Here is the information about the HUGE author book signing moved from this year (and last year) to 2022. Let’s meet!
Complete list of authors are shown at the bottom. Don’t forget it can change without notice.
General Event Information:
Capital City Author Event
May 20-21, 2022
Venue / Hotel Information:
Renaissance Montgomery Hotel & Spa at the Convention Center
201 Tallapoosa Street, Montgomery, AL 36104
Get your Tickets here: https://ccae2022.eventbrite.com
Capital City Carnival – Food, Fun, and Games
Friday May 20, 2022 7:00pm – 10:00pm
Live Music/DJ, Carnival Style Food, Table Games (with attending Authors), and Cash Bar
Ticket Cost: $15
Saturday May 21, 2022 11:00am – 4:00pm
VIP Ticket Cost: $25
Includes 1 hour early entry in the event from at 11:00 am, Special VIP Swag Bag, VIP Lanyard, and 1 Scratch-off Ticket (Scratch-off prizes include chances to win Amazon gift cards, raffle basket tickets, book cash, and more)
General Admission Ticket Cost: $5
Entry into the event from 12:00pm – 4:00pmAll raffle basket proceeds and door donations will be given to our event charity:Montgomery Humane Society Adoptable Pets
Room Block Information:TBA – Once new Room Block Link it available it will be posted
Reader Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/CCAEReaderGroup/
Facebook Like Page:https://www.facebook.com/CapitalCityAuthorEvent.MGM/
Author / Vendor Interest Form: https://forms.gle/XUBubRCdDXXonppv7
When I first started writing, critique partners and contest judges would often have a problem with my heroines. When I sold my first book, my editor said I needed to make my heroine likable.
Geez. She’s a cold-blooded assassin (Circle of Desire) and I understood why she was that way. Why couldn’t she?
I had explained piece by piece throughout the book how she was a dumpster baby, grew up in an orphanage and foster care. Then she was molested and became a runaway, walked the streets for a small time pimp, and then trained by a psycho to be an assassin. Why couldn’t the readers feel sympathy for her?
Well, if more than one person tells you that they do not like a character, you have to listen. And a big clue is the two words I used above. I understood.
So that means, I didn’t help the reader recognize where she was coming from when she did or said bad things. You can’t guarantee that the reader will read the whole book to grasp all of the fine details that made the heroine become that person. You have to give the reader a reason for her behavior. Of course, I do get aggravated with a reviewer when they say “I skipped through the book.” If she/he had read every word, they would have understood the heroine’s thought process. But it is the author’s responsibility to make it clear in the beginning that the main character(s) is someone you want in your life or sympathetic to their faults.
With encouragement from my editor, I went into the first chapter and added a sentence. That helped. See, it doesn’t take an info dump to get a point across. If you’re wondering, I showed in the narrative that her hands shook. Showing she was human.
I believe women often have a problem writing women because we think our readers (majority women) know the motivations behind the female lead’s actions. But that’s not true. Not every woman feels the same way about a situation. So we have to explain or show her rationale.
Funny how I forgot that lesson from my debut book when I wrote my first Brother of Mayhem book, Hidden Heat. Several reviewers felt that Cassidy was being immature by the fits she dealt the MC. She’s a strong heroine who knew if she didn’t stand her ground the club would run all of over her. I obviously didn’t make that clear enough in the beginning. But thankfully some reviewers/readers understood. Here’s one review that proved it. Debbie’s Reviews in Goodreads.
This means we (authors) have to stay on our toes and give our readers the information needed, within reason and in the most entertaining way. And readers need to give strong (or weak) heroines the benefit of doubt. If you want to skip pages, just don’t read the book.
Yesterday, I was discussing with another author the differences between a mystery, a suspense, and a thriller. I need to mention that this debate is not new to anyone and has been going on for years and years. Everyone has an opinion about it. I believe it all depends on what you read or write or both.
Now you don’t have to take my word on this. Here are other perspectives I found on the internet. I figured I would get you in the mood by seeing others before you see mine.
See what I mean? Lots of viewpoints and really no one is wrong. Like I said, it depends on where you sit on the fence. Right? Ha!
Moving on, here’s my fence…uh…opinion.
First, I want to mention all thrillers have suspense and many have a mystery entwined with the plot, but thrillers have one thing in common. The inciting event leads to a greater, dangerous event. Thrillers are normally involved with killing a lot of people or/and destroying a lot of property. Such as the Die Hard franchise. So if it starts out with one person dead and then gradually more are dead until the whole city or world is in danger, that’s a thriller.
While writing this post, I searched for “thriller movies” and none were the type I think of as the typical thriller. It appears the internet and media often referred to movies I look at as thrillers to be action movies. They are both.
People include a serial killer or serial killer-like character in a movie as thrillers. It can reveal the killer or not to the reader. The same for the hero in the story. He or she could know (or not) who is bringing up the body count. But you have to realize, this is a hybrid. A thriller with suspense. Of course, suspense is included along with mystery. Think of any movie where individuals are dying left and right, and you don’t know when the next murder will happen. I think of the movie Seven for this one. They discover who the killer is mid-way through the seven deaths, but can they stop him in time?
From a personal debate of mine, I’ve had people call my first book, Circle of Desire, a thriller. I’ve always disagreed. I do like action/adventure mixed in with my romantic suspense. So it’s like a Nikita or James Bond story. In Circle of Desire, the bad guy is trying to get rid of his competition and using a female assassin to do it. She’s captured in the first chapter by the other organization and does not kill another person until later the book. He’s not about to kill everyone in the world either. So no. Not a thriller. Romantic suspense, yes.
Here’s the blurb to Circle of Desire.
As the top assassin at The Circle, a shadowy group of mercenaries, Olivia St. Vincent can hunt down anyone. She’s been trained since she was a teenager to kill without feeling, to interact with men without love. But when she’s kidnapped by the enigmatic leader of a rival organization, she learns she’s been lied to for years. She never worked for the good guys.
Collin Ryker believes the sultry woman he’s abducted knows more than she’s telling about The Circle and its plans for complete domination. Over time, as they work together, Olivia’s tenacity and vulnerability captivate him. But if he isn’t careful, Collin will fall into the biggest trap of all: caring for a woman who can betray him to his greatest enemy.
This one is simple and most agree on the definition. Usually, there is one person—though others might help– investigate a murder or locate a missing valuable. I always think of stories about Sherlock Holmes or those written by Agatha Christie
—Murder on the Orient Express, anyone? —when someone talks of mysteries. But keep in mind National Treasure is a perfect example of a mystery involving an object. I do enjoy them all.
The dictionary says, “a quality in a work of fiction that arouses excited expectation or uncertainty about what may happen.” That sure sounds like the two above too. Right? If you search for “suspense” movies, thrillers will come up instead. See, even the media is confused. I guess thriller sounds more exciting.
But what makes a book (or movie, etc.) a suspense, is that the killing or/and danger is personal and slower to come about. Maybe someone is shooting at the hero and he does not know who it is. Even the reader may not know. Or someone is planning to kill a person by setting a trap. And the reader may (or not) know about the trap and is waiting for (or surprised by) what happens. To keep it simple, and yes, tooting my own horn, my books are suspense (with the exception of the hockey romance books – they are not).
I found this article on Reedsy that might help. How to Create Suspense?
Like I mentioned, thriller, mystery, and suspense can be mixed together into a book. You’re probably thinking about the book you’ve written and it has all three. How would you market your book? I would suggest looking at your plot. If the dark moment involves something big, like blowing up a building or having a sniper in a tower killing people for several chapters or the whole book, that’s mainly a thriller. If a death happened in the first three chapters or before chapter one started, and no one knows who killed the person, that is more mystery than anything else. Or if you have a killer after the main character and most of the other bodies showing up were from people getting in the way, you have a suspense. The other elements are icing on the cake. You don’t want to confuse your agent or editor. So it’s best to pick only one. That way they will know how best to market your book.
Wow! I love it when I’m writing and something that had been bothering me from nearly chapter one finally solved itself.
Well, okay. You twisted my arm. I’ll tell you a little about it. First, let me say, in book one (Jake) of the Southern Crime Family, the hero’s kink is that he likes to spank the heroine. Totally consensual.
In Ethan’s (book two, unless I change my mind again), I’ve already decided his kink will be that he likes to be tied up during the act. Nice twist, for the women are usually the ones, right?
The heroine is what I refer to as a real woman. She knows what she wants and she’s not shy in going after it. And he’s a real man because he isn’t scared to tell his woman that he has problems that only she can solve with a little discipline. By the way, she has a young daughter. I don’t normally have children in my books, but like I said, she’s a real woman.
Then there is Sen, the middle brother. The one I was having a difficulty in giving him a kink. See, he’s in love with an heroine who is deaf. Most of everything I can think of would appear to be taking advantage of her disability in the hearing world or maybe even cruel.
So here I was writing a scene where she’s angry at an old friend (male) and suddenly she remembers the big crush she had for him long ago. She’s getting turned on as her old friend and her new friend (Sen) argue about her, and she’s literally standing between them. She’s short. They are tall. Hot. Hard. Bam!
Let’s say, she’s going to have a fantasy to come true a few times in the book. Sen loves her enough to share. Well, at first. He is an alpha.
Here are the latest covers for Sen and Ethan books.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about blurbs. You know, the kind on the back of books (or on bookseller sites) and the kind needed for BookBub and ads that don’t want it to be so wordy. It’s important to draw a reader’s attention.
I can’t say I’m great at them, but heck, I see some pretty sad ones. This one I came across in an ad and thought it needed help. I bet the book is awesome, but someone needs to work on the author’s blurbs. Of course, there could be people who would think the same about mine. Anyway, this is my blog and my opinion. HA! You will note I did not leave in character names and I don’t say who the author is. This is not to embarrass the person, just to help other authors who might come across this post.
“When a hit man targets [heroine’s name], gorgeous cop [hero’s name] comes to her defense. But the more time he spends with her, the more irresistible she becomes!”
There were several things I would change and I’m sure more to do with personal preference. What bothered me the most was the word “BUT.” BUT is used to contrast a prior phrase or clause per the dictionary on my computer. What is being contrasted? If the short blurb said, “cop comes to his enemy’s defense” or something like that, I could understand the BUT.
I also want to know why “gorgeous cop?” What does gorgeous have to do with the plot? And really, most of the heroes in romances are gorgeous, even if it just the heroine feeling that way.
By the way, when writing a longer blurb, remember to keep to the basics of what will pull in the reader. Telling a lot of backstory or explaining the whole book will not work. Think of what are the hero/heroine’s goal, motivation, and conflict (GMC)? You can use the following to help fill in those points: want, because, but. Here’s an example from Darynda Jones’s First Grave on the Right. The GMC is pointed out in brackets [ ]. Note that she has actually two conflicts [buts].
