Delilah Devlin's Blog, page 24

Memory Game: Happy Chinese New Year! (Contest)

For those who don’t know, the Lunar New Year celebration marks the first new moon of the lunar calendar. It’s a 15-day festival period that happens this year between January 29th and February 4th. This year, millions of Chinese communities are celebrating the start of the Year of the Snake. There are parades, quiet moments of prayer, and lots of food. In fact, I’m going to talk my daughter into picking up Chinese food tonight so we can have a little celebration and introduce the kids to another holiday that I think needs to be added to our rotation. Any excuse to celebrate, right? More like, any excuse to eat good food. I’ll also light some incense and think about the family members we’ve lost in recent years and to wish luck and happiness to all my family and friends.

Most of us know our traditional Horoscope/Zodiac signs, right? Do you know what your Chinese Zodiac symbol is? The Independant has a nice summary for you to figure out what your zodiac symbol is. Follow the link to find out what yours is. I was born in 1958, in the Year of the Dog.  Here are some of the qualities a “dog” possesses: “Loyal and friendly, they make the best companions a person can have. Sometimes they can be stubborn but always find their way back to balance.”

For a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card, solve the puzzle, then find out what Chinese Zodiac animal you are. Do the qualities your symbol represents fit you? And are you ready to add the Lunar New Year to your yearly calendar of celebrations?

The Memory Puzzle

The post Memory Game: Happy Chinese New Year! (Contest) first appeared on Delilah Devlin.

Flashback: Hook (Contest–3 Winners!)

I’ve told you all before that I love my Montana Bounty Hunters. From the first stories in the original series set in Bear Lodge, MT, I tried hard to make each of the bounty hunters individual rather than cookie-cutter characters with different names. I loved devising unique takedowns because they’re fun to write, and they showcase who these men are. I especially loved writing Hook because I got a chance to take a deep dive into the research to make his disability real and still make him sexy as hell. I hope you enjoy his story!

Hook

MONTANA BOUNTY HUNTERS: Authentic Men… Real Adventures…

Former Army Ranger, Dylan “Hook” Hoecker, has a new job along with a new prosthetic arm. Being a bounty hunter is the closest career field he could find as a civilian that gives him the adrenaline rush that is his addiction. So, when his first solo assignment is to keep an eye on a flight risk the boss bonded out of jail, he’s not thrilled. However, he soon discovers a fresh addiction—one mouthy, nerdy redhead, who resists his attempts to keep her out of trouble.

Felicity Gronkowski is grateful for the bone the head of Montana Bounty Hunter threw her. She didn’t have the money to pay for bail, but he has a soft spot for former military, and she bartered to install a new computer system in his satellite office in Bear Lodge. Being on the outside of jail was her first imperative because she has to figure out who framed her for a series of high-end robberies while she worked installing home security systems. However, her bounty-hunting babysitter isn’t giving her any slack. Every time she thinks she’s given him the slip, he’s one step ahead of her. Either she has to find the perfect method of distraction to escape him or she has to enlist his help to clear her name.

Contest

Are you all caught up reading the original Montana Bounty Hunters series?

For a chance to win a download of one of the stories you may have missed
(I’ll pick three winners!), tell me this:
I am currently thinking about stories to add to my MBH Yellowstone series. Do you have any ideas for fun stories or perils my hunters might face in Yellowstone?

Here are all the Bear Lodge Montana Bounty Hunters! Yes, it’s an old meme, but do you really care? [image error]

MONTANA BOUNTY HUNTERS: Bear Lodge, MT
Authentic Men… Real Adventures…
Reaper: https://amzn.to/2NztLpv
Dagger: https://amzn.to/2zo6Dav
Reaper’s Ride: https://amzn.to/2KKkisI
Cochise: https://amzn.to/2zq4avV
Hook: https://amzn.to/2UrpyYh
Wolf: https://amzn.to/2yUTjr5
Animal: https://amzn.to/2H4Roob
Big Sky Wedding: https://amzn.to/33GprwK
Quincy: https://amzn.to/2QlleM8
Brian: https://amzn.to/2ZV8m2G

Excerpt from Hook:

Dylan “Hook” Hoecker had no problem keeping pace with Dagger and Cochise as they raced along the dark alleyway, following the skip they’d tracked to a gun shop in Libby. Scooter James had made the crew the moment Dagger entered the premise. Perhaps it was Dagger’s burly physique that had tipped him off, or maybe he was just nervous having three intense-looking dudes enter the store, but he’d run for the back exit.

No, Hook’s legs had never been an issue. He ran like the wind, easily leaping over a barrel Scooter dumped on its side, hoping to trip them. Beside him, Dagger cursed, and Hook couldn’t help smiling as the big guy went down. This skip was his. When he reached the end of the alley, Scooter veered left and ran through a stand of motorcycles, tipping over one, which sent the rest slowly falling like dominoes. Bikers sitting at outdoor café tables nearby rose and filled the street, shouting and moving toward their Harleys, forcing Cochise and Hook to push past them.

Cochise went down when one biker stuck out a foot, perhaps angry that their chase had scratched his ride.

Hook waved his prosthetic arm, which, sometimes, had even those who weren’t so tight with the law pausing and giving him a break. He didn’t mind one bit using his disability to give him an advantage. He shouted out a “Thanks, man,” when one biker rolled his bike forward to clear his path.

