Red Night by RK Close Teaser, First Chapter & Excerpt

Red Night by RK Close

Release Date: May 10, 2016

Publisher: Limitless Publishing

Genre: Paranormal Romance

Chapter Preview Blitz: May 4, 2016

For five hundred years I have feasted on the blood of the innocent.

For centuries I have seduced beautiful victims into my bed.

And all this time, I have never gone without…

I am Zachariah…

While enduring endless days as an immortal, only one urge soothes my savage need.

Blood.

I have consumed countless humans—I have witnessed mountains of corpses piled beneath my feet. But none more significant than the woman I once loved.

My heart was not the only one she captured, but it would be the last…

An inferior creature turned her heart against me—Adam. Such a pathetic identity to be named after the original creation of God, and always besting me in life. But in death—I am king.

I am far more treacherous.

I should be feared.

I demand to be remembered.

And I am, for being known as the immortal who slayed the woman we both loved, and my rampage continues…

Now in the scorching desert, I find prey well worth the chase…

Samantha.

And my interest in this mortal runs deep. Adam has pursued me over the globe in search of revenge—but his own weaknesses have made him vulnerable. He’s taken to the striking mortal, which means only one thing.

She will be my next target.

But this time, not for the taste of blood. I will take her as my own mate, and neither Adam, or anyone else, will stop me…

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First Chapter Preview:

Dirty little secrets are my bread and butter. Everyone has them, and exposing what people try to hide is how I make my living.

I’ve always liked to watch people, study them, and unravel their mysteries. Give me a few minutes and I’ll know if they’re happy, sad, needy, or insecure.

People are easy for me to read and far too predictable. Money, sex, and power are prime motivating factors, at least for the people I’m hired to expose. Tonight, I’m doing just that.

Busy shoppers move past me as if they’re running out of time. With the holiday hours at the Scottsdale Fashion Mall, they’re feeding their retail addiction late into the evening.

Thanksgiving hasn’t even passed, yet Christmas sales and shopping have begun in full force. I’m not interested in the shoppers or the sales. My focus is on the Tiffany & Co. store across from where I sit. A certain female shopper named Rebecca Tanner stopped in there about twenty minutes ago and still hasn’t emerged. I’m tempted to follow her inside and see what the heck she’s doing, but keeping a low profile will make my job easier.

The coffee in my cup is now cold and my stomach is rumbling loudly because I missed dinner. Just as I’m growing bored and restless, a tall attractive woman with long auburn hair walks out of the store. She’s on the arm of a dark-haired man wearing a gray tailored suit. Both look as though they belong on the cover of a magazine instead of shopping at the mall, but they do make a striking pair. He has movie star quality written all over him. It makes him stand out like a sore thumb.

The redhead smiles and leans into him. Her eyes never leave him, but he appears preoccupied with leading her swiftly through the crowd. Her companion appears detached or aloof. Rebecca is my target tonight, but he’s the surprise.

Where did you come from, Mystery Man?

Tossing my coffee in the trash and grabbing my fake shopping bag from Victoria’s Secret, I begin to follow them.

Mystery Man’s dark hair catches the light and gives him an unearthly glow. With broad shoulders that taper down to a slim waist, even his expensive suit can’t hide his long muscled legs. He has an air of confidence in the way he holds himself that causes shoppers to quickly part around him—many stopping to stare or catch a second look. Nobody is moving for me and I’m forced to dodge bodies in order to keep up.

I’m not easily surprised. This evening may have developed an interesting twist, a bump in the road. I love bumps and twists because they make life and especially work, more interesting.

The couple turns down a long hallway that leads to the public restrooms but they continue through metal doors marked, ‘EMPLOYEES ONLY.’ Without slowing my pace, I ditch the shopping bag and pull my long hair into a quick, messy bun. Before I reach the doors, I’ve pulled a solid black apron from my bag and slipped it over my head. This apron is the best ten dollars I’ve ever spent. It gets me into all sorts of places. Add a fake name tag and I’m unstoppable.

Good thing I’m not wearing heels tonight.

Through the doors is another dimly lit, industrial hall with many gray metal doors. There is a stark difference between the lights, color, and holiday music of the festive mall to the colorless, sterile feel of this corridor.

Moving purely on instinct, I head left down the hall and around a corner. There I find a door marked ‘EXIT.’ Not knowing what’s on the other side, I stop to compose myself. Easing the door open, a burst of cool air hits me as I peer into a dark concrete jungle also known as the underground parking garage. I’m parked down here, but I can’t say where because I’ve never been to this area before.

Lighting down here is worse than in the hallway I came from. There is no visual end, only a dark abyss in both directions. There are no bustling shoppers at the moment, and the cars are still. The silence is a creepy reminder that I’ve left the security of the mall.

My head snaps in the direction of a slight sound, somewhere to my left. The sound may have come from one of the corners where the light doesn’t touch. Narrowing my eyes, I focus all of my senses on the blackness but I’m unable to make out more than inky shadows.

They didn’t have time to leave, so where are they?

I’m considering pulling out my small flashlight and shining it into car windows, when I hear it again: a slight scraping sound coming from the dark corner.

Gotcha.

In case I’m being watched, I pretend not to hear as I walk in the opposite direction. Turning a corner, I crouch behind a row of cars and work my way back. At times like this, I sometimes wish my legs weren’t so long.

My hiding spot is roughly sixty feet away from the suspicious sound, behind a dark sedan. Two forms that blend into one finally take shape in the dense shadows. Rebecca Tanner is one busy gal. I guess having an affair with my client’s husband is not enough for her. We can add hooking up with random men at the mall to her resume.

Cheating on the cheater is poetic justice at its finest.

