Excerpts From The House By Sebastiana Randone @sebasti29567440

EXCERPT  FROM THE HOUSE – SEBASTIANA RANDONE
Page 50
He was passionately in love with Sebastienne de Pellier, an actor that
Percy had introduced to Lord Fairchilde, the year before. Percy had originally
fallen in love with Sebastienne, during one of his lengthy visits to Paris. At
the time of their meeting, Sebastienne was living a life of indigence, as was
the experience of most artists, born to impoverished homes. Unfortunately
or (as those of an egalitarian bend would say) fortunately, nature does not
discriminate to whom the gift of artistry falls. More often than not however,
the gods dish out creativity, and talent to those trampled souls, who find
it impossible to combine earning a living with creative discipline. Art, that
great thief, is a robber of time and cunning.
Working as an actor, Sebastienne was celebrated for his interpretation
of Moliere, Racine and Shakespeare. His dark and feline beauty also
made him suitable for Greek tragedy, where he was mostly cast in the
female roles. These transfigured interpretations were accomplished with
great aplomb; the actor’s lithe and graceful gait delighting audiences,
whom were often ignorant of the handsome performer’s real sex.
Notwithstanding Sebastienne’s celebrated artistry, he was in a constant
state of want. He had the fiscal discipline of a hedonist, whose soul
regaled in the mysteries and excesses of the night, enjoying therein all
the pleasures that he could procure. Paris, of course, was filled with
all manner of meandering nocturnal pleasure seekers. The day was
non—existent to Sebastienne, who loathed to be seen in the revealing
and cruel light of day. When he was not performing the serious works
of respected playwrights, he would unleash his female alter ego “La
Marise” at the local underground theatre house ‘La fleur noir’. A popular
night spot, frequented by an array of disparate denizens, allured there,
by the eccentric performances of macabre black humourists, satirists
and performers, who aimed solely to parody the establishment, in
blasphemous and immoral ways. It was a type of freak show where only
strange and ostracised beasts of society were given flight to perform all
manner of monologues, songs and dance. The material was often lewd
and lascivious, which made the venue very popular amongst all manner
of non—conformists, relieving for many, the ennui that a bourgeois
existence inevitably propagated. At the fleur noir, one encountered a
cross section of humanity; politicians, writers, the clergy and upper
classes mingling with indefinable creatures of the night, whose existences
were based on whimsical excesses. Sebastienne’s “La Marise”, portrayed
an incongruous and voluptuously turned out character, combining
vulnerability and ribaldry through song, dance, and the recital of famous
stanzas, which had been tampered with to hilarious effect.

The House is an adult fairy tale rich in mystery and intrigue.

Here is a tale of a woman so absorbed with historical novels that her own reality ceases to offer any hope of romance and beauty.

Until one day this dreamy idealist finds herself in a mysterious forest. How she arrived there is unknown. Soon she encounters a dilapidated house, within whose ancient walls magical rooms that transport to parallel worlds lie in wait.  There she is transmigrated to 18th century England, where our heroine interacts with an odd mix of characters whose dysfunctional lives become immediately apparent.

Her first tribulation involves a nefarious lord, an archetype of the monstrous characters one encounters in fairy tales. The ramification from this confrontation sets the tone for the narrative.

A magic portal finally enables escape from the austere Georgian dwelling. She is then spirited back to the enigmatic house, and a journey to Regency London follows, where a large cast of eccentric identities present themselves.

Late one night, following a long stay in Florence, a young, heart-broken poet arrives. His introduction to the beautiful time traveller offers promise of restoration and love. But there are several more obstacles ahead before her destiny in this curious adventure is made apparent.

In the end an unexpected twist is revealed. But like all good fairy tales, this surprising conclusion is pleasing, even though the means of getting there are dark, and at times sinister.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre - Historical, Fantasy, Romance

Rating - PG-16

More details about the author and the book

Connect with Sebastiana Randone on Facebook & Twitter

Malpractice! The Novel by William Louis Harvey @sexandlawnovel

Then they started to study—or make some pretense thereof. Monica had been chaste for a long time, and the kiss last week had aroused her. Paul had also responded to that kiss. After a few sips of wine and a hopeless attempt at studying, Paul dropped his book and kissed her. She responded enthusiastically, with a deep kiss… (p. 16)

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Steamy Courtroom Drama

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with William Louis Harvey on Facebook & Twitter

Jack Canon’s American Destiny by Greg Sandora @gregsandora

Change is seldom easy, but moving into our new offices the final year of the  campaign was anything but hard. Sandy decorated our campaign offices with style,  comfortable furnishings, light- colored woods, and plenty of glass. She said her  taste was as big as my pocketbook, and lucky for us, friends of the campaign had  donated plenty of cash to do the job right.Sandy popped her head around the door. Dressed in a black skirt and form-fitting zebra print blouse, she carefully positioned the toe end of her  black stilettos toward the floor to keep the door from closing. I could just see  the faint line between her toes as her foot was flexed.

We had a tight spring closer installed right after one of my senior staff  accidentally left the door ajar. There are a lot of sensitive issues discussed  in here we would never want the rest of the office to know.

“Jack, you’ve got senior staff in 20 minutes.” Sandy’s voice had an almost  musical quality. She rarely spoke to me in anything but the most dulcet tones, a  trait which matched her pleasing personality.

“Hey, Sandy,” I jumped up from my seat and moved quickly towards her.

“Come with me; I want to show you something.”

“What’s going on, Jack? You seem excited.”

I didn’t answer – instead I led her gently by the arm toward the seventh  floor elevator. We passed several staff members busy working at their desks,  each calling out like dominoes, one after the other, “Hey Jack.” I smiled and  gave thumbs up as Sandy and I hurried past.

“Damn, the elevator’s busy; let’s take the stairs.”

“Do we have enough time, Jack?” Sounding concerned as we turned the corner.

Ignoring the question, I pushed open the door and started down the steps.  Sandy had one hand gripping the cold metal railing and her other digging into my  arm for support, luckily she had short nails. A couple of years ago, I mentioned  I didn’t like the plastic ones she was wearing. The next day she came into the  office, plopped both hands down on my desk, and said, “I cut my nails, Jack!”

It was hard for her to move fast in high heels with her skirt fitted snug  just above the knee. She managed by holding tight to my arm, scuffing along,  taking quick small steps.

“I’m parked on the third floor of the parking garage. Keep going; it’s only  one more floor.”

“Jack, I’m out of breath,” Sandy said as I pushed open the door to P3.

We entered a large open area to see a shiny sports car parked alone.

“It’s my new car; you like it?”

“What is it?”

“It’s a car,” Teasing, knowing what she meant.

“I know it’s a car, what kind is it? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Don’t feel bad. I didn’t know either; I had to look it up. It’s French made,  a Bugatti. The guy that delivered it said it’s one of a kind.”

Sitting before us was a machine that pushed the envelope to unreal. Lines so  amazing it seemed to be in motion just standing still. The Bugatti Veyron is  basically a street legal racecar. Exciting as all hell to drive. I never dreamed  I’d own an automobile that could hit a top speed over 250 miles per hour. Truth  is, before last night I didn’t even know I wanted one.

My version was custom painted black metallic with shiny chrome over dazzling  wheel rims in a wave pattern over the single door. The porcelain moldings formed  a body impossible to duplicate with steel alone. The styling was accentuated by  a triple round grill that gave the car personality and elevated the handcrafted  masterpiece to a work of art. To say this car was rare was an understatement;  I’d seen only one similar car and that was in a magazine.

The Bugatti was hot, a  real head turner, all eyes were on it as I drove to the office this morning.

Sandy said, “It’s beautiful, Jack When did you get it?”

“They just dropped it off last night.” I ran around the car and opened the  passenger side door for her.

“Sandy, get in. Let’s go for a spin around the block; we’ve got time.” She  tried to enter, first sideways then lowering herself gracefully as far as she  could. Instead, she ended up plopping down, practically falling into the very  low seat. She crossed her legs, trying to get situated and buckled in. The seats  were so steeply angled, they looked like twin toboggans racing downhill.  Watching Sandy try to get comfortable, I thought cars like these are not made  for long drives or tight skirts.

Sandy warned, “I hope you’re gonna take it easy, Jack?”

“Engine on,” I spoke. The car was outfitted with prototype voice activated  control. The engine obeyed, immediately humming to a start. The understated  throatiness of the exhaust stood in quiet contrast to all the glass packs out  there trying to Sound Street tough. All the gauges lit blue and the dials went  to the hilt before settling down. The windows looked like mirrors from the  outside and the interior cabin was nearly sound proof.

“Hear that purr?” I revved up the 16 cylinder 1000 horsepower engine, flooring the accelerator several times, burying the tach.

“Look at this thing Sandy – it doesn’t red line until 12,000 rpm!”

Sandy was admiring the leather wrapped interior, running her hands over the  dash settling on the round vent of the chrome airstream.