Now, it was just him following the slap of Scooter’s Adidas on the pavement. Hook paced himself, forcing himself to keep his breathing even so he’d outlast his target. He didn’t use every bit of his strength to close the gap, because he knew he’d need anything extra to take the fucker down once he began to slow.

In his mind, Hook thanked his physical therapist, who’d concentrated on helping him make the adjustment to his new circumstance, learning to use his prosthetic, but who also continued to meet him on the track three or four mornings a week to make sure he worked out the rest of his body to help, not only keep him toned for the work he did, but to keep his dark moods at bay. Raydeen Pickering was a hero in his mind, because she went the extra mile for every man and woman she accepted into her treatment program.

Ahead of him, Scooter ducked into another alley.

“He’s turned again,” he said, knowing the others could hear him through the radio in his earpiece. “Left, into an alley.”

“I’m behind you,” Cochise said. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

“I’m cutting through another alley. Will try to get to the street before he does,” Dagger said in his ear.

Hook went left and entered an alley lit by a single golden bulb at the back door of a restaurant. He ran past rank-smelling trash bins and plastic bags but didn’t see his mark ahead. “Don’t see him,” he said, and then slowed and turned.

Something dark swung at his head, and he held up his right arm to deflect the blow from a two-by-four from a pallet, no doubt. But the board hit plastic and metal and bounced off. Hook swung under it with his left, catching Scooter in the chin. Their target dropped like a sack of rocks across a row of trash bags lined up on the dirty, smelly pavement.

Hook stood over Scooter, shaking his left hand because it hurt like hell. Then he noted that his prosthetic dangled kind of funny. He tried to open and close the claw, but apparently, Scooter’s blow had damaged the cable. “Fuck,” he said, and gave Scooter a light kick in the side. “Bastard.”

The sounds of two individuals converging on him from different directions forced him to contain his anger and tuck his prosthetic against his body to hide the damage. The last thing he ever wanted to have happen was for one of these guys to think he was less capable of mixing it up. For the most part, he thought of his arm as an advantage in a fight. Metal hit harder than flesh and bone, and, generally, it could sustain a punch much better, too.

Thankfully, he kept a spare in his vehicle. He just had to get there. But first things first.

Scooter moaned from the ground as Cochise then Dagger came to a halt beside him and stared downward.

“Like we tried to tell you before you ran like a scared rabbit,” Hook said to Scooter, “we’re fugitive recovery agents, and we’re taking you to jail.”

Scooter pushed up on an elbow. “What the hell is that smell?”

Dagger sniffed. “Don’t know, but now I’m hungry. Could be chili.”

“I think it’s stew,” Cochise dead-panned. “Benny’s Eats makes a mean beef stew.”

“Shit, it’s all the way up my shirt,” Scooter said as he sat, rubbing his jaw.

“Well, looks like you’ll have something to snack on during the drive back,” Dagger drawled.

Scooter let out a huff. “Goddamn. My car, man. I left it at the gun shop.”

“You’ll just have to pick it up from impound,” Dagger said, “if the judge is stupid enough to let someone bond you out again.”

Hook reached down his left hand to help Scooter to his feet.

Scooter frowned. “Damn, you wearing armor on your arm? My teeth about rattled out of my head when I hit you.” Then he glanced at Hook’s metal claw. “Well, shit. That explains a lot.”

Hook reached for his handcuffs from the pocket on the back of his web belt. When he pulled them forward, he realized he wasn’t going to be able to cuff him, not one-handed.

Cochise held out his hand. “Let me do the honors.”

Hook pressed his lips together and handed him his handcuffs. If he’d been on his own, he’d have managed, somehow, but he might have had to put Scooter back on the ground first. He hadn’t quite mastered the single-handed snap using his left hand. Everything was harder to master with his left. Maybe he should ask Raydeen to add handcuffing to the everyday tasks he worked on improving.

Once Cochise had Scooter restrained, he stood back and let Hook grip Scooter’s upper arm to take him back to their vehicles.

The walk back was interminable. They passed the bikers who shot them birds but otherwise stayed pretty mellow. Back at the gun shop, Lacey, Dagger’s partner, gave a wave to the shop owner and sauntered their way. She’d canvassed the businesses in Libby days ago, leaving cards. No doubt the middle-aged owner had been only too eager to snitch, because then she’d grace his shop again. Dressed in skin-tight jeans and a pink button-down blouse that she’d knotted at her midriff, Lacey looked like a sweet confection. All that was missing was the powdered sugar.

“Hey there, Scooter,” she said. Then she shook her head and held her nose. “Good Lord, he is not riding in our vehicle.”

Hook grunted. “You can ride with me. I’ll even let you drive.”

Lacey might have looked like a cupcake, but she was one sharp cookie. Her gaze went to the arm he’d tucked close to his body, and she gave him a broad smile. “Dagger, you don’t mind if I ride with Hook, do you? I’ve never had the chance to talk with him alone.”
Dagger narrowed his eyes.

Lacey gave him a blinding smile. “See you back in Bear Lodge! Only you’ll be way later than us,” she said, then held her nose again and gave him a wink.

Cochise chuckled. “Come on, Scooter. You’ve got a new date with a judge. Bet if you sweettalk your jailers, they’ll let you have a shower before they put you in your cell.”

After Cochise, Dagger, and Scooter left, Lacey turned back to Hook, her big blue eyes rounding in concern. “Oh my God, you’re hurt!”

“Not really. Not much anyway, but he did a number on my prosthetic.”