There was a time when spying on unknowing individuals would cause me embarrassment or guilt. After all, it’s like I’m digging around in people’s dirty laundry. Eventually, my skin got thicker and my sensibilities became…less sensitive.

It’s not like I ask people to cheat on their spouse or steal from their company. Some people might call me a voyeur. I’m not, but I gain a great deal of satisfaction finding answers to questions and giving my clients closure.

I’m hoping this twosome doesn’t go X-rated on me, so I pull out my camera with a telephoto lens and set the aperture to pull as much light as possible without using the flash. I lift the camera to my eye, start to focus on the couple, and—

What I originally perceived as a passionate embrace now looks suspicious. Rebecca’s back is toward me. Mystery-Man has a hand intertwined in her long red hair, holding the back of her head. His face is buried in her neck and the other hand has a death grip on her arm.

That’s going to leave a mark. If he keeps this up, she’ll be wearing long sleeves and turtlenecks for weeks.

All the popular Hollywood visions of vampires pop into my head and I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Of all the silly things to think about. Those types of movies have never been my thing, but I’ve seen a few.

I prefer comedies.

Pop culture seems to like its romance with a touch of horror and violence mixed in. I’ve never understood the attraction, myself.

Still, my stomach feels uneasy, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. It’s not like me to let my imagination run away. I’m a professional, after all.

I knew it was too late for that coffee.

Still, I have the nagging feeling I’m witnessing a crime. Only I’m not sure what crime it is. Death by hickey?

I’m cracking myself up tonight. Definitely too much caffeine.

About the Author:

Hello! I’m RK Close, author of the ‘Vampire Files Trilogy’. ‘Red Night’ is the first book in the series. I write paranormal-romance & urban-fantasy with a hint of darkness and a dash of humor. Creating characters that my readers will fear, fall in love with, despise or cheer for, is what I love most about writing.

Ann Rice gets all the credit for my vampire addiction which started in my early twenties. Like so many others, I fell in love with her vampires first.

Originally from Kentucky, I’ve lived most of my life in Arizona where I met and married my true love. We were late to the game so we knocked out three ankle-biters in quick succession. We often joke that parenthood saved us from ourselves. Now we need to be saved from parenthood. *just kidding* We love our darling spawn.

When I’m not writing, I’m taking care of a busy family, dragging my butt to CrossFit, thinking about my stories or spending time with family and friends. My dream is to sell enough books to hire someone to clean our house and cook our meals. Okay, maybe that’s my family’s dream. I tend to get a little obsessed when I write.

Truthfully, I would love the opportunity to pull you into my world of strong independent females, mysterious vampires, noble hunters, hungry werewolves and seductive yet deadly fae. If you like paranormal-romance in a modern-urban setting with plenty of romantic tension, mystery and suspense, then my novels were written for you.

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Extraordinary Love by Micah Persell Chapter 1

Extraordinary Love

Micah Persell (author touring), Kathleen Shaputis, Holley Trent, Andrea R. Cooper, Candace Sams, Spring Stevens, Bobbi Romans, Lisa White, Becky Flade, Danica Winters

Genre: Paranormal

Publisher: Crimson Romance
Date of Publication: August 4, 2014
ISBN: 1440583269
ISBN 13: 9781440583261
ASIN:

Book Bundle containing 10 full category-length novels

Book Description:

Everybody needs love — especially those sexy shapeshifters, gentlemen ghosts, misunderstood demons and witches, and intergalactic leaders. You’ll find all of these otherworldly heartthrobs -- and the strong, sexy women who make their perfect matches -- in this captivating collection of paranormal titles from Crimson Romance.

Titles include:

Of Eternal Life: Micah Persell
Her Ghost Wears Kilts: Kathleen Shaputis
A Demon in Waiting: Holley Trent
The Garnet Dagger: Andrea R. Cooper
The Peacekeeper’s Soul: Candace Sams
Embrace the Fire: Spring Stevens
Swamp Magic: Bobbi Romans
Discovery: Lisa White
Fated Souls: Becky Flade
The Nymph’s Labyrinth: Danica Winters

Available at Amazon

Chapter One Of Eternal Life by Micah Persell

Abilene Miller, sitting cross-legged on the floor, squinted at the rolls of gauze on the shelf in front of her through the fringe of her lashes. When the gauze blended into something resembling a snow-covered mountain, she sighed with satisfaction and leaned her head back against the wall behind her. The supply closet was the coolest place in the hospital, and with this little trick, she could almost fool herself into thinking she was not in the God-forsaken Mojave Desert.

“Southern California, you lying bitch,” she murmured as she took a vehement bite from her peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Dreams of rolling ocean waves, vibrant night life, and Disneyland had quickly given way to the reality that was Needles, California: a small town of 4,000 outside of the Mojave National Preserve.

Of course, the two military recruiters who had come to her hometown of Aspen, Colorado, right after med school to convince her to come work in their “cutting edge” research facility had played up those very tourist attractions in a way that merited a court martial for perjury. If that was even a thing that could happen. She didn’t know. Military I am not, she thought in amusement as she set aside her sandwich for a baggie of Oreos.

She sighed again, this time in disgust. Top 5 percent of my class at Duke University Medical School, and I get duped. She hadn’t even begun her residency, and these guys had wanted her. Really, really wanted her. Enough to throw an obscene amount of money at her, making “no” an impossibility. And if she had thought it was suspicious that they wanted to hire her before she had even seen the facility, the pull of finally being on her own had overshadowed the oddity.

She snorted. “On her own” was proving to be an elusive concept. In fact, she felt as though every step she took was measured. She lived in a military dormitory with the four other women who worked in the labs. They all carpooled to work each morning, and the head of the hospital, Major Taylor, seemed to lurk around every corner, as aware of her movements as her overbearing parents.