“We won’t need the air conditioner today,” I joked.

“You think? – It’s like 40 degrees outside; I should’ve brought a sweater.  You hurried me out so fast I didn’t have time to think. ”

I told her, “You won’t need it in here; the cabin heats up in seconds.” The  car must have been equipped with some type of radiant heat system.

I flipped the dial and we were warm almost immediately.

Sandy said, “I wonder how they do that; I freeze waiting for my car to heat  up. You know, Jack, I never thought I’d say this about a car, but this one is  sexy… I guess some guys need this sort of thing.”

I sank back into the driver’s seat richly upholstered in a diamond patchwork  of raised blond leather. The headrests had the Bugatti Logo richly embroidered  to adorn the center. Everything in the cockpit was chrome or leather trimmed  with a fragrant new car smell.

It’s always amused me that people are willing to pay many times the intrinsic  value of an item just to obtain the status of a brand. This was not one of those  times. We were seated in an example of excellence, worth every penny of the $1.6  million price tag. It wouldn’t have mattered what they called it.

“Reverse,” I eased off the brake. My left hand barely guiding the wheel, I  backed the car from its lone parking spot.

When I arrived this morning, the first and second floors of the garage were  nearly filled with cars so I took the third level to have it all to myself. I  knew I was gonna take at least one person for a ride today!

“Drive,” I said, and with both hands on the wheel at ten and two, I asked  Sandy, “Are you ready?” Before she could answer, I pressed my foot down on the  pedal. The tires spun, smoking for a second on the slick cement floor. I smelled  the hint of burning rubber as we laid our first 10-foot strip.

We were off!

“Hold on, Sandy,” I warned as we slowed quickly to negotiate the first turn.

“Please be careful,” Sandy pleaded as we tore through it. The thick rear of  the car fishtailing, tires screeching, turn by turn we made it to the ground  level. We tested the acceleration, racing full throttle the entire length of the  floor. I hit the brakes hard, skidding right through the exit booth. The attendant raised the traffic arm just in  time.

Ceramic Brake Pads, built to withstand enormous heat, allowed the car to stop  faster than it accelerated. Sixty to zero in a mere 2.3 seconds…on this stop, I  could’ve used another tenth of a second for Sandy’s sake.

“Oh my God, Jack, you almost hit the bar. You’re the last guy on earth that  should own a car that goes this fast.”

“Oh Honey, I knew we weren’t gonna hit the bar. This car was made for this  type of handling.”

I really did know it as fact. In practice this morning, me and the kid worked  it out. I slipped him a twenty.

“You think that was fast, you haven’t seen nothing yet!”

“No, I really have,” Sandy grabbed tight to the armrests.

Looking only to my left I hit the gas and we flew out into the street.

“Jack, are you sure…?”

I answered by putting the pedal to the floor, “We’ll just take her around the  block.”

We could feel only mild vibration as we tested the claim of zero to sixty in  2.5 seconds. We were momentarily pinned back in our seats.

“Wow!” I said. Driving as fast as I could, barely stopping at one corner before speeding up to the next, each time announcing to Sandy how fast we’d  gotten up to.

“She just kept saying “You’re gonna get us killed.”

“The last run was our best, Sandy, sixty-eight!” I told her, proud of myself.  When we got back to our starting point, we turned into the garage. I stopped  briefly, thanked the attendant and grabbed a ticket.

Sandy said, “Pleeease, Jack, can we just take it easy now?”

The cockpit was relatively quiet, even with all the commotion we created.  Tires screeching, rear end fishtailing, burning rubber all the way to the third  level.

On the way up, I told Sandy, “It sounds worse than it is!”

“Off!” One final command and the powerful machine instantly fell into motionless repose.

“Jack! Driving with you feels like sitting in a rocket sled perched on a banana peel. I feel like I just lifted off in the space shuttle. You’re  impossible! Really, Jack, you try sitting in the death seat with someone driving  like that! I nearly put my foot through the floor trying to stop the car  myself.” Sandy threatened with a look like she’d never get in my car again. This  time I think she meant it.

“We have to take the elevator. This skirt is too tight for me to climb stairs.” I was laughing, exhilarated as we hurried towards the exit. Sandy was  trying her best to keep up, one hand on my shoulder the other on my arm for  balance. I pushed the button and showed her my watch, “See we made it.”

“Jack, we’ve only made it to the elevator,” she said slightly exaggerated,  out of breath. She was shaking a bit. I grabbed her by the shoulders and looked  down deep into her eyes.

“Don’t worry, I sent everyone a text before we left to hold off for 20 minutes. I just wanted to take you for a ride and have some fun. Wasn’t that an  awesome adrenaline rush?”

“I just didn’t want them to blame me for making you late.” Sandy’s eyes were  a little watery. She grabbed a tissue out of her purse and dabbed them dry.

“It wouldn’t have been your fault. Don’t cry Honey; I’m sorry you’re upset.”

“I’m not crying. Sometimes you’re a little wild Jack, really! When did you  even decide to buy that car? Usually you have me check around…”

I cut her off, “It was a gift. Somebody Bud’s been working with, they just  dropped it off.”

She cocked her head to the side and, wide-eyed, looked at my face, “Who would  just give you that?”

I explained, “One of our key supporters in the East. I’m anxious to meet him.  He’s throwing us a big fundraiser the night of the New Hampshire Primary in  Upstate New York. Bud’s working out the details. I want you to come with us;  it’ll be fun. Maybe you’ll meet some rich guy that drives his Benz like a little  old lady.”

“Very funny, Jack. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with driving the speed  limit. The way you drive, you’re gonna get somebody killed. Why did he give you  the car though?”

“He wants to be sure that when I’m president, I’ll take his call. The car is  his way of introducing himself. I’m not about to keep it. I’m gonna auction it  off for charity after the election.”

“That’s some introduction, Jack. They sure know your weakness. I wish someone  would give me a car.”

“Sandy, the super rich are drawn to power like moths to a flame.”

“Do you know what this means?” Sandy looked into my eyes, “You’re going all  the way!”

I reached to her shoulders, “Sandy, we’re goin’ all the way!”

“Jack, I can’t wait until you expose these people.”

I started daydreaming about my speech… The wealthy want the status quo to  continue, hoarding trillions… they move in a world that few people get a  chance to see. We’ll get a big taste of that up in New York; that’s one of the  reasons I wanted Sandy to come. She’s never seen this before. I wanted her to  see this unbelievable wealth first hand.

Most Americans have no idea that the richest 1% control 50% of the income.  The system is so broken. We have thirty-eight million kids who go to bed hungry  every night while the wealthy in this country can’t figure out where to park  their extra Mercedes.

“Jack… have you heard anything I said?” She knew I was deep in thought and  hadn’t heard a word.

“Sandy, my parents have friends who would be embarrassed to stay too long in  their winter homes for fear the neighbors would think they’d lost their minds or  gone senile. All while millions of Americans are homeless. It’s messed up.”

“It’s awful, Jack The rich are so selfish they only care about themselves!”

“Well I’ll tell ya one thing, nobody has ever done anything about it.”

“The only thing I worry about, Jack: if you speak out against them, how are  you going to get big donations for the campaign?”

“It’ll be like taking candy from a baby. It’s human nature. Every billionaire  thinks he’s the exception and we’re not talking about him. You won’t believe how  fast the donations roll in.”

“Jack, you know what I’ve never understood?”

“What, Honey?”

“What don’t they have with all that money?”

“Peace of mind…they worry about what they might lose. You’ll see. They get  jittery when administrations change and they’ll pay huge money to the  frontrunners. For insurance, they have access to whoever wins the Presidency.  You watch.”

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Next time I drive.”

Continues…

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Political Thriller

Rating – PG

More details about the author

Connect with Greg Sandora on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.gregsandora.com/

 

Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

Gringa – A Love Story (Complete Series books 1-4) by Eve Rabi @EveRabi1

If I knew an asshole was going to murder me that warm, summer’s day in Mexico, I’d have done things differently that morning. I would have had pizza for breakfast, skipped the sun screen and written my family a farewell letter.

The letter would be poignant and heart-rending. I would have thanked them for the precious memories, told them how much I love them, wished them …

Nah. I would have told them to go fuck themselves!

Yep, my letter would read something like this:

Dad or Father – Never had the guts to tell you this, but I always craved your love. Growing up, I felt unwanted, alone, fatherless. Because of you, I’m screwed up. I date older men, borderline fucking paedophiles, because I’m constantly searching for a father-figure.

Elaine, you came into my life and said, “Call me Mommy”. You should have added “Dearest”. You eroded every bit of self-confidence I had with your constant belittling. You called me fat, unattractive, slow, and I am what I am today because of you – angry, aggressive, defensive.

You really are a Wicked Stepmother. In fact, you make Cinderella’s stepmother look like the Tooth Fairy on fucking weed. I think God has issues with me. She must have, if she took away my wonderful mother when I was just six and sent me you.

