Ginger Voight's Blog, page 23

A fun lil Q&A

Saw this on another blog and thought it'd be a fun little "get-to-know-you" exercise. Plus I've always wanted to do the Inside the Actor's Studio questions... without, you know... being an actor or anything.

***

What is your favorite word? Yes.

What is your least favorite word? No.

What turns you on? Power. A man who understands the "GRRR" factor is worth his weight in gold. If he has long hair and knows how to rock guyliner, even better.

What turns you off? Mean, ignorant people. And whiners.

What sound or noise do you love? The sound of a baby laughing.



Plus I think Steve Perry's voice is about the most perfect sound in the universe.



What sound or noise do you hate? Malicious laughter. People turn a great, joyful sound into a weapon to make someone else feel bad. Anyone who has ever gone to school has heard this at one point in their lives. It sucks. Plus the sound of anyone rubbing a balloon. **shudder**

What is your favorite curse word? Fuck. It's so multifunctional. What other word do you know of that can be used in any scenario and still pack a punch?

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt? Movie producer.

What profession would you not like to do? Mortician.

What are you reading right now? I don't read books while I'm ovaries deep in a WIP because I don't want to internalize anyone else's story/voice and risk it bleeding into my story. However, given I'm always ovaries deep in a WIP these days, I figured I have to loosen this rule to exclude books outside my genre. So I started Ready Player One.

What book(s) do you urge readers to read? The Blessing Stone by Barbara Wood. It's epic and beautiful. Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen, but only if you haven't been ruined by the movie. It was a good movie, but the book is better, especially if you don't know what's coming. I loved early Danielle Steel, particularly Full Circle and Family Album, because of the strong heroines and their blend of history and social commentary. Plus there's this new writer named Ginger Voight. Don't know if you've heard of her. I mean, I don't want to brag but I've read ALL of her books. We're quite close.

What inspires you? Everything. The world constantly amazes me.

What is your favorite indulgence? I have to pick one? Chocolate. No wait.. champagne. No, wait... sushi. Oh hell... we'll go with hugs. Lots and lots of hugs.

What is your favorite movie? I have to pick one? I'll give you my top 8:



What is your favorite piece of clothing? Underwear. Wouldn't leave home without it.

What is your favorite ice cream flavor? Butter or Praline pecan. Or Banana nut. Again... only one??

What is something you like to collect? Paychecks. And shot glasses.

What item must you have with you at all times? Any device that can get me to the Internet. It's my right arm.

What city could you get lost in for hours to explore? If reincarnation is a real thing, I could easily believe that I lived in NYC in the 1940s. It's just such a strong sense that I get, so much so I cried when I saw the skyline for the first time. One day I hope to live there. I hear if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.

What is one thing about you that would surprise us? I'm allergic to lavender. Which sucks, because as a lover of purple I invariably get lavender gifts. :/ But the smell makes me nauseated. Contact with it makes me itch and the one time I had a drink infused with it nearly sent me to the hospital after one sip. So ... no lavender.

Introducing Mateo Bravo

Mateo Bravo was raised to be a man of unquestionable integrity. His mother was widowed shortly after his birth, forcing her to raise both Mateo and his sister, Naomi, with nothing more than her indefatigable will. She had one goal: to get her children to adulthood, and to their own amazing futures, without taking one handout from anyone. She worked every job, never missing one day, to pinch and save every penny to give them a future much brighter than she herself had working as domestic help for Houston's super wealthy.

It was a lesson Mateo never forgot.

Another lesson he learned was that his station in life, much poorer than the people his mother served, robbed him of his worth and identity to the privileged upper-class. His resentment grew the more he realized that he was a nameless, faceless minority that could be traded and sold within that upper crust society. When it cost him the thing that meant most to him, his family, he was out for revenge.

When pampered princess, Peyton Prescott, landed on his radar, he had a few plans in store for the preening debutante who thought the world owed her something. He embarked on the rather titillating journey teaching her a few important lessons he thought she needed to learn. He wasn't going to be happy until he was in the driver's seat, and she was going to fight him every step of the way.

The longer it takes to tame this entitled vixen, the more Mateo is attracted to her core strength and uncompromising ability to go after what she wants.

Before long, this powerful alpha male must decide whether or not he can submit to his own desires. But things are more difficult than they seem, for the top spot on Mateo's priority list is already taken by another girl.

Excerpt from The Undisciplined Bride

She wore an evil smile as she shopped for the special attire she had planned for the evening. Instead of dressing up for the occasion, she, too, wore a band T-shirt that was thread-bare and skin tight, a cute little gem she found at a flea market on the way back from her father’s office. She didn’t bother with a bra, nor did she worry about underwear underneath her jeans. There was barely any breathing room between the denim and her body as it was.

She could imagine his peeling her clothes from her like someone might peel a banana, and it made her giggle as she spritzed herself with her favorite perfume. She tossed her hair for that just-out-of-bed look on the way to answer his knock at precisely eight o’clock.

His eyes drifted over her new clothes, barely concealing his amusement. “Am I early? I’d hate to miss the evening gown competition.”

She shrugged. “I figured I’d follow your lead,” she said as she indicated his casual clothes. “You are my teacher, after all.” He laughed as he knelt to retrieve a couple of cloth bags full of groceries. “It’s a good thing you’re dressed comfortably,” he said as he led the way to the kitchen. “Since we’ll be doing a little bit more than boiling water tonight.”

“Good,” she said as she followed. “I doubt sincerely I can wow anyone with my ability to make tea.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Princess. All you learned was how to boil a pot of water. Tea is a few steps beyond you at this point.” He hoisted the bags onto her marble countertop and proceeded to unload the contents.

“I love how you think I’m so helpless in the kitchen. I can make a cup of tea.”

He turned to her slightly. “Prove it.”

“What?”

His eyes met hers. “Make me a cup of tea, Peyton.”

It was such a softly spoken demand for something completely mundane, but it shot electricity down to her toes. “Fine,” she said as she reached under the counter for her teapot. She filled it with water and put it on the stove, before retrieving a canister full of tea bags and a mug.

Through her peripheral vision, she noticed Mateo lean against the counter to watch her work, which made her feel terribly self-conscious. She busied herself pulling out the sugar and fresh mint, praying she wouldn’t drop anything like a klutz in front of him. For long minutes the torture went on as he studied her every movement. Finally her hands trembled as she poured the boiling water into the cup. As the tea was steeping, she turned to him. “So how did I do, Teach?”

He grinned as he crossed the kitchen to stand in front of her. He put a hand on either side of her, resting on the marble counter. “I won’t know until I have a taste,” he said softly as his eyes traveled over her slightly parted lips. “But your form was good,” he added, glancing down over her taunt chest. “Definitely a lot of… raw potential to work with.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “As good as Lissette?” she wanted to know.

“Apples and oranges,” he answered softly, and coyly, with a tug at the corner of his mouth.

“I guess you really do have a preference for rich blondes,” she said as she crossed her arms in front of her.

“Blondes in general,” he admitted gleefully. “They don’t have to be rich.” He touched a curly tendril of her hair. “They don’t even have to be a natural blonde.”

She slapped his hand out of her hair, which made him chuckle. “No offense, Princess. Thanks to your little peep show the other night, I know you’re true.”

She flushed beet red as she turned back to the cup on her counter. She felt the heat from his body as he leaned against her, his mouth against her neck. Neither of his hands had moved from their spot on either side of her, but he stood close enough to press her into the counter. She nearly groaned in spite of herself as she realized that hard contour pressing into her ass was the evidence of his desire. When he spoke, she practically came right out of her skin. “Don’t rush it, Princess,” he cautioned as his warm breath tumbled over her skin. “It’s always better when you wait.”

She spun around to throw herself right into those arms, to take the very affection he was withholding, but he moved away in the same fluid motion. She was strung tight like a string on a violin, waiting to fulfill all the sexy promises this dark stranger kept making with his tempting body. “Is that what this is all about then?” she asked.

He had his back to her, facing instead the mountain of groceries he had brought. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, and even though she couldn’t see it she knew damn well he was grinning. “I thought you hired me to teach you to cook.”

She walked over to where he stood, placing her hands on either side of the counter, exactly like he had done. She pressed her chest into his rigid back and whispered against his spicy smelling neck, “Is that all you want to teach me, Mateo?”

