Jamie DeBree's Blog, page 63
April 23, 2011
On the Bookshelf: Hoodoo Money by Sharon Cupp Pennington
From Chapter 1
"What do you get when you bite a ghost?" Braeden McKay managed a weak smile and whispered, "A mouthful of sheet."
The joke wasn't any funnier now than it had been the first time her neighbor's nine-year old nephew had told it. Neither was spending an entire morning of her vacation in a cemetery. But she had promised Angeline she'd be her guest during the Fournier Cosmetics photo shoot. With the lure of a decadent lunch and antique shopping afterward, she could hold out a bit longer.
Four hours spent in the merciless Gulf Coast humidity, and Braeden's natural curls resembled coppery cotton candy. She twisted her hair into a haphazard roll, fastened it with a large plastic clip, then fanned the back of her neck with the brochure from her pocket. Not that either helped.
Heading down the stone path dividing two rows of staggered sepulchers and patchwork grass, she was struck by the contrast between a century-old mausoleum and the camera crew packing their high-tech gear. She supposed it was no more odd than looking at a panoramic view of the cemetery with the city's modern skyline behind it, or the honking of car horns carried through the old iron gates on a July breeze. It was one of the things she loved about New Orleans: the blending of past and present, with ample deference given both.
"Now what are you doing?" She found her supermodel friend standing before a small tomb they'd discovered on a break earlier in the day.
"I'm gettin' myself a souvenir." Angeline leaned over the rusted iron fence marking Simone Dubois' grave and plucked a coin off the mutilated brick. "You want me to get you one?"
Braeden eyed the coin with wariness. It was small, silver, round, and dull edged. "You lifted that nickel from the grave of a witch." She suppressed her shudder. "No, I don't want you to get me one."
Angeline straightened her five foot ten inch frame. "A gypsy, Brag. Simone Dubois was a Black Gypsy, a hoodoo woman."
"Same difference."
"Hardly, and don't make it sound so sinister." She buffed the coin against her blouse before holding it up to the light for closer inspection. "It's not like I'm snatchin' bodies, or pryin' gold from their teeth. There must be fifty coins here, nickels and dimes, pennies. People are expected to take a few."
"If you want a souvenir, I'll buy you some beads or a feathered Mardi Gras mask like the ones we saw in the hotel lobby." Appealing to her friend's flamboyant side wasn't working; Braeden tried the practical approach. "Okay, okay." She raised her arms in exaggerated surrender. "I'll buy the postcards this trip, for pity's sake, and stamps to mail them. Just put the nickel back, Angie, before somebody sees you."
Angeline's laugh dissipated into the fissures of the tomb. She rested her boxy sunglasses atop her blonde head and met Braeden's gaze beneath the black crystal frames. "No thanks," she said. "I think I'll keep my nickel. Besides, who's gonna see me? Cooper? We hired the man to drive, nothing more. The hoodoo woman supposedly buried beneath all this...finery?" She reached through the rusted iron bars, tapped the base of Dubois' tomb with the toe of her strappy sandal and added matter-of-factly, "I think not."
Visions of campfires and burning effi gies tumbled through Braeden's brain. "What if it's bad luck to take it, Angie. I mean, sacrilegious or something." The or something worried her. "What if there's some kind of..."
It seemed ridiculous to even say the word out loud.
Angeline whirled, clapping her hands. "I can't believe it, Brag! You were gonna say 'curse,' weren't you?"
"S-Something like that."
The supermodel edged through the small gate hanging lopsided from the rusted iron enclosure. An elusive breeze caught the hem of her silk crepe skirt, and a dance of yellow designer daisies swirled about her ankles as she planted her outrageously insured derriere on the tomb's narrow foundation ledge. She motioned for Charlie Cooper, and the driver ambled over with a pucker on his face that reminded Braeden of tasting tart lemonade.
"Here, Cooper. Take a picture of us for posterity." Angeline shoved her camera at him, then patted the space next to her indicating Braeden should also sit. "Just me and Brag and little ol' Simone Dubois," she teased. "Black Gypsy."
Braeden stepped out of range of the shot. "Thanks, but no thanks."
The camera whirred and clicked, clicked and whirred. "Come on, Brag." Angeline struck another silly pose. "I mean, a curse. For heaven's sake, you don't really believe in such things. Do you?"
Braeden wanted to say no, but hesitated. She was three-quarters Irish after all. Wasn't she obligated to believe in leprechauns and cluricauns, and the kissin' of the Blarney? She even had the woven cross of Saint Brigid attached to the wall above her bed.
"Love potions, spells cast under a full moon, that ol' black magic?" Angeline tossed the coin one-handed and snatched it back in mid-air. "The walkin' dead?" She giggled.
She waved off the driver, stood, then shook gritty brick dust from the crisp folds of her skirt. Then she leaned over the decrepit little fence, smiled engagingly at the group of fans clustered around the tomb, and signed a few more autographs.
