Tori Ross's Blog, page 2

My Septic Dick Sweater

A few months ago, my neighbor across the street (who works at a yarn shop, BTW) found a pattern for a sweater online. It was this one called “The Pearl Clutcher.” (Credit to Ravelry and Kayla Dyches. As a side note, she is the same knitter who posted a pattern called “clam hands” and mentions on the page here that they are most certainly flowers on the gloves and not vaginas. Mind out of the gutter, people!)

Once she saw the dick sweater, my neighbor immediately texted me because, in my neighborhood, if you need a fictional book written that’s loosely based on the swingers who hang out at the pool (cough cough The Caretaker) or want someone to have the balls to wear a dick sweater in public, you knock on my door.

The text conversation then went something like this:

Neighbor: You need this for signings.

Me: I certainly do. Can you make this? I can’t. (I only know how to do a simple knit stitch and have neither the math skills nor the pattern reading skills to make this.)

Neighbor: Of course!

Me: How long would it take?

Neighbor: Couple months

Since then, the discussion was tabled because life happened. Neighbor lady became a grandmother, I got another dog that likes to eat my curtains. You know…things.

Then, last week…

Neighbor: I’m having surgery in July and can make you that dick sweater. Do you want to come over and I’ll do measurements?

I knock on her door, and her long-suffering husband waves me in. She yells from upstairs she’ll be down in a minute, and when she comes down with a measuring tape, says, “Ready to measure your dicks?”

Her husband: Silently laughs to himself and shakes his head. (Poor guy.)

Neighbor: You need to think about what color you want the dicks. (More snickering from her husband.)

Me: What are my options?

Neighbor (shrugs): I don’t know. What color do you like your dicks? You could do a couple flesh tones and be inclusive.

Me (nodding): Let’s do that. Yes, to all the dicks.

She took some measurements, and we worked out a time to get the yarn. I went to the shop she works at when her shift was ending, and I picked out the colors in the picture above.

Now, you may be confused because there is no flesh tone color in that photo. We talked over the dick sweater picture in a corner of the shop and used words to describe the dicks in public like “main features.”

Like one does in public when discussing dicks.

In the end, we settled on the purple for the base since I love purple, the green for the dicks because we thought it would offset the purple nicely, and the white for…well, that one is obvious.

Once I got home, I realized that the green could give off a “septic” vibe of the dicks, so now my husband and I jokingly refer to this project as “my septic dick sweater.”

Anywho, my neighbor has lovingly agreed to post short videos of her making it for me, and I’ll update my blog and social media with the progress as I try it on in phases, so you can see it. Of course, I’ll post pics when it’s done.

If you’re coming to Books by the Arch in St. Louis in October, it should be done by then, so I’ll be rocking it at both my panel and the signing. Come see my septic dick sweater!

You can also follow the hashtag #mydicksweater on Instagram and Facebook (@authortoriross on both) over the next couple of months starting around mid-July when she starts on it.

Now…about those “clam hands.”

Help a Sis Out

I hate asking for help. It’s not in my DNA. I don’t make a good salesperson because if someone says no, I just shrug and go off and cry.

But…I’m going to ask you for help.

#1- Vote for Disco Bar in the July 2024 Most-Anticipated Romance Release. Click on the link here to vote for Disco Bar if you’re on Goodreads. This helps us get eyes on our books! Thanks.

#2- Vote for Copper in the Kindle Review Reader’s Choice Contest. Please only do this if you’ve actually READ Copper. A lot of authors just send people out to randomly click, and I don’t want to win that way. I only want your vote if you read and liked the book. Click here to vote.

#3- Request your library stock a paperback copy of Copper! Most libraries allow patrons to request books they’d like in stock. If you could fill that out for Copper, that would be amazing. I’m trying to reach as many libraries as possible, and that’s only possible with this book in paperback format. You may need the ISBN number to request the book, and that can be found on the paperback version on Amazon if you scroll down to the details area. Thanks!

Thank you!

Releases and Catalog Changes

Shit happens.

I have always maintained that I will keep my personal issues out of sight of my readers, and I won’t go into some of them. But one big glaring one is making me adjust how I do some of my business.

It’s this: My erotica pen name is kicking the cream cheese out of my Tori Ross romance.

Gang, I haven’t even released anything by my pen name this year. Not a word. I’ve neglected it as I’ve built up my Tori Ross backlist, thinking, “But I hate writing erotica. I want my romance to pick up orange badges.”

I have whined, cried, stomped, and kicked my feet that an erotica pen name I don’t advertise and don’t even have a newsletter for kicks the shit out of my romance. Every. Single. Day.