She grinned wide when she realized he was no longer focused on the groceries. His eyes had fluttered closed, and she could sense he was doing his level best to control his breathing. She stood on her tiptoes, rubbing herself against him as she whispered against his ear. “What else do you have to offer an unsatisfied girl like me?”

Her hands slipped around his waist, dipping lower to cup that growing bulge in his jeans. Deftly he took one of her wrists in his hand and spun it behind her back as he turned to face her fully. If she didn’t know better, he looked almost angry. “I told you, Miss Prescott, I don’t play with another boy’s toys.”

She couldn’t think. He had her arm bent behind her back, forcing her soft curves against his rigid, unyielding body. His mouth was a kiss away, but he was reluctant to take what she offered with a nervous lick of her lips. She was, however, rewarded by the shudder that passed through him.

“What do you want from me?” he asked softly.

“What do you want from me?” she countered.

He bent closer, the heat of his open mouth warming her lips. Finally he answered, “Your check,” with a smile that indicated he had once again gained control of his senses.

She spun out of his arms. “You egotistical son of a bitch.”

He grinned as he reached for the cup of tea she made. He licked his lips as he devoured her with his eyes. “Wow,” he finally said.

Even as mad as she was, she beamed under his praise. Until he ruined it with, “There’s hope for you yet, Princess.”

She stomped off toward the bedroom, half-hoping he’d follow her. Instead he made her once again come to him, only this time she plopped down a check for $50,000 onto the countertop. “There,” she said. “That pays for your ‘instruction’ for the next nine months, until I get married. Which, for your information, is the only time I will belong to any man.”

He leaned back against the counter. “Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious,” she informed him.

He held up the check. “And just what are you expecting for this sum of money?”

“You tell me,” she said, using his own pat answer against him. “You are the teacher. What exactly do you think I can learn in nine months?”

He walked over to where she stood. “You can learn to cook,” he told her pointedly. “Nothing else is for sale. Including me.” He started to exit the kitchen so she added, “You can say no, of course. But then I might call your work ethic into question, and, by extension… your sister’s. If you leave, I may have to rethink my using her for my wedding. And that paycheck looks a lot like this one, does it not?”

He turned back to face her from the doorway. “You honestly think you can control all us little people with your money, don’t you?”

“No,” she answered flatly. “You could say no. Go back to boring ol’ Lissette and her connections.” She advanced where he stood. “But good luck forgetting about me,” she promised with a smile.

“Now who’s sure of herself, Princess?”

“I’m sure you want to fuck me,” she answered directly, rewarded by how his eyes darkened from her boldness.

He leaned close. “I’d do more than fuck you,” he promised. “I’d ruin you for any other weak-kneed little rich boy you could bend to your will. And you know it, don’t you? You know I’d do more than just sleep with you, Peyton. I’d make you mine.”

She snaked her hand around his neck. “Then do it, damn you.” She pulled him down for a kiss but he was too strong. He lifted her up easily into his arms and slammed her against the wall behind her.

“Maybe someday,” he promised. “But not today.”

He released her and she slid down the wall, chasing after him the minute her feet hit the floor. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” she screamed at his departing back. “You aren’t even done with your cooking lesson!”

He swiveled back to her at the door, swinging on her so quickly she took two steps back out of instinct. “Tonight’s lesson wasn’t about cooking, Princess,” he said with that cockeyed grin.

Her eyes widened. “What are you talking about? What exactly were you teaching me?”

He grabbed her by her waist, pulling her up into his arms. When his mouth landed on hers, she couldn’t breathe. It was hot and tasted of mint as his tongue darted between her lips. It was an angry kiss that demanded her full submission. She wilted into his arms as she allowed him to deepen the kiss, but it was over almost as soon as it had begun.

His eyes were dark and stormy as he released her. “I’m teaching you what you need to learn,” he said. “See you next Tuesday.”

With that, he was gone. ***"The Undisciplined Bride" releases October 1, 2013.

Introducing Lissette and Naomi

Whereas Peyton embraced the luxurious life of privilege she had born into, her childhood friend, and future sister-in-law, Lissette Goodreau, had always felt out of place. This low-maintenance daughter of Southern money worked her way through college, where she found many like-minded friends who accepted her modest lifestyle and her more liberal viewpoints... all of which were polar opposites of her conservative family.

When she meets the Bravos, she has found kindred spirits who are equally invested in making the world a better place, one random act of kindness at a time. As she becomes better and better friends with the struggling siblings, she realizes just how high their financial stakes are. Worse, neither sibling partner of Bravo Catering will accept her charity.

Instead they accept her kindnesses in other ways, particularly with all their work at a progressive church that seeks to feed the hunger, clothe the poor and be sanctuary for the downtrodden.

The more they accept her for being who she is, the more she is able to grow and blossom into the independent young woman she has always wanted to be... despite the tiny box that had been crafted for her by her status of wealth and privilege. This empowers her to consider breaking free - to be honest with who she is no matter what the cost.

Better still, she finally finds the person who can give her this love and acceptance in ways she never before dreamed possible. She has fallen in love at last... and is willing to risk all her money to marry the her newfound soul mate.



Naomi Bravo is one-half of the hottest new catering company in big demand for Houston's elite. Trained in New York City and completely self-made, she clings to the core values her long-struggling single mother taught her: If you can work enough for it, you can make any dream come true. Naomi wasn't sure that all of her dreams could come true, but she knew she had to do what she could to make life easier for others, particularly those she loved the most. After returning to Houston to hold her beloved family together, she works her way from selling muffins out of her car to catering large events for Houston's most powerful families. She has one real objective: she wants to lift her family out of economic dire straits, no matter what she has to do to make that happen. Her secrets run deep, especially concerning her new friend, Lissette, who has unexpectedly taken her under her wing.

The three become an unlikely trio, and a family of choice, though many complications threaten to tear them all apart.

Excerpt from The Undisciplined Bride

Lissette Goodreau had learned from childhood that she could have her own life as long as she always made sure to carve out some Peyton time. An afternoon spent with the proper amount of doting and duty could free up an entire week, so she made that sacrifice that Friday afternoon, when it became clear that Peyton was going to hound her to death if she didn’t. She sat in the passenger side of Peyton’s convertible, driven from shop to shop, dragged from dressing room to dressing room, while listening to the ire of Peyton’s life: that she couldn’t have exactly what she wanted the minute before she decided she wanted it.

By the time they got to Shop #3, Lissette was ready for the real thing to be poured into her champagne flute, not just some sparkling cider. A dozen crumpled dresses later, they headed for lunch to refuel. Lissette ordered a dirty martini before they were seated.

After a week spent with children whose fondest wishes included living long enough to see their next birthday, Peyton’s manufactured drama was even more grating than usual. The dresses were inferior, the shop girls weren’t fawning enough, and the clock was ticking on her chance to find The Dress before her doll maker could make an exact creation of Peyton for her big day. It was a tradition her parents started way back on her first birthday. After that, every significant event was marked with a personalized doll to add to her collection. There was a First Day of School Peyton, a Sweet Sixteen Peyton, a Homecoming Queen Peyton, and a College Graduate Peyton. There was no way in this world or any other that Peyton would allow herself to marry without a Bridal Peyton. That deadline was even more pressing than any alterations that could be done between now and October. The usual logic was to have an eight-month window so there would be time for at least three fittings between choosing The Dress and The Big Day. Mr. Holzmann’s window was a teeny bit narrower than that. He preferred a full year to prepare the doll, but he’d settle for eight months. He could probably do it within six, but he made it clear to Peyton he’d never deliver a doll that wasn’t truly ready. The closest they ever cut it was Homecoming Queen Peyton, which they ordered and she posed for long before her name was even up for a vote to win. That was a six-month doll, and it was her least favorite.

It was her epic meltdown that made her German doll maker from New Braunfels swear he’d never deliver another rush job. If she wanted a doll, she had to give him the time he demanded to get it right.

This was her truest deadline, and all she could talk about as she plowed through her salad.

Well, almost all. She stealthy slid Mateo Bravo into the conversation, as she was dying to know exactly what was going on with her mousy best friend and the hottest, most annoying man she’d ever met.

“So catch me up to date with your children’s… hospital… thing,” Peyton said between bites. Her blue eyes locked onto Lissette, cornering her like a wobbly-kneed gazelle.