Angeline St. Cyr, Braeden thought with unbound affection, the quintessential PR package. Fournier Cosmetics was lucky to have her.
"It's only a nickel, Brag." Angeline threw her head back, laughing out loud as she caressed the coin between her thumb and forefinger. "A plain old, honest to God, made in America nickel. And it's mine. Finders keepers you know. Anyway, look at the date." She turned the coin, heads up this time, and thrust it within inches of Braeden's freckle-dusted nose. "How can there be a curse on the damn thing, sweetie? It's not even old enough to have collected a coat of tarnish. Now," she tapped the folded pamphlet in Braeden's hand a couple times with one bejeweled finger, "read that to me one more time, Brag. What the brochure says about this mean ol' gypsy who's gonna put the whammy on me for takin' her nickel."
Slipping on the reading glasses snagged along the neckline at the front of her shirt, Braeden unfolded a brochure procured from the hotel's concierge. According to the author, hoodoo folk magic blended the beliefs and traditions brought to America by African slaves with the botanical knowledge of Native Americans. It was thought to involve clairvoyance, hexing, conjuring, and the healing of spirit and body using roots, herbs, and other natural elements.
The brochure also referred to coins similar to those deposited on Dubois' grave as hoodoo money: coins left on specific tombs in exchange for favors from the dead.
Or from the undead.
Good magic, bad magic, lotions and potions. Braeden shivered, in spite of the sultry Louisiana heat. It sounded more Voodoo than hoodoo. Not that Angeline cared, or would even consider surrendering her prize souvenir on the chance it had been deposited on want and a promise.
Connect with Sharon: Web Site | Twitter | Goodreads
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April 22, 2011
Serial Story: The Biker's Wench, Ch. 65
Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7| Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 |Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13| Ch. 14 |Ch. 15 |Ch. 16 |Ch. 17 |Ch. 18 |Ch. 19 |Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25| Ch. 26| Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 |Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 |Ch. 32 | Ch. 33| Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 | Ch. 36 | Ch. 37 | Ch. 38 | Ch. 39 | Ch. 40 |Ch. 41 |Ch. 42 |Ch. 43 |Ch. 44 |Ch. 45 |Ch. 46 |Ch. 47 |Ch. 48 |Ch. 49 |Ch. 50 |Ch. 51 |Ch. 52|
Ch. 53 |Ch. 54| Ch. 55|Ch. 56|Ch. 57|Ch. 58|Ch. 59|Ch. 60|Ch. 61|Ch. 62|Ch. 63|Ch. 64
The Biker's Wench
Chapter 64
"How do I get the chip out? Harley? Oh god." Monica just stared at the phone in her hand, shock and fatigue making it difficult to process the last few seconds. Burns had Harley, that was obvious, but how? A microchip in her shoulder? All this time, and she'd never had a chance. Even now she could hear footsteps coming nearer to the window of the old warehouse she'd ducked into. If what Harley had said about a chip was true, it wouldn't do any good to run. Burns's man would just find her again.
She reached up with her right hand to feel the skin on her left shoulder. Pressing hard, she covered as much area as she could, but it all felt normal. Supressing a panicked sob as the footsteps stopped, she pressed deeper under the old desk and quickly examined her right shoulder the same way.
Yes.
There was a tiny lump high on her shoulder blade that definitely covered something hard. That had to be it. She heard the man searching just outside the office she was in, moving boxes and shuffling things around. Reaching up, she blindly moved her hand over the desktop, grabbing several long, thin objects in the hope that one would be useful. The pen and pencil were out - she didn't want to poison herself. The third item turned out to be a letter opener with a nice, sharp edge. Perfect.
Wiping off the blade as well as possible on her shirt, she took a deep breath, and worked the metal tip into her skin. Tendrils of pain shot down her arm and she bit her lip to keep quiet, opening the wound enough to get her fingernails in. Grasping the object tight, she exhaled, then took another breath and held it as she yanked it free as she let out her breath in one big gasp.
The noise from the other room stopped, and she knew it was over. He'd find her any minute. The pain receded as fresh adrenaline flooded her system, and she pulled herself out from under the desk, taking stock of her surroundings as she turned to face the door. there was a window at her back. That was probably her best chance at getting out.
A large shape loomed in the doorway, the illumination from his cell phone striking Monica as garish. She backed slowly to the window, wincing as she tried to pry the window open. It wouldn't budge. The man turned his phone out, and she blinked, holding her hands up to shield her eyes.
"Nice try," he said in that patient tone that was starting to irritate her. "I assume from the blood that you found the chip your father tagged you with?"
She looked down at her hands. She'd wiped them off as well as she could, but even in the inadequate light they looked like the hands of a killer.
"You assume correctly," she said, shivering slightly as the adrenaline began to wear off. She didn't have time for chit chat. She needed to get out now, before shock set in completely. "I'd return it, but that doesn't seem right, somehow." She ground the heel of her foot into the concrete floor. "I bet he'll have a harder time tracking me without it. That seems more sporting anyway."
