Page Turning Books

EXCERPT FROM THE HOUSE – SEBASTIANA RANDONE
Page 93
The intellectual prowess of Artemisia overwhelmed and excited the young
poet, whose engrossment with the workings of her mind was such,
that any enquiry as to her domestic arrangements was quite overlooked.
It is true to say however, that during their parting hours he did wonder
about her private life, but whenever the two met, these curiosities were
often usurped by matters more engaging and fascinating. Her beauty
was matched by an incisive and far reaching mind that would often wax
lyrically on a numerous range of topics, which rendered the absorbed
poet helpless to enquire about more mundane matters.
As with all developed intellects, an inquisitive nature was handed to
Artemisia from an early age, this set in motion a life time appetite for
knowledge. Amongst her many virtues, was that of a linguist, which
meant that she was able to communicate to David in his native tongue. It
appeared that life had only just started when they met, and that all other
experiences had become unimportant. Therefore, it was of no great
surprise to learn, notwithstanding the immeasurable anguish generated,
that she was in fact already married.
The Contessa de Luce resided with her substantially older husband,
the Count Giacomo de Luce in the opulent confines of Palazzo del Oro.
The couple met in Venice, Artemisia’s birth place, five years prior to her
encounter with David. The sixty-one year old count met his future wife
at one of the many lavish balls hosted by the doge, where Artemisia
cut a fine and graceful figure as she danced sinuously around the grand
Venetian hall. Instantly struck by her beauty and carriage, the count
assumed her to be from a noble family, which was very much not the case,
as this exemplary figure of refinement was in reality a courtesan. A fact
well obscured by a personality that combined gentility and forbearance,
the latter trait being quite unfounded in the typical coquettish concubine.
Thus it was not due to naiveté that had led the Count de Luce to believe
otherwise, it was the innate aura of elegance that Artemisia exuded, that
belied any hint of the licentiousness that one invariably connects to this
ancient profession.
She had been introduced to this work early in her years. A distant
aunt had taken the adolescent to meet with her destiny in a house famed
for its training of young women. She was given the name Artemisia and
was placed under the auspices of a ‘signora’, who in time tutored the
young lady in the art of giving pleasure.

Excerpt 6:

As I continued my tour of the city I realised its devastation had grown to become normal to me, just as normal as the neatness and clean windows of buildings would have been before the earthquakes started. It would have shocked me more to see something still intact, and I began to pray that I would, but there was nothing. There were no lucky escapes. Everything had been sentenced to suffer the earth’s anger, and no-one had been reprieved.

I rounded a long bend in the road, and some distance further on I spotted a camouflaged army truck. I squinted at it, intrigued. The road ahead branched off into a smaller side-road on the right, with tall office buildings on each corner, and the truck had apparently veered and crashed into the concrete front of the opposite corner’s building. I hurried my pace and went over to it.

Reaching the side-road, I was taken aback by a huge barricade that stood perhaps ten feet tall and stretched across its width. It was built entirely from broken or fallen pieces of the surrounding buildings’ brick walls, and of huge grey chunks of concrete with their steel reinforcements rusting and twisted like a dead spider’s legs. All of the windows on the nearby buildings were shattered inward, broken by whoever had built the barricade before the earthquakes could break them.

I stopped in my tracks, wondering if its builders might still be here, and if they might be dangerous. Whatever had happened, it was plain that the military had been here and had encountered resistance. Regardless of which side had built the barricade against the other, I wasn’t sure who would be the biggest threat to me.

I ventured forward more cautiously, and a strong smell carried briefly on the subtle breeze as I neared, gone in a second but putrid enough to make me gag. I recognised the venomous scent of death, and against all better judgement and the churning in my stomach I walked on. I headed toward the shattered windows of the office building nearest to me, peering into the wide reception area, all of it collapsed inward and unrecognisable with debris and damage. As I stepped into its shadow and crunched over the tiny glass shards and brick dust, the smell grew stronger, and I turned to see several limp shapes hanging from exposed pipes in the ceiling.

My stomach wrung itself, squeezing a shot of adrenaline through my veins, and my eyes adjusted enough to see four bodies hanging in charred and blood-soaked army khakis, swinging gently in a buzzing cloud of flies. Beyond them, I saw that the long reception room actually led past the barricade, and must have been the only way in and out from behind it. The hanged soldiers were a warning.

I quietly began to withdraw when my eye caught a small dark shape on the floor beneath the nearest soldier, and I pulled my sweaters up over my nose and mouth, and quickly went over. Trying not to look at the swinging body, I reached out and picked up the heavy semi-automatic handgun which must have fallen from him, feeling its thick metal cold in my hand.

As I felt its substantial weight, a flood of shame began to melt into me at my revulsion toward the bodies, and I looked up at them. They hung, lifeless and decomposed, their violence so far behind them that peace was now all they knew. Each of them had once been real people, and somewhere there were still films and videos and photographs of them as children, playing, held by proud parents.

I slowly stood up next to the nearest soldier and looked at his face, the head at an angle, its discoloured and bloodied flesh now dried and retreating from his teeth to reveal a grotesque grin. The nausea I had felt now welled up as sadness in my eyes, and I looked down at the dull, cold metal of the gun, then turned and left.

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Genre - Apocalyptic fiction

Rating – PG

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Website http://robertdavies.co

Chapter 30 (excerpt)

“We Miss You Timmy” had made the local headlines a week after the event. It had turned Bryan into a local celebrity and, in the words of many politicians and the police chief who had paid for the pizzas, a ‘fine young role model.’ Bryan had been granted an interview and it covered nearly an entire page of the paper with a notice at the bottom that read, “for the full interview, visit our webpage.”

Bryan had talked about the same stuff he had spoken to Conor about. He mentioned PMA and how he had given up on what he called self-destructive behaviours; things like alcohol, cigarettes, weed or hate. He said hate probably was the worst drug of them all.

“You can hate someone until it blinds you or you can hate yourself until you hurt yourself. Sometimes it’s not so bad, like drinking a little when you’re bummed out, other times you end up with tragic situations,” he said, implying Timmy’s apparent suicide. The journalist hinted here and there that he had rarely spoken with a young man who was so enlightened and composed. It was a breath of fresh air to see young people caring that way.

When pressed by the journalist as to why he had gathered so many kids in one place to have an improvised skateboarding festival, he simply replied, “Because we needed it. We effing needed it.”

Conor flipped the paper closed. He was in the back room on his fifteen minute break. He ate the last of his small bag of chips and drank the last of his Pepsi. He had his foot (and dirty boots) on the top of the receiving table, leaning back in a five legged chair that only had three wheels left on it. He had fallen on his back more than a few times and often managed to hurt his head in the process, but there was something comforting about the chair so he never threw it away. His dad had the same bad habit of leaning in that chair and falling asleep, dangerously dangling on the three wheels, ready to tip at any moment.

His mother couldn’t figure out why they didn’t throw the damn thing away, especially since she had ordered a brand new chair and it was sitting in the corner, waiting to be assembled.

“When are you going to assemble it?” she would ask her husband.

“I’m on my break.”

“You’ll assemble it after your break?”

“I don’t think so.”

“So when are you going to do it?”

“After the crops.”

That was in at least four to eight weeks. She’d leave the back room exasperated, knowing they would pick up the argument again tomorrow.

Conor, alone in the shop, had not run into his mother that day but he knew she would drop by at least once during his shift. She claimed it was to make sure he was alright, and part of him believed that. But another part of him felt she just wanted to make sure he was working.

He had picked up the list she had left for him on the desk. The first task was to water the plants, then refill the black soil that was on sale in the front of the store. She wanted him to sweep the floor after he was done with it and, if time allowed, he was to fill claim forms for broken pots and potteries.

“I’ll be there around noon so you can eat. Love you, mom,” she wrote.

