Women’s Fiction/Romance
Date Published: January 2016
Questions never asked don’t always remain unanswered.
A blood-stained journal holds the answers to secrets her mother took to the grave, but an enigmatic old man knows the answers–truths she never expected.
Another round of turmoil isn’t on her agenda, but when Ryleigh Collins discovers a blood-stained journal among her deceased mother’s belongings, her curiosity leads her to a puzzling Mark Twain look-alike who shatters her family history–and her sense of belonging.
Bearing a treasure chest of secrets and a deeply scarred heart, Ryleigh returns home to her ex-husband’s appeal to take him back. Overwhelmed, she seeks refuge in the quiet majesty of the Rocky Mountains. But as the snow deepens, so do her feelings for Logan Cavanaugh, the distinctly reserved resort owner.
Two lost souls collide in a paralyzing snowstorm, but when the skies clear, Logan surrenders to a deepening guilt he can’t fight. Ryleigh’s sense of abandonment is further compromised with his sudden departure, though she refuses to believe they’ve left their shared memories frozen in the mountains of Colorado.
She’s struggling with shocking truths while trying to move on; he’s caught in a crossfire of a battle he doesn’t know how to fight.
One woman. Three promises–one honored, one broken, one pledged.
Other books in the Whisper of the Pines Series:
Whisper of the Pines, Companion Novel
Publisher: Four Carat Press
Published: March 2016
Their paths never crossed, but their destiny is bound by blood.
Strangers separated by forty years and a bloody war, their only bond is a name engraved on The Wall. He walked in the shadow of fate. She stepped into the shadow of love.
A restless intimacy followed Ryan through the jungles of Vietnam, the fear, loneliness, and death camouflaged by the beauty of a country twelve thousand miles from home. He walked courageously toward his destiny and left his legacy—words written in a bloodstained journal—for the woman he loved and their infant daughter.
Encouraged by an enigmatic old man who sends her a journal identical to her father’s, Ryleigh composes her words when a second chance at love is cut short by ghosts from the past. No blood stains her journal, only the souvenirs of a broken heart.
Whisper of the Pines, Book 2
Publisher: Four Carat Press
Published: December 2016
What if the price of your wish is living without it?
Rachel Gowen wishes for nothing more than to escape the past decade—to safely lock away the memories that keep her from a future she can only dream about. But a Native American butterfly legend, Ambrose, a mysterious stranger who knows things he can’t possibly know, a cast of quirky characters long past their prime, and Nico, a tenacious and caring nursing assistant, plunge her down a path that will ignite the very memories she’s desperate to escape.
Rachel begins her new life as a nurse in a retirement facility. After all, how risky can it be working with the elderly? She quickly forms deep attachments to her patients, helping them in ways far beyond her duties. And when a casual stroll turns into a budding relationship with Ben, the handsome British doctor who’s too busy, too unromantic, and too distant—it may be exactly what she’s looking for.
But Rachel can’t conform to the rules. Nor can she deny the connection she shares with Nico. With her job in jeopardy, Rachel’s priorities and relationship with Ben are challenged. But one thing is certain—Ambrose knows the wishes she sent on the wings of the butterflies will be granted, but the price she’ll pay will upend her life.
Rachel is promised a thousand butterfly wishes—but all she wants is one.
Excerpt
Dreams die every day
Some drown in the endless churn of a washing machine,
some get lost under an avalanche of responsibilities
and still others suffocate in the wake of a broken promise.
Dreams die—disappearing with the sun in the western sky.
But a sprig of grass will sprout from a blanket of snow,
new life will be born when two become one,
and a phoenix will rise from the ashes left behind.
Dreams reborn—blooming with dawn’s radiant new light.
~sh~
Chapter One
SCARRED CORNERS FRAMED the small journal she pulled from the old shoebox. She
traced the cover with one finger, dark stains and pebbled leather disquieting, yet as oddly
familiar as the stale odor of cigarettes her mother promised to quit smoking and never did. Now
the tenuous reminder, void of the peppermints her mother nursed to disguise the smell,
threatened to unravel the tethers holding her together.
God, how she wished she could rewrite the last year.
With her legs crossed beneath her, Ryleigh Collins clutched the journal to her chest,
leaned against the wall of her mother’s apartment—as empty of her possessions as the world was
of her—and let the shadows of the waning morning swallow her.
“I can’t do this.” She grabbed a loose thread in the denim stretched over her knees and
yanked hard.
Two feet bundled in thick navy blue socks appeared in front of her. “Can’t do what?”
Ryleigh raised her eyes, moist with remembrance.
“Ah.” Natalie crossed her feet, lowered herself with the grace of a toned dancer, and
placed a firm, yet gentle hand on Ryleigh’s arm. “The personal stuff’s the hardest.”
After a pause, Ryleigh tucked the knot of emotions neatly back where they belonged and
turned. “I’m such a wimp.”
“You’ll get through this.” Natalie Jo Burstyn’s perfectly manicured brows knitted
together in a scowl that masked her usual playful grin. “I intend to see you do.”
The lump in her throat strangled the words she’d rehearsed since Natalie had offered to
drop everything to help. Of course she would. Her meddling best friend always seemed to know
exactly what to do. Or say. She grasped Natalie’s hand and squeezed.
Sometimes words got in the way.
Ryleigh released a long breath and straightened her legs. The journal tumbled to her lap.
“What’s that?”
She swiped a hand across the journal’s cover and then wiped them on her jeans. “An old
journal,” Ryleigh said, brushing away the dusty handprint.
“Don’t just sit there fondling it, open it.”
The binding creaked. Timeworn pages fanned in a graceful arch as if her touch had
resurrected them. Faded ink swirled across the unlined parchment, and the musty balm of old
paper and ink tapped at a recollection, distant and unformed, yet ripe for picking—but couldn’t
pluck it from her memory. Smudged and watermarked, the words danced across the aged pages.
She turned each one with care.
Nat leaned in. “Well?”
Ryleigh frowned. “Looks like a collection of poetry.”
“I didn’t know your mom wrote poetry.”
“This isn’t her handwriting,” Ryleigh responded without thought, “and my mother never
wrote anything more literary than a grocery list.”
Natalie peered over her shoulder. “Then whose?”
“Don’t know. Just an ‘R’ at the end of the entries.” The pages crackled as Ryleigh turned
each one. “And the year. ’66. ’67 on some.” A shiver feathered its way from her neck to the tips
of her fingers.
“Want to read it?” The familiar weight of Nat’s head settled on her shoulder. “Like old
times?”
She’d never considered not sharing something with Nat and quickly harnessed the
prickling urge to slam the book shut to prying eyes.
Careful not to damage the pages, she smoothed them flat, the tickle of selfishness
nibbling at her consistent, rational side. As she scanned the pages, she muttered lines at random,
the only autograph the watermarked scars of blurred ink. “The air is thick, gray ashen snow, the
ghost returns, its presence unfought.” She flipped the page. “Fireflies flicker against azure skies,
frolicking hither in reverent riverdance.” The weight against her shoulder anchored a covey of
troublesome thoughts, but Ryleigh continued to pluck lines from the pages. “Sodden showers of
infected rain, across crystal skies littered with fire.” She dragged a finger across an eyebrow.
“Intriguing.”
“You’re mumbling.”
“They dance to their reticent song.”
Natalie frowned. “Who?”
“Fireflies.” She tapped the page with her index finger. “One of the poems is about
fireflies. I wonder if they’re really like that.”
“Seriously?”
Ryleigh tucked a strand of hair behind an ear and closed the book with a finger marking
her place. “I’ve never seen one.”
“C’mon,” Nat said, crossing her arms. “Kids catch fireflies in jars all the time.”
“Not this small-town, sheltered Arizonan.”
“Come to think of it, I’ve never seen one since moving here.”
“They’re on my bucket list.”
Natalie opened and then shut her mouth. “You added to your bucket list without telling
me?”
The concentrated effort Nat used to curb her bewilderment caused Ryleigh to forget her
grief for a fleeting moment. “I’ll see one someday,” she said and reopened the book to the last
page.
“Read to me, Riles.” Nat folded her long legs beneath her, anticipation deepening her
eyes to warm chocolate. “Like when we were kids.”
Ryleigh glanced sideways at her. “I had to explain them to you.”
“So?” Nat said, the short word long on sarcasm. “It’s nostalgic.”
“Okay.” Ryleigh took a deep breath. “This is the last entry. It’s called ‘Lost.’”
“‘I placed my love inside your heart
and softly called your name—
I placed a hole inside of mine
as God’s heavenly angels came.
I placed a kiss of golden tears
upon your tiny chest—
I placed a rainbow at your door
the day you came to rest.
I placed a single pure white rose
upon your tiny feet—
I placed my hand against your cheek
and said good-bye, my sweet.
I placed a gentle autumn breeze
within your tiny space—
I placed with you, a piece of me
and let you go in God’s embrace.’”
~R~’67
The words stuck in her throat with painful intensity. Ryleigh dragged her finger over the
‘R’—the last letter in the journal. “Forty-three years ago.”
Natalie picked at a stray thread in the shredded knee of her True Religion jeans. “I’m not
very good at analyzing poems, but—”
“Whoever wrote this lost a baby.” Careful fingers traced the cover, the stained leather
unsettling, yet somehow comforting beneath her touch. Ryleigh’s neck prickled. A tear trembled
on the edge of her eye. “I feel like I’m eavesdropping,” she said and closed the book. Sheer will
eased the roiling in her stomach.
