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About the Author:
BR Kingsolver is the author of the Telepathic Clans series (The Succubus Gift,
Succubus Unleashed, and Succubus Rising) and Broken Dolls, a paranormal thriller.
BR grew up in Santa Fe, New Mexico, among writers, artists and weird
Hispanic and Native American myths and folklore. BR has lived all over the U.S. and earned a
living doing everything from making silver and turquoise jewelry, to construction to computers.
BR currently splits time between Baltimore and Albuquerque.
BR made silver and turquoise jewelry for almost a decade, ended up in
nursing school, then took a master’s in business. Along the way BR worked in construction, as a
newspaper editor, and somehow found a career working with computers.
COVER REVEAL I’ll Sing for my Dinner by BR Kingsolver
Title: I’ll Sing for my Dinner
Author: BR Kingsolver
Published: April 1st, 2015
Genre: Romantic Suspense
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Recommended Age: 17+
Synopsis:
When Cecily Buchanan walks into the Roadhouse Bar and Grill and offers to sing for a meal, ex
Marine Jake McGarrity can’t say no. Some say Jake is too soft hearted for his own good. But
letting the waif with the cover girl face and the voice of an angel walk away would be more
than he could stand.
Cecily’s sweet nature, bubbly personality and obvious talent endear her to everyone she meets,
and Jake soon knows his heart is lost.
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Cecily has secrets and won’t talk about her past, one so dark that she has nightmares and
clutches a knife while she sleeps.
When those who are chasing her close in, she faces the decision of whether to run again or to
trust her life to the cowboy angel who has taught her the meaning of love.
Excerpt from I’ll Sing for my Dinner by BR Kingsolver:
A pickup truck pulled up in front of the bar and stopped. It looked like Luke Sowers in the
driver’s seat. The door on the other side opened, but I couldn’t see who got out. Then the truck
pulled out again, the tires throwing gravel, and sped off.
What was left, standing in the parking lot, looked like a hippie. A girl, with a backpack and
something else. She shouldered the pack and picked up what I now could see was a guitar case,
and headed for the door. Apparently, she was a hitchhiker and he dropped her off at my place.
Thanks, Luke.
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Making her way through the door, she came straight toward me instead of taking a seat at one
of the tables. The sign by the door said ‘Seat yourself.’ I wondered what in the hell this was all
about.
Stopping in front of me, she looked up into my face and asked in one of the most beautiful
voices I’d ever heard, “May I speak to the owner, or the manager?”
The voice was a surprise, like a flower blooming in the desert. Her face was a shock. For all
the grime, she was beautiful. Not pretty, but the kind of beauty you see on the covers of
magazines. Long, stringy, greasy hair fell past her small breasts. She was thin, too thin, with
a look in her gray eyes I hadn’t seen since coming back to the States, a combination of shell
shock and hunger. The overall impression she projected was fragility. She came up to about my
shoulder and I wasn’t sure she was old enough to be in a bar. What in the hell was she doing
hitchhiking alone?
“I’m the owner, and the manager,” I replied. “I’m Jake McGarrity.”
“I’m Cecily,” she said. Turning, she looked around the room. The Roadhouse is a pretty typical
bar with a bandstand at the end opposite the door and an area cleared for dancing. It was six-
thirty in the evening, and we had two families with kids, about half a dozen couples, and two
groups of four cowboys, all eating dinner. On a Wednesday night, that was pretty good. On a
weekend, we did a lot better, and lunch was usually packed.
Turning back to me, she licked her lips and then said, “You have live music in here.” It was a
statement, not a question. I nodded. The bandstand with the microphones and amplifiers made
that pretty obvious.
“We have a band start at nine on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights,” I said.
“Do you ever have live music for your dinner guests?”
I gestured to one of the speakers on the wall. “We use canned music.”
“Mr. McGarrity, I don’t have a red cent to my name, and I haven’t eaten in two days,” she said.
“I’ll play for your guests in exchange for a meal.”
My God. The raw, naked hope in her face was almost too much for me. My eyes blurred a
little bit. People tell me sometimes that I’m a soft touch. I figure that charity never hurts the
giver. I was going to feed her. There was no way I was going to turn someone away after they
approached me like that.
“What kind of music do you play?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I can play anything. For dinner music,” she gestured toward the customers
sitting at the tables, “something soft and relaxing, loud enough to be noticed, but not so loud
that people can’t carry on a conversation. People’s behavior is different with live music, you
know. They stay longer after they finish their meals, and order more drinks.”
In addition to the beauty of her voice, her accent was cultured. This girl was raised with money,
or at least well educated. And she hadn’t been on the streets long enough for her vocabulary to
degenerate. She didn’t even speak like a normal kid.
I took a deep breath, and then she said in a rush, “Let me just play a couple of songs. Okay?
Before you decide. Please? And then, if you don’t think it’s a good idea, I’ll go.”
Go where? Go out and stand beside the highway with her thumb out? Just the thought of her
hitchhiking, getting in strangers’ cars and ending the night raped and dead in a ditch, scared
the hell out of me. If I read about her in the newspaper tomorrow, I’d never be able to forgive
Nodding, I said, “Let’s hear what you’ve got.” I pulled a menu out from under the bar and
pushed it across to her. “Give me your order, and you can play until your food is ready.
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