He had completed the first half of his chore list and then took his break before passing the broom. Hardly anyone had come into the store. It was early on a Saturday and most people had taken care of all their gardening needs weeks ago. Conor had sold a grand total of $54 worth of merchandise in the last two hours.

Gerard was in the garage preparing the machinery that people would rent from the coop to gather the crops. Until then, there was not much to do in the shop.

Most of the fields around were corn but there was also a bit of soy, cauliflower and canola. So Gerard worked overtime to make sure there were no broken machines, no dull blade, and no flat tires. The farmers could not afford to miss an hour’s work; once the crops were ready to go, they were ready to go.

Conor’s family was used to this and right after the rush, some farmers would bring the family their best fruits and vegetables and they made a feast with it. They invited Angela and her family, Jake’s as well and any other friends that Conor might have wanted to invite.

This year they could count out on Jake and his family. Tim was dead and even if they could find Jake, Conor felt that their relationship could never be the same again. There was the issue of him dating Angela that had pulled the friends apart but there was something else as well. Jake had become bitter. He hated everything and anything and it had started even before Tim’s suicide. Jake was angry all the time; smoking all the time.

By no means did Conor think he was doing fine. On all accounts he was losing his PMA. Bryan would have probably been disappointed and Conor didn’t know what to think about that either. Bryan was a role model now; Conor was passing the broom. He was becoming jealous of Bryan even though he knew he shouldn’t be. He didn’t like it but he couldn’t shake it away.

Bryan had been given a job at the local youth center and he was going to put on some shows and events, gather support from sponsors and give kids something to do. That was Bryan now. Bryan believed in community. Bryan liked people. Conor didn’t like people all that much. Timmy didn’t either. Timmy hated the world. Timmy wanted out and music was his ticket. When that didn’t work, Timmy drank, Timmy drove. Timmy hated the world some more and now Timmy was dead.

And as much as Bryan wanted to influence Conor in a positive way, Conor wasn’t all that positive. Conor hated the world. Maybe not as bad as Timmy, but he hated it still. Most of all, Conor wanted out of L’Assomption and he knew most of the kids around him wanted out just the same.

All they really wanted to do was fuck around, be creative, listen to music, skateboard or go to a show. People kept telling them growing up was supposed to be tough but it was not like they didn’t know that already. Timmy had listened. Timmy had finished school and got himself a job. That didn’t stop him from running his van into a pillar one night so what was the fucking use? Nobody seemed to have an answer.

Am I going to end up dead as well? Conor started thinking. Sometimes he felt like it would be easier that way, that Timmy had shown him an easy way out.

He didn’t want Angela or his mother to feel that they were responsible for his death. He didn’t want them to even know he was thinking about it. That would start something ugly and he didn’t want that. He couldn’t run a van into the same pillar Timmy did, people would get suspicious. But there were other ways to die.

Dying was easy. He had just found a way to kill himself right there as he was sweeping the floor. He was sweeping up fertilizer. They were small pellets of fertilizer that had dropped one by one from bags. These small pellets, that were inoffensive by themselves, would kill you if taken into larger doses. They would leave you dead on the spot.

The problem with that was that it would clearly have been a suicide. There was no way he could accidentally swallow that much fertilizer. So the poison was out.

He could go up to Rawdon and swim in that piece of the river over the waterfall where kids go to swim. Three or four of them drown every year going through the waterfall. They are always ruled out as accidental. The town put up signs and fences and warnings and gates. Still kids go and swim there. Maybe Conor could have a swim there; just like one of the locals so often do. He could slip downstream by accident.

He was fed up sweeping the floor and stacking shelves. He had picked Social Sciences in spite of his mother and his coach’s advice, but who was to say that he would like Social Science at all. He ’ll end up working a job he may or may not like, fall in love and get married,  and have 2.2 kids, save money to send them to school so they could study and get a job they may or may not like? It felt like a long and, well, circular circle.

There was not much to life, not these days anyways. He always felt he needed more, wanted more. He wanted to break the loop, get free. Sweeping the floor certainly didn’t help free him. Maybe music would make him free, books or cinema would make him free. Maybe he would hitch a ride to Toronto and work on some books or movies there. Maybe he would join a band and tour the East Coast. Maybe someone somewhere would see in him something more than what his mom saw in him, that he wasn’t meant for small town life. Maybe Conor was going to be the next big thing, a new Kurt Cobain or that guy from the Dharma book, Noah Levine.

Maybe Bryan would still be here, in L’Assomption, taking care of kids at $16 an hour while he’d be in New York or Frisco at some art show with Angela, if only she’d wake up and bail with him.

She could be a world famous artist and he could be a world famous thinker, writer or singer and they could live their lives away from the claustrophobic town of L’Assomption.

Maybe that would happen. Maybe it was all bullshit. Mostly it was all bullshit.

That shit only happens on TV, he thought.

He felt he’d be stuck with a shitty job he didn’t like. Angela would end up a cashier or a clerk, only painting for a few more years before boredom caught up to her and she’d give up on it. That was the most likely scenario. That was what Conor was seeing all around town anyways.

Maybe Conor would wait for winter to come, take the car for a lone snowboarding trip at St-Côme Village. He could end up in a snowstorm on the way back, end up in a ditch. The roads were pretty deserted during a good blizzard. Maybe the snow would blur his vision and he’d drift on the ice as the plow was coming the other way around.

“There’s always a plow,” he thought. “Always!”

“What are you thinking about?” his mother asked him as she walked into the store. She rested two bags on the counter, checked the company mail.

“Nothing,” Conor replied but he was still thinking about that god damned plow. It’s heavy payload to keep the truck steady, the sharp metallic edge at the front of it, the sheer weight and speed of it.

She looked at him, uncertain of what to say. There was something odd about Conor, but maybe she had just taken him by surprise. He probably had forgotten to do something and was trying to get away with it. Who knew?

“Nothing,” he repeated.

“Alright,” she said.

He got his feet off the desk, threw the empty bag of chips in the garbage can next to him. He got up and went back to work without a word. Nothing, he thought. That was one of the biggest lie he had ever told.

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Genre - Literary, Coming of Age

Rating – PG13

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Thanks for being part of the Bulletproof excitement! It’s a pleasure to visit so many wonderful bloggers courtesy of Orangeberry Book Tours. Today I have a treat for readers – an excerpt from Bulletproof, the first novel in Unknown Identities, my new paranormal romantic suspense series.

John Noble hasn’t had an easy life and a few years back, a reporter’s lies nearly got him killed, so protecting Amelia Bennett, a tough, controversial reporter in Boston isn’t his ideal assignment. The story she’s working on could make her career, but only if his skills can keep her alive long enough to tell it. In this excerpt, what should have been a simple meeting with her source quickly goes awry:

~~

John set a hand on her shoulder, preventing her next maneuver. “Stay put for a minute.”

Exasperated, she spun around and found her view full of his dark shirt and tie. Slowly her eyes traced up across the freshly shaved terrain of his throat and over the trim beard accenting his jaw until her gaze was locked with his. She stared into those hard, green depths, heedless of the rain catching in her eyelashes. The ability to breathe deserted her.

There had to be a remedy for this strange, magnetic pull he held over her. Her melting mascara might have been enough to break the spell, if he hadn’t dropped his gaze to watch her lick a raindrop from her lips.

Something deep inside her wanted to reach out and capitalize on his distraction. To discover if the rain tasted different after trailing across his skin.

Blinking away the peculiar thought, she cleared her throat. He wasn’t here to fulfill some long-buried fantasy, he was here because her boss insisted she was in danger. “This meeting is essential,” she managed to squeeze out between gritted teeth.

“So is your safety.”

“I have to get across the street.”

“Can’t get the story to your readers from the grave.”