“Sounds like something you’d write.”
Ryleigh shook her head. “Cozy articles for The Sentinel on county fairs, care packages to
our soldiers, and Mrs. Grayson’s baby quilts don’t count. I haven’t written fiction or poetry in
years.”
“You should.”
Ryleigh raised the journal. “This is raw passion,” she said, sniffing back the telltale signs of
her emotion. “Emotion stripped naked.”
“Your work is like that. Peeking inside the places of your heart no one ever sees.”
“Maybe I don’t want anyone to see.”
Nat paused, and then wrapped her arm over Ryleigh’s shoulder. “Things will get better. I
promise.”
Nat’s words soothed her, a spoken ointment soothing a fresh wound.
* * *
The women sat cross-legged in the empty apartment sorting a mish-mash of items. One
scrap at a time, Ryleigh placed the pieces of her mother’s life into neat piles, turning each one
front to back, puzzled at how little she knew about the odd trinkets, mementos, and letters
safeguarded inside worn-out cardboard boxes. With one pile marked “Save” and the other to be
discarded, it occurred to her what a parallel her mother’s passing was to the death sentence
Chandler had given their marriage. Nothing remained but the pompous flashbacks of one and a
handful of useless trinkets from the other, and with one flick of the wrist (or philandering penis
in Chandler’s case), they are tossed aside with yesterday’s trash. Yet the part that remained—the
part that had wrapped itself around her heart—seemed useless to try to dismiss. Love doesn’t
stop with someone’s absence. Sometimes it grew heavier, the ache deeper, until the hurt no
longer gave in to tears.
The gravity of grief had exhausted her, and she felt as overused as the boxes that held her
mother’s meager belongings. Ryleigh pressed her fingers hard against her temples as if the
pressure would numb the ache and quench the niggling urge to leave it all behind and walk away.
Yet that wasn’t entirely true—the impulse to run bulldozed past any rational thought.
“You okay?”
Ryleigh rubbed the back of her neck. “Just tired.” Her hands fell to her lap. “It’s just,”
she said with a sigh, “none of this makes any sense.” Ryleigh picked up a patch embroidered
with an open-mouthed eagle’s head and tugged at the broken threads. “Who keeps junk like
this?”
Natalie shrugged.
“Or this?” She held up a single brass button. “Mom had hundreds of orphaned buttons.
Why isn’t this one with the others?”
“Don’t know,” Natalie said, straightening, “but I’m curious about the letters.”
Ryleigh stilled. “What letters?”
Natalie reached for the stack bound with a rubber band. “These,” she said, “postmarked
forty-something years ago with no return address.”
Fragments of Eleanor’s life lingered in Ryleigh’s hands—tokens she never bothered to
share. Or had she simply not paid attention when her mother spoke of these things? In either case
it was a moot point: she’d never bothered to ask. And now it was too late.
The items were meaningless, but an ambiguous feeling tapped at her like the annoying
click of a retractable pen. “I don’t want to save this crap, but it feels strange to think about
throwing it away. Does that sound weird?” She voiced the question with no expectations of a
reply.
“Of course it does,” Nat said, the usual lilt returning in her tone. She rose and brushed the
dust from the backside of her jeans. “But it doesn’t surprise me. You are weird.”
“Thanks,” Ryleigh said, reaching for the shoebox. The penciled sketches on the front had
faded, but the drawing of the stylish low-heeled dress shoes remained intact. Over the years, the
corners had become torn and sloppy and the lid slipped easily free. She placed the items inside
and then pressed the lid into place, concealing portions of her mother’s life, remnants absent of
explanation.
An empty feeling swept over her. “Something isn’t right, Nat.” In truth, it felt as if she’d
been yanked from the pages of a fairy tale and didn’t know how to find her way back.
Or if she truly wanted to.
“We’re almost done, Riles.” Natalie offered a hand up, her deep brown eyes glistening
with tiny flecks of copper in the afternoon light. “All that’s left is the desk.”
Ryleigh’s shoulders slumped. “I forgot.” She clasped the journal with one hand and
grabbed Natalie’s outstretched hand with the other. Nat had been her rock when she needed a
steady hand, yet waggish enough to celebrate the good times with all-out regale. Always there.
No matter what. With an achy groan that migrated through every forty-three-year-old bone, she
allowed her best friend to pull her upright.
A photograph fell to the floor between them.
Ryleigh reached it first. They rose together and turned toward the apartment window,
light spilling across the photograph. Yellowed and creased, and deckled edges crimped in several
places, it wore the markings of time.
“Wait…is that your father?”
Ryleigh nodded.
“Where’d this come from?”
“Must’ve been inside the journal.” She pushed the hair from her eyes. “Why didn’t Mom
ever show this to me?”
“Don’t know, but check out your father’s friend. The Kodak is faded, but he’s gorgeous.
Killer eyes,” she said, letting loose an exaggerated whistle.
Ryleigh flipped the photograph over. “Look at this,” she said, tracing a finger over faded
ink, a ghostly impression of time long passed. “Today this may be nothing, but tomorrow it may
be all that’s left.”
“An ‘R’ and 1967.” Natalie raised an eyebrow. “Just like the journal.”
“I wonder if my father’s friend is still alive? Is he the author?”
“Be fun to find out.”
“Fat chance. I’m a fair hand at research for inconsequential feature articles for my
column, but I’m no sleuth. I can’t find my phone half the time.” Ryleigh slumped. “Or keep track
of a husband and where he’s sleeping. Or with whom.”
“Ouch.” Natalie paused, cleared her throat, and then pointed to the photo. “The jungle
background. The dates. This was taken in Vietnam. It’s as good a place as any to start.”
Ryleigh tapped the photo three times against her fingers. She worried her bottom lip in a
series of successive tugs and slipped the photograph into the shoebox.
Natalie grinned. “Well, Sherlock? Shall we find him
About the Author
Susan Haught–award-winning author and Australian black liquorice addict–lives in Arizona’s Rim Country with her husband and spoiled Shih-Tzu, Mercedes, who believes her princess status earns her the right to sleep on pillows, ride shotgun, and train her peers in the fine art of squeaky toys. Her husband is almost as spoiled and almost as noisy with a proficiency in elk bugling. Susan and her husband have one son.
Susan writes contemporary women’s fiction & romance with the belief that Love is Ageless and has the power to change lives–one step, one touch, one kiss at a time.
Contact Links
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Sports Romance
Midsummer Madness Sale—or Sunstroke creates crazy ideas! For the first time, you can buy the first two books in Robyn M. Ryan’s Clearing the Ice trilogy for just $1.98 (or $.99 each). This offer is good only July 10-14. Regular price for the set is $6.98 ($2.99 and $3.99). Grab this red hot deal and add some semi-sweet romance to your beach reads!
Published: May, 2016
She wasn’t looking for love.
Struggling to live up to the high expectations of overprotective parents and a hefty family name, Caryn Stevens only wants one Summer of Fun before focusing on finishing her college degree. She knows her destiny: to follow her dad as CEO of his multi-million dollar business. But that plan changes forever one day when she runs into—literally—sexy and single major league hockey player, Andrew Chadwick.
But love came looking for her.
Sparks instantly fly between the two, and Caryn can’t resist his charms as she discovers that Andrew has a reputation of winning – both on and off the ice. One of the most eligible singles in Toronto, Andrew could have any woman he wants, and he’s got Caryn in sights. But, when Caryn’s parents disapprove of the match and threaten to disinherit her and his hockey team trades him to a new city, it make take more than love for the couple to survive this penalty play.
Published: January 24, 2017
They believe love conquers all.
One of pro-hockey’s golden couples, Andrew and Caryn Chadwick live in the limelight reserved for elite professional athletes. On their second anniversary, Andrew receives an unexpected contract offer to join the Tampa Suns. As they look forward to a new adventure, neither foresees an event that challenges their love and threatens their marriage.
Until it doesn’t.
A sudden and senseless accident threatens Andrew’s life and inexplicably drives a wedge between the couple. Shattered by the incident, paralyzed by fear that it could happen again, Caryn finds herself at odds with her husband and unable to provide the support he needs—at the time he is most vulnerable.
As their perfect world crumbles, each makes choices that take Andrew and Caryn further apart. Distrust, fears, and secrets construct walls. This Piece of My Soul follows the joint and separate paths the couple navigate as each hopes to rediscover the love that can conquer all.
This Piece of My Soul ends in a cliffhanger. The trilogy will conclude in This Piece of Our Being, anticipated release date Fall 2017
Excerpt from This Piece of My Soul
After a freak accident nearly takes Andrew’s life, he faces months of rehab. His goal—a complete recovery that will enable him to rejoin the Suns and compete at an elite level again. Caryn, however, fears that this accident wasn’t just a fluke. If it happened once…
Caryn decided to surprise Andrew one day when she visited. She’d gotten in the habit of pulling on the same old pair of jeans and whatever shirt was handy. She looked through her closet, finally selecting a brightly flowered dress that matched her mood. She took a little extra care with her makeup and hair, and even added a touch of perfume behind her ears.
Andrew’s surprised expression quickly turned into a warm smile when she entered the room, and he set aside his iPad and held his hand out to her as she walked toward the chair.
“Hello, gorgeous.” He grasped her hand and pulled her toward him. “You look sensational.” She perched on the arm of the chair, the warmth in his eyes spreading through her.
“Good day so far?” She kissed him, a brush across the lips.
“Right now I’d say freaking fantastic. Unless you’re wearing that dress just to torment me.”
