Call Sign: King Livia Grant Publication date: May 8th 2023 Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance
He got cocky. Let his guard down.
Now the love of his life is paying the price.
For a moment he’d forgotten there were men who wanted him dead. Men who lived their lives in the dark, who could reach out of the shadows he used to live in, and he’d been naive to think the light inside her would keep her safe.
She was too bright to hide away though, made for the spotlight, and he’d felt warmer just by being near her… then everything went cold so fast.
In a breath she was gone, in the hands of his enemies, and he’d seen first hand what happened to women who crossed paths with the Volkov Bratva. They’d touch her, hurt her. She’d be afraid, suffering.
All because of him. All in the name of vengeance.
But that was their mistake, because in the maddening darkness her absence has put him in, a beast was sleeping… and they woke him up. Now everyone will pay.
Black Sky Ops – Danger for Hire
This network of global mercenaries stay in the shadows, going on the impossible missions no one else will take. The elite soldiers of Black Sky Ops aren’t afraid to break the rules as long as it’s for the greater good — and the paycheck is high enough. But sometimes the line between right and wrong gets blurry, especially when protecting the people they love.
Note: The Black Sky Opsseries is made up of full length novels with no cliffhangers and guaranteed happily-ever-afters. Each book is a standalone and the series can be read in any order.
It was on the sideline of the theater he literally bumped into Trevor — the only other man on the planet he felt confident leaving his wife’s safety too.
“That was one of her best performances,” Trevor said. “I knew when they were filming last year it was special.”
“Yeah. She better damn well win this year.”
“She will,” Trevor said sounding as proud as Ryder felt. “And while she deserves it, each notch she raises on the ladder of fame makes our job just that much harder.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Ryder groused, as aggravated today as he had been four years before by the impossible love match between an international celebrity and a deep-cover agent. “As much as I love being here with her tonight, I can’t shake the feeling that it was a mistake to come.”
Ryder tried not to share his fears with Khloe, but he hid nothing from Trevor McLean, his queen’s Royal Guard.
“Your contacts at the CIA gave you a clean report last month, right?”
“Just because the Volkov’s have been wounded, I’ll never count them out — not until Alexi runs them into the ground for good.”
Just thinking about his last mission in Russia before he burned his cover put him on edge.
“You said yourself he’s a weak leader compared to his dead cousins. But if he’s still a threat, why not just have BSO take him out?”
Trevor asked a question Ryder had found himself contemplating more often these days.
He sighed. “Because killing him would be just another ‘whack a mole’ mission as the team likes to say. Someone new would take his place… maybe even someone worse. At least I know him — understand how he thinks. And anyway, the Volkovs are just one of a dozen crime families that would love to see me six-feet under. I can’t very well take hits out on all of them,” Ryder groused, never taking his eyes off his beaming wife.
“Why not?” Trevor asked.
It was a simple enough question, and in all honesty, it was a solution he had the means and resources to pull off.
“I guess because despite all of the fucked up shit I’ve done, my moral compass has always pointed squarely in the good-guy direction. Voluntarily taking out dozens of marks I haven’t interacted with in years just so I can get a better night’s sleep seems like a slippery slope.”
“I get that, and even respect that, but at the end of the day, they’re the bad guys — not you. And certainly not Khloe. I love seeing her this happy. You being here made that happen.”
Author Bio:
USA Today bestselling author Livia Grant lives in Chicago with her husband and furry rescue dog named Max. She is fortunate to have been able to travel extensively and as much as she loves to visit places around the globe, the Midwest and its changing seasons will always be home. Livia’s readers appreciate her riveting stories filled with deep, character driven plots, often spiced with elements of BDSM.
A new job, a brutal murder, and Camelot has ended.
In 1963, Dot Morgan’s life was changed forever. She witnessed the assassination of John F Kennedy through the lens of her boxy Kodak Instamatic camera, bringing traumatic aftereffects of the brutality that happened as they stood on the parade route in Dallas.
She starts her first real secretarial job with a boss who has no sympathy for her trauma. When Dot’s only work friend has a mysterious accident at a demolition site, she digs around on her own only to find very little love between two brothers and no one hammering out justice to find a murderer.
The suspects are all around Dot and as she tries to sift through their motives, her cousin Ellie is going through PTSD on her own, losing interest in work, and her fiancé all the while quoting some of JFK’s finest speeches.
With so much change in her world, can Dot still tell the difference between good and evil?
Book Details:
Genre: Historical Mystery Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: March 2023 Number of Pages: 230 ISBN: 978-1685123017 Series: The Swinging Sixties Mystery Series, Book 2 | Each is a stand alone Book Links:Amazon | Goodreads
Read an excerpt:
Ellie screamed, making the driver jump. “Right here! Stop here,” Ellie said as she passed bills from the back seat to the front.
I looked up over a light brown building with straight white letters reading Texas School Book Depository. Above it was an ad for Hertz Rent-a-Car with a clock attached to it. It was straight up noon. The crowd was thickening as people found places to stand in a grassy area next to the street. It was almost as if the original landscaper had known this historic day would take place and designed the gradual slope along the road. According to the newspaper, Kennedy’s motorcade would arrive soon, and I felt the excitement building as we prepared to join the crowd. I pulled my arms through my sweater.
Ellie extended a hand to help me out of the yellow Checker cab. “Are you ready?”
“Oh yes. Let’s go over there.” I pointed to one of the few open spots next to the curb. “Hurry, before someone else gets it. I just hope we can hold the spot. There are some pretty big guys who might want to stand in front of us.”
Ellie smirked. “You know what I always say. ‘Knee them in the crotch and they sing a new song.’”
“Seriously, Ellie. I’m not attacking some poor man just so I can stand in front.”
“You’re right. I was trying to sound sophisticated Maybe not here but remember that. It may come in handy someday.”
I had decided to wear a new pair of black heels and felt them wobbling. We crossed the street and grabbed our spot just in time, causing another viewer to crowd in next to us. The smell of cigarette smoke circled us as people fiddled with cameras and readjusted black-rimmed glasses.
“Jack Kennedy is so handsome.” Ellie placed her hand over her heart, popping it on her chest like a heartbeat. “Too bad he’s already taken.”
“Stop.” I laughed. “I believe you’re already taken as well. Didn’t I hear something about you and Al getting married next June?”
Ellie gave a sweet smile as her eyes drifted upward. “I can’t believe that either. June. That’s just a little more than six months away.”