“Charley sees dead people. That’s right, she sees dead people. [WANT] And it’s her job to convince them to “go into the light.” [BUT] But when these very dead people have died under less than ideal circumstances (i.e., murder), [BECAUSE] sometimes they want Charley to bring the bad guys to justice. [BUT] Complicating matters are the intensely hot dreams she’s been having about an Entity who has been following her all her life…and it turns out he might not be dead after all. In fact, he might be something else entirely.”
She/publisher did pretty good, heh? Short and hits a lot of hot spots for readers. I hope this helps when you plan to write your next blurb.
Since people appeared to enjoy reading the beginning of my latest hockey romance, I thought maybe you would be interested in the first two chapters from JAKE: A Southern Crime Family Novel. Be aware, like all of my romantic suspense novels, it has profanity
and some gritty attitudes. That’s just how I roll.
First, let’s start with the blurb.
Forget the Hatfields and McCoys, in a small Southern town, the Whitfields and Tallys are the real family feud.
So for some unholy reason, Jake Whitfield’s old man and Angel Tally’s grandfather wrote codicils to their wills the night before they died in a suspicious fire. The codicils require Jake and Angel to marry or lose their inheritances.
Jake feels like a man with two faces. One he presents to his brothers and the public: the criminal willing to step on anyone for a buck while mercilessly protecting the business. The other: the lonely man wanting a better life for himself and his family and working with an FBI agent to make it happen.
To Jake, marrying Angel makes sense. With her family’s help, he can fight the new criminal organization that’s moving into his town. Immersed in the criminal world, there is no hope for Angel, but her brother is still young. She will do anything to protect him from that way of life and whoever killed their grandfather, even marry a despised Whitfield. And Angel never forgot about the sexy incident with Jake in high school ten years earlier.And if she has to go along with a Whitfield-Tally marriage, she wants a replay.
**HOT ROMANCE with consensual spankings**
“I hope you rot in hell, old man.”
Jake Whitfield leaned over the grave and spit as his father’s casket slowly disappeared into the blackness. When a violent shudder brought the crank to an abrupt stop, he shot a sideways glare at the cemetery worker.
The man wiped a sweaty forehead on the upper sleeve of his faded gray uniform and kicked the contraption. “Stupid old thing,” he muttered as he avoided Jake’s gaze.
With a painful screech, the device started up again, rattling and jumping, and finally a solid thud came from the hole as it reached the bottom. If he believed in ghosts, he’d swear the hateful bastard wanted out to kill him.
Jake’s attention fell on the mourners surrounding the gravesite.
Their jackets flapped in the hot wind like vultures settling around a carcass as most of the men stared at the ground beneath their feet. No one looked into his face. Though the minister shook his head at Jake’s disrespect, he and the others didn’t say a word. They understood his hatred. Everyone who attended would love to do the same, if they had the backbone. All were business associates and most came not so much to grieve for the man’s death, but to receive assurance that his dad had died.
Many of the people in Sand County owed Dick Whitfield their livelihood and endured his heavy-handed manipulations, but none suffered as much as the Whitfield brothers. The old man had reveled in tormenting his bastard sons more than he did his associates. Besides their last name, the old man refused to give the boys anything without a deal or concession involved. Then again, maybe an agreement had been made when they were born, a bargain with the devil for their souls.
Releasing a snarl, Jake turned and nodded at his brothers. Townsend—or Sen, as he was known—and Ethan fell in step beside him as they headed toward the old man’s white limo idling next to the curb. No one said a word.
Another gust of wind tugged at their jackets. A bouquet of dead flowers blew across their path to become stuck between an urn and headstone.
Behind dark sunglasses, Jake scanned the area. Tension from the funeral and a gut feeling warned that danger lurked. Nothing appeared strange or out of place. But life with the old man had taught him to be extremely cautious whenever emotions ran high. With new leadership at Whitfield Industries taking over, many of the smaller players wanted a part of the business and conspired to oust the brothers. He knew without a doubt, no one would take one brick or dollar without a fight. After years of being under the old man’s rule, they deserved every piece of his ill-gotten money and property. They each had worked hard and often for pennies compared to others who worked for the old man and did far less.
He glanced around again without being obvious. The old cemetery covered acres of well-tended plots that held numerous large memorials and oak trees. Several people headed toward their cars while others remained near the burial site, talking and gesturing at the grave being filled. In the distance, he heard traffic swooshing by, but strangely, the birds stopped chirping in the swaying limbs.
Steps away from the limo with the chauffeur waiting inside, Jake passed a life-size marble statue. The head exploded, spraying chunks of the white stuff. The confirming snap of gunfire sent everyone running for cover. Screams and shouts of concern punctuated by more shots echoed around him as he scrambled for the other side of the limo, its bulletproof body offering better protection than a tree or headstone. He motioned for his brothers to follow. In no time they hunkered down with guns in hands.
“Damn! Who do you think it is? Some asshole out to get Jake for sleeping with his girlfriend?” Ethan sat on the ground with his back near the car’s engine, watching for anyone coming from behind.
In his usual calm manner, Sen checked his Beretta and then edged closer to the taillights. “Probably the girlfriend.”
His brothers loved to rag him about how his last girlfriend had another guy on the side. When he kicked her out of his home, she must have told the other boyfriend a tall tale as the dumbass came at him with a gun. It almost became messy. When the boyfriend realized whose door he had knocked on, the poor dude drove out of town so fast he left rubber on the road for a half mile.
Jake shook his head and white dust fell around him. His forehead stung. A light touch came back with blood. He’d been nicked. “Most likely someone who’s wanting to take over the old man’s businesses,” he said as he ignored his brothers’ comments. “Or possibly the person who set the fire.” Leaning over, he ruffled his hair, showering the ground with powder and bits of stone.
He sneered. They’d already received warnings that someone outside the county planned to make a move soon. He hadn’t expected it to be at the cemetery. The old man was barely cold in the ground.
Several more shots zipped by and dug into the asphalt a few feet away. Followed shortly by a couple more over their heads.
Damn! They needed to concentrate on stopping the sniper. Normal people ran and kept moving when fired upon, but no, not the Whitfield boys. Maybe he and his brothers were as insane as the bastard they buried.
Sen nodded to where the road looped into the cemetery near the interstate fence. “I think the shots are coming from that direction. See the old rusted-out black van?”
“Yeah.” Ethan peeked over the limo’s hood.
“The sliding door is cracked opened. You think he’s still in there? The smart thing for a shooter to do is leave with the crowd.” Jake referred to the mourners cranking automobiles and screeching tires on their way out.
“I’ll go around and come up on the opposite side.” Without wasting time, Sen stooped low and ran alongside the cars parked by the curb.
Jake shook his head. He always wondered if his middle brother had a death wish. “Tick!”
The rotund driver inside the limo rolled down the window, showing only the top of his pale bald head and large blood-shot eyes. “Yeah, boss?”
“Scoot over. I’m coming in.”
“You get in the back.” Jake nodded at Ethan. With a jab, he returned his gun to its holster beneath his jacket.
“Sure, boss,” his brother said, mimicking Tick.
In seconds, they eased the limo down the lane toward the van. Jake caught a glimpse of Sen dashing behind a tree a few yards away. Then the side door on the van slammed shut, and a figure dressed in black jumped into the driver’s seat. No way would he let the asshole escape. He flatfooted the gas pedal and the old limo T-boned the van.
The crunch of metal and broken glass rang in Jake’s ears as he pushed hard on the door and sprinted to the other side. Two fellows ran for the trees. He tackled the nearest one as Sen sprinted after the faster, smaller one.
“You son of a bitch!” Jake flipped him over. Fist pulled back to slug the sniper, he stopped. “Sally? Sally Tally?”
Light green eyes in the middle of dark liner and eye shadow glared up at him. Chin length ebony hair tipped blood red stuck to a sweaty pale face. A grimace stretched her crimson lips lined in black as she waited for the downward swing.
He lowered his arm and examined her clothes. No wonder he’d mistaken her for a guy from the back. She wore an ankle-length leather coat with thick-soled biker boots buckled to her knees, the tight black pants tucked in. The only feminine clothing was the stiff red corset holding up plump, creamy white breasts, heaving with each intake of breath.
“No one calls me Sally anymore. Call me Angel.”
The last time he’d heard that husky voice, they had been teenagers, and she’d stolen his wallet. He’d retaliated by turning her over his knee, lifting her short skirt, and giving her nearly bare bottom a good sound spanking. During the chastisement, an unexpected dilemma had emerged. He remembered how much he enjoyed it. Way too much.
His body hardened with the memory. Squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds, he tried to regain control by erasing the mental picture of a pink lace thong. Damn, he’d gotten expelled for physical abuse after that. Despite how furious the old man had been at the time—as angry at the school as he’d been at Jake—he’d forced the school board to repeal the sentence.
After Jake had returned to school, the rumors flew around with varying degrees of outlandish speculation. Some claimed they watched him beat her to a pulp. While others said he’d dragged her off and raped her. The outcome everyone had agreed on was that his old man had paid off the officials. The only part that had been true.
In turn, rumors said Sally Tally had transferred to a girls’ school. Between being teased about her unfortunate name and a father who was in prison more than he was out, she had it rough, even after her wealthy grandfather stepped in to help. Jake never knew what happened to her, but he did know his old man had enjoyed making Jake pay back every dime spent on lawyers. Because of her, his last two years in high school had been hell.
“Get off of me, you freak!” She shoved at his chest.
When his eyes focused on the mature version of Sally, all gothic angel, wiggling between his thighs, he returned to the problem at hand. “Who was with you? Why was he shooting at us?”
She sighed and rolled her eyes, looking away as she remained silent.
The wind picked up again, blowing her strangely dyed hair across her neck. He clasped her wrists. Her full lower lip trembled, yet no tears simmered. Unable to resist, his gaze returned to her full breasts. Sally-Angel had filled out quite nicely.
“My eyes are up here, dickhead.”
He dragged his gaze back to hers. “You’ve grown up.”
“Get off me now.” Her words sounded tough but the worry in her eyes told a different story.
Before he moved, he heard Sen shout, “Hey, Jake, look at what I got!”
With a firm grip on a slender arm, Jake stood, hauling her up with the aid of her backpack. Then he forced her to the van. Sen held onto a lanky teenager with one hand and a Remington rifle with another as they walked out of the tree line. The boy wore black leather pants and a matching tee shirt with the words “Suck This” above two streams of red.
Jake returned his attention to Sally-Angel. “Kind of young for a boyfriend.”