Meanwhile, my pen name collects orange banners on Amazon like some politicians collect indictments. My pen name pays for my family’s utilities every single month plus my kid’s piano lessons. I just paid off my car a year early with smut money. PLUS the pen name also pays for all the Tori Ross marketing, covers, ads, etc.

Enough.

To keep ignoring one pen name’s success and continuing to work three times as hard for one that doesn’t even pay for its production is to give the middle finger to my bank account and my teens’ looming college funds.

I have been both Bruce Wayne and Batman for three years. I write at least 1k words a day as Tori Ross and, when I’m actually writing something for my secret identity, I write 1000 words for it on top of romance, shifting gears with the snap of the fingers.

With that said, I’m also going back to work ALMOST full-time this fall. That means less writing time, less marketing time, less time to screw around on social media, and when I do get writing time, my focus has to be on..

You guessed it.

Is Tori Ross going away? Not at all. But I’m writing this because I do owe you all an explanation on why some things will be moved around. I need to put some things in Kindle Unlimited because marketing to all retailers takes a lot of time, and the opportunity cost of marketing one book on Apple or Nook versus writing time…well, I have to choose writing time for the pen name that earns. If I didn’t, I’d be a shit businesswoman, and I refuse to be a shit businesswoman any longer.

So, there it is. That’s the big reason for the change. Other reasons include: heavy travel this summer and me ignoring my health for three fucking years while I sat and wrote/marketed in a chair all day (that has to change.)

With that said…

June Release:

Book 6 of The Traveling Calvert Sisters will release on all retailers so my readers who have read the rest of the series on those platforms have a chance to grab it. Grab it on Nook, Apple, or Kobo before July 1. It will move to KU on that date.

After this, there are two sisters left, and I will finish the series. It just won’t be right away. Look for book 7 sometime in 2025. I have the covers and the plots, but again…it’s a matter of me finding the time to do it.

July Release:

Disco Bar comes out in July, and it’s really…chef’s fucking kiss. ARCs are already loaded into Bookfunnel, and the book is with a proofreader for one last look. This is a sure thing.

Changed Release Date:

Baked and Burned was going to come out March 2025. It will move to THIS fall. (Late September/early October?) Please watch my newsletter and social media for exact dates, but it’s almost done because I love writing it. No use holding it until March.

Canceled Preorders:

I canceled the October/November preorders for The Fix It Guys. I may write them down the road, but I sat down to work on them and just…couldn’t. They are tabled for now. I’ve also toyed with making them straight up erotica shorts. We’ll see what happens with them, but I don’t have the spoons to think about it now.

KU changes:

Contact High will move to Kindle Unlimited in early June. I’ve already taken it out of Nook and Apple. If you read in Kobo or Kobo Plus and want it, you have until the end of the month. (It’s in an in-house promo over on Kobo and in a giveaway promo somewhere else until the end of this month, so I can’t pull before then.)

But here’s the big news: I will move The Traveling Calvert Sisters to KU as well. Look for those filtering into KU in early July. You have until June 30 to read them on all retailers. If you want Head Over Heels in Hawaii for FREE, grab it now because when it moves to KU, the price will flip to paid.

Release 2025:

You’ll get the sequel to Disco Bar in May of 2025. It will stay as a May 2025 release. It is outlined, and I have time blocked for it.

2025 Events:

There may also be some changes in my event schedule for 2025 with going back to work full time. All events for 2024 are a lock, though, since they are all in the summer or local events. (I’m going back to work in education, so my summers are free.)

Thanks for understanding. Again, shit happens. Time to pivot and be a good businesswoman. I hope you can look at that decision and be proud of me for that. It’s a rough choice, but a necessary choice.

Lost in London Excerpt

See below for an excerpt from Lost in London, coming June 14, 2024 to all retailers! Click on the cover below to learn more.

Chapter 1

“Lila Calvert. C-A-L-V-E-R-T. Calvert,” I practically scream. The airport is loud, and the murmur of families greeting loved ones in the luggage area is deafening. Sound echoes off the walls, and the female voice over the loudspeaker announces luggage carousel assignments. It’s overwhelming.

The airline worker across from me scowls and types on her keyboard, but I detect an eye roll in there. “Ma’am, I speak English,” she says, a fake smile plastered on her face. “Also, please don’t yell. I’m working as best I can to find your bags.”

I back away from the counter, tears burning my eyes and a great wracking sob threatening to escape my chest. My fingers twitch like I want to take over typing on the woman’s clackity keyboard and search for my bags myself, but I’m powerless. I’m nothing but a broken cog in the travel machine today. I don’t know how to use their system even if I could take over the keyboard, and it’s not like Google will help me until they get the ability to track baggage.

