Best New Artist by B.A. Tortuga Guest Post & Excerpt!

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Hi guys, we have B.A. Tortuga stopping by today with her upcoming release Best New Artist, we have a brilliant guest post and a fantastic excerpt so check out the post and enjoy! ❤ ~Pixie~

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Best New Artist


B.A. Tortuga

Kasey “Tuff” Tuffman just told Nashville to kiss his you know what. After winning Best New Artist at an award show, he knows it’s time to head back home to Texas. So after a very public meltdown, Tuff makes his way to Austin, where the Red Dirt music lives large.

Jonah Littlejohn once loved KT more than anything in the world. When KT loses it on national TV, Jonah knows he has to reach out and offer his home studio as a place to heal and make music. A bad relationship has left Jonah broken and wary of romance, but he wants to help his old lover out.

Seeing Jonah again proves to Tuff that he’s made the right decision. Now all he has to do is convince Jonah that they’re the most perfect duet there’s ever been.

Release date: 28th April 2017

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The First Blog Post!

by B.A. Tortuga

Hey y’all! I’m BA Tortuga, resident redneck and lover of all things cowboy. waves

Oh, the first blog post about a new book.

So, I want to tell y’all everything.


B.A. Tortuga - Best New Artist BookmarkI want to introduce you to Tuff, the guy who’s trying so hard to make it in Nashville and…Well, y’all know about foot in the mouth disease. I’m fairly sure Tuff has it and, when he loses his shit, he does so SPECTACULARLY.

Then there’s Jonah, who gave up on making it anywhere but Texas a long time ago. Weirdly enough, he is making is, and doing well for himself, but, man, he’s got secrets and scars. Not all his scars are emotional either.

I want to show you everything there is to know about Texas Red Dirt music. I want to share all the artists, all the music. Because country music isn’t just Nashville and those of us that are fans are rabid about our Red Dirt artists – Kevin Fowler, Jason Boland, Wade Bowen, Trent Willmon, Kelly Willis, the Robinson brothers, Bart Crow…

I want to tell you about Austin, Texas, and how, even though I love New Mexico and I love my mountains, I miss Austin like a lost limb. My heart is here, but my soul lives in the Hill Country. In bluebonnets and SXSW. In tacos on demand and music everywhere and the Longhorns (Hook ‘em!).

Food. I want to tell you about Tex-Mex. About nachos that aren’t piled up and enchiladas and real, amazing salsa. I want to share all the wonders of Salt Lick BBQ and brisket and their weird-assed potato salad that is an addiction.

More than anything, I want to say hi and welcome to this new book. I love music, more than that? I need it. It’s my life’s blood as much as writing and drawing. Please come play for a few hours and enjoy these books and know, if you need to, you can come home again.

Much love, y’all.


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KASEY TUFFMAN wiped the sweat off his forehead with one of those ridiculous, pristine white towels they gave you at awards shows when you stepped offstage. Used to be he had a hat to soak up the sweat, but this damned haircut his new stylist had given him wouldn’t work with the old summer straw he preferred.

“Good job, Tuff,” said one of the lackeys from the label, a guy with a three-hundred-dollar pair of shoes, and jeans that came from Italy, for fuck’s sake.

“Thanks.” He was just glad it was over. He’d gone out there and sung his just-released sellout song as the last of the nominees for Best New Artist.

Best New fucking Artist. He might have been in Nashville less than two years, but Kasey “Tuff” Tuffman had been playing music in Texas since he was fourteen. Twenty freaking years ago.

His night was almost over. Alan Kingman was walking out on stage, boots clicking away, to announce the winner of the award Tuff was up for. The man would announce that Chase Ryan had won, and Tuff would make a suitably shocked face before walking offstage and out the back to his waiting limo.

Then he’d go to the house he’d been renting, grab a couple of beers, and get in the pool and soak.

He shifted from foot to foot, trying to look calm but hopeful like his coach had told him to. A media coach. Christ. Every little thing was arranged for you when you had a number one single and album.

“Good evening, ladies and gentleman,” Alan said into the microphone. “Lemme get out my reading glasses so I can see that TV they want me to read.”