“You’re sick. He’s my brother. Leave him alone.” She pulled on her arm but he squeezed tighter. “You’re hurting me,” she said between clenched teeth.
For some reason, he didn’t believe her―beneath the leather he felt solid lean muscles―but he eased his grip.
“I thought your granddaddy taught you better than that. Didn’t he ever tell you Whitfields were mean sons of bitches?”
“Oh, I already knew that.”
She jerked at his hold again.
He grasped both arms and pulled her to him, leaving not a fraction of an inch between their bodies. Her breasts rubbed below his chest, and his cock jerked. Damn. What was it about her that revved his engine?
Leaning down to her ear, he said in a low tone, “Be still and I won’t hurt you.” He’d never physically hurt a woman in his life, but she didn’t need to know that. “Anyone else in the van?”
The softness of her hair and the smell of leather and woman caused him to lengthen more. Like he needed this. She had trouble written all over her hot little body. He shoved her back enough to regain control, while keeping his grip and glancing over to the van.
Ethan leaned into the open door. He then looked over his shoulder to Jake and shook his head. No one else was inside.
He returned his attention to Sally-Angel. “You better tell me, why did your brother try to kill us?” His tone modulated as he wanted her frightened but not to the point of being speechless.
“Maybe you deserved it for killing my granddaddy.” Her dislike oozed out with each word. She nodded her head toward the teenager. “Anyway, who says he shot at you? It could easily be me.”
He didn’t have time to play her games. With all of the gunfire, the police would be coming soon.
“There’s a possibility I deserve to be shot for many things, but I had nothing to do with your grandfather dying in that fire. Did you forget my old man died in it, too? That has to tell you we weren’t involved,” he said, hoping it sounded convincing.
“He’s lying! What did I tell you?” The teenager reached for the rifle, but Sen quickly twisted his skinny arm up behind his back. He squealed, bowing his body to escape the painful pressure.
“Quit hurting him!” She wrestled with Jake’s hold, trying to reach her brother. With a smooth step to the side, he avoided her kick. Then he grabbed the back of her neck and squeezed until she quit fighting.
“Look at me.” He shook her until her gaze met his. “You and your brother are in enough trouble. I don’t have time to turn you over my knee again.” Memory of a hot red handprint on her rear jarred him.
“Another reason you should be dead,” she said, her eyes narrowed.
He could tell she meant it. Interesting. Few men had the guts to say that to a Whitfield, no less a female.
“Kill him, Angel. One less Whitfield we have to put up with. You know how.” The teenager wheezed when Sen’s elbow met his stomach.
“You two have lost your minds,” Jake said with disgust. At that moment, the sound of sirens drifted across the cemetery, coming closer by the second.
He shouted over his shoulder, “Tick!”
The chauffeur straightened from checking the damage to the limo’s front end. “Yeah, boss?”
“Is the limo drivable?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Whitfield had it made special to take a beating.” Tick reached for the driver’s door.
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.” Jake dragged Sally-Angel over to the back door.
Her body brushed his. Before he could figure out her game, the heel of her palm slammed beneath his chin, jarring his whole skull. Stars floated in front of his eyes long enough for her to regain her freedom. She stepped toward her brother.
Jaw throbbing and his eyes blurred, he blindly reached out and wrapped a hand in her hair and hauled her back. This time, he clasped a wrist and lifted it high behind her back. When she kicked out, trying to bring him to his knees, he pulled her arm higher until she bit off a groan.
He brought his mouth to her ear. “Try that again, and I’ll make sure you feel the same kind of pain before I break your arm and then I’ll start on your brother’s limbs,” he said as he waited for his vision to clear.
Hell, the woman had a punch. His threat was no more than hot air. He had boundaries, and intentionally hurting women or children crossed the line. Her whimper alerted him that he might have reached that line with her. He released his hold. With her he hoped the Whitfield reputation for cruelty, actually the old man’s rep, ensured her cooperation. Usually it worked, but her attitude so far proved nothing frightened her.
Worry sharpened the glare she gave him, but she quickly pulled herself together when she spotted Sen loading the teenager into the other side of the limo. They scooted into the bench seat facing the back. Her shoulders slumped. Maybe she understood he threatened her more as a means to encourage her cooperation. Though he refused to wage war against the weak, the teenager was big enough for him to keep an eye on. Relieved she didn’t plan to fight any more, Jake pulled the backpack off her shoulders and threw it to Ethan.
“Check this and make sure there aren’t any weapons,” he ordered.
Then he shoved her inside. Once Ethan jumped into the front with Tick, the limo shot down the lane.
No less than a minute passed and Ethan held up a gun. How much more dangerous could the woman get? His brother tucked the gun into the console and shook his head.
Jake jabbed the seatbelt into the latch and leaned over to do the same for Sally-Angel with her trying to slap his hands away. He ignored her as it clicked in place. Then he barked at the others to do the same. The way Tick drove, an accident loomed in the near future.
As sirens faded behind them, he caught her wrist and held it on his thigh, her heartbeat popping furiously against his fingers. The way she eyed the door handle, he refused to let her have an opportunity to do anything else foolish.
They left the cemetery by way of the dirt service road exit behind Quinn Funeral Home. When they hit the interstate, Jake loosened his hold, took a deep breath, and leaned back. He grinned when she jerked away and shook her wrist.
A few more miles down the road, he mentally sighed with relief. No police followed. If needed, he would deal with the authorities later. At the moment, he had an important meeting to get to, and along the way, he wanted some answers from these two.
His gaze passed from her to her brother. The teenager glowered from the seat facing them. He wanted Jake’s blood pooling on the floor for touching his sister. No one said a word but Jake had a lot of practice reading people’s body language.
Old man Whitfield’s temper had swung from one end of the spectrum to the other in a split second. By paying attention to the downward sweep of his mood, it made a difference between walking out of a room and being thrown. These two were amateurs in hiding their concerns. They had a good reason to tremble. The boy twitched and squirmed until Sen snapped, “Be still.”
The woman next to Jake stiffened. So she didn’t like anyone raising their voice at her brother. Dangerous to let others know what could be used as leverage.
“So tell me, what made you believe I had something to do with your grandfather’s death?” He folded his arms and glanced at the woman next to him.
“We don’t have to tell you shit, you lying motherfucker!” Her brother moved toward Jake, but Sen slapped an arm across his chest and rammed him back into the seat.
“Damien,” she said, her tone cautionary as she shook her head. “Shh!”
“Watch your mouth and shut up,” Jake said at the same time, pointing a finger at the teenager. He remembered being that age and full of resentment at anyone telling him what to do. “Show some respect in how you talk in front of your sister.”
The teenager opened his mouth, looked at Sally-Angel, and then shut it. For the next minute or so only the sound of the radio filled the automobile as everyone tensely waited for what might happen next.
Jake turned in his seat to study her. He’d hoped the breather would give her time to mull over her decisions so far. She stared out the passenger window with her shoulders stiff and straight.
When she continued to watch the passing scenery he gritted his teeth and tried for the other name. “Angel.”
She slowly faced him, hostility tightening her lips.
Not a bit amused by her insolence, Jake narrowed his eyes.
“I don’t have a lot of time to waste on this. I can turn this limo around and take you and your brother to the police.” She actually snorted? Damn, he kind of liked her spunk, but for the moment, he needed answers. “Tell me everything. Don’t make me do anything you’ll regret. There are messy ways for me to find out the truth.” When she made a move to look out the window again, he caught her jaw, felt it flexing beneath his fingers as he forced her to look at him. Oh, yeah, he took pleasure in seeing those light-colored eyes spitting fire with the need to tell him off.
But he didn’t have time for this. “Throw him out of the limo,” he said to Sen as he kept his gaze on Angel.
His brother opened the door and grabbed the back of the teenager’s shirt.
“Let me go, you slant-eyed bastard!”
“Damien!” She faced Sen with a look of unmitigated horror. “Oh, I’m so sorry. He’s upset or he’d never say that. Please close the door. Don’t hurt him.” She unbuckled her seatbelt and tried to dive over Jake’s lap. He held her back by the waist. “Damien, you apologize to him right now,” she shouted at her brother.
Lips stretched tight, Sen, whose mom had been Vietnamese, shoved the teenager’s head out the door. “That’s no way to talk to your elders, especially one holding your life in his hands,” he said.
The teenager’s arms waved in the air as he scrambled for a hold on the side of the door. His screams became partially lost in the stream of air sliding by the fast-moving car. Fighting Sen was hopeless for the teenager. The exotic looking man was the family’s collector and worked out daily. Collector was a nice word for the person who made sure others paid what was owed. It often involved broken bones and bruises, and the occasional disposal of a body.
“I’m sorry, sorry! I swear,” the teenager shouted. “I don’t know why that came out of my mouth. I never even wanted to say that before.” Tears glistened on his cheeks and snot ran from his nose like a two-year-old.
“Okay! Okay! He apologized. I’ll talk. Please don’t.” Angel held out her hands as if she could reach her brother and pull him back in.
Jake was a little disappointed she’d cracked so fast. Twice, she’d shown by controlling her brother, he controlled her. He understood how protecting a sibling was important, but self-preservation ensured they came back and fought harder.
When he and his brothers were kids, they often found their punishments worse whenever they defended each other against the old man. They realized to survive they needed to stand on their own two feet. Take what was coming and then plan vengeance as a team.
Not everyone learned that lesson growing up. Maybe that was a good thing. Otherwise, he would not have the upper hand like now. Besides, Sen would never throw out the boy, but after being shot at, they needed answers quickly. Fear was a great motivator to get someone to talk.
Angel turned to him, tears in her eyes.
Jesus H. Christ. That was the last thing he needed. He hated it when women cried. It turned his insides into mush as he did anything to make them stop. His mom only had to tear up for him to start looking around to make it better. He took in Angel’s smeared mascara and streaked face.
Was it real? She could be playing with his sympathy.
“Leave him alone,” she begged. “I’ll tell you whatever you want. I don’t understand why you’re pretending not to know, unless it’s all to prove you’re just as big of an asshole as your dad.”
He nodded toward his brother. With an effortless move, Sen tossed the teenager onto the seat and closed the door. The kid’s hands shook as he locked his seatbelt.
At the same time, Jake braced his arm over her collarbone and pressed Angel back into her seat.
“I don’t play games. If you think calling me and my brothers names will piss us off, then you’re mistaken. The old man was one of the biggest assholes in the Southeast, and I took all of my lessons from him. I’ll show you how big of one I can be if you don’t hurry up and talk.” His interested gaze drifted down to her chest. She inhaled as if attempting to make her breasts smaller.