Lissette swallowed the olive she had been chewing on from her second dirty martini. Peyton never asked her about her fundraising. She really never even asked her about her life. Instead Lissette was a verbal trampoline. Peyton would talk about herself, and Lissette would volley it back to her with the appropriate level of worship to keep Peyton happy.

“What’s there to know?” Lissette shrugged. “Big gala in about three weeks, hopefully we’re going to raise enough to finish that new wing at the hospital. That’s another three hundred rooms and a brand new surgical center with all the latest technology.”

Peyton tried not to roll her eyes. “That’s a lot riding on it. Surprised you are trusting that new caterer for such a big event.” Lissette narrowed her eyes as she glanced up at Peyton’s face. “You’re trusting your wedding to them.”

Peyton waved a hand dismissively. “That was Daddy. He fell in love with the food after they catered the last dinner party. Personally I think it was mediocre at best, but hey. One less thing to worry about for the wedding.”

Lissette sat back in her chair. Never had Peyton Prescott relented on any small detail of a big event in which she was the star. Why was she bullshitting her now? “A lot of Mother’s friends were singing their praises.”

“Is that how you found them?” Peyton wanted to know.

It was such an innocently delivered question, but somehow Lissette understood that she finally had something that the Great Peyton Prescott wanted. And, for the first time in her life, she felt less than accommodating. “Why do you ask?”

“You have to admit how weird it is. Some no-name, struggling caterers land in our laps and start wowing all our elite set of friends. God knows they certainly don’t know how to act among us, if that idiot in a monkey suit is any indication.” A smile broke apart Lissette’s face. So that was it. Mateo Bravo had dared to mock her highness, and she was strung up in knots trying to figure out why anyone would be above trying to impress her. It was a game, and Lissette was up to bat. “You have me to blame for that, I guess,” she said, trying her best not to chuckle.

“You? What do you mean?”

“I found Naomi and Mateo when I was out church shopping. They were hosting a soup kitchen and I was really impressed with the quality of the food they were serving people who couldn’t even afford to pay them.”

Peyton didn’t know which part of the story to attack first. “Wait. What? Church shopping?”

With a finger, Lissette ordered another martini. She turned back to Peyton. “Yes. Church shopping.”

“But we’ve always gone to the same church. We were practically born there. Pastor Hannigan is like our grandfather.”

Lissette smirked. “Trust me. He favors some ‘grandchildren’ more than others.”

Peyton didn’t know what to think. Their families were steeped in tradition, from the schools they chose to the churches they attended. Everything had been passed down from one generation to the other, and there had never been any reason at all to change anything. The church especially was where they were forgiven for being so wealthy in a world that had so little. They could build houses for the poor, feed the hungry with their massive food pantry, even sponsor certain inner city school children in private learning institutions, all by dropping a check in the collection plate every Sunday. They, and their equally privileged friends, found comfort in their united effort to make the world a better place, while driving away from their weekly duty in their $40,000-dollar cars to the multi-million dollar mansions they called home.

It was a comfortable place for Peyton, but it had been suffocating Lissette for years. She didn’t realize how much of a mismatch it was until she moved to Austin to go to school. There she had dabbled in different religions and philosophies, trying to find the one that would fill her spiritual holes.

The closest she had come was the Church of the Works, which she attended more than five months before. There everyone was welcomed, no matter the color of their skin or their social status. All one needed was the willingness to do the work set out in Christ’s ministry in the Bible. They were to feed the hungry, clothe and shelter the poor, heal the brokenhearted, visit the jails and let those who felt like they had no place in the world find sanctuary. There was no laundry list of rules to follow except one: to love one’s fellow man as one loved him or herself.

She jumped right in to roll up her sleeves and help serve the congregation after their Sunday service, which was where she met Naomi Bravo for the first time. The Spanish beauty had a wide smile for each and every person who appeared before her with an empty plate, which she filled to overflowing with the most amazing food that Lissette had ever tasted.

But what had won her over, ultimately, was when Naomi would refuse any money for her services. She’d give it all back to Reverend Mitchell, who used her generous contribution to fund those projects that meant so much to the church. When they found out about the Children’s Hospital drive, Reverend Mitchell and Naomi were the first ones to offer their services, for free, to raise money to help her.

She’d found another home in Church of the Works, and new friends in Naomi and her brother, Mateo. Sunday became a date she couldn’t break. Each and every weekend she could be found helping them prepare the food they’d give away for free, just because people were in such desperate need. Soon, Lissette looked forward to the laborious weekend more than any other time in the week. She’d written her fair share of checks in the past for every charity that had marched itself in front of her. But never had she felt as productive as when she was covered with flour and all kinds of sauce, laughing with Naomi as they prepared pans full of food late into each and every Saturday night.

They drank wine, they shared stories from their vastly different backgrounds. They formed a friendship that made her paper doll propping for Peyton even more intolerable, but Naomi insisted that Peyton needed her, and she couldn’t just give up when it got too hard.

Those conversations led to others, when Naomi had taken her into her confidence about the financial hurdles her family faced. They were on the verge of losing everything, including the one thing that money couldn’t replace. Lissette held onto Naomi as she cried on her shoulder, holding onto every belief that goodness was the reward in and of itself. She was the most remarkable person Lissette had ever known. And she had something that Naomi needed desperately: connections. After that, Lissette repaid each and every kindness by pimping them out to her stupidly rich family and friends to ensure Bravo Catering could get the recognition and the business they so richly deserved.

But Peyton wouldn’t appreciate this story, since it didn’t involve her, so Lissette had never shared it. Now Peyton was staring at her like she had grown a third head just because she didn’t want to live the life someone else had crafted for her generations before. It reminded Lissette once again that their world didn’t allow for coloring outside the lines. They had to marry a certain type of spouse, they had to live in a certain type of neighborhood, and they had to attend the same churches and clubs as all of their equally wealthy friends.

It was a very exclusive club so many fought to get into, and Lissette had subtly been trying to break out of it for years. “Well, I guess this answers why you’re unavailable on Sundays,” Peyton said as she pushed her plate away. It was a $20 salad, and she barely ate half. It’d end up in the trash where someone who had absolutely nothing could get ticketed for picking it out to have something, anything, to eat.

“Yes,” Lissette affirmed. “That’s why God invented six other days to get things done.”

Peyton rolled her eyes. “Well, I’d like to see the church that produces the likes of Mateo Bravo. That’s the cockiest son of a bitch I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

Lissette once again suppressed her laughter, especially when Peyton probed further.

“You looked pretty cozy the other day. Don’t tell me you’re slumming with someone like that.”

Lissette shrugged. “He is quite handsome,” she baited.

“Please,” Peyton snorted. “Bargain basement at best. You’re selling yourself short if that’s what you’re willing to settle for, Lissette. Honestly.”

“Oh come on,” Lissette grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re not the teensiest bit curious. All that raw sexual appeal… and that body. I mean, my God.”

“Yawn,” Peyton said as she looked away. “Leland is ten times the man Mateo Bravo is.”

“It’s a good think you think so,” Lissette agreed. “Considering you’re marrying him.”

“You’re next down the aisle,” Peyton changed the subject easily. “Just do us all a favor and aim a little higher than a caterer, please.”

Lissette’s eyes sparkled. It was easy to see that ship had already sailed, and it pissed Peyton off even more. “Caterers can be a lot of fun,” she informed her friend with a knowing wink. “They keep it plenty hot in the kitchen.”

“Check!” Peyton demanded as she glanced around for the waiter.

***"The Undisciplined Bride" releases October 1, 2013.

Introducing Peyton Prescott

Peyton Prescott is a young woman who knows what she wants. Bred to be one of Houston's upper-class debutantes from one of Houston's powerful, wealthy families, she has become accustomed to getting her way - and she doesn't care who knows it. She accepts the position of royalty within the 1% like the true queen-in-training she happens to be, and that jumps into overdrive the minute she decides to marry.

Peyton is no dummy. When it comes to Southern wealth and power, men definitely have the edge. And she's tired of being effectively shut out of all the excitement, disregarded as a bubble-headed socialite whose main career is to look pretty, marry well and breed. She's fiercely ambitious, and forever beating against the rails of her gilded cage. To be mistress of her own destiny, she must be mistress of her own home. She zeroes in on her childhood sweetheart to secure her status as a powerful Mrs., rather than an invisible Miss. That her groom hails from a family even more powerful and wealthy is no coincidence. Love has precious little to do with her choice. She's more concerned how well she can control her future hubby, and with Leland Goodreau, III, she's confident that she has a secure grip on her diamond-studded leash.