All Tuff had to do was push through this shit, and then he could breathe for a few days, focus on making a new album over the winter, get off the road, out of the bus, into the studio.

He wanted to go home for a week or two. See his folks and his sisters. Tuff missed Texas like an amputated limb.

“Anyway, whether you’re an eighteen-year-old with a voice like warm honey or a thirtysomething Texan who’s in touch with a more traditional sound, getting your first number one hit is something to celebrate.”

Shit. That had to be him. In touch with a traditional sound? Well, fuck-a-doodle-do. That made him sound like a frickin’ elder statesman.

“Like they say in that old Alabama song about the fiddle,” Alan went on. “If you’re gonna play in Texas….” Alan squinted at the TV, then shook his head. “Whatever that says, screw it. And the winner is….” He ripped open the envelope, and the most comical look of shock crossed Alan’s face. “Kasey Tuffman!”

“What?” The word popped out of his mouth, the surprise immediate and real. Tuff’s heart fell right into his gut.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” The label guy gave him a little push. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

It was supposed to be Chase Ryan. Not him.

Not fucking him.

Someone gave him a shove, so Tuff stumbled out on the stage, his new boots too stiff, and a titter passed through the crowd.

Goddamn it. His label rep had told him the deal. This was just a tribute to someone who’d been around as long as him and had just had his first national number one. No stress. Perform and leave. He wasn’t supposed to win anything or have to make a speech and act grateful for a crumb.

Especially not this. Best New fucking Artist, for chrissake. Like he was some wet-behind-the-ears newbie with a shiny guitar or a boy band bro-country kid the studio had plucked from a vocal program at the University of Tennessee.

Alan stepped away from the microphone to hand him the envelope, blocking the little gal who held the huge paperweight he was getting for selling his Red Dirt soul out to Nashville.

“Congratulations, Tuff. Twenty years of touring and sweating for pennies and it only took a new haircut to get you a fancy award.”

He shot Alan a glare. They’d known each other for years, and he was humiliated this had to happen in front of someone he so admired. “You ain’t funny, old man.”

Alan shook his head. “Not meant to be. I let them kill the music, son. Don’t let them do it to you.”

“Never gonna happen.” Except that wasn’t true, was it? Not really. He already felt like a sellout.

The haircut, the sparkly ass skinny jeans, the four-hundred-dollar Lucchese boots—all of that was the trappings of the label. Jesus, he’d bet this award was too. They’d bought him another few weeks at the top of the fucking chart.

Rage spurted through his veins right along with the blood pounding in his temples as a headache kicked in.

He took the award from the blonde with the fake boobs and capped teeth. Wasn’t her fault, so he gave her a strained smile. Then Tuff stepped up to the microphone, his speech crystalizing in his mind in those few seconds.

“Good evenin’, ladies and gentlemen.” Tuff took a deep breath. “I got to say, I never thought any of y’all would ever vote for me. I imagine I’m not the best of anything, and I figure while I am an artist, I sure ain’t new.” He waited for the camera boom to swing around, the hard focus right on him. Then he smiled, a real Texas-sized smile, holding up the award. “So what do I got to say about this? How about I start with y’all can kiss my….”

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About B.A.

Texan to the bone and an unrepentant Daddy’s Girl, BA Tortuga spends her days with her basset hounds and her beloved wife, texting her sisters, and eating Mexican food. When she’s not doing that, she’s writing. She spends her days off watching rodeo, knitting and surfing Pinterest in the name of research. BA’s personal saviors include her wife, Julia Talbot, her best friend, Sean Michael, and coffee. Lots of coffee. Really good coffee.

Having written everything from fist-fighting rednecks to hard-core cowboys to werewolves, BA does her damnedest to tell the stories of her heart, which was raised in Northeast Texas, but has heard the call of the  high desert and lives in the Sandias. With books ranging from hard-hitting GLBT romance, to fiery menages, to the most traditional of love stories, BA refuses to be pigeon-holed by anyone but the voices in her head.

Where to find the author:

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