“What did he hit you with?”

Hook grimaced. “A two-by-four. Most of the blow hit plastic and steel; my shoulder took some of the impact, too. I have another arm in the back of my truck.” Moving to the rear gate, he opened it and reached for the sports bag that held his spare arm. Then he pulled at his Velcro tabs and removed his Kevlar vest then unbuttoned his plaid shirt. When he tried to shrug it off, he winced, because his upper arm and shoulder ached.

“Let me help you, Dylan.”

He thought it was kind of funny that the women at the agency were the only ones who didn’t call him “Hook”. As well, if one of the guys had offered to help him, he would have given him a frown, but Lacey was so damn sweet he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so he turned his back and let her drag off his shirt.

“Wow, that’s some hardware you have to wear.”

He shrugged off the strap that circled around his left shoulder to lose his harness then drew the socket off his stump. He tried to move away because the sock beneath it was soaked with sweat and smelled, but Lacey didn’t seem to mind, moving in to roll the sock off his limb.

This part always felt weird when a woman did it, even on those rare occasions when Raydeen helped. He never felt “less than” when he wore his hook, but without it, he felt exposed, lacking. The stump and the long red scar were ugly.

“Do you use powder or anything before you put on a new sock?” she asked.

“No, the sock wicks away the moisture,” he said, “it keeps my skin pretty dry, when I’m not running marathons.” He dug into his bag and felt for a soft, rolled sock and pulled it out.

“You don’t mind if I help, do you?” she asked. “This is fascinating.”

“Dagger might not like you putting a sock on another man’s…stump,” he said, growling, but offering her a waggle of his eyebrows.

She laughed. “You did not just say that.” Then she made a face as she rolled the sock upward. “Although, thinking about it, the process is quite similar…” She pulled on the top of the sock, removing any wrinkles. “I do that right?”

“Dagger taught you well,” he drawled.

“You know, he’s going to ask me what the heck we talked about all the way back home. I have to come up with something better than ‘cloaking your stump’.”

Hooks mouth stretched. Lacey was special, and her blonde, cheerleader beauty and bubbly personality were only frosting. He wondered why it was that every time she entered his mind he thought about desserts. The woman was so much more. Although she was the only MBH hire who wasn’t prior military, she’d proven herself a valuable addition. She had people skills, knew how to work with disguises, and had a very agile mind.

Hook thought Dagger was pretty damn lucky to have her.

After they drove through a fast-food window for food, Hook downed aspirin with a Coke to help lessen the growing ache in his shoulder.

“You could put back your seat and get some rest,” she said, aiming a smile his way before turning her attention back to the dark highway.

“Not often I get to share a ride with a pretty woman,” he said. “I’d just as soon keep you company.”

“Are you nervous with me behind the wheel? I won’t be offended. Dagger rarely lets me have the keys. Says I’m a menace on the road.”

“Now, she tells me,” he said under his breath, but only to make her smile.

“I think he complains just to keep his hands on the steering wheel. I’m thinking it’s a man-thing.”

“You’re probably right,” Hook said, grinning.

“So, Hook, you got a girlfriend?”

Hook’s eyebrows shot upward. “Nope.” And not a subject he wanted to continue. Since his injury, he hadn’t had so much as a coffee date with a woman. “I’ve been kind of busy. The move, new job…”

“Hmm.” She kept quiet for a while then shot him a look that had him gritting his teeth.

He hoped like hell that wasn’t sympathy in her expression.

“You know, I have a side gig, not that I’ve had a lot of down-time myself lately, but I do women’s makeup and hair. I host parties. I meet a lot of women.”

Knowing where this was going, he shook his head. “Don’t fix me up. Please.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that. But I could help you meet women—”

“Don’t need help with that either. I meet women.”

“Anyone who doesn’t have a mug shot, and who isn’t heading back to jail?”

“Lacey…”

“I’m just saying, there lots of women who would find you really attractive.”

He grunted. “Sure.”

She was silent a moment, then, “Is it because of your arm?”

He wiped a hand over his face, wishing he’d decided to take that nap she’d offered. “Is what because of my arm?”

“The fact you’re shy.”

“I’m not shy.”

In the dashboard lights, he could see her face screw up into a frown as she continued to think about him.

“I’ll go on a date. When I’m ready.”

“And how long has it been since your last one?”

He sighed. “Maybe a couple of years?”

“Since before you lost your arm?”

“Yes, but I’ve been busy. Recovery, rehab, move, new job…” He gritted his teeth, because he knew she wasn’t going to let this go until she got to the bottom of it. Dagger had warned him that even though she looked pretty and soft, she was a pit bull underneath all the pink.

“See? I’m worried about you. The longer you wait to get out there, the harder it’s going to be. You’ll build it all up into this mountain of doubts that you’ll find really hard to climb over…”

He shook his head. She needed to add “therapist” to her list of side gigs. His therapist had said pretty much the same thing before he’d been medically discharged.

“Just think about it. You’re young still. And I know guys need to…you know…let their little swimmers take a few laps,” she said, pointing a finger and wiggling it like a minnow fighting to get upstream. “It’s not healthy to forgo…swimming.”

“Swimmers?” He couldn’t help it, he started laughing. “Do you talk dirty like this to Dagger?”

She grunted. “No, he likes the real words. And he tells me he needs to…swim…all the time, to keep him from getting grumpy.”

