see any student before he had to be there, told them to have a seat on a wooden bench in the hallway and wait for the principal to arrive. Ignacio, with thirty minutes to kill and no iPod to distract him, folded his arms in frustration and watched as his future classmates began to trickle in through the double glass doors directly in front of him. It took only a few minutes for him to see that the kids here were tragically different from the ones he knew in L.A. Los Angeles was a virtual cornucopia of fashion, but teenagers at Middleburg High seemed to dress in only two styles. They wore either preppy threads that looked like they were straight out of a J.Crew catalogue, or they were decked from head to toe in goth gear—black T-shirts and skinny jeans, black high-tops that
looked like Converse knockoffs, and studded black leather bracelets.

There wasn’t a hint of hip-hop in the place, which meant that Ignacio, in his brand-new L.A. Dodgers cap, matching jersey, baggy jeans, and white sneakers (well, one white and one gray) would stand out even more. Not only was he the new kid in a really small school, but he was sure he was the only Mexican kid in the whole town.

All the while, his mother peppered him with exhortations: “Sit up
straight, mijo. Quit slouching.”

“I’m not slouching, Mom.”

“You got your planner, right?”

“I got it.”

“Make sure you turn things in on time here. You stay organized, ’Nacio. I don’t want to hear none of this ‘I lost my homework’ crap. You listening to me?”

“Sure, Mom. I’m listening.” He sighed, wishing he could tune her out. But his mother had the grating voice of a chain-smoker, and tuning her out, unfortunately, was impossible. If he didn’t give the proper responses, she would just become more relentless in her directives.

“And take off the hat. You don’t know if they allow that in this school. You look like some kinda thug! You don’t want any gang bullsh—I mean, nonsense to follow you here, do you?”

“I know, I know. I’m cool.” He didn’t remove his hat.

“Cool—really? See, that’s what I mean, mijo—you got more important things to think about besides being cool. Why do you think your father and I moved you out of South Central? To get you away from those gangs—those homeys in the hood—that’s why.” Even though he had never been in a gang, he remained silent for that one. “Come on, what’s wrong with you?” she persisted. “Aren’t you excited? This is a fresh start for you. For all of us, you know? And please—take off the hat.” On and on she went.

Just when his mother’s monologue and the stares of passing students were really starting to unnerve Ignacio, the secretary came out into the hallway and invited him and Amelia back into the office. What followed was even worse than what had come before. Amelia spent forty-five minutes explaining to the principal the reasons for their move, all the way from California. She talked for so long that even the principal, a short, thin, balding man with a perma-grin on his face, looked like he was about to nod off. When Mrs. Torrez finally took a breath, Mr. Innis leaped at the opportunity (literally) to steer Ignacio into a cubicle in one corner of the office, give him a sharpened number-two pencil, and tell him to fill out a quick placement test.

It took him two and a half hours.
----------------------------
The sky over the airport was dark, freighted with a fleet of fast-moving black clouds. Sheets of rain battered the blacktop, pelting the windshields of the cars and vans and SUVs that lined up at the curb, all filled with husbands and mothers and boyfriends eager to pick up their arriving loved ones. But there was no one there to pick up Aimee Banfield.

She stood alone on the sidewalk, listening to the deep rumbles of distant thunder, surrounded by a matching set of pink luggage with a pattern of white flowers on it. A year ago, when she had dragged those bags into the departures terminal, she had thought they were adorable. Now, their air of innocence embarrassed her. It was just one of many changes that had taken place within her since last September. She was an inch or so taller, and much thinner—almost too thin, she knew. Her naturally blonde hair, which had nearly reached her waist, was now cut so short the ponytail barely reached her shoulders—and she had dyed it dark. The sundress and white cardigan she had worn a year ago were now replaced with a dark blue T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of sneakers. Even her eyes were different. Every glance in the mirror confirmed it. They had somehow gone from the bright azure of a Caribbean cove to the dark blue of a deep, turbulent sea.

The only thing that remained unchanged was the locket around her neck, the locket her mother had given her two years before she went away.

Her dad seemed to be just the same, too. He was already half an hour late.

Just as she glanced down at her cell phone to punch in his number, a car raced up to the curb, going far too fast, and then screeched to a stop in front of her. It was a black Mercedes, its body long, lean, and sleek, its windows tinted an almost impossibly dark shade of black, its gleaming paint immaculate. Aimee had never seen it before, but she automatically grabbed the handles of two of her bags and began dragging them toward the car’s trunk. She was accustomed to being picked up by long, black, expensive cars—and sometimes her father was driving, instead of a polite but impersonal chauffeur. As she approached the Mercedes, the trunk slowly opened, as if Aimee possessed some kind of trunk-opening magic.

She had thought she had magic in her once, before last September came and went. Now, she knew the truth.

The largest of her suitcases thudded off the curb, and she hoisted it up, both hands on the handle, straining every muscle in her petite, fifteen- year-old body to lift it up and into the waiting trunk.