Paris, my stepsister, or Miss Los Angeles Diva 1999, as you like to be called. So beautiful, so striking, so nasty. Meaner than a Nevada rattlesnake, meaner than a scorpion and meaner than, well, a mean girl in high school. Spent my childhood living in your shadow. You took everything – my Barbies, my books, my best friends, ’cause you could. Then we grew up and you took my boyfriend. You stole Austin and married him. Quickly. Then you had his baby. Very quickly.

You had so many fans, but you had to have him, because I had him. I told you I was cool with the two of you hooking up – I lied. I told you I was happy for you both – I was faking it. I hurt like hell. I still do.

So, Adiós family. Now, go fuck yourselves!

Link to Gringa:

http://www.amazon.com/Gringa-Modern-day-Love-Story-ebook/dp/B005CQBCJA\

BOOK BLURB:

I was twenty-one, a sassy college student who took crap from no one. While holidaying in Mexico, I was accosted by The Devil of Mexico called Diablo and shot, because the s.o.b. mistook me for a spy.
I survived, only to encounter him again months later. How’s that for luck?
Furious and sick of all that I’d been through because of him, I slapped him, told him to go to hell and braced myself for the bullet. He could shoot me – I no longer cared.
But, to my surprise, he became fascinated with me and blackmailed me into becoming his woman. He’d slay the entire village that sheltered me, if I rejected his proposal.
He was Kong, hairy, tattooed from fingertips to face, with scary ass piercings, blood-shot snake eyes, a ruthless killer and above all, he was my murderer – how could anyone expect me to say yes?
To save the village I had to.
He took me by force, terrorized me into submission and made me his. To make matters worse, I had to put up with his ruthless, backstabbing family who hated me and wanted to kill me.
I despised the bastard and I told him that. Spark flew. Fists too.
But, the more I rejected Diablo, the more he wanted me.
At times he wanted to kill me because of my insolence, but other times he just wanted me to love him.
I was his Gringa and in an attempt to get my love, he began to change for me. Drastic changes that made me laugh at him at first, then made me curious.
As the days went by, I found myself drawn to him and I began seeing him differently. When I found out about his past, everything changed.

Where to find Eve Rabi online

Website: http://everabi.wordpress.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/eve.rabi

Blog: http://everabi.wordpress.com/

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/everabiauthor

Twitter: https://twitter.com/EveRabi1

LOVE STORIES BY EVE RABI

Deception – A Palace Full of Liars – Book 1

Deception – A Palace Full of Liars – Book 2

Burn’s World – Book 1

Burn’s World – Book 2

Burn’s World – Book 3

Burn’s World – Book 4

CAPTURED – My Sworn Enemy, My Secret Lover – Book 1

CAPTURED – My Sworn Enemy, My Secret Lover – Book 2

Gringa – A Love Story Book 1

Gringa – A Love Story Book 2

Gringa – A Love Story Book 3

Gringa – A Love Story Book 4

THE CHEAT – A Tale of Lies and Infidelity – Book 1

THE CHEAT – A Tale of Lies and Infidelity – Book 2

You Will Pay – For Leaving Me (This book is free to Eve Rabi Fans)

Obsessed with me –Book 1

Obsessed with me –Book 2

Betrayed – He’d get his Girl at Any Cost

My Brother, My Rival (Book 1)

My Brother, My Rival (Book 2)

Sunspots by Karen S. Bell @KarenSueBell

Jake asked my mother to dance and I watched lovingly as they formally held each other amid the couples of all ages that packed the dance floor. The stern faced women wore their hair stiffly coiffed and shoes dyed to match dresses made of silk and taffeta. Their rough and stocky men seemed caged in their suits of fine wool all the while handling their women with great deference as they circled around and through the limited space. These older couples danced their own distinct interpretation of a jaunty foxtrot or fast-paced free dance that was out-of-step with the modern beat but not out of touch with each other.

The teenaged girls wiggled and grinded sensually to the strange rhythms with their feet precariously wedged into spiked heals and their youthful hips squeezed into tiny black rubber skirts that accentuated their long, elegant legs. They tossed their long, blonde hair seductively and laughed rambunctiously while their coolly sophisticated boyfriends pretended not to notice. We were all of us, Jews, different and yet the same, sharing a comradeship of history and tradition that enabled a Texan and a New Yorker to feel connected as they danced in the soft lights among immigrants who brought Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Odessa to Brooklyn.

Under the influence of the several shots from the bottle of Stolichnaya, my mother and Jake laughed easily as they made their way around the crowded dance floor. My mother’s high spirits shined through her eyes and I caught a glimpse of her youthful self emerge as she swayed and twirled. I watched with loving eyes as Jake tossed back his head in mirth in his awkward attempt to feel comfortable dancing to unfamiliar music sung in a foreign tongue. I could see the broad wide smile that charmed me from the first and I knew that my mother had also succumbed. I thanked Jake silently for bringing such happiness to all of us on this magical night.

As I watched bathed in the warm glow of my emotions, I suddenly sensed a shift in pace and timing. The music’s cadence became distorted and too slow, like a recording played at the wrong speed. The lighting dimmed and flickered and long shadows formed along the walls. I squinted and noticed that my mother’s demeanor had changed and she was no longer smiling. I could see her black, crocheted gloved hand with exposed fingertips whip a fan up and down so rapidly that it looked like a butterfly. This gesture emphasized her displeasure.

A fan? That’s very odd.

With her other hand my mother held Jake’s arm as they twirled in place. Jake’s starched shirt collar stood upwards around his neck and sported some type of tied scarf. His long and fitted suit jacket gave him an aristocratic air and his hair curled down his back in a tied-back ponytail.

Why is he dressed like that?

Suddenly, a heavy weight on my chest made it hard to breathe. A familiar state of anxiety borne from many years of stress surged through me. I was simultaneously the observer and the observed and with this power I knew with certainty there was a bad finish to this scene. But where was this scene happening? And more importantly, when?

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Contemporary romance, Magical Realism

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

 

 

Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

Duty: a novel of Rhynan by Rachel Rossano @RachelRossano

Excerpt -
Eirianware led me to the southern edge of the village. The battlefield, still a mess of mud and frozen slush, spread across the gully between the village and the southern-most fields, which were occupied by Irvaine’s camp. The banners of Rathenridge and Landry flapped in the wind beneath Irvaine’s emblem of a golden hart on a field of green.
The king’s camp lay sprawled across the eastern-most fields. A great flag on a pole twice the height of a man marked the edge of the camp. A hawk, wings unfurled and claws spread, shown red on a field of caramel brown. Gilt highlighted the bird’s claws and crazed eyes. The sight of the banner was enough to slow my steps.
“Where am I to present myself?” I asked Eirianware.
“Outside the king’s pavilion. I was told we would be met at the edge of camp.”
As he spoke, I spotted a group of men lingering beneath the crimson bird. As we approached, they fell into formation, a tall but unassuming man at their head. He was the man who stepped forward to greet us.
“Lady Irvaine, I presume.” He bowed with the practiced air of a man who performed the movement often. As he straightened, we locked eyes.
“Lord Dentin, I presume.”
“Why do you assume I am he?”
“You have the look of a man more accustomed to the background than the focus of attention. Also, you wear the colors of Dentin’s household.”
His eyebrows rose in what I hoped was appreciation. “Tomas said you were bright, but he didn’t mention observant.”
A burst of warmth flooded my chest. Still, I remained outwardly reserved. Tomas indicated Lord Dentin could be a valuable ally or a dangerous friend. Considering the complicated depths of my husband, I expected the same of his friends.
“I don’t know whether to be afraid or flattered.”
“Why?” He smiled, but his eyes narrowed.
“The king sent the man responsible for the security of the realm to escort me to my presentation. Does he think I intend to assassinate him?”
“You are armed.” His eyebrows rose and his eyes challenged me, but the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.
“It is intended to be for show. You may take it.” I offered the knife, but Dentin made no move to accept it.
“Keep it. Tomas sent me.”
I returned the dagger to its sheath. “Is he afraid I will assassinate the king?”
Dentin laughed. “Hardly. He thought you would need support, a conclusion I do not share.”
“So you are here as a friend?”
“In part.” He offered his left arm to me.
“The other part?” I laid my hand upon his forearm.
“Parts, my lady. First and foremost, I am a loyal subject of the king.” He led the way through the tent city. Our men fell into formation behind us like the train of a regal gown.
“I am as well.”
“So, treason does not run in the family?”
I tensed. “I am not my cousin, my lord. We are nothing alike.”
He turned to scan my face with a care. I met his scrutiny with a steady regard. His brown eyes were pleasantly shaped. He had even features, a strong jaw, well-proportioned nose, and a pleasing smile hidden behind the tension of the moment. I returned my gaze to his eyes. I had nothing to hide from this man.
“The king sent you, didn’t he?”
He focused straight ahead. “No, he didn’t, but I wouldn’t be much of a defender of the realm if I didn’t take advantage of the opportunity allotted me.”
“So, you are searching for an assassin?”