I laughed when Regi told me I should get an AirTag. If I had my phone, I could watch my luggage fly away from me to Oslo, Cairo, Perth, or wherever the hell it’s on its way to. But no…I took a puddle jumper from Birmingham and couldn’t even have a backpack because there was no room under the seat in front of me and no overhead bins. The gate attendant took my backpack, slapped a luggage tag on the handle, and told me I could pick it up at the end of the flight. I only have my fanny pack-type bag across my chest that holds my passport, a credit card, and a small amount of cash. Thank fuck I didn’t put that in my backpack.

I should have known. My sister, Peyton, had the same thing happen when she went to Nashville for Thanksgiving last year. Lesson learned. The Calvert sisters have two strikes against puddle jumper luggage handling. I intend to text my siblings immediately and warn them there seems to be some kind of family curse or conspiracy regarding getting our bags to our desired destination.

Whatever is happening, my luggage is probably having more adventure than I’ll see in my lifetime.

I straighten my shoulders and shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’ve never traveled to a different country before. I’m exhausted and, well, I’m frankly scared. What happened to my stuff?”

The woman taps a few other keys and blinks, her own bottom lip trembling. Fucking hell. Did I scare her? Am I going to end up on CNN for terrorist threats against an airline worker? Then again, this is London. It would probably be the BBC instead of CNN.

I shake my head, thinking. My mouth opens like I want to make a suggestion to fix my predicament, but it’s impossible. I have no power here and no logical solution.

“You came from St. Louis?” the woman asks.

“Originally.” I hold up my fingers and count my stops. “Layover in New York. Layover in Dublin. Layover in Birmingham. Now here. I am in London, right? I made it in one piece?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m checking the records, but it seems like your luggage was lost around Dublin.”

“My suitcase, you mean? My backpack was lost in Birmingham. I had it until then. Are you telling me you lost my luggage twice?”

The woman hums a guilty sound, and I curl my fingers into the customer service counter plastic. “How does this happen? Did it fly out of the plane over the green fields of England?”

She taps at her keys, her eyes frantically bouncing around the screen for information she can relay to me. She wants me away. Gone. I can see it in her lined face.

If I only had my backpack, I’d even be willing to step away from the counter, buy some pajamas and a pair of sweatpants, procure a toothbrush, and forget about the suitcase. It was just clothes, and I’m not even a picky dresser. Jeans and sweatshirts can be replaced. I’m that kind of person. A people pleaser.

But I am not pleasing this woman right now.

I swallow and tap my fingers on the counter. My other hand comes to my face, wiping a trickle of sweat that’s making its way down my temple. My hotel information was in my phone. I had a travel notebook with directions on taking the Tube from Heathrow, which stop to get off at, and how many blocks to walk to the small hotel I reserved.

What was the name again? The Queen’s Arms? The Queen’s Legs? Shit. Did the name change to The King’s Arms now that there’s a king on the throne? Does it work like that?

Also in my backpack was the travel guide Lily and I lovingly annotated with sticky notes, laughing at how I was going to spend my time in London. I also bought a Tube pass that’s programmed into my phone. I had a scheduled day out to Bath, but I’m unsure if that was Tuesday or Wednesday as my brain frantically searches its memory banks. Where was the meeting point?

Oh, yeah, that info is in my phone. Even if I could get to a computer and access my email, I have two-factor authentication that would go to my phone.

This was supposed to be my quarter-life walkabout. OK, maybe a little over a quarter of my life. I’m nearing thirty, but I’m fresh from my degree program in education, and I wanted to go somewhere and see something before I settled into my own classroom this fall. I wanted to celebrate quitting my special education para job and finally earning my degree. I wanted to do something fun for me and explore museums since I am now certified to be a history teacher. I wanted to be brave like my sisters who have traveled around the country and the world. Ava went to Australia by herself for work. Cora went to Hawaii. I can do it, can’t I?

Apparently not.

I’m just stuck. I’m stuck in Heathrow without a phone, an itinerary, or any contact information for my hotels or tours. I can’t even call home and cry to my mother because…I don’t have a fucking phone.

I smile at the woman and take a deep breath. “Can you at least find the backpack tonight? It has my phone and itinerary and everything in it. I don’t remember where I have a hotel reservation because, well, I can’t think about anything but how to panic right now.”

She stares at me a moment and blinks. Something in her face breaks, though. I see it in slow motion as her eyes sag and her shoulders slump. She sighs and rubs the back of her neck. “If you give me a few minutes and have a seat, I’ll see if we can find a hotel voucher for you for something nearby. The backpack should be found by morning, so it’ll just be for a night. The plane left and went back to Birmingham, but it only does the Birmingham and London circuit. We’ll bring it to you early. The Dublin luggage will take a bit since it’s, well, it looks like it’s on its way to Mumbai.”

“Well, I hope it has a great time,” I mumble. I point to a row of metallic chairs with uncomfortable black plastic seatbacks. “I’ll be over here crying.”