To ensure that she understood, he leaned in and placed an arm around her shoulders. She needed to be aware of how helpless she was in the situation. For whatever reason, he’d never been so desperate to prove to a woman how much of a bastard, figuratively, he was too.
“I remember how pretty and red your skin looked, but I didn’t remember how soft,” he said in a low voice the others couldn’t hear. Using one finger, he followed the edge of her corset to the little satin bow in the center. The tip of a blunt finger slipped beneath the material and caressed her warm skin. Her breath became shaky, glittering eyes drifted halfway closed. Just as quickly her eyes popped open, glaring at him.
Interesting. He liked how responsive she was even as she fought it.
“Get your hands off my sister!” Though the teenager’s voice shook from his near fatal exit, Jake couldn’t help but respect the kid’s determination to protect his sister.
“Stay out of it,” Angel demanded, without taking her gaze from Jake’s.
“Start talking and make it quick,” he whispered. He inhaled and breathed in the light clean scent from her hair.
She swallowed and then closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Her lovely breasts buoyed up and almost stopped his heart. He forced his gaze to her face. She lifted her chin and opened her eyes.
“We have to get married.”
Angel slumped into the seat while she waited for the big guy to quit laughing. She hated how he acted so amused by the horrible fact. It wasn’t the first time the male species laughed at her. Growing up, people made fun of her all the time. They laughed about her hand-me-down clothes or her rhyming name. But the last few years, when she started working for her grandfather, they realized how much of a mistake it was to treat her so. Often it had been too late. That was, after she knocked them to their knees, bleeding.
So far, the only reasons why she’d been so patient with Jake―as patient as she knew how―and not tried drastic measures to escape were because they had her brother and she needed Jake’s cooperation. They were to marry. Even she knew better than to start off a relationship by giving the groom a black eye.
Hell, she needed to tell him the truth about who shot at him. Why did she care that he thought she was lying? Maybe she wanted him a little worried about what she would do next.
When they’d pulled up to the cemetery checking on the flowers at Granddaddy Mac’s grave, there were the Whitfields in all their glory. The oldest, who constantly landed on his feet no matter the circumstances, stood over the grave glaring at all of the mourners, while she struggled to hold together the family’s businesses and take care of the only family she had left. Desire to kill Jake had crossed her mind, and just as quickly dissipated. Rather ironic that someone else wished to put a bullet into his cold heart. For certain, if she had given into that weak moment, his brothers would be coming after her, and no one lived long after that. Instead of shooting Jake, she found herself saving his life. He’d never believe it. One moment she was watching the Whitfield funeral, and the next, she spotted the sniper in the trees. Before she knew what she was doing, the rifle, normally resting in the rack inside the van, was in her hands as she eyed the sniper through the scope’s crosshairs.
Sure, she’d been angry about the requirements of Mac’s will and planned to confront Jake, but not until later in the afternoon before they read his daddy’s will.
She watched him laugh. Thin lines fanned from the corners of his eyes; the type a person received from being out in the sun too much or from laughing. He had a wonderful laugh. Full and sexy. The sound helped her relax as his gaze heated more from amusement than lust.
“Hon, I haven’t seen you since high school. You’ll have to find you another baby daddy.” He finally released her and sat back.
“No, no. I didn’t say anything about a baby. You don’t understand―”
“Hey, how old are you?” The youngest Whitfield―Ethan?―leaned over from the front, arms and hands hanging down the back of the seat, interrupting her explanation, and waited for her brother to answer.
“He’s too tall. So he has to be too old.” Sen tilted his head.
“They grow ’em big nowadays,” Ethan bit back.
“True. Look at us.” Sen nodded.
“Fourteen.” Her brother’s eyes widened.
“Thirteen,” she said at the same time as her brother. “He won’t be fourteen until October. But that has nothing―”
The other Whitfield, holding her brother in place, nodded, and butted in. “The timing is about right.”
“No way.” Jake shook his head.
She looked at Jake and then her brother.
Shaking her head, she held out her hands as she tried to stop their speculation.
“Hell, no! Damien is my brother, remember?” Her mind refused to wrap around their logic. “Just because I said we had to marry, you jump to the conclusion I’m preggers or he’s our kid?”
Everyone started talking at once. Her head ached from trying to keep up with the insults and accusations. As she was about to release a frustrated scream, a piercing whistle shut everyone down. They turned toward Jake.
“None of that matters,” he said to her. “What the jackasses don’t know is we never had sex.” He looked at his brothers. “So the kid isn’t mine,” he confirmed in a firm tone.
“You bet he’s not. That’s just scary.” She wrinkled her nose and crossed her arms beneath her breasts.
What a disaster this was becoming. He refused to listen. She was shutting her mouth. He could just find out the truth the hard way about why they had to be married.
“They’re just yanking my chain.” He shifted in his seat and pulled out a crushed pack of cigarettes. After lowering the window a little, he lit one and inhaled, closing his eyes for a few seconds. Then he looked at her from beneath heavy eyelids as he blew smoke from the corner of his mouth toward the opening. “What’s so scary about being with me?”
How could anyone look so sexy while smoking a cigarette? She sighed and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Bad boys never grew up. When his gaze dipped down, she dropped her arms. No need to draw his attention in that direction again.
“Scary?” Then she remembered what she’d said. “Well, it’s scary because I would’ve been a kid at the time I had him.” Sarcasm dripped from every word.
“The rumor was going around that you left to have a baby.” Masculine lips puckered to take another draw. The tip flared bright.
Oh my, he oozed sex and heat. Her attention refused to move away from how his lips parted to release the smoke. He looked even more dangerous doing something so bad for him.
“Mom was sick after having Damien, and she needed me at home to help out. I know when the rumors started. It was after some of the kids from school saw me holding him at the grocery store, assuming he belonged to me. You know, trailer trash equals baby.” Sure Granddaddy Mac had money, but he’d owned his first nickel and refused to help anyone including family. He firmly believed everyone had to work for it. What money he paid her dad to do odd jobs had been spent on drugs and alcohol, and when good old dad didn’t work or was in jail, they lived on welfare. Funny how little had changed. Even though she had money the last couple of years, guys still thought she slept around because she was a Tally. Idiots.
“I heard about your mom. That’s rough,” said Sen.
Angel glanced his way. His sincere expression helped ease the tension in her shoulders a little. Then she remembered hearing about his mom’s death a year before hers.
“She’d been sick a long time. I was sorry to hear about your mom, too.”
He lifted his chin in acknowledgement of her shared sympathy. Then he looked away.
She’d never heard how his mom had died. For her own, what could she say? That her mom had never been there for her, and her suicide only finished the job. She forced her gaze to the window.
“Where are you taking us?” she asked.
“We still have a lot to talk about. What with all the shooting and marrying involved. . .” The laughter in his tone warned he believed she was trying to pull a fast one on him. He pinched the fire on his cigarette and flicked both out the window. “So tell me the truth.”
“Maybe it’s simply I don’t want to be married to you,” she said, concentrating on keeping her face emotionless. How could he pretend he didn’t know about the two major parts of the codicil to Mac’s will? Marriage was nothing compared to the other requirement.
He leaned over, and she pressed her shoulders into the seat. If it was his attempt at intimidating her, it worked.
“Quit talking about marriage. That has nothing to do with you wanting to kill me. Should we open the car door again and see what answers we get from your brother?” He tugged at her hair, she jumped, and he sat back. His infuriating grin spread across his handsome face. His grin told her he liked unsettling her.
“I told him if you were dead, I wouldn’t have to marry you. Nothing more and that simple.” It was a lie, but Jake didn’t need to know. He’d eventually find out the truth. She didn’t plan on making it easy.
She dared not look at her brother. When he lost his temper, he blurted out things best kept quiet, or never voiced, or thought about for that matter. He’d already proven that. Besides, he hadn’t seen the sniper. She really needed to tell everyone the truth. Then again it would serve the Whitfields right to stew for a while. The push-pull she felt when dealing with Jake always drove her nuts. The thought of her doing anything that helped a Whitfield was almost abhorrent to her. Maybe holding back was part of her stubborn nature.
His blue eyes turned icy as he stared into hers. Then with a flicker, as if he thought of something new to torment her with, they warmed again.
He nodded. “We’re home. I don’t have time to argue now. Later, I’ll certainly get straight answers. Yeah, later.” His gaze brushed over my lips. “You’re lying about this nonsense, but I don’t know why. You and I are going to have a long talk. For now, my brothers and I have a meeting to attend first. So don’t even try to leave.”
“Sure. Whatever.” Her mind wasn’t on what he’d said or how he looked at her but on the house at the end of the long drive. Built forty years earlier in the Victorian-style with numerous turrets, large windows and wraparound porch, even the roof was covered with slate instead of asphalt shingles. She’d loved the house from the first and only time she’d seen it.
Not long after the incident at the school, she’d gone with Mac to meet with Dick Whitfield. Instead of listening to the old men yammering about what they should do about their two young’uns, she’d sat quietly hoping for a glimpse of Jake. He wasn’t her type―he was a Whitfield―but as any normal girl, she enjoyed looking at him. Back then he wore his hair long. Sun-kissed brown hair, tall, with an athletic build, he played several sports, but was often kicked out because he didn’t follow instructions well. All the good girls wanted him and bad girls had him for a night or two. Maybe deep inside she’d wanted his attention. She’d been neither a good nor bad girl, just a Tally. Hated for her blood. That didn’t stop her from having a little crush on him. She did know something had changed in her after he’d taken her over his knee.
Her legs quivered as she remembered those strong arms holding her, the feel of his bare hand on her near naked backside. The memory brought a tingling between her legs.
Nothing like that was going to happen and certainly not with Jake Whitfield, no matter how attracted she was to him. Even living in the same small town, she’d seldom caught sight of him over the years, and on the rare occasion their gazes met, he never spoke to her. Maybe the families’ long standing habit of mistrusting each other remained ingrained in his subconscious, despite that they both had felt a connection on that fateful day. She liked to think he had though he hadn’t exhibit such a sentiment in all this time. Then again, their families’ lack of communication had a lot to do with their unspoken mutual desire to keep down hostilities while money continued to flow into their businesses.
Exhaling in frustration, she decided at that moment she’d rather tell him to take a flying leap off the town’s water tower.
Her gaze followed the long driveway with various trucks, SUVs, and luxury cars lined up on one side. When the limo passed a large black SUV, a huge man exited the driver side and watched as they drove to one end of the house. She doubted if Big Judd Richards could see through the tinted black windows. So she didn’t bother waving, and instead stared in amazement at the six-car garage.
Who in their right mind needed that many vehicles? She couldn’t imagine paying their insurance and maintenance bills.
