Duh Syndrome Is My Friend

Not duh as in lacking intelligence or doing drugs. Oh, no. It’s the duh that happens when I’ve stared at a computer screen for a minimum of six hours a day, usually longer. The duh that occurs when I sit with my laptop too long and finish just one more blog, interview, edit, revision, or new chapter and never make it outside to stretch my legs.

There are many definite signs when Duh Syndrome is really bad, but here are a few off the top of my head.

*The hubby or one of the kids tells me something with me
looking him or her directly in the eyes, and I realize five minutes after they've left I have no freaking clue what he or she just said to me.

*I get up to go to the bathroom and forget where I’m going halfway to Wherever Land.

*My mother or oldest dau calls me on the cell and I zone out. “FAITH! Are you there? Did the call drop?” or “MOM! Did you go to sleep?” Gah.

*The hubby tells me about his workday and I find myself dozing off with my eyes open. And no, I’m not kidding! Eyes are open!

*The cat jumps on my lap and lies on my hands stretched across the keyboard and I keep typing! Buy hey, it’s great exercise. One, lift cat! Two, lift cat! Three, lift cat!

*Duh Syndrome is really bad when I look at the clock and realize it’s 2 PM and I’ve not had anything to eat or drink all day except for several cups of b-b-b-b-b-b-black c-c-c-c-c-coffee.

*Bizarre words unexpectedly pop out of my mouth when I’m talking. Example: “I’m tired. I’m going to go watch pudding before I go to sleep." Or I type something like that in an email to a pal and they reply with “WTF are you talking about?” Yeah, baby. Makes me feel intelligent!

This fuzzy state of mind often happens when I have a new release. Promotion adds to the amount of things I have to accomplish in a specific time period. It boggles my mind how many blogs and interviews I write and/or fill out during these blocks of time. Not to mention researching what sites and newsletters have the best bang for the buck when it comes to advertising--talk about time consuming!

Oh, let’s not forget research. Although many authors hate research and therefore keep their stories based on topics they’re familiar with, I’m a glutton for punishment. Combine that with my insatiable curiosity and I inadvertently create more work for myself. (Actually, I wrote an article this month on easy ways to research for new paranormal creature ideas HERE if you’d like to check it out.)

I get so wrapped up in research that I’m stunned at how much time passes when I finally come to my duh-veiled senses and realize I need a bathroom break, food, and m-m-m-m-more c-c-c-c-coffee. Actually, whenever I would go to night courses and study for exams, I would be drained like this, too.

Historical stuff and paranormal/mythological research is what sucks me in the most. The amount of information on both the web and in print format is phenomenal. I gotta read it all, I gotta know what this is and what that is and…and…

Ahem.

Sorry. Had a li’l melt down. I was wondering why I kept seeing sparks pop out of my ears.

Anyway, when I do get everything done and emailed/mailed, I always realize just how hungry I've become. Seriously, it's like I've worked for three days straight digging ditches with only bread and water to sustain me. In fact, I get so hungry the cat takes one look at me and runs like hell for the nearest exit, hitting mach 10 as his tail bursts into flames. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that mental work doesn’t burn calories because it does! I’m not talking about wanting junk food. Oh, no. Give me a damn prime rib and make it snappy. And if I've been really stressed, I want a glass of wine or maybe something stouter, and a meal that would make a king go, “Whoa, baby. I might not be able to eat it all, but I’m sure as hell gonna try.”

Later, sated and having had a good night’s sleep, I’m ready to tackle the next list of writing projects.

With all that said, I’ll hope you take a look at my newest release. It’s a full novel that sweepsthe reader from Columbus, Ohio to Key West--and it is available today in paperback! However, if you have an e-reader, you can get "RUBY" at most e-book distributors, but the links to several dif ones are posted below. This novel has transformed over the last eight years, so it’s very special to me.

Ruby, the White King and Marilyn Monroe is a paranormal romance that takes off full throttle as demonic motorcycles and their beautiful riders chase Ruby to the rocky shores of Key West for a battle of epic proportions.

Are they angels, demons, or something else entirely? Ruby must send them back to a hell unlike anything the world has ever imagined. But will she allow herself to love the White King who has found her again over one thousand years later?

Blurb:
Reincarnated over the centuries. Stuck with a ditzy Marilyn Monroe lookalike. Falling for a rich albino guy. It’s just Ruby’s luck for Hell’s “real” angels to ride into this life and screw it all up.