Abilene knew she’d made a mistake in taking this job. She just so badly needed to prove herself. What was that old adage? If it sounds too good to be true, don’t effing move into a military compound?

“Abilene, you in here?”

She gave an unfeminine grunt in response and returned her attention to her Oreos. The door edged open, and Dahlia looked in.

“Oh, Abi, hon, are you fantasizing that the gauze is snow again?”

“Among other things,” Abilene replied.

Dahlia shut the door behind her and sank down to the floor beside Abilene, reaching over and snagging an Oreo from the baggie. She turned her warm caramel-colored eyes toward Abilene.

“Tough day?”

Abilene met her friend’s gaze. “Dahlia, how many patients have you seen today?”

Understanding lit in her friend’s eyes. Dahlia had been at the facility longer than Abilene. She had been recruited straight out of the University of Pennsylvania, also before her residency, and had been working here for nearly ten months. From their talks, Abilene knew it had been a long ten months.

“Abi, I haven’t seen any patients today. You know that.”

Abilene nodded. Both women had come to this hospital in part because they believed in the cause. According to the military recruitment team that had visited each of them, the government was conducting an experiment in which they planned to refurbish small, abandoned military buildings in rural areas. These facilities would be for the local population as well as for the processing of the armed forces’ medical tests. The facilities would employ civilian doctors, but they would be funded by the government and sanctioned by the military.

It was nice in theory; however, the largely Native American population in Needles viewed any help from the government with suspicion, understandably so, and avoided the new hospital as though they still used plague-ridden blankets — a reaction the government had to have expected, which lead Abilene to wonder what the real purpose of this facility was. It was hard to believe she and the other women were here just to run labs.

“What are we doing here?” Abilene pushed a hand through her short blonde curls in frustration. “Damn it, I want to see patients. I want to save lives. I want to do something.” Dahlia broke eye contact and looked at the floor.

Abilene blew out a breath. “Sorry.” She offered a smile. She’d gotten carried away again. “Jeez, I’m sorry, Dahlia. I know you’re frustrated, too.”

Dahlia gave Abilene’s knee a squeeze. “Hey,” she shrugged, “the government is paying us to run labs and make friends. What’s to complain about?” She rose to her feet in effortless grace, turning to offer Abilene a hand up. “Come on. Treat you to a Diet Coke from the vending machine?”

This was turning into a tradition among the women at the hospital. Whenever one of them had a meltdown, it always ended with Diet Coke, which, personally, Abilene loathed. The other women sucked it down like ambrosia.

“Oh baby, you know just what I like,” Abilene said in a breathy voice, grasping Dahlia’s proffered hand while shoving thoughts of her disappointing career aside. She rose to her feet, much less gracefully than Dahlia. “You and your weird Swan Lake moves suck, you know,” she grumbled.

Dahlia chuckled and glided out into the hall.

• • •

Awareness flooded his senses so quickly he choked on his gasp of air. For several moments all he could do was gulp as his body took over in its need for oxygen. His lungs burned. He could hear his ragged breaths echoing around him, bouncing around an empty cavern.

Where am I?

His instinct urged him to take in any details he could. He heard a measured beep. His frantic mind wouldn’t place it. In fact, he couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything but that hysterical pull of air. Panic crept into the edges of his consciousness, causing his heart rate to thump.

Where was he? What was happening? Why was he … afraid?

God, not fear.

His mind clamped down on him. Fear was dangerous.

Regulate breathing. Determine surroundings. He clenched his teeth behind closed lips. Slowly, steadily, he drew a measured breath through his nose. The debilitating fear in his chest abated. Again, an internal voice whispered.

He pulled another breath through flared nostrils, this time blowing it out between parted, parched lips. As the panic receded, he noticed the incessant beeping slowed. In an instant, he discerned the beeping: his own heart rate.

A medical facility.

I’m hurt? He took mental inventory of his body. The sudden awareness of his limbs brought an onrush of pain. His bones felt crushed, agony knifed through him, and he groaned in the back of his throat.

Pain. Familiar pain. He was not a stranger to this anguish. He eased his eyes open. An involuntary moan escaped his lips, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the bright lights.

“1457, subject is stirring. Shows signs of light-related visual pain.”

Intense, animal fear arose at the sound of the clinical voice above his head. At the alarming reference to a subject.

As in test subject? Ah, God …

He held his breath as he processed this new information, what the presence of that voice meant.

I’m not alone.

For some reason, instead of calming him, this revelation ratcheted the terror tighter, to the snapping point. The inner voice whispered urgently:

This man is dangerous.

A lock fell from a hidden cache of information in his brain. He recognized the voice that whispered to him. The Voice had been his constant companion since this nightmare had begun. Now, the Voice whispered the identity of the other person in the room: The Tormentor. The beep above his left shoulder sped up as panic rushed in again. The muscles in his arms and legs clamped down as his mind scrambled over fight-or flight.

This involuntary movement caused more pain to slice through him, and he just stopped another moan from rising out of his chest. He could not let himself make any sounds of distress. Another revelation from that hidden instinct: Hide your suffering. He loves it.

Oh, God. How did he know that? There was no doubt in his mind that he knew that from personal experience. This newest revelation solved his fight-or-flight dilemma: flight.

He moved his left arm infinitesimally to determine how much pain he would be dealing with when he fled. He became aware of the cold, cutting metal impeding further movement.

A new flare of panic. Oh, no. Not that. He moved his arm again and met the same immovable restraint. He tried to move his feet. He was shackled. The sharp edges of the metal binding his wrists and ankles bit into his skin, adding to the buffet of pain, but his terror would not allow him to cease his struggles.