“Well, you deserve the happiness coming your way.” I patted my cousin’s shoulder. Ellie was in her thirties, practically spinsterhood in 1963. Finding Al, the electrician, had been the best thing for her. Love and marriage. It filled me with warmth. We were all living the American dream just like the characters in our favorite movies at the Rialto theater. The lyrics of “Young at Heart” drifted through my mind.
I sang a few lines from the song.
Ellie linked her arm with mine as she watched the street. A few cars drove by, but none that looked like a presidential motorcade. The breeze drifted across my exposed knees. A longer skirt would have shielded my knees, but I would endure the shivers for the sake of fashion.
“Ellie, did you see that picture of Jackie in the paper? She’s gorgeous. I saw her tour of the White House on TV. She’s so classy and looks beautiful in everything she wears.”
“Except she talks funny,” Ellie said, her Texas drawl turning “talks” into “tawks.”
“That’s because she’s from the East. She can’t help it. I’ll bet she thinks Texans talk funny. I’m sure they hear a lot of Texas twang coming from LBJ and Ladybird.”
“But that’s just music to anyone’s ears,” Ellie said. “Be serious.”
I glanced up and down the parade route. “Ben said he was going to be here. Maybe he’s farther down the street.” I pulled out my new Kodak Instamatic and hooked the leather strap around my neck. I raised the camera up to my eyes. “I hope I can get a clear picture of Jackie and John.”
“Listen to you. You talk like you know them,” Ellie laughed. “Jackie and John.”
“Well, in a way, I feel like I do. They’re America’s perfect family. I love them all. Jackie, John, Caroline, John-John.”
Ellie sighed and then drew in an excited breath with her hands clenched in front of her. “This is so exciting.” People continued to crowd up to the curb. A tall man in a brown plaid sport coat, holding binoculars up to his black boxy glasses, elbowed me to move over. I could feel tension in the air that comes when people anticipate witnessing something spectacular.
Just then, a line of shiny black cars came into view, ambling down the street in our direction. The breeze turned into a slight wind. I leaned forward and squinted, trying to identify who was in each vehicle. I felt my heart race as I recognized John and Jackie Kennedy sitting in the back seat as the car was surrounded by men on motorcycles. She was stunning in a pink wool suit and matching hat. I felt special knowing Jackie and I had worn the same color on this memorable day. She, of course, looked so much better. John had a healthy tan and a wide smile on his face.
I raised my camera and willed the man in the brown plaid coat not to step in front of me. This was a moment I was sure we would always remember. I hoped I could wind the film cartridge fast enough to take several pictures. Maybe they would want to use them in the Camden Courier? I wanted a good one of John, and another of Jackie. Just like real people, I thought but really, they looked like royalty, sitting in the open top limousine with policemen on motorcycles riding silently alongside—sort of a mobile palace guard. When the hood of the limousine was directly in front of me, I brought the Instamatic up and clicked to take a picture. I rolled the film to the next frame, took another, and repeated the process. Suddenly, I heard a popping sound somewhere behind me. I rolled the film lever with my thumb, now an automatic action, then turned toward the sound, only to see people scrambling and running to higher ground. The sound I heard wasn’t a pop. It was a gunshot. I looked back toward the motorcade and stood in horror as a man crawled over the back of the open convertible and the thing that caught my attention was the splotches of red invading Jackie’s beautiful pink suit. John Kennedy no longer sat smiling in front of me but was down in the seat on Jackie’s lap.
***
Excerpt from If I Had a Hammer by Teresa Trent. Copyright 2023 by Teresa Trent. Reproduced with permission from Teresa Trent. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Teresa Trent is the author of over 15 books. She started writing cozy mysteries with the Pecan Bayou and Piney Woods Mystery Series. She sets her stories in different geographical areas of Texas and The Swinging Sixties historical series is set just north of Dallas, starting in 1962. You might think with so many books set in the Lone Star state, she was born there, but no. She has lived all over the world, thanks to her father’s career in the army. After living in Texas for twenty-five years, she’s finally put down roots.
Teresa is a hybrid author, self-publishing early in her career, which led her to traditional publishing with Level Best Books and Camel Press. She is the author of several short stories that have appeared in a host of anthologies. Teresa publishes the blog and podcast, Books to the Ceiling at https://teresatrent.blog where she loves to read the book excerpts of other writers and share in the writing community.
Teresa is a member of Sisters in Crime and lives in Houston, Texas with her husband and son.
Of Blood and Light C. Monk Publication date: April 30th 2023 Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance
Arthurian legend, bodice-ripping, and capybaras: welcome to Thule.
A girl with a secret . . .
In the back of an ambulance, River Greer counts each breath her little sister takes until the final one: Sage’s body is giving up, ravaged by a mysterious illness. The late-night rush to the ER, however, turns into a surreal nightmare when River is abducted and ferried across the universe to the fabled Thule: a world beyond worlds, where Victorian mores collide with magic and Arthurian legend.
. . . meets a knight on a mission to save his world.
There, his grace Hadrian Landevale of Caid is fighting losing battles of his own: to recover Isolde, his runaway wife, and against the blight that threatens the ichor, the source of all life on Thule. To add insult to injury, the captured fugitive Thule pathfinders just brought back from Earth is not his duchess but an eerie doppelgänger.
When it becomes clear that someone on Thule will go to any length to silence River, Hadrian offers his protection to this enchanting, obstinate stranger . . . whose secrets might be the key to saving Thule’s most precious treasure: the light in its blood.
“I have a lot more questions than you,” I murmur, tracking the movements of a pair of lone figures across the lawn. A man in farm clothes and a woman wearing some sort of maid outfit carry buckets and packages from a carriage stationed on a gravel path. They mill around, seemingly unbothered by the fractured moon and massive misty planet looming over their heads.
By the time the two strangers disappear, I realize Hadrian is still supporting me, one arm curled over the front of my torso while the other rests around my waist. I cautiously pry myself from his hold. He lets go and takes a step back, allowing some salutary distance between us. “What is this place?”
“Thule,” he reasserts.
“I heard you the first time, but that’s not what I’m asking.” I stagger away from the windows, unable to tear my gaze from the foreign sky outside. “Are we in space?”
One of his eyebrows rises a fraction. “Miss Greer, everything is, by essence, in space.”
“Are we in space elsewhere than on Earth? Like . . . how far?” I urge, desperate for tangible facts to hold on to as I plummet down this rabbit hole.
He motions to the evil chair he used to trap me earlier. “You seem quite overtaxed; would you like to take a seat?”