“Always.”

 

Duty to King

Tomas Dyrease, the newly made Earl of Irvaine and the village of Wisenvale, owes his good fortune to his king and the recent civil war. When his benefactor demands Tomas marry the cousin of a noble, he obeys. However, no one warned him that she wasn’t a typical noblewoman.

Duty to Others

Brielle Solarius struggles to keep her village from starvation under the new Lord Wisten, her cousin. The men rode off to war and never returned. The remaining women and children face a dire winter if they do not find a solution soon. When she learns her cousin sold her into marriage to save his life, she isn’t surprised. However, she is taken aback by Lord Irvaine’s unpolished ways. Was this man a noble or a foot soldier?

Duty to Each Other

Bound by the words of their vows, they face a rough future. They must forge a marriage while battling betrayal, accusations of treason, and villains from the past. Survival depends on their precarious trust in each other. Failure could mean death.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Fantasy, Romance

Rating – G

More details about the author and the book

Connect with Rachel Rossano on Facebook & Twitter

Author Interview - S.P. Cervantes @spcervantes

Do you find it hard to share your work?  It is very hard for me to step out of my comfort zone and share my work.  I have been lucky to have a lot of positive support and reviews of Always and Forever, but am constantly self-conscious about what people think of my writing.  As an author, I always appreciate positive feedback, and feel with each book I have written, that I am becoming better and better. With each release, the nerves definitely get to me.
Is your family supportive? Do your friends support you?  My family and friends are extremely supportive of me.  My husband lets me lock myself away and write endlessly on weekends while he hangs with the kids.  And my family and friends are my biggest fans and are great about spreading the word about my books.
Do you plan to publish more books?  Yes, the second book of the Secrets of Shadow Hill series, The Prophecy, comes out November 19^th, and I’ve just completed the first draft of the third book in the series.  I am also at the final stages of completing my first New Adult novel and am very excited for it to be released in the Spring of 2014.
What else do you do to make money, other than write? It is rare today for writers to be full time…
What other jobs have you had in your life? My “day job” is as a 3^rd grade teacher.  I feel like I have two dream jobs.  I have the blessed opportunity to work with kids to see their potential and to find confidence in learning.  The best part too is that I get to teach these young kids how to write, and watching them find their inner author is a gift.
If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be?  Mantoloking, NJ.  I love the shore and have so many amazing memories there.  I’m a sap.
How do you write – lap top, pen, paper, in bed, at a desk? I write on my laptop, wither at a desk or in bed.  There have many times, either on a run or right before falling asleep, where a great scene comes to me, and I take out my phone and type it all.
Where do you get support from? Do you have friends in the industry? I get support from my family and some authors who I have met over the past year.  Ashley Chappell has easily been my biggest support in the writing world, and someone who I respect a lot.  She’s an amazing writer!
How much sleep do you need to be your best?  If I get a solid six hours, I’m good to go.  I’m a morning person.  Unless I had wine the night before.
Tell us about your new book? What’s it about and why did you write it?  I have two books in the Secrets of Shadow Hill series that are out, Always and Forever, and The Prophecy. Always and Forever was released November, 2012, and The Prophecy, November 19, 2013.
I began writing the series because I had stories about wizards invading all of my dreams for months, and decided to sit down and out them into novels.  Always and Forever begins with your introduction to Ava Fox and her twin sister Hannah as they discover they are descendants of a powerful wizard coven, Shadow Hill.  A Chosen One, named Dalton, and his partner Aiden have been sent by the Grand Wizard of Shadow Hill to protect the girls from an evil coven out to capture them.  The safety of the world depends on Ava’s return to Shadow Hill.
The Prophecy follows Ava and Dalton as they face many dangers and challenges.
They fight to keep all that they love safe while grappling with intense emotions.  Ava struggles with her past as she is thrust into this new magical life filled with heartache and fear.  Time and again Ava’s loyalty and strength are put to the test as she fights for those she loves. The Secrets of Shadow Hill series have many surprising twists and turns as more and more secrets of Shadow Hill are revealed.
Excerpt
Ava
““Listen, you had better get back home. I will walk you out of the woods, but you should not come here at night anymore, it is not safe.” he said.
Just then I realized that he was not from Bricktown, not even New Jersey. It sounded like he had an Irish accent just like my mother’s. His words flowed off of his tongue like a gentle stream.
“Thank-you for your concern, but I am familiar with this area. I’ll be fine. Where are you from anyway? I haven’t seen you here before,” I asked.
I don’t know why I didn’t feel more scared of this stranger who acted so curiously. He had the opposite effect on me making me very calm.
“I am visiting family. My name is Dalton.” He answered shortly and grabbed my arm and started to lead me back through the forest. His grip on my arms sent unexpected chills through my body.”

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - YA Romantic Fantasy

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author and the book

Connect with S.P. Cervantes on Facebook & Twitter

Hidden by Derick Parsons @1_DerickParsons

At last Kate spotted a sign proclaiming Deacon House to the world and swung her car into the entrance.  She paused, a frisson of excitement running through her; all her professional life she had heard stories about this place and now her curiosity knew no bounds.  However, between the black gates and massive granite walls Kate could see little beyond a glimpse of white driveway and overhanging branches.  Her initial impression was of isolation, even secrecy, and overall was not encouraging.  She had been invited there, however, and rolled down her window and pressed the intercom button mounted on a low post.

A crackling, metallic voice responded, ‘Deacon House, how can I help you?’

No mention of its full title, thought Kate with a touch of amusement, nor its present function.  ‘My name is Kate Bennett.  I have an appointment with…er, the director.’

She was hoping for a clue as to who her mysterious host was but was destined to be disappointed as, after a moment’s hesitation, the voice replied, ‘Yes, you’re expected, Dr. Bennett.  Please wait until the gates are fully open, then follow the driveway up to the house.’

Before she could reply the heavy gates began to swing open, making a suitably eerie creaking noise as they did so.  Wondering what effect this would have on the more nervous night-time visitors, Kate put her car in gear and rolled forward, crunching slowly onto the spotless gravel drive.  Behind the high stone wall the grounds were extensive and well tended, though the immense chestnut trees lining the driveway created a slightly gloomy atmosphere in the dull autumnal light.  The driveway itself was almost long enough to be considered a private road, causing her to wonder just how large the place was; these were not just grounds, this was a park.  Large as it was, however, as she rounded the very next bend she was afforded her first glimpse of the old house through a gap in the trees.

Deacon House Rest Home -far better than Insane Asylum!- had been the country seat of an Irish nobleman, and although now reduced from its former glory it still retained something of its old air of grandeur.  It was built of large gray granite blocks but in the watery sunshine the old stone looked warm and inviting rather than forbidding.  And the flight of stone steps that led up to the immense double-doors, flanked by high pillars, lent the mansion a graceful air in spite of its massive dimensions.  The house was at pleasant variance with the forbidding outer wall and gate, and was a far cry from the grim Bedlam of public fancy.  Some of the glittering windows were encased by iron bars, true, but nonetheless Kate could almost see the graceful carriages rolling up and the pink of society alighting in their finery for a ball.  Almost see it.  Because, beautiful though it was, and imposing, Deacon House was now an insane asylum, and no coy phrases like Rest Home could alter that cold fact.

Why has a beautiful young woman been committed to an insane asylum? What is the truth behind a shadowy past containing drug use, promiscuity and murder? What secrets does she hold that others will kill to keep HIDDEN? These are questions that psychologist Kate Bennett must answer if she is to save her patient’s sanity…and both their lives. But Kate has secrets of her own, and a dark past of her own that will come back to haunt her.

HIDDEN is a thriller, set in Dublin, but it is also a voyage of self-discovery for Kate, as she uncovers not just the truth about her patient but some truths about herself.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Mystery, Thriller

Rating – PG-18

More details about the author and the book

Connect with Derick Parsons on Twitter

Website http://www.derick-parsons.com/

Gabriela and The Widow by Jack Remick

Chapter Six

Toad Purses Make Her Vomit

The smell of the toad purses made Gabriela cringe every time she walked past the wall where they hung from their straps. The craftsmen had tanned the hides of the toads Nando brought from the jungle and from the tanned hides made purses that—instead of dangling from the thongs thrust through their mouths and their anuses—sometimes with blood still on them—hung from braided straps with buckles on them and clustered on the wall like large brown raindrops.

But still the toad smell was so strong that when Gabriela dreamed, the toads grew to the size of horses chasing her through the jungle and across the creek. When she was alone in the shop, she felt the toad eyes—now nothing but hard little black beads—staring at her. Still, it was the smell that tortured her most.