A quote from author Maddie James:

Packed with action, each scene moving forward at a clip-clop pace, don’t blink your eyes once or miss a single paragraph of Ruby, the White King, and Marilyn Monroe. For if you do, you are sure to miss a piece of this literary puzzle!

One serendipitous meeting after another takes Ruby, her white king, and her quirky, hitchhiker friend Maureen on a frightening quest to get to Key West. With paranormal elements throughout, the sexual tension high, and the edge-of-the-seat factor not to be ignored, I could not stop reading until I reached the very end.—Maddie James, Romance Author www.maddiejames.net

You can read an excerpt at any of the following buy links:


TMP: http://bit.ly/oOhD3Y
ARe: http://bit.ly/rrlPTU
Kindle: http://amzn.to/rpvrA8
Bookstrand: http://bit.ly/rfTlsX

And here's the current paperback link but the book will appear at Amazon and BandN in a few days (scroll to bottom for print): http://bit.ly/oOhD3Y

Murphy's Law

Jennifer Hart, author of the hilarious mystery series The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag, joins us today with some, um, adventures of her own. Adventures that all of us have had because, well, while Murphy isn't truly our friend, he's often an unwelcome visitor.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thanks so much to the ladies of Four Strong Women for having me! I've brought my usual baggage that even the airlines can't lose, including the dark cloud that hovers over my head known as Murphy's Law.

Anything that can go wrong will go wrong. I don't know whether or not you're familiar with this adage but I'll bet the concept rings a bell. Usually Murphy's Law tends to strike at the most inopportune moments. Example. This morning, I'm scurrying my boys out the door to school. We're running late. Again. What can I say, I was inspired by my work in progress, a sexy noir type mystery and had a hard time dragging my mind back to the reality of Pop Tarts, end of the year teacher gifts, lunch boxes and missing socks.

Plus I had laundry going. Not that that's breaking news or anything, there's always laundry to be done in this house. If I want to see the bottom of the hamper I'd need a diving mask and snorkel. But I digress.

So everyone's dressed, including me. One child's brushing his teeth, the other putting on his sneakers. The beach towels from last weekend are piled in a heap on the dining room table so I toss them into the washer, add the soap and turn that sucker on.

"Mom, I need to bring a beach towel."

I'm leaning against the counter with a handful of blue sunscreen because the kids aren't allowed to put in on at school. "For what?" I ask.

"Field day," the nine year old says. And then he sneezes into my handful of goop.

"Go blow your nose." Scurrying over to the sink, I wash the germy gunk down the drain. "Why do you need a beach towel for field day? Yesterday was beach day and you didn't need a beach towel." I've gotten past the point where I wonder why I'm hearing about this now when we are T-minus two minutes to the last bell and no one is in the frigging car yet.

"I don't know, my teacher said we need a beach towel."

Squeezing more sunscreen onto my hand I apply it all over his face, probably more forcefully than necessary. I can be a brute when I'm stressed. Or awake. Why can't they apply sunscreen at school? Did none of those weenie officials ever read the directions on a bottle of sunscreen? It says to reapply every two hours. The school day is six hours and forty five minutes, minus however many minutes late we are that day. I'd put them on the bus, but they'd just miss it and I'd have to drive them anyway. This is the easier way. Really.

But I digress again.

"I don't have any beach towels, buddy. I just put them in the wash."

"That's okay. I'll use a dog towel."

I make a face. For those of you who don't have a nine year old boy, this was a legitimate option in his mind, to take the stanky hole-filled towels covered in beagle funk and fir. He brings that to school for field day, for whatever lame ass reason they need it, and I'll have CPS up my ass and to the left.

"Get a towel out of the bathroom." I tell him as I grease up his brother.

"I can't. Dad's in there. I think he's pooping."

We have one linen closet in our house. Three bathrooms and one linen closet. Whose brilliant idea was that? Not mine, that's for damn sure.

A groan escapes. I don't ask why he thinks his dad is pooping. The stench is exhibit A. Some mysteries are not worth solving. The kids are gooked and good to go though we are still sans a towel.

The nine year old looks at me, those big blue eyes. "Mom, I really need a towel."

"Fine. Get in the car and I'll get it."

Darting up the stairs, as fast as a mother of two who spends the majority of her life sitting on her ass in front of a computer screen can dart, I enter the master suite.

"I'm in here!" my husband yells. Of course the dog has followed me in and is first to investigate the smell. Stupid creature.

I suck in a quick lungful of air and push onwards. "Sorry, the kids needed a towel."