I shake my head to signal I’m never sitting in that thing again. “How far?”
“We’re approximately two hundred and ninety light-years away from Earth.”
A tremor snakes up my legs; I grip one of the bedposts for support. “How is that . . . No. No. It’s not possible.”
“The paths connect our worlds, as they have since the very first breath of time. The Dekwenn Tīrr, through which Eliud ferried you, is one such path. That is how you came to be here.”
“But it only took a second!” I shriek, the chaos of my thoughts coalescing into something cold and dark. Was it truly a second, or have I been asleep in that bright void for years and lost everything?
“Time and space are quite altered within the paths,” he notes.
“What do you mean? How long have I been here?”
He pulls a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat, flicks it open, and checks the dial. “Slightly over six hours.”
My initial rush of relief becomes a leaden sensation in the pit of my stomach as I recall the twisted physics of Miller’s planet in Interstellar—where severe time dilation caused by a neighboring black hole turns every hour into seven years.
“How long has it been on Earth?” Please let it not be forty-two years. Please.
A crease forms between his eyebrows. “The same amount of time, one should expect.”
“Exactly the same? So six hours? A quarter of a day?”
“A tenth, rather,” he corrects. Seeing my face scrunch in confusion, then panic, he adds, “While I’ve never had the privilege of visiting Earth, it is my understanding that solar days there are quite short.”
One-tenth . . . I whip my neurons into action and do the math, the room spinning around me as I process this new level of weird. “Sixty hours. Your solar days last sixty hours.”
“Indeed. It is past midday—” He checks his watch again. “Precisely thirty-two o’clock.”
“Give or take a light-year.”
“As I’ve already explained to you, the rules of time and space do not apply within the paths. Nothing does, in truth,” he adds, like an afterthought.
The room is warm, but I’m trembling, freezing. “I can’t be here. Please let me go home. Take me back through one of those paths!”
The lines bracketing his mouth deepening as he turns to face me once more. “I cannot.”
His earlier conversation with Eliud rings back in my ears: under arrest for the illegal crossing of an unregistered path . . . crimes for which even the wife of a knight must be held accountable.
“You can’t because it’s forbidden even to you.”
A single nod from him. “All paths have been strictly regulated for centuries. Only pathfinders are permitted to cross them freely. Thule’s legislation on the matter is enforced with the greatest severity.”
Centuries. That might explain why Thule hasn’t yet caught up with Earth’s latest fashion and tech and, instead, appears suspended in this weird Victorian bubble. “How severe are we talking?”
“Death.”
Author Bio:
Visit camillamonk.com for signed books, updates on upcoming titles, free reads, and giveaways.
C. Monk grew up in a Franco-American family and rose to dubious fame with a romantic suspense series starring an OCD-ridden hitman and a wide array of strange and occasionally angry animals. These days she shares her writing time between high-octane adventures in the same vein and fantasy, her secret love (but with weird animals, too.)
In another life, she lived in Paris and Tokyo, and spent ten years in advertising, building rickety websites for M&A boutiques and hedge funds. All of that somehow landed her in Montréal, where she keeps a close watch on the squirrels and complains on a daily basis about the egregious number of Tim Hortons.
After walking away from his arraignment in a Connecticut courtroom, he’s now a fugitive who has to figure out what he’s going to do with the rest of his life. And so, he heads west, to Los Angeles, where he meets Dakota, a young true crime podcaster who happens to be doing a series on Hoyt. At the same time, he’s approached by a mysterious attorney who makes Hoyt an offer he can’t refuse: break into a “mob bank,” and liberate the contents.
Praise for Man on the Run:
“The stakes couldn’t be higher as the cat and mouse game moves to the Left Coast in Salzberg’s compelling Man on the Run. A superb mix of action, suspense, psychopathology.”
“One part heist movie, one part psychological thriller, three parts great character and blend. Salzberg’s superb Man on the Run will keep your head spinning from the first page to the last.” ~ Reed Farrel Coleman
“Man on the Run grips you from the opening page and doesn’t let go. The plot will leave you breathless with anticipation as a master burglar and a crime podcaster try to outwit and outmaneuver each other before an outrageous heist. There’s nothing better than smart characters, with smart dialogue, going head to head. You won’t want to miss a twist or turn.” ~ Michael Wiley, Shamus Award-winning writer of the Sam Kelson mysteries
“Francis Hoyt, Charles Salzberg’s brilliant burglar anti-hero from SECOND STORY MAN, is back on the prowl in Man on the Run. Old-school crime meets the podcast age as Hoyt tangles with a true-crime reporter as well as fellow felons and the law. Like his hero, Salzberg is a total pro who always brings it home.” ~ Wallace Stroby, author of HEAVEN’S A LIE
“Charles Salzberg is a genius at not only crafting a helluva page-turner of a heist novel, but he also manages to make the reader care about Francis Hoyt, master burglar and pathological narcissist. Hoyt is the man on the run, and the story of how he eludes the law, the mob, and a retired cop who has become his personal nemesis packs a solid punch and leaves you rooting for the guy who’d steal your family jewels without breaking a sweat.” ~ James R. Benn, author of the Billy Boyle WWII mystery series
“When it comes to Charles Salzberg’s work, you can expect a hard-edged story, crisp dialogue, and memorable characters. This is certainly true — and then some! – in his latest, Man on the Run. Featuring master burglar Francis Hoyt, a tough and intelligent criminal who can’t seem to turn down tempting criminal scores despite the inherent danger, Man on the Run features a true-crime podcast host, a criminal fence, and an investigator hot on the trail of Francis Hoyt as his most challenging and dangerous burglary comes into play. Very much recommended.” ~ Brendan DuBois, award-winning and New York Times bestselling author
“It’s a battle of wits and nerves as a cop, a robber, and a journalist dance around each other weaving a tapestry of deceit and suspense. Salzberg’s dialogue flows like water until it finds truth in this most entertaining read.” ~ Matt Goldman, New York Times bestselling author
“Smart, sly and compelling, with a fascinating main character – the very definition of intelligent suspense.” ~ Lee Child
Book Details:
Genre: Crime Published by: Down & Out Books Publication Date: April 2023 Number of Pages: 340 ISBN: 978-1-64396-307-5 Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | Down & Out Books
Read an excerpt:
1
Francis
I ambush her as she’s coming out of Starbucks, a mega-size coffee cup in one hand, her phone in the other.
“Know who I am?” I say.