“Not my intent.”
Andrew pulled her onto his lap, his fingers tracing the edge of the bodice. “My favorite dress, you know.”
“I thought you liked it.” Caryn’s stomach contracted expectantly at his touch. Her skin tingled beneath his fingers, and she kissed him gently. His arms closed around her, and Andrew held her tightly as his lips accepted her kiss, quickly deepening it. His hands grazed her skin, and tenderness quickly yielded to passion in a seemingly endless kiss.
Caryn knew her cheeks were flushed when she pulled back to catch her breath. Andrew touched her chin gently, his darkened eyes casting a spell she didn’t want to resist. He started to speak, then changed his mind, and guided her lips toward his again.
They might have forgotten they were in the hospital and allowed their emotions to lead them, finally given in to the desire Caryn knew raged within both of them, but Andrew unexpectedly pulled back. Caryn murmured a protest. He placed a finger gently against her lips, and then looked over her shoulder. She followed his gaze, feeling her cheeks burn when she saw Dan Forster.
“Doctor, your timing is incredible.” Andrew smiled wryly.
“Sorry to interrupt, Chadwick,” Forster retorted. “Busy day or I’d come back later.”
Caryn stood awkwardly and moved away from the chair, noticing that Andrew’s eyes followed her every movement. She shivered slightly, suddenly cold without his arms around her, every nerve in her body alive to his touch. She couldn’t take her eyes off him, even after he turned his attention to the doctor’s questions. She tried to concentrate on their conversation, but only a few words penetrated the haze of desire.
“I suppose you’ll be asking about putting a lock on that door,” Forster commented as he completed his entry on Andrew’s electronic chart.
Caryn blushed, but Andrew laughed. “Sounds like a good idea to me. When do I get some R&R with my wife?”
“Negotiate that at your own risk. You know the comings and goings of the staff better than I do. You’re making good progress, Andrew. You will move to the Rehab Center in the not-so-distant future.”
“Other than a relocation, how will that change anything?”
“More types of therapy than you are receiving now. We’ll focus on all your sensory systems, push you beyond your comfort zone. I’ll remain your primary doctor.”
“So we could incorporate the plan Pettit outlined?”
“That would serve as the center of your PT program.”
“And to move there, I have to…?”
“Andrew, I need to see significant improvement with your balance, the ability to walk with a cane, and no assistance with your personal needs.”
Caryn watched as Andrew processed this, then nodded with a smile. “I like goals.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.”
“I especially like goals when I’m scoring them during a game.”
Forster laughed. “Patience, Chadwick.”
Scoring goals in a game. The words literally knocked the wind out of Caryn as her mind flashed back to that night. Andrew diving to block the puck… the instant she knew he’d misjudged the angle, the puck crashing against the side of his head. Caryn turned her head, her heart racing and reached inside her purse. She grabbed the container for her anti-anxiety medicine, and fingered one into her hand while Andrew continued to chat with Forster. Neither appeared to notice as she swallowed it dry, and then Caryn concentrated on taking deep calming breaths. As soon as Dan walked from the room, Caryn stepped to the counter and opened a Diet Coke.
“Can I get you anything, Drew?”
“I’m good. Headache?”
Caryn looked over her shoulder at him and shrugged. “Just trying to avoid one.” She felt his eyes searching hers, and then he beckoned her to his side. He grasped her waist and pulled her onto his lap.
“You got so pale all of a sudden. Are you okay?”
Caryn shrugged. “Skipped breakfast again. You know how that affects me.” She managed a quiet laugh. I can’t keep burdening him with my fears. He needs positive support, not a whiny, frightened, unsupportive wife. I can deal with my fears later.
“So do I need to send you a text each morning to remind you?” His eyes teased her.
Caryn looked at him with a light laugh. “If you don’t forget.”
“I’ll do my best.” He slipped his hand to her neck and gently massaged her shoulder. If he noticed the tense muscles he didn’t mention it. “Today, you looked so beautiful when you walked in. I just wanted to get up and carry you away.”
She touched his cheek. “You will soon, Andrew.”
“It’s taking forever,” he complained. “I’m tired of this hospital. I can’t even remember what ‘normal’ is anymore.”
“Maybe you could come home for a weekend?” Caryn ventured tentatively.
“Yeah, maybe when Dan releases me to the Rehab Center.”
“How was therapy today? I never had a chance to ask you.”
“For the most part I’m done with the parallel bars. Now I’m working with weights to strengthen my legs and arms, and of course, balance activities.”
Caryn rested her hand on his bicep. “This feels plenty strong to me.” A smile crossed her face. “So you’re going to come home even more ripped than you are now?”
Andrew laughed. “I’m hardly ‘ripped’ as you put it. I’m losing muscle tone and strength every day.”
Caryn ran her hand against his chest, and then playfully lifted his shirt to peer at his abs. “If you say so, Drew.” She lightly outlined the muscles with her fingers. “Enough to get my heart racing. You just keep that shirt on during therapy, understand?”
“How about when I get a massage?”
She knew by his tone that Andrew was teasing. “Just keep it on.” She tried to maintain a straight face, but the look in his eyes caused her to break into giggles. “I love you, Drew,” she managed. “And I don’t want any other woman’s hands on you.”
About the Author
By the time she was an eight-year-old tomboy growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, Robyn M. Ryan definitely knew what she wanted to do when she grew up—play major league baseball or write. She wrote throughout elementary and high school, first composing novels featuring favorite TV and music personalities, and then venturing into sports writing.
Attending UGA’s journalism school launched her career in public relations, which included an internship with the Atlanta Flames NHL hockey team. With the encouragement of a writers group on twitter—WritersThatChat—This Piece of My Heart, a hockey romance, and the first book in Robyn’s series Clearing the Ice was published May 2016. This Piece of My Soul, published January, 2017, continues the series and introduces the Tampa Suns professional hockey team.
Besides writing, Robyn’s passions include following the New York Rangers, NASCAR, and the Atlanta Braves; splitting time between homes in Atlanta and Palm Coast, and visiting Paris as often as possible. Two brilliant Westies rule both homes.
As do many writers, Robyn chooses to write using a pseudonym—hers is a combination of her sons’ names, a contribution from her youngest nephew.
Contact Link
Young Adult Contemporary
Date Published: June 20, 2017
In the game of life, I was used to being on the losing team. The odds were stacked against me. Tegan’s Team—a mom who tried to control me, a dad who would rather drink then spend time being a father, a lying ex-boyfriend, and fake friends. Like any team however, you have that one shining star that stood out above the rest. For me that star was Emily, my best friend. I guess life had pity on me the day it gave me a friend that always had my back. Life must have felt extra giving the day it gave me a cheer leader—Mrs. White, my next-door neighbor. She’d been more of a parent to me growing up then my own parents.
And then there was Andrew. He was my shooting star. One that I never saw coming. One that I hoped became mine over the summer of my senior year.
A glimpse into a crystal ball couldn’t have prepared me for that summer, though. The summer where a letter from my mom rocked me to the core. I felt the world shake with every word I read in that letter. By the time I reached the end, my world split wide open swallowing me whole.
Excerpt
Thanks to the humid air, my hair looked like a frizzy mess, so I swept it up into a high ponytail and fastened it. Just about to head out the front door to wait for Emily on the porch swing, I heard Dad stumble into the kitchen from the garage.
With a deep breath, I spun around and strolled into the kitchen. Dad took a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and poured the amber liquid into a glass, spilling some on the counter. His body swayed as he turned and sloshed whiskey onto the floor. It took him a minute to realize that I stood in the doorway watching him. His glazed eyes caught mine. He slurred, “Hi, baby girl.”
“Hi, Dad. I’m going out with Emily. She’ll be here in a minute.” I held my voice steady even though I wanted to shout and yell that he’d left me alone on my birthday to get drunk. But what would be the point? It wouldn’t change anything.
“Emmmily. Tell her to come in. I haven’t seen her in a while.” He staggered toward me.
“We’re in a hurry. She can’t come in this time. Why don’t you sit down and watch TV? There are lots of war movies on.” I grasped his arm and steered him toward the living room.
“Warrr movies ...” He fell onto the couch. I steadied the drink in his hand so it didn’t spill everywhere. Experience had taught me not to try to take it from him—much easier to get him to go along with what I say if I just let him have it. I flipped the TV channel to an old war movie and headed back to the kitchen. After I’d hidden all the keys, and cleaned up the spilled whiskey, I checked on him one more time. His head hung forward with his eyes shut. Carefully, I nudged his head back against a throw pillow. His grip tightened on the glass when I tried to take it from him, so I just left it. Headlights shone in the front window when Emily turned into my driveway. Through blurred eyes, I kissed his forehead, and then walked out the door.
About the Author
TC Booth was born and raised in a small Ohio town where she currently lives with her husband, children, and fur covered baby Sammy.
She is an award-winning author who loves to read and write young adult fiction. Besides her book addiction, TC enjoys music, attending Cavs games, going to the beach, eating chocolate and spending time with her family.
Contact Links
Twitter:@BoothTammi
The Prequel is currently free via BookFunnel by signing up for the Author's newsletter:
Wrangled By Love
The Cowboy Way Series; Book 1
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Cover Design by: MadHat Books
Tate
I could rope a calf before I could walk. Ranching is in my blood, my heart, and fills my soul. My family and I work for everything we have. But money only goes so far - sweat goes farther. My life has taken many paths. It’s made me grow up and deal with things that others only fear. My daughter is my life. No one could ever compare to that love - or so I thought. That was until this little city gal fell into our laps.