"Get away from me, dog!"

Not sure which one of us he's talking to, I usher the beagle out and we scurry down the stairs.

I get in the car. "Here's your towel."

"Mom, I need a hat."

I turn the engine over and the radio up. "Sorry, I couldn't hear you."

Take that, Murphy, you sick bastard.

They say write what you know, so it shouldn't be a surprise that Murphy's Law shows up in my zany mystery series, The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag. In fact, I brought him into the first book in the series. To set the stage. My heroine, Maggie, has been burning the candle at both ends and overslept the day before Thanksgiving. She's got a million things to do and no time to do them. And it's her first Thanksgiving with the in-laws.

Excerpt: From The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag: Skeletons in the Closet.

Damn it all to the black depths of Hades! I'd never been able to master two things at once.

I pushed myself up from the carpet and continued my mad dash for the kitchen. There was a note on the counter from Marty, informing me he'd taken the boys to the park and that my mother-in-law had called. I faced the inventible and looked at the clock on the microwave. 3:46 p.m., the day before Thanksgiving, and I still hadn't done my shopping.

No time to lose. I grabbed my purse and my keys, jotted a quick note on the back of Marty's, and was out the door. A brisk wind slapped me in the face and tossed my unruly hair in my eyes, but I didn't slow. I climbed behind the wheel of the White Cloud of Death and shoved the key into the ignition. I turned and waited for the engine to catch.

Nothing.

Okay, self, don't panic. I turned it again, and still nothing. A third try came up nada. No revving of an ancient engine to indicate the beast was even trying. "She's dead, Jim," I muttered in my best Bones McCoy imitation. Murphy and his confounded law had struck again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He's a sneaky little turd, isn't he? Would love to hear survival stories from when Murphy's Law derailed your best laid plans.

If Characters had Minds of Their Own

Elsie Rodriguez, an outspoken main character in three novels by David Huffstetler's – Disposable People, Blood on the Pen, and Blood on the Cards (to be released in 2011), has stopped by today. She has some choice words she wants to share with David. (grin) Elsie, the floor is yours...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Who the hell is this guy who keeps telling me what to do? He sits at a keyboard and manipulates every aspect of my life. It started with my name, Elsie. It sounds like a cow. Yes, I know a lot of girls in Mexico are named Elsie, and I was born there. But, really, Elsie? And what about my first assignment? He put me undercover at a migrant labor camp. I’m a reporter, so I get that part, but I’m not sure why it had to be in a swamp. He gave me this killer body with smooth, bronze skin, tight buttocks, and full breasts, and then he let two men bury me alive. I’m claustrophobic, you know. Do you think he gave one thought about that? That bastard. I know I shouldn’t curse, but he pisses me off. What good is it to have long, black hair when I had to chop it off to look more like an immigrant? I don’t even want to talk about the mosquito bites.

It took almost a year for me to recover from my injuries in that story, and then I met Jack, that big, strapping Texas Ranger. The detectives call him a dinosaur, and he frustrates the life out of me, but I try to remember what he has gone through too. My roommate teases me about Jack. She wants to know if we’re having sex. Well, actually, she calls it doing the “big nasty.” Joanne knows very well that I’m Catholic. My mother would have a stroke, if she thought I was having sex outside of marriage. I do want to please Mama, but Jack is quite skilled in that area. I mean, they tell me he is anatomically gifted. He’s a big guy, you know, six-feet-six. There are certain things a girl might expect in a man that size, like size. Okay, I’m saying more than I meant to say. I don’t know why I worry about what my mother thinks. I’m a grown woman, and women have needs, yearnings, yes cravings. I admit it.

It’s not my fault that I am passionate and a bit amorous. That guy at the keyboard gave me those feelings. What is his name? I call him the Badger, because he badgers the crap out of me, when he is stumped for ideas. His voice whines to me. “Elsie, what now? Give me a scene. Tell me what you want to do next?” I have enough going on in my life. I don’t need some man in Cyberland to keep hounding me, when he can’t come up with new ideas on his own. Yes, I said it. Now, back off.