Now, he was gasping with laughter—so hard, he had to bend forward. His shoulders shook.

“Hey, it’s not that funny.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, wagging a finger as he continued to chuckle. “I’ll have to ask Dagger how the fishing’s going.”

She shook her head, and a grin began to stretch across her face. “Don’t you dare.” She blew out a long breath. “Okay, I’ll drop the subject—and I won’t throw women in your path. Promise. But you have to promise me you’ll at least think about it.”

“I will. When I’m ready.” He let out a breath and settled back against his seat. The laughter had felt good. Damn, he liked Lacey. Too bad she was already taken.

The post Flashback: Hook (Contest–3 Winners!) first appeared on Delilah Devlin.

A Tale of Two Cats (Contest)

I live with two grumpy old cats. The one above is Pumpkin, who adopted me. The first time I met her she was feral and wandering on the edge of the forest behind our house. I began leaving her food on the other side of the fence because I was worried about her. She was small for a cat and looked rather pathetic. I fed her daily, but she never approached when I was there. I’d watch as she waited for me to disappear inside, then from my window, I’d observe her eating the food I left.

Then one night many years ago, I had set an alarm to get up in the middle of the night to go outside and watch a large red moon. I felt something making figure-eights around my legs. When I glanced down, I was startled to see this cat (and so glad it wasn’t a raccoon!). She’d come to trust me, and slowly, she went from being a skittish outdoor cat to being a cat who refuses to step outside. She now lives in my bedroom, taking up the space on my recliner.

Tessa is the other elderly cat who inhabits my space. The two cats despise each other, and if they meet in the doorway as one comes back from the food bowls and litter box, they howl and spit at each other. Tessa inhabits the pillows at the back of my head when I lay down, and her purring is what puts me to sleep, although her yowls, when she gets mad if I roll to my side and disturb her sleep, are quite grating. If my hands are outside the covers, she nudges them for me to pet her—incessantly. So, I hide them under the covers when I’m done and wait for her to give a grumbling meow before she flops behind my head on the pillow and goes to sleep, snoring.

Right now, they both want to follow me into my office, so they are crouched on the floor, berating each other, waiting for the other to walk away, but that never happens. I have to break them up, picking them up to put them where they belong—one on the chair, one on the pillows.

This has been going on for years now. There is no peaceful resolution. They are sworn enemies who are jealous of the attention I pay the other. They will never be besties although they occupy the space of my bedroom for most of the day and night.

We live together, me being the buffer between them. I don’t know why I’m telling you about them this morning, except that Pumpkin is still trying to jump into my lap as I type. I rarely allow that because she doesn’t stop demanding pets and never settles—and I have work to do!

Betta fish are so much easier to care for. Feed them, keep their water the proper temperature, and enjoy the show. Not so cats.

So, for fun, have you ever had pets who were sworn enemies? How did you manage to keep the peace? Answer in the comments below for a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card.

P.S.: I just wanted to let you know that I had no discernable side effects from my immunotherapy infusion last Monday. Not one. I sat for an hour while they dripped the medicine in my IV. Then I went about my life this past week without any nausea or pain. It’s so lovely. I’m still recovering my energy level after so many months of chemo, but I’ll get there!

The post A Tale of Two Cats (Contest) first appeared on Delilah Devlin.

Report Card & Open Contests

Report Card

Last week…

The most noteworthy thing that happened last week was my meeting with my oncologist on Monday. There, he told me I’m in remission from the cancer that once filled my abdomen. Now, there’s a “smudge” of cancer left in my uterus, and I will be seeing a surgeon soon to remove everything! Halleluiah! That does not mean I’ll be cured. I’ll still have Stage IV endometrial cancer. It just means that, for now, we’ve knocked it back. I’ll take that and celebrate!I also underwent my first every-six-weeks immunotherapy infusion. And guess what? It only took an hour—not an entire day—and the best part? No side effects that knock me on my ass! Glory Halleluiah! I continued work on one author’s edits and finished them.

This next week…

This week, I’ll be diving back into finishing up  Ignition ! Okay, so I said this last week, but I mean it this time. I want to finish it and put it up for pre-order.I have one author’s edits to work on this week—perhaps a second set if the author gets me her pages.So far as personal goals? I’m not ready to diet. I’m still in celebrate mode. LOL. I also can’t find the drive to up my activity. I need some inspiration.Open Contests

Be sure to check out these posts and enter to win the prizes that are still up for grabs:

Flashback: Saddled (Contest) — This one ends tomorrow! Win a FREE book!Memory Game: Places I would like to go… (Contest) — This one ends soon! Win an Amazon gift card!5 Things I’m Thankful For… (Contest) — This one ends soon! Win an Amazon gift card!Saturday Puzzle-Contest: Dream Dinner Table — This one ends soon! Win an Amazon gift card!Gabbi Grey: Gay Historical Romances (Contest) — This one ends soon! Win a FREE eBook or audiobook!Report Card & Open Contests (New Contest, too!) — Win a pretty pen!Flashback: Tailgating at the Cedar Inn (Contest–3 Winners!) — Win a FREE story!Word Search: Hot Sauce Day (Contest) — Win an Amazon gift card!Anna Taylor Sweringen/Michal Scott: Ellen F. Eglin — Inventor of the Wringer Washer (Contest) Win an Amazon gift card!Saturday Puzzle-Contest: A Wishing Well — Win an Amazon gift card!The post Report Card & Open Contests first appeared on Delilah Devlin.