She twisted in her seat hoping to see the cars parked behind each closed bay, but the driver stopped several yards away next to a side door leading into the house. A tall, thin woman stepped out onto the small porch and watched them exit the limo. Their housekeeper had been with them for years and everyone in Marystown knew her. Probably the only woman over fifty not rumored to have slept with old man Whitfield.
“Tick, show them to the den downstairs, and make sure they don’t leave. Tell Jimmie Sue to give them something to drink and snack on until supper.” Jake’s gaze swept over Angel, and a teasing glimmer returned to his eyes. She almost melted from the look. “Behave yourself. All of our guns are locked up, so I expect you to be there when I’m finished with my meeting, understand?”
She hid her surprise. He didn’t really believe she was dangerous, no matter how much he accused her of shooting at him. She found his attitude to be a curious contradiction.
“Do I have an option?” She wanted to go home and forget how he found it so easy to push her around. And for some unknown reason, she let him. Truthfully, she needed to be as angry at herself as she was with him. But what good would it do?
He laughed and turned away, walking with his brothers toward the front of the house. Satisfied that he didn’t know everything, she grinned. He was going to be plenty angry when he found out the truth.
Seeing Judd there reminded her he hadn’t called with the time and place to complete the requirements of her granddaddy’s will. She couldn’t wait to hear one certain asshole’s reaction to it.
Her attention drawn by Jake’s broad shoulders slid over his jacket stretched tight to the point she wondered if the seams would split like the Hulk’s. The image of his shirt and pants tattered, slipping off with each step, revealing taut pecs and biceps glistening in the waning light caused her face to warm.
Tick cleared his throat behind her. Uncomfortable being caught dreaming about Jake’s clothes falling off his naked form, she forced her gaze to the big man called Tick and glared. His knowing grin irritated her.
“Come this way, and I’ll get you settled.” He tossed her the backpack, and she smoothly caught it. It felt lightweight. Her small Beretta was probably still missing inside. Tick continued to talk. “Wait until you see the room. It has an eighty-six-inch TV and stadium seating and a sound system that will blow you away. There’s also a popcorn machine. Jimmie Sue keeps two jars of cookies on the bar.” Tick put an arm around Damien’s shoulders and waited for her to walk ahead.
Her brother stared at the house with amazement. She knew he’d never been in the mansion. Even though their granddaddy had money and property―still nothing like the Whitfields―old man Mac Tally lived in a mid-size home. The man was frugal to the point he could make a penny scream. She and Damien lived in the double-wide they grew up in. It wasn’t until their mom died last year that Mac asked them to move into his house. She and Damien refused. Being under his thumb while she worked for him would be a bit too much.
She blinked a few times to get rid of the extra moisture. Despite her grandaddy being a hard-ass, she missed him.
The sun reflecting off the sparkly clean windows emphasized the difference in how they grew up. For that matter, Angel had a hard time not looking around. She guessed she would always have a feeling of awe. Only it was more about the man who lived in it than it was the house.
And what a shame Jake was similar to all the men she knew who never listened to what women said. When would he find out his bachelor days were over?
Well, someone suggested showing the first chapter or so of the book coming out this Tuesday, 6/30. So here you go (after the blurb). Hope you enjoy.
Blurb: Connor Ellison, one of Atlanta Edge’s best wingers and biggest prankster, is given an ultimatum by the coaches and the PR department. He must stay married until the end of the run for the Cup or be available for trade.
Lily Jones wants nothing to do with the insane demand. But he convinces her the best decision is to play along. If they remain married and pretend to be in love, he offers to save her family’s ice rink from bankruptcy. Anyway, it’s only until the end of the hockey season. Then they can go their separate ways.
Easy-peasy. No way will they go to the finals. No way will they truly fall in love.
No cliffhanger. Standalone.
For blurb and links click on
I wipe the drool from the corner of my mouth.
Why aren’t my eyelids lifting? I rub at the itching and swollen feeling with my knuckles.
What’s up with my arms and legs? They weigh a ton and ache like a son of—ugh, the throbbing around my skull pulsates in time with my heart.
When did I get the flu?
No. Not flu.
Flashes of memory flicker through my sore brain.
Drinking. Laughter. I’m certain I went partying with friends after my flight arrived in Las Vegas.
That’s right. I’m in Vegas.
Even before landing, Elise, Kimi, and I talked about how exciting the weekend would be as we never did something so outrageous and spur of the moment. The round trip tickets were unbelievably cheap, and we planned to save more by sharing a room.
The trip to Sin City was a first for me. Sin City. So different from Atlanta. Plus it would help me to forget about my troubles back home and just be a girl without a care for a couple days.
With some effort, I open and close my eyes. I force clearer thoughts to the forefront, despite the throbbing in my head, in an attempt to recall details of the last few hours.
Celebrating in Vegas after a New Year’s Eve hockey game is the perfect place to let go. The hotel where the party was being held had been crazy full and loud, so much fun. Lights glittering as dancers bump and grind against each other. People laughing, smiling, drinking without a thought about tomorrow.
Elise, my oldest friend, as in since the third grade, knows everyone, and she introduced me to several tall good-looking, athletic men who play for the Atlanta Edge Hockey team. They played the Vegas team and won. So everyone was keyed up. And actually, I did know the players, but most didn’t remember me, and the few that did, I was barely recognizable to them. Short dresses and sparkly jewelry are not my usual attire. So I danced and danced all night into the early morning, letting myself go like never before. Two—or was it three?—margaritas later, the night became fuzzy, but I do remember laughing a lot. More than I have in…well, five years.
The party was sponsored by several local charities that NHL supports. Elise had managed to get us invited days earlier in Atlanta after meeting the captain of the Edge, Ryan Schmid. The man is gorgeous. Good enough to lick.
But my best friend called dibs.
Oh goodness, my head hurts. The room nearly glows with white light from the windows.
As soon as I gently press fingers to my temples, I realize it’s the wrong thing to do. Spikes of pain shoot behind my eyeballs.
Yep. Way too much fun and alcohol.
The long groan coming from my mouth echoes into what sounds like a cavernous room.
Wait. With three females sharing a budget-minded room off the strip in Vegas, there is no way anyone can think of it as roomy.
Finally, my eyes clear enough to see I’m not in the low-rent room I shared with Elise and Kimi. This room is spacious. The bed faces floor-to-ceiling windows with only gauzy curtains closed against the bright sunshine. Furniture fit for any mansion is scattered throughout the sitting area. A small table with two chairs placed in front of one massive window gives it a picturesque look.
A black bra swings on the back of one chair as air blows from a nearby vent. I realize it’s the one I packed to wear underneath the fancy new dress I purchased for the New Year’s party.
My ebony silk sheath lays in a heap on the floor.
Another groan floats into the air.
What? Not me. And certainly not Elise or Kimi. The sound is too deep, too male, and too sexy.
I recognize the timbre, but in another context. Pleasure? A memory of callused hands sliding over my shoulders and down my back. My last relationship has been years ago. So who? My head aches too much to think that hard about it.
The bed moves.
Earthquake? Or am I still drunk, and it’s my imagination?
Once more a rumbling groan fills the room and the bed shakes again.
That isn’t my imagination.
I carefully turn to see the other side of the bed.
Holy crap. Connor Ellison sits up on the edge of the bed and stands to stretch. Holy crap. He’s butt naked, every inch of his back, ass, and thighs bare and beautifully sculpted to its finest.
How do I know Connor, the star right winger for the Atlanta Edge, from his backend? Maybe my memory’s coming back, but I’ve been admiring him from afar for nearly two years, since he was traded and brought over from the affiliate in the northern part of New York State. I even have a private Pinterest board with pictures of him. Of course, many are without his shirt and gear during locker room interviews.
He strides over to open a door. From where I watch, lying on my stomach, head at the foot of the bed, a little catty-cornered on the mattress, I see a commode. He stops in front of it and spreads his legs slightly and pees. One hand on the wall above the tank, he shakes his head as if to clear his mind and he groans.
I close my eyes long enough not to see…you know…the flow. Gross.
Maybe I’m still a little drunk for I’m looking again.
Thankfully he finished.
He remains in the same spot, staring at the wall. A blush warms my face. Not just because he didn’t shut the door, but I can see his balls, full and well-formed hanging between his legs. For some perverted reason, that’s the sexiest view I’ve ever observed in my twenty-eight years. Geez. I’m so not myself.
Closing my eyes again for a few seconds, I hear him flush, and then wash his hands. Fascinating. A man who believes in cleanliness.
When I lift my eyelids, he’s walking toward the bed. I force my attention up from his beautiful appendage. He hesitates. So he finally sees me. He stops and looks around and brings his gaze back to mine.
“Oh, fuck.” One big hand scrubs his face and then he uses the back of a wrist to rub his eyes. And then thrusts his fingers through thick chestnut hair. After a heavy sigh, he says, “Darling, you need to go. I have a bus and plane to catch in a couple hours.”
Great. He doesn’t remember my name. Isn’t that special?
“Lily. My name’s Lily.” I sit up and whimper. The room’s spinning. I’m not much of a drinker.
“Nice to meet you, Lily. I’m Connor.”
“I know.” My mouth is so dry. “You’re Connor Ellison, winger for the Atlanta Edge. I’ve seen your picture everywhere in Atlanta.” I’m not about to explain I’m part owner of the rink his team practices in.
“All right.” His gaze moves from mine, over my nude body—I jerk the sheet’s corner to my breasts—and then he surveys the room. He purses his lips. “Excuse me, but I need to get my shit together.” He walks over and picks up a pair of dark dress pants from the floor near my feet. For a couple seconds, I watch as he pulls them up and over a firm ass sans underwear.
Lightheadedness comes over me, not from the view, goodness knows it’s a wondrous sight, but my body alerts me as to how I mistreated it the night before. I bend over.
With hands on my knees, and my head nearly between them to keep from throwing up or fainting or both, I take in slow breaths. That’s when I see it. The biggest freaking diamond ring with matching wedding band. On my finger.
I straighten, lifting my hand in front of my face. “What? Is this real?”
It has to be a fake. Some type of joke.
I look at Connor. His confused look tells me he’s as clueless as I am.
My face and body become hot as a July day in Vegas and my stomach roils. I waste no time and streak to the bathroom. The startled expression on his face barely registers before I lean over the commode and barf. I close my eyes. I’ve learned from experience, I will throw up until I have the dry heaves if I look at what comes out of me. Yep, I’m one of those people who throw up when others do and even worse when it’s me.
“You don’t look pregnant,” he says, not bothering to hide his curiosity.
What an Einstein.
“No. I’m not pregnant. I don’t drink often. Either it’s something I ate or the amount of alcohol.”
“Okay. Hold on. I’ll be back.”