The scent wasn’t like the smell of cowhide, which was clean, and it wasn’t the smell of a sheepskin, which was musky, it was the smell of something crawling out of the dark on four legs, the smell of a fearsome creeping animal, long of tooth and sharp of claw, the smell of the dead, the odor of dried blood, the reek of pus in a deep infected wound seeping its waste onto the floor.

At night in the shop, when Nando left her to go out drinking with his friends, Gabriela had the urge to take all the toad purses and burn them. But she didn’t want to touch them because when she did she ached for days. She imagined herself bleeding to death standing in the creek that ran through her village.

All summer the Norteñas—in their white shorts and low cut blouses—came into the shop to discover the fascinating toad purses. Right away they wanted them—Oh look! they always said, It’s a giant toad—and then Gabriela had to unhang the purses from their perches and wrap them in paper. If, by chance, she brushed against one of the skins as she worked the burning in her grew so intense she became sick and wanted to vomit. She always waited until the Norteñas, carrying their new toad toys and jabbering about what a surprise it would be for the girls back home, stepped out the door and then she—pain rising from her belly to her eyes until tears rolled down her cheeks—ran to the back of the shop where she vomited, always expecting to see a monster emerge from her mouth.

One Monday, there entered a tall thin Norteña with short hair, accompanied by a shorter and darker companion. Gabriela stood at the rack of toad purses waiting while the women spoke as though they were alone. Gabriela waited in her polite quietness until her Ellen Cole classroom English, like a flower blooming in her chest, sprang from her mouth and she said,

“They are made from toads trapped in the jungle.”

And joy of joys, she said the words right, just the way Ellen Cole had insisted—They. Djungul. Djungul—what a hard sound, but she’d said it.

The tall woman glanced at her, smiling as if a genie had just sprung from the glass of the counter top.

“Oh,” she said to her short friend, “she speaks English.”

“Jess,” Gabriela said but as she spoke, she cringed because she heard Ellen Cole’s voice hammering at her—No, Gabriela, not Jess. It’s a simple sound EEEE ssss, YESSS.

“How much cuanto in dollars US?” The tall woman said.

She handed one of the toad purses, big as a platter, over to Gabriela, who felt her skin shrivel when the toad eyes raked her eyes and she blushed. The heat of shame suffocated her and the short woman, laughing, said,

“Look, Mignonne, you’ve made her blush.”

The tall one named Mignonne said,

“Maybe she has been kissing toads, hoping one will turn into her prince.”

“In Oaxaca?” The short woman said.

And then Mignonne lifted a second purse from the wall and handed it to Gabriela who, short now of breath and burning with fever, sweated as her hands gripped the purse by its leather strap that smelled of death and blood. For a moment the Toad Headed Soldier sprang into her mind unbidden and, trembling, she leaned against the glass counter, feeling faint and gasping. Mignonne, touching Gabriela said,

“Are you all right?”

“No, she isn’t all right,” the short companion said. “she’s sick and you just better hope it’s not infectious or we’ll be here with Montezuma’s revenge for the next week.”

Gabriela bent over, gasping as if her lungs had burst, and Mignonne fanned her with the toad-skin and the skin brushed Gabriela’s cheek and she vomited.

“Shit,” Mignonne said.

Reeling back from the spewing of Gabriela’s belly, which included what was left of her lunch—a pork tamal with tomatillo sauce and a cup of posole—Mignonne looked down at Gabriela as if she were a monster oozing out of a thick green soup.

It was then that Nando entered from the storeroom carrying six toad purses.

Gabriela, on her knees, sweating, looked up at Nando, pleading, but she couldn’t speak. Nando ushered the two women away, leaving Gabriela wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. Gabriela heard Mignonne say,

“That poor girl, she must have the flu.”

“Jess jess,” Nando said. “Enferma … seek. Very seek.”

Gabriela watched him at the cash register as he took their money and guided the two women, still talking, out of the shop.

And then he turned to Gabriela, hatred thick in his eyes.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Women’s Fiction

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Jack Remick on Twitter

Website http://jackremick.com/

Whitley & Austin, Where Truth and Fiction Meet by Parker Paige @parkerpaige86

Episode 1

November 25
It was strange how much had changed since Charlie Weiss turned thirty, and not for the best, but for the absolute worst. At eight o'clock, Friday morning, the end of the workweek, or perhaps the end of the saga, Charlie sat on the crowded 135 Bus as she headed to work. She reminisced about how her good intentions had brought her to this place, this place of melancholy, embarrassment and shame. So much she would have liked to turn back the hands of time, but how could she? What was done, was simply just that. Done.
Charlie peered through the fogged window and could barely tell how much longer before she reached the office building where she worked. She quickly returned her attention to the paperback she was reading, which seemed to speak to her as she flipped to the chapter, Surrender to the Fact That Life Isn't Fair.
Truer words were never more poignant in black and white.
Life was not fair.
In just a three-week period, so much had happened, and so many people were involved, and Charlie was the sole cause of it all.
As the bus traveled across the LaSalle Street Bridge, an eerie police siren rang in her ears, which always sent a frost through her. Even as a little girl, loud noises, such as sirens, horns and whistles, startled her. In preparing to exit the bus, she finished reading the last sentence of the chapter, closed the book and returned it to her worn out cotton bag, inscribed with her firm's initials, W&A, which stood for Whitley & Austin.
Her exit was approaching, but the bus stopped moving in the midst of a monstrous traffic jam, bringing morning drivers to a halt. On the corner of LaSalle and Lake Street, a clump of people surrounded the office building where she worked. She studied the female traffic cop as she rerouted and directed vehicles onto Wacker Drive. Charlie had not seen this many police cars since the last action movie she viewed on cable. The bright blue and white flashing lights seemed almost hypnotic.
In awe, Charlie absorbed the chaos on LaSalle Street, as two police officers carried a body bag from the office building. She could only imagine the identity of the unfortunate soul. She dreaded the possibility that it could be someone from her office, or worse yet, someone she knew personally.
Finally, in motion again, the bus made it to the corner and made an abrupt stop. She squeezed past the two overweight women who stood near the rear door and exited along with four other passengers. Upon reaching the street, a disturbing sensation came over her as the autumn air brushed against her face.
Could this turmoil have anything to do with her?
Paranoia set in.
Although many companies, corporations, and firms occupied her office building of more than sixty floors, she couldn't help but worry that her firm was the target of this disorder. Charlie raised the collar of her unbuttoned wool coat and stuffed her hands into her pockets as she waited at the corner for the light to turn green. Normally, autumn was her favorite season. It was one of the things she loved about Chicago, its changing seasons. But today was frigid and dismal, more like a reflection of what she felt inside.
With her hair pulled back into a ponytail away from her pale skin, Charlie stood just under six-feet tall, and her long slender legs made her appear much taller and much thinner. She had been a redhead for all of three weeks and enjoyed every minute of its glory until last night.
As she reached the other side of the street, she glimpsed inside the paramedic vehicle, but there was nothing to see. Her imagination was in disarray as she whisked past the curious spectators. All she could think about was the night before, how she had made a fool of herself. She had left things in an uproar, and that same uproar seemed to have come to haunt her this morning. She tried to pause the disturbing thoughts, at least until she gathered more information. This, after all, could have nothing to do with her. She inhaled a deep breath and hurried inside. Just as she came through the revolving doors, a police officer stopped her. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said.
Charlie felt her dimpled cheeks bruising fast.
"Do you work in this building?"
Her heart raced as she wondered why he singled her out. Then it dawned on her that he was probably questioning everyone who entered the building.
"Yes," she said softly.
"And your name?"
"Charlie."
"Last name?"
"Weiss."
Her eyes followed his pen as he jotted down her name on his tiny note pad. "What company are you with?" he asked her.
This abrupt manner of questioning evoked mild sensations of guilt, which shifted through her at an increasing pace. She swallowed hard, shifted her eyes left, then right, to see who was watching, then returned her attention to the police officer and answered his question. "Whitley & Austin."
As Charlie observed him writing down the information, her coworkers, Bruce Colby and Camina Givens, came to mind. They were the last two people she saw before she left the night before.
Something had happened to one of them. She knew it, just as surely as the breath exhaled from her mouth.
Charlie gazed at the police officer, expecting him to ask her another question, then. "You can go," he said.
"It's okay?" Charlie asked with a sense of relief.
"You can go on up."
Tempted to ask about the commotion, her fear of looking suspicious prevented her from doing so. As she headed towards the bank of elevators that serviced the forty-fourth floor, she glanced back and saw the police officer studying her. It was as if he suspected her of something. Their eyes met and her bag slipped from her shoulder, but quickly, she caught it in time.
Charlie began working with Whitley & Austin, one of Chicago's most prestigious law firms, two years ago. For the most part, she enjoyed her legal secretary position, being part of a team. But as she stood on the elevator, she sensed that her days with the firm were numbered. This morning's disturbance seemed to symbolize the end of something, and the beginning of something as well.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Romantic Suspense