Then again, maybe I’m too hasty about that. If I can get into his head, he might take me somewhere exciting, some place better than a migrant camp in a swamp or locked in the trunk of a car or a cave in Sonora. I always wanted to go to Australia, to see what the men really do down under, out back. Sorry, but sometimes I have wicked thoughts. Well, in Australia, at least no one would hold a Bowie knife between my thighs. Oh yes, you heard me right, girls. Think about it, and then tell me you wish you could be a character in a book. Still, there are some very good things here, and, there is no guilt the morning after. And, I never know what is coming on the next page. That can be scary, but it can be exciting. It could have me fighting for my life or, I hope, in the throes of hot, sweaty passion. I like those pages a lot. So, tell me. What is a “good girl” to do when the keyboard speaks and tells her to do bad things?

He thinks I forgot the scene in Chapter Eight, but I haven’t. I was doing all those things Mama told me not to do with a man. What happened to that scene? He claims the editor scraped it. I don’t believe him. There I was, sailing in orgasmic bliss, absent any reality, but the moment, and, with one stroke of the delete button, it was all over. Damn it.

I must admit there are times I want to reach right back up that computer cable and jerk the Badger in here with me. Let’s see how he likes it. Let some big man break his arm or hold his head under water. Wait a minute. How do I know it’s a he? Could a woman be doing this to me? Hmm? Hey, sister, how about that trip to Australia?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Blurb:

Jack Harden is a modern-day Texas Ranger haunted by his wife's death a year ago.

But when a murderer strikes, he is called into duty. Now he must battle the urge to kill the drunk driver responsible for her death and the hunger to kill himself as he hunts for a serial killer who wants him dead.

Elsie Rodriguez is assigned to report on the murders for her newspaper and ordered to stay with Jack Harden. He's old school, tough, and doesn't want her there, but, despite his gruff manner, the big Ranger triggers something inside her. Something more than just her Latin temper.

Can she pull him back from the edge of sanity? Or will death win again?

Excerpt:

Someone was going to die that night. Was it Maxwell Thornton or his mistress? Eddie Carter knelt behind an oak display case in the dim hallway outside Thornton’s office, waiting for the chance to kill one of them, maybe both. The clock above Eddie’s head clicked past nine p.m. The door eased open, and a woman stepped out, straightening the black skirt around her slender hips. A dark mist rolled over Eddie’s soul. Kill the bitch. Kill her now. But it was too late. The woman’s stiletto heels clattered over the wooden floor as she scampered down the stairs and out the exit door three floors down.

The hall settled back to the faint sound of an occasional passing car and the staccato ticking of the clock. Five minutes, eight minutes, ten. Again, the door opened, and the clock gave way to the jingle of his keys as he locked the door. He straightened his paisley tie, looked at the ceiling, and said, “Hell, that damn light’s out again.” He shrugged and followed the same path his mistress had taken toward the stairs.

Eddie Carter stepped out of the shadows, eased up behind him, and smashed a piece of pipe into the back of his head. Thornton fell hard to his knees and flat on his stomach, his thinning hair growing wet with blood.

Thick hands worked slowly, calmly tying the prone man’s wrists and ankles and shoving a rag into his mouth. The same hands that wrote prose on a computer keyboard now lashed a rope around the corner post of the banister. Thornton came back to his senses in a haze and found himself cradled in robust arms. His hip banged against the top rail as Eddie lifted him up, and then dropped him over the edge. He fell six feet, and his body jerked to a stop, with two steel meat hooks ripping into the flesh of his armpits. His body swung suspended over the stairwell, his screams muffled by the gag in his mouth. He jerked and shuddered, looking desperately for some way to save himself, but the only person there was Eddie Carter, watching him die.

* * * *

The mid-morning sun found Jack Harden sitting alone in a cemetery on the outskirts of Dallas, staring at a gravestone. Jenny, his wife of twelve years, lay in the ground with a plain headstone bearing only her name and the word Gone. Harden opened his jacket. The barrel of his pistol scraped against the silver Texas Ranger badge pinned to his shirt as he pulled it from his shoulder holster. Perspiration covered the back of his neck from the heat of another sweltering August day, soaking into the collar of a pale blue dress shirt, the kind he almost always wore.

He held the forty-five-caliber revolver in front of him and studied its long lines. It was elegant in its simplicity, at once both beautiful and foreboding. He slipped the barrel into his mouth and a stale, metallic taste ran over his tongue, but he wouldn’t have to taste it for long. He wouldn’t have to taste anything or feel anything again. He cocked the hammer. Three quick rings sounded from Harden’s belt.

He thought he’d turned his cell phone off before coming to the cemetery, and now it hailed him. His finger trembled against the trigger and, once again, the phone rang. Harden eased the gun out of his mouth and muttered, “Damn, you people won’t even let me kill myself.” He snatched the phone from its holder, flipped it open, and said, “Yeah, this is Harden.”