She stole my breath. Stole my thoughts, and stole my heart.
Georgie
Georgia was home until I lost everything. I had no one, so I packed up and hit the road. My dog was my only companion and for a time that was all right. Fate had other ideas though. My path brought me to Wyoming. Sprawling grasslands, wildlife and cold. I was surrounded.
My heart warmed when we got a good look at a certain cowboy. He was a brother, son and a father. He chased my blues away. Made me smile and put his heart on the line with mine.
He is my one and only. My forever.
Excerpt:
PROLOGUE
Three years ago I started off on a new adventure in this crazy unpredictable world. One that took me to new places in life - naturally - as well as emotionally and physically. Why make changes to a life that was wrapped in gold paper and sealed with a silver money clip? Many reasons. The biggest of them all was that I felt stunted as a person. I couldn’t be me without hurting feelings or letting down the people that I loved. Or so I thought. I was stuck in a dead end, nine to five job that I grew to absolutely hate. I stayed because I made a commitment that I didn’t want to break… but even good things come to an end.
I wasn’t a fan of living off my family’s money, though it was there for me. My PaPa always wanted to take care of me. He’d always say, “No granddaughter of mine will ever want or need for anything.” I loved that man more than the air I breathe now, but I couldn’t get lost in the cloud of money. I wanted a life of my own. I had to prove to him and myself that I could take care of me.
God love him, he let me do things my way once he understood what I wanted in life. I wanted to be independent. I wanted to be the responsible woman he had raised me to be. My grandfather was the man in my life from the time I was a small child. After my parents had me their lives were cut short by tragedy. My mother let her depression over take her mind and ended her struggles with a bottle of pills and a bottle of gin. My father, distraught that his one true love had left him, suffered for years. His depression never seemed to get better. One day when I was about four he just up and disappeared. His body was found years later by hikers. We still don’t know exactly what happened to him. My father was an avid outdoorsman. There was no way it was an accident, whatever it was.
It was just me and PaPa from then on. I don’t really remember much of my father. I have vague memories, but that’s it, other than the pictures I carry with me of him, and my mother and me as a newborn. I hadn’t realized how much I depended on my PaPa until the man I idolized most in my life was taken from me. He had a long, and happy life. He took his last breaths with me at his bedside retelling stories of my favorite memories of us. We had family there, but no one mattered except my PaPa. That night I vowed to change my life. I was going to be happy doing things I wanted to do. I just had to figure out how to go about doing it.
Deciding I needed a clean slate, I sold my house and set a lease with the Historical Society to use my PaPa’s home on the tours of homes - which was a way to preserve it and keep everything just as it was. His maids and butler, who my PaPa had with him for as long as I could remember, were staying on to help keep the home up. Their monthly pay was sent automatically to them through the lawyers, as was anything else home related. It was a way to make sure I always had a place to call home. My heart would always be where my PaPa was.
After weeks of thinking, planning and sorting out my life, I cashed in the savings bonds my PaPa left me and anything else that didn’t hold sentimental value from my belongings. My friend - Kaitlyn - would check in on things for me as well while I was gone. I had my bills (phone, insurance, life insurance and my two credit cards) all set up to do autopayments, so nothing important would be in the mail anyhow. It didn’t take long to decide what went, so I packed my SUV with what I had to have, such as clothes, my german shepherd dog, Tango, and small things that I could never part with and I was ready. As soon as I had cash in hand - via my bank card - I headed off on the adventure of a lifetime. I had a road map, a GPS app on my smartphone, and a helluva lot of time to kill.
No one expects to be this lucky at the age of twenty-nine. I didn’t have to work. I didn’t have to be accountable to anyone, or anything. I was free. I was a bird in the wind that could soar as high or low as she wanted. I took advantage of the freedom. I searched small towns for trinkets. I went to movies and plays in the larger metropolitan cities. I ate at restaurants mere tables away from movie stars and famous ball players. Was I impressed? Eh, not really, people are people. They wanted their freedom and alone time as much as I did. Anyone I passed got a smile and that was about it.
After a few months of said adventure I knew I was in heaven. I had the freedom of the road, and was able to do what I wanted, when I wanted. Who knew being my own boss would be so freeing. Thanks to my PaPa I had more money than I would ever need, so I was definitely taking advantage of it. I was going to discover who I was. Or I wouldn’t. As long as I had wheels under me, food in my tummy and my bank card, I was golden.
That was what I had always said, until an accident in the backwoods of some small, indistinguishable town led me to stumble into the man that would change things for me. An accident changes things for you. Makes you rethink things. But it can also set you off on a new path. My path led me to the infuriatingly, super sexy cowboy that made my anger rise, my lady bits throb, and my heart skip a beat at his smile. And that was after he yelled at me. I yelled back, but really... It was all for show. I think.
That man not only put me on the fence about the truth behind his actions, he cracked my heart wide open. He showed me what I was missing in life - he showed me what it was to be me. To be loved and desired in ways I could have only imagined. I was free to be what he desired. I was free to be the woman that set him free as well. Together we had it all, even our start was not so easy.
Life is never easy, though. Life is a rollercoaster and I’m here with my arms up, a laugh bubbling inside me, and the man that now owns my heart and soul at my side.
Chapter One
Road Tripping
Georgie
“Tango, stop, lift and pee already, would ya?” I called out to my German Shepherd as he sniffed around the empty lot behind the gas station. I was off the road for a few minutes to pee, get some gas and hopefully find a little off the road eating place. I was starving. But, first things first. I needed him to pee, so I could go in and pee. How hard was it to hike a leg? Or cop a squat? Jesus. I was squirming now more than before. I needed to go and he was taking forever. I was not about to leave him out here in bumfuck egypt alone. He wouldn’t go to a stranger, far from it, but I wasn’t chasing him, or taking the risk of him chasing someone off and getting shot or hit by a car.
“TANGO! Dude, hurry your furry butt up!”
I saw a man pumping gas at the other pump give me a look and I smiled at him. I wanted to roll my eyes but I stopped myself, only barely. Finally, after what seemed like four days of waiting, Tango cocked his leg up, peed and then had to do that damn, macho man ‘I peed here so it's mine’ dance where he kicked his back legs up and growled.
“I swear on all that's holy I will make you sleep outside if you don't get over here,” I muttered as the man getting gas eyed me. Maybe he thought I was talking to myself. Possibly. Sorry, mister. I ain’t crazy yet. I smiled at my thoughts. My gaze went back to the older man at the pump. He seemed to take notice when Tango ran around the building and back to me. He sat with a hand signal and I gave him a treat. That was how he was trained after all. He went, he got a treat. It's not that he was spoiled or anything. No, never.
“Good dog, Tango. Now, load up. Momma has to pee, and pay for the gas before this fella calls the cops ‘cause he thinks I'm gonna run off on him.” I pushed his muzzle away from my face when he decided I needed a slobbery lick on the cheek. “Not now, Romeo,” I said, laughing as I pushed him back into the SUV, shut the door and gave him the signal to stay through the opened window. I jogged across the parking lot. I hurried into the store and back to the bathrooms.
When I came out I smiled at the man behind the counter before grabbing a bag of Doritos, a Dr Pepper and of course, two big bottles of water for Tango. I paid for everything, gas included, and headed back out after a not so nice chat with the clerk. Men are idiots. But I did finally get him to tell me that all that was close by in the way of food stops was a burger place. I’ll pass on that. Tango and greasy stuff was a no go. The dog had enough gas issues as it was. I swear, sometimes it was like he’d had something crawl up in him and die. He was stealthy about it too. He was secretly trying to kill me with toxic fumes. I just knew it.
As I walked back to my vehicle I noticed there was a new truck parked across from me. I watched the two men as I opened the back door to grab Tango’s bucket. Hey, it's a road trip and he's messy. Least with a bucket and the three towels on his seat my seats won't get ruined. He could drink in peace and I wouldn’t get a slobbery water bath, again.
“Hey, sexy, that your dog there?” I sighed and turned, slamming the door a little harder than I needed to. I glanced at the men then to Tango. He was alert, ears pricked up and his shoulders tight. I shook my head as I moved to open the driver's door, making sure I blocked Tango’s exit. He was very protective of me after all. He had been since my PaPa got him for me. That had been two years ago. Tango was one of the last birthday presents I got from my PaPa. He gave me someone to love, a protector and a friend all in one.
“Nah man, he like, totally came with the car,” I said in my best Valley girl impression. Ugh, that made my own head hurt.
“I think she’s a bit of a smartass, man,” the one ass said to his friend.
“Watch it, bro. Dogs bite,” the other one said. I was guessing it was to warn his friend, who had taken a few steps around his truck.
“He’d bite me?”
“Yerp, like you were a nice juicy steak.”
“Why? I didn't do anything to ya, sexy.”
“You're annoying me, isn't that enough? I asked, sardonically.
“Oh, we got a feisty one, Jet,” the idiot in the truck said.
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Why can't I shoot stupid people?” I muttered as climbed up in the seat and shut the door. Tango licked my hand as I patted his shoulder. “Easy, big fella. Ignore them. Apparently they don't get enough oxygen up here. It makes them stupider than a bag full of rocks.”