He laughed. "What makes you think you're getting away this time? We don't need the chip if we have you."
"You don't have me yet."
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April 19, 2011
Serial Story: The Biker's Wench, Ch. 64
Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7| Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 |Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13| Ch. 14 |Ch. 15 |Ch. 16 |Ch. 17 |Ch. 18 |Ch. 19 |Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25| Ch. 26| Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 |Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 |Ch. 32 | Ch. 33| Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 | Ch. 36 | Ch. 37 | Ch. 38 | Ch. 39 | Ch. 40 |Ch. 41 |Ch. 42 |Ch. 43 |Ch. 44 |Ch. 45 |Ch. 46 |Ch. 47 |Ch. 48 |Ch. 49 |Ch. 50 |Ch. 51 |Ch. 52|
Ch. 53 |Ch. 54| Ch. 55|Ch. 56|Ch. 57|Ch. 58|Ch. 59|Ch. 60|Ch. 61|Ch. 62|Ch. 63
The Biker's Wench
Chapter 64
Harley slid the slim phone Ben had slipped him under his thigh, and waited. It was probably too late, but he had to warn Monica about the microchip, just in case there was still time for her to get away. If she could get the chip out, she might have a chance.
Stifling the urge to glance at the guard, he forced himself to be still. The man had been on duty for several hours now, barely moving from his chair by the door. He'd have to get up soon, Harley was sure of it. He rotated his own men through four hour shifts for that very reason. Just a few minutes was all he needed, enough to make a quick call. He'd already sent a text, but she hadn't answered. She probably hadn't recognized the number though, and the two words he'd managed to key in - "microchip shoulder" - might have been too cryptic.
The guard shifted, retrieving his phone from his pocket. He slid his thumbs across the screen a few times, then glanced up at Harley who closed his eyes and rolled to the side, facing away from the door. Apparently it was enough to satisfy the guard, judging from the sound of the door opening, then closing again with a firm click. Peeking over his shoulder to make sure he was alone, Harley quickly keyed in Monica's number and propped the phone between the pillow and his head. It rang twice, and then the line opened with a click.
"Who is this?" Monica whispered, sounding out of breath. But the fact that she answered gave him hope. Engine noise in the background suggested she must be outside.
"It's Harley. Are you okay?"
She didn't answer for a long moment, and then finally the background noise died away, leaving only the sound of her breathing. "Harley? Thank god - I was so worried!" She took in a big breath, then let it out, breathing slower. "I'm...kind of in trouble here. One of Burns's guys found me, and wanted me to give up the equipment. I tricked him and ran away, but he's following me. I can't seem to shake him..."
"I don't have much time, darlin'. There's a microchip in your shoulder - that's how he keeps tracking you. I'll explain later, but right now you need to get it out somehow. It's the only way you can lose him."
"No shit."
Harley grinned at the expletive, wishing he was there. She was adorable when she was all fired up. The door knob rattled behind him, wiping the smile off his face. "Listen, I have to go. I'm sorry. But get that chip out and get as far away from here as you can. Don't worry about me, just run. I love you."
He hung up before she could respond, a huge lump in his throat at the thought of never seeing her again. It was better this way though. Keeping her safe was the only thing that mattered.
"Hey, what are you doing over there?" A new voice, a new guard. He rolled to his back, slipping the phone back under his thigh as if he had an itch. The guard stood near the foot of the bed, his hip braced on the frame.
"Same as always," he said, looking the guard in the eye. "Just laying here, getting stronger so I can kick your boss's ass."
The guard's expression remained neutral. "Just keep your hands where I can see them."
"It's not my hands you need to worry about," Harley replied, kicking out with his left foot and catching the man right in the groin.
Enjoy this installment? Try Tempest, available now at:
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April 18, 2011
Weekly News & Goals – 4/18/11
Last week was...well, difficult. Lots
to do, lots of drama, and lots of stress – the latter two not
things I deal with well. This week should be better, I hope, though
stress is still a definite possibility (day job stuff, nothing to do
with writing). With any luck, I'll handle it better, in any case.
It does seem that spring may finally be
"springing", which is nice. It does add another layer of
things that need to be done (yard work), but I'm trying to ignore
that at this point, and just enjoy the hope of warmer temperatures.
In any case, I'll be gradually
transitioning the blog to a lighter "summer" schedule to
give myself some time to work on some other projects and to ensure I
can stick to my publishing schedule. This week I'll be taking
Wednesday and Thursday off, so it will just be this post, the two
serial chapters and Saturday's excerpt. As soon as The Biker's
Wench is done, I'll probably take a few weeks off before I start
another serial, and it will be just one installment per week. The
good news is, they'll be longer installments. 