At that moment Jack Banfield emerged from the car. Even Aimee knew her father was a handsome man, with his perfectly styled salt-andpepper hair, broad shoulders, and a chest that looked muscular under his cashmere sweater. His chiseled jaw and cunning gray eyes looked more like they belonged on the cover of Soap Opera Digest than at the arrivals terminal of a third-rate regional airport. He stood next to the car, shouting into a Bluetooth headset—something about foreign currency exchange rates—while Aimee got all her luggage loaded into the trunk.

Yep. At least Dad never changes, Aimee thought as she closed the trunk and made her way up to the passenger seat.

“Watch it,” Jack said.

Aimee opened the passenger door.

“I’m talking to you, young lady.”

Aimee looked up at her father. He was frowning at her now over the roof of the car.

“Sorry, I thought you were still on your phone thingy,” she said.

“Never slam the trunk,” he said irritably. “There’s a button. It closes automatically, all right?” He got into the car and shut the door.

“Sorry,” she said as she got in the passenger side, and then muttered, “I missed you, too.”

He didn’t seem to hear her, but she wouldn’t have cared much if he had.

The drive to Middleburg took an hour and a half along a winding two-lane highway. All the while, Aimee sat with her head turned to the right as far as her neck would allow, the side of her face pressed against the perfectly supple leather seat, while her father shouted into his Bluetooth about some big property deal. With one finger, she traced the streaks of rain as they quivered and streamed across the glass. Outside, old halffallen barns listed wearily. The yellowing husks of dried corn stalks sat row upon row in their fields, soaked by rain and shivered by wind. As they neared Middleburg, the scenery changed, and the flat farmland and wide-open prairie disappeared. Forests passed by her window now, the leaves of their towering, prehistoric trees shot through with red and yellow,
brown and orange. She came out of her reverie when they passed an old, deserted factory that had once been Middleburg Steel. Pieces of abandoned equipment littered the grounds, and most of the windows in the main structure and the outbuildings were still boarded up. At this familiar sight that told her they were close to home, Aimee finally turned her head forward and looked out the windshield.

By the time they turned into Middleburg, the rain was falling only intermittently. Sunlight seeped through a halo of black, rolling storm clouds, making the raindrops on the windshield glisten. As they passed through the Flats, a nasty part of town she usually ignored, Aimee checked for text messages on her phone. One from her now ex–study partner back in Montana, and one from her dad, telling her he’d be at the airport to meet her flight. Nothing from the one person in the world she most
wanted to hear from.

But no one had heard from her mother in the last six months, and Aimee was beginning to think they never would.

When they passed the Middleburg United Church, which was the only church within city limits, a little quiver of dread tickled slowly up Aimee’s spine, as it always did whenever she saw the church’s ancient sandstone face. According to a plaque near the entrance, French settlers built the edifice shortly before the Louisiana Purchase, and it was the oldest structure in the state. It was so old, the plaque said, that there was no record of when it had actually been built. Most local historians dated it to around 1800, but some claimed it was even older than that. The building, the cemetery, even the huge trees that dominated the churchyard all looked exactly as they had the day Aimee left. They were entering the commercial section of Middleburg now, where moisture from the storm had turned the brick storefronts the dark red of dried blood. This was the downtown of Aimee’s childhood—the hardware store with the same green wheelbarrows out front; the ice cream shop with its sign in the shape of a huge ice cream cone; the barbershop with its candy-cane striped pole; and the Dug-Out Diner, where kids sometimes went for after-school french fries. On opposite ends of Main Street there were a couple of dress shops (one strictly couture and one strictly goth), and between them were a hair salon, a shoe store, an Italian restaurant, and a gas station. There was also the old feed and grain store, long abandoned now, which for the last three years had been rumored to be the future
home of Middleburg’s very own Home Depot, but that hadn’t happened yet. And that was pretty much it.

She had been gone for a year, she realized with a sinking heart, andnothing here had changed. Absolutely nothing.

“I gotta get back to work,” Jack said, cupping one hand over his headset. “I’ll drop at school. Just go to the office, and they’ll get you reenrolled.”

“I thought maybe I’d start tomorrow or something,” she said hopefully. “Can’t I at least go home and change first?”

“Look, just tell them we’ll own every property in the Flats by spring. A few impoverished tenants are no match for our legal guns,” Jack said into his headset, and then cupped his hand over it again.

“Aimee,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “I want you to listen to me. You mess up once—and I mean once—and you’ll be back in Montana so fast your pretty little head will spin. You understand me?”

Aimee nodded.

“You understand?” Jack repeated, louder this time.

“Yes,” Aimee whispered. “I understand perfectly.”

“Good. I’ve got a lot going on right now, and I don’t have time to— yeah, I’m still here.” Again Jack’s attention was riveted to his headset.

Aimee ran a hand through her hair, pushing the bangs out of her eyes, and used every face muscle she had to keep the tears that were forming from running down her cheeks.

She had imagined her homecoming would be completely different: her dad smiling and embracing her, her brother, Rick, with her best friend, Maggie (who was also his girlfriend), and all her other friends there, waiting at the terminal. She had even allowed herself to imagine a WELCOME HOME banner, presents, a party, and a cake. Now, as disappointment sat heavy as lead in her stomach, she knew how foolish that had been. Nothing was going to be better. Nothing would be different. The only thing that had changed was her.