His mind screamed at him, urging his body to do the impossible.

“1500, subject is showing usual onset of panic at regained consciousness. Thrashing has opened wounds at the sites where he is restrained.”

The last of his confusion melted away. He remembered. He remembered everything, and knew he was lost. There would be no escape, just as there had been no escape for the past eight years. He’d been through this before. The panicked awakening. The fierce pain swamping every corner of his existence. The dawning horror of remembered tortures.

When he forced his eyes open, ignoring the sting of the bright operating room lights, a familiar figure approached.

“Always such a fuss, hmm, Eli?” The Tormentor tsked. Eli recoiled. His name was not safe with that man. He never heard it without being reminded that he had no control over himself or his situation.

His struggles against the metal restraints now resulted in a rather satisfying cacophony, but still only caused blood to drip down his arms and pool beneath his feet. The Tormentor approached, eyeing the damage Eli had done to himself with a sadistic leer that turned Eli’s stomach.

“Blood is strength, you know.” The Tormentor shook his head in mock-sorrow. “What a pity that you seem to hold it in such low regard.”

A feral growl resonated in Eli’s chest, and he punched his head up from the stretcher to glare into the Tormentor’s eyes. “I’m going to kill you.

I’m going to make sure everyone knows what you’ve done here, and then,” he paused to ensure the Tormenter was looking at him, “I’m going to kill you.”

The Tormentor cocked an eyebrow and raised a recording device to chin level. “0817, subject is displaying the symptoms of aggression that have heretofore been associated with memory recollection. Has threatened death. Again.” He clicked off the recording device and slipped it into the pocket of his scrubs.

“‘What I’ve done here,’ hmm?” He leaned down until his face almost touched Eli’s. “What I’ve done here is what you signed up for, soldier.

Nothing more, nothing less.” He straightened with a sneer and turned toward the door.

One of the two guards on the other side of the see-through barrier keyed a code into the door, and the hiss of released pressure and a grinding of gears announced that the door was unlocked. The Tormentor paused with his hand on the handle and turned to announce over his

shoulder, “Number 140 begins in four hours. Perhaps you should use this time to gather your strength instead of waste it.” He twisted the handle and left the room.

Four hours.

In just four hours they were going to conduct their one hundred fortieth experiment.

Number 14: gunshot wound to the chest. The cold feel of steel pushed against his sternum. The force of the bullet driving his body into the unforgiving metal at his back. Gunpowder stinging his nostrils as his teeth chattered from the cold caused by his bleeding out.

Number 58: asphyxiation by smothering. Excruciating burning in his lungs. The flailing of his limbs as he fought the restraints in a need to knock the oppressive hand from his mouth and nose. Stars dotting his vision as his brain fought the lack of oxygen.

His heart rate sped up to match his ragged breathing. Number 100: dismemberment. He couldn’t stifle the moan that memory dredged up, hearing in his mind the buzz of the bone saw, feeling the heat of whirring metal on flesh. His Tormentor had informed him that they had wanted to make the one hundredth “special.”

He was panting like an animal now. Four hours. In four hours, they were going to kill him.

For the one hundred fortieth time.

About the Author:

Micah Persell, winner of the 2013 Virginia HOLT Award of Merit for her first novel Of Eternal Life, holds a bachelor's degree in English and a double master's degree in literature and English pedagogy. She is an avid reader of all types of literature, but has a soft spot for romance. She currently teaches high school English classes in Southern California. Her paranormal romance series, Operation: Middle of the Garden, and her "wild and wanton" editions of Austen's Emma and Persuasion are available now through Crimson Romance.

www.micahpersell.com

www.twitter.com/MicahPersell
www.facebook.com/MicahPersell
www.goodreads.com/MicahPersell

More Than Friends by Tabetha Thompson 1st Chapter, Teaser and Giveaway

More Than Friends (The Friend Zone #2) Author: Tabetha Thompson Published: May 3, 2014 Links: Goodreads | Amazon | B&N | Smashwords

Chloe’s newfound love for Skye grows more and more every day. Never before has she been so enamored by someone. Could that be a bad thing for her though? With all thoughts of Skye and still recovering from her recent attack, Chloe is distracted. Her recently acquired tunnel vision only allows her to see Skye and she misses all the details of the things going on outside her hospital room.
Skye’s love for Chloe becomes stronger every day and so does his instinct to protect her. With Todd still on the loose, the roses that keep appearing on Chloe’s apartment door, Tom’s odd behavior and Sarah missing, Skye is determined more than ever to never leave Chloe’s side. Will Skye’s determination to protect her from Todd, her friends, and even herself be their undoing?

 

1st Chapter Sneak Peek!