I started the SUV, pulled out of the space, and flipped the two idiots a one finger salute before pulling out of the station's parking lot onto the road. We were somewhere in Colorado. I was following I-25 up and heading into Wyoming. I'd rented a cabin, one that I'd found online of all places, for a few weeks. Summer was finally here and I wanted to take advantage of the beauty of a wide open space. Plus, Tango and I needed a little time off the road. This leg had us on the road for two long weeks now. We’d just muddled along after leaving Tennessee, only stopped whenever and wherever. Minus the potty breaks. We stopped for those and to stretch our legs every two hours. Too much sitting could cause health problems.
I'd picked up the trailer behind us at some place in Kansas. It's got a small kitchen area with a stove and table, a tiny bathroom and a bed. So I bought it. I don't use the bathroom, though because, well I'm not cleaning that. Even I have my limits. I stop us at places that have wash houses, or at cheap motels. It's worth the time to shower and refresh. I’m not sleeping on funky sheets, though. So the trailer it is.
Flipping on my signal, I merged back into the I-25 traffic and set the cruise control. As Tango laid down he put his head on my lap and I scrubbed my fingers over his ears. His whine made me laugh.
“We’ll eat in a couple of hours. Once we cross the border we’ll only have a few hours more. Then it's a hot bath for me and a new place for you to mark as yours,” I said, for my benefit too. I loved the freedom of the open road, but it would have been slightly more entertaining with someone else to talk to that could actually return my words with more than barks, growls or toxic fog inducing farts.
~~~~
A few hours later, both Tango and I were spread out on a picnic blanket on the grass of a roadside picnic site. The sun was beaming down on us and the cool air brushed against my exposed skin like a sensual caress. It was heaven. The countryside we’d traveled through so far was beautiful and peaceful. We were going to enjoy our time here. I just knew it.
“Tango, let's go,” I said, standing. I grabbed the blanket up, folding it as I walked. Looking back, I grinned. Tango had the draw string bag with what was left of our lunch, and our trash in his mouth. “No slobbering this time, pup, ‘cause that's just gross, Kay?” Maybe I was losing it, ‘cause that made me laugh. Yeah, I really needed someone to chat with besides my pup. I could always call Kaitlyn, but she’d try to convince me to come back home and I just wasn't doing that. There was nothing there for me. My parents had been gone since I was a baby, I knew nothing of them other than that they loved me. All I’d had was my PaPa and now that he was gone, I had nothing. Kaitlyn was a friend, yes, but she also one of the reasons I left Brant & Sons. It was a small family owned insurance company. Mr. Brant was a sweet man. His sons, though, were two dickwads who thought they were some gift from God and that every woman should kneel down and worship them. Kaitlyn was all for quickies in the back office, the bathroom or anything else they asked, but not me.
Jefferson and Carlisle Brant were both disgusting human beings. Period. I learned that the day I was hired as Mr. Brant’s new administrative assistant. See, Oliver Brant was an upstanding, kind hearted man. I liked him, a lot. Too bad his sons missed that boat. Though, I've met their mother and she's not much better. Oliver married and mated with the she beast, who was a decade - at least - younger than himself and that's where the twin hellspawns came from. Shuddering, I shut the back door to the SUV and sighed. Maybe if things were different and I wasn't the ‘ice queen’ as they called me, I would have stayed. But as it was, I wouldn't let myself be used like some whore. I loved myself a helluva lot more than that.
I shifted myself so I could give Tango the “go pee” hand signal, which was just me pointing. He didn't need it twice. I looked at my watch and smiled. Two hours, I think that's all it takes for us to get to the place…. crap, I forgot the name. Moving to the passenger side of my vehicle I opened the door, pulled out the notebook where I kept everything and found the reservations page. Yeah, I was a little OCD but I wasn't stupid enough to not keep up with my spending and contacts along the way.
“Ah, there it is,” I said, sliding as I slid my finger down the page. “Abernathy Cannon Ranch.” Closing my book I stretched, turned and whistled for Tango. He rounded the car and was up in the seat before I had time to really blink. “I'm gonna put a bell on you. Whatcha think about that?” I scrubbed my hands along his neck and scratched behind his ears.
“Ready to go?” With a lick to my face and a bark that made my ears ring, I shook my head, shut his door and ran around to get in. Within fifteen minutes we were back on the road, and hopefully we’d be crossing the border in an hour or so. That all depended on traffic. I sang along to the radio, ignoring the GPS app on my phone that kept cutting in and out. I wasn't stressing over any of this. I just wanted to enjoy the ride, and with Jason Aldean singing along with me, my day was going great.
An hour and fifty six minutes later we were making a wide turn onto the dirt road the GPS indicated. There wasn't much around, just mountains, grasslands and cattle. Or at least I thought they were cattle. The sun was starting to get lower and I was exhausted. My body was not sure what time zone we were in anymore so I stopped trying to sleep on a schedule. It was all too much to keep track of. I followed the road, going slower than normal since I wasn't sure where I was.
Ten minutes later we were rounding a curvy part of the road when something stormed out in front of us. I shrieked and slammed on the brakes, throwing myself against the steering wheel and swerving off the road. Tango was growling and barking, but what caught my attention was the sound of metal shrieking, another engine roaring, and then silence.
***all titles are available on Kindle Unlimited
My Own Nightmare
Somewhere I Belong
Shatter Me Whole
~Meet Barb Shuler~
I’m a Carolina Girl by right and a Texan by birth. Best of both worlds. I have the brass sass to keep up with my Texas sized temper. Living and working in both states i’ve learned a lot about hard work, adapting to your surroundings and making the best of the path that you have been led down. My grandma Dollie once told me I would know what I was meant to do when it happened. She was right, as always.
As with most book lovers, I am an avid reader. Reading has always been a hobby - a passion, really and a way to get lost in other people’s lives, their drama and other worlds. It’s a private movie in your imagination that you get to cast and navigate through, at your own pace. Reading helps to expand the perimeters of one's mind. That is what got me into writing. Writing has been something that I have done since I was a kid. If I had paper, I was writing. Nine out of ten times it made no sense but what are words if they are not to be used to your advantage? Words are a part of us all. Why not use them, right?
During the day I work as a ‘desk jockey’ and help the residents of my county navigate themselves around our little, but not too little country town. By night I am either blogging with my best friends, doing PA work for some of my favorite authors or fighting with the voices in my head. They can be stubborn at times. It’s a blessing and I am cherishing every moment. Tomorrow is never guaranteed so I want to make sure I live the day as fully as possible. For what is my creation, can become someone else's treasure.
~ Connect with Barb here ~
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Want to be a Misfit? Oh yes, you do!
My group will get teasers, excerpts and all the behind the scenes things of my writings before anyone else gets them.
Paranormal Fantasy/Coming of Age/YA
Date Published: June 2017
Life just keeps slapping Mary in the face.
She had it rough growing up, and when it finally looks like she’s getting her life firmly back on track, breaking up with her boyfriend starts a string of events that threatens to bring Mary to her knees.
Fortunately, there are good people in her life who will do everything in their powers to help her when she needs it. Mary’s girlfriends, Jinx and Wilder are there for her, and after she’s rescued from being kidnapped, Carson and Bo take her into their home, becoming the family she always wanted but never seemed to get to keep.
As the group around Hawker Johns hunt the men who wanted to trade Mary for the valuable crystal from the mountains, she slowly recovers. Then life throws her another few curveballs, and it looks like she’ll lose everything yet again.
Mary is resilient and used to restarting her life from nothing, but when it looks like she’ll also lose the man she loves, maybe the happy girl has just had enough?
Picture this is the third book in the Birds of a Feather series, a young adult/coming of age series with paranormal elements, full of laughter, mystery, and romance.
Other Books in the Birds of a Feather Series:
Birds of a Feather, Book 1
Publisher: FAB Publishing
Release Date: December 14, 2016
Wilder’s wonderful grandfather is dead, and so is her mother, but Grandpa Willy gives her one final gift in his will – the knowledge that her father is only her step-father.
Once she meets Hawker, the scary man who turns out to be her real dad, her life takes an unexpected turn. She finds out about a heritage she never knew she had, and secrets from the past are uncovered as she fights to save her part of the world from destruction.
And then there’s Mac, with his green eyes and a soft voice that flows through her like sweet honey. He’s there to help Wilder when she needs it the most, and as she struggles with how to fit into the group of people around her dad – having Mac in her life becomes more important with every bad thing that happens.
“Wilder” is the first in the Birds of a Feather series and a spin-off from the Dreughan trilogy. It’s set in modern time and can be read stand-alone.
Birds of a Feather, Book 2
Publisher: FAB Publishing
Published: March 2017
Jiminella “Jinx” Sweetwater is a genius. She’s a scholar, an inventor, hardworking and loyal, and well known in the scientific circles around the University in Prosper City.
Being smarter than everyone else might seem like a good thing, but it isn’t. At least, it isn’t to Jinx who has two friends, a small condo, and no life.
After a fight with her best friend Wilder, it just gets worse. Someone breaks into her home and when her parents show up in all their hippie-like glory, Jinx has had enough and escapes to a small village by the sea.
Suddenly, Jinx finds herself involved in village life, living with the unpleasant Mrs. Fratinelli and trying her best to juggle all the things that seem to end up on her plate. And then there’s calm, cool and gorgeous Dante – Snow’s boyfriend, who seems to see right through the shields Jinx has put up around herself, straight into her mind.
Excerpt
They walked in late in the evening, a little drunk and a lot rowdy, three of them laughing and dragging the fourth along with them.