I slink away from the counter and slouch into the seat a few feet away. Hmm. This must be what Mom means when she says she likes to sit and just watch people. It’s weird not having a phone to immediately pull out and scroll through. So this is how people occupied their airport time before cell phones. I look left and right for someone to talk to, but not one soul is just sitting around this time of night. Maybe if I was at a gate upstairs, I could talk to someone. Everyone in the luggage area is either picking up their luggage, greeting their family, or in the same boat and talking to a customer service rep at one of the counters along the walls of the pickup area.

Breathe. I just need to take deep breaths. The plane didn’t crash into a blazing heap. I have my passport. I have my credit card and a small amount of British currency. I’ll be fine. So what if I don’t have my phone? This will be an adventure, right? It’ll be like having a grand outing in 1994. Like time travel or one of those trips where you board a plane with nothing but a passport and a credit card and fly by the seat of your pants for the entire trip.

I’ve heard people do this. I just never thought it’d be me on my first trip out of the country.

“Ms. Calvert?” the woman from the counter asks, suddenly standing in front of me. I blink, startled to see her like I’d forgotten she existed. “Here’s your voucher. The hotel is a short Tube ride away. We’ve given you a temporary pass for a couple of trips to get where you need to be, and we have this for you.” She holds out a plastic pouch like what my dentist gives me after I have my teeth cleaned. The bag contains a travel toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, a mini bottle of shampoo and conditioner combined, a stick of deodorant that’s a brand I’ve never heard of, and a pack of facial cleansing cloths. She waves it in front of my face until I take it. “Toiletries to get you through the night.”

I turn the pouch over, hopeful there’s more to it, but there’s not. “Um, thanks,” I say, looking around like I’m unsure of where to go. “How will you contact me about my backpack?”

“We’ll bring it to the hotel, and they’ll call you when it’s there.”

“Is anyone going to steal my phone out of it?” I ask, suddenly worried about a spiteful baggage handler.

She shakes her head. “No, ma’am. I talked to the gate attendant in Birmingham. He has it there. He’ll send it on when the plane gets back, but there’s rain coming. I’m sad to say it may be tomorrow afternoon or evening by the time you get it.”

I look at the floor. An entire day of my trip shot to hell.

“Is there someone local I can call for you? Someone that can pick you up?” she asks, her British accent sounding kind like Mary Poppins spooning medicine down my throat with a lump of sugar.

“No. I don’t know anyone local.” I look at the hotel voucher in my hands for a place called The Totting Oaks. God, I hope it’s not one of those places where the one bathroom is down the hall, and I have to share it with ten strangers. “I’ll be on my way.”

The woman stands and nods, the proverbial British stiff upper lip. Handling my business. That’s what she expects of me. Just get on with it.

I grip my toiletry bag, make sure my small fanny pack is still secure around my trunk, and sigh as I look for the transportation exit. I want my mother and to be back home as she fusses over me or makes some kind of pie.

I’ll settle for a hot cup of British tea and a warm bed.

Read the Disco Bar Cute Meet!

It’s been a while since we’ve talked here. Yeah…I’ve been busy trying to finish the book in question. It’s been an experience writing a book that took place when I was two and writing 3 character POVs. Yikes. Everything else seems easy now.

But I thought I’d pop in and let you read the cute meet scene from Disco Bar. As a reminder, Disco Bar drops July 16th on Kindle, paperback, and Kindle Unlimited. It is full-length. I wasn’t sure it would be, but it got there. I did have to cut this teaser off at a certain point because Amazon only allows the first 10% to be used off site if the book is in KU, and we were cutting it close if I didn’t stop mid-chapter. You’ll get the idea, though.

Enjoy!

And add Disco Bar to your TBR! Pre-order is only 99 cents.

Chapter 2: (Nicole’s POV)

The man at the door is built like a brick shithouse and looks me up and down with such a sneer that I shrink behind Tima and her friend. Miriam Price is so beautiful that I surely look like the stepsister who wears hand-me-downs to the ball as I practically whimper behind her blonde hair and minidress.

To my surprise, the bouncer nods. Both women with me smile at the bouncer, and Tima grabs my hand, leading me through the door.

I’ve never been in a place like this. It’s beyond my wildest imagination, and I squint as my eyes adjust to the light. And…there’s a lot of light.

Purple and white shimmers come off the disco ball above us. The dance floor, lit in purple and blue neon lights and raised in the center of the room, gives the impression of a boxing ring as patrons gather around the base of it. Two bars, one on each side of the room, offer drinks. One of the bars is dedicated to beer and wine, the other to hard liquor and mixed cocktails.