Chloe
I should have told you how I feel Too much time has passed, but it’s still real Come back to me so that I can make it right Come back to me so that I can hold you tight I hid in the shadow Till the time was right You finally found me and pulled me into your light
The sound of a guitar floats through the silent void and fills the darkness with its beautiful melody. A deep, sorrowful male voice fills the dark space, singing the somber lyrics to a song I’ve never heard before. His voice is enticing, seductive but mostly sad. I know that voice, the recognition ignites something deep inside of me. The sound of my heart thudding in my ears grows louder as the excitement takes over.
It’s in that moment I realize I can’t move. Panic and desperation immediately drown out the warm fuzzy feeling, grabbing hold of me, like thick, icy claws wrapped around my throat. Why can’t I move? Why is everything so dark? Where am I?
My body is numb and feels like it’s filled with lead. I feel as if I’m suffocating. Just when I think I’m about to run out of oxygen, a clicking and wheezing noise rises above the sounds of the guitar. My lungs slowly expand, almost to the point of pain, as precious oxygen is pumped into them. There's a beeping sound coming from somewhere behind the dark curtain of nothing . The high pitch noise continues strong and steady.
The music suddenly stops and I hear a click. Why can’t I open my eyes? I plead with my body to move, but get nothing. The more I struggle, the higher my frustration level rises. There is nothing worse than feeling trapped or helpless and in this moment I feel both.
The panicked feeling from moments before quickly intensifies taking over ever one of my senses. My chest tightens in fear and anxiety. My heart rate speeds, and the shrill beeping sound is no longer steady. Its rapid ear piercing wail, sounds like the warnings of a bomb about to detonate. The combined emotions wash over me like a wave and I’m caught in its undertow, on the verge of drowning.
Counting backwards from ten, I attempt to calm down so I can try to get a handle on the situation.
What happened to me? Where am I? Who is that singing? What’s that damn beeping noise? Most importantly, why can't I move? I try to open my eyes to see what’s going on around me, but my lids are heavy and aren't responding to my command. Next I try to move my arm, then my legs and I'm sadly left with nothing. I want to cry, scream, throw a fit or punch something. I am so furious and frustrated.
Question after question assaults my mind. I try for several long minutes to come up with the answers, but all I’m left with are blanks. There's something; some significant detail that I'm missing, or that is just out of my reach. Whispering voices break through my silent meltdown and I jump forgetting that Skye was near me earlier. Or was that just in my head? I'm so mixed up right now, I don’t know what to do. “How has she been this morning?”
Oh, thank god! It’s Sara. I’ve never felt so relieved in my life. I try to call out her name but my voice only echoes in my mind.
“There’s no change.” Skye! He was really with me. Where is here? I'm so happy to have him near me but it hurts to hear his voice laced with so much sadness.
“I guess that’s a good thing, considering.” Skye says. Considering what? His voice doesn't sound like it usually does. Instead of the smooth and sexy voice I’m fond of, it’s thick with melancholy and shaken with sadness.
“Has the doctor been in yet?” Sara asks. Doctor? What. The. Fuck. Happened? I growl in frustration.
“I don’t know. I just got here a few minutes ago. Someone should be in soon, though,” he responds.
The room goes silent, with the exception of the ever-present beeping noise that has finally slowed back down to a steady almost soothing rhythm. Soft, warm hands envelop my own. Sara steels herself with a deep breath, “Chloe, sweetie.” She tries to hide the sorrow in her voice, and she may very well be able to convince everyone else that she’s not upset, but I know her better than that. “You’ve got to wake up, sweetie. I miss you so much.” I can almost hear the sound of my heart shattering like glass. Sara is the strongest one of us, always the unwavering rock. If she’s upset, there’s usually a very good reason to be.
My arm is lifted and pressed against something warm and soft. Tiny, warm drops of what I assume are tears slide over the top of my hand. “I’m going to find a doctor or a nurse,” she says to Skye and the bed shifts. She’s gone.
No, Sara! Don’t leave me! Come back! My panicked cry is left unheard, never making it past my lips as I’d intended.
Not knowing what in the hell is going on and with Sara now gone, the crying begins again. Only no tears are shed and no one hears my whimpers. My body lies motionless, but on the inside I’m shaking violently. My internal self is in so much turmoil that I'm on the verge of another anxiety attack.
What am I going to do? God, help me please. I chant to myself. Sara’s soft palm is replaced by a strong, callused one and large, strong fingers lace with mine. I don’t need to see to know who those fingers belong to. Only Skye could cause the warmth that rushes through me with just a touch. No matter how innocent it is it still has the same effect on me.
A moan echoes inside my mind at the memory of what those skillful, loving fingers can do. The night he cornered me in Tom's office and worked me over with his hands and warm talented mouth is definitely a moment I will never forget. While one palm envelops mine, another reaches up and strokes the side of my face. Soft, warm lips touch my temple, and that one tiny kiss turns my insides into a tizzy. A thousand little lightning bugs war with each other to take flight in my stomach.
His voice is near my ear and is barely above a whisper when he says, “Chloe, I know you can hear me. I feel it in my soul. I can only imagine how scared you are right now. Baby, I’m sorry. I should never have left you.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath and continues. “We’re all here for you. Tom, Sara, the band. Me. Hon, you gotta wake up. You’re strong and stubborn enough to make it through this, but you have to fight. Come back to me, Chloe.”
The entire time he is speaking in my ear my focus isn’t on his words but the warm breath that brushes against the skin on my ear. His lips touch my temple again. I desperately want to reach up, grab his face, and pull his lips to mine. I want to lose myself in him. I want to devour that clever mouth until we are both gasping for air and dizzy.
Skye has only been back in my life for a short time, but I’m happier than I’ve ever been. Since I walked into Tom’s office at BAR and saw him sitting in that chair, there’s been something pulling me to him. The pull is too strong to ignore, nor would I want to anymore even if that were an option. No man has ever effected me in such a manner and I know that no man ever will. No matter how hard I tried to deny my rapidly growing feelings for him, it's no use. My heart won out over my head and will continue to do so where he is involved. It was a hard lesson to learn but I know this now.
The small amount of time we spent together before I landed in this darkness was amazing. Everything about us just feels right; like we belong to the other. My heart beats to the sound of his name. My soul craves his touch, his closeness and his love. I have no doubt in my mind that he is my soul mate.
Growing up every little girl dreams of finding "the one." That one person that becomes one with you. The one you grow old with blissfully in love forever. The same one that is portrayed in fairy tales and happy romance novels and chick flicks. The only other person in the world that was meant to be yours. Living the life I have lived, I never believed I had some out there destined to bet my "One" but I know without a measure of doubt that I have found him.
There will be no more denying the passion I feel for this man. I physically ache to be with him, even now when I’m surrounded by the shadows. I want him to be a part of me always, and in every way imaginable. Skye and Skye alone is the reason my heart is no longer surrounded by ice or stone.
The moment my eyes laid on this dark-haired, green-eyed Adonis, I knew my life would never be the same. In less than twenty-four hours he somehow managed to shatter every single wall I placed around my heart.
Skye's hand is still gently stroking my hair, completely oblivious to the life altering revelation I’m having. I’m exhausted and overwhelmed, mentally as well as physically. The soothing motion of his caresses have just about lulled me to sleep, but then he begins to whisper the lyrics to Michael Jackson's I Just Can't Stop Loving You. The words are not accompanied by music, just the sweet lull of his voice. Every inch of me melts at the way he conveys the meaning of the song to me. He pours every ounce of love and adoration into his voice convincing me that he means every word.
I can feel sleep tugging at me as nears the end of the song and I fight it. I don’t want to be alone in the dark silence. I want to stay here with Skye and his beautiful voice, his loving touch and his words of encouragement. Its where I belong.
I fight against the heavy pull of slumber, I fight against the darkness and I will always fight against any and everything that tries to pull me away from the man I love.
However, once the beeping is gone and the numbness settles in, I know I have lost the fight, for now.