I carried an empty tray in one hand and tried to tuck my notepad into the back pocket of my black, too tight jeans with the other. The place was filled with smoke and laughter, but I was dead tired and the thick layer of cheap makeup I had put on many hours earlier felt sticky. I wasn’t sure where to sleep when I got off shift, and my usual place behind the University library wasn’t an option because early that morning, they’d started removing the dumpsters I usually huddled between. Someone said that they were clearing the site to start building a new art department, but I didn’t care. I’d been busy grabbing my few belongings, scanning the area to see if someone left anything useful that I could get my hands on.
“Come on Hawk,” I heard one of the men saying. “You lost the bet, we got to choose your loss, and this is our choice.”
I wondered what they were doing in a bar like Kinkers. I’d worked there for almost six months, and it was clean enough, but it was located on a back road in a part of Prosper well known to be unsafe. The owner liked to call it a roadhouse and they served lunch, which was the shift I worked most of the time. In the evenings, it was mostly a bar, and no one ever ordered any food, unless you counted peanuts and chips.
It was also a strip joint, and it was usually filled with men but that night was a Friday, so it was ladies’ night. This meant male strippers and an audience filled with women in various stages of inebriation.
“I’m not going to –” the man they’d called Hawk started, but another man cut him off.
“Oh, but you are,” he said gleefully, and called out when the angry man made a dash for the door, “Guys, do something. He’s escaping.”
I couldn’t hold back a loud giggle when I realized why they were there. They meant to put their friend on stage. One of the other men moved slightly, and I turned to look at him. Then I stopped breathing. He was tall and lean, with unruly black hair that was a little too long, and laughing brown eyes. He was so beautiful.
Our eyes met and held, and his brows went up a little.
“Hey, he’s running,” someone shouted, and our gazes unlocked.
The beautiful man turned toward the door, and flicked his fingers at our bouncers in a small gesture, indicating that they should stop his fleeing friend. To my surprise, they grinned and stepped in front of the man just as he reached the doors. I wondered if he’d be crazy enough to fight the brawny bouncers, and for a few seconds, it seemed like he would, but then his head tilted back, and he looked up at the ceiling. I saw his shoulders go up a little as if he was inhaling, and then he turned.
He was gorgeous too although in a completely different way. He looked dangerous and hard. When he walked back to his friends, his eyes flicked over me, and I pulled in air because of the intensity in them, but also because their color was such light amber, they were almost yellow.
“Get the thong,” one of his friends shouted, and the women around the stage that had followed the events started cheering.
“No,” the yellow-eyed man said calmly. “I’ll do this because I pay my debts, but I am not wearing a thong.”
“Don’t worry, Hawk,” the beautiful man laughed. “There are other options.”
Another cheer erupted, and then they moved toward the door leading backstage. Bobby Dawner, the owner of the bar, met them and greeted the beautiful man with a back-thumping bear hug. I heard him boom the man’s name, and it burned into my soul.
“Miller.”
That was the night everything changed. When I got off my shift and walked through the empty streets, looking for something, anything, that could provide cover, I was beaten up by a young man who wanted my meager tips from the evening. I woke up in the hospital and saw a woman sitting in a chair, calmly watching me.
“Do you need help, child?” she asked.
I looked back at her for a long time, and then I gave up. I’d learned the hard way never to trust anyone, but her eyes were kind, and I couldn’t make it on my own anymore, so I decided that I’d accept whatever bad things she might have in store for me. It wouldn’t be worse than the life I already had.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Her eyes softened, and a gentle smile curved her mouth, and when I saw it, I smiled back, tentatively.
“I’m Joelle,” she said.
I was fourteen years old, and that was the night my life resumed.
About the Author
The proper way to put it here would probably be to describe how I love to play with our two big dogs, adore my fantastic daughters and how much I love to read.
Another way would be to use my imagination and then I would be a super powerful warrior woman, think Xena the warrior princess (though with less tacky clothes). Or when I think of it, maybe I’m actually more of a Hercule Poirot (sans the suit and moustache). Or maybe I’m like Aragorn, strong and cool and then I might get to meet Gandalf! Or I could be Bella’s pretty cousin and snap Jacob up in a second (yeah, I’m so not team Edward), or wait, maybe I could be like one of them heroines in historical novels who swoon all the time. I’ve always wanted to swoon…
Well, I guess you get how my mind is working (or not working, some say).
Anyways, I like to write. Stories, adventures, romantic and happy stuff mixed up with sorrow and hardship, and bit of laughter here and there because the way I see it – life is way too short to go around feeling grumpy.
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About the BooksTitles: Dark Beam Part 1 -3 Author: Adrienne Woods Genre: Fantasy, Dark, Adult Everyone in Paegeia knows that only one Rubicon dragon lives at a time. If more than one, they will destroy Paegeia and eventually the rest of the world as they crave that constant power for dominance. Blake Leaf is this era’s Rubicon, and is destined for grate things if his darkness can be won. Darkbeam Part 1 follows the story of the Rubicon and how he tries to keep his beast, the darkness, at bay. LinksWebsite Twitter Author Facebook FacebookTantric
-- EXCERPT: Haunting black ashes covered the floor, echoing the horror that had happened in this once holy place. The smell of burnt flesh still hung in the air, even though it had been weeks since the incident. Vincent Mallick was a handsome and sturdy man of fifty-seven years, with salt and pepper hair thinned slightly by age. The skin on his face was a map of the interesting life he had lived as a member of the High Council of the Four Corners, the ancient society to which he had devoted most of his life. But nothing in all his years with the society could prepare him for the horrifying sight before him, or its implications. The ritual to remove the Elements from their vessels and place them into a new one took place three weeks ago. Vincent had been in the Headquarters in Prague with the rest of the High Council, awaiting word of victory after centuries of research and hunting. But no communication had come from any of the members. Out of clemency, the Council waited three days, and then out of fear, waited seven more, too afraid of what the silence meant. Finally, they sent Vincent to inspect. “Mr. Mallick,” one of the young male members hailed. “What should we do about him?” Vincent Mallick turned to see the boy kneeling over the stiff, motionless body of Dexter Mauldiv, his former apprentice. He had raised Dexter from boyhood after his parents, both loyal members, died in an earthquake—one of Earth’s most destructive calamaties. Dexter had been given the best tutelage the society could offer and was the epitome of all the Four Corners stood for. And now he was nothing. “Oh, my poor boy,” Vincent sighed, coming to kneel beside his beloved protégé. Dexter’s body was pallid and shriveled, seemingly lifeless, but his skin was warm and his pulse betrayed that he was indeed alive, but only just. His lips were cracked and dry, his skin the color and thickness of one extremely malnourished. He had obviously not eaten nor drunk in a long time. That he was still alive as a miracle. His face was expressionless and unresponsive, as though he was unaware that any of them were there at all; but his eyes, which were wide open, were the eyes of one screaming on the inside. “Dexter?” Vincent said, shaking his shoulders. Dexter still did not react. His eyes didn’t appear to be looking at anything at all. He was but a shell of himself. What had been done to him? “Sir?” the boy next to him asked. Vincent was deeply shaken, but he snapped back to business easily. “Uh, yes, put him on one of the stretchers and get him to a physician,” Vincent instructed. “Show me the surveillance tapes, I want to see what happened here.” The boy nodded and the five other members did as they were told. Vincent watched as Dexter’s helpless body was lifted up onto the stretcher and taken away. Dexter was supposed to be their answer, their salvation. He had been the perfect choice. Of course, Vincent, in his old age could not take on the task, for he would likely die before they could accomplish any of their goals with the power they sought to take from the Bound Ones. But if Vincent could not do it, Dexter was the obvious second choice to be the new vessel. Dexter, whom Vincent had raised and groomed to be the Four Corners’ Grand Master, the apple of the High Councils’ eyes… No longer. Once Dexter’s body had been safely removed, Vincent followed two of the members to the security room to watch the video feed. Since no one had been here since that day to operate the equipment, the video from that day was the most recent. They didn’t have to rewind very far. In the fuzziness of rewinding, Vincent caught sight of a terrifying image on the screen. “Stop!” he said. “That’s it.” The operator pressed play, and all drew in to watch the video. They were watching the beginning of the ritual. Four young people were strapped to the stretchers as hooded figures all around them chanted. The electrocution began and the prisoners began to writhe and cry out. It all looked good so far. But wait! The orange-haired girl in the bottom right stretcher wailed loudly and angrily, and suddenly, to Vincent’s horror, all of his faithful brethren ignited from within and burned until they were nothing but ashes settling to the floor. Vincent covered his mouth in shock. He wanted to look away but he could not, for Dexter had been spared Fire’s wrath. The orange-haired girl’s restraints singed away and she was approaching Dexter, whose flight attempts were thwarted by suddenly appearing walls of flame. The orange-haired girl reached out to grab Dexter, and then he fell backward, in the exact same position in which they found him. Vincent cleared his throat of the emotions that tightened and dried it, then said, “Can you roll that back and play the audio? I must know what she did to him.” The operator rewound it and turned up the volume. “You will never speak again,” the orange-haired girl said to Dexter with a voice filled with hatred. “You will never move again. You will see nothing and you will hear nothing for the rest of your life. You will be a shell of your despicable self, and you will have to suffer for the rest of your days with the shame and guilt of what a terrible person you are until it eats you alive.” The video played on, but Vincent saw nothing else. Amazing the power Fire wielded. Amazing and petrifying, quite literally. She had to be stopped. This was exactly why the Four Corners needed to release the Bound Ones and reclaim the power they had given them. Powers such as these should not be in the hands of ignorant, whimsical children. It was only by chance that the Bound Ones had never developed their powers to use them against the world in all their history. The Four Corners had to act now before the Bound Ones used their powers in the modern age. “The Bound Ones know of their powers now,” Vincent said to his pupils. “We cannot allow this. Remove the artifacts—the dagger, the necklace, everything. They’re no longer safe here.”
