Book Title: The Moonstone Girls
Author: Brooke Skipstone
Publisher: Skipstone Publishing
Cover Artist: Cherie Chapman
Release Date: Feb 14, 2022
Genre: Historical (1967/68) F/F romance
Themes: Coming out, Rejection, Forgiveness
“The story is full of drama, heartache, humor, and hope, set against the backdrop of the late ’60s—the Vietnam War and the draft, racial prejudice, homophobia, and a revolution in music.”
Queer rep: lesbian main character, lesbian and gay side characters
Trigger Warnings: homophobia, internalized homophobia, slurs, death, suicide, car accident, insensitive language/jokes, PTSD.
Length: 103 500 words/ 338 pages
It is a standalone story and does not end on a cliffhanger.
Buy Links – Available in Kindle Unlimited
In 1968, a seventeen-year-old queer girl traveled to Alaska disguised as a boy.
Blurb
Tracy should have been a boy. Even her older brother Spencer says so, though he wouldn’t finish the thought with, “And I should have been a girl.”
Though both feel awkward in their own skin, they have to face who they are—queers in the late 60s.
When both are caught with gay partners, their lives and futures are endangered by their homophobic father as their mother struggles to defend them.
While the Vietnam War threatens to take Spencer away, Tracy and her father wage a war of their own, each trying to save the sweet, talented pianist.
At seventeen, Tracy dresses as a boy and leaves her parents in turmoil, with only the slimmest hope of finding peace within herself. She journeys to a girl with a guitar, calling to her from a photo, “Come to Alaska. We’d be great friends.”
Maybe even The MoonStone Girls.
This scene occurs in Tracy’s house (the main character, 17 years old) where she is hosting a party in 1967—record player, albums, singles, and lava lamps.
Most of the girls’ hairdos were short, various beehives and bobs. Some had long hair pulled back with stretch headbands. A few had hippie hair, including me. I’d clipped two daisies on the side. Boys’ sideburns were just beginning to lengthen, but none past the ear hole—school rules. A few had pulled their shirttails out, perhaps in a silent protest of the school’s tucked policy.
“Find your honey,” Spencer crooned. “This one is slowwww.” He dropped the needle on “Scarborough Fair” by Simon & Garfunkel. This plus “Sound of Silence,” and “Cherish,” and “When a Man Loves a Woman,” were stand-and-hug songs. Guys who refused to fast dance would volunteer for these because all you had to do was wrap your arms around each other and sway or shuffle in a circle.
I was about to leave the floor and get something to drink when I felt a tap.
Charles gave a slight bow. “I don’t think we’ve ever danced, Tracy.” He held out his arms. “Would you?”
Charles was the star basketball player—tall, handsome, slicked hair, and very full of himself. Several girls in my class would nearly faint if he smiled at them. “Certainly, Charles. I’d love to.” I’d danced close with boys before and tried to like it, but had always felt the urge to push away. I’d thought maybe I was shy, that I’d grow out of my aversion. But that never happened.
Since this was our first time, I expected him to put his hands on my waist and keep some distance between us. But he wrapped his arms around my back, one hand just above my butt. He groaned as he pressed his cheek against mine. I nearly gagged on the scents of Dentyne, Brylcreem, and Old Spice. I tensed and nearly pushed him away, but I forced myself to calm down. Maybe I could do this.
He groaned. “I’ve always wanted to dance with a tall girl.”
“Why?”
“So everything would fit better.”
I leaned back. “Fit what?”
He pulled my lower body closer to his. “I don’t have to lean over. I can stand up straight and feel every bit of you. And you feel very good.” His other hand rubbed up and down my back slowly. “You are so warm,” he whispered.
Panic shot up my neck. I was just about to push away when I felt his boner against my pubis. He pressed it ever-so-slightly against me. My stomach clenched, and a bitter tang filled my mouth.
“You see, everything fits.”
I almost hit him but then I thought, A guy can do this and get away with it. My skin tingled as my body temperature soared.
He slowly pushed it higher and moaned.
I pulled my head back and looked at his closed eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He opened his blue eyes and half-smiled. “Whatever are you referring to?” He pulled it down then pushed slowly up.
My stomach tensed. I had an overwhelming urge to lift my knee into his groin. What a fucking prick! “How do most girls react when you . . . do this?”
“Most say nothing. Their hearts beat faster, they breathe fast or hold their breath.”
“Then what?”
“When the song ends, I ask them if they want to go outside for a walk. Do you want to?”
Okay. Time to teach this asshole a lesson. I pushed my fingers through his hair above his ear and nearly touched his nose with mine. “Why don’t we just go upstairs to my bedroom?”
His eyes widened and he leaned back. “Whoa. For real?”
I tightened my fingers around his hair as I looked directly into his eyes. “So what you do is push your boner into girls’ stomachs. They freeze because they don’t know whether you’re doing it on purpose. You hump them a little and groan, which makes them more uncomfortable. Then you get them outside and, what, kiss them, push it against them again, and maybe you get a hand job, or better?”
He tried to back away, but I yanked both arms and pulled him closer. “What if a girl pulled you close so that one of your legs was between hers. Like this.” I straddled his thigh and hip then slowly humped. I moaned. “Babe, you fit so perfectly.”
He tried to push back, but I clamped onto him. “You don’t like it?”
The song ended.
“I think you’re a little crazy.” He squirmed and gasped.
“But I’m doing the same to you as you do to girls,” I taunted. “And you get away with it all the time. Because you’re a guy, and the world is so fucked up.” I let go of him and stomped over to Spencer.
Dad came toward us, his lips tight and eyebrows scrunched.
“Oh fun,” I said.
“Maybe he has a request,” said Spencer.
“Weren’t you dancing a little close to that boy?” he growled.
“Were you spying on me?” I so wanted to tell him what Charles had done, but I knew Dad would freak out. Most likely at me, not at Charles. My fists clenched at my sides.
“That’s not an answer,” he snapped.
“Yes, I was dancing close, but I didn’t have a choice.”
“You always have a choice, young lady. Just say, ‘No thanks,’ and walk away.”
I smiled. “What great advice. Why didn’t I think of it? That must be what Dads are for.” Of course, it’s always the girl’s fault. Boys are naturally horny, so it’s solely up to girls to keep them at first base. Any farther and the girl must be a slut. So. Fucking. Sick.
Brooke Skipstone is a multi-award winning author who lives in Alaska where she watches the mountains change colors with the seasons from her balcony. Where she feels the constant rush toward winter as the sunlight wanes for six months of the year, seven minutes each day, bringing crushing cold that lingers even as the sun climbs again. Where the burst of life during summer is urgent under twenty-four-hour daylight, lush and decadent. Where fish swim hundreds of miles up rivers past bear claws and nets and wheels and lines of rubber-clad combat fishers, arriving humped and ragged, dying as they spawn. Where danger from the land and its animals exhilarates the senses, forcing her to appreciate the difference between life and death. Where the edge between is sometimes too alluring.
The MoonStone Girls is her fourth novel. Visit her website at brookeskipstone.com for information about her first three novels—Crystal’s House of Queers, Some Laneys Died, and Someone To Kiss My Scars.
Social Media Links
Enter the Rafflecopter Giveaway for a chance to win
a $20 Amazon gift card