She’s confused. Or embarrassed. Like when you have no idea who someone is but you don’t admit it because you think you should.
“Noooo. I don’t think so,” she says, wrinkling her brow and cocking her head, like she’s giving it serious thought. “Should I? Have we met before?” she adds, shifting her weight to her back foot in an unconscious move to put a little distance between us.
This chick doesn’t know me yet, but she will.
It’s early Sunday morning. A typical late spring day in L.A. West Hollywood. The temp’s hovering in the mid-70s. This won’t hold for long. We’re in the middle of a heatwave and they’re predicting the low 90s by mid-afternoon. Above us, there’s that familiar low-hanging ceiling of grey cloud-cover they say will burn off by noon. They swear it always does. They even have a name for it. The June Gloom. Maybe all months should come with a warning label. I mean, life’s already full of enough surprises, right?
Other than a few people out for an early run, or picking up breakfast, the sidewalk is empty. Except for the two of us.
She looks like she’s in her mid to late twenties. But I know she’s older than that. Closer to thirty-five. She isn’t as pretty as I’d imagined. It’s probably the voice that throws me off. Soft. Sweet. Seductive. A sexy, midnight radio voice. Or one of those sex line phone voices. The kind of voice that makes promises without actually promising anything. And any promises made she has no intention of keeping. Not that she’s a dog. Not by a long shot. It’s just that she isn’t going to win any beauty contests. Not here. Not in L.A. where good-looking chicks fall from palm trees like coconuts. Third, fourth runner-up, maybe. First place? Not a chance. Her looks don’t quite fit with her voice. Still, there’s something very sexy about her. Not hard-on sexy. But sexy enough so you can’t help but wonder what she looks like on the beach, in a bikini.
But it’s more than just the voice. Maybe it’s the short, blonde hair which gives her a pixie look. Maybe it’s the face. A mishmash of sharp angles. A nose that looks like it’s been broken—if she were a guy you might guess in a barroom brawl—tilting slightly to one side. Like that Ellen Barkin chick. Her skin is lightly tanned and smooth. She has a slight overbite. High cheekbones. Makes me think of those Picasso paintings. But in a good way. Maybe it’s the tight, faded black jeans, stylishly frayed just below the knees. Or the sky-blue Rolling Stones T-shirt with the image of a giant red tongue unfurled. Maybe it’s because she isn’t wearing a bra. Maybe it’s because she’s confident enough to wear no make-up to cover up the freckles scattered haphazardly across her cheeks and nose. Do not, under any circumstances, underestimate confidence. It’s a definite turn-on.
Whatever it is, it works.
This isn’t a pick-up. Or a stick-up. This is business. More than business, actually. Curiosity. No. More than that. Self-preservation. But there’s always that promise, like her voice, that it might turn into something else.
She doesn’t recognize me because we’ve never met. But recently our lives have unexpectedly intertwined. Her doing, not mine.
“Trust me. If you’d have met me, you wouldn’t forget me.”
“Really? Why’s that?” she asks, cocking her head to the other side, as she slowly turns her coffee cup away from me. I know why she’s doing it and I’m impressed. She’s got a quick mind. The barista has scribbled her name on it in black magic marker. This is the kind of information, assuming I don’t already have it, she would not want me to have.
I’m starting to make her nervous. I can see it in her eyes. They swivel wildly in their sockets like she’s some kind of whacky cartoon figure. She’s a couple, three inches taller than me, but that doesn’t give her the kind of advantage height sometimes offers. I should know. I’m small of stature. I claim five-four, but I might be lying. Or exaggerating. Take your pick. It’s not a handicap. Never has been. It works for me. Always has. It’s been a long time since anyone’s tried to take advantage of me because of my size. A long, fucking time.
“Maybe it’s the baseball cap. It kinda of hides your face,” she says, straining to figure me out. Am I harmless? Is she in danger? Should she dial 9-1-1? Should she turn tail and head back into the relative safety of Starbucks?
I take it off in one swift, flowing motion and wave it across my body. The only thing missing is me bending forward in a bow. Like the Japs do.
“Better?”
She shakes her head. I put the hat back on.
“Maybe the sunglasses?” she says.
“Let’s see,” I say, as I slip them off.
I know what she’s doing. Making sure she gets a good look at me. Taking a mental snapshot of my face. Just in case later she has to describe me to the cops. It should make me feel like a specimen under glass, but it doesn’t. Actually, I’m enjoying the attention. Besides, by the time we’re finished she’ll know who I am and then she won’t have to describe me to anyone.
Even after all this she’s still baffled. I put my sunglasses back on and adjust my cap so it angles down slightly over my forehead.
It’s almost imperceptible, but she’s slowly inching away from me. Like she’s getting ready to bolt. She has that thin, athletic build of a runner. We have that in common. Maybe, if we get to know each other, we’ll run together. But no matter how fast she might be, I’ll leave her in the dust. Maybe it’s because you might say I run for a living. Maybe it’s because I’m always in excellent shape. Especially for someone flirting with his mid-forties. But it’s not just that. It’s more like I don’t take losing very well. I never hold back. That’s the real reason I never lose. Ever.
Her eyes dart back and forth as she slowly dips her right hand, the one holding her cell, into the black leather satchel dangling from her shoulder. Maybe she thinks I can’t see what she’s doing. She’d be wrong. I’ve trained myself to note every detail, every nuance. When I walk into a room, any room, I immediately know two things: where the exit is and exactly where everyone is standing. I’m a fucking living, breathing motion detector. It’s one of the things that makes me as good as I am at what I do. I doubt she has a serious weapon in there. Maybe pepper spray. Maybe a set of keys she’s been taught to use as a weapon in one of those self-defense classes for women. The key chain held tight in your fist. The keys poking out between your index and forefinger. A sudden thrust to an eye. If your aim is good, you can do some serious damage.
But neither of these things will do her any good. I’m much too quick. I’ll have hold of her wrist before she gets her hand out of her bag.
I smile, hoping this will lighten the mood. I don’t want her to think I’m a predator and she’s the prey.
Maybe she is. Maybe I am. But I don’t want her to think so. Not yet.
“I’m a memorable guy,” I say, smiling. I’ve been told I’ve got a killer smile. They say it makes me look very approachable. This can be a good thing. A very good thing. I inject a dramatic pause. “What’s that expression? The Most Unforgettable Character You’ve Ever Met? That would be me.”