GIVEAWAY!
Notus Motorcycle Club Series, Book 1
Romance Suspense, MC Romance
Date Published: May 2017
Identical twin sisters move to St. John's, Oregon, buy Vavoom's Bar, and purposely put themselves into the path of Notus Motorcycle Club.
Burdened by a deep, dark secret, Clara has to be careful because one wrong step, one wrong word, could land her and Gracie in prison. Her need to stay close to the motorcycle club members backfire when Wayne Shaw throws her heart into a tailspin. There is more to the possessive biker than she originally thought. Cornered and out of options, she can only go forward and hope Wayne protects her.
Wayne Shaw splits his time between working at Port Loaders, searching for missing persons in partnership with the local police department, and keeping Notus Motorcycle Club together in hopes a brother will come home. Skilled at finding clues normal people miss, he has no trouble telling the new owners of Vavoom's apart. He only wants Clara.
When a little girl goes missing, followed by a teenager disappearing, Wayne's need to keep Clara safe while searching for a serial killer gets tested…until he's no longer sure who is the hunted and who is the hunter.
Excerpt
Wayne placed the dishes in the sink, shut off the lights, and guided her to the stairs. Halfway up the steps, he stopped. "Kings of Leon."
"What?"
He looked at her. "The group that does the song you were humming. Sex on Fire."
She laughed and smacked his arm. "No way."
"Swear it." He kissed her quickly and chuckled.
She shook with laughter all the way to his bedroom. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined Wayne, president of Notus MC, teasing her or so fun to be around. The normal awkwardness of first-time sex with another person never showed up. Everything that had to do with him seemed almost too perfect.
A phone beeped in Wayne's back pocket, and two seconds later the doorbell rang. She dropped his hand and stood beside the bed.
"Hang on a second. I need to answer the door." He kept his eyes on the screen of his phone and walked out of the room.
She followed him to the bedroom doorway and stopped. He'd gone downstairs.
In her sight, Wayne opened the front door at the bottom of the stairs. Glen walked inside. Clara stepped back planning to crawl into bed and give Wayne privacy when Glen said, "A girl is missing."
A chill crawled up her spine. She stepped forward, staying out of sight.
About the Author
Debra Kayn is published by Grand Central Publishing, Simon & Schuster Publishing, Carina Press - Harlequin Enterprises Limited, and repped by agent, Stephany Evans of FinePrint Literary Management. She has well over forty contemporary novels available worldwide where heroes and heroines come from the most unlikely characters.
She lives with her family in the Bitterroot Mountains of beautiful North Idaho where she enjoys the outdoors, the four seasons, and small-town living.
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Historical Fiction
Date Published: November 2016
Ireland, 1911: After seven centuries of unyielding oppression, there is a tempest rising, a national yearning for Irish independence. It threatens to sweep away all that is precious to the very privileged O’Rourke and de la Roche families. Seismic changes are but a whisper away. What begins as a squabbling friendship between the wastrel Courtland O’Rourke and the defiant, mischief-making Lacey de la Roche matures into a deeply passionate, tempestuous love, fraught with secrets of lethal consequences and sins of omission.
In this debut historical novel, The Irish Tempest beckons the reader into a world, where landowner and tenant farmer, the well-off and the working-class are chafing under the chokehold of British domination.
Pulled apart by personal and social conflicts, Court and Lacey experience the world from perspectives both transformative and destructive. Court, compelled to accept a commission in the British army, initiates a disastrous affair with rippling aftershocks. Lacey, fueled by the arrogance of adolescence, is beguiled by a charismatic but sociopathic horse trainer.
The Irish Tempest thrusts the reader into the anguish of the 1916 Easter Rising and beyond as Ireland seethes on the cusp of revolution. Deftly paced with vividly drawn characters, The Irish Tempest embraces historical elements while preserving the essence of evocative storytelling.
Recent Praise for The Irish Tempest
"Once you start this novel, be prepared not to put it back down! I found The Irish Tempest to be a beautiful and well-written tale of friendship, revenge, love and betrayal. It's simply addictive and truly fascinating..." San Francisco Book Review
"Ms. Sparrow does a wonderful job of drawing you into this epic tapestry. It's a perfect example of its genre. I read it more as historical fiction than as a romance ... fans of both genres would enjoy..." Manhattan Book Review
"The Irish Tempest reveals author Elizabeth J. Sparrow as having a genuine flair for deftly creating memorable characters and a riveting storyline that fully engages the reader's rapt attention from beginning to end. Very highly recommended for community library Historical Fiction collections." Midwest Book Review - Small Press Bookwatch, February 2017
"The fates of two families mesh with Ireland's struggle for independence in this debut novel. Using several historical events and a large socially diverse cast means that Sparrow must keep multiple plates spinning, and some plotlines and characters feel underdeveloped. Yet the author finds emotional resonance when her players intersect with history..." Kirkus Reviews
Excerpt
Spring
There is an inevitable forgetfulness that comes with inheriting a privileged albeit circumscribed life. When there is wealth and abundant resources to pass on to the next generation, one may forget that those ancestral woes—the devastation of blight and famine, the theft of birthright and property, the debasement of language and culture—still may claim a person, in the here and now of one’s very indulgent existence.
This particular life belongs to Courtland O’Rourke, a pretty young man of twenty-one, Irish Catholic in the truest sense with not a hint of Protestantism in his bloodline. The Norman and Scottish bits have been subsumed by the last one hundred years of vigorous Irish procreation. In the full bloom of youthful pomposity, he is returning to the provincialism of southern Ireland after a riotous month in London.
“Would you be good enough to leave them against the wall, out of harm’s way?” Court directed the sweating porter with a flourish of his walking stick, a fashionable affectation acquired in London. “My man seems to be delayed.” He offered this with a resigned shrug, for after all, this was Ireland.
“To be sure, sir,” gasped the porter as the last trunk thudded against the peeling wall.
A few strides around the stationmaster’s bungalow confirmed to Court that Lafferty was nowhere in sight and that he was quite alone among the bursting daffodils and dusty sparrows of Cloonsheelin. This first warm day of April had cast an enervating spell over the normally peripatetic townsfolk. What a sorry homecoming after the exuberant din and vulgar delights of city life. Spirits lagging well behind him, he set off for Sully’s tavern, pausing to observe a panting mongrel have a go at McCarthy’s prized Irish terrier bitch.
“They’ll be a nice bit of fussing over this,” he called out to the writhing dogs.
Such hasty coupling kindled a wistful recollection of the women he had frolicked with in London. These sirens of wit and charm were so unlike the feckless girls he readily sported with in Cloonsheelin. The country rake, with gray eyes and unfashionably long black curls, immediately became the object of bold intentions after a discreet introduction by a conspiring acquaintance. Lured into escorting them to the races, tea parties, and shopping forays, he learned that daytime was the ideal time for romantic adventuring.
Distracted by this memory of scented bosoms and velvet thighs, Court wandered into a pack of jeering children, two of whom wrestled furiously in the dirt. His dismay turned to alarm when he saw thirteen-year-old Padraic Knox leaping with idiotic glee around the combatants. One wave of his walking stick scattered most of them into the shelter of the woods. Court seized the apparent victor by the scruff while sneering down upon the loser.
“What a sight you are to behold, Sholto Gallagher! Flat on your back—kicking like a squalling babe in a wet nappy! Be off before I give you a few more lumps to blubber about.”
The squirming victor attempted a final kick to Sholto’s fleeing backside but was deterred by Court’s grip.
“What’s this set-to about? And mind, none of your lies or you’ll be feeling the back of my hand.” Court demanded of the now subdued Padraic.
“Don’t be blaming Padraic! They started it!”
“Go on then.” He released his captive. “And I want the truth first time round. None of your shillyshallying.”
“We were off to Mrs. Conway’s for tea when they began ragging on us, for no reason at all.”
“You mean ragging on Paddy here! That godforsaken bunch doesn’t have the brass to mix it up with you. They’d not be wanting the bloody US cavalry on their backs!”
“But Court,” came the all-too-familiar whine, “they’re always ragging on him.”
“Don’t you think it’s a mighty queer thing to have this wisp of a girl do your fighting for you?” he asked Padraic with pitiless sarcasm.
“Oh, I don’t mind at all, Master Court. Lacey’s not afeared of anyone.”
“Isn’t she now? You know what I think, Padraic Knox? You’ve been smacked in the head a wee bit too often! As for you, miss…”
Both of her braids hung loose, and dirt and blood smeared her face, while the right sleeve of her shirt flapped in the breeze. It was Court’s shirt, a hand-me-down, as most of her wardrobe seemed to be these days. She was even wearing a pair of his old riding breeches with a strip of burlap to keep them from falling to her knees!
“You shameless savages are coming with me!” Court snatched their hands and Lacey struggled to keep up with his long legs. “You’ll be a lovely sight to greet your father with that black eye, my lamb!”
Perched on the table in Mrs. Conway’s kitchen, Lacey twitched under her ministrations while Padraic slurped tea and nibbled on a potato pancake.
“To think, during my entire stay in London, I did not witness a single display of brawling! Only to return and find you hammering away at a brute of a boy, like you were born to the underclass! How many times must you be told? Young ladies of breeding do not engage in fisticuffs with common thugs!”