Peyton has honed her many wiles through the years, taking lessons from the culture around her that the power women have comes either from charm or complete bitchiness. Peyton took the bitch route, treating everyone around her the same way: it was up to them to keep her satisfied.

Unfortunately for her AND everyone around her, no one managed to make that happen.

The older she got, the nastier she got about it. And no one was willing to stand up to her and all her bridezilla ways until one fortuitous meeting nine months before she was expected to walk down the aisle and say, "I do."

Excerpt from "The Undisciplined Bride"

She joined her mother and Lissette in the kitchen, where they stood in a circle completed by Marlena Goodreau, Lissette’s and Leland’s mother. None of these females dared to enter the male lair; they stayed to themselves and talked about the gardening, their charity functions and which of their country club friends was screwing the pool boy this week. Business talk would have driven them bananas, a language in which they were never versed.

Not me, thought Peyton as she perched onto the barstool next to the island in the kitchen.

“Penny tells me that you haven’t yet found a dress,” Marlena said as she turned to Peyton. “I remember searching for my dress. What an adventure that was. I ended up going back to my mother’s trunk and pulling out her dress, allowing the tailor to make it a bit more fetching for my big day.” She turned to Lissette. “That’s going to be your dress one day, my dear.” Lissette smiled. “One less thing to worry about.”

Marlena nodded and patted her hand. She knew that whenever Lissette decided to marry, there wouldn’t be such the fuss that Peyton was making.

But that was just Peyton. She’d liked things her way from the crib, and didn’t really care who knew it. Marlena was thankful yet again she’d been blessed with low-maintenance children. She really didn’t think her nerves could stand raising a child like Peyton. Dealing with her on a part-time basis was stressful enough.

“Daddy said Orrin was here,” Peyton said as she turned to her mother. “Checking out the new caterers.” Penelope nodded. “He was, but he had to go help them when their van broke down.”

Peyton arched an eyebrow. “It broke down?” Penelope merely shrugged. “I thought Rose gave these people a sparkling recommendation.”

“Mrs. McGuire,” her mother gently corrected. She’d been trying to train her daughter in the ways of poise and demure ladylike behavior since she brought her home from the hospital. Her work still wasn’t done. “And it’s a mechanical failure. It doesn’t have to reflect on the quality of the food.”

“But our guests are arriving and the food isn’t here. Not very professional, if you want my opinion.” To punctuate her displeasure, the French doors clattered open and Orrin Ely swept through with flourish and grace, topped with endless good humor. “Call off the dogs. We’re here.”

Peyton straightened as she took note of the beautiful, young Hispanic woman who followed Orrin, holding a large pan in her hands. Orrin guided her to Penelope. “Penelope Prescott, this is Naomi Bravo.”

Penelope offered a limp hand for a shake as she glanced over the young woman in modest clothes. Her white, button-down shirt was tucked neatly into clean and pressed jeans, which led down her impossibly long legs to brown espadrille sandals. “How do you do?” “Much better now,” Naomi answered with a brilliant smile as she tossed errant dark curls back over her shoulder, tied up tight in the ponytail she wore. “I must apologize for the delay. My brother didn’t see a board stuck in the middle of the road and we hit it dead on. We ended up having to change a flat.”

“You’re here now,” Penelope offered, but though the comment was gracious, her tone was anything but. “Our guests are arriving, so I expect that you’ll be able to make up lost time.”

Naomi’s smile never faltered. “Of course, Mrs. Prescott.”

“Where is this ‘brother’?” Peyton asked as she slid off of the barstool. “I should think anyone with a pair of eyes could have noticed a board in the middle of the road.”

“Peyton,” her mother cautioned, but Orrin interrupted. “He’s outside cleaning up a bit. Dirty work, changing a tire.”

“Well, he’s not coming in here until he is cleaned up,” Peyton declared as she marched toward the French doors. If one of her duties throughout her married life as Mrs. Leland Goodreau III was to corral the help and keep her house running smoothly, there was no greater time to hone this particular skill on novice caterers who couldn’t even get to their event on time.

Her heels clicked loudly against the brick terrace leading out to the sculpted gardens. The white van sat parked in the back driveway, the back doors hanging open as someone leaned inside. Any haughty reprimand she might have delivered stuck right in her throat as the man straightened up and came fully into view.

Like Naomi, this man was of Spanish descent. His jet black hair was cropped short around his neck, with one lazy shaft hanging over his chiseled face. Clad only in a tight-fitting pair of jeans, it was easy to see that his clean, cut body was just as perfect as his face. The sight of his bare, bronzed six-pack shocked Peyton into uncharacteristic silence as her approach noticeably slowed. There was a raw magnetism to his being half-naked just a few feet away from where she stood, especially when his dark brown eyes locked with hers.

Insanely full lashes outlined his eyes, making it appear as though he wore mascara and eyeliner. He offered her a whiter than white smirk as he watched her advance. “Here to offer a hand?”

She crossed her arms in front of her. “I think not,” she said. “I wanted to take a look at the man who couldn’t even spot something in the road to avoid a flat. I do believe you’re the first I’ve ever heard of doing so.”

He shrugged as he took his sweet time sliding a white shirt onto his powerful shoulders. “First time for everything,” he offered in good humor, well aware that she couldn’t tear her eyes from his powerful fingers and they slid down his body.

She wrenched her gaze away to glance into the van. “Is this the food that is supposed to be so wonderful?” she wanted to know. He laughed. “You tell me,” he said as he reached in and grabbed three large metal pans at once. “After all, you’re the one footing the bill.”

“My family is paying you, they are the ones to impress,” she corrected. “I’m Peyton Prescott,” she announced, and waited for him to provide his name in return.

“Mateo Bravo,” he offered in kind, with the same cheeky smile.

She gave him her notoriously arched eyebrow. “Mateo Bravo?” she repeated. “Are you some sort of superhero or something?”

He laughed. It was a full, throaty, deep laugh that tripped over her senses in the cool night air. He closed the gap between them until he towered over her, reaching an arm around her body to grab a box from the van, to balance on top of his already oversized load. Their eyes met and locked as he was mere inches away from her shocked face. His deep voice warmed her senses as he said softly, “You tell me.”

Once again she was struck mute as she staggered back a bit, allowing him to hoist several pans into those powerful arms. The woodsy scent of his freshly washed body filled her nostrils as he brushed past where she stood on the pavement, his powerful bicep brushing against her chest lightly in the process, making her gasp. He took three steps before he turned back to her. “Feel free to grab a couple of pans while you’re standing there.” With that same damnable smirk he turned back and walked into her house.

She glanced from him to the back of the van, where pans were stacked high and deep. With a defiant flip of her hair, she turned from the van and followed him into the house empty-handed, albeit a little shakier than before. ***"The Undisciplined Bride" releases October 1, 2013.

Series vs. stand-alone novels

Most people who know me got to know me thanks to the popular Groupie series. That book was never intended to be a series at all, but the characters decided there was a lot more story to tell and one book just wasn't going to cut it.



That spun off to my highly rated Fierce series, which I knew from the first outline was going to be told in three books.



I'm also planning a new trilogy featuring a triangle with two powerful, rich brothers for release in 2014. How I plan to do that should get people talking, but that's a blog for another time. Suffice it to say, series are a great way to spread one's wings and explore so many different subplots and recurring and supporting characters. In fact, the first novel I ever wrote had enough story outlined to be told in three books. I love having the room to gallop. It's one of the reasons I always leave the book on a hopeful note that the story could continue, though generally speaking I've resolved that book's plot and the story is complete. If there's enough fan interest, however, any book could become a series. And I really like the idea of that.

Granted, many people have a love-to-hate-it attitude when it comes to series. Most of the time this is because you have to wait so long for resolution to the story, in particular the Happily Ever After (or HEA.) It has a lot more power when it does come after it took two, three or even five books to get there, but as long as there is a series in play, the HEA is generally the carrot on the stick for you to keep reading and keep buying books.