Next to me, Miriam and Tima both wiggle their butts and bump hips in time to the music, laughing. The fringe around Tima’s top shakes wildly and draws all eyes to her cleavage. Eventually, Tima notices I’m not engaged in the celebration of a night out and straightens her face. “Close your mouth. You look like you’re catching flies. Go to the bar and get a drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

I glance at the bar, confused. “I’ve never ordered a drink at a bar. What do I do?”

Wrong thing to say.

“I can’t help you,” she says, and I hear the disappointment in her voice. “We’ll be over in the booth with those guys.” She points to a booth behind the dance floor. I smile a little because I’m pretty sure Tima and Miriam aren’t fitting in that booth with eight men and another woman already in it and gathered around something on the table in front of them.

Tima and Miriam walk off, and I make a beeline for the bar. I may not be a big drinker, but drugs scare me to death. If I have to choose a chemical here, I’ll go with alcohol. Besides, Tima said something about a Soviet drink I should try.

I approach the crowded bar and quietly try to hide and get a drink at the same time, which won’t work. People around me wave dollar bills in the air and yell things at the bartenders waiting on them. The music is loud, so I can’t hear much beyond the people directly in front of me ordering their drinks. A woman a few people over leans across the bar and pulls her shirt down, licking her lips at the male bartender until he slides over to serve her. I look down at my halter top. Yeah, there’s no way I can pull this down without my boobs coming out entirely.

“You have to get in there. Don’t be shy,” a voice says next to my ear, startling me.

“Is it that obvious I’m not a big bar person?” I ask, turning to the man who just spoke to me.

Dear. Sweet. Lord. Christ. Jesus.

My eyes move over the man, and my stomach drops like I’m in a runaway elevator. He’s a couple inches taller than an average man, but he leans down to make eye contact at my level. His hair is somewhere between long and short and curls nicely at his neck except for some curls that he’s tamed around his forehead. His hair is dark, and he sports a perfectly trimmed, dark mustache I want to smooth with my index fingers because he looks so much like that actor who was in that car movie, albeit a bit younger. His brown eyes are the most magical I’ve ever seen. Granted, that could be because the disco ball’s light shimmers over his face. He smiles, showing perfectly white teeth that are mildly crowded around the canines like my own.

I guess him to be about thirty-five, maybe a year or two older, and a quick perusal of the length of his body tells me he’s a fashionable dresser. This is a man who cares how he looks. I can imagine him lint brushing his black shirt which is open a few buttons and showing a smattering of chest hair. The amount of dark hair is so perfect – not enough to be obnoxious, but enough to tell me he’s well past puberty.

“Did you need help then?” he asks, tilting his head to the side and studying my face.

I wonder what he sees. Can he tell this outfit is borrowed? That my hair probably doesn’t get this feathered on a normal night?

What would Tima do? What would Tima do? I chant the question in my head as I throw my head back to position my hair perfectly and smile the biggest smile I can. She’d flirt with him.

“I’m a little shy. Do I just push through?”

“With that top? You could just shimmy through that line of men over there and get pretty much whatever you want. Dex Holden,” he says, holding out his hand. “Let me help you.”

“I’m Nicole. OK, Dex. I’ll have a white communist.”

He squints, and his lips move into a smirk. “What?”

“Um, I may have got that wrong. White…Russian? Do they have those here?”

He laughs. He actually freaking laughs, and it’s so beautiful – so engrossing – that I’m not mad that he’s laughing at my expense. I wring my hands, wondering what to do next now that I’ve obviously turned him off. I jolt in surprise when his warm hand is suddenly on my lower back.

“That was a good one,” he says, shaking his finger at me. “I’ll have to remember it. You’re funny.” He pushes me forward a bit as he nudges us both up to the crowded bar.

The man next to him sneers at the intrusion but soon takes a step back when he sees Dex. “Sorry, Mr. Holden,” the man says, holding up his hands like he’s being robbed. He moves further down the bar, and Dex and I lean comfortably against the wood.

Dex raises his hand to get the bartender’s attention. Other hands are raised near us, tits are out, and some patrons even wave large bills at the two bartenders working. To my surprise, the bartender approaches Dex immediately. “What can I get you, Mr. Holden?”

Is Dex someone important here?

“Do you own this place?” I ask.

Dex smiles and orders our drinks at the same time he slides a ten-dollar bill across the bar, telling the bartender to keep it. When the bartender leaves, Dex turns to me and casually leans on the bar like he does own the place. “Not yet, sweetheart. Owners don’t usually pay for drinks,” he says with a smile. “But I’m well-respected, and I tip well. Why are you here?”

I jerk my head in the direction Tima walked. “My roommate dragged me out. I got fired today. I guess this is her attempt to cheer me up.”

The bartender appears with my drink and a martini for Dex, and I stare at the beige concoction in front of me.