Carefully, I place the commode lid down and flush. Then I rest a cheek on the cool surface. In a couple minutes, I’ll get up to take a shower. For now, I need to stay still until I’m in control of my body. My stomach actually feels better, though slightly sore.
Somehow I fall asleep like that for who knows how long. When I wake, he’s standing over me. He still has the dress pants on and nothing else. My gaze follows the sprinkle of hair on his chest down to a thin line at his waistband. Such a hot view this close. Fascinating how it disappears behind the vee of material.
“Here. Drink this.” He offers me a glass. I blink and look up to his face.
Did he noticed I looked at where his pants gape open at the zipper?
He taps the cold glass against my shoulder. “After you finish it, you’ll need to drink water. There’s a bottle in the fridge. I figure the nausea is worse than the headache.”
“Thanks.” I lift my hand and take it, bringing it to my mouth. Bubbles tickle my nose. Surprised, I move it away and rub off the fizz from my skin. “What is it?” It smells familiar, but I can’t place it.
“Ginger ale. It’ll help your stomach. Plus you need liquids in you. Alcohol dehydrates.”
“Yeah.” I sip at the drink.
“Go slow. You don’t want it to come back up.”
I nervously gulp. The thought alone makes me queasy.
“Hey, careful.” He stoops in front me and brushes my bangs to one side. I must look like hell.
When a drop of condensation drips from the glass onto my chest, I gasp as a swallow of the drink is going down. Choking, I realize I’m naked on the bathroom floor.
He slaps me on my back, not too hard, but enough for me to automatically straighten and thrust my breasts into his face as I try to move from his touch. Isn’t that just great? Let’s compound my embarrassment.
“You want the water instead?” His eyes focus on the display. A small smirk comes to his lips.
I hunch over and cross my arms over my chest without dropping the glass. That’s when I see the rings again.
“What about these?” I stick my hand in front of his face, redirecting his attention.
He pulls his head back.
“Fuck. Why didn’t you tell me you’re married? I don’t do married girls.” He stands and smooths his hair back from his face. “I don’t need that kind of trouble. Hell, that’s the last thing I need.” He moves into the bedroom, and my gaze follows his movements as he paces the floor, mumbling. I try to keep my attention off how his pants hang, showing the male cleavage at his hips. He stops and glares at me. “I have to leave. Hurry. Get dressed. Who do you belong to?”
“Belong?” What century does he live in?
“Yeah, like husband, wife, or whatever. Who’s going to try to beat my ass, or sue me for breaking up your marriage? Shit, shit, shit. I don’t need this.” He begins to pace again. “Why does it happen to me? One last night before I walk the fucking straight and narrow, that’s all I asked. Shit, if PR finds out what I did, sleeping with a married woman, and tells coach, my ass will be on waivers.” He turns to me and scowls. “You probably don’t even know what that means and don’t give a fuck.”
“In your case, it means that the Edge will make you available to other teams, that is, your contract and privileges. And if more than one team wants you, the one with the least points can claim you.” If anything, my dad ensured I knew everything about the game he loves. For that matter, I love it too though he mostly ignores that fact.
Connor stares at me as if I spouted the secret to winning the Stanley Cup. I want to laugh, but I’m still sitting on the bathroom floor—stark naked. Crap. I snag a towel from the shelf near the sink and wrap it around me. Warmth seeps in. Between having no clothes on and the chill from the tile, my skin has cooled to the point I’m shivering.
“From your accent, I figured you didn’t know anything about hockey.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s how much you know. I don’t have an accent. You’re the one with an accent.” I refer to his occasional harsh consonants from the northeastern states.
“What? Me? How can you say, I don’t have an accent, Miss Southern Belle?”
Ignoring his sarcasm, I walk by him toward the other end of the room as I take another sip. He warily keeps an eye on my hand. What? Did he really think I’ll waste good ginger ale by pouring it on top of his arrogant head? Though the idea did cross my mind. Gathering up my clothes from the table near the windows, bundling them to my chest, and using the crook of my arm to keep them in place, I jerk my bra off the chair.
That’s when I see it.
Hand shaking, I nearly drop the glass when I place it on the table next to the sheet of paper that caught my eye. The black print on blue-and-white paper blurs as I scan it and proceed to read it three more times. It looks official. My heart pumps so hard, I’m afraid it will burst. I glance over my shoulder toward where he remains staring at me.
He’s standing in the middle of the room, feet planted apart, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking all masculine and sexy as hell. Damn him. One dark eyebrow quirks up.
“You need to leave, sweet cheeks. I really don’t want your husband causing trouble. I never fuck married women,” he says with an undertone of derision. He snatches up his shirt from the end of the bed and jabs his arms into it. When I stay, frozen in my panic, he asks, “What do you have there?” His tone sounds a little nicer as if my expression has him concerned.
Despite my frozen shock at what I discovered, in the back of my mind, I note that his shirt remains unbuttoned. Each muscle on his chest and abs are gorgeously carved. Have I touched them? My fingers twitch with the desire to do so.
“Are you okay?” His worry filled words bring me back to my senses. The fear of what the paper means has probably caused my face to pale. I know I feel scared.
“Here’s the answer to the twenty-five thousand dollar question. At least, that’s how much the rings costs,” I say in a tiny voice. The paper trembles as I hand it over. “Look at the receipt attached to it. Now we know where they came from.”
“What the fuck?” He does the same as I did. His gaze runs across it over and over again before he lifts his head. His eyes fill with such anger, I take a step back. “What joke is this? Who put you up to it?” His attention goes back to the sheet in his hand as he shakes his head. “I don’t know any of these people.” His gaze drills into mine. “Your name is Lily Ana Jones?”
I nod. “That’s me.” Pointing a finger at the writing, I continue, “It’s no joke. You signed it too. The witnesses and officiate are no one I know. So I think you and I really did this. That is, as far as I know. And from what that says, my name is now Lily Ana Ellison.”
He drops into the chair as if his world ended. The marriage certificate floats onto the floor.
“I’m fucked,” he mutters.
“You have really fucked up big time, Ellison,” Matthew Kowalski says as he gives me a disgusted look.
I don’t remember his title, I only know he’s involved in public relations for the players. Usually a congenial man, but recently, he’s shown an unsympathetic side I wish I never had to contend with.
Yesterday, when the team’s plane landed in a private airport near Atlanta, I received orders to bring my agent at eight the next morning to the coaches’ conference room on the top floor of the arena. How in the hell had they found out about my foul up so fast?
I glance over at head coach McMillan, assistant coach Levine, and then Ramsey Fournier, the general manager, the man who can easily place me on waivers which is as good as being fired. They look at me as if I planned all of this to irritate the fuck out of them.
My agent listens to our conversation on the speaker phone. He’s located in Chicago and had another meeting to attend at noon. No matter how much money I make him, he can’t be in two places at once with less than twenty-four hours’ notice. At least that’s what I tell myself. Deep inside, I wonder if he’s tired of my bullshit like the men sitting around the table.
Then again, I’m glad he couldn’t make it. If he saw their expressions, he’d probably be working on my contract, preparing to negotiate with a new team.
“Before you get your panties all in a twist, it can be corrected easily enough.” I hold up my hands as if in surrender. “The girl and I are planning to get an annulment.”
As I didn’t have sex with Lily—damn, I hope to hell not—I asked my lawyer to look into how quickly the paperwork can be processed in Nevada. Only thing is, he claims not having sex has nothing to do with getting it annulled, but he will find a way. An annulment will sure as hell be less of a fuss. The thought of having to hand over half of my savings to someone I barely know…well, it’s not going to happen. I’ve worked hard for my financial independence from my parents.
“No,” Fournier bluntly says.
That brought my head up so fast I wrenched my neck. I massage the tight area as I try not to glare at him.
“What do you mean by no?” I ask, struggling to keep an even tone.
“If you go through an annulment or divorce, the press will say you pulled another stunt. You promised no more wild parties, crazy pranks, and certainly no irresponsible acts with puck bunnies. We need to show the community our players are serious about their sport and this community. We need families to buy season tickets and support us. Having a picture of you obviously drunk and half-naked going viral is not the way we expect you to represent the organization.” A vein bulges above his right eye by the time he finishes.
I look at the man and barely restrain a yawn. Yeah. That would impress the shit out of them. Yawn like I couldn’t be bothered to listen to them.
They don’t understand the last twenty-four hours have been a son of a bitch. Though I don’t remember much from New Year’s Eve, I know I didn’t get enough sleep, and I don’t need him to give me the same speech for the third time. I’m not stupid. I just don’t give a damn.
That’s not entirely correct. That is, about the not giving a damn. I care. I love hockey, and the independence it gives me from my dad, but I know if I continue on my self-destructive path, I’d die long before I’m thirty. Most of my life, I’ve heard one of many versions of the same lecture from my parents and now from my team, but the last sentence of Kowalski’s speech is new. He’s talking about the photo that unexpectedly popped up this morning.
Someone at the wedding chapel secretly snapped the picture and uploaded it to the Edge’s social network under the handle The Edge’s Biggest Fan. If I ever find out who the bastard is, I…won’t do shit. My hands are tied until I can get the PR department off my back. From the expressions on Coach’s and Fournier’s faces, my ass will be going elsewhere if I touch the hair of another living being who isn’t in the rink.
“Gentlemen, I believe he understands the organization’s position on his situation, and he’ll act accordingly. Right, Mr. Ellison?” Fournier stood up and buttoned his Armani jacket, signaling the end of the conversation.
Maybe I am stupid. “Yes? I will stay married?” I narrow my eyes. Is that what he meant?
His gaze drills into me. “Happily married for at least six months. After we win the Cup, you can do whatever the hell you want.” Then he turns on the heels of his Italian leather loafers and strolls out.
Without a word more, Kowalski and Levine follow in his wake as they head toward the elevators and their offices on the top floor.
Shit. I really didn’t like the words, “Whatever the hell you want.” That didn’t sound encouraging to my future career with the Edge. This year the team had gotten their asses together and played like the pros we are, and the oddsmakers favor us to win the Cup despite how sucky we’d been last year.
“After we win the Cup…” Fuck. What will happen if we don’t? His mood will be so shitty, he’s powerful enough to guarantee I never play with another team, ever again.
“Everything will work out,” McMillan slaps me on the back. “Here’s her address if you don’t have it.”
He drops a sheet of paper on the table in front of me. I don’t bother mentioning Lily texted her address to me before we parted. I will need to contact her for the divorce, annulment, or whatever.
“Thanks,” I say while trying to sound sincere.
“If there is any consolation, we won’t be going to Vegas again this season.” With a chuckle, he walks out.
Very funny. The man is a riot. Not.