“Pish! I’m not a lady. I’m only eleven.”
“Don’t be impertinent!” Court hovered by Mrs. Conway’s elbow. “Shouldn’t she be getting a stitch or two for that?” His finger brushed away a lock of auburn hair from the jagged cut above her left eye.
“Ah, don’t be fretting so, Master Court. This here looks worse than it ’tis. Not deep, just messy. Bridget, fetch me the iodine and a bit of plaster.”
Eighteen-year-old Bridget Knox slunk away but not before cuffing her brother and inspiring Lacey to make some mischief. She was familiar with the rumors about Court and his sporting ways with Bridget and her ilk.
“What did you bring me?” Lacey asked as her prying hands fished through his pockets.
He bent close with a teasing smile. “Not that you’re deserving of my consideration. But if you were, and I happened to remember, it would be a might too big for my pocket, lamb.”
“Then who is this for?” She waved a gold necklace for all to see.
“You’re a thieving brat in need of a good seat warming.”
Court saw the rapt look of curiosity on both women’s faces. “No mystery, ladies. Just a trinket for Aggie. She’s been stuck with grandfather all this time, and you know what a bear he can be.”
By six o’clock, Lafferty had collected Court’s trunks and tracked him down at Mrs. Conway’s.
“Will we be stopping at Durbin House, sir?”
“No. Go straight on to Torrey Castle. Miss Lacey is to be our guest.”
When she began to protest, he hissed, “You’re under lock and key till your father returns from Dublin.”
“How do you know where he is?”
“I happened to have had supper with the captain night before last. He made a point of asking me to check on you—with good cause, I might add.”
Lacey sank back, her despair and pain welling into a single sob.
“What’s this?”
“I want to go home! I’ll not get into any more trouble.”
“If I thought you’d be properly looked after, I would! Old McTeague is too worn out to muster the strength to leash you. Indeed, you should be packed off to boarding school and taught to behave.”
This was not what she wanted to hear, least of all from someone who had spent the better part of his adolescence in disgrace, thanks to a hefty number of transgressions. She moved to the opposite side of the carriage and curled into a tight ball of woe.
Court’s left cheek began to pulse as he squinted at her in exasperation. Was it always to be this way between them? From the first day they had met—she, a stalwart five-year-old eager to ride and he, the fifteen-year-old reluctant teacher—they had squabbled and sparred with precious few interludes of peace.
“Look here, if you behave yourself for the next few days, you may come with me to Queenstown and meet my latest investment.”
“You bought a horse?”
“Aye, she’s a lovely little thing. Blacker than the devil’s brow with a sweet and steady gait. Grandfather will have a fit, but she was worth every shilling.”
“When can I ride her?”
“We’ll see,” he said, lifting his arm as she eased into the curve of his side. There was something seductive about these rare moments of harmony that made him susceptible to her manipulations.
“Will you unpack my present first, please?” She yawned in his face.
Clasping her mouth closed, he murmured, “Greedy little lamb.”
**********
About the Author
Elizabeth J. Sparrow is a native New Yorker and a graduate of Hunter College and New York University. She is working diligently on the sequel to The Irish Tempest.
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Crime Fiction
Date Published: 7/4/2017
Are the deacons of Shalom Bethel invincible? Legend has it that in the 1940’s, they came out of a gunfight with holes in their clothes but not their skin. Bullets bounced off of them. They walked through buckshots like water. That story is passed down by every deacon. The legend of Stephen Stone. That legend is about to be tested.
On the heels of a nightclub triple murder, a mysterious blizzard hits Shalom, a city normally warm year round. The blizzard brings with it bitter memories and ghosts Deacon Oak East thought were long gone: his prior drug conviction, his on and off relationship with his wife, the gruesome murder of his father and the role he played in it. But it's not just the past that haunts him. In the present, a homicide detective wants him and the deacons for the nightclub murders. And a gangster named Cap Morgan wants revenge. The snow is falling. But soon, it will be raining bullets. Is the legend true? Are the deacons of Shalom Bethel bulletproof?
Excerpt
The early evening air cooled Oak’s skin and caused it to tighten. The sensation was odd, like someone pinching him but all over. Bringing his skin cells closer together? The thought was crazy and Oak traveled back to a biology class in which the teacher was showing a video on mitosis. Cells were dividing, giving rise to two daughter cells with the same number of chromosomes. There were different phases. One in particular where the chromatin seemed to span the two fused cellular bodies. So cool. That’s not what was happening with Oak’s skin. It was tightening...stiffening. And how would that look under a microscope?
He shook those thoughts, jogged up to the duplex and slapped the knocker three times. The door opened and he saw Moody Norco. The man who hated his guts.
“Come on in,” Moody said. “You want something to drink?”
“Nah, I’m working. What’s up?”
“Nothing much. Getting over a cold.”
“No. I mean what’s up?”
“You mean the money?”
“I always mean the money when I ask that question.”
Moody was devious and dangerous. Instead of repelling Oak, this fact attracted him. Pulled him to the man like gravity. An invisible yet powerful force that he couldn’t escape.
He carried the weight of the world into Moody’s apartment that evening. His uncle had kicked him out the house. He had lost the women he loved. And then there was that nagging guilt, the thought that God would never forgive him for what he had done eight years before. Life had burdened him. Perhaps this devious dude was just dangerous enough to remove that burden.
Oak snapped his fingers in Moody’s face. “Come on, man, I don’t have all day.”
“I’m going to warn you right now,” Moody said, “it’s been slow.” He motioned to a half-naked woman who scampered into the back room.
“I don’t care how slow it’s been. You’re delinquent yet again. Frankly, I’m fed up with it.”
Moody’s eyes narrowed. He tightened his fist but nothing more.
“Tell your girl to hurry up with the money,” Oak said.
“C’mon. Let me fix you some Cognac. I know you like that Yack! With Coke, right?”
“Man, you’re trying my patience!” Oak pushed Moody out of the way and stomped into the bedroom, where he figured the woman was counting the money. But there was no woman. Instead, there was an open window, curtains dancing in the breeze and two guys holding sawed off shot guns that were aimed at Oak’s chest.
“You sure you don’t want something to drink?” Moody asked again with a smile as he brandished a silver Saturday Night Special.
“Truth be told,” he said, his pistol pointed at Oak, “I hate you! Why did you all of a sudden get to be boss of the streets? You haven’t put in work. You haven’t done dirt. And what’s worse, if war comes, you’d never be man enough to squeeze a trigger. You’re not a boss!” Moody and his two gunmen backed Oak into the living room. He asked, “You’re not gonna beg for your life?”
“Not at all,” Oak replied.
“Well, I gotta say I’m disappointed.”
Oak shrugged. Sighed. “Well I’ve seen too much evil. Been the cause of too much pain. Being murdered like this is a fitting end.”
“You’re not gonna cry or try to make a deal?”
“Nah. If you’re gonna shoot me, get it over with already.”
Moody chuckled. Smiled. Then his lips straitened. “This wasn’t what I imagined would happen. In my mind, I saw you sniveling, snot dripping over your lips as you begged for your life. Forget about the money. Just don’t kill me, Moody! I would demand that you call me the king. You are the king! Then, I’d make you get down on your knees, your hands folded in prayer and praise. But...”
Oak jumped at Moody like he was going to throw a punch. Moody flinched. His boys flinched too.
“Unbelievable,” Oak laughed. Then he screamed, “Do it!”
Shot guns lifted. Forestocks pumped. Snub nose hammer pulled back. An engine roared and the hood of a SUV came crashing through sheetrock and plaster. It was Sampson, Oak’s bodyguard. Crashing through the wall. Shooting through the windshield.
Shots blazed from every direction. Glass shattered. Sampson took one in his shoulder but served several to Moody and his boys. As they hit the floor, Sampson yelled, “Lay down and stay down!”
“O!” he screamed as he grunted his way towards him. “O.E.!”
“What?!”
“Are you wearing a vest?”
“Huh?”
He patted Oak’s chest and back. “Oh my goodness!” he said. “You’re not wearing a vest!”
Oak looked at Sampson and saw that he was bleeding heavily. He took off his shirt and pressed it against his wounded shoulder. He said, “We gotta get you outta here.” Then he helped Sampson to the passenger side of the SUV, got in the driver’s seat, and slowly backed the out of the rubble.
As he drove to Shalom Memorial Hospital, images of the shootout replayed in his head. The ear splitting pops and mind numbing explosions. He racked his brain for a reason why he was still breathing.
He said, “I’m sorry, Sampson. I should have been the one to get shot back there.”
“You did get shot.”
“What?”
His bodyguard took a deep breath. Winced in pain. “They lit you up, man. You were getting popped left and right.”
“Sampson,” Oak smiled warily, “were you smoking dope while I was in the apartment?”
“I’m serious!” Sampson screamed. “Bullets just bounced off of you. At first I thought it was the adrenaline playing tricks on my mind. But nah. You were just walking through those bullets. I know what I saw.”
About the Author
James Fant is an award winning author who lives in Charleston, SC with his lovely wife and two hilarious children. He received a degree in biology from College of Charleston and a master’s in business administration from Charleston Southern University. His love for literature was forged by the works of Eric Jerome Dickey, Walter Mosley, and Stephen King. He also finds inspiration from screenwriters Shonda Rhimes, Aaron Sorkin and Kurt Sutter. Literarily, James has always been drawn to intelligent yet imperfect characters and he writes novels with them in mind.
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Twitter: @jamesfantjr
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