“You’re starting to frighten me a little,” she says, glancing over my left shoulder, then my right. Looking to see if anyone else is around. In case she needs help. She even looks back into Starbucks to see if anyone might be coming out. Someone who might rescue her. Though she can’t possibly know from what. Not yet.
Her right hand is frozen inside her purse. She isn’t quite ready to commit herself. There’s still time to defuse the situation.
“I’m not going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” I say, raising my hands, palms out, midway to my chest.
“I’m not afraid,” she says. Not very convincingly.
“Good. Because you haven’t seen my scary face yet.”
She starts to laugh, then realizes maybe I’m not trying to be funny. Hollywood is the land of weirdos and crackpots. She has no way of knowing I am not one of those.
“Then why are you acting so creepy?”
I shrug. “This is me, darlin’. It’s just the way I am. But I swear, I really am harmless. You sure you don’t know me?”
“Pretty sure,” she says, hesitatingly, like she thinks maybe she should know me but still can’t quite figure out why.
“Don’t worry,” I say, with a wink. “You will.”
***
Excerpt from Man on the Run by Charles Salzberg. Copyright 2023 by Charles Salzberg. Reproduced with permission from Charles Salzberg. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Charles Salzberg, a former magazine journalist (New York magazine, Esquire, Redbook, New York Times and others) and nonfiction book writer (From Set Shot to Slam Dunk, an oral history of the NBA, and Soupy Sez; My Zany Life and Times with Soupy Sales), has been nominated twice for the Shamus Award for Swann’s Last Song and Second Story Man, which also won the Beverly Hills Book Award. His novel Devil in the Hole was named one of the Best Crime Novels of 2013 by Suspense magazine. He is the author of Canary in the Coal Mine and his short stories have appeared in Mystery Tribune, Down to the River, Lawyers, and Guns and Money. He’s been a Visiting Professor Magazine at the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University and he teaches writing in New York City for the New York Writers Workshop, where he is a Founding Member. He’s also on the Board of PrisonWrites and is a former Board Member of MWA-NY.
Starseer Katya Hernández Publication date: April 22nd 2023 Genres: Fantasy, LGBTQ+, Young Adult
A fate traced by the stars…
Fifteen-year-old Etar can see the future in the stars—a rare skill even among magicians. But while other Starseers before him have become the stuff of legend, Etar has never predicted anything more exciting than the weather. Orphaned at age five and living under his uncle’s disapproving gaze, he yearns to prove his worth.
Disaster strikes when, in defiance of his uncle’s orders, Etar breaks into the Starseeing Dome—an ancient structure built to potentiate the powers of Starseers. Aided by the Dome, the stars send Etar a vision of ironclad warships destroying Skalland, the tiny island he calls home.
Hunted by a bloodthirsty admiral who seeks to enslave his newly awakened powers, Etar will have to fight to protect his friends while grappling with his past, his out-of-control magic, and a budding friendship turning into something more.
Etar didn’t have time to process any of what Hans had said before he went back to the hallway to let someone in—and whatever Etar had been expecting, it was nothing like the man that walked in.
The stranger walked with a step so light Etar could barely hear it on the floorboards of his room. His long black hair caught light like flowing water, and his eyes were distant in a deep, wistful way, blue and luminous even under this morning’s gray light. He wore a black silken tunic embroidered with the most marvelous iridescent threads. Starbursts, suns, and moons, all decorated with tiny gemstones, crowded every corner of the fabric. Etar couldn’t help staring at his jewel-decked hands. He had long, delicate fingers, as though made for minute tasks like building watches.
As soon as Hans closed the door, the man bowed, a gesture Etar had never received from anyone. “Starseer,” he said, soft and reverent.
Panic rose in Etar’s chest. How did this man know he was a Starseer? “Um. Hello?” he said, his mind struggling for coherent thought.
“It is such a great honor to finally meet you. I have been looking for you far and wide.”
Etar couldn’t parse the words from this man’s mouth, so he gaped instead of replying. His eyes pivoted from him to Hans in search of explanations, but Hans only fell back into a corner of the room.
“My name is Áehd, and I am an alchemist,” the man said.
An alchemist. A trade Etar only knew through books. To his knowledge, there had been alchemists and magicians in this castle long ago, but his uncle had expelled them all.
Etar supposed he should introduce himself, but he was too stunned to act properly. “How do you know I’m a Starseer?” he blurted out. No formal salutation. No bowing to receive his guest. It showed so glaringly that he hadn’t been raised as a royal.
The alchemist offered a gracious little laugh and pulled something out from between the folds of his tunic. When he opened his hand, a butterfly flew out of it.
At first, Etar thought it was a real butterfly because of how dainty its legs were and how its wings broke light, but on closer inspection, it was made of metal and colored crystals. It emanated a soft, bluish glow from under its belly.
“My constructs respond to energy, and no energy is more attractive to them than that of a Starseer,” Áehd said.
The butterfly kissed Etar’s face, making him flinch when it came close to his eyes, but he was afraid of breaking it if he flapped it away. Its glow intensified whenever it grazed his skin, and Etar could feel warmth wherever it alighted. After a while, the alchemist caged it in his fingers and put it away in his tunic.
The butterfly dredged out a memory of one such toy Etar had since childhood but which no longer possessed this butterfly’s agency.
Author Bio:
Katya is a writer, illustrator, and graphic designer who lives with her partner, two cats, and two dogs in sunny El Salvador.
Her cats are her harshest critics, but she loves them all the same.
When she’s not writing or drawing the fantasy worlds that live in her head, she’s cosplaying as the creepiest monsters from all her favorite horror movies.
Undertaking Love Megan Montgomery Publication date: April 1st 2023 Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance
Bethany West upgraded her lucrative career as a sex worker for her dream job as a death worker when she partnered at Smythe & Co. Mortuary. She expected her eco-friendly innovations and death positive attitude to blow the roof off the Victorian-era relic. But that was seven months ago, and during that time, she’s only managed to piss off her embittered business partner, George Smythe, a man dead set on maintaining the status quo and driving Bethany out of his namesake business.
When the pair reluctantly travel together to a mortuary conference in New Orleans—and compete in dueling embalming demonstrations—George finally recognizes the value of Bethany’s business model for the first time. He’s also starting to recognize a growing attraction to his blonde bombshell business partner. Meanwhile, Bethany learns the truth behind George’s cold contempt, and it’s much worse than she thought, stemming not from a single incident, but from the constant on-call status, the compassion fatigue, and the overwhelming stress of the job.