The hair prickled on the back of her neck. For a bodyguard offering protection, he gave considerable voice to her imminent demise. There was no arguing with the statement or with him, based on the implacable expression he was sporting.

Frustrated on more levels than she cared to analyze, she turned back toward the street. “That’s my meeting place.” She tilted her head toward the Revolutionary Cemetery shrouded in rain, the old grave markers splashed with red and blue from the emergency lights. “Do you see anyone?”

She started to work her way closer, but before she’d managed a few paces, she felt his hand on her shoulder again. “Wait here.”

“No.” Her source had surely run from all this commotion, but she needed to see for herself. She understood people and though they’d never met, she knew she could recognize her source by the body language if given half a chance. Around her, people in the crowd murmured but no one wept or mentioned names. In a community the size of Sudbury that meant the problem in the street involved strangers, but this seemed like a big crowd for a distracted tourist induced accident.

Please, don’t let it be my contact. It couldn’t be, she decided. A thought like that was simply a paranoid side effect having a bodyguard. She and her source had been too careful in light of the careers and lives on the line with this story.

“Let me do my job,” he growled at her ear.

“You’re here to enable me to do mine.” She studied his features, noticed the wariness in his eyes as he studied the cemetery across the street. Had he noticed a threat she’d missed? “What happened to keeping me in sight?”

The glare he leveled on her made her think twice. She couldn’t let him intimidate her or having him around would derail her story anyway. Holding her ground, she folded her arms across her chest and glared right back.

~~

I hope you enjoyed meeting Amelia and John today as much as I enjoyed writing them. From the moment they arrived in the same scene, they were butting heads and dodging the flying sparks of attraction. As their story progressed, a grudging respect turned into a valuable team effort to stay alive and dare something completely new – lasting love.

Live the adventure!

Regan

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Genre - Romantic Suspense

Rating – R

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Website http://www.reganblack.com

Three Weeks Earlier
November 3
It was time to let go and move on.
Late Saturday afternoon, Charlie stood over three tombstones, holding three bunches of red tulips in her hand at St. Lucas Cemetery. Several months passed since Charlie lost her family, and this was the first time she visited her family's gravesite since the funeral. It was tough going there knowing what her family had suffered. Within a matter of days of each other, she lost her mother, father and only sibling. Charlie believed it would destroy her. And it almost did. Her sleep patterns were thrown into a flux. She wasn't painting as much as she used to, and she closed herself off to everyone but a select few. Every day she walked around with a dark ghost that hovered over her, reminding her of ruin and just how risky life was.
After the tragedy, she distanced herself from work and sought counseling from her psychologist. Since then, things improved some, but not much. She returned to work, returned to her art class, and even met a few new friends. But still she was immobilized from moving past her anguish, which haunted her.
After she brushed aside the colorful dead leaves from her family's adjacent tombstones, her eyes panned over to the words, Sandy Weiss and Terri Weiss. Gently she laid the tulips on her mother and sister's tombstones, but she could not bring herself to place anything on her father's grave. Her eyes locked in with his name. Maxwell Weiss.
How could someone she loved so much have brought her so much pain? But he did. She hesitated, pushed her animosity aside, and then laid the flowers on his grave. Already having forgiven him, now was not the time to rehash old resentments. The tombstones brought back useless memories, memories that chartered her to an ugly place of despair, a place she had gone many times before. She loved her parents like any normal person would, but she was most affected by the death of her sister, Sandy. Charlie was only a few years younger than her sister, and they looked almost exactly alike, except for the difference in hair color.
Her sister was a redhead.

* * *

Chief Brian Thomas sat in his office with his right foot propped on his desk and an ice pack on his swollen knee. He'd ditched the contacts and scruffy jacket. Phone card clipped to his pocket, he toyed with his 'prize' while his mentor's affable voice filled his ear.

"Tell me again why I shouldn't have my men out looking for this thief?" Thomas asked.

"Because you're doing me a favor," Albertson said. "The item she stole is of no consequence. What'd she look like?"

"The ghost of Christmas future."

"Beg pardon?"

Thomas moved, then gritted his teeth when his knee complained. "All black. Head to toe. With a cape." He didn't even know her hair color and her eyes had been shadowed as well. Of course she could've disguised her features as he had.

"Ah, yes. The proverbial Bat Girl."

Thomas laughed. "Maybe. The evidence crew lost a man during the response. My men will want to see justice done."

"I'm sorry to hear that. But she won't get away with it."

Thomas caught himself caressing the necklace he'd hastily removed from the display. It took more effort than it should have to lay it down. When he did, his hands felt empty, his chest hollow.

Weird.

"Brian?"

"Yeah, sorry. I'm tired."

"I understand. These are odd hours you're keeping on my behalf. If the media should find this story, let them know you think the crime is of a personal bent."

"So you've got yourself a stalker." Thomas gave a low wolf whistle. "Sure you don't want a team on you?"

"Absolutely not."

Thomas blinked, startled by the vehement reply. "Too bad. She looked professional."

"But what sort of profession?"

Thomas fought back an instinctive defense of the thief, but Albertson's hearty belly laugh sounded first. When he caught his breath the judge said, "She can't touch me."

"If you say so," Thomas replied. His hands were back on the cool gold surrounding the fiery opal of the antique necklace. The filigreed heart-shaped setting would've drawn much attention to the cleavage of the young lady wearing it. "Anything else?"

"No. You've done well and I thank you."

The judge disconnected before Thomas could ask anything else. It seemed he'd have to wait for more answers about the threat this burglar posed. Not unusual, but still irritating.

His desktop monitor lit up with an incoming call. Then another. The primary questions of both callers filled the text fields while pictures of impatient reporters popped up above the words.

The media had found the story all right. With a reluctant touch, he slid the necklace into the lockbox in his desk, and then prepared to enter the gauntlet of question and answer.

The burly man storming into his office stopped him.

"Chuck, have a seat."

"I'll stand." He tossed his silver shield at Thomas. "I won't spend another minute in the hell-hole you've got here."

Deliberate, precise motions moved the ice pack and brought Thomas to his feet. "You'll control yourself and follow orders."

"I won't take orders from a man who'd sacrifice his own."

"You've crossed a line here, Loomis."

"That's the pot callin' the kettle black, I'd say."

Thomas shook his head and then recalled the antiquated saying. "What's set you off?"

Chuck tapped a thick index finger on the desk. "Tonight's little exercise crossed the line, Chief." He sneered at the title. "Wait'll the boys hear Larry died in the name of a lousy test run. Neither you or the city'll survive the Blue Flu."

"Test run? Flu?" Baffled, Thomas dropped back into his chair. "Start over. And use English this time."

"I saw the Michaels woman." Chuck bit out each word. "She's tested response times and codes and the like before."

And suddenly it clicked. The mystery thief was 'the Michaels woman'. Jaden Michaels, a security specialist with a tendency to favor the underdog. She had some sort of girl-power school in town and did some freelance with the police force occasionally, but they'd never met in person.

"Chuck," he applied his calm buddy tone. "We weren't running tests tonight. If you got a call–it was real."

He glared at Thomas. "So real the museum says nothin's gone."

Thomas sat up straight, ignoring the jab of pain climbing his leg when his foot hit the floor. "Nothing?"

"Nope. They just spewed nonsense about false alarms and sent me on my merry way." He swiped that beefy hand over his face and cleared his throat. Twice. "After they took away...the body...I looked around for the laser gun. It wasn't on her, but I'll be damned if I know where she ditched it. Larry'd been trying to link a call we were tracing with the museum break in. When the laser flashed I dodged but it caught the tire. Now how'd she get a hold of that except from someone skimmin' from us?"

Thomas understood every layer of Chuck's agony. "I'll look into it. Personally." Won't have to look far. "I've already seen the video. Larry bounced out of the seat. He just wasn't buttoned down when the vehicle rolled. An unfortunate accident, that's all."