Captain Abernathy sounded curt. “Jack, where the hell are you?”

Harden gave a wry, sad grin and said, “Just visiting family, Captain.”

“Well, get over to Highland Park. We’ve got a body swinging in a stairwell over there, and the press is already going ape shit.”

Harden stood and stretched the kinks out of his six feet three inches. He thought about closing the phone and finishing what he had started with his gun. Would Jenny welcome him to her world, or would she be disappointed that he had killed himself? He chose to answer his captain. “All right. Where is it?”

“It’s in one of the older office building down on Benlow Street, 4713 is the address. The crime scene is on the third floor, outside a literary agency called Thornton Creative Properties. Dallas P.D. had a couple of patrolmen respond to secure the scene, and the Medical Examiner is on his way. And, Jack, be careful about what you say to the media.”

Harden snapped his phone back onto his belt. He blew a kiss toward Jenny’s grave and said, “I’ll see you soon, sweetheart. Not today, but soon.”

* * * *

The tires on his ten-year-old Chevy pickup truck whined down Interstate 75, and his tortured mind went back to business, back to being a Ranger. He took the off ramp and snaked his way through town to a series of tall office buildings. As he approached the 4700 block and slowed to show his badge to an officer at the roadblock, a reporter rushed forward with a microphone. “Hey, Ranger, can you tell us what’s going on down there?”

Harden pulled away without answering. He drove halfway down the block and, as usual, parked where he “damn well pleased,” in the middle of the street. The skyscrapers around it dwarfed the three-story building, one of the few structures still standing from the 1940’s. The wooden steps creaked under Harden’s two hundred fifteen pounds, a bit heavier than he’d been in his twenties. He looked up, and there hung a bloodstained body dangling from a rope at the third floor. He ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape at the landing, dodged puddles of blood, and clamored up one more hot, humid flight of stairs.

“Hi, Jack.” It was the clear, baritone voice of Moses Browner, the painfully thin Deputy Coroner. He snapped another photograph of the body, lowered the camera, and said, “Let me introduce you to our victim. Maxwell Thornton, president and majority stock holder of Thornton Creative Properties.”

Harden took a cigar from the inside pocket of his jacket, rolled it in his mouth, and carefully lit it with a wooden match. Two young police officers edged away from the smoke. Harden turned back to Browner and said, “Have you got a cause of death yet?”

Browner put his finger to his chin and answered, “Yeah. I figure his heart stopped beating and that pretty much did it. Now, how do you expect me to determine a cause of death when the man is still hanging up there? He’s tied hand and foot, got a gag in his mouth, and is hanging from a rope tied to the banister with the other end tied to a steel meat hook in each armpit. I’m thinking maybe it’s not suicide.”

Harden overlooked the sarcasm, took another puff on his cigar, and said, “So, what does all that tell you?”

The rattle of a mop bucket and a cleaning lady pulling it toward them interrupted Browner’s answer. He brushed her away, saying, “Not now, we’ve got work to do here yet. We’ll call you when we need you.” He turned back to the tall Ranger, who was still waiting and still smoking. “Well, I can tell you this much, Jack. It would take a pretty stout man to lift him over the banister, so the perpetrator is either a big fellow or there was more than one. The victim was probably killed sometime last night and he was probably still alive when whoever did this put him on those meat hooks. There’s blood on both sides of the landing where he thrashed about, trying to get loose. I’d say he just hung there until he bled to death.”

“It takes a pretty sick bastard to do that,” Harden answered. “Maybe sick enough to stay around and watch.”

Browner held out a plastic evidence bag with a piece of paper inside. “We found this note taped to the handrail.”

Harden studied the paper through the clear bag and read it aloud. “Do you believe this? Signed D.A.” He handed it back to Browner and said, “Well, that doesn’t make much sense, but it sounds personal. I guess it could be a revenge killing. Let me know if you find anything else, Moses. I’m going to talk to the other people in the agency. Maybe they’ll know if he had any enemies.”

Browner smirked and said, “Well, he sure had one.”

Something flashed, but it wasn’t Browner’s camera. It came out of the shadows behind them. Harden spun around, reached for his pistol, and growled, “Who’s back there?”

A slim figure with dark, shoulder-length hair stepped into the light and said, “Hold your horses. I’m just a reporter. Don’t shoot me.”

Harden let the gun drop back into its holster. “Who are you and how did you get in here?”