This Week on The Variety Pages
Tuesday & Friday: The Biker's Wench
Ch.'s 64 & 65
Saturday: Excerpt from Hoodoo Money
by Sharon Pennington
I'll be working on
FantasyRanchNovels.com this week – stay tuned! I also plan to open
an online store where you can buy ebooks as well as print directly
from me at Brazen Snake Books – that should be available later this
week as well.
Goal Reports
I barely managed to get my regular
serial installments done, much less any extras. I did finish a short
story draft, which is very cool. I didn't get the crit done though,
which is annoying because I really do want to make that a priority.
So it will go to the top of the list this week.
I did get the taxes done (mailed the
state return today, actually), so that's done. Other than that, the
rest sort of fell by the wayside. That's the way it goes sometimes.
Goals for the Week
Writing
1 crit
4 serial chapters (& any extra
I can fit in)
Start a new short story
Send out finished short for
editing
Business
Finish FantasyRanchNovels.com &
put online
Build new web store
Reformat ebooks, replace
Kindle/B&N editions, post on web store
Finalize formatting packages for
author services
Personal
Workout 3x per week
Turn in loan application
Don't sweat stuff at the day job
That's it for me – how's your week
look? Is it spring there yet?
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April 16, 2011
On the Bookshelf: Sojourn with a Stranger by Keta Diablo
Sojourn with a Stranger by Keta Diablo
Excerpt
Derek dropped into an overstuffed chair opposite Raine, pulled the leather pouch and brown envelope from his vest pocket, and placed them on the oak table separating them. Alternately, she looked between the pouch and his face.
"I'm not certain how to begin." He wrung his clammy hands. Damn, this is more difficult than I imaged. "We had a discussion several evenings past in the garden?"
"I remember."
"I explained my father's desire to obtain a male heir and my inability to produce one thus far?"
Dark green eyes searched his. "Yes, clearly."
"You're a beautiful woman with a significant amount of intellect and a variety of coveted traits and talents."
"Thank you, but you hardly know me."
"That's true." Somehow the words slipped out his dry throat. "But what I've seen since your arrival exceeds my highest expectations."
"Expectations?"
"You're in a difficult situation." He forced a smile. "And I'm prepared to offer you a way out."
"A way out of what, Derek? I'm not understanding―"
"Hear me out, please." Rising from the chair, he paced before her. "I realize the arrangement will seem outrageous at first, even obtuse, but I've thought a great deal about it since our meeting in the garden. I took the liberty of consulting an expert."
"An expert? Whatever for?"
"Childbirth."
A nervous giggle left her lips. "I'm not following you. Perhaps you should come right out and tell me what arrangement you're alluding to."
The seconds ticked away on the mantle clock, sounding like a thousand crickets had breached the room. "Yes, I'm trying to get to the point of all this." He stopped pacing and held onto the back of his chair. "Here's the way of it. You need to earn enough money to return your grandfather in Maine. I, on the other hand, need a son."
Her brow furrowed.
"I'm offering you freedom in the long run. In exchange, I want to have a child with you, preferably, a male." The words rushed forth. "However, if you're delivered of a female, I'll love and accept her just the same."
An audible gasp fell from her lips. "Oh, but I can't possibly accept a proposal of marriage from a virtual stranger. It would be most unfair to both―"
Good, God, she thinks I'm offering marriage? Marriage? "No, that is, you misunderstood my proposal. I'm not suggesting we marry."
Her eyes widened and darted about the room.
Walking to the table with a tentative gait, he picked up the envelope. "More money than you could earn in a lifetime is in here. I'm offering half now and the other half when the contract has been met."
She looked at the envelope and then at him, her tone icy. "How much is in the envelope?"
"Five thousand dollars."
Another gasp.
"Five thousand now and five thousand the day the child is born." Tossing the envelope on the table for effect, he continued. "It's yours right now should you accept my offer." A rapid pulse took flight in a tiny blue vein in her neck.
"If you're not offering marriage, in what capacity will I live in the manor?"
"You'll be free to go home after the child is born. Until then, you'll have complete freedom to do whatever you choose."
Her eyes narrowed, and sparked.
"You said you wished to return to your grandfather one day. That day can be sooner than you think if you sign the contract my barrister drafted." He nodded toward the envelope. "It's also in there."
Her face paled. "Horace Masterson, the kindly gentleman who promised me safety until I returned to Maine?"
"Yes, the money guarantees your security, and your safety." Walking around the chair, he settled into it and leaned forward. "At the very least, read the contract. I'm sure you'll agree the terms protect you."
Her lower lip quivered, and he wondered if she might cry. Christ, what would he do if she launched into a crying jag? He couldn't bear up under her tears.
"You seem quite well prepared." Her gaze took him apart inch by inch. "I commend your valiant efforts to keep your father's threats at bay."
"I can't find fault with your reaction at the onset, but surely you see the practicality on both sides?" After drawing in a lungful of air, he added, "You'll be free to go about your life when it's over in a manner envied by most women. I'll acquire an heir to Stafford House, and my father will end his relentless pursuit."