"Bull." Chuck upended an evidence bag and a charred buckle and webbing clattered onto the desk. The bitter smell of burnt flesh and fried circuits hung in the air between them.

Thomas pressed his fingers to his temples in an attempt to stop the relentless pounding. He didn't need to deal with equipment failure, even if it would soothe his conscience.

"Go home. Get some rest. And keep the badge." Chuck nodded, and then just stared down at him like a lost puppy. "Take tomorrow off, Chuck. I'll handle Michaels."

"Yessir." At the door, Chuck paused. "Check the tapes. Larry's last entries should lead you right to her."

"Got it," Thomas said and dismissed the grieving officer.

What the hell was going on?

He had a judge who didn't care about a display he'd personally funded, a museum denying all trouble, a good cop dead, a security specialist posing as a thief, a chat room buzzing with reporters, a bum knee and the devil's own headache.

"Lord love a duck," he groaned and washed a couple of painkillers down with a hefty gulp of antacid.

* * *

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Genre – Paranormal Romance, Urban Fantasy

Rating – PG-13

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Website http://www.reganblack.com

Chapter One
Chad woke to searing pain in his chest as he gulped air, trying to fill his lungs. He squeezed his eyes shut and battled to clear the fog from his head and slow his heart rate.  His body stilled as he listened to the sounds around him: the sound of traffic on the street below his window and the hum of his air conditioner kicking off as it reached the designated temperature. Chad shook his head and forced his eyes open. He was in his bedroom in New Haven, Connecticut, in his bed with the navy blue sheets and mahogany headboard. Above him was the familiar crack on the ceiling that he always meant to fix but never remembered unless he was in bed staring up at it. His flat-screen television, mounted on the wall, ran static. His laptop lay on the bed next to him where he’d abandoned it for sleep the night before.
Despite the familiar surroundings, it took Chad a minute to realize there was no medic kneeling beside him, pushing a too-long needle into his lung. There was no metallic scent of blood or charred flesh choking him and making him nauseated. No ringing in his ears. The other three men in his detail did not lay still and silent next to him, their eyes lifeless and unseeing, their bodies forever broken and destroyed.
The dream didn’t come often anymore, but it always took him a few minutes to recover when it did. As Chad took deep, calming breaths he realized the phone was ringing. He slapped at the nightstand with one hand until he found the phone then slid his thumb across the screen to answer the call.
“Yeah?” His voice was thick with sleep.
“Chad?”
Chad Thompson bolted upright in his bed, the remnants of the dream no longer clutching at him. His gut twisted when Jennie’s voice came through the phone with the ring of false confidence. Something wasn’t right.
“You okay, Jennie?”
Jennie Evans didn’t normally call him outside of working hours at Sutton Capital. They had a weird relationship. Chad was Jennie’s supervisor. She was flippant, irreverent, and completely brash in all her dealings with him. And, he loved it.
Outside of work, things were equally unorthodox between them. They spent a lot of time together because Jennie was best friends with Kelly, the woman who married Chad’s cousin last year. Jack and Chad were more like brothers than cousins. So Chad saw Jennie anytime he hung out with Jack and Kelly, which was just about every weekend.
But, Chad and Jennie weren’t the type of friends that called each other or sought one another out outside of the group. It was more that they ended up at the same functions because of their mutual friends.
So when she called on his cell phone first thing in the morning, on a weekend, he noticed. It was also the use of his name that got his attention. Quickly. Jennie didn’t use a nickname like ‘Boss Man,’ ‘Big Man,’ or ‘the Hulk’ like she usually did. No, this morning she called him Chad, rather than any number of other nicknames designed to taunt him about his large stature.
“Um. I’m a little...stuck,” Jennie said on the other end of the phone. He could hear her hesitancy through the line.
“Define ‘stuck,’ Jennie.” As he talked, he threw back the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“I, um. I’m out at Edgerton Park and I don’t have any shoes to jog home. Can you come get me? Jack and Kelly are touring the Labor and Delivery Unit at the hospital this morning so I can’t call them and I can’t get hold of Jill,” Jennie said.
Jill was married to Chad’s friend Andrew who also worked at Sutton Capital with Jack and Chad.
“So that leaves me. How did you get out to Edgerton Park without shoes or a car?” Chad asked as he shoved his feet into sneakers.
As he spoke, the implications of what he’d just said sank into his brain. Jennie was alone in a park without shoes or a way to get home. Fear for Jennie rippled up his spine, but he tamped it down and focused.  Chad moved a lot faster, as his mind began to play through scenarios. Was she with a guy and he ditched her? Was she out drunk last night and never made it home? Maybe she found herself in the park, with no shoes and no idea how she got there? Just the thought of Jennie out with a guy started a slow burn in his gut. Chad couldn’t date Jennie himself, but that didn’t mean he’d handle it well at all if he saw her with another man. And, what if that man treated her wrong or hurt her in any way?
I’ll kill whatever asshole did this to her.
“Can I tell you when you get here? I’ve been here for a while now. I’m getting a little hungry. And my feet hurt. I had to run in bare feet. I could really use a ride.”
Run? She’d been running…
Chad’s fists turned into hard knots of anger as he thought about someone leaving Jennie where she could have been hurt or... Another thought sent cold spiraling through him.
God, what if they didn’t just ditch her at the park? What if...? His heart pounded in his chest and he broke out in a sweat.
“Jennie, did someone hurt you?” Now Chad used the eerily calm tone of voice from his days in the military. It came out when he was pissed as hell and ready to tear someone to pieces, but also when he needed to keep himself calm and collected enough to deal with the situation.
“I’m okay, Chad. No one hurt me,” Jennie answered, sending a wave of relief over Chad that left him weak, much weaker than he’d acknowledge. Chad grabbed his wallet and keys.
“On my way.”
“Thanks, Chad. I’m over by the greenhouses. I’ll wait by that entrance,” Jennie said.
The park was well known for the large row of greenhouses that housed an impressive array of native plants. The local gardening club hosted a native plant sale twice a year. There was an entrance cut into the stone wall that surrounded the park, near those greenhouses. Chad knew it well. It was the entrance he used whenever he jogged through the park.
“Got it,” Chad said as he ended the call and grabbed a T-shirt. He pulled the shirt on as he rode the elevator to the garage and jogged to his truck.
What the hell, Jennie?
Chad didn’t know what story she’d have when he got there, but it was sure to be good. This sounded like a bit much, even for Jennie.

Lori Ryan is a NY Times and USA Today bestselling author who writes contemporary romance with a twist of suspense. She lives with an extremely understanding husband, two wonderful children, two mostly-behaved dogs, and a lone little cat in Austin, Texas. It’s a bit of a zoo, but she wouldn’t change a thing.

Lori published her first novel in April of 2013 and has written three more books since then. Each of Lori’s books have made their way to the Amazon bestseller list and she quickly climbed the Amazon bestselling author list, as well. In November, 2013, Lori and a group of romantic suspense authors landed on the USA Today and NY Times bestseller lists with an anthology only eight months after the release of Lori’s first book. Lori loves to connect with her readers. Follow her on Facebook or Twitter or subscribe to her blog. Oh, and if you’ve read Lori’s books and loved them, please consider leaving a review on Amazon.com. Writers live and die by their reviews and Lori promises to do a happy dance around her office every time you write one!

Chapter 3

I make my way back home, and my mother is in the living room doing one of her many workout DVDs. She has a better figure than I do, although Bruce has allowed her to have some "procedures" done to help that along. He doesn't seem to push her, but I think he enjoys having arm candy to wear to parties and such.

"Hi, sweetie. How was your first day of college?" my Mom says from the living room as she squats and lunges making all manner of grunting noises.