Bethany has 4 days to crack open his tough outer shell to reveal the compassionate man she knows is inside, and she has a plan, but unless George learns to open his heart and lean on her, at the risk of succumbing to their cremation-level attraction in a dangerous way, he’ll jeopardize both the business and their hearts by refusing the true partnership they both need.
I blinked hard to lubricate my eyes, struggling to stay awake behind the wheel. The vent blasted tepid air into my face, trying its damnedest to desiccate my skin and sabotage the efforts of my latest hyaluronic acid injections.
My stomach churned from too much coffee and too little sleep.
A sweat broke out under my arms and boobs.
Great. Now I could smell all that coffee excreting from my pores and ruining my favorite silk blouse.
I glanced at the man in the passenger seat.
George’s pores were looking perfectly dry, as usual. He wouldn’t think of sweating, even from the most strenuous effort.
I’d seen him pull a rotund, decomposing man out of that impossible space between the toilet and the bathtub and plop him on a mortuary cot in an un-air-conditioned, third-floor apartment in the middle of August without breaking a sweat.
The man never had a hair out of place, was never not freshly shaven, and he never forgot to button his suit jacket when he stood, or unbutton it when he sat.
And he was a consummate professional—as long as you didn’t work with him.
And as long as your name wasn’t Bethany West.
I breathed in a lungful of stale air. Even now, in the mortuary van, George managed to smell fresh, yet intensely masculine. The faintest notes of sandalwood and citrus wafted toward me as he fiddled with his ear, pushing his earbud deeper in.
I suspected he wasn’t listening to anything producing actual sound; the earbuds were just a tactic to try to keep me from making “unnecessary” conversation.
I was almost too tired to care.
I stifled a yawn, hoping he wouldn’t catch it.
He did, of course.
I saw the tick of his jaw from the corner of my eye. Glaring at the screen of the laptop balanced on his crossed legs, his flexed fingers hovering over the keyboard, a ballpoint pen clutched in his teeth.
I’d never seen the man smile except for a wince-like approximation of the real thing, and he saved that stingy expression for our clients.
After an entire life spent in the trenches of the funeral business, his handsome face was permanently etched into a show of bland sympathy—except when he scowled in contempt.
That expression was reserved exclusively for me.
Author Bio:
Megan Montgomery writes romance. Sometimes they’re funny. Sometimes they’re morbid, but all her characters have cool jobs. She and her husband, Johnathon Olavarria co-host Forced Proximity podcast, a weekly romance book and movie club.
Her debut novel, Well . . . THAT Was Awkward was inspired by her homesickness for southern Maryland. She now lives halfway across the US on the prairie with her husband, son, and mom.
When she’s not writing, reading, lifting weights, or cooking dinners her son won’t eat, you’ll find her toiling in the garden or brewing potions from her medicinal herbs.
Stay For Me Tam DeRudder Jackson (The Balefire Series, #5) Publication date: April 27th 2023 Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance
Garrett
I’ve made a few mistakes over the last decade, but the one I regret most was letting Olivia Carter go. When I see her again, the past crashes over me, reminding of everything I ever wanted and gave up when I let our dreams separate us.
Managing Balefire into the world’s biggest rock band came at a personal cost—walking away from my only love. When fate brings her back into my life, I’m determined not to screw up again. After Balefire hires her studio to produce their next music video, I have a second chance to rewrite our song—if I can convince her I’m a changed man.
Olivia
Ten years ago, Garrett Phillips chose to go with “his boys” and leave me in the dust of a ratty old tour bus. Now I’m working my ass off to make a name for myself as a Hollywood music video director. Unfortunately, my fledgling studio is bleeding money, and my only hope of saving it is to make a video with the biggest rock band on the planet. Too bad that means working with the man who tore my heart out of my chest when he chose his rock ’n’ roll dream over me.
He says he’s grown up. He says we can make things work. But can I truly trust that this time he will stay for me?
Garrett’s nostrils flared, and he shifted on his stool. His eyes remained locked on mine as he slid his headphones from his head and set them aside. Cursing the tiny tremor in my hands, I removed my headphones and set them somewhere on the control board beside me.
“Olivia.”
My name on his lips rasped over me like calloused hands over my skin. Involuntary shivers rippled through me, and I clamped my thighs even tighter together.
I stopped whatever he wanted to say next with my finger pressed to his full lips. For a long moment, neither of us moved. Then he reached up and smoothed his fingers up my palm and higher along the length of my fingers. His eyes dipped to our hands. Though we barely touched, sensations like electric currents sparked every nerve, beginning in my hand and arcing up my arm to trip my heart nearly into arrhythmia. My breath caught as he slid his fingers through mine, up and down, up and down, before he twined our hands together with a gentle squeeze. I closed my eyes and worked to find some air.
Author Bio:
Tam DeRudder Jackson’s love of all things Celtic led her to write the Talisman Series. Steeped in Celtic mythology, these steamy, fated mates, paranormal romance adventures are set in the mountains of Tam’s native Montana and the Highlands of Scotland. Rogue, the most recent book in the series, was named a best romance of 2022 by the Independent Book Review.
An avid fan of rock music, Tam never misses a chance to see a live show, especially if it’s Shinedown, one of her favorite bands. Her love of rock music inspired her contemporary rock star Balefire Series, a sexy fun ride following the lives and loves of the members of a fictional mega-band. Readers of this series consistently give the books five-star reviews.
Tam earned her BA in English from Montana State University and her M.Ed. in literacy from Lesley University. After a short teaching stint in Bath, England, she settled in the wilds of Wyoming where she taught adolescents all about the Celts and a bit about writing before she stepped out of the classroom to pursue her writing career full time.
When she’s not writing, you can find her working her way through her mountainous TBR piles, alpine skiing, or traveling to some new place on her ever-expanding bucket list. To stay up to date on her adventures, connect with Tam on her website www.tamderudderjackson where you can subscribe to her newsletter.
Can an Alaskan firestorm lead to true love under a midnight sun?
Alaskan firefighter Raynie Atwood thinks she know what she wants—until a walking encyclopedia disguised as a hotshot firefighter storms into her life. Grieving loss and betrayal by the man she once loved, Raynie sets her sights on a top command post for wildland fire. But when an extended drought, a high heat, and beetle-killed forests add up to the perfect firestorm, Raynie’s leadership is put to the test.