Saturday Puzzle-Contest: A Wishing Well

It’s Saturday—so, it’s puzzle time! I promise the picture in the puzzle is much prettier than this one.

I know what wish I would flip my quarter into a wishing well for, but I’d love to know what your wish would be. So, for a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card, solve the puzzle, then tell me what you’d wish for.

The post Saturday Puzzle-Contest: A Wishing Well first appeared on Delilah Devlin.

Anna Taylor Sweringen/Michal Scott: Ellen F. Eglin — Inventor of the Wringer Washer (Contest)

When I was a kid, my aunt had a round, white washing machine with a wringer on top. Little did I know I was watching Black history unfold before my eyes as my aunt cranked the clothes through the wringer. That system of wringer rollers was patented by Ellen F. Eglin.

Depending on your source, Ellen F. Eglin was born either in Maryland in February 1836 or in Washington, D.C., in 1849. She lived in Washington D.C. with her parents, brother Charles, and two other siblings. There she worked as a housekeeper. Sources believe it was due to this stoop work that necessity, the mother of invention, tapped Ellen on the shoulder. In 1888, she devised a clothes wringer made of two wooden rollers with a crank used to squeeze excess water from laundry. Unfortunately, she never received just compensation for her invention.

Because of race prejudice, Ellen sold her invention for $18 (about $598 in today’s dollars). $18 wasn’t an inconsiderable sum when at the time a loaf of bread cost five cents, a pound of meat was ten, and a gallon of milk was twenty. But giving away the rights to her patent for such a paltry sum was a disgrace. The American Wringer company made huge profits from the sales of its product based on that patent. Her wringer is still in use today to wring out mops.

We wouldn’t even know about Ellen and her invention if not for feminist Charlotte Smith, who interviewed Ellen for Smith’s The Woman Inventor in 1890. Asked why she sold her patent, Ellen’s answer was heartbreakingly simple. “You know I am Black, and if it was known that a negro woman patented the invention, white ladies would not buy the wringer. I was afraid to be known because of my color in having it introduced to the market; that is the only reason.” She hoped to create another invention and exhibit it at an upcoming Women’s International Industrial Inventors Congress, but her plans never came to pass.

Those of you who may be watching Sir Julian Fellowes’ The Gilded Age will have heard this truth echoed in the situation of the character Peggy Scott. Wanting to be a writer, Peggy is told by the publisher interested in her work that if they don’t hide the fact that she’s black they’ll lose white subscribers in the South.

The year Charlotte Smith interviewed her, Ellen was working as a charwoman for the Department of the Interior. Records show she was still living in Washington D.C. in 1916, and that is the year assigned to her death.

I like to think that by sharing these blogposts I’m following in the footsteps of women like Charlotte Smith and Hallie Q. Brown (featured in my Oct. 2023 and Feb. 2024 D.D. blogposts) lifting up the lives and achievements of women so they won’t be forgotten.

For a chance at a $10 Amazon gift card, share your thoughts in the comments.

Her Heavenly Phantom
by Michal Scott

Forced into a marriage of convenience neither wants, a mild-mannered banker with an intriguing secret discovers his reluctant bride has a secret, too.

Excerpt:

Unwed and pregnant, Emily Hampton needed a husband. Newly freed and hungry for a foothold among the ranks of the Black elite in 1880s Brooklyn, William Broadman had the answer.

His son Harold.

The warmth shared between the two men stood in stark contrast to the cold chaste kiss Harold and his bride shared. Their coolness continued as they walked up the aisle. Guests, oblivious to their shared contempt, showered them with hugs and handshakes. Harold shivered even more as his father and father-in-law back-patted themselves and toasted the couple’s future happiness at the wedding reception. No doubt the arctic chill between the couple would extend to their first lay as man and wife, too.

If they had to that is. Emily Hampton hated this arrangement as much as he did. Therein lay his salvation. If she wanted as little to do with him as he wanted to do with her, his life didn’t have to change at all. Milquetoast straightlaced banker by day. Virile promiscuous masked singer by night.

The lady of the balcony numbered among his many admirers. Her missives of gratitude roiled with cock-stirring heat.

Your singing ravishes my body.

My core weeps for you.

Oh, for a coupling I know would thrust me into a heaven far beyond my grasp.

The last message had reached him after an exhausting browbeating from his father. He’d come to the theater in need of an escape that even singing couldn’t provide. She’d accepted the invite to join him backstage conveyed by way of his manager. In the dark windowless privacy of his dressing room, they’d thrust their way to a heaven beyond both their grasps.

He looked forward to what she’d write to him tonight. He’d need it as he lay alone on his wedding night.

Buylinks:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DBJ47ND6/
B&N https://shorturl.at/B0NLA
KOBO: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/secret-identities-8

The post Anna Taylor Sweringen/Michal Scott: Ellen F. Eglin — Inventor of the Wringer Washer (Contest) first appeared on Delilah Devlin.

Genevive Chamblee: The Importance of Identifying Genre

Sometimes, one of the most difficult things to do as an author is to categorize a story correctly. Yet, it is tremendously important. In fact, it may be the most important thing an author does aside from writing the story. Now, one may think an author should easily be able to identify the genre since he/she wrote it. On the surface, that is an accurate assumption. However, there are a few factors that complicate the issue.