When I realized that Groupie was going to spawn additional books, and in effect end on a rather unapologetic cliffhanger, I started researching how well series romance is received, since most of what I published beforehand were stand-alone novels with the room to grow if there was ever a demand. Even though I got the occasional request to tell a story beyond the one book, I figured many were not too pro on the idea of a series because of the postponed HEA. However, as far as best-sellers go, series were the ones topping the charts. A casual glance at the current NYT Best Seller list shows Unlocked by Maya Cross at #10, which is the third book in that particular trilogy.

Bringing up the rear at #20 is E.L. James and Fifty Shades of Grey. Twilight, Harry Potter, and more best-selling romances than I can shake a stick at finally convinced me to give the series a try.

Remarkably, and unexpectedly, Groupie offered me moderate success. I broke into the Amazon best-selling lists after the release of the second book in 2012. Despite the fact I released the first book in 2011, in fact nearly two years ago, it continues to be my biggest seller, surpassing even new releases. The first book, Groupie, has sold at least ten times that of my top-selling stand-alone romances.

I'm as surprised as you are, frankly. I thought for sure I'd go down in flames by breaking up the story into three books and throwing my characters in the blender of my twisted psyche and hitting "Frappe." That so many people love these characters is mind-boggling. That so many people want more and more of these characters, even more mind-boggling still. That is one of the perks of writing the Fierce trilogy, because I get to hang out with Vanni and Andy beyond their happily ever after... when they're actually, y'know, happy.

They don't have be dragged through the muck. It's not their story anymore. They can actually make smart choices and we can love them fully and truly.

It's awesome.

It's awesome to write happy, lighter stuff, especially after spending the last 5 books I've written in gut-twisting angst. To put that in perspective, that's nearly a half a million words that turned my emotions upside down way before I hit the "publish" button. I still have about 70k to go before I put this second trilogy to bed, and I just needed a break.

I needed a story that stood alone. I could have written an erotic horror, which I went to Connecticut to research earlier this year. I could have written a couple of screenplay ideas that were either heartwarming or comedic (or both.)

I decided instead that I needed a fun novel, a sexy novel... one that didn't take itself too seriously, one that wasn't out to make a social statement or change the world (like I hope Fierce will do.) I wanted a sexy alpha male and a bitchy, unlikable heroine he could put into her place. And I wanted, most of all, to be done with it. No cliffhangers, no waiting to see how it all shakes loose in book #3. One and done, folks. This is it. Whether we hit a HEA or a HFN or nothing at all, this is the story in its entirety, as authentic as I can write it.

The Undisciplined Bride is the titillating tale of power-swapping seduction with ambiguous morality. A frustrated socialite bridezilla named Peyton meets a working-class chef named Mateo, and sparks instantly fly. These two people aren't interested in falling in love, but they can't WAIT to fall into bed. Their antagonism toward each other fuels this fire. While I'm not one to write a true BDSM novel, I definitely get off on the dual domination that comes from two powerful titans out to best the other throughout the chase. Neither are nervous virgins who lack any self-esteem. These are two hot-blooded people who hunger for each other in the truest, rawest way possible. Who will win? It's anyone's game.

Here's an excerpt:

***

Each minute ticked audibly by and no one, from her parents to her best friend to her fucking fiancé, came to see what was wrong. It made Peyton even angrier and more petulant as each passing moment stole a little more thunder from her hissy fit. With a scowl, she plopped down onto a stone bench and preened to listen in to the riotous laughter coming from her parents’ formal dining room.

They were all having the time of their lives… without her.

She hopped up and began to pace again, only this time all she could see were those dark eyes that twinkled whenever they danced brazenly over her like a piece of meat. Electricity surged through her as she thought about how innocently he brushed against her when they stood beside his food van. And this thought led to the memory of how he looked in a tight pair of jeans and no shirt… like a bronze Adonis that looked more at home among the statues in her mother’s gardens than the wait staff in the kitchen.

After another involuntary shudder, she cornered another server. “Do you have a cigarette?”

“I do,” a deep, masculine voice said from behind. She whirled around to find Mateo leaning against the open door frame in his tuxedo like some leading man from a move from the golden age. She watched his hand reach deep into his pants pocket to withdraw a pack. His fingers were long and strong as he withdrew a cigarette for her, offering it just a few paces away from where she stood, making her cross the final steps between them.

She snatched it from his hand and he had the nerve to chuckle. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who smokes,” he shrugged. His eyes fell on her mouth as she put the cigarette between her lips.

For a split second all the humor was gone. Instead Peyton saw something else there… something she could control. She saw his hunger. With a slow smile she met his eyes and said, “I guess I have an oral fixation.” To her delight his eyes darkened. “Have a light?”

He withdrew a lighter and this time he closed the scant inches between them to light her cigarette. He watched her suck in a breath as his eyes locked on her mouth. “So what did you think of the food?” he asked softly. "You left in such a hurry," he added with a teasing smile.

She shrugged. “I don’t see what the big deal is, personally,” she offered evilly. The food had been exceptional, but there was no way in hell she’d let him know that.

He chuckled again, the warm sound of his rich, deep laugh tumbled across her senses. “Guess we’ll have to do better next time.”

Her perfectly tweezed eyebrow arched. “What makes you think there will be a next time?”

It was his turn to shrug. “Just a hunch,” he said. His eyelids drooped lazily as he inspected her. “You don’t seem like a woman who will give up on anything until she’s completely satisfied.”

Her chin jutted out. “You’ve got that right, at least.”

His eyes traveled over her face, then down across the exposed skin of her chest and arms. “Damn shame you have gone unfulfilled for such a long time already,” he said softly.

She gulped. “What is that supposed to mean?”

His voice was quiet but powerful. There was a cadence to his speech, as though he was striking every word with a hammer. The softer the words, the harder the hit. “You tell me. When is the last time someone fully met every aching need?” He wanted to know as he stepped closer. “I’ll bet never. And that’s why you’re so pissed off, isn’t it, Princess? You can have everything you want… yet, you never have.”

She shuddered despite herself. “You have a lot of nerve talking to me like that. Don’t you know I could have you fired?”

He stepped even closer, until their bodies were a breath apart. “But you won’t.”

She glared at him. “You’re a cocky son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

Before she realized what was happening his arm snaked around her waist and he pulled her to his rigid body. “You tell me.”

Her brain scrambled as he manhandled her. His grip was strong and true, and if she struggled she would feel every inch of his hard body contained in that fine tuxedo. “Let me go,” she gritted between clenched teeth.

His face was next to hers, his mouth mere inches from her ear. “Is that what you want, princess?” His hand slipped down from her waist over the graceful curve of her ass.

It was inappropriate as hell, and no one – absolutely no one – had ever treated her in such a disrespectful manner. Instead of the anger she would normally feel, for one insane moment she was tempted to reach the remaining inch between them and crash her mouth against his, to taste the raw hunger of this stranger’s kiss once and for all.

Her eyes widened as she pushed against that rigid chest, rippling with muscles she had never experienced so close before. “Fuck you,” she breathed as she stumbled away. She nearly lost her footing and it was Mateo who prevented her from landing face first on the hard concrete.

“Maybe someday,” he said with that same damnable smirk. “But not today.”

With that he left her alone on the terrace as he disappeared back into the kitchen. She nearly snarled with rage as she tossed the cigarette off onto darkness.

***

Needless to say, I'm having a LOT of fun writing their story, especially since in my head, Mateo looks like this:



And you know I never make you wait for long. So save the date, because we're serving this stand-alone on October 1st. #lickyourlips #Mateoiscoming

Romance, Erotica and Romantica - How dirty do you like it?

Most people know I write romance. It really comes as no surprise because I grew up reading it, in the G-PG white cover kind of way. Most of the heroines were virgins and the HEA meant the hero finally figured out he loved the heroine so they could commence to the marryin', forever after and gettin' busy portion of the story. This was conveniently NOT contained within those safe romance covers back when I was reading them in the early 1980s.

Judith Krantz was as scandalous as I got back way back when. I remember opening up that book to select passages to read, with a great deal of titillation, the naughty bits that weren't in all the "Good Girl" novels. I graduated to V.C. Andrews when I became a teenager, and her subjects were taboo even if the prose wasn't that explicit. Back then I had to write my own sexy stories based on very limited knowledge, should the desire hit to read about all things dirrrty and forbidden.