"It's school, Mom. How well could it go?" I mumble, hungry from my walk up the hot coastline. "Do we have anything to eat in this house?" I ask as Carmelita walks into the kitchen. A short, portly Guatemalan woman, Carmelita is probably my favorite person in this house because she's real.

"Hola, Miss Blake," she says with her bright smile. The beach life has only made Carmelita darker, and her teeth look like pearls when she smiles. "You hungry?"

"Starving," I say with my head firmly planted in the refrigerator. I'm mainly sticking it in there to cool off, but Carmelita is having none of it as she swats my rear end to move me out of the way.

"I make you a sandwich?" she says with a question mark at the end of her sentence.

"Please," I say, still uncomfortable with having someone wait on me in my own house. But, when in Rome...

It's around one thirty in the afternoon, and I can almost hear the clock ticking the countdown to my coffee date with Reed Miller. I guess I shouldn't call it a date since I am looking to get an internship from him. He would be my superior, and that conjures up some images in my mind that shouldn't be there. Handcuffs and tie straps pop into my head, reminding me that I might have been reading one too many erotic romance novels over the summer.

"Here you go," Carmelita says, handing me a plate with a club sandwich and some chips. I shove a chip into my mouth, groan with pleasure and nod.

"Thank you, Carmelita," I say through chews, which is terrible etiquette but I don't care. I slide into a chair at the breakfast bar, wolf down the sandwich and a Coke, and run upstairs to change for my coffee date with Reed. I like how that sounds. Coffee date with Reed. Yeah, I've got to get out more if one hunky guy makes me want to start writing his name all over my notebook.

***

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She looked out at the courtroom, pleasant but unsmiling.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We are about to begin a trial alleging medical malpractice. I will explain that to the jurors, but first I want to establish some ground rules, especially for the spectators—and I see we have a full house today.

“You are here to listen and, for a few, perhaps to learn, but not to participate. I do not tolerate clapping, cheering, or any other disturbance in my courtroom. If anyone creates a disturbance, I will ask the bailiff to escort him or her out of the courtroom. If there is a general disturbance, I will have the courtroom cleared of spectators.”

She waited a moment and then smiled. “As long as you follow my rules, we are pleased to have you here. (p. 41) Malpractice! the Novel

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“We are Here to Reveal Jesus”

The truth is, we are not called and anointed to tell interesting stories of family tragedy, humble beginnings, or human fortitude. We are here to reveal the truth about Jesus. If our testimonies do slowly turn away from being about Jesus, focusing more (or wholly) upon ourselves and/or our worldly experiences (such as incest, rape, suicide, murder, greed, occult activities, divorce, illness, motherhood, fatherhood, or even business), then they are no longer testimonies. They have become personal ministries. For example, I sometimes speak about the dangers of the demonic and the occult, but my ministering to people (giving them sound advice, listening to their experiences, and helping them cope with and overcome certain issues, of which I have experience) though fabulous, is not what testimony is about. We minister to people, but we testify about Jesus. Often times, we learn to do both simultaneously.

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

Top of The Pops

1989

How long ago did he take it? He knew it depended on weight and metabolism but he didn’t know for sure. It wasn’t an exact science. He had always banged the scotch down and smoked a lot of hash but this was different. This was the real deal. He’d heard it on the grapevine. These new pills from New York and Amsterdam were changing the social fabric of London. It used to be beer and punch-ups and now it was pills and loved-up. Arrests for unsocial behaviour were down and more importantly, the establishment was scared. It had been justly challenged with punk and then the gay abandonment and sexual ambiguity of Boy George et al nearly tore the nation asunder. But ironically Boy George then turned into every grandmothers’ favourite bingo partner and the urban landscape returned to its safe, apathetic roots and bland normality.

Then the people of the night tipped the world on its end. Space cadet record execs were bringing these pills back from New York. These little portents of love were apparently amazing. They took you elsewhere, gave you love in abundance and made the girls love you back. The summer of love, Woodstock itself, was being re-invented right in front of everyone’s eyes. The Sun and The Daily Mirror revealed the shocking threat to the nation and he believed the propaganda until his cousin told him to stop being daft.

He was nineteen and it was about time that he jumped onto the hedonistic bandwagon. He had missed out on punk and ska. There was hardly any rebellion in the 80’s. It was make-up and silly love songs. What had started out with the Sex Pistols and The Clash dived headlong into the rapture of Spandau Ballet and Duran Duran. There was no class struggle. Greed was good according to Margaret Thatcher and Reaganomics ruled the roost. Live now pay later. Ostentatious displays of wealth, cocktails and the word ‘yuppie’ were the order of the day. And guess what? The young had just about had enough.

The corporatisation of the weekend. The theme pub. The Saturday night super club. Big burly bouncers telling you, ‘Wrong shoes mate’, or ‘Wrong shirt’, even, ‘Sorry mate, just don’t fit the image’. Enough was enough!

Free parties were on the rise. Dance music was exploding. Warehouses were being taken over by huge sound systems and the kids and the drugs were everywhere. It was 1989 and the great British party massive had started.

They were in Slough, West of London. Slough was one of those peculiar afterthoughts of British planning. Pronounced ‘slau’, its name sounded ugly and its streets were much the same. A post Second World War new town. Pebble-dashed terraced houses built cheaply, without imagination and without soul. The only reason you went to Slough was because it was on the way to somewhere else. The English equivalent of Belgium.

It was one of the biggest holes he had ever been to but tonight it was his paradise. It was his conversion on the road to Damascus. For tonight he would experience the roller coaster ride that was MDMA and witness the world’s best on the wheels of steel. A warehouse. A laser. A bass bin. Tonight he would turn away from the beer soaked ravages of a football bender and become enveloped in the rush and the beautiful shiver of the white dove. Tonight he would be Top of The Pops.

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This is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Gabby, Angel of God.

“You think we have a strong bond, Gabby?”
“Of course, we’ve been inseparable, and I know you like me.”
“Love.” I answered softly.
Gabby pouted, “I told you, Bo, not to fall in love with me.”
“Well it’s too late, I already have, and I promise you…”
“What’s that, Bo? What do you promise?”
“That I’ll love you forever.”
“You won’t allow yourself the possibility that because I’m an angel you find me hard to resist. Bo, it’s totally normal for a human man to feel this way.”
“Gabby, hard to resist is the understatement of the century. Impossible to resist might be nearer the truth.” Gabby looked sad as I continued, “Angels have been off the radar for me, I never thought I’d see one, let alone spend time with one. I really can’t describe how it feels, except that I’m in love and at peace.”
“Oh Bo, it is going to be so hard for you when I leave.” She cautioned shaking her head.
“Gabby, I don’t get how any kind of relationship with that waitress isn’t going to cause problems with Jill. Worse without you to referee!”
“Bo, was that what I was back at your house?”
“Yeah, if that had been any other girl, let’s just say it would have ended badly. Now Jill and I are getting along great, because of the way you handled things.”
“Bo, I didn’t want to get into it awhile ago, because I knew you’d freak out.”
“Why?”
“Candy and you are pieces of the same soul. She’s going through a very hard time right now. Bo, being friends with you would help her.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes, and I think you understand.” Gabby peered into my eyes.
“She’ll feel like she’s home?”
“Yes Bo, you get it!” She said happily, “You’re familiar in a way she’ll feel deeply even though she won’t know why.”
“Oh, I get that, but I’m a little worried.”
“What about?” Gabby voiced genuine concern.
“I’ve never really been friends with an adult woman before, you know, on my own. Sally and I had share friends, I’d tell my jokes and talk, but I’ve never carried the relationship. I wouldn’t know where to begin. I always relied on her, I mean…”
Gabby cut me off, “I want you to spend some time with her, she needs…”
“She needs me?”
“Very much, Bo, will you help her?”
“I’ll try, Gabby, but what will I do? How can I help? I don’t know the first thing about…”
“You start by just listening, try to be her friend. A gentle nod, an a hum here and there. Hugs, you can do it! For heavens sakes, Bo, it’s not brain surgery!”
“I guess it’s pretty important if we share the same soul. I’m up for it.”
“Great Bo, I’m proud of you.”