 

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Hair of the Corn Dog by A.K. Turner Review & First Chapter

Title: Hair of the Corn Dog
Genre: Humor
Author: A.K. Turner
Publisher: Fever Streak Press
Pages: 220
Format: Hardcover/Kindle
Purchase at AMAZON

In the latest laugh-out-loud confessional from A.K. Turner's "Tales of Imperfection" series, the author of This Little Piggy Went to the Liquor Store and Mommy Had a Little Flask relates her adventures on the Jersey Shore, at an Idaho drag show with her in-laws, and surviving the perils of an elementary school ice-cream social with equal parts wit and heart. The laughter pairs well with two parts cocktail.

Chapter 1

Humpin’ Hannah’s

Humpin’ Hannah’s seems determined to communicate via its name that it welcomes all manner of people, especially those without class and with questionable hygiene. If you’re in from out of town and want a slightly rednecky place to have a few beers and maybe win a d***o, then it’s perfect. These days, I’d like to hold my head high and say with confidence that I don’t hang out at a place that awards plastic replicas of the male genitalia to the most enthusiastic dancers. And I’m all for d****s, really. I’m no prude.

If a bar has Humpin’ in the name, I’m compelled to object. First of all, is it so hard to pronounce the g? And what is the object of the phrase, as in humpin’ Hannah’s what? What is it of Hannah’s that’s being humped? Or is Hannah the humper? Does she hump compulsively? Is there a support group that might be of some help to her? Is she a promiscuous young lady? Or a dog that behaves inappropriately with the legs of guests at her master’s dinner parties?

            Humpin’ Hannah sounds like she might be a good fit for Dirty Little Roddy, whose establishment is just a block or so away. While a few drinks topped off with a dollop of peer pressure can convince me to enter Humpin’ Hannah’s, I’ve made a solemn vow to never again frequent Dirty Little Roddy’s. I’m way too uptight and pretentious to hang out at a place that doesn’t even try to be clean—and instead proudly proclaims its filth in its name. Of course, I wasn’t always so uptight and pretentious, and in our first few years in Boise, I went there a handful of times with friends. This was before children. My level of accepted debauchery lowered once I became a parent. Not that a baby would ever know I’d been to Dirty Little Roddy’s, but still. It seems wrong to give birth and be responsible for the welfare of a new life in this world, only to get a babysitter so that I can get drunk on vodka and Red Bull while riding a mechanical bull at a smelly bar. If I’m going to hire a babysitter to go out, I want overpriced drinks and marble floors, d*mn it.

            Maybe Humpin’ Hannah is too good for Dirty Little Roddy, I thought as we entered. The place didn’t look so bad. I was accompanied by my husband, Mike, and our friend Kelly, an old friend, all-around good guy, and occasional drinking buddy. We played a few games of pool and drank horrible mixed drinks (how do you sc**w up a rum and coke?) until realizing that beer was the safer option. The band readied itself for the evening. I’d heard that the lead singer was also the owner of the club. By owning the establishment, she guaranteed that her band would headline the show every Friday and Saturday night. I’m sure in her day, she was quite the rocker. She had the figure and the moves of a younger version of herself, yet her voice strained to keep up, and I wondered how many more years of it she had in her. Incidentally, her name was not Hannah.

            A group of bikers from Utah invaded the place, and I felt a slight apprehension for Kelly. He’s a big guy and often the target of little guys with something to prove. Not that bikers from Utah are little guys with something to prove. But whenever anyone portrays outward aggression, I fear for Kelly. People pick fights with him.

            Kelly loves to dance. He’s good at many things, and dancing ranks pretty high on the list. But he’s single and doesn’t often have someone with whom to dance. So Kelly and I took to the dance floor, probably for something along the lines of “Brown-Eyed Girl” or “Sweet Home Alabama,” one of those songs that people my age have heard about five thousand times too many. Kelly was a good dancer, and I was able to follow, if clumsily so. But Kelly may have had a few too many drinks at that point. He spun me around, our hands missed each other on the catch, and I watched in horror as Kelly lumbered backwards in slow motion. I felt like I should scream “Timber!” to the dance floor, but there was no way I’d be heard above the band. A bouncer standing off to the side eyed us narrowly as Kelly came crashing down, bumping into a group of the bikers and their girlfriends along the way. I immediately began a chorus of “Sorry, so sorry,” and hoped that no one would start swinging. Kelly got to his feet, and we moved farther from the crowd to finish out the song. No one approached with brass knuckles and a puffed-up chest to avenge their tarnished honor, and I breathed a sigh of relief, though one of the girls did sneer at us, as if we’d set out to bump her and therefore ruin her night. I wanted to tell her that when she sneered like that, she was terribly unattractive, but then I remembered that I’m an adult, so I bit my tongue.