Some genres have overlapping elements. Fantasy and science fiction both include world-building. Romance and love stories both involve deep emotions and relationships. Thrillers and suspenses both include scenes that increase adrenaline and keep readers on the edge of their seats.

Second, some writers have stories that intentionally blur lines. Consider a book that has a magical system as its main setting. For example, a magical school that houses mythological creatures (e.g., dragons, elves, and witches) and only a specific group of people have the ability to use this magic. In this world, there are things that exist that are not explained by any type of science, and the government is run by the Mount Olympus Greek gods and goddesses. Readers would easily classify this story as fantasy.

But what if in that same world, it is explained that some species exist because artificial intelligence and genetic engineering have altered the biology of humans and animals; Earth has become so inhabitable that people have relocated and formed colonies on Mercury; and space travel has advanced to a level that allows traveling from planet to planet to be as common as crossing the street. Additionally, it is set in the year 3056. This second part is clearly science fiction.

Now, I don’t know how something like this would be possible, but suppose this world exists. It has elements of both fantasy and science fiction. Which should the author choose? How is it measured? A reader who wants fantasy may dislike the book because it includes in their opinion too much Sci-Fi. The opposite of that can be true as well. A Sci-Fi reader may complain there’s too much fantasy. It comes down to opinion.

This is where subgenres come into play. Simple, right? Try doing an internet search for the definition of subgenre and tell me how that goes. See, subgenres tend to be one of those things that people know what it is when they see it but can’t tell you what exactly it is—sort of like the mystery meat served in the school cafeteria. A very generic (and I should say useless) definition of a subgenre is that is a smaller and more specific genre within a broader genre. (Yeah, clear as mud. Didn’t teachers always say never use the word to define its definition?) But a subgenre isn’t necessarily a niche, nor is it considered a hybrid or mashup of multiple genres. Here’s my answer. (Don’t take it as being correct, exclusive, or exhaustive. It’s an opinion.)

A subgenre is two major genres blended, and each plays a significant role in the story. If one of the genres is removed, the story would not make sense. Notice that I said “significant” and not “equal.” One of the genres has to be the primary. And yes, it makes a difference. For example, you can have a romantic comedy (romcom) where the romance is highlighted (e.g., A Merry Little Meet Cute: A Novel by Julie Murphy and Sierra Simone) or a comedy with lots of romance. But who decides which is primary? One would think the author, but are they?

Many authors have been dragged for mislabeling their books, and quite frankly, incorrectly categorizing a book can kill it. In the past, some authors have been guilty of mislabeling books for one reason or another, but I don’t think that is the standard. Authors want to put their books in the hands of the readers who want to read them. A writer wouldn’t want to market an erotica to sweet romance readers. That’s a huge powder keg waiting to explode. But what how an author conceptualizes a book may not be the same as readers.

For example, I mainly write sports romance. Readers can expect to get a huge dose of both romance and sports. In the past, I’ve received feedback that there’s not enough sports, not enough romance, too much sports, and too much romance all for the same book. It’s not really upsetting. It just proves how difficult the process is. The balance is fragile.

Here’s the bottom line. In the writing world, there are very few rules and lots of opinions. Most everything is subjective. One reason self-publishing became popular is because traditional publishers for a long time tried to shove writers into narrow boxes, and writers grew weary of either having to conform or having to wait until a new box was formed. With few definitions, writers sometimes struggle to find the most accurate labels because they do not neatly fit into any mold. But also, each reader has his/her definitions. Just look at book reviews on Amazon and/or Goodreads to see the scatter. And while looking at those numbers, really look at those numbers. Math matters. The fewer the readers the worse one negative review impacts the rating. It’s easier to pull a rating down than it is up.

And that’s all I’ve got for today. Now, it’s your turn to sound off. Let me know your thoughts below in the comment section. Your feedback allows me to know the content that you want to read. And if you like this post, consider clicking the like button and sharing.

Demon Rodeo

If Brokeback Mountain, 8 Seconds, Poltergeist, and Supernatural had an orgy, Demon Rodeo would be the lovechild.

Demon Rodeo is available now on Amazon. For video book trailers, visit my TikTok page. The full blurb is on my Instagram and Amazon.

Demon Rodeo is the first book in the Chasing the Buckle series but can be read as a standalone. It’s a friends-to-lovers romance set in the rodeo world. These are not your typical cowboys. It’s a widely diverse cast of characters and a mashup of genres that aren’t always seen together. If you’re looking for a palate cleanser, this may be a book for you.

Order:
⇨ Amazon: https://readerlinks.com/l/4174852
⇨ All Stores: https://books2read.com/u/bP8RG7
*Note: All of my books can be purchased from brick-and-mortar bookstores (e.g., Barnes & Noble, Book-A-Million, etc.) as well if requested at the checkout counter.)

Until next time, happy reading and much romance. Laissez le bon temps rouler.

If you’re not following my blog, Creole Bayou, what are you waiting for? There’s always room at the bayou.

NEWSLETTER! Want to get the latest information and updates about my writing projects, giveaways, contests, and reveals first? Click here and sign up today.

Want to chat about writing, mental health, Cajun cuisine, Creole culture, or just spill some tea? If yes, let’s get connected. Follow me on one of my social links. There’s plenty to choose from.