Rating – PG-13

More details about the author

Connect with  Parker Paige on Twitter

Website parkerpaige.wordpress.com

The Colors of Friendship by K R Raye @KRRaye

Fortuitous Bumps
Melody flinched as Imani wheeled around fast, her right arm cocked and ready to fight.  Her breath caught in her throat as they both stared at each other in surprise.  Then the giggles hit and Melody burst out laughing.  Unable to stop, she doubled over clutching her stomach.
“You’re so wrong,” Imani said as she landed a big, booty bump on Melody’s hip that almost knocked her over.  Imani wagged her finger in a mock threat and then resumed dancing with Trevor as he cracked up and bopped along.
Still giggling, Melody straightened up and rubbed her hip as she tried to refocus on her cute dance partner.  However, her hip wasn’t the only thing aching.  Each step she took made her wince as her shoes pinched her toes like angry crabs.
Crap, she exhaled through gritted teeth, Imani warned her not to wear the sexy stilettos, but she wanted to look perfect tonight and they went so well with her long-sleeved, little, black jersey knit dress.  Ready to rest her sore feet, she yanked her partner’s sleeve.  “I’ve got to sit down for a while,” she yelled over the music.
Not missing a single beat, he shrugged, spun around, and danced with a group of girls behind him, leaving her gaping at his back.
“I guess you don’t want to join me at the bar for stimulating conversation,” she murmured to herself.   Pivoting on her heel, she headed towards the bar before noticing the crowd.  Great, it would take at least twenty minutes to get the bartender’s attention!  Sighing and unsure of her next steps, she surveyed the dance floor.
Imani and Trevor were just revving up.  And with Imani’s stressful week, it was probably best to let her finally cut loose.  She kept looking, but she couldn’t locate Lance anywhere.
Humph, knowing him, he was already getting personal attention from yet another pretty girl he just met.  Melody frowned.  Why did women constantly throw themselves at Lance?  Granted he was handsome, possessed a drool-worthy body, and now there were mumbles about NFL potential after just his first couple of games playing, but really!  Women needed to demand more respect than a meaningless one-night stand.
Frustrated and tired, she fanned herself, but she began to feel claustrophobic and faint.  All at once the hot, crowded room turned oppressive and the rank air suffocated.  The deafening music cloyed.  As she struggled to squeeze through the mass of bodies to escape, her body tensed and her heart hammered in her ears.  Pain radiated through her feet.  Every breath hitched in ragged spurts as clammy perspiration coated her skin.  In a last ditch effort she retrieved her coat and shot through the doors, not even waiting to pull on the double-breasted, wool trench coat.
The cold, January night made it difficult to catch her breath.  As she scrambled away from the frat house towards her dorm room, she wrestled into her coat and buttoned it up, snuggling in its warmth.  Maybe attending college in frigid, upstate New York wasn’t the smartest move, she thought as a bout of shivers wracked her body.  Snuggling in deeper, she tucked her head down and began barreling against the cold until she slammed into someone.
Books and bodies flew to the ground.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – New Adult, Contemporary

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with K R Raye on Facebook and Twitter

Website http://krraye.com/events.html

a Rafflecopter giveaway

The Barber’s Conundrum by Other Stories by John Hartnett @johnjhartnett

*****

Chapter 5: The Only Child Rearing Book You'll Ever Need!

Introducing The Only Child Rearing Book a Parent Will Ever Need!

Are you a parent? Potential parent?  Expecting parent?  Do you ever read parenting books just to celebrate the fact that you aren't a parent and still have your freedom? If so, you're going to love my new book, Kids You Can Count On.

Kids You Can Count On is guaranteed to help you raise perfect children effortlessly.  How can I make such a statement without biting my bottom lip until blood comes out?  Simple! Every technique I used to raise my three beloved kids to become bright, happy, polite, and well-adjusted is not in the book.  Why?  Because none of the techniques worked.  My kids’ behavior had me drinking Maalox out of industrial sized containers -- but the important thing is now I know what went wrong!  Now I get it!  And that's what's in the book.  Why suffer years of frustration raising kids through trial and error, when I've already done the suffering for you? 

Here are some sample insights and real life examples from the book, guaranteed to save you time, reduce stress and most importantly --raise the type of child you'd admit was yours even if you weren't being interrogated by the police!

What I Learned About Teaching Respect for Adults:

Never let your child call an adult by their first name.  Why?  Because right from the beginning a child who refers to you by your first name believes she is your equal, two days later she's convinced she's your superior and four days later, you're convinced she's your superior.  Here's an excerpt from a conversation between my 44-year old babysitter, Katherine, and my three-year old daughter Annie, who had been encouraged to call Katherine by her first name.

Katherine:  Annie, honey, it's time for your nap.

Annie:  I'm not sleepy, Kathy, but thanks for your concern.  Would you be a dear and get me another juice box?

How to fix it so your kid never calls anyone by their first name again?  See page 43!

The Right Way to Communicate with Your Child:

Military philosophy may be "Don't ask.  Don't tell," but for parents and kids it should be "Don't ask.  Tell!"  What happens when you stop giving your kids choices?  You get your life back, that's what!  Here's an excerpt from a school day breakfast discussion between my children and my wife --before we knew any better:

Mother:  What would you like for breakfast?

Annie:  Bacon and eggs.

Jim:  Pancakes with sausage.

Cathy: Oatmeal.

Mother: There's no time.  You all took thirty-minute showers.  How about cereal or toast?

Annie: I want bacon and eggs. 

Jim:  If we're not having pancakes then I don't want anything. 

Cathy:  Cereal and toast!

Mother: Let me see what I can do.

A smart lawyer never asks a question in a courtroom without already knowing the answer. Conversations with children should be handled no differently.  Here's an excerpt from a school day breakfast discussion between my wife and children after she read Chapter 6, How to Say "I'm Only Saying This Once" and Mean It.:

Mother:  What would you like for breakfast this morning?  I'll give you a hint. It's corn flakes and you have ten minutes to finish eating.

Need a handy reference for replacing common open ended questions with time saving imperative sentences?  Look no further than page 119!

Television: Friend or Foe?

For years we let our kids watch television whenever they wanted until one day, my wife and I tripped down a flight of stairs together, sustaining coma-inducing injuries.  While we lay in a tangled heap on the floor, our children watched television until the power company turned off the electricity. Our lifeless bodies were finally discovered by our panic stricken children, who in spite of their harrowing ordeal had the presence of mind to call our neighbors and ask politely if they could watch TV at their house. 

Don't wait for a coma to get the wakeup call that your kids are spending way too much time in front of the television.

TV troubles in your home?  Consult Chapter 9, From Couch Potatoes to Planting Potatoes, includes simple two-step program for turning off the television and turning on your kids …to the simple pleasures of back breaking yard work! 

How to Slay the Birthday Party Goliath

I realized our children's birthday parties were getting out of line when one of the tigers, I can't remember now whether it was Siegfried's or Roy's, pounced on my mother-in-law during our daughter Cathy's first birthday celebration.  Luckily Cathy wasn't traumatized by the event since she didn't wake up from her nap until fifteen minutes after 224 of her closest friends and relatives headed for home.  While there is no such thing as debtor's prison anymore, my wife and I were so deeply in hock from charging our children's birthday bashes that the state legislature briefly discussed opening a local debtor's prison just for us. Kids You Can Count On shows you how to say adios to $10,000 birthday party singalongs with Willie Nelson and hello to $30 pizza parties!

Can't make smores without flying Emeril Lagasse in for the weekend? Turn to Appendix II, Simple Dishes Even You Can Cook.

Testimonials Keep Pouring In!

Here's what parents who've read Kids You Can Count On have to say about my book:

"Since using the techniques outlined in your book, my children's behavior has improved so much friends stop them on the street to ask if they've been adopted." -- Terry K, Orlando, FL.

"My wife and I have adapted your time saving 'Don't ask.  Tell!' philosophy and the resulting peace and quiet has been so rewarding, we've taken the philosophy one step further by requiring our children to submit all questions to us in writing.  Who would believe a home with five children could be more tranquil than a monastery?" -- Eddie Jondo, Lincoln, NE

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre –  Humor

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

Connect with John Hartnett on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://monkeybellhop.com/

Excerpt: Diary of a Beverly Hills Matchmaker by Marla Martenson @marlamartenson

Magnets

I’ve taken off my Jimmy Choo eight-strap platform pumps that originally cost seven hundred dollars—and that I bought online for only a hundred fifteen bucks after I got my signing advance on my first book—and put on my walking shoes from Target. I’m just about to shut the computer off when my email chime sounds. Why do I even bother looking in my inbox at this hour?

Hi Marla, Scott here.

I’m still waiting for the 10+ lovelies you promised.

SCL

Oops.