"Oh, please enlighten me." She pinned him with a lethal glare. "Should I decide to engage in your well-contrived scheme, how do you propose we bring the end result to fruition?"
"It's quite simple," he said, aware the temperature in the room rose to an unbearable degree. "You spend three nights in my bedchamber, the specific nights will be chosen by Madam Seren. She's prepared―"
"Madam who?"
"Seren, a healer, a woman who dabbles in tonics, remedies. She's already prepared several concoctions." He dug for the instructions in the pocket of his vest. "You must follow her recommendations when it comes to diet and tinctures for several weeks. She's highly skilled, claims certain remedies will enhance the possibility of producing a male child. I'll expect you to follow her recommendations if you accept my offer."
She shook her head. "I must applaud your tenacity and the immense preparation expended to carry out your duplicitous plot."
"There is nothing duplicitous about this. I've told you everything there is to know."
She looked away from him, but not before he saw the sadness return to her eyes again, and something he didn't recognize. Indecision? Hatred? An interminable amount of time passed before he dared speak again. "Think of it as a business arrangement."
She turned to him with a look that said she'd love to sever him at the knees with a giant scythe.
"I'd like your decision in two days. You'll find me in my study two nights from now. If you decline, you can remain at Stafford House until you've earned enough money to return to Maine. Do you have any questions?"
"Yes," she said with calm composure. "Why me? There must be countless women who'd agree to bear your child."
"I thought I made that clear. You possess undeniable beauty, have obviously been well-educated, and you have the physical attributes, height and stature, I hope are passed on to our child." He shrugged. "It's that simple."
Flushed with anger, the green eyes darkened. "Will that be all?"
"Yes," he replied, finding it difficult to look at her. "Unless you have additional questions."
"I do not." She rose from the chair, her tone distant and cold. "I believe I understand perfectly well." Offering a false curtsey, she added, "If you'll excuse me, sir."
He nodded.
The moment her footsteps faded from the room, Derek unfurled himself from the chair and headed for the liquor cabinet, his only thought to down a double dram.
Available at: Amazon
Connect with Keta: Web Site
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April 15, 2011
Serial Novel: The Biker's Wench, Chapter 63
Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7| Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 |Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13| Ch. 14 |Ch. 15 |Ch. 16 |Ch. 17 |Ch. 18 |Ch. 19 |Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25| Ch. 26| Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 |Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 |Ch. 32 | Ch. 33| Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 | Ch. 36 | Ch. 37 | Ch. 38 | Ch. 39 | Ch. 40 |Ch. 41 |Ch. 42 |Ch. 43 |Ch. 44 |Ch. 45 |Ch. 46 |Ch. 47 |Ch. 48 |Ch. 49 |Ch. 50 |Ch. 51 |Ch. 52|
Ch. 53 |Ch. 54| Ch. 55|Ch. 56|Ch. 57|Ch. 58|Ch. 59|Ch. 60|Ch. 61|Ch. 62
The Biker's Wench
Chapter 63
Her captor's silence was all the answer Monica needed. How many of the people currently working with Burns were in the same situation? It was a genius move on his part, she thought as they neared the bus station. Fear of losing a child would be good motivation for keeping Burns and his business well-protected.
The SUV came to a stop in a parking space a little ways off from the depot. The man got out and came around to open her door. "Put your hands out," he said, the cuffs dangling from his fingers.
"Is that really necessary?" she asked, slowly lifting her arms. "What will people think?"
He snapped the restraints in place then pulled her out of the vehicle. Keeping one hand on the chain between her wrists, he opened the back door and took out a black leather jacket, threading it over her hands. "Keep that over your hands."
She frowned. "Or what?"
"Or I may tell your father you had an unfortunate accident." He pressed a button on his keys to lock the vehicle, then took her upper arm and propelled her toward the building. "Now, which planter is that key in?"
Monica scanned the layout, trying to decide where her best chance of escape would be. She hadn't counted on the handcuffs, but she had to try. If she couldn't recover the evidence from the cab, she and Harley were as good as dead.
She pointed to a couple of extra-large pots that stood on a narrow stone platform a few feet off the ground. "It's that gold one, on the right. I tossed them up there on when I was leaving." She'd have to climb up to peer inside, and there was only enough room for one person. If she could jump off the other side fast enough, she might have a chance at outrunning this guy. Or at least getting to the depot where she could lose him in the transfer area.
Glancing up at him, she could see him thinking about the problems. He could climb up himself, but then she'd be left alone on the ground, which would give her a head start. Though she wouldn't complain if that's how he wanted to play it.
When they reached the spot, she looked at him, trying to appear obedient and docile. "Should I go get them, or do you want to?" He tried to reach a hand up to feel around in the pot, but could only feel about an inch inside the lip.
"Go ahead."
She stifled a grin as she reached out to steady herself on the bench, but couldn't get the leverage she needed with the jacket in the way, and her arms pulled together. "I can't climb up like this, sorry. I guess you'll have to get it."