**************

My current novel

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2.

Juggling her laptop bag and purse, she somehow managed to unlock the three deadbolts to her walk-up apartment. As Julia kicked the door closed behind her, Nora came bursting into the entryway. Never short of energy, Nora was even more over-the-top than usual as she squealed with excitement.

"What? What is it?" Julia said, setting her things down on the kitchen counter.

"Didn't you get my message on your cell?

"No, I was just in to see Gloria. I didn't even check my messages." Julia pulled out her cell phone and noticed that she had indeed missed a call. She must've been under the hair dryer when it rang. She felt the urge to listen to the message, but thought Nora would kill her if Julia didn't let her pass on the earth-shattering news.

"So what is it? Did I finally win the lottery?"

"No, even better!" Nora took hold of Julia's hand and practically dragged her into their small living room.

"What? What is it?" Julia asked.

Nora made Julia sit on the loveseat before she leaned against the desk crammed into the corner of the room. With her eyes shining and a smile wide across her olive-toned skin, she was about to start speaking but couldn't help herself. Her hands shook in front of her and she let out another squeal. Julia hadn't seen her this excited since she received her acceptance letter to the Chicago Veterinary School of Medicine.

"Nora, you're starting to scare me. Who called?"

"Darius."

Julia's agent only called when he had good news to share; otherwise he preferred to dispense disappointment via email.

"Darius called… and what? Did he sell my book?"

"Even better!"

"Don't tell me it's a multi-book offer!" Julia's heart raced at the possibilities. If she landed a multi-book deal, she might actually be able to pay her bills on time. She might actually start to feel like an adult instead of existing in the muddled land of the almost-grown-up. Darius had been shopping a book-length compendium of her syndicated column for a few months, but had only received nibbles from book publishers. Julia had doubted Darius when he originally contacted her to offer his representation. After all, if the Herald didn't want the rights to her blog, why would a book publisher?

"Not just a book offer. A book and TV deal! Can you believe it?"

"Wait…" Julia leaned back on the old couch they'd had since their college days. If she'd been standing, she would've probably been wobbly on her newly pedicured feet. "Are you sure you heard him right? Book… and TV? What do you mean TV? Like an appearance on Live With Kelly and Michael? Oh, don't tell me, he got me a spot on Ellen!"

"No, silly. A TV deal, as in a deal for your own TV show. He said something about Randal Publishing and its subsidiary—"

"GreenTV? He landed me a show on GreenTV?"

"Actually… yeah."

Julia felt short of breath. She had to stand, had to walk. If she didn't move around she would explode. After pacing the small living room two, three, and four times, she realized she was holding her breath.

"You… you aren't playing the worst ever practical joke, are you?" Julia finally said.

"This is me you're talking to, your best friend. I wouldn't do that to you."

"I know you wouldn't, it's just…" Julia said, and then her pacing led her into the kitchen. She looked at the clock on the microwave: 3:17 p.m. She figured it was close enough to happy hour, especially when she had something to be happy about. She grabbed a bottle of elderberry wine, a vintage from a valley farm not more than a mile from her grandparents' home. She exited the kitchen while carrying the wine bottle and two mismatched glasses, decidedly not of the wine variety. "Want a glass?" she asked, but before Nora could answer, she continued. "It's just… I can't wrap my mind around it. How can this be happening to me?"

"Yes, I'll have a glass," Nora said. "Here, let me open that. Your hands are shaking." Nora hurried to the kitchen for the corkscrew. When she returned, she took the bottle from Julia and uncorked it.

Julia held up the glasses as Nora poured. As she poured, Julia saw her gorgeous manicure, and that her hands were indeed shaking terribly.

"This is happening to you because you deserve it. You're talented, beautiful, and hard-working. No one deserves it more than you."

Julia couldn't say anything for fear she would start crying. And if she started crying, then Nora would start crying. Julia could tell that Nora knew what she was thinking; she took a sip of wine and stepped away, casting her gaze out the window over the desk. The view was of the pitted, crumbling brick wall of the building across the narrow alley. That view was reason alone for Julia to justify spending so much of her time at Gloria's salon.

And to think, all of those mani/pedis helped her to land the deal of a lifetime.

Julia drank half of her wine and felt the tightness in her chest easing. Her breathing was steadying.

"So Darius... what else did he say?"

"Not much. I'm not his client, you are. And I suggest you call him back, especially before that wine starts kicking in."

"Okay. I'll call." Julia took her cell phone from her pocket. "But one thing."

"Sure, anything."

"Stay here when I talk to him. I don't think I'll remember how to speak if I make this call by myself."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world. Just make sure you put it on speakerphone."

As Julia punched in Darius' number, Nora gasped, "I can't believe I took a phone message for a future TV star!"

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Emmanuel had talked of running the first time he was alone with Mattie. Every winter he made plans for the next spring. Each year she argued that it was too soon. Mattie hoped that Emmanuel’s talk was just that. She didn’t share his dream of freedom, did not want leave her home and family to head out into the wilderness. She desperately hoped her love and their son would make Emmanuel stay. But every year when late spring rolled around, Mattie said a final goodbye in her heart whenever they parted. She expected that one day he would simply be gone.

“Forget about Ohio,” Mattie cajoled, pressing her body into his. “You in Virginia right now, with me, all alone, in this here bed. What you gonna do about that?”

She moved in closer, bringing her mouth so close that she could feel his breath. Emmanuel smiled, gazing through the dim light into her eyes, and ran his large hands across her back. He kissed her tenderly on her full lips. She parted her mouth, darting the tip of her tongue out to explore his mouth.

Pulling back, he asked, “Do you suppose that little girl gonna interrupt us again?”

“Her name Lisbeth,” replied Mattie, “and no, I don’ suppose she will. She fine when I left. I don’ imagine she be gettin’ sick two times in a row.”

“Good. I don’ want to get all hot and bothered jus’ to have you disappear on me,” he teased.

“Let’s see about gettin’ you all hot and bothered.”

Pushing him onto his back, she climbed over him, straddling his belly. She kissed him deeply, bringing his tongue into her mouth. She pressed against him until he forgot all of his plans to leave Virginia.

After making love, Emmanuel kissed Mattie, rolled over, and fell asleep. Mattie wrapped her arms around him and nestled in close, her body humming with joy. A good man was hard to come by and she knew she was lucky to have this one. She’d be fully satisfied if she knew she could keep him.

 

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Michael

New York City

October 22nd

Nighttime Hours

The gutters of the megalopolis gurgled softly. Pounding sheets of rain washed down the darkened, sewage-stinking pavement as I scrambled silently for cover. Finding none, I rolled over on my back, doing the very best to steady the constant rhythm of my burning lungs.

‘Well, well, well,’taunted my assailant. The sound of his glistening Italian shoes breached my ears. My bleeding nose detected the stench of his cigarette’s burning tobacco. There was no need to use my special abilities to know that he carried a loaded gun in his gloved hand. ‘What am I to do with you, Michael?’

It was a rhetorical question. Both of us knew perfectly well what it was that he planned to do. What Victor had been sent to do.

He kicked aside a heap of malodorous refuse matter.

‘It’s a pity that you and I have to end our friendship on such an ugly note, Mikey. Really is. I wish you would make this easier on yourself and disclose the location of those flipping documents. But you’re one of those die-hard types. You always have been. I can ply you with questions all night long, but I won’t get to hear a single word out of your mouth, will I?’

