Anyta Sunday's Blog, page 7

A Fir Lined Christmas . . .

(Oh hell, I admit it: I'm addicted to puns. Seriously, it aches in the blood to write them.)

* * *

Goodness, yes, but it's that time of year again. Christmas. It seems to come around quicker and quicker every year. . . .

When it's dark and cold, rainy and generally miserable though, it's good to concentrate on the fun traditions and pretty fairy lights and Christmas markets galore.

Also fun: cozying up inside, having the excuse to do nothing but read a book and curl up with a hot chocolate (or Winter Spice Latte, whatever your vice).

To celebrate this (and there might be a touch of nostalgia for NZ here), I have written a Christmas story, which I hope you'll enjoy.

The Douglas Fir

DJ Dangerfield

“. . . and you’re listening to 91.3 FM.”

Justin knows three things for sure about DJ Dangerfield:

He has some questionable taste in music.
He always provokes Justin into ringing in.
And he might just be his favorite weekly distraction.

But who is this DJ Dangerfield in Real Life? And will Justin like him in the flesh as much as on the air?

* * *

DJ Dangerfield is a short college-based novella that I really just felt like writing. :P While it's not based on a true story, it was certainly inspired by my own romantic past, as when I first met my husband, he worked as a DJ for the campus radio station. I really enjoyed listening to his shows and going inside the studio to watch him work his magic. ;)

Anyway, the story is available over Amazon if you want to check it out.

Thank you to my beta readers and editors for going through the text and helping me with the story! You rock.

Sweet . . . now to pour myself a shot of whiskey (and then hide under the bed covers) ;) . . .

Taboo And Me . . .

So yeah . . .

I had a bunch of stories swimming around in my head and was lost as to where to start. I showed my darling hubby the list and his response was immediate.

He wanted me to write a story about a single dad, who wants to reclaim his twenties. So I did that for him and it resulted in the story Taboo For You.

The idea was inspired partly from my own family--a couple of whom know what it's like to have kids in their teens, and who have worked/are working their asses off to get somewhere in life. One went from a school drop-out to becoming a single mom, working to scrape together enough for the family, and then going back to uni to study and eventually earn a PhD. She is such an inspiration to me. I see her and know that if I really want something, and am willing to work for it, I can get places too. She is extremely successful now, and I'm so proud to be her daughter.

While writing this, I was hoping that things might turn out so well for a sibling of mine who is going through a similar life trial. So I wanted the book to be hopeful and light, and full of that wonderful fantasy that is the HEA.

With the help of my amazing editing team, Teresa Crawford, Lynda Lamb, HJS Editing, and my beta readers we made that book happen. Thank you guys so much! There was one particular Skype call that really steered me on track for this story when I got to the 'shit-where-is-this-story-going?-It's-all-crap' stage. So, cheers, Teresa.

Yeah, so that's about it. Though I'll add that this is the start of a "friends-to-lovers" series (or in some cases ex-friends-to-lovers), and all stories will be standalone.

For a chance to win a free electronic copy of the book, check out my website and leave a comment giving your opinion on one of the following questions. (Interpret as you like.)

In your opinion . . . What draws you in to a romance book? What makes a romance story a satisfying read?

(All names will be put into my son's old Halloween hat on Friday 12th of June, and he'll have the honors fishing for the winner.)

:D

*

Taboo For You is available at Amazon, All Romance, and Smashwords.

Taboo For You . . .

The first of a new "Friends-to-Lovers" series. Taboo For You . . .

Sam’s freaking out. He’s 30 in three weeks. And what has he done in his twenties? It’s pretty simple math: nothing exciting at all. But hey, he has three weeks right? Maybe that’s just enough time to tick his way through a 20s Must Do List . . .

Luke’s freaking screwed. He’s come out to his family, and his friends. Except there’s a certain someone who doesn’t know yet: his neighbor of 7 years. Who also happens to be his best friend. Who Luke needs to tell the truth, but he just . . . can’t . . . seem to . . .

Jeremy’s freaking over-the-moon. It’s the countdown to his 15th birthday, and his goal is simple. No matter what, he’s going to spend heaps of time with saucy Suzy. But first he needs to get his over-protective, no-girlfriend-‘cause-you’ll-get-her-pregnant parents off his back. And what better way than pretending he’s gay?

Sam, Luke, and Jeremy. Three guys who have a lot of history together, and a lot of future too—

—well, if they can sort out their issues, that is.


A Friends to Lovers novel.

***Out Now***

Taboo For You is now available on Kindle, via Smashwords in most electronic formats (epub, mobi, pdf, html and more), and at All Romance.