He thought for a moment. Finally admitting defeat, he took the jacket and quickly unlocked the cuffs. "Get it and come right back down. No funny stuff, or you'll regret it." He stepped back and she boosted herself up on the platform, making a show of digging through the dirt in the pot as she glanced down at him every few seconds.
An elderly man approached, and she smiled and waved as he stopped in front of the man. She heard the stranger ask for directions, and her captor turned away to point down the street. Taking that as her cue, Monica jumped down behind the bench as quietly as she could, and raced into the station.
Enjoy this installment? Try Desert Heat, available now at:
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April 14, 2011
Guest Post: Location, Location, Location by Greg Messel
We had a little mix-up with the guest post yesterday, but I'm happy to welcome author Greg Messel to the blog today to talk about where he gets his ideas! Pull up a chair and grab a scone...
I'm often asked by friends or readers
of my books—"where do you get the ideas for your stories?" I
even wonder that myself sometimes. Part of it is how writers observe
life.
When I am in restaurants, or riding
the ferry, or in any public place, I like to observe how people
interact and it is interesting to overhear their conversations. I do
that not to be a snoop but so I can think about their dialogue. I
guess that's the writer in me.
I also observe events and wonder what
the story is behind what I'm seeing. By my home in the Seattle area
is the terminal where one of the main Puget Sound ferries docks. One
day I saw a young man, with an anxious look on his face, standing
near the terminal holding a bouquet of flowers. I thought that there
must be a story there.
Soon, I saw a pretty young woman
depart the ferry and come running towards the young man with the
flowers. She put her arms around him and kissed him. He presented the
flowers to her. I wondered what their story was.
I thought of them when I wrote a
chapter in my novel "Expiation" where the two lovers meet one
another at the ferry terminal. Here's what I wrote in Chapter 9 of
"Expiation":
On Thursday evening, I excitedly went to the harbor and waited for Katie. I felt my heart pounding when the lights of the ferry came into view as it approached the dock. There were a lot of people disembarking. I searched for her in all of the confusion. There were cars and trucks driving off, and a large crowd of people walking off the covered ramps. I positioned myself so I hopefully wouldn't miss her. Then I saw Katie, wearing a bright blue rain jacket, carrying a small overnight bag and a small piece of luggage slung over her shoulder.
We rushed towards each other.
We said nothing and she began smothering me with kisses as soon as we could touch one another. It was as if the missing part of my soul had just arrived.
I use real locations in my books. I
think it makes it so much more realistic and interesting.
One of the settings for the lovers in
"Expiation" is the Seattle neighborhood of Ballard. Recently I
was driving through Ballard with some friends. I pointed out the
restaurant where the two main characters, Katie and Dan, were
reunited—Lombardi's in Ballard. I pointed out several locations
as we drove through Ballard where key scenes in "Expiation"
occurred. My friends seemed amazed and said, "So this is real?"
My answer was that I really try to make it that way.
At a recent book signing in Seattle, a
woman approached me and picked up "Expiation" to read the summary
on the back. She said, "I have to buy this book. My name is Katie
and I'm from Ballard."
Sometime writing can be like real
estate. It's location, location, location.
Check out my books "Sunbreaks" and
"Expiation" at www.gregmessel.com.
Also coming this summer is my third book, "The Illusion of
Certainty.
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April 12, 2011
Serial Novel: The Biker's Wench, Chapter 62
Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7| Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 |Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13| Ch. 14 |Ch. 15 |Ch. 16 |Ch. 17 |Ch. 18 |Ch. 19 |Ch. 20 | Ch. 21 | Ch. 22 | Ch. 23 | Ch. 24 | Ch. 25| Ch. 26| Ch. 27 | Ch. 28 |Ch. 29 | Ch. 30 | Ch. 31 |Ch. 32 | Ch. 33| Ch. 34 | Ch. 35 | Ch. 36 | Ch. 37 | Ch. 38 | Ch. 39 | Ch. 40 |Ch. 41 |Ch. 42 |Ch. 43 |Ch. 44 |Ch. 45 |Ch. 46 |Ch. 47 |Ch. 48 |Ch. 49 |Ch. 50 |Ch. 51 |Ch. 52|
Ch. 53 |Ch. 54| Ch. 55|Ch. 56|Ch. 57|Ch. 58|Ch. 59|Ch. 60|Ch. 61
The Biker's Wench
Chapter 62
Monica had barely pushed herself to a seated position when the back door of the cab opened. Strong hands grabbed her arm, yanking her out of the vehicle. She kicked at her would-be captor, punching with her free arm until he threw her to the ground and put one knee in her back. Behind them, an engine roared, and metal squealed against metal. Turning her head to the side, she saw the cab speed away. Cold metal slapped around her wrists as the man cuffed her, then hauled her to her feet.