As I got more experience, I started to see how I could use my natural talent to turn a phrase into a powerful tool in my seduction arsenal. Find out what a man wants, write the story, let him read it and voila. He's putty in your hands.

Because of this, I started writing straight erotica for a male audience. I've danced around in the areas of taboo to further push the envelope because that's the kind of writer I've always been. I'm a Scorpio. When it comes to sex I want to unearth all the dirty little secrets. And I got quite the following because of it, in various formats. It's always been done anonymously because of the whole "image" thing. The sanctity of a pen name of a hotter than hot sex siren when selling this kind of erotica is fairly important - if you're selling to men, especially.

As a result, I ended up keeping my romance more mainstream and PG. Anyone who has read Love Plus One or Picture Postcards can tell you that it was all about the meet, the chase for that HEA BEFORE the deed went down. The only books where I broke this rule were Under Texas Skies and a couple of earlier, unpublished manuscripts.

I decided to make Groupie more explicit and sex-positive, a "romantica" if you will. You can't really write out a rock star fantasy without having "the moment" - and I guarantee you that's going to come way before any thoughts of a HEA.

After that, writing Fierce in the same way was a given. It's more widely accepted than it used to be when I was growing up. In fact, in this post-50 Shades atmosphere, anything goes, really. Women are open to it, just as open as any man who tackled the taboos I used to write about.

In honor of this discovery, I'm going to "out" my "evil twin" who writes straight erotica. I protected her identity for a long time because the erotica I write handles things normally frowned upon under the more rigid "romance" or "romantica" rules. When we pick up a romance or romantica book, we expect the two leads to end up together at the end, in either a Happily Ever After or a Happily For Now. My erotica? It's a *wee* bit more sexually liberated than that.

Case in point, my story "Raven Walks." I created a character named Raven Crow, who is a vampire who feeds off of the sexual energy of his prey. He's done this for centuries and by the time we meet up with him in modern New Orleans, our bad boy alpha male is bored. He wants to find a partner who will challenge him. It's written from his point of view as he stalks the balmy southern nights for something that will make him feel alive again.



It was originally written for Literotica, where I fully intended for each chapter to have its own "meet/chase/capture" moment just for the fun of writing it. Somehow a book grew from this with a plot I discovered right alongside Raven as we walked these dark, seductive paths together. I realized that my readers STILL wanted him to have a HEA or HFN, and were VERY unhappy with me when I colored outside the lines.

I ended up rewriting it with a lot more purpose when I decided to release it for publication, where it walks the line of romantica/erotica from chapter to chapter. Ultimately it's an erotic horror story that deals candidly with all types of sexual situations and partnerships. It's not about a HEA, it's not about finding love and sweetness. It stars a vampire, an apex hunter, who dances between life and death with every encounter, driven by blood-lust... or just plain lust.

That's what the vampire legend is about. Vampires are the ultimate sexual fantasy. Not love... pure, raw sex and the dangerous power of seduction. My novel was written to be the anti-Twilight. The heroine of the book (named Ginger, because I can't get away with that in any OTHER book except that which is written under a pen name) understands that falling for a vampire is a HUGE no-no. She has to protect herself from getting too close, and I think the way I figured out how to do this was rather ingenious if I do say so myself. Imagine wanting, more than anything, the thing that could harm you most of all. THAT is a vampire book.

And girlfriend is POWERFUL. She has to be to survive in that world.

To me, the biggest turn-on is power. Not so much dominance, but someone in control - who can yield it when the situation calls for it. (Both sides.)

Some future titles will actually blend the erotica into romance titles, such as The Undisciplined Bride, The Leftover Club and The FFF Handbook: Rules for the Full-Fledged Floozy.

But, in the meantime, IF you are up to the challenge to read a book that has very explicit sex, in very liberated combinations, where falling in love is an afterthought and HEA's are not required...

Check out "Raven Walks" by my evil twin Ivy Greene.

Feel like getting naughty with me in Vegas?

Now that I have your attention...

I will be participating in the Naughty Mafia Rocks Las Vegas event mid-August, as part of the Sunday Sinners Signing event. I will join a host of other amazing writers so we can mingle with readers and bloggers in what promises to be a pretty epic weekend.

I will even be bringing copies of my newest book, "Unstoppable," to sign and sell as an exclusive "pre-release". If you've been waiting for word on "Unstoppable," the next book in the Jace and Jordi "Fierce" trilogy, your wait is almost over. And I'll have more details on that coming really soon.

Though I'm no Vegas Virgin by far (Steven and I got married there in August 2001,) this is my first signing event. Seeing your friendly faces is just the welcome I need to make it spectacular. So grab a ticket and come on out. I'll be bringing a small sampling of my books to sell (The Complete Groupie Trilogy, Groupie and Fierce,) along with any extras I happen to have laying around the house. If you have a specific request, you can leave a comment below or message me directly through Twitter or Facebook.

And, as soon as I have confirmation, I may have some more exciting news coming shortly. Follow me on Twitter or Facebook for all the latest!

If you can't make it to Vegas, never fear. Anyone who posts a comment is eligible to win any books/swag I have left over after the trip. Tell me your favorite book, favorite couple, favorite scene, and I'll reward one commenter with signed books and goodies.

In honor of #SDCC...

Weird things are afoot in Stone Gully - the town built by a meteor. It is where sullen 12-year-old Alice Thorton finds herself after the death of her beloved father. The only thing left that means anything at all to her is his prized Joe Dakota comic book collection and a ratty old pair of rare 3-D glasses. These, along with an equally rare comic book, are about to open a portal between the real world and a two-dimensional one, unleashing chaos only quick-thinking geeks can combat.

You used to call them geeks. Prepare to call them heroes.

"Comic Squad" Excerpt, Chapter Five

Back in her bedroom, Alice lay tummy-down on the bed, and dove into her new – yet nefariously confiscated – comic book. Sure, she'd broken some rules to get it. But Dwight stole from her first. As far as she was concerned, turnabout was fair play.

Just as she withdrew the 3-D glasses from her overalls, a knock came at the door. Before she could answer, Barbara cracked it open and peaked in. “Can I come in?”

“You already are in,” Alice pointed out.

As Barbara opened the door wider she caught sight of Alice's reading material. “Oh, Alice, I thought we'd talked about this. We decided you weren't going to spend so much time on your comic books.”

“You decided,” Alice countered.

Barbara leaned against the door frame. She was tired. She was always just really tired. “They're a waste of time,” she said as she rubbed her eyes. “They're not real.”

Alice gave her a pointed look. “They're real to me.” Then, “If Dad was here, he'd understand.”

Barbara spotted the family photo by Alice's bed. Her daughter's barb hit its mark. Suddenly overcome with a vulnerability she couldn’t afford to show her daughter, Barbara left the room.

Alice slid out of bed and headed over to the door, where she watched through the crack as her mother disappeared into her own bedroom. Within minutes Barbara was out again, a novel and towel in hand. She disappeared into the bathroom, closed the door behind her, and began running her bath water.

Alice closed her own door and ran back over to pounce on her bed. She sent her father's image a grin. This one's for you, Daddy, she thought as she slipped on the glasses.

She opened the book, and, much as the comic store, shards of light spilled from inside. Bright color crawled up her arms and over her face, and Alice's scream was lost in the howl of the wind.



With Joe Dakota safely tied up in one of the examination rooms, Dr. Horror was free to put the finishing touches on the green potion. Using tongs, he delicately poured it from a beaker into a test tube, and secured it with a cork.

Twitch picked up the beaker to examine the strange, glowing fluid.

“Put that down!” Dr. Horror barked. Twitch was quick to comply. “It's the only batch in existence. All I need is for some nitwit to pour it out… or worse yet, drink it.”

Outside the room Alice suddenly found herself hunched down by the door, the 3-D glasses hanging by one of the straps of her overalls. She looked inside the room, and gasped when she saw Dr. Horror and Twitch, and the bubbling tube of green.

“What would happen if someone drank it?” asked Twitch.

Dr. Horror smirked at him. “You ever dissolved snails with salt?” Twitch nodded. “It's like that.” Dr. Horror spilled a drop of the liquid on the lab table. It bubbled and smoked and sizzled right through the metal surface. “Only it hurts.”