To add fuel to the fire, Cohen Tremblay tests Raynie at every turn as she works to save sled dogs and Iditarod mushers dog kennels in a deadly Alaskan conflagration…and to make matters worse, a deadly threat from Raynie’s past has her fearing for her life. But when Raynie’s world goes up in flames, Cohen may be the only one Raynie can rely on…hard to do when she no longer trusts any man, let alone a bullish co-worker. Instead, she constructs a rock-solid containment line around her heart. But fire is unpredictable, and so is love. Will their chance for love be snuffed before it ignites?
Saving himself and these dogs would be a tricky maneuver. Cohen had no time to lose. Ash and embers scorched his tongue as if the devil was licking it. Hot air pressed down on him. He couldn’t swallow—no saliva.
I’m out of time! Time to deploy my fire shelter.How will I fit three adult dogs, me, and a sack load of puppies inside my shelter?
Cohen stuck the neck of the burlap sack in his teeth, as he couldn’t set the puppies down in the water. He reached behind and retrieved his fire shelter. He tugged it from the case, yanked the cords, and shook it out.
“Rooby! Wacko! Come here!” he commanded, spitting around the burlap clenched in his teeth. The terrified dogs sidled in next to him, and he crouched down, spreading the fire shelter over them. He tied the end of Madonna’s rope around the neck of the sack and draped it around his neck, so the sack hung on his left side. As long as Madonna sat in front of him and wouldn’t bolt, this might work. He wrapped a corner of the shelter around Rooby and another around Wacko and held the corners with each hand.
This has to work. He had no other choice. They couldn’t outrun this fast-moving wildfire. He tasted ash, a bitter mixture of wood and dirt. The fire bellowed like a savage dragon, hellbent to destroy in the blink of an eye what took decades to grow and mature.
Don’t panic! Keep it together. If I panic, the dogs will, and we’ll all go up in smoke.
Cohen held the shelter down over the dogs and himself as best he could, pressing the dogs close to him. Flames swept the clearing from all directions, obliterating all sound except their tornadic roar. Crouching low in the water, he did his best to keep the puppies above the boggy surface—and prayed the dogs wouldn’t panic and run—or they’d all die.
A dog barked; Cohen didn’t know who. Another yipped and cried. Madonna howled and Cohen felt her tense and brace, as if ready to run. “Whoa, Madonna, whoa Madonna…” He didn’t know how many times he repeated the husky’s name as the raging fire whipped around them. The natural water barrier certainly helped, but the winds tore at his shelter. He gripped it so tight he worried his hands would cramp and lose their hold. Despite his layers of protective Nomex, heat encased his fire shelter and pierced him as if he was the delicacy cooking on a closed outdoor grill.
The hot destructive flames licked at the very edges of his shelter. He prayed it wouldn’t melt and collapse on him. A burning tree crashed into the bog in front of them, and Madonna yelped. The husky yanked away from their huddle, and Cohen watched helplessly as the sled dog bolted, jerking the burlap sack from around his neck and dragging the bundle of puppies through the water—straight toward the destructive flames.
Author Bio:
LoLo Paige is an award-winning author and former wildland firefighter whose debut novel, Alaska Spark, has received several awards for best indie romance. Her second book, Alaska Inferno, was a finalist for best indie romance in the 2022 Kindle Book Review Awards.
LoLo writes strong female firefighters and hunky smokejumpers who battle wildland fire in Alaska. She loves writing about the trust, friendships, and pitfalls of falling in love in the action-packed, perilous world of wildfire in her action adventure romances in The Blazing Hearts Wildfire Series. The characters in her stories are battling more than just fires, they’re struggling to stay alive—and they’re willing to risk it all for love.
Alaska Spark and Alaska Inferno have ranked No.1 on the Amazon Bestseller Lists for action adventure and romantic suspense in the U.S., Canada, and Australia. The true story about LoLo’s fire crew escaping a runaway wildfire won an Alaska Press Club award and inspired her debut novel, Alaska Spark. The third book in her wildland fire series, Alaska Blaze, drops this spring.
In addition to her action-adventure romance firefighter series, LoLo also writes romantic suspense thrillers and romantic comedies. Other books under her romance umbrella are, Hello Spain, Goodbye Heart, a recently released travel romance, and Irish Thunder, to be released later in 2023, by The Wild Rose Press.
Witches & Walk-In’s Tammy Tyree (A Castle Point Witch Series, #1) Publication date: April 28th 2023 Genres: Adult, Paranormal
Betty Burke has just awakened from a long coma, but there’s a problem; she’s not Betty.
Whip-smart Hypnotherapist Alexandra Heale leads a double life. A natural-born witch, she lives under a death sentence, with a cauldron full of secrets.
When she tries to help Betty; a woman possessed by a traumatized spirit, Alex finds herself under attack – and in danger of being exposed.
Against her better judgment, she enlists the help of Deputy Sheriff Blake Sheraton, a man she’s sworn to hate, with dark secrets of his own – if only he could keep her secrets and ignore his pledge to uphold an evil law.
The paranormal world of demons & spirits is about to descend on peaceful Castle Point, and only one witch can stop the unthinkable.
The cool air tickled my arms. Tiny hairs rose with the gooseflesh. Small mounds of pimpled thermometers popped up over my arms, chest, and neck.
I heard a beeping sound, faint at first, then slowly it became louder and closer. The scent of cleanser assaulted me, harsh and chemical.
My eyes stayed firmly shut as if glued at the seam, or tiny weights held the lids down. My breath came in rhythmic, even bursts.
What was that in my mouth? My tongue wiggled and slammed against the hard plastic. I couldn’t taste anything other than stale, rotting breath, but I could tell something was firmly lodged in my mouth.
What the hell was it?
Why was it there?
I forced my eyes open a fraction. Moonlight filtered through the splintered cracks of my heavy lids and shattered against my eyes. Too bright! I closed them again, only long enough for my tongue to push up against the plastic in my mouth.
I could feel it now, not just in my mouth, but going down my throat. A swell of panic ran from my toes to my nose. I wanted to gag.
Spurred by the beeping beside me, louder now, my eyes flew open. I tried to sit up. I couldn’t move. I laid back against the softness of what must be a bed and peered around the room.
A hospital room.
I felt a heaviness as if underwater, the weight of my arms, legs, and chest making it difficult to see or breathe. The scent of cleanser pierced the back of my nose as I tried to breathe.
What was that thing in my mouth and down my throat? I forced my eyes to open wider, but they burned and felt gritty like someone had sprinkled fine sand under the lids. I blinked several times to clear the grit. My eyes took a while to adjust.
I looked down and saw a tube coming out of my mouth. My heart rate sped up. The beeping beside me kept pace as it beat faster and faster.