"Your father's been looking for you," he said, his voice softer than she would have imagined. He pulled her to a large black SUV and helped her into the passenger seat. "If you'll just tell me where the recording devices are, we can pick those up on the way back to the ranch."
"They--" Monica stopped, realizing the bag was still in the cab. It was dark,and the bag had been on the floor at her feet. She hadn't thought to grab it while she was being manhandled. Maybe if she could get away, she could find the cab...though the chances of finding the right one in a city this large was practically nil. But it was the only evidence they had. Without it, all of this had been for nothing, and Burns would win.
"Well?"
She looked up into eyes that weren't as cold as those she normally encountered in Burns's men. "Why do you do it?" she asked. He stepped back, the question appearing to have caught him off guard. "Why do you work for my--Burns, when you could be doing something...else?"
He shrugged, looking off into the distance. "We all make choices. Every choice has a price." Turning back to her, he rested his forearm on the frame above her head. "Your father's heart is in the right place, even if his execution is questionable. You'd do well to remember you might not be alive if it weren't for him. Now tell me where we need to go to get the video, and we'll get going."
She looked down at her knees, as if he'd won. "The bus station," she said, shifting in the seat as though she couldn't get comfortable. "I put them in a locker." There were lots of people at the station all night long. That would be her best bet at getting free so she could find the cab.
"Where's the key?"
Damn. She shifted again, hoping he'd take the hint and unlock the cuffs. "I hid it in one of the planters outside, so I wouldn't lose it."
He closed the door and walked around to the driver's side, sliding behind the wheel. The automatic locks clicked into place as he pushed a button on his door. "Turn around." She did, relieved when he removed the metal from her wrists.
He started the engine and turned the car around, taking her back toward the depot as she rubbed her wrists. Glancing over at him, she thought about what he'd said. He was right that she might not be alive without Burns...but she just couldn't get around the fact that her father was buying and selling human beings. Surely that was wrong no matter what the motivation behind it. There had to be other, legal means of helping those children. Especially for someone with Burns's wealth. A way that didn't involve large sums of money changing hands...
Every choice has a price. "You bought a child, didn't you?" She watched him closely, his grip tightening on the wheel though his expression remained neutral. "And you're working off the cost."
Enjoy this installment? Try Desert Heat, available now at:
Amazon US | Amazon UK | Barnes & Noble | Smashwords | Diesel
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April 11, 2011
Weekly News & Goals – 4/11/11
Mondays would be so much easier if they
started far later, IMO. I'm a night person. As I write this, the
clock reads 12:57am. When this post goes live, it will be right
around 6am, which is what time I have to get up and start getting
ready for work. I'm not really fully-functional until around 10am,
after I've been at work for a good hour and a half. This is why I
have to plan my days out ahead of time. If I don't, the lack of
enthusiasm for mornings follows me through the whole day. It's not
pretty.
In any case, I've been switching a lot
of my information from my obsolete PDA (which I'm still using as well
for now) to Google calendars. In doing so, I stumbled into
information on creating separate calendars, and then sharing them
out, and even posting them on the web. Naturally, I've taken this to
a whole 'nuther level, and created calendars for my blog schedule and
my personal writing schedule, and posted them here and on my web
site.
So if you want to know what's going on
at the blog, or which days are free for guest posts, there's a button
in the top left link area labeled "Blog Schedule" that will
show you. If you want to know what project I'm working on for a given
day, you can click on the "Writing Schedule" link. Just a
warning – my writing schedule has all the projects I'm
working on, not just the romantic suspense. So follow any links with
caution.
This week on The Variety Pages
Tuesday: Ch. 62 of The Biker's Wench
Wednesday: Guest Post by Greg Messel
Friday: Ch. 63 of The Biker's Wench
Saturday: Excerpt from Sojourn with
a Stranger by Keta Diablo
Goals Report
I pretty well just stayed caught up
last week, though I did do a better job of that. I keep wanting to
rush to the end of The Biker's Wench, and then I talk myself out of
it, because a non-rush job would be better. It's hard though, and I'm
planning to take a week off from the day job in the near future so I
can get some drafts finished and catch up around the house. Still,
I'd like to have TBW done before that, if possible...
I've got the Fantasy Ranch web site
nearly planned out, so I should be able to start actually putting it
together this week. I need to catch up on the business newsletter &
blog – those are on the list for today. And taxes...ah, taxes. I
now have access to last year's records, and the new TurboTax
installed and updated on my computer. Tonight after work, I dig in.
Goals for the Week
Writing
8 serial installments
1 crit
Finish a draft (any draft!)
Business
Start building the
FantasyRanchNovels.com site
Catch up blog/newsletter
Promo tweets
Personal
More laundry
Finish the taxes
Workout 3x
Spring clean-up in the yard
(weather permitting).
And that's my plan for the week. What
are you up to? Read any good books lately?