I stare at the address as if it will provide the answers I need. Snapping myself out of a trance, I pick it up and fold it into a pocket-size square.
One thing about the other night truly bothers me. Why did I do it? I have no desire to get married until my late thirties and have children. That’s when I plan to retire like my old man had. Only difference is I’ll do my kid right. I’ll make sure he feels like more than a photo op for the perfect hockey family.
I pull up in front of the house and park on the street. Lily’s home is a well-kept bungalow in a middle-class neighborhood about two miles from the rink her father owns and manages. The rink happens to be where the Atlanta Edge practices between games whenever possible. Have I seen her there before? I remember her dad. Buzz Jones was a former enforcer for Chicago in his rookie years until being traded to New York. After five years there, he bounced around several NHL teams, never finding a home for more than a year or two. His last team being the Edge.
In the dim evening light, flickering in the window indicates someone is watching TV or has it on for background noise. I do that on the odd occasion. When you live alone, the quietness can be depressing.
I try to peer through the thin curtain to see if Lily’s by herself. Never in my life have I been in such an uncomfortable situation. I’d rather crank up my car and head back home, but I don’t have an alternative.
When she walked out of the hotel’s honeymoon suite yesterday, she appeared to be in agreement that an annulment was best. So I’m not sure how she’ll take me backing out on our deal. Not only backing out, but insisting she lives with me in a big farce of pretending to be happy newlyweds. Considering how pissed off she was that day, I’ll have my work cut out.
I pat my pocket. The rings clink together. Yeah. I have a load of groveling to do.
After a deep inhale, I step out of the car and see movement on the front porch. Who was crazy enough to sit outside in this weather? It has to be at least near freezing. For Atlanta, that’s nuts-numbing cold with the humidity.
When I start up the steps, a man stands, just a few inches below my own six-three. Obviously, with the gray hair and fighter stance, it has to be her dad.
“Mr. Jones, I don’t know if you remember me from the Edge’s practice sessions, but I’m Connor Ellison.” I stick my hand out.
He looks down at it and sneers. “I know who the fuck you are. I wondered how long it would take you to grow a pair and show up.”
His gravelly voice filled with anger sends me back one step. The front door opens and Lily steps outside, almost eye-to-eye to her father.
For some reason, I’ve forgotten how the top of her head nearly reaches my chin, and the way she looks at me as if she can see straight into my soul. Damn, all of that turns me on.
“Dad, please be nice. I explained everything to you. I’m handling it. Nothing for you to get all wound up about.”
“Nothing? You aren’t nothing. He has to understand he can’t get away with this.”
“I’m not eighteen. Remember, I’m twenty-eight.”
With effort, I pull my thoughts back to the conversation, especially catching the ending. She’s two years older than me? She actually looks much younger.
“Come in, Connor,” she interrupts her dad. “We’ll let Dad cool off out here for a moment.”
She stands to the side and waves me through. I take another glance at Mr. Jones. He looks as if he wants to jump me and beat me to a bloody pulp.
I hesitate. I don’t want to upset the man further. But I need to talk with Lily. So I walk in. He huffs and turns his face from mine.
The place is neat with big, comfortable furniture and an open floor plan. More modern than I expected considering the old-style design of the house. It felt like a true home. More so than my place.
“Thanks. Have a seat. Want a drink? Dad keeps Bud in the fridge.” Without slowing, she picks up a remote and shuts down the TV and then heads toward the kitchen area. “Or we have soft drinks and bottled water.”
“Beer. So you got my text,” I plainly state. With her nonchalant attitude from the moment I showed up on her front step, I take it she received my message.
“Yeah. I must say, I didn’t expect to hear from you for at least six weeks.” She refers to our agreement to communicate after some time passed in case she turns up pregnant. Otherwise, my lawyer and hers will do the talking.
Before we left the hotel suite, Lily and I had searched for condom wrappers. There was one still in my wallet and an unopened box in my suitcase testifying none were used. I always suit up for sex. I never remember being so drunk as to forget. We agreed it also can be a sign that nothing happened. Considering our inebriated state, we probably started with a heavy make-out session, got naked, and then passed out.
“Yeah.” I take the beer she offers. “That was the plan until the emergency meeting this morning. It was with the team’s PR guy along with my coaches and general manager.” I pop the tab and take a long swallow.
“That doesn’t sound good.” She eases around a coffee table and gracefully sits on the edge of the sofa. Her jeans are faded with strategic cuts on her thighs. The tight T-shirt has Atlanta Edge Rules written across her full breasts.
Shit! I need to keep my eyes anywhere but there. Plus not wanting her on the defensive by having me towering over where she sat, I move toward a recliner, but hesitate when she shakes her head. Obviously, it’s her dad’s favorite spot. I ease into the overstuffed chair across from her.
“No. Not good at all.” I take a deep breath. What man likes to admit to fucking up? “I need your help.” One of the things my mom taught me is women love it when men show their vulnerability. It goes against my nature, but I have to play this right or my career will go up in flames. “As you’re a fan,” I nod to her shirt, “you probably know I’ve made a few bad decisions the last couple years.”
“You could say more than two years. Showing up late to training camp the first day of your rookie year was pretty stupid, and the time you were arrested for sliding down the banister at a New York Marriott wasn’t too smart. You could’ve broken a leg, and how would you’ve helped your team during the playoffs? And how about—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Enough already.” I run my hand through my hair, seriously restraining myself from pulling it out. She’s talking about my pranks, and I might lose the only two things I care about: my team and the NHL. “Please listen. Okay?”
She nods. Her eyes narrow as if she expects the next words to be a lie. That makes my blood pressure skyrocket, but I stay in control.
The front door creaks open. Her dad steps into the house. Most likely he stayed outside long enough to regain control of his temper. I understand that. I might need to chill outside before I finish my plea.
“We can’t get an annulment right now.” My words come out even and soft, hoping her dad doesn’t hear.
“Why?” she asks in a whisper.
“Yeah. Why the hell not?” The older man towers nearby, arms crossed over his chest, ready to do battle for his daughter.
“Dad. Please. Let me handle this.” She turns back to me. “You promised.” She refers to my assurance to get the marriage annulled without delay.
I stand up.
Lily’s whole body tensed. Without even touching her, I can tell she’s stiff enough to snap in two. I’ve seen that stance on my mom a few times growing up. A woman who is uncertain of a reaction. Is it directed at me or her dad?
My hands remain at my sides, unthreatening. I want to make it understood I’m not here to harass or force her to do anything she doesn’t want to. I’m here to talk.
“You can’t trust a joker like him. I read the shit he pulled. Don’t listen to him,” Mr. Jones says as if he wants to fight.
She looks over at her dad. “Please. I know what I’m doing. You said you’d stay out of it.”
Mr. Jones’s shoulders slump as he drops his arms. Nodding, he rubs a palm across his face, the scrape of bristles against calluses breaks the tension. He looks toward me and gives me a threatening stare as if to say he’ll kick my ass if I hurt her. Finally, he breaks the stare-down and looks toward his daughter.
“I’ll be in my study.” He tilts his head toward a smallish looking, book-filled room beyond the kitchen. “Before I go, does anyone want coffee?”
“Thanks. No.” She looks my way, and I shake my head as I hold up the beer. “Close your door please.” Lily gives a weak smile.
Once it swings shut with a firm click, she returns her attention to me.
“Please explain.” She waits, watching me. Once again, her face closes down. She really thinks I’m about to give her bullshit. Nevertheless, I’m certain she’s the type of person who will give me a chance.
“A couple of weeks ago, the team’s management gave me an ultimatum that if I don’t get my act together off the ice, they wouldn’t extend my contract next year. Maybe even place me on IR as a healthy scratch before then.” Being placed on Injured Reserve for a healthy player can be a sign to other teams I’m a troublemaker. A decision that can send a player’s future income down the drain.
She nods. I can tell by how she’s listening, she understands the importance of what I’m saying.
“So today, they told me this latest prank—though it isn’t one—that I better show the world I’m a responsible adult and the Vegas wedding is for real. So I have to stay married.”
“Then you need to find another bride.”
The way she stares at me, I’m certain she wants me to eat dirt.
“No. It has to be you. It’s your name on the marriage certificate. It’s you who I woke up next to. I have a plan—”
“No, you don’t understand. I don’t want to be married and not to you. It was a mistake that I barely remember.” She rises to her feet next to the sofa and crosses her arms.
“So you’re remembering. I’m glad. Nothing has come back to me yet. I’m thinking someone spiked my drink.”
“It sure wasn’t me. You need to leave now. Go and find someone else to marry.” She crosses her arms and twists her mouth in obvious impatience.
Damn, I do like that sassy look.
“You haven’t been listening. You and I are married. This isn’t going away easily. No annulment, no divorce until the season ends.” I step closer to her, my gaze only drops a few inches. Rather odd to be able to look into her brown eyes without bending down. There have been a few women who came close but she’s near enough to six foot.
She leans back, glaring down her nose at me as if she’s the one taller. It’s unusual to have a woman glare at me as if I’m a bug beneath her feet. Most want to please me and are quite accommodating.
“How tall are you?” I blurt out.
Baffled by my sudden change of topic, she wrinkles her forehead and blinks. “That has nothing—”
“Don’t make a big deal about it. I’m just curious.” I rarely find a woman with whom I don’t get a crick in my neck while talking to her.
She tilts her head, studying me. As if she came to a decision, but uncomfortable about it, she takes a deep breath. “Five-eleven and half.”
Damn. Only a half inch off. I like it. There isn’t anything skinny about her. Slim with surplus in the right spots. Breasts a bit more than handfuls, and hips wide enough to handle me. I’ll have no need to worry about hurting her as I have most of the women I’ve fucked.
Best to keep those thoughts to myself and return to the present situation.
“Sit.” I hesitate and then add, “Please. Let me tell you how we’ll get through this disaster together.”
Well, like most everyone, for the last couple months I’ve been reading books and watching a lot of TV. I’ve been working the life draining day-job during my usual hours. But since there is no travel time, except a short stroll down the hallway, I’ve found myself with a little more time to goof off. Sure, I have been doing some writing, but mostly ads, tweets, FB posts, and beefing up an old historical romance manuscript. Nothing worthwhile, like writing the my second book in the Southern Crime Family series, Sen.
But oddly, by watching TV, it has given me the juice needed to write that book. I think in a way, the success of Jake had me a little worried. What if I screw up and do a lousy job on Sen? I have a wonderful romance already figured out: a half-Asian bad boy and a deaf white girl whose daddy hated Sen. A bit of Romeo and Juliet, except the girl likes the guy but isn’t in love. The guy is, madly, deeply. Don’t worry, she’ll fall as madly and deeply in love too.