“So what's it going to do to Joe Dakota?”

Dr. Horror chuckled. “Joe who?”

“Joe Dakota. You know. That big, strong guy who comes along and messes up all your plans...”

“I know who, you twit. But after tonight, I think he might be more of a what.”

Alice flattened back against the wall. A million questions flooded her brain at once, the most important of which was how to get out of there without getting caught. The second most important: how to get out and take that strange and dangerous potion with her? She grabbed the magical glasses.

One thing was certain; she could do neither without them. She tucked them into a pocket for safe keeping.

She peered back around the door to find both Dr. Horror and Twitch standing with their backs to her. She knelt down and quietly duck-walked across the room, then hunched down beside their lab table. Listening for their steps going in one direction, she managed to go in the opposite direction, remaining hidden from their view as they turned for the door.

“Come,” Dr. Horror told Twitch, “let's make sure that Joe is safely secured for tonight's main event.”

They departed the room, leaving the beaker and test tube on the table. When she thought the coast was clear, she peered over the edge of the table, her heartbeat so loud it thundered in her ears. She found herself staring directly into the creepy, bubbling, green fluid in the tube.

She gulped as she reached for it, hesitating only slightly as she spotted the deep hole that one drop had burned into the table’s surface. She’d read the books, she knew what Dr. Horror had created this stuff to do. Just as the original formula had reinforced every cell inside Joe Dakota’s body, reinforcing them with the power to rejuvenate at the least little hint of destruction, this new formula was created to do the opposite. Injecting this potion into a human body would cause each cell to break down and combust. The destruction would be quick and total. That was why she knew she couldn’t take a chance and leave it behind. Just as her hand touched the tube, lightning filled the room and thunder rattled the windows; Alice nearly came up out of her overalls.

Finally, before she could lose her nerve, she grabbed the tube and stuffed it into one of her many pockets and prayed the cork would hold.

She sprinted to the door and checked to see if the hall was clear. She crept out slowly and quietly with no idea where she was heading, but determined to make sure that potion never went anywhere near Joe Dakota.



Back in Stone Gully, Barbara relaxed in the tub, unaware that her daughter was in any danger, other than turning her brain to goo reading a silly comic book. She reached for her own book and tried to do a little escaping herself. After a page or two, she threw it aside in frustration. There was no need to read brain candy like a romance novel; she'd given up on those dreams years ago. As for mystery, suspense, or horror, nothing was more frightening than trying to raise a child and pay a mortgage she could no longer afford… or even rent for a rat-trap like the one they now called home.

There was really nothing fiction could offer her she that didn't get plenty of in real life. Like Alice, she had had enough.

A nearby Joe Dakota graphic novel caught her eye. After a slight hesitation, she reached for it, opening to a panel with a hallway similar to the one her daughter was now navigating.



As Alice eased along the corridor, it dawned on her that her footsteps weren't the only sound in the empty hallway. With every step she made, another step echoed her own. She gulped as she spun around to take on whoever … or whatever… was behind her.

Instead of Twitch, like she feared, it was a very contrite Dwight.

“You!” she exclaimed. Dwight quickly covered her mouth with his hand and dragged her into a nearby supply room.

She wiggled free. “Let go of me!”

“How did you get here?” Dwight asked.

“The same way you did. Through the comic book using the glasses you stole!”

“This really isn't the time to start assessing blame. In case you haven't noticed, we're stuck in a comic book.”

“Which we wouldn't be, if you hadn't stolen my glasses. We have to get Joe Dakota.”

“He's a bit tied up at the moment...”

Alice's eyes narrowed as she looked at him.

“Like I said, maybe not the best time for pointing fingers here.”

Shadows passed across the frosted glass of the window in the door. “Someone's coming,” she whispered. “Hide!”

Dwight nodded and ducked into a nearby closet. Alice scrambled onto the bottom of another lab table, where she came face to face with a green, five-eyed rabbit suspended in murky water. Just as quickly she shot out from under the table and headed for the closet. As she ducked in, Twitch opened the outer door, holding a jar with a three-headed rat.

He reached below the table Alice had vacated and stored his jar next to the other one. As he was about to leave, Dr. Horror hollered from the other room, “Get me another lab coat while you're in there.”

Twitch opened the closet door to find Dwight and Alice staring at him wide-eyed. Dwight handed him a coat. “Thanks,” Twitch replied.

“No problem,” Dwight responded.

Twitch closed the door, but a beat later his eyebrows furrowed. He turned to open the closet again… only this time there was nobody standing there. With a shrug, he left the room, closing the outer door with a distinct click.

In the closet, both Dwight and Alice wriggled free from the lab coats in which they had hidden.

They ran to the outer door, only to find it locked from the other side.

“Great,” Alice hissed. “We're trapped. What did you say happened to Joe Dakota?”

From somewhere across the galaxy, Alice heard her mother, “Alice? Are you awake?”

Alice was confused, but elated. If she could hear home, she could get home. “Mom!” She pulled the 3-D glasses from her pocket.

“Give them to me,” Dwight instructed.

“No way! They're mine!”

“It's the only way to get out of here,” he pleaded. Just then they heard keys jangle in the door. Both Dwight and Alice made a grab for the glasses, ripping them completely in half.

“You idiot!” Alice hissed.

Through the door they heard Dr. Horror grumble, “Can't do anything right. I wear a medium, not a small.”

“I have an idea,” Dwight told her, before he put his half of the glasses on his face.

With only the slightest hesitation, Alice mirrored his action. They clasped hands. Full color faded to black and white; light gave way to darkness.

"Fierce" Confessions

I've heard it said that writing is easy; you just sit at your desk and open a vein.

I think this is true of most any writer. There's a lot of you flowing from your fingers onto the page. It's your story in your voice, it's your vision, and ultimately it's your indelible fingerprint on society itself.

As grand as that sounds, I really don't think about that much when I'm writing. My job, first and foremost, is to entertain. Honestly, all I want to do when I sit at my computer is tell a story.

At any given time there are three to five potential stories to tell. I don't think my husband realizes this, or else he wouldn't pop off with all these random ideas that just occur to him. Steven is the "Idea Guy." He's not a writer, although he could be. But it takes discipline to go from "idea" to "book," so basically he leaves the heavy lifting to me. He will just randomly spout off with something he thinks might make a good story, and it goes onto the pile of all the other stuff rolling around up there.

It's hard to believe there was ever a time I thought I might run out of ideas. When I was a much younger writer, I worried that I only had a few books in me, then I'd have to find something else to do. But that was 14 books ago. Now I know the real dilemma isn't running out of stories to tell - it's running out of time to tell them all. My new responsibility is to get healthy and stay that way because one simply cannot die while there are books left to write.

Right?

At any given time every single one of these ideas sits percolating just at the fringe of my consciousness. I know that they're there, even if I'm not directly thinking about them. Life goes on around me and little nuggets jump into the creative turbine, while I wait for my muse to take me by the throat and tell me which story we're going to tell.

See, I'm rather indecisive. My muse is the one who whips me into shape and gets me productive. She helps me make sense of the noise, and there's a lot of it.

Sometimes these stories nag me relentlessly until I force them out of the queue and onto the page. Other times they sit there, crouching in the shadows of my cluttered brain... like a tiger ready to pounce and tear me to shreds.

Such was the case with "Fierce."

I knew what I wanted to do with this story and what I wanted it to mean. It started out as a story but ended up as a statement. The more important it became to me, the scarier it became to write. I knew that pat storytelling wasn't going to to do the trick. I was going to have to saw off my own arm and gouge out my own eye and leave pieces of me on every single page.

It. Was. Terrifying.

Instead of holding a mirror up to society and making my usual statement on what I think is wrong with it, I was holding that mirror up to myself. And because I do nothing small, it was an intimate look into my own insecurities, weaknesses and failures for the whole wide world to see.

That is not to say that "Fierce" is autobiographical. There are some elements in the story which I have personal knowledge, but Jordi's story is not my story... not really.

I'm not THAT brave.

No, Jordi and I are quite different. She's much stronger than I was at 18, for one. I never would have taken every single dime I had and run away from home all by my lonesome. Instead I was 19 and went with my boyfriend - motivated more out of my love of him than any grand dreams I had of becoming a "superstar." See, that's a funny, little quirk about me. I will do anything at all to make the dreams of those around me come true... but when it came to my own dreams, I would just fit it in when I had the time - and if it happened then yay. If not... I'd always have a nice, "normal" life to fall back on.