April 9, 2011
On the Bookshelf: Dragonfly Dreams by Franki deMerle
From Chapter 1 - Snake in the Pool
Daphne's boss,
the owner of the construction company where she worked, was anything
but mundane. Richard Gatorman was tall, blond, handsome, and rugged.
His skin was well-tanned from years of working outdoors, and he had
piercing green eyes that seemed to look right into her soul. Daphne
liked to fantasize that he was her knight in shining armor, but she
wasn't about to ask him for time off. Still, he was easy on the
eyes, and she'd never had a steady boyfriend in her life. She'd
been shy as a teenager. Dating had always been Deandra's purview.
Daphne had been
working for Richard for over six months when he finally asked her to
join him for lunch one day. She jumped at the offer. He took her to
Ping's, a Chinese restaurant in Albany. Albany was a small town
between Corvallis and Interstate 5. In the restaurant's entryway, a
poster displayed the Chinese astrological signs with the years ruled
by the signs.
"It says here I
was born in the year of the snake," she commented.
"Snake, huh?"
he responded. "Is that like the biblical snake in the Garden of
Eden? You gonna try to seduce me?"
"You want me to?"
she flirted.
"Maybe you're
more of a snake charmer," he continued without answering her
question. "You certainly are a charmer."
Daphne blushed, and
just then, the receptionist came to show them to their booth. Once
seated, Daphne asked him, "So how do you know about this place?"
"I live just
across the highway," he answered pointing north. When the waitress
returned to take their orders, he didn't wait for Daphne to
respond. "We'll have two egg drop soups and two of my favorite
special," he told the waitress.
Daphne raised her
eyebrows. "You didn't even ask me," she laughed in surprise.
"I know what's
good here," he said, looking straight at her. "Don't
worry—you'll like it—it has pork, shrimp, and chicken. It's a
chef specialty.
"That poster back
there said snakes are clever, intelligent, and make good financial
managers and guardians of buried treasure. I guess I hired the right
person to mind my shop."
"Glad you did,"
she smiled back. "So which year were you born in?"
"Huh? Oh, sorry,"
he answered, "I got distracted looking at those pretty eyes of
yours. I was born in the year of the horse."
"I like horses,"
she replied.
"Horses are
social, competitive, and opinionated," he told her. "In other
words, I know what I like." The waitress brought the soup.
Daphne enjoyed the
meal, the company, and Richard taking care of the check. She was
relieved that things were going so well, especially since he was her
boss. But she was also very much aware of her inexperience with
dating, so she was glad he took the lead. He left a big tip. She
took that as a sign of generosity. They began having lunch together
whenever he wasn't tied up at a construction site or meeting with
clients or suppliers. One morning, several weeks later, he showed up
early at her apartment on a work day as she was just getting dressed.
"I thought I'd
take you to breakfast," he offered.
She liked the
surprise. "I won't be a minute," she said as she grabbed her
shoes and purse. Going out with Richard made her feel special. It
made her feel feminine and appreciated.
That evening, as
she went to leave work, she realized she didn't have her car. She
went into Richard's office, held up her keys, and smiled as she
shook her head. He understood.
"No problem,"
he assured her. "We'll grab some dinner on the way home."
She suspected then
that he was becoming as serious about her as she was about him. After
dinner she invited him in. She was hoping for romance. The first kiss
progressed quickly into discarding of clothes and making love. He was
her first. Daphne was pleased he stayed the night. She made breakfast
the next morning.
As they ate, he
said, "We'd better take separate cars today."
"Good idea,"
she agreed. She didn't mind. It was only practical.
When he mentioned
he had errands to run and couldn't have lunch with her, she took
advantage of his absence, and called her sister, Deandra, when she
went out to grab a sandwich.
"Guess what!" Daphne told Deandra,
and continued without waiting for her sister to try to guess, "I'm
in love! He's tall and handsome and owns his own successful
business, and he treats me like a princess."
"Wait a minute,"
Deandra responded. "This isn't your boss, is it?"
"Yes, it is,"
Daphne confirmed. "What of it?"
"That's never a
good idea," Deandra counseled. "What happens when you two break
up?"
"That's not
going to happen," Daphne countered. "I just know it. You're
just jealous."
"How can I be
jealous? I've never even met him."
"You know what I
mean," Daphne shot back defensively. "You're just jealous
because I'm in love and you're not—because I finally found
someone. Anyway, I just called to share my good news. Don't be such
a wet blanket. I have to get back to work. Bye."
She was
disappointed with her sister's reaction, but took comfort in
knowing it was just jealousy. Besides, what did logic have to do with
love? She took her sandwich back to work and ate at her desk. She was
disappointed when she didn't see Richard the rest of the afternoon.
She even stayed a little longer than usual, just in case he showed
up, but finally locked up the shop and went home.
That evening, he
showed up at her door unannounced. She was delighted when he knelt
down in front of her open door, held up a beautiful diamond ring in a
gift box, and said, "Will you marry me?"
Available at: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | iUniverse
Connect with Franki: Web Site | IAN
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