Dear Scott,

Our 10+ young women are very popular and booked well in advance, or they often date one client steadily—which is what we want for you too, right? I’m sure I can have a name for you by tomorrow though.

Marla

There’s a second email. It’s cc’d to me, but primarily addressed to Gary.

Gary and Marla,

None of the twenty-three women I’ve dated through your service are up to my standards. I demand that you cancel my contract and give me my money back immediately or I’ll see you in court.

Nathan

OgodOgodOgodOgod. I blow my breath out about a dozen times. I know Gary will handle this if it gets really ugly, but I’ll have to try to talk the guy out of it first. Shit!

Dear Nathan,

Picture if you will the jurors listening to you plead your case: six horny guys slobbering over the gorgeous women you turned down, and six women who must be restrained from forming a lynching party. See what I’m saying, Nathan?

I start to write a foray into an amicable resolution, but you know what? I can’t deal with this tonight. Nathan will just have to wait. I shut down the computer, turn off the lights, and lock up.

Do I really need this job? I ask myself as I head up Rodeo Drive toward Wilshire. Enough to put up with all the crap?

I hated being a waitress. I made a solemn vow to myself that I would not still be waitressing at forty. My thirty-five-year-old self would think I was so dang successful now, I should stand up and cheer. I make good money and have sold two books. The first one is just about to be released, so it hasn’t earned enough yet to allow me to focus on writing full time.

Is Bobbie right? Is my soul limping? Right now, I’m fondly remembering my waitressing days in Chicago, where I had more time for creative pursuits before and after work. Or are my Oak-leys too rose-tinted as I glance into the past?

Wow! Isn’t that Reese Witherspoon in that Rolls driving by? I walk a little faster and almost catch up at the light at Wilshire. The Rolls turns and I follow. I can see it turn again onto North Canon. I bet she’s going to Spago. I walk a little faster and am half a block away when I see a swarm of photogs, their cameras flashing like firecrackers. I can see a blonde making it inside the restaurant before being totally mauled.

I have to smile as I head back to Rodeo. She’s living the life I was pursuing. At the age of twenty, I left Washington and moved to Los Angeles to pursue my dreams of an acting career—along with thousands of Kelly McGillis wannabes and Don Johnson posers. People used to mistake me for Molly Ringwald and even ask me for my autograph. I would walk down the street and hear, “Hey, Molly!” I’d wave and blow kisses. When I was waiting tables, a few customers thought I was Molly. I went along with it at first and signed their napkins. Finally, I asked the obvious. “Why in the heck would Molly Ringwald be waiting tables in West Hollywood?”

I have pictures of me playing up the Molly look, but I also loved Madonna. The photos of me dressed in her “like a virgin” days: hilarious! None of this got me anywhere in show biz, however. So to pay the bills, I moved on to waitressing along with the rest of the dreamers—just until I landed a part in some big movie that would make me famous. And rich. And allow me to live in Beverly Hills.

Not that doing anything in Beverly Hills isn’t a trip, if you know what I mean. In one of the first of my many stellar jobs, which was just across the street from where I’m right now, fogging up a window—sighing over a red Louis Vuitton handbag that I’ve already priced at $1,110—I often worked the busy Saturday lunch shift where I lost some of my naiveté very quickly. Ron, the manager-host, told us to seat the “beautiful people” outside on the patio so that passers-by could see them frequenting his dining establishment. The “less attractive” tourists were seated inside upfront, and the uglier ones, as he called them, were “positioned in the back.” I felt sorry for those poor schmucks— because they also got the slowest service. And the smaller portions. Sometimes they even got the least appealing or slowest selling food items. “What do you recommend on the menu?” the ugly folks would ask in good faith. “Oh, the dirt sandwich with onions and sauerkraut is my favorite. You’ll enjoy it.”

I begged to wait on the outdoor diners—celebrities, the rich and famous, the spoiled patrons juggling Chanel, Gucci, and Armani shopping bags. I was a bit jealous, of course, of all these privileged people, shopping and dining in Beverly Hills while I worked my ass down to a size zero at two restaurant jobs just to get by. I was waiting on Joan Collins, who came to the restaurant with a party of six. Dynasty was a top-rated TV show, and I did my best to please its star villainess, pouring more of this, fetching another that. And then disaster struck. She called me over to her table. Her fork was missing. “This is an outrage!” she barked.

For all my work, she left me a $2 tip on a $120 tab. The woman was clearly typecast as Alexis, right?

My dream of getting work as an actress got squeezed into the crannies as the years flew by, and I accepted—but never liked—the restaurant work. I mean I should be the one wearing fabulous designer suits at power lunches and dripping with bling at dinner—not serving these hoity-toities. I mostly just got lonelier and felt worse about myself. By age twenty-seven, I was still living alone, away from my family, and struggling financially.

But I was about to ride off into the smoggy sunset with Mr. Fabulous who would, I hoped, save me from the drudgery of two jobs so I could return to acting. I was working in a French restaurant in West Hollywood. Neither Tom Cruise nor Rob Lowe had taken notice of the adorable cashier at Le Bistro Brasserie, so I flirted with Bruno, the cute French sous chef who didn’t speak much English. I spoke French, so he chatted me up tout suite. I let him talk me into letting him crash at my place a few times— he lived forty-five minutes away and knew I walked to work from my little apartment. Success story that he was, he had no car and spent a fortune on taxi fares at night after work.

I must confess that I suffer from RAA syndrome, Rescues Abandoned Animals, and so I helped the guy out. Like, four times a week. He camped on my sofa. You can see where this is going. I mean a bed is so much more comfy than a lumpy couch. Bruno soon had an epiphany: Marriage would save us money. Somehow, it sounded sexy in French. Deep down I knew that he was using me, but I was so lonely. I said, oui.

What was I thinking?

A few years later, Bruno had a chance to work with two brothers who were opening a restaurant in Chicago. He asked me if I wanted to move so far away from sunny California. The only thing I knew about Chicago was that Oprah and Phil Donahue were there, and as one of my guy waiter friends who had visited many times told me, “It’s colder than a witch’s tit.” I had also heard that there was acting work available. I was sick of L.A. and said oui once more.

I loved the Windy City and made some good friends, but the restaurant partners turned out to be very bad people, so, after a year and a half, we broke off our association with them. Bruno decided to take a job in Beverly Hills and move back to L.A. We didn’t have enough money to pay a moving company, so he went ahead of me; I stayed the summer, working two jobs waitressing in order to save enough for the move. I was so exhausted from waiting on tables day and night that when I came home, I often collapsed on the floor in tears, my three-and-a-half-pound Yorkshire terrier, Daphne, my only comfort. But at least I looked good. According to my friends, the fifteen pounds I dropped gave me a “gaunt catwalk allure.”

I finally made it back out to L.A. to be with Bruno, who had by then found his true passion in life: playing poker with the guys. I hardly ever saw him. I should have thought, Yay! I was so depressed, though, I thought I might have a nervous breakdown. I told Bruno that it looked like our marriage was falling apart and that maybe we should just end it. He said that would be just fine with him, since he wasn’t all that attracted to me in the first place. Aaaarrrrgggghhhh! I hated L.A., I couldn’t find a job, and I missed Chicago and my friends. I spent a lot of time crying my eyes out. On top of that, I just never got picked out of the studio cattle calls. I felt like I was nothing. After ten months back in the City of Angels—from hell—I decided to go back to Chicago and start a fresh life. This should have been a “woo-hoo moment,” but I was still a mess. Scars? It’s a wonder my heart still worked. I still have nightmares about those times.

After seven years of marriage, I filed for divorce, packed two suitcases, and put Daphne in my roomy Gucci knock-off handbag. My dad was living nearby in Anaheim with his second wife—my parents having divorced when I was about twenty-seven. He drove me to the airport. Waterworks gushing, I nodded as my dad kept pointing out that this was the best thing I could have done for myself. He was right. My outlook and therefore my luck was about to change.

Oh. My. God. I smell Italian food, and it draws me right out of my memory of those moronic times with Bruno. I’ve wandered along, enjoying the profusion of flowers blossoming along the center divide of Rodeo Drive. The pleasant summer evening is still light at almost eight. Most of the shops have closed, so I have the place virtually to myself. The flowers perfume the streets, but my nose also detects . . . money. No kidding. The air smells like new cars and aroma therapies and salons and perfume and leather goods. Eau de Moolah—that’s the scent along this street. I’ve reached the Rodeo Collection, small, yet the most expensive shopping turf on the planet. You can’t really tell from the outside though. Part of it is sunken with all this ivy cascading over the brick walls and marble columns. There’s an open courtyard three levels down with trees and a small waterfall. The pizza smell that is making my stomach growl is wafting up from a new upscale restaurant.