Her large brown eyes glimmered in the light as she answered, “My name is Elsie Rodriguez from the San Antonio Post, and I came up the back stairs.”

“San Antonio?” Browner quizzed. “Dallas is a little off your beat, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she answered. “But I didn’t come about the murder. I came to see Jack Harden. I called the Ranger Office, and they told me he’d be here.”

Harden dropped his cigar to the floor and crushed it under his foot. “Bull shit. We don’t tell reporters where Rangers go.”

“Okay, I heard it on my police radio.”

“What are you doing with a police radio?”

“The paper loaned it to me, but that’s not important. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

He started down the stairs, saying, “I’ve got no time for reporters. You wasted a trip. Go back to San Antonio.”

* * * *

Elsie watched him storm away. She turned to Moses Browner and said, “Well, he’s kind of a nasty one, isn’t he?”

Browner wagged his head and chuckled softly. “He is that. But he’s a good man, and he probably has a right to be out of sorts now and then.”

“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m here.” She gestured toward the body and asked, “Say, do you mind if I get another picture while I’m here?”

“Don’t press your luck, young lady. You need to get back down those steps before somebody confiscates that camera.”

Elsie gave a coy smile and said, “Okay, okay. I’m going. You don’t have to be a Harden about it.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

To get to know David a bit better, you can visit his blog or friend him on Facebook. You can find Disposable People at Amazon and Blood on the Pen at Wild Child Publishing, Amazon, OmniLit, and Bookstrand.

Falling on my rubbery behind or laugh, baby, laugh

Today, I'd like to welcome Cassie Exline, a fabulous author of many genres and overall entertaining woman. Her newest release, Ruby's Deadly Secret, is the second in her Sheryl Locke Holmes mystery short story series available at Wild Child Publishing. Think "Murder She Wrote," but with a younger, hot woman, a hot--fanning self--boyfriend, and a splash of humor.

~ ~ ~

Ever laugh at the wrong moment? I'm warning you now, don't ever trip and fall in front of me. It's a sickness. I have to laugh and I'll continue until the tears roll and my sides hurt. Oh, I'll help you up, but I'll laugh even if I slip and fall on my butt beside you.

A few years ago, back in the dark ages when we still rented VHS movies. Well, my husband pulled up to the video store, I hopped out of the truck and down under the truck, I went. True story! I'm stretched out on my back, my head even with the passenger door, still open by the way, when I hear my husband ask our daughter, "Where did your mother go?"

To which she said, "She was here a minute ago."

I'm staring up at the sky, praying to God that DH doesn't move the truck and a new customer doesn't pull into the lot. The next thing I see are two faces peering down at me. Now you know what they said, "What are you doing down there?"

Okay, that wasn't funny to me, but they thought it was hilarious. Damn slippy shoes.

But it wasn't long after that the tables were turned. DH loves his cowboy boots. Don't ask me why he'd ever wear them in the wintertime, but he did. His legs shot in all directions and I laughed my ass off. Down he went and shot me a dirty look. I couldn't stop laughing. It's a sickness I have. He got up and went right back down. By this time, I was doubled over and could hardly breathe. More dirty looks darted my direction. He decided to walk in the snow and every third step he would slip. I couldn't move from the car for twenty minutes and I peed my pants.

When I started the job I have now, I discovered that my behind is made of rubber or else I'm magical. I can fall on it and I'm instantly on my feet. Amazing. Seriously. It was winter, I had good winter shoes on this time, no slippy ones, and strutted out of the police station. No, I wasn't arrested, but getting the police report for the newspaper. Out I went and twenty feet later, down I went. Like magic, I was on my feet. One of the Borough employees watched the whole horrible incident and asked if I was alright, in between snickering. Jackass. Oh, I assured him I was fine. No big deal. Did I mention this occurred on Main Street? Down the sidewalk I pranced like a pony, waving at people, chatting to this person and that, up the steps into the building where I work, on to my office. I closed the door and dropped like a rock on my chair. My God, I hurt. Everything hurt. If someone had yelled fire, I'd really had to think what I wanted to do.

My next "trip" was in the spring. I was off to the Library for a photo op, across the street and not far from the office, so I walked. No big deal (notice the pattern?). Let me tell you, don't ever get drunk in my town and walk down the sidewalk on those freaking bricks. Stupid lopsided pieces of crap. It was pitiful. I'm a country child, I know to watch where I put my feet, except I didn't and I did--fall that is. Down I went and up I popped. Like magic. I'm a good employee or just lucky, I didn't break the camera, but I thought I'd broke something else. On I went to the library, smiling, ever the trouper. This time I could feel the blood sticking to my pants and the palm of my hand burned like fire, but I pasted that blasted smile on my face, took the photo, asked the questions, and sauntered back to my office. I had bruises for weeks.