“You’ve never had one of those before, huh?” Dex asks.

I shake my head. “I’m kind of a drinking virgin except for a few sips of wine.”

Dex leans closer to me. “Well, let’s pop that cherry, shall we?” He whispers it in my ear, and I shiver as his breath moves over my lobe and down my neck. It’s suddenly very warm in the club, and I’m hyper-aware of the sensory experiences around me. The lights move over every surface of the room, and the music switches to a faster song.

He clinks his martini glass with my white Russian and downs half his drink in one go. Pulling the olive out of the glass, he sucks it off the toothpick and focuses back on me. I’ve never held the attention of a man like this before, and I’ve certainly never had the attention of a man like him.

“Why’d you get fired? Fuck a coworker?” He waggles his eyebrows.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Do you have a reputation?” he asks, but there’s laughter in his voice. He’s teasing me.

“That’s the funny thing about it. I certainly don’t.” I taste my drink, barely sipping it, and immediately put it back down. Ew.

“Don’t like alcohol either, huh?” Dex says, picking up my glass and swirling the creamy liquid. “I better taste it to make sure Robbie made it right.” Tilting the glass, he swallows a large gulp of my abandoned cocktail. He smacks his lips for a moment and then waves the bartender over again by only waggling two fingers.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Holden?” the bartender asks.

“Nothing is wrong. Can you get this beautiful woman a Shirley Temple?”

The bartender nods and walks away. “What’s a Shirley Temple?” I ask. My fingers itch to wave down the bartender and tell him I’m fine. The drink is fine. I don’t like making waves, and I don’t want him to make me a different drink.

Dex laughs and rubs his face. “You really don’t get out much, do you? Relax, it’s a virgin drink.” He stares at me a moment. “I think you’ll like it. I know I like the occasional virgin…drink.” Heat moves up my neck and to my cheeks. “Now, tell me why you got canned. I’m very interested in hearing this story.” He sets his martini down, and I’m mesmerized by the purple light bouncing off the clear fluid.

I blink, trying to think and not look at every little detail about anyone and anything around me. “They said I needed to go to church more.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dex’s eyes widen like he’s never heard such a thing. He probably hasn’t. It’s clear we come from two different worlds.

“Literally,” I mumble. He probably can’t hear me over the loud music. I lean forward and speak next to his ear, and he puts his hand gently at my waist. I’ve seen men do this with Tima and Miriam, but never to me. I stumble a little, but his hand at my waist keeps me upright. “I worked at a religious grade school.”

He gives a short nod and a smile. “Well, that’s some shit, huh?”

The bartender brings my drink and sets it in front of Dex. Not me. The man slings his white bar rag over his shoulder and nods at Dex in a show of respect. The bartender doesn’t move to the next customer, breathe, or smile until Dex approves the drink.

“Are you sure you’re not the owner? If not the owner, are you the manager?” I ask.

“Neither.” He slides the drink to me after it meets his approval. “Maybe someday,” he says, sighing. I own my own dance studio a few blocks away. I find talent here. They know me.”

“Talent? What kind of talent?”

“Dancers mostly. I need teachers or demonstrators. I find people who can dance, pay them a few bucks to show my classes some moves, and everyone’s happy.”

“What kind of dance?” My eyes dart around the room. Modern styles, I’m certain.

“Disco mostly, but I teach a little of everything. I even teach jazz and tap classes for children. Those have a waitlist a mile long and fill up fast. Everyone wants their little Suzy to learn jazz.” He rolls his eyes. “Even more annoying are the old people who are trying to relive their youth. Learning the Hustle is the midlife crisis of the Midwest. You understand?”

“I think so.”

“You’ve never heard of Holden School of Dance?”

“I don’t get out much,” I say.

“Not to places like this, huh?” Dex asks, taking a sip of my old drink.

I look around again, and a small smile slides up one side of my mouth. A smirk, really. “No, I mean anywhere. I don’t get out.”

“That seems a waste. You’re beautiful.” Dex smiles again.

A blush creeps up my neck. Thankfully, Dex probably won’t notice with the bar lighting.

“Will you dance with me?” he asks, sliding his hand up from my waist and trailing his fingers over my arm.

….

Kobo Plus Romance!

It’s that time! Every quarter, I get together with other authors and we put together a list of some great romance to read on Kobo Plus!

Wait…what is Kobo Plus?

It’s very similar to Kindle Unlimited, but authors do NOT have to be exclusive to Kobo Plus like Amazon requires authors to be if they’re in Kindle Unlimited.

It’s also more affordable than Kindle Unlimited.

Yeah. It’s $8 a month for all you can read, $8 a month for all you can listen, and $10 a month for all you can do of…BOTH.