I love Italian food, but somehow I managed not to bulk up on it back in Chicago, where I worked in an Italian restaurant for the steady income. It was the first time I actually took charge of my life, and I began making a good deal of money doing TV commercials and getting small parts in films and print modeling work. I even had a couple of lines in the Mel Gibson film, What Women Want. Mel was very nice. I got to stand just a few feet from where he was doing his scene. I was so surprised to see what a heavy smoker he was. He would stand in front of the camera, puffing on a cigarette, and then when it was time to do his scene, he threw the lit cigarette on the floor in front of him. After his scene, he would pick it back up and start smoking again. Cig addictions—don’t even get me started.

I was happy there for five years. Chicago holds a special place in my heart—but life was about to call me back to California. I was home for Christmas at my mom’s house in Federal Way when the call came that my father was in the hospital with cancer. I called the airlines, got a ticket, and jumped on the next plane to Los Angeles, crying the whole way down and as I walked into the hospital. I looked at him lying in his bed, knowing that the time had come for us to pay the ultimate price for those damn cigarettes. The hold that cigarettes get on people is like a vise around the throat. Okay, I didn’t mean to go there, but knowing that he was going to suffer just about killed me.

The doctor came into the room and coldly announced that the diagnosis was terminal and that Dad had six months to live, at the most. Then he just turned around and walked out the door.

Neither of us could look at each other.

Then Dad said, “You think it’s too late for me to start eating that tofu and carrot juice you’re always trying to foist off on me?” We laughed and I hugged him.

Back in Chicago, it took me only five days to pack everything, close bank accounts, tell my boss I was leaving, say good-bye to dear friends like Rita—who would take care of Daphne for me— and hire a moving company. When I got back to California, Dad was no longer in the hospital. He had deteriorated so much that he was put into a nursing home. I spent days and nights at his side, crying and praying for help getting through this.

Mercifully he died a few days later. I was living at my aunt’s house, waiting for my things to cross the country from Chicago on a moving truck. The second hardest thing that I’ve ever had to do in my life was to drive over to the cremation place and pick up my dad’s ashes. I paid the four hundred dollars and was handed a cardboard box that weighed about ten pounds. I hid it in the back of the closet of the guest room that I was staying in.

That night, lying on the inflated mattress that was my bed for the next two months, I felt and heard a buzzing sound in my left ear. Then I heard the words in my dad’s voice, “We did okay, didn’t we? I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said.

I always feel Dad at my side in stressful times. Like right now.

I think he’s telling me to do what makes me happy. I feel in my heart that he helped me right after I moved back to L.A., back to Hollywood.

I planned on getting an agent and a job—in any line of work except waitressing—and start auditioning again. I finally found a cute little studio apartment in Hollywood that accepted dogs, a small miracle, and Daphne and I moved in. Decorating the place helped me cope with the loss of my dad, but I still felt very lost and lonely.

I did some French translation work and was also cast in bit parts as an actress. I began doing “audience work.” Yep, they actually pay people to sit in the audience at tapings of game shows and late-night talk shows. I had no idea “audience work” existed as a profession until my girlfriend, Anouchka, introduced me to it. It paid a pittance—six dollars per hour cash, sometimes more—but it was interesting. Getting on the Judge Judy show, for instance, paid a whole $40 for just sitting on your butt, staying awake, and looking interested while people bickered, ranted, and endured magisterial sarcasm.

One evening, I walked to a pharmacy up on Sunset Boulevard to get some vitamins. There I met an adorable little Polish woman from New York who also lived in the neighborhood. Sabrina and I became solid friends. We went to plays and comedy clubs together—it was a lot of fun. She introduced me to one of her girlfriends who was an agent. She signed me right away. In the meantime, Sabrina was always talking about a guy who lived in her building. She told me he was dating a gal, but it wasn’t serious.

I didn’t really care to hear about a guy who was “in a relationship,” but every time I saw Sabrina, she kept talking about this guy. She told me that he played piano at a place in Playa Del Rey. I can’t explain this, but I felt like my dad was nudging me. I was just kind of glowing with expectation the night I decided to go to the piano bar with Sabrina to secretly check him out.

Adolfo.

I liked his music, the way he played the piano, and just . . . the way he looked: Latin, handsome, with a warm smile. He came over and sat with us during his break. When he was done for the evening, we all went over to Sabrina’s apartment and had a drink. We sat next to each other on her couch, and our lips, I don’t know . . . they just . . . somehow . . . locked like magnets.

Affirmations

I will receive a belated tip from an old actress for $62.37 (adjusting for inflation and interest accrual).

My happy clients shower me with appreciation.

My Dad watches over me.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Memoir

Rating – PG13

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Marla Martenson on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://marlamartenson.com/

Don’t Look Away by Leslie Kelly @lesliekelly

Excerpt from

DON’T LOOK AWAY

By

Leslie Kelly

“This is gonna take forever.”

Detective Veronica Sloan glared out the windshield of her car, mentally cursing the heat, and the crowd. Though traffic in the nation’s capital was always a bitch, the lines to get through the Pennsylvania Avenue checkpoints were longer than usual on this wickedly hot summer morning.

A queue of pedestrians wound from each of the heavily-guarded entrances, through Lafayette Park, all the way to H Street. Throngs of other people milled around them, selling cold drinks, packaged food or souvenirs. Some held protest signs, some formed prayer circles.

A bunch of them blocked the damn road.

On any day there would be discontent. On this particularly sweltering July one, tempers were flaring. Hers not the least of them.

In the time it had taken to crawl two blocks in the unmarked sedan, she’d seen one woman faint, two fights break out, and a group of children sprawl on the sidewalk in exhaustion. Flag-draped rednecks glared at Japanese tourists—the slanty-eyed foreigners just as unwelcome as the burqa-wearing ones in their minds. Everyone sweated and cursed and bitched and shouted.

But they didn’t leave. Morbid curiosity always ensured they wouldn’t leave once they’d made it this far.

She could have roared in on full emergency response, dispersing the crowd spilling into the street with her siren and her horn. She didn’t. Because if the people heard about the murder, they might get a little itchy. Might start stampeding, in fact. Washington was quick to panic these days. And she didn’t particularly want to add any boot-crushed grandmas from the Midwest to her already backbreaking caseload.

“Christ, I think there are as many people in line now as there were yesterday for the rededication.”

Ronnie glanced over at her partner, Mark Daniels, who looked as impatient as she felt. The cynic in her couldn’t help saying, “Yeah, but this is nothing compared to the crowds who lined up to gawk at the rubble that first year.”

No, it definitely wasn’t. As soon as the military had begun to allow visitors to view the destruction wrought in October of 2017, D.C. had become the hottest tourist destination in the world. People had clamored for the chance to say they had seen the site of the worst terrorist attack in history.

Goddamn ghouls.

“I guess you’re right.” He leaned back in the seat, crossing his arms over his brawny chest and closing his eyes. “Wake me up when we get there.”

She laughed softly. “Who was she?”

Her partner didn’t bother looking up. “A stripper from the Shake And Bake. I always thought it would be fun to be the pole for a walking pair of jugs, but I think I’m gettin’ too old for that stuff.”

He wasn’t even forty. Nowhere near old, in brain or brawn, though his weary tone hinted at his recent late nights. Daniels had been edgy lately, pushing limits, taking risks. She couldn’t say why. Nor could she say she wasn’t worried about him.

“Hard living. You’d better slow down.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Hey, my ass isn’t hanging off a bar stool seven nights a week. And the only poles I see are the ones holding up the lights in the park where I run.”

Mark’s lips twitched a little, though his position never changed. “I keep telling you Ron, a body’s only got so much runnin’ in it. You better save it for our visits to the East Side. One of these days when you’re chasing some banger, you’re gonna run out of run.”

Ahh, Daniels wisdom. What would she do without her daily dose of it?

Ronnie didn’t have time to wonder, because they’d finally reached the turn-off for heavily barricaded 17^th Street. Ignoring the glares of the pedestrians who grudgingly got out of the way, she turned and drove past a picket line of armed soldiers dressed in urban fatigues.

This was the only vehicular route into or out of the north quadrant of the area once called the National Mall. An area that had, just yesterday, in a ceremony full of as much pomp and ceremony as could be accomplished behind a wall of bulletproof glass, been rededicated by the president as Patriot Square.

The place had another name on the street. Just as most New Yorkers still called the 9/11 site Ground Zero, most people around here called this The Trainyard.

“Stop the car,” a stern voice ordered as she slowly cruised toward the iron-and-barbed-wire fence. The voice had come out of one of the dozen body-armor wearing troops fronting the gate, every one of whom had a weapon aimed directly at her face. Talk about a welcoming committee.

Eight years ago, when she’d been just a rookie cop and the U.S.—more than a decade after 9/11—had seemed relatively safe, a flashed badge would have gotten her past any roadblock. Times were different now. Much different. So without a word, she threw the car into park, killed the engine, and put her hands up.

 

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre - Thriller

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with Leslie Kelly on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.leslieAkelly.com/