Don't get me wrong, bricks are beautiful as sidewalks, but also dangerous, even if straight and even. The area where I work in is part of the historic district. So, we also have a brick sidewalk. My hand to God, I have stood on those damn bricks and slid downward to the square. There's a slope. It was a slow go and I had time to think about how to escape with dignity. Don't forget, I work on Main Street. When I got close enough to grab on to a porch railing, I latched on like it was a life preserver. For a while I thought I was going to have to crawl on my hands and knees back to the office. A good Samaritan came along and put down salt so I could hobble back.

Golly gee, what wonders I have to look forward to with winter just around the corner. Rubber unite! Never mind, just pass me the Ben Gay and put on the coffee.

~ ~ ~

Excerpt from Ruby's Deadly Secret

by C.L. Exline

Sheryl gazed into Jake's eyes and caressed his cheek. "I'm sorry for overreacting. For a brief moment, I thought I had lost you. I know better, but I'd just been with Mrs. Wallace and listened to how much her husband's betrayal had hurt her. I wasn't thinking, not with my head. Forgive me."

"Take your hands off of me!" yelled a voice in the distance.

Sheryl and Jake looked over to see Dot being physically escorted out of the restaurant.

"Madam!"

"Look, you little toad, take your hands off of me."

"I better intercede before Dot gets physical." Jake hurried to smooth things over. "Lawrence, it'll be okay. I'll take over."

Lawrence let go of Dot, but glared at her before facing Jake. "She and that blonde friend of hers are not welcome in our establishment. Both are troublemakers. We run a reputable business and cannot have altercations disrupting our patrons."

"Like I care to go back in! I wouldn't go in that rat hole if my life depended on it," Dot said and rubbed her arm. "You better hope I don't get bruises from your manhandling me."

The man snorted before stomping back into the restaurant.

"You didn't hit Lisa, did you?" Jake asked.

"Lawrence wouldn't let me."

Purchase page

Releasing Tomorrow!

Publisher: Ellora's Cave Publishing


ISBN: 9781419929519
MSRP/List Price: $13.98
Our Cover Price: $6.99

Release Date: November 10, 2010

Drawn to the attic in her new home, Amelia finds a saucy nineteenth-century wench dress. At first glance, it’s just a dress, but once she dons it, desire streaks through her and she’s transported to the past. Overwhelmed by lust, she is caught pleasuring herself, discovered by the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen, who turns out to be—her lover?

Amelia and Emmet join in an explosive sexual union, erasing the months—or is it centuries?—they have been apart as though they never existed. But suddenly Amelia awakes—alone.

Until the dress calls again.

Emmett’s not the only one lusting after Amelia. Lord Graham wants her and he doesn’t fight fair. He kidnaps her, sends Emmett on a deadly errand and forces Amelia to participate in his voyeuristic games. Although Amelia’s body betrays her, she vows to remain true to Emmett, but will he return? And can she escape the clutches of Lord Graham’s debauchery?

Amidst subterfuge, treachery and murder, Amelia and Emmet’s love grows and they reach new heights of carnal passions.

EXCERPT:

Emmett ignored her, only sliding his hands to span her stomach. His mouth covered one nipple, teeth lightly nipping, and the shock nearly had her opening her eyes. He sucked, tugging on the taut peak the way she liked, as she knew he would. She cried out, almost reaching her pain threshold. Emmett eased the pressure a little, then sucked and reared his head back once more, the torment too much for her, too intense.

“Stop, I…”

He let her nipple go. It ached, and despite wanting the sweet torture to end, she longed for more. As though picking up on her thoughts, he tongued her nipple, sucking it as before. Amelia clasped her hands together tighter, wanting to cry out yet at the same time testing herself to see how far she could go. He pulled harder, his fingers stroking her waist, circling her navel, and she clenched her cunt, willed herself not to gasp.

She failed, snatching in air.

Breast free of his mouth, she lifted her pelvis, needing him to cater to her throbbing bud. The mattress dipped again as he shuffled his knees farther down the bed then settled between her legs, the heat of his breath on her slit forcing the air out of her lungs. Her torso juddered beneath his questing fingers and she itched to pinch her nipples. Instead, she squeezed her hands again. His tongue parted her. The tip swirled around her nub and a blaze of sensation warmed the folds.