Facebook: Genevive ChambleeInstagram: genevivechambleeauthorTikTok: CreolegurlNolaBluesky: Genevive ChambleeThreads: Author Genevive ChambleeBookBub: Genevive ChambleeAmazon Authors: Genevive ChambleeGoodreads: Genevive ChambleeX (formerly Twitter): @dolynesaidso

LOCKER ROOM LOVE

Locker Room Love Series

Are you searching for a sexy book boyfriend? You’ve come to the right place.

Out of the Penalty Box (book #1) One minute in the box or a lifetime out.Defending the Net (book #2) Crossing the line could cost the game. Ice Gladiators (book #3) When the gloves come off, the games begin.Penalty Kill (book #4) Let the pucker begin. Future Goals (book #5) The future lies between a puck and a net.About the Author

Hi, I’m Genevive, and I am a contemporary sports romance author. My home is in South Louisiana. If you like snark and giggles with a touch of steamy Cajun and Creole on the side, I may have your poison in my stash of books. Drop by the bayou and have a look around. The pirogues are always waiting for new visitors.

The post Genevive Chamblee: The Importance of Identifying Genre first appeared on Delilah Devlin.

Word Search: Hot Sauce Day (Contest)

Today’s another obscure holiday–Hot Sauce Day! Since I’m a lover of hot sauces, I thought celebrating them would be fun.

Did you know that chili peppers originated in the Americas? They were spread around the world by Spanish and Portuguese traders. They get their heat from something called capsaicinoids. They’re rated, too, on something called the Scoville Scale. Reading the rating of some of the hot sauces I looked at, I’m a bit of a weenie with my favorite sauces (Cholula, Tabasco, and Frank’s) only rating in the 1000s. Tabasco is the hottest in my fridge at 7,000. Da Bomb, which I listed in the puzzle, is a scorching 119,000 to 1.5 million!

So, for a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card, tell me whether you’re a fan of hot sauces and which ones are in your fridge!

The post Word Search: Hot Sauce Day (Contest) first appeared on Delilah Devlin.

Flashback: Tailgating at the Cedar Inn (Contest–3 Winners!)

After yesterday’s excitement, it’s hard to concentrate, but…back to work!

I know many of you come to my website to read my daily blog, but have you fully explored the many stories I have ready for you to consume? Have you read a short story written by me? I’ve written short stories that have appeared in many Cleis anthologies and stories that appeared in Penthouse Magazine. Do you remember those with the sexy, cute cartoons? Yeah, “Tailgating“ was one of those. I’ve written short stories that appeared in my own curated anthologies, my Boys Behaving Badly stories. I love writing them. Most often, they’re not connected to anything else I’ve written. They’re a chance for me to experiment. One theme that runs through all of them is a deep eroticism. So, if you’re into sexy stories, look no further. I would like to know if you’ve read one of my short stories before, and if so, which one was your favorite?

Comment for a chance to win your choice of
one of these stories! I’ll choose
three winners!

Click on the covers to read more about these stories!

And if you haven’t read my shorties, check out the full list here!

Tailgating at the Cedar Inn

 

Two construction workers come to the aid of one woman looking for a last taste of freedom…

I stepped out of the shower onto chipped and cracked aqua blue tiles with grout so dingy it was hard to tell what color it had been. Not that the bathroom was dirty, thank god. Just old. Like the rest of the 60’s-built motel I’d found on the little back country road.

I toweled my hair then shook my head like a dog, not caring where the droplets landed. It wasn’t a mess I’d have to clean up. For one last night I could be irresponsible, messy, even if it was only in a small way.

I draped the towel over the edge of the old white tub and sauntered naked into the small room with the double bed. It smelled of tobacco and industrial cleansers. The bedding looked clean if a little nappy from wear, but I peeled back the quilt-top and tossed it on the floor anyway. Pristine white sheets beckoned.

Just as I lay back, sighing with relief, sounds from outside the room jarred me from my happy haze. Tires squealed, masculine laughter bellowed through the thin walls, and car doors slammed.

I sighed and stared at the bared rafters above me. The laughter faded. I reached across to flip off the switch to the nightstand lamp with its yellowed shade. Lying in the darkness, I willed my body to relax, one limb at a time. I’d driven three hundred miles that day. I’d have gone another fifty for a decent hotel, but the shorter route my Garmin had found led me through narrow two-lane roads deep in the Ozark Mountains. I doubted I’d have found anything nicer.

I should have stuck to the Interstate, but I’d wanted to shave some miles. Little did I know that the route would keep my foot busy pushing on the gas pedal then the brake the whole way. Exhausted, nerves shattered, I’d seen the crooked Vacancy sign outside the Cedar Inn and made my decision on the spot, swerving into the empty gravel parking lot. Not until I’d opened the door to my tiny, musty room did I have second thoughts about my decision. But how bad could it really be? I’d turned on the swamp cooler set into a window frame and felt my hair frizz instantly.

Not that I’d really cared. There wasn’t anyone around to impress. Other than the clerk at the front desk, a skinny, twenty-something redneck with puppy dog eyes, the place was deserted. I’d shivered a little bit at the thought, double-bolted my room door and checked the locks on the remaining window. Visions of the shower scene from Psycho didn’t put me off taking a long, lukewarm soak to wash away the road grime and sweat.

The cooler purred, spilling muggy air into the room. The sheets felt clammy. Still, I grew calm as my body warmed the sheets beneath me, then a little horny when I wondered if the room might have little peepholes for the clerk to watch me. He’d been cute if a little skinny. I wouldn’t mind if he watched—at least not in my fantasies. Who knew how long it would be until I felt comfortable enough, private enough to indulge in a little one-handed play when my grandmother slept in the room next to mine.