Check out the pricing here. (You also get 30 days free to try it, so why not?)

Back to me teaming up with other authors. Many readers have asked the same question. “Who is on Kobo Plus?”

That’s what we’re hoping to help with!

Head to this list to take a look at some great indies that are on Kobo Plus. Go out. Try us. (Especially with the free 30-day trial.) See if you enjoy it. https://koboplusromancebinge.com/

Hey…many of you have Netflix AND another streaming service, right? This is the same idea. Books in Kobo Plus are not in Kindle Unlimited. (They can’t be.) You’re going to see an entirely different world there.

This list is temporarily available, but you can sign up to be alerted when it happens every quarter.

And if none of this floats your boat, a lot of Sierra Simone’s backlist is on Kobo Plus.

Happy reading.

Chapter 1 of Copper

She’s coming! Copper will be available on April 23 in paperback, Kindle, and on Kindle Unlimited. Click here to order on Amazon!

Chapter 1

Lucy…Three Months Ago

“Do you see that man over there?” the asshole standing over me asks, squeezing my cheeks together so close they hurt. He’ll leave finger marks for sure, but I don’t dare move his hand.

I nod, and a tear runs down my face. Four men standing over you and asking for money will do that to a girl. My eyes flick to the man he points to, and I can’t help but notice how much the man looks like a stereotypical mob boss. White suit with black tie. Dark hair combed over to hide his balding hairline. The man wears glasses and is about sixty pounds overweight. He sits on my couch, looking out of place. He’s a long-haired, Siamese cat away from full movie mobster.

“That man doesn’t like to be left hanging when money is on the line. You understand?”

I nod, another tear rolling down my cheek as the man lets go of my face. I wish he was still holding my chin, though, since his hand moves to my V-neck shirt and slides into my bra.

I shiver but don’t dare move, especially since the knife the man holds in his other hand is precariously close to my rib cage. Something in his smirking expression tells me he won’t have any problem using it on me. His hands tremble with excitement. This isn’t his first time holding a knife on someone.

The man holding my breast is half a foot taller than me with a gold tooth instead of one of his canines. His dark hair is long and tied back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He’s in all black, a contrast to his boss. The other men in the room all wear black shirts and pants. Is there a thug uniform meant to showcase the boss? Did they decide that in an email or group chat?

“Where’s your husband?”

“I already told you I have no fucking clue. He left. No trace. I can’t even find him for divorce papers.”

The man bites his lip and drags the knife up to the breast he palms under my shirt. “What man would leave this fine piece of ass? I say you’re full of shit.”

“Totally full of shit,” another thug echoes. “Maybe we should fuck it out of her.” He toys with the belt on his pants, but the boss raises his hand on the couch. When he puts it down again, the thug backs away from me and puts his hands at his side.

The fact that the boss can control his crew with a mere hand movement scares the shit out of me more than the idea of gang rape. Thoughts of the old gladiator movies my dad liked to watch enter my mind. Will the boss give a thumbs-down movement when it’s time for one of his men to slit my throat?

“There’s no need for that. You can check my phone records,” I plead, searching my pockets for my phone. “I’ve sent texts and called. Nothing. No response. I reported it to the police, but they don’t seem to care. I swear to fucking God.”

Terror boils the chicken soup I had for dinner in my stomach. My heart pounds, and my fight-or-flight instinct that ramped up as soon as these guys kicked in my door makes my fingers twitch. Flight wasn’t an option since there was a guy at my back door. Fighting wasn’t an option. Self-defense only goes so far with three hired mafia bouncers and a boss.

In addition to terror, there’s shame rattling around in my body. Shame that I let them force me to my knees as they interrogated me about Beck’s whereabouts. Beck forced me to my knees several times for other reasons during our marriage, and I swore I’d never be forced to ever do anything I didn’t have control of on my knees again.

The man takes his hand off my breast and moves it to my sore chin, this time tilting it until I look so far up that my neck hurts. He looks at the boss, and the boss snaps his fingers. What the fuck does that mean? Death by strangling? Leaving?

The man holding my chin nods and bends down until he’s an inch from my nose. His breath smells like beer and something spicy. Hot sauce? Nothing like stopping for a bucket of wings on your way to threaten an innocent woman who never took a dime from you.

“This is what’s going to happen. Listen up because the next time we come back here, we won’t be nearly as friendly or nice. Do we understand each other?”

I nod. What am I going to do? Say no?

“Your shit husband borrowed money from my boss over there. He doesn’t like it when people don’t pay money back, and he certainly doesn’t like it when they disappear before paying the bill.” The man’s knife trails down my cheek.

I mentally scream at the universe, begging the man not to use it. Not my face.

I can only afford soup for dinner and am broke as a joke. I need my face to find a job. I won’t find one when I have a weird knife mark carved into my face.