Why did I wake up in a hospital?
Was I in an accident?
The beeping sped up again, fast enough to send a wail of high-pitched signals through my room and into the adjoining hallway.
The large door burst open, startling me, which made the beeping speed up yet again. A nurse with short dark hair, dark-circled eyes, wearing pink scrubs with multicolored cartoon puppies on her shirt rushed in.
“Betty! Oh my god, she’s awake!” she practically screamed, to whom I couldn’t imagine. I assumed she was talking about me, however, as she leaped to the beeping machine and pressed a button to stop the noise.
Much better.
But… Betty?
Was that my name?
Author Bio:
Demons, witches and ghosts – oh my!
Tammy (she/her) writes about what she knows – ghosts, hauntings, entities, witches, demonology and the paranormal!
A Clinical Hypnotherapist, Tammy infuses; tales from her actual case files of demonic possession and entity attachment with her knowledge of ancient demonic lore and witchcraft into artfully woven fiction and memoir.
Her upcoming ‘Castle Point Witch Series’ is due to release in early 2023 and promises to be full of paranormal goodness.
Her memoir ‘Dead Men Still Snore’ is a page-turning, award-winning true story of love, loss and channelling her husband’s messages from the other side.
Visit https://tammytyree.com/ for more info about Tammy, her work and to receive updates for future books!
We Are All Villains Here Quinn Blackbird Publication date: July 1st 2023 Genres: Adult, Dark Romance, Romance, Thriller
From the author of the DARK FAE comes this *dark slasher romance* in vein of our beloved 90s Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer.
Sailors Bay has a bit of a problem… a serial killer problem.
What should be a sleepy old fishing town—a place so silent and forgotten that it slips off the map—has murder in the air and secrets poisoning the heart of the town.
Here… no one is safe when a masked killer starts terrorising the town.
Blood Hood is coming after them: Billie—from the wrong side of the tracks—and her friends… The ones who have a deadly secret of their own, one they kept for seven years… a dark secret that Blood Hood seems to know all about.
One by one, Blood Hood hunts them down to avenge the murder that started it all.
And Billie finds herself running from Blood Hood as well as the love of her life and ex, Dalton.
With slashed-up bodies piling up all over, Billie flees more than a masked killer… Dalton hunts her to every corner of Sailors Bay, intent on stealing her back… whether she wants him to or not.
Love is meant to flourish. Poison corrupts. Poison is all I know.
Preston’s lashes lower over coal-black eyes. His pink upper lip curls as he rounds on her.
Billie just watches him.
Her eyes are dead… or they should be, because that’s how she feels inside… but then she feels the warmth of a tear run down her cheek.
She doesn’t so much as swat at the tear.
It’s too late to try and hide it. He’s seen it—his gaze shifts to her cheek for a mere millisecond before he comes to a stop in front of her.
Her back presses a tad harder against the refrigerator as his hand presses against it, right next to her head. “So,” he repeats, towering over her, “why don’t you start telling me the truth, Billie? You owe me that.”
Billie’s lips twitch with a smirk.
Liquid courage? Pushing him away? She doesn’t know anymore.
And yet—
She smirks. “I don’t owe you shit, you rich entitled—”
It happens too fast for her to see it coming. But in a blink, his hand pulls back from the fridge, clenches into a fist, then smashes right into that same spot, right next her head.
Billie flinches. “What the fu—”
“You owe me everything!” he shouts down at her.
In this moment, his want to break her, it was more than a passing craving, a fleeting urge. Rather it was surging up inside of him, blood boiling and crashing like furious waves, an all-consuming need.
She could read it in his blazing eyes.
He adds darkly, “And I owe you everything I fucking have, you selfish bitch, you good-for-nothing alky.”
Her eyes widen, turn wild with the same rage that snarls her lips. If he braces himself for rotten, rancid words aimed his way, then he braces himself wrong.
Billie jerks her head forward—not with a headbutt, with a spit.
She spits right at him, and the gloss of it catches his cheek.
Preston’s lashes lower, his eyes shut.
He’s still for a beat, a statue with a fist pushing into the refrigerator door, his other hand fisted at his side, and a wad of spit on his cheek.
He lifts his hand.
Slowly, he opens his eyes—and looks right into her fucking soul with the kinda promises, the kinda threats that only the devil can make.
This time, she can’t fight her tremble. It runs up her spine, but she lifts her chin and meets his stare dead-on.
Bring it.
Instead, he touches his fingers to the spit… He wipes it away in one swift move, then brings it to his mouth.
Their eyes stay locked.
Her jaw tenses—
And he licks his fingertips.
Billie and Preston have had fights before. Some real nasty shit. Wouldn’t be a lie to say she’s hit him with a vase or two before. Or tried to clip him with her truck.
Some real nasty shit, she’s never denied that.
But never… never before… has she been afraid of him.
Not like this.
She swallows, hard. A lump in her throat, swelling. Tears in her defiant eyes, flowing.
Billie flinches with a yelp—
Preston snatches her by the neck.
With one hand, he pins her against the refrigerator. His body shoves against hers, his other hand grabbing the meat of her thigh, hard. Her skin screams in protest, but before she can utter a word, he’s hiking her leg over his hip and crashing his mouth down on hers.
Her shout is muffled, almost silenced, by his mouth. A kiss that tastes of her tears and his rage—of their poison.
A poison she’s so fucking addicted to.
Teeth aching, and the back of her head pulsating against the hard, dented refrigerator, Billie hits out at him. One hard fist to the side of his head.
It doesn’t stop him. He only shoves her up the cold door, off the floor, and his mouth twists against hers.
“I fucking hate you,” he growls and—hand abandoning her thigh—reaches down for her pajama shorts. With a single tug, he rips them apart, between her legs, right at her core.
And jolts of electricity fire through her.
Billie gasps something breathy into his mouth.
Tell me again.
Tell me how much you hate me.
Tell me anything but love.
Author Bio:
Quinn Blackbird is a dog-mum, full-time cog in the machine and full-time book lover.
When not writing and daydreaming, Quinn is snuggling on the couch with her three doggos.
If her love of literature could be matched, it would be by film.
Ask her about her list of underrated films… you’ll be there all night.
She has always been fascinated by the anti-hero, and often found herself rooting for the villains (their speeches are making a lot of sense, don’t lie).
Creepy dreams (nightmares at times) are the cause of a lot of Blackbird’s books – thanks to overactive imaginations!