“Oh God, Emmett…”

“I’m going to sup your cream. Lick you, make you want me so much you can’t breathe.”

He flattened his tongue, licking her with quick strokes, fingers smoothing down her body to widen her slit. She bucked as he worked faster, exquisite waves of pleasure ebbing and flowing in and around her bud. Panting, she writhed, unclasping her hands and gripping the headboard spindles. She dug her nails into her palms, the bite adding to her excitement. Tongue flicking from side to side, Emmett brought her to the brink of orgasm then stopped, kissing her mound and her lower belly. She hissed out between clenched teeth, frustrated but knowing when he touched her there again the pleasure would be stronger. He took his mouth from her belly and didn’t move. She waited, eyes still closed, and listened to the sounds around them—their breaths, a creaking bed downstairs, faint moans from customers, footsteps on the wooden floor below. She longed to open her eyes, to see whether he studied her, but at the same time not knowing suited her. And she waited, her heart picking up speed, her wet nub throbbing in time with it. God, how she wanted to let go and slide her hands into his hair, pushing his mouth down onto her slit, directing his movements and orchestrating the pressure. To tell him to sup her now, beg if she had to. But she remained silent, confident he knew exactly when to begin again.

At last, movement! He hooked his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her, setting her lower half on his thighs. His balls rested against her ass, their softness and warmth arousing her beyond measure. Emmett brushed his hands up and down her legs, thumbs skating close to her thatch each time he reached the top. When he drew away she almost cried out in frustration, wanting more of the touch of his fingertips beside her mound. He leaned back to caress her shins, then her calves and she loosed a strangled moan. God, he teased her so! She needed his hands higher up, at her nub, which pulsed and swelled with every passing second. Sliding his hands beneath her knees, he pushed so her legs bent and she placed her feet beside him on the bed. He spread her legs and she could only imagine the sight of herself open for his viewing.

“Beautiful, wench. Beautiful.”

Her stomach flipped at the hoarseness of his voice, a voice that belied the fact he was in control. He was close, she sensed it, and it wouldn’t be long before he could hold back no longer and plunged inside her. She hoped it would be soon, because she was close to coming herself. The slowness of his actions had brought her to a high state of arousal, and just the slightest touch now might send her over the edge.

Thumbs sliding up and down each lip of her slit, Emmett tortured Amelia some more. She jolted, eyes nearly springing open, and waited to feel what he would do next. He placed his thumbs together then glided them down to her opening, easing them inside with his fingers splayed over her mound. He pressed his thumbs and fingers together, her pelvic bone in between, and moved his thumbs up and down the upper wall of her sheath. Suddenly, he curved his thumb tips and touched something deep inside her, a place he had never been before. A sharp sensation had her abdomen jerking and she almost, almost opened her eyes.

“Did you like that?” he asked, dragging his thumbs down then returning them to that place, pressing there with his fingers.

The sensation came again, and now he concentrated on the area, rubbing what felt like a ridge inside her. She nodded, wondering what would happen if he kept stroking. Amelia didn’t have to wait long before successive shots of fierce pleasure momentarily took away her ability to breathe.

“I told you I’d take away your breath. Good. That feels good, doesn’t it, wench?”

She nodded and gasped, riding out the new feelings his thumbs produced. As the bite receded, her bud still throbbing and in need of attention, he eased his thumbs out and gripped her waist. Without warning, he thrust his cock inside her, fucking her hard and fast. She clenched her sheath around him, gripped the bed spindles tighter and gave in to the rising tide.

“Ah, wench!” he ground out.

His firm thrusts nudged her up the bed and she crossed her ankles at his lower back, her whole body tingling with excitement. Juices coated his cock, the length of him gliding in and out easily, the aroma of sex heightening her desire. She came, bucking, keening, emotions running so high they overwhelmed her with their intensity. Emmett’s low moans and grunts brought on another wave of pleasure and her cunt ached with it. Wet heat filled her and her lover loosed a strangled yell, pushing into her with short jabs as he emptied himself into her contracting sheath. He slowed to a stop and lowered his body to hers, brushing her cheeks with sweet kisses.

Amelia opened her eyes, staring into his. Love shone from him and she wanted so much to tell him how she felt, but the words wouldn’t come, halted by the lump in her throat.

I love you, Emmett Dray. Love you…