“Beck’s never bailed on his debt to my boss, and we want to know where he is.”

Beck has done business with these guys before? Great. Not only did he beat me daily for our entire marriage, but he’s been wheeling and dealing with the mafia.

I search my memory for any sign he was involved with organized crime. Did the checking account show any proof of gambling?

Not that I had access to a lot of accounts. Beck ran most of that, only allowing me a credit card to buy makeup, pay for a gym membership, get filler once a year, and buy clothes. He even monitored that, probably to make sure I spent the money on things to make me attractive to him. Since he’s gone missing, I’ve searched his office and found a ledger, but there’s nothing in it that shows anything unusual.

The man sticks his tongue out and runs it up my cheek as I try not to gag. I’ll just sit still and worry about how I’m going to get their money after they leave. Stay cool. My hands flex, but I don’t dare take a swing at him as he finishes the lick at my forehead. He pulls back, smiles an evil grin, and spits straight in my face.

I blink, trying to clear his spit from my eyes, but there’s nothing I can do about his drool stuck to my eyelashes.

“You owe us fifty thousand dollars, bitch.”

Fifty thousand dollars? What was Beck planning? Running away with Ellen Quarry? I can’t even afford fresh fruit. How do these guys think I’m going to get fifty thousand dollars?

“If Beck’s missing like you say, we can be benevolent and charitable. We’ll give you…” He trails off and looks at the boss, who holds up three fingers. “We’ll give you three months to pay us back. Do you understand, you dumb fucking cunt?”

I nod and try to control my heaving breaths. What will they do to me if I don’t pay? “I understand,” I say, and it comes out as a husky whisper, fear controlling my ability to speak.

The man backs away from me, and the other thugs walk toward the door. The big boss rises from his seat and rubs his hand down the back of his pants like my couch filth ruined them.

“If you don’t have our money when we come back, Beck won’t be the only one that goes missing. We may even start with your family and friends.”

The men leave, closing the door quietly when they go, and I fall on the floor in a heap of tears and breathless sobbing.

Where am I going to get that kind of money? I don’t have a job. Beck wouldn’t allow me to have one even though I was fully capable of working. He wanted me home and at his every whim with a perfectly clean and decorated home. I’ve been out of the job market for years. My skills with computers are outdated, and I can’t make fifty thousand dollars plus my own living expenses working at Target. I’ve been living off my allowance money Beck left.

The joke’s on these guys, though. They didn’t research me before they came here tonight. If they did, they’d know I don’t have friends to unalive since Beck scared the shit out of them too, and the only family I have left is my skeezy cousin, Peter, who was disowned by the rest of my now-dead family years ago for opening a strip club.

My head comes up, and I fist the carpet under me with ambition I didn’t have an hour ago.

Peter owns a strip club.

Small-Town Romance Book Suggestions

I love small-town romance. The woodsy scent of the man. The required cute meet. Something like a Christmas tree farm or a cupcake bakery…

You know what I’m talking about!

I’ve teamed up with other authors to bring you a list of small-town romance books. The Flower Festival Fling is in there, and it’s only 99 cents until the end of the month. Click here or on the graphic above.

Happy reading.

ARC Signup for Copper

It’s here. It’s ready. It can be yours in advance if you sign up as part of my review team. My goal is to give out 100 ARC copies, and I need 4 more!

This book will be in Kindle Unlimited for at least one contract round. If you’d like to read it in KU when it comes out, awesome! I appreciate the page reads.

If you’re a Nook reader, Apple reader, or you read on another platform and like my books, here’s your chance to read it instead of waiting for it to be on Barnes and Noble or Apple later this summer after it’s done in KU!

Sign up here or click on the cover above to apply. You’ll get a watermarked (to prevent piracy) copy sent to you via Bookfunnel in April, and I’d love if you could leave an honest review on Goodreads, Bookbub, and/or Amazon. There are social media questions on the form if you’d like to help me spread the word, but it’s not a requirement to get an ARC.

*Please note the book is officially copyrighted with the US copyright office. Any piracy of your individually watermarked ARC copy will not be tolerated.

Please mind the content warnings: Gun violence, memories of sexual assault, memories of domestic abuse, pregnancy loss of a side character, murder scene descriptions, and an off-the-rails MMF scene. The sexual assault memories are not detailed.

Subscribe for Luck Event!

I’ve teamed up with other romance authors to bring you a chance to win 1 of 3 Amazon gift cards. The event is running from March 11th through March 17th, with winners chosen at midnight on March 18th. Entering means subscribing to the newsletters of all participating authors, but you can unsubscribe at any time!

Click on the graphic above or here.

Happy reading…or whatever you’d use the gift card for if you win. No judgement here.