            Mike and I danced to a few songs and then, giving each other the look, agreed that we were done. We bade farewell to Kelly, who wanted to stay out later, and left to find a cab.

            On the drive home, I said to Mike, “I hope he’s going to be all right.”

            “Don’t worry,” Mike said. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

            “Who are you worried about?” the cabbie asked.

            “We left a friend back there at a bar,” Mike explained.

            “And he’s kind of drunk,” I added.

            “And he’s a really big guy, and sometimes people pick fights with him,” Mike said.

            “And he’s single and by himself.” As I spoke, a frown took hold of my face.

            “And we left him in a bar full of bikers,” Mike concluded.

            Mike and I looked at each other, and the more we voiced the facts of the situation, the more we felt like horrible parents, as if Kelly was our baby and we’d abandoned him in the company of dangerous strangers.

            “I’m sure your buddy will be fine,” said the cabbie. An identification card said his name was Ryan.

            “I bet you see some pretty crazy stuff,” I said, partly because I was interested, partly because I wanted to switch the subject from Kelly’s welfare, but mostly because this is what I do when we take cabs home. I ask the drivers to tell me stories about crazy, drunk people, because it makes me feel that however horribly I’ve sc**wed up in my life, I’ve never been that bad. Hearing stories of the bad behavior of others makes me feel less alone in the world. And a little bit better about myself.

            “I once had a couple pay me to drive around while they scr***d in the backseat.”

            “No way!” I said.

            “I swear. They used to call me all the time to take them different places. Then one night they called and asked if I could pick them up from their house because they were going out to celebrate their fifteenth wedding anniversary. So I pick them up, and as I’m driving them to a restaurant, they say to me, ‘We plan on getting a little crazy, so if we shock you, don’t freak out.’”

            “What did you think that meant?” I asked.

            “I really had no idea. So I take them to this restaurant, and they call me again a few other times throughout the night. Restaurant to bar. Bar to bikini bar. Bikini bar to home.”

            “What’s a bikini bar?” I asked.

            “You know, like a strip club,” Mike said.

            “Oh right.” I nodded. “You mean like the Idaho equivalent of a strip club.” In Idaho, you can either serve alcohol or have naked dancers, but not both. This doesn’t work that well for the places with naked dancers because it turns out that most people want to be drunk for sexploitation.

            “So, I pick them up from the bikini bar and take them home, and I’m driving along, and all the sudden it gets really quiet. Like something’s changed. Then my seat lurches forward. He’s basically lifted her up and put her on his lap.”

(I omitted the rest of the cab Driver's stories).

The next day, I waited until late afternoon to call Kelly and see how he’d fared the night before. I wanted to make sure he was still alive, that he hadn’t been beaten up by bikers and left in an alley. I’m not assuming that the bikers were bad people. They could have been Mormon bikers for all I know. Actually, strike that. I’m sure there are Mormon bikers out there, but I don’t think they pound beer and dance for di***s. And I don’t like to think of myself as someone who judges others on appearance alone, but if you’re trying to look tough and aggressive, I’m at least going to assume you are aggressive, and that appeared to be the case in the situation at Humpin’ Hannah’s. When I finally got a hold of Kelly, he was, indeed, alive.

“Oh…” he mumbled.

“Kelly?”

“Yeah…” He did not sound good.

“I just wanted to make sure you made it home last night.”

“Yeah, yeah I did. I stayed for a little longer. And then I was headed home, but when I got home, my neighbors were throwing a party.”

“Oh no.” Kelly’s neighbors are four college kids and technically his tenants. I’m not saying that we didn’t party like they do when we were back in college, but that was fifteen years ago. And one’s ability to keep up dwindles over time.

“I remember drinking shots of tequila,” Kelly continued.

“That’s not good.”

“No, no it’s not. But they had some girls over. And they were all playing beer pong. And I remember they were playing strip beer pong.”

I confess that I do not know what beer pong is, have never played beer pong, and I have no intention of ever doing so. Though I’m sure I’d be fantastic at it. I can only assume that beer pong is an updated version of what we called quarters back in my day. I’m not sure what strip beer pong entails, but I assume that in addition to getting drunk, you get naked.

“And the girls were losing,” Kelly continued. “So that was cool.”

“So you watched a bunch of college kids get drunk and naked.”

“Let’s call them men and women.”

“Don’t want to be the creepy landlord?”

“No, no I don’t.”

“Okay, so you watched a bunch of men get naked,” I said.

“Amanda!”

“Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

“And then they were talking about shotgunning beer. And I told them they didn’t stand a chance against me.”

“And did they stand a chance?”

“Are you forgetting that I played rugby?” Kelly asked.

Kelly and Mike played rugby together in college. The goal of joining a rugby team is to make it through the season with really cool scars, but without an actual visit to the hospital, and to get rip-roaring drunk with great frequency.

But rugby players don’t just drink shots or shotgun beer. They put various substances, like alcohol and spit, into the cleat of the biggest player on the team. And those who score a tri (like a goal, only the rugby version) have to drink this disgusting and likely dangerous concoction at the party afterward. It’s a stupid ritual, accompanied by chants from the teammates of “Shoot the boot! Shoot the boot!” If I had been in that scenario, I would purposefully have been a horrific rugby player.