Concentrating hard, I tuned out his voice, summing up the last reserves of my strength as I did so. Although it was immensely difficult, considering my horrid physical condition, I managed to glance into the future for a few short seconds.

Nothing there.

Nothing to help me trick death or buy time, Only Victor leveling the gun to my head and squeezing the trigger. Nothing could be done to ameliorate the situation.

My heart accelerated with his every nearing step. Every cell in my body was fraught with rising alarm.

Click.

His golden lighter made a faint sound as he flicked away a cigarette and lit another. A crooked grin spread below his pencil thin moustache. He chuckled to himself, euphorically inhaling the poisonous fumes. He was going to enjoy this.

‘Ah, what a pity,’he said dramatically. Victor had always been an artist. Since the moment we’d met, I had always opined that he would have been better off freelancing as a dramaturge. ‘This is my last one. I guess I’ll just have to get some more on the way back.’He crumpled up the empty pack of smokes and chucked it away carelessly.

I knew that I was running out of time. Before Victor was done having his last cancer stick I would most definitely be dead. He took a long drag, carefully and patiently attaching a custom-made silencer to his deadly revolver. He made sure to take his time, savoring every moment.

Click.

This time it was him unlocking the safety catch on his handgun.

That damned revolver had always been his only weapon of choice, the reason probably being that it left no shell casings at the crime scene.

Pure panic washed over me, my mind began to race, injecting fresh waves of adrenaline into my veins. I commanded my exhausted brain to foresee the future. But again, all I managed to extract was a gloved finger pulling at a smooth, vicious trigger.

‘Not trying to play your little tricks on me, are you, Mikey-boy?’Victor asked. He sounded like he had just caught a small child red-handed in the process of stealing candy. I still didn’t answer, trying to look past the barrel of his gun in order to grasp something, anything which would help me escape the dratted lunatic.

In my mind’s eye, I foresaw a black feral cat scamper across the dirty, empty alley where I lay and Victor sneered. It appeared to be headed our way, looking to scavenge the nearby scuffed garbage cans for food residue. Somewhere in the immediate vicinity, an angry, severely inebriated derelict mishandled his one and only bottle of wine. It slipped from his hands and exploded all over the cold pavement just like a child’s water balloon. Then police sirens undulated in the night, but they were too far off to safely see me out of the quagmire that I found myself in.

My heart sank like a stone at that realization.

All of those readings were useless. With an aching head and unsteady hands, I was about to withdraw and accept defeat, when it suddenly dawned on me exactly how I had to act in order to turn the tables on Victor. Working under pressure, my mind quickly concocted a course of action that couldn’t even be called a plan, for its multiple flaws and drawbacks. All I needed was a touch of good fortune, which was a gamble, really, as I seemed to be out of luck for the day. Victor’s deadly revolver was a testimony to that.

Pulling it off would be a long shot, but despair galvanized me into action. I hesitated a tenth of a second, then filled my chest with air and yelled as loud and cheerily as possible. ‘Money! Money falling from the sky! I can’t believe this! Hundred dollar bills! Lots of them! They are everywhere!’

Victor’s bushy, raven-black eyebrows knitted together in confusion. ‘What? What the heck are you saying? Have you gone mad with fright?’

‘Money! Lots and lots of cash!’ I kept shouting zealously, perhaps sounding like a complete moron, which I dearly hoped only added realism to the note of exuberance in my voice.

‘Good God, man, pull yourself together and summon enough courage to die with dignity!’

My trick had worked.

The homeless drunk I had previsioned came careening into the alley, with a hopeful, out-of-this world expression on his smeared, bulldog-ish face.

‘Wha?’ he demanded.

‘Hundred dolla bills?’ He looked around quizzically, tucking away tufts of disheveled hair behind a pair of begrimed ears, and expecting a heavy shower of promised cash.

‘Where? Where’s the money?’ His eyes glinted with recognition and reason at the unexpected sight of Victor’s gun. Victor, without thinking twice, pulled the trigger before the man had even managed to fully lift his hands in a defensive gesture.

The silencer flashed, whistled and disembogued a trail of white smoke into the dank air. The wino stumbled forward, legs all rickety, one hand clutching at the expanding stain on his grungy old jacket, and the other greedily wrapped around the half-empty bottle of alcohol. With a bloody cough, he fell face forward, shattering the long-neck into glittering slivers and several larger fragments of sharp glass, in close proximity to where I lay sprawled on my back. Victor sneered, the police sirens came into life, probably chasing down some juvenile delinquent – the city never slept. It was an improbable stroke of luck, but the black tramp cat from my recent vision produced a loud yowl, and acted in exact accordance with my calculations. It was scared off a large, silver trashcan by the sound of the breaking bottle, and during its blind flight, had managed to get itself tangled up in between Victor’s feet. Caught by complete surprise, Victor lowered his gun to execute the unexpected guest, not a dreg of pity in his dark eyes.

Using the distraction to my advantage, I snatched the biggest shard of dark, shattered glass glinting close-at-hand and jumped to my feet. With my arm stretched out before me, I accelerated right into Victor like greased lightning. Overcome by a blinding surge of energy as well as the natural instinct of survival, I slashed at his stomach, instantly splitting it open. His neck cords strained and his face became a mottle of red and white shreds as he tried to raise his armed hand for protection, but I grabbed it with my own, and drove the sharp glass into his shoulder.

He misfired a couple of rounds and cried out in pain. The formal black fedora, which had been nestled on his head at a rakish angle, seesawed to the ground in a manner analogous to a falling feather. He himself sagged to his knees, shivering spasmodically as if from ague. For one brief moment, I stared down at him, my bloody hands and the defunct vagrant’s face, which was frozen in a horrible rictus of stunned horror. Being caught up in the moment, I seriously contemplated administering the coup de grace. But then my anger simmered down, and I reevaluated my thoughts, deciding that Michael Fleming wasn’t a murderer. At least, not yet.

My heart thumped with shock, every muscle in my body trembled, every nerve in my system burned. I dropped my makeshift weapon, then doubled back and turned around before floundering over to a concrete wall. I felt sick and waited for the nausea to pass. Once that was out of the way, I broke into a sudden and purposeful sprint. I left the dark alley running like a madman through the driving rain, never daring to look back.

I was worn out, but there was still some urgent business I needed to attend to. And time was of the essence. A person’s life was at stake. All that stood between them and eternal rest was me, and on the dot punctuality.

However, the person in question had no idea of the impending threat to their life.

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Dangerously Hers

Short Excerpt

A.M. Griffin

She positioned her left leg behind her and balled her fists. From her experience aliens had a hard time with the word “no”.

He rubbed his hand across his face, as if he was trying to regain his composure. She readied for a fight.

He rocked back onto his heels and stood. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. As you can see I lost control.” He grabbed his crotch. His hand held the thickened outline of his cock.

“Is that all you?” She should have been ashamed for asking, but damn.

He nodded.

“It’s so freakin’…” So many words could be used to describe it, gigantic, humongous, enormous. “Big.”

He leisurely rubbed his cock. “Is it acceptable to you?”

Acceptable, said the lion to the rabbit. But she couldn’t keep her eyes off of it. It was mesmerizing.

“Do you want me to fuck you instead? We can do it here.” He motioned toward the desk. “I could clear the desk.”

She forced herself to turn away. “Does it look like I wanna fuck you or anyone else for that matter?”

He gave her an appeasing stare. “Always ready to fight. Even though the situation does not call for it. Stand down, Jess. I’m not into rough sex.”

She hesitated. When he made no moves toward her she straightened. “I told you before.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “What comes out of your mouth contradicts what drips out of your pussy.”

Heat crept across her cheeks. Betrayed. By her pussy.

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Rating – R

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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.

EXCERPT:

He grabs me by the scruff of my neck and drags me out of the room to the lunch table.