So you’re probably wondering what was I watching that help my writing mojo? Justified. The TV series (2010-2015) that used to be on the FX channel. Love the story, actors, and how they had fun shooting every scene. Set in Kentucky, it reminded me about a lot of things from when I was a kid. Not so much the criminal behavior, but how family stuck together and protected each other. They may fight each other, but heaven forbid if anyone interfered or attacked a family member. It didn’t matter if you hated your cousin’s guts, you took care of that cousin and later, after the trouble was over, you proceeded with your aversion to that relative.
Another show I watched was Self Made on Netflix. Love Octavia Spencer. She’s so talented. Anything she’s in, I’ll watch. I want her to be my friend. I’m sure she’s one of the most interesting people in Hollywood (figuratively, I have no idea where she lives). The movie was uplifting, as in showing with determination you can become successful. Sometimes you have to sacrifice parts of your life to achieve that goal, but if that’s your desire, go for it! Oh, the clothes. Beautiful.
Then I started hearing from different people about a new romance movie similar to 50 Shades of Grey. I didn’t get into the Shades too much, mainly because the woman was a college student. I prefer movies, books with more mature characters. Let’s say each character to have been in the work force, full time, for a year or more. Anyway, I heard this movie was very sexy. It’s called 365 DNI on Netflix. This is my take on it, the writing could’ve been more mature, the photography was awesome, the quality of the filming was pretty good (think inside shots), the music was fine (I didn’t once think porno canned tunes), and the acting…a bit over the top a few times, but considering how good the male lead looked in and out of clothes, I can forgive it. Certainly worth watching once all the way through and a second time for the parts that were unbelievably hot.
Just a reminder, FAKE PLAY is coming out Tuesday, 6/30/20. Be sure to pre-order it and tell your friends. It will be the last of my hockey books for a while. I need to finish up the Southern Crime Family series (JAKE, SEN, and ETHAN) before I head over to a couple of bounty hunters books I want to finish. Goodness, I have so many books to finish or rewrite and get out there. You know, I did finish eleven books before number 10 became published. So number one through nine, and eleven need a chance to be read by you too.
I recently updated the cover of my Facebook page for the Circle series. Love the little show of, well, you know. And be on the lookout this summer for a special deal on the series, along with the two novellas. Yes, five books.
Lastly, the two novellas have a new cover that will show up online this summer. So much to do and so little time.
What do you think?
Two strangers wake up in the same bed after partying in Las Vegas to discover they are married.
Connor Ellison, one of Atlanta Edge’s best wingers and biggest prankster, is given an ultimatum by the coaches and the PR department. He must stay married until the end of the run for the Cup or be available for trade.
Lily Jones wants nothing to do with the insane demand. But he convinces her the best decision is to play along. If they remain married and pretend to be in love, he offers to save her family’s ice rink from bankruptcy. Anyway, it’s only until the end of the hockey season. Then they can go their separate ways.
Easy-peasy. No way will they go to the finals. No way will they truly fall in love.
The book will be available to pre-order at other book seller locations soon.
In the last few months, I’ve been listening to two series: Historical romance Survivors’ Club series by Mary Balogh, and paranormal romance Deep In Your Veins Series by Suzanne Wright. What a wide spectrum of genres, heh?
I came across Suzanne’s books while looking for a new shape-shifter story. I do love those. One of my favorites is Jennifer Ashley’s Shifters Unbound series. Sadly, she rarely writes new additions to it. So, I went looking for someone else’s. Suzanne does have a shape-shifter series but her vampire one caught my attention instead. With a title like Here Be Sexist Vampires, how could I resist?
The first book was funny and sexy with a yummy alpha male and a kick ass female. I would like to point out the heroine was strong, but still feminine. Some of the books I’ve read with kick-ass heroines often act like they want to be a man. Considering I love men, but don’t want to be one, I want to be able to relate to the main female character. Not everyone feels like I do and that’s okay. There are books for everyone out there, but I’m talking about what I like. You can talk about what you like on your blog. Ha!
The world building in the series has been unique to me. I’ve read paranormal romance back when it was called science fiction. So, that’s hard to do, being unique that is. She’s found a way around the drinking blood requirement. They don’t normally drink from humans. That’s pretty good.
The first three books (if I remember correctly) were of the same couple, but the later books are of different couples, same world with the original couples showing up and not taking over. I like that. Usually by a second or third book, I’m tired of the same couple. Suzanne handled that well and I’ve enjoyed the others so far. Some a little better than others, but overall, I’ll keep listening (or reading) as long as she’ll write them.
Be sure to check out her vampire books.
Now for Mary Balogh. Do you hear the reverence in that little sentence? Goodness, I’m not sure how to begin. Let’s say this. I’m learning so much about storytelling from this author. She’s like a story weaver. She takes an emotion and threads it through the fabric of the story until you have this beautiful picture about romance with all its twists and turns. See. She even has me waxing poetic about her books. Let’s say this. If you enjoy a well-written historical romance, with romance and certainly some hot kissing and a little bit of sex sprinkled throughout, this is certainly the author for you to read.
Her heroes are not always a typical alpha male. For example, Avery Archer in Someone to Love (Wescott series – as you can see, I listen to several series of hers ). He’s slightly taller than the heroine, almost effeminate, and he uses a quizzing glass to unnerve those around him. But DAMN the man is sexy when it comes to lovemaking and his sarcastic teasing and fighting. Yep, fighting. He knows his martial arts. Read/listen to the book to find out how he came about that skill.
I will say she’s not perfect, but 98% of the time she does not disappoint. Her heroes are usually most understanding. I can’t tell you how many times I tear up because the hero has said just the right thing. Remember, this is fiction. And being fiction, I want my heroes to be smarter than the average man.
The first 1% is the same problem most romance authors have (including me). We often understand why the heroine does the things she does, but sometimes as a reader we want to slap the back of her head. We must remember not all women are smart as ourselves (sarcastic font used in this last sentence).
The other 1% is about the pace. She does take her time telling you the secret or what the bad guy has planned or whatever happens that causes the couple to feel that love is hopeless. But I have never regretted or gotten bored (not like I did with the Outlander books – Geez, never again. Love Jamie, but the books overall, hell no, I got a life to live) with reading/listening to every word.
Okay. If you love regency, go buy her books or audio (Love Rosalyn Landor’s narrative. The woman is a genius with all the voices.) and plan to relax and enjoy.
In the past, whenever I interviewed an author, I used seven questions. It dawned on me today, I may have never answered them myself. Here they are.
Who are your top five authors to read?
Funny that if I had answered this just three years ago, it would’ve been a bit different. But I guess this is true to everyone. My current favorites are Louise Bay, Maya Banks, Jennifer Ashley, Lisa Kleypas, and Linda Howard. The last two have been my favorites for years. When you come across an author who continues to publish books that hold your attention, you just can’t let them go.
What is your go-to book to read over and over again?
Oh, my, I actually have several now. Lorraine Heath’s Lord of Wicked Intentions, Meagan McKinney’s Lions and Lace, Jennifer Ashley’s The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie, and Maya Banks’s Never Seduce a Scot. I swear I re-read or re-listen to contemporary too. A couple of Sawyer Bennett’s Cold Fury books and several of Louise Bay’s English men (that’s not the name of the books, but the heroes are English, and YUM, the narrator (audio version) is great, but that’s because the author writes them so sexy!).
Who influenced your writing the most? Why?
In the beginning, I would say Linda Howard’s books. Her heroines are so smart and gutsy. Her book, All The Queen’s Men, encouraged me to write my first book, Circle of Desire, that was published by Avon’s Impulse Imprint. Now, don’t go and buy my book and expect it read like Linda’s. The only thing similar between the two is the heroines are gutsy in their own way.
The why is easy. I admire Linda’s writing then and still do. As time has gone on, I say several more authors have influenced me, such as Anne Stuart, Sherrilyn Kenyon, and the ones I mentioned above. If I admire your book and want to read it over and over again, I pay attention and think of how I can improve my writing.
Describe where you are the most productive when you write.
In my study. But I can write anywhere I’m left alone for more than an hour. Otherwise, I’ll do other busy author work (editing, outlining, promo, etc.) in hotel rooms, waiting rooms, lunch time at day job, etc. I type it in my phone, iPad, or write into a notebook I try to keep in my purse.
Tells us a little about your current book?
Fake Play is my second Atlanta Edge Hockey Romance book.
Two strangers wake up in the same bed one morning after a big party in Las Vegas to discover they are married. (OMG! This is one of my favorite tropes. But I love it.)
Connor Ellison, one of Atlanta Edge’s best wingers and biggest prankster, is given an ultimatum by the coaches and the PR department. He must stay married until the end of the hockey season.
Lily Jones wants nothing to do with him, but he convinces her the best decision is to play along. He offers, if they remain married and pretend to be in love, he’ll help save her family’s ice rink from bankruptcy. That’s only until the end of the season, Then they can go their separate ways. Easy-peasy.
(But you and I know something will happen to stop that. Like love and marriage and a baby carriage…oops! Did I type that?)
Show us your one favorite scene of dialogue from that book.
(This is a page or so into the beginning of the book.)
“Oh, f**k.” One big hand scrubs his face and then he uses the back of a wrist to rub his eyes. After a heavy sigh, he says, “Darling, you need to go. I have a bus and plane to catch in a couple hours.”
Great. He doesn’t remember my name. Isn’t that special?
“Lily. My name’s Lily.” I sit up and whimper. The room’s spinning. As anyone can guess, I’m not much of a drinker.
“Nice to meet you, Lily. I’m Connor.”
“I know.” My mouth is so dry. “You’re Connor Ellison, winger for the Atlanta Edge. I’ve seen your picture everywhere in Atlanta.”
“All right.” His gaze moves from mine, examining the room. He purses his lips.”Excuse me, but I need to get my stuff together.” He turns and picks up a pair of dark dress pants. For a couple seconds, I watch as he pulls them up and over a firm ass sans underwear.
I become light-headed, not from the view, goodness knows it’s a wondrous sight, but my body alerting me to how I mistreated it the night before. I bend over.
With hands on my knees, and my head nearly between them to keep from throwing up or fainting or both, I take in slow breaths. That’s when I see it. The biggest freaking diamond ring with matching wedding band. On my finger.
I straighten, lifting my hand in front of my face. “What? Is this real?”
It has to be a fake. Some type of joke.
I look at Connor. His confused look tells me he’s as clueless as I am.
What do you believe makes a man sexy?
A man is sexy when he pulls on a white shirt, tie, and dress pants just because he knows I appreciate it. When he does an unexpected and thoughtful thing, like pick up my favorite candy bar on the way home from work. Hugs me and kisses my cheek and tells me he loves me.