I slipped a hand between my thighs and lazily trailed my fingers through my cleft until my breath caught and heat pooled. I raised my knees and let them fall open, tilted my hips and thrust two fingers inside my pussy. I wasn’t in a hurry. I wasn’t even that eager to come. The motion soothed and excited, allowing my mind to let go of my troubles—the firing, the break-up, the move to my grandmother’s house—and focus only on the pleasure curling deep inside my core.

When the blare of a TV sounded from outside, I had third and fourth thoughts about my decision to stop here for the night. What the hell? Why had someone moved their television set outside rather than watch in the seclusion of their room where the sound would be somewhat muffled.

I gritted my teeth, swung my legs over the side of the bed and reached for shorts and a tee, slipping them over my nude body and the keys in my pocket before I stomped to the door and flung it open.

Not that the two men sitting on the truck noticed me—at first.

Under the single flood light that illuminated the parking lot, I noted the construction company logo on the side of the pickup backed up to the door of the room beside mine. Then I eyed the large men seated on the sides of the truck bed, their shirts gone, faded jeans stretched over thick thighs. Their attention was glued to the basketball game, blaring from the small screen of the TV they had set in the bed of the truck on top of a white ice chest. They held Budweisers in their grips.

At last, one of the men’s heads turned. He spotted me then whistled at his friend. Soon both their gazes peered down.

I felt foolish standing in my bare feet with my wet hair spiked around my head. Why hadn’t I simply put a pillow over my head to muffle their noise? But I was testy. Moody. I’d lost my job, had a blow-up with my boyfriend over the fact I wouldn’t be splitting rent with him for a while, and cut my nose off to spite my own face by breaking up with him. Homeless now, I had no options. Grandma’s in Little Rock was my last resort.

Tonight would be my last night of freedom before I moved under her roof and abided by her rules. She’d pay the bills—if I knuckled under and went back to school. Something I resented after being on my own for a couple of years, living by my rules.

Which might have been exactly why I remained, rooted to that spot. The men seated on the truck would never meet Grandma’s high standards.

Sweat gleamed on their naked chests and both of them were thickly muscled and a little dirty—as though they’d come straight from work without the benefit of a shower.

The shine only served to emphasize the depth of the musculature and their starkly masculine features. Their tanned, leathery skin stretched across cheeks and jaws that were sharpened to rough edges by hard work.

Both their gazes homed on me, and while I knew the smart thing would have been to retreat without a word to my room and relock the door, I tilted my chin and thrust out my chest. “Can’t you watch the game in your room?”

“We botherin’ you, sweetheart?” the one closest to me said, sliding off the truck to land in front of me.

I peered a long way up and frowned into the face tilted my way. We stood close enough I could see the bristles of his evening shadow. He wore a ball cap that shadowed his eyes, but glints of blond hair shone beneath it. “It’s late. I was trying to sleep.”

“It’s not that late,” he drawled. “Join us for a beer?”

I glanced behind him and noted the grin on his buddy’s face. He was bare-headed with shaggy brown hair and a devilish quirk to his firm lips. The game seemed to have lost its fascination. Their gazes drank me down like I was long cool drink.

The post Flashback: Tailgating at the Cedar Inn (Contest–3 Winners!) first appeared on Delilah Devlin.

I AM IN REMISSION!!!!!!

Taking a deep breath….

Last August, after my first PET scan, I remember my oncologist’s expression before he brought up the scan for us to review. He wasn’t smiling. His eyes looked sad. He slowly hit the key to progress the images and pointed out everywhere that was lit up like a freaking Christmas tree to show me where the cancer was. In one image, I could see that it looked like an apron of Christmas tree lights was spread across my abdomen, fully covering it. At that time, I asked him about best case scenarios, and he told me I might have three years if I did well with the chemo, but my cancer was extensive, and he didn’t believe I’d ever be a good candidate for surgery to debulk my tumors. The best I could hope for was some reduction of the size of my tumors to prolong my life a bit.

The first thing I did after getting the news was to make an appointment to update my will.

Today, when he walked into the room, he had the biggest smile on his face. He said, “Let’s pull up the latest scan.” He opened his laptop and brought up the previous picture that was so colorful and beautiful with the intensity of all those awful lights. Then he pulled up last Friday’s scan and slowly hit the key to progress through the screens. There was nothing but gray scale pictures to look at. The ONLY place we could detect some activity was in my uterus, but it was a bare smudge of light.

He said, it was almost funny because the radiologist that read the scan thought I’d had surgery already to remove my omentum. That’s an apron of tissue that covers all the major organs in your abdomen. The reason he thought I’d had surgery was because there was no cancer to be seen whatsover. The “capsule” of cancer on my liver? Gone, too.

He said I’d done amazingly well, and that I am officially in REMISSION! He went on to say that I would be on immunotherapy from here on out and that he had patients who’ve been on it for eight years—so my prognosis is stretching into territory I couldn’t even begin to dream of when I started. Sure, it can come back, but we’ll be doing blood tests and scans to keep on top of it.

I could not have received better news. Now, I’ll wait for the surgeon’s office to contact me because I am getting that dang surgery to have my girlie parts removed for good.

Just thought I’d share the news because I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. We’re in celebration mode at the Devlin house!

The post I AM IN REMISSION!!!!!! first appeared on Delilah Devlin.