Everyone deserves at least normal, right?

Jordi wasn't much on "Plan B." She was ready to risk it all to make her dreams happen because she believed, down deep, that she deserved *more.* And that, my friends, is a scary-ass place to be. All our lives we're taught to fit in, to blend in, to belong. Riding shotgun with any belief you could reach HIGHER, do more, stand out, be *more* than normal is the nagging little voice that says, "Who are YOU to want such a thing?" "What makes YOU so special?"



Where Jordi and I are alike are our insecurities. But this isn't saying all that much, I think most American women have Jordi's same insecurities. We're designed to, courtesy of the media machine. I've done countless essays about this, but suffice it to say - if you're a woman, you have to look a certain way or fit a certain mold in order to "qualify" for your success and your happiness. Screw standing out... you just want to be accepted.

And ironically, there's always a product you can buy to make that happen.

Handy, no?

So naturally, in order to shine a spotlight on this, I shined it right on the media itself by putting Jordi right into the thick of things on a national stage.

That's the kind of irony I like to sink my teeth into.

The true irony, I discovered, was that the media machine wasn't the big, bad wolf in my story. Jordi had her antagonists, but it wasn't the very thing I set out to attack.

Instead, her antagonists were the personification of the many voices in a young woman's "Chatterbox."

The "Chatterbox" is that recording in your brain that spouts off all the negativity you've been told your whole life. All those limitations you have? Odds are they were set there by other people with a misinformed comment, and you just keep replaying the tape. That voice asking you, "Who are YOU to stand out," comes directly, and often consistently, from this Chatterbox. And it fucks everything up and steals all your confidence, even if - especially if - you're on the cusp of doing something remarkable or significant.

I first recognized it for what it was when I read "Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway". This self-help book was absolutely instrumental in my journey both as a writer and as a person, so if there's anything you're putting off because of fear (real or imagined,) I HIGHLY recommend you get it and read it ASAP.

The gist of it is that if you have a piss-poor self-esteem, you're going to cling to criticism and downplay any praise because this stupid chatterbox will always reinforce your negative beliefs about yourself. And these voices are NASTY. And MEAN. And VILE. What we say about ourselves we would NEVER say to another living soul - at least those we cared about and we loved.

And the sad part is, we - as women - aren't encouraged to love ourselves. Anytime we try to, we're told we're doing it wrong. We need to pinpoint every flaw, and even see flaws where they don't even exist. (Case in point: all the weight loss commercials that feature average-weight women, thereby instilling insecurity for those women who aren't even fat... which starts them on the diet roller coaster that - guess what - makes them fat.) We are trained from the crib that there is something missing about us, something we need to change, things we need to earn, to be valuable. Boys are taught to contribute. They're encouraged to become smart and successful. Meanwhile we as women are focused on what style of pants or skirts best fit our figure, and how to win the guy of our dreams. We fluctuate somewhere between being set decoration to the supporting cast.

But if you want to be a star, make it happen when you're young and beautiful. Otherwise, you're S.O.L. It just doesn't happen for normal girls like us.

But who is normal? Really?

Worse, we're taught that loving others more than we love ourselves is righteous. We're trained to be martyrs to love. God forbid we ask for anything to take care of our needs. In some states, you still need a medical note to purchase toys for your own sexual gratification, and God forbid you own more than six.

That's right, ladies. If you don't intend to breed, your access to your own orgasms are blocked by the law in stupid "morals" clauses. In ways both subtle and overt, being a woman and being shamed go hand in hand... from slut-shaming to fat-shaming to everything in between.

There's this idea of what the "perfect" woman is, or - probably more apt, the most "desirable" - and if you're not that, there's a lot of emotional weight that you carry for failing these expectations.

That shame underscores every negative tidbit that stupid, fucking Chatterbox spits out.

And those became the voices of Jordi's chatterbox, made into "real" people in her life that she could not escape.

Of course, she COULD have escaped if she just stopped listening to those negative voices.

And therein lies the moral of our story. Every vile thing they said, things that made you hate them (and possibly me) for their vicious attacks on good people, were a direct statement on the vicious things we say about OURSELVES. We need to stop being our harshest critics and our own worst enemies.

"You're so mean when you talk about yourself, you were wrong. Change the voices in your head, make them like you instead."



As easy as it sounds to listen to new, positive voices to rewire the Chatterbox, there is NOTHING more challenging. We're talking years and years of socially accepted brainwashing. These echoes can linger long after the voices have been silenced. We believe them for so long that they, sadly, become a part of our identity, so much so that new voices, positive voices, supportive voices, can't match their power, though we desperately want them to. The new people who loved Jordi, her BFFs, her "gubbys," Vanni, Graham, Maggie, Shannon, Jorge and even sweet, wonderful Jace - all came second to that inner belief that she was a failure for not being "perfect," for not fitting into some rigid little box of "normal" set by other people who simply didn't give a shit. As a result she wore her talent as a mask of false bravado. She suspected she was meant for great things but every step forward was a struggle with this deeply rooted sense that she didn't deserve anything good.

Jordi did what so many of us women do. The negative voices were the ones she believed... the ones she listened to... the ones she repeated to herself.

That, my lovelies, is my deepest, darkest secret. No matter how many books I sell or how many milestones I reach, inside I am afraid that I'm just some hack who got lucky, and if y'all knew the REAL me behind the mask, then you'd run for the hills. I'm still afraid to stand out. Still afraid to be "more."

In "Fierce," I set out to rewire the chatterboxes of any girl out there who has been put down and told she couldn't have what she truly wanted because she didn't "fit" into what society had molded for her.

In the end, Jordi showed me I still had to do that for myself.

“Music is a personal thing. It’s like a fingerprint. Your problem is that you use it as a mask. You’re never going to be anything other than a complete fraud until you shed every pre-conceived notion of who the world expects you to be and simply allow who you are to shine through. Grow a backbone, girl. These pageant choices,” she said as she held up the sheet music, “aren’t good enough. They show you can sing, but we already know that. Show us something we don’t know. Show us,” she said softly as she leaned over her music stand, “something you never even knew about yourself.” - Imogene Costas, "Fierce"

So as you read "Fierce," just glance over the occasional eye, or limb, or blood stain. I wrote "Fierce" for all of you - but found out, rather painfully, that it was something I desperately needed to do for me.

And we're not done, which is terrifying as hell. I can't promise you that it will be easy... I can only promise that I'll do everything in my power to make it worth it.

Ten more days until Jordi and Jace!!

There's a hot, new reality show premiering within the pages of your Nook or Kindle in June, 2013, and it is called "Fierce." It's a show that dares talented young adults to tear down any walls standing between them and their dreams, to demolish the gatekeepers - both real and imagined - and live their lives according to three simple directives:

DREAM BIG. LIVE LARGE. BE FIERCE.

Eighteen-year-old Jordi Hemphill fortuitously answers the casting call. This small town girl is ready to risk it all for the life of her dreams, one she had carefully crafted on her Vision Board throughout her adolescence.



Jordi is no stranger to how her plus-size figure affects how people see her. Her hope had always been that her talent would be much, much larger, ultimately overshadowing any perceived shortcomings. Unfortunately as her fan base grows, the voices of her harshest critics also escalate. Hateful voices want to remind her that dreams only come true for a select few, and she just doesn't "fit" in. It's up to her "Fierce" family to rewire the negative chatterbox that had been drilled into her psyche her whole, short life by those who should have loved her the most.



The loudest, most loving voice comes from fellow contestant, Jace Riga. This handsome veteran lost his leg in the war, and ended up finding music to help him heal through his recovery. He sees Jordi as no one else ever has, and offers her something she thought she'd never find.



Ultimately it is on the road to everything she wants that Jordi finds what she truly needs, and it was nothing like what she had always planned. Instead, it's the truest, most authentic kind of love... the love that can only come from inside.





Join along for the "Fierce" book tour launching tomorrow (Sunday, May 26) and hosted by the ah-may-zing Brandee's Book Endings. There will a lot of goodies including a BIG giveaway. (Imagine how many books you could buy with $100!) So join us!

And dream big. Live large. BE FIERCE.