Lucky for Mike, he had me. He would often skip the after-party, telling his teammates that he couldn’t go because he had to go home with “the wife.” This was a total lie. I was more of a partier than my husband and would gladly have gotten drunk with the rugby team, especially since no one was going to ask me to shoot the boot. But I encouraged my husband to lie and blame me for the fact that he couldn’t party after the game, because I could tell that the idea of shooting the boot and some of the other rugby rituals were as disgusting to him as they were to me.

Kelly, on the other hand, was not married, and when he and Mike played rugby together, Kelly often attended the after-party and took his already impressive drinking skills to new heights.

“So you put the college kids to shame then?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He groaned. “But do me a favor.”

“Sure thing.”

“Next time we go out, and you guys are ready to go home, make me go home, too.”

I gave Kelly my word, just as I’d vowed the night before to carry some sort of plastic sheeting with me at all times from that point forward. It had to be small enough to fit in my purse, but large enough to cover the backseat of a standard cab. 

 About the Author:

A.K. Turner is the author of This Little Piggy Went to the Liquor Store, Mommy Had a Little Flask, and Hair of the Corn Dog, as well as a co-author of Drinking with Dead Women Writers and Drinking with Dead Drunks. Her work has been featured in various publications and anthologies, including Folio Literary Magazine, Leave the Lipstick, Take the Iguana, and I Just Want to Be Alone. A former writer-in-residence and creator of "The Writers' Block" on Radio Boise, she lives in Idaho with her exceedingly tolerant husband and two daughters.

Learn more at AKTurner.com.

Connect & Socialize!

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Hair of the Corn Dog Tour Page:

http://www.pumpupyourbook.com/2014/04/02/pump-up-your-book-presents-hair-of-the-corn-dog-virtual-book-publicity-tour/

My Review:

This author writes today's version of Erma Brombeck's books. There were times that I laughed so hard that I cried. She is honest and fast as she relates her experiences with the reader. I would love to have the author live with me for one week so she can tell me her take on my life! I have no doubt that I would be a lot less stressed out afterwards. My favorite part is of course the part about her in-laws. Especially the discussion about getting pets at the Hyde Park Street Fair. There are so many issues mentioned in this book that come with raising a family. Money, Planned Parenthood, and even recent movies. There are so many crazy moments that I could relate too, maybe not in the same exact way, but we have all been there when the kids say something that they are not supposed to! I can not wait to read the rest of this author's books. I hope she never stops writing. I am giving this book a 5/5. I was given a copy to review, however all opinions are my own. ( I am going to look up her other books now)!

A Promise in Pieces by Emily T. Wierenga Review, First Chapter and Giveaway

This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing A Promise in Pieces Abingdon Press (April 15, 2014) by Emily T. Wierenga

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

A Word from the Author:

I’m Emily, and I’m honored and humbled to meet you, friend. We’re all stumbling along on this journey and you can approach me about anything okay? I’m an open book, with dog-eared pages and a worn cover.

I’m mama to two boys, ages two and four, and married to a farm-boy-turned-math-teacher. We live in a small Dutch hamlet with three churches, one Co-Op and no stop lights. There are a lot of fields out here, there’s a lot of space and sky for breathing and running and writing.

We foster two boys in addition to our own two, and before I had kids, I took care of my Mum who had brain cancer. She fought back and has recovered, all glory to God, and my pastor-father still holds her hand while they go for daily walks.

I battled anorexia nervosa as a child, and then again as a newly married woman, and I write a lot about body image now and have a passion for women to learn to love themselves.

My husband and I have battled infertility and are currently trying to adopt our third child through the local Alberta government.

I hurt for the church, and believe in it, and pray for it, as I’ve grown up inside its walls and have heard its groanings.

I have a heart for Africa, particularly Uganda, and went there in January on a bloggers’ trip with World Help.

My favorite things to do are read literary novels, play guitar, snowboard, paint with oil and acrylics and hug my babies.

I am the author of two books on eating disorders, a novel releasing this spring, and a memoir coming out this summer.

I hope you’ll connect with me on FB: https://www.facebook.com/emilytwierenga, or if you prefer, Twitter: @emily_wierenga. I’d love to have a virtual glass of wine, or cup of coffee, with you.

Peace to you friends,

e.

ABOUT THE BOOK

After the end of World War II, Clara Kirkpatrick returns from the Women’s Army Corp to deliver a dying soldier’s last wishes: convey his love to his young widow, Mattie, with apologies for the missed life they had planned to share.

Struggling with her own post-war trauma, Clara thinks she’s not prepared to handle the grief of this broken family. Yet upon meeting Mattie, and receiving a baby quilt that will never cuddle the soldier’s baby, Clara vows to honor the sacrifices that family made.

Now a labor and delivery nurse in her rural hometown, Clara wraps each new babe in the gifted quilt and later stitches the child’s name into the cloth. As each new child is welcomed by the quilt, Clara begins to wonder whatever happened to Mattie—and if her own life would ever experience the love of a newborn. Little does she know that she will have the opportunity to re-gift the special quilt—years later and carrying even greater significance than when it was first bestowed.

If you would like to read the first chapter of A Promise in Pieces, go HERE.

My Review
There was a lot that I loved about this book. I loved that the grandmother told her story to her grandchildren. I also enjoyed that Clara was going to a "reunion" to honor the quilt. It gave the voices of the quilt a huge presence. The friendship between Clara and Mattie was one that started in tragedy, but grew to so much more than friendship. I cried as I heard the stories sewn into the quilt. This was also a great testimonial of how important women were during the war. As anything from nurses to baseball players, women made a huge impact on WWII. I am giving this book a 5/5. I was given a copy to review, however all opinions are my own.

I am giving away 1 print copy of the book to a lucky reader. Please enter here:
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