‘Leave me the fuck alone!’

He shoves me into the dining room. It’s Saturday so that entire gang is there, in the mood to party and to be entertained. Watching Diablo drag me to the table gets them excited.

Humiliated and seething, I sit down and drum my nails on the table. I don’t eat or look at him.

‘Eat!’ he orders.

I ignore him and drum louder, furiously.

A man named Norman, seated next to me, leans over and says, ‘Señorita gringa want Whisky?

‘Yes please, Norman.’

Norman pours the whisky and places the glass in front of me.

‘Thank you Norman,’ I say, bypassing the glass and reaching for the bottle.

Norman’s eyes grow huge when he sees me taking giant swigs from the bottle.

It’s awful. I hate whisky. Tastes like gasoline to me.

‘Damn!’ I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. ‘This sure is mighty fine whisky, Norman.’

‘Eh, Señorita gringa, my name …’

‘Lemme pour you one, Norman.’ I top his glass to the brim and hand it to him. ‘Knock yourself out,’ I chuckle.

Diablo’s not smiling.

Yeah, I’m supposed to be nice to him now that the FBI is involved. Well, fuck the FBI and Fuck him.

As lunch progresses, I’m feeling a little more relaxed now. Warm in my toes and even a little confident. Well, they’re eating lunch and I’m drinking mine – whisky, Tequila and some other shit on the table.

After a few more swigs from the bottles, I cross my arms over my head and whistle Hit me Baby One More Time by Brittany bitch. Totally out of tune, but hey, who gives a fuck right now.

Diablo’s hairy face reveals little, but somehow I don’t think he’s comfortable with my drinking. Hell, I’m not comfortable with my drinking, but screw him.

They’re passing around pictures. Pornographic pictures and the conversation becomes steamy.

Usually, I pass on the pictures, but today, I snatch them out of Norman’s hand. ‘Lemme see that!’

I peer at the picture then burst out laughing. ‘That’s the fugliest flower I have ever come across,’ I say.

‘Eh, Señorita gringa, iiis not a flower, iiis a, how you say it…?’ He snaps his fingers.

‘Vagina,’ some other fucker calls out.

I peer at him. ‘What?!’ I snatch it out of his hands again. ‘Gimmee that.’ I stare at the picture. ‘Mm. Can’t be a woman’s vagina. It’s too fugly. Has to be a man’s.’ I hand him back the picture and go back to my neglected bottle.

‘So many Gringas,’ Antonio says, perving over the pictures. At the mention of the word ‘Gringa’, all eyes zero in on me.

Am I embarrassed? Hell no!

‘Hey, don’t look at me,’ I say and down another Tequila, whisky – whatever – I’ve lost track of what I’m drinking. ‘I don’t roll that way. Why don’t you ask the fugly asshole at the end of the table?’

There is a collective gasp in the room and all eyes dart towards Diablo, including mine. Now he’s gonna be really pissed. Great.

But his amused response in Spanish brings on some guffawing.

‘What? What did he say, Norman?’

Norman is pissed enough to explain. ‘Diablo say, is like a fucking a Colchón sometimes. He say, is a big let down. And, Señorita Gringa, and my name is not …’

‘Colchón … mattress? He said that, did he?’ I let out a long, low whistle. ‘Well Norm, what the hell does he know, huh?’

I smile at Norman. ‘Can I call you “Norm?” I don’t wait for him to answer. ‘He don’t know jack. Foreplay – hell, he probably thinks it’s some kind of sugar-free chewing gum or something to do with his car’s steering wheel. Huh, Norm?’

‘But Señorita gringa, my name is not Norm, it is not Norman, it is Lucas.’

I stare at him for so long, he starts to flinch. ‘Lucas?’

He nods.

‘Why didn’t you say something, Norm? Okay, I’ll call you Lucas from now on, Norm.’

‘Eh …’

Santana almost falls off her chair laughing.

I look at Norm. ‘Now Norm,’ I point to Santana, ‘she’s probably laughing at what I said. Or she’s laughing at what the fuckwit at the end of the table said about me – the mattress – whatever shit …but, you ever seen a donkey laugh, Norm?

‘No, Señorita gringa. But my name …’

‘Never? Well, it’s your lucky day, Norm, cos you’ve seen it now.’ I jerk my head towards Santana.

Well, that magically erases the smile of donkey’s face.

‘You biiitch!’ Santana screeches. ‘I fargin’ kiiill you!’

I smile and raise my bottle at her. ‘Take a “fargin” number and get in “fargin” line.’

Troy comes up to me. ‘Gringa,’ he whispers, ‘come, let me take you to bed so you can sleep it … ’

My eyebrows shoot up. ‘Take me to bed? Are you better in bed than your brother? Christ, I hope so, Troy!’

Troy turns scarlet and shrinks back, all the while glancing nervously at Diablo.

Diablo looks at everyone around him falling out of their chairs with laughter and his breathing becomes like that of an emphysema patient – raspy and labored.

‘He really is lousy in bed Troy. And you know what? I don’t like him. He’s hairy and yuuuuck! He won’t let me visit my … ’

Diablo slams his fist onto the table, rattling the table and animating plates, cutlery, glasses.

‘Fuck! Look what you did Satan – you nearly made me spill my …’ I jerk back and peer at the label on the bottle in my hand. ‘What the fuck is this shit? Anyhoo, you’ve made me lose count of how many drinks I had. Have to start all over again. In case I have to drive.’

Diablo suddenly whips out his knife and flings it ninja-style at me. I duck and it hits the wooden beam behind me.

‘Ooooh!’ I cry shaking both my hands mockingly. ‘I’m in trooouble now! Biiiiga trooouble.’

‘Go gringa, go!’ some of the men cheer.

‘Whoookay!’ I say.

Diago stands up.

I stand up too and look him in the eye, my eyebrows disappearing behind my spiky fringe.

Breathing heavily, he creeps slowly to me, but I’m ready for him. I kick back my chair and sidle around, using the table as a barrier between us.

‘Watch him move, like a … eh, what you say for walrus in Spanish?’

The men laugh harder. Even Christa laughs.

‘You will farkin’ die!’ Diablo roars.

‘And who’s gonna farkin kill me, huh?’ I ask, dancing on the spot. ‘You?’ I throw my head back and laugh.

More laughter around me.

Diablo runs to his knife, grabs it off the beam and runs towards me.

But I’m already out of the villa and racing towards the cliff.

‘I’m going to kiiiill you!’ he yells as he chases me.

‘Fuck you, motherfucker!’ I scream over my shoulder and sprint ahead. I don’t care if he kills me, I just don’t want to be assaulted by him. He’s super strong and I stand no chance against him if he does. I’ve never seen him run before and I’m hoping he’s out of shape and slow. Well, the big lunch should make him sluggish.

But to my dismay, I can actually hear his breathing. I’m surprised at my slowness. Must be something to do with the booze. I have to admit, I didn’t realize how drunk I was until I started running. Too late now.

I run up the hill and through the dense foliage, passing startled villagers tending the cannabis crops. They stop and stare when they see Diablo chasing a gringa with a knife in his hand. Behind Diablo are his men, some on horseback and some on foot, not wanting to miss the moment Diablo finally kills the insolent Gringa.

‘Go, gringa go!’ I hear.

I run faster than I ever did in my life.

‘You will die!’ Diablo threatens behind me, still brandishing the knife. His breathing is getting louder and I know I have to do something.

The rock pool! I know for sure that Diablo is no match for me in the water. Very few people are. I head for the pool.

Changing route confuses Diablo and for a few moments, the gap between us increases, allowing me some respite.

I’m desperate to reach the rock pool so that I can shake the enraged animal behind me.

But to my dismay and my surprise, he catches me.

‘Let go of me, you fucking freak!’
Link to Gringa:

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

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)