:D

Lenny For Your Thoughts -- Out Now :D

So, yeah . . . my next full length novel is now available on Amazon. Phew, what a journey.

There are many people I'd like to thank for helping me craft this story and making it the best it can be.

Teresa Crawford did an amazing job with content editing, and without her insight, a quarter of the story wouldn't exist! Thanks so much for the direction you gave me. It's really appreciated.

Also a big thanks to Lynda Lamb who line-edited for me and made the text nice 'n shiny. It's so crazy how many of your own typos you overlook! Lol.

Then there are my betas and proofreaders and friends who helped me out too! Cheers.

So, Lenny . . .

A story that drifts in and out of the present and past to follow Lenny and Julien (cousins from the same village) and their friendship as it blurs into something much deeper and more forbidden.

It is set in Germany partly in Berlin, where I currently live, and partly in a small made-up village of Waldau. A place inspired by where my husband was raised. (That being said, the layout of the village—and the characters who lived there—are all fictional.)

This is a love story with a good dose of angst--but rest assured, there is no physical violence or death!--and it plays over 18 years.

___

I was very nervous about writing this book because the characters are very close to me. I think Lenny and Julien have a lovely story to share.

It's hard to explain, but I really felt them. There were days I wanted to throw up because they were so demanding and so strong and the scenes would play over and over in my head and I needed to get it out and do it right . . .

In some ways it felt like falling in love again along with them, I rarely felt the need to eat, I couldn't sleep, they were always on my mind, I would smile as I walked about and not even realize it. But mostly I felt so sick that their story was so beautiful and I wasn't doing it justice.

But I did the best I could. And I'm now happy to share their story with you!

Please find an extract of the first chapter at www.anytasunday.com

Gah! What project next?

I want to write another M/M contemporary romance over the Spring/Summer and I was wondering what types of stories people would like to read out there . . . No promises, of course, this is mostly to get the ball rolling . . .

Some ideas I had: (All of them would feature a slow-burn romance--since slow-burn seems to be my thing ;) )

College Based story featuring a deaf romantic interest. Written from two perspectives maybe? The deaf guy is studying Law at Otago uni and he's quite wealthy and wants to go "flatting" but he's finding it really hard to find a flat that want to take him in. He has some deaf friends, but doesn't want to live and do everything with them, he just wants to live a normal a life as possible. So, it could be there is one flat that really quickly need someone to pay the 100 bucks a week because their old flatmate ditched them and wasn't paying his rent, so the not gay flatmate just says yes to him living with them. The 'gay-but doesn't quite know for sure really yet' flatmate is ambivalent about it. He's not sure it's a good idea because neither of them know sign language and how would it work? (For example, this guy needs deaf guy to do something/watch out for something for a minute, but he doesn't hear him knocking on his door--oh the embarrassment when flatmate just flings door open . . . hehehe) anyway, the overall story would be about flatmate coming to terms with who he is and accepting a relationship that has its difficulties. Maybe there'd have to be more there--like the flatmate is actually flatting with his younger sister (instead of straight guy) who he is trying to put through college? Maybe he doesn't want her to get taken from him and given to their uncle who flatmate can't stand. . . . .
I don't know, I have a mixture of ideas flying around with this one . . . could be interesting though . . .

Overseas year abroad . . . a guy just finishes his studies in NZ and decides to take a year overseas before settling into a job. He wanted to find some work in Berlin but ended up finding some work in a small german town instead, where mostly he feels so foreign because so, so few speak English .. . There he bumps into a guy who while a little rusty, can speak English and they develop a friendship that surprises them both when it turns into something more . . . (would need more backstory and conflict -- maybe guy that left NZ was getting over something .. . )

Or, I had this weird idea sort of, of a guy who just turned thirty who has a 15 year old son. (I think the backstory is pretty obvious here, lol). He's just managing, doing okay, but pretty much has had NO love life at least nothing meaningful over the last 15 years and now that he's turning thirty, he sees he's missed out on his twenties and wants to claim some of it back. This would be the reverse coming out, not son to dad, but dad to son, lol.

Or I could follow the story of a guy who's only ambition is to put his graffiti art on every green door building in Berlin (or a part of Berlin, at least) I had this image of him tagging a building and the caretaker of the house keeps painting over it after the third time he camps out to catch him in the action -- Well, the slow attraction romance would start from there. . . . . Guess he'd be the broken soul kind of character who maybe lost his best friend to suicide? Now he's sort of lonely and just hanging to living himself? I don't know, might be too dark. This could be the backstory and the actual novel could be more 'mending' and hopeful, and hopefully romantic!!!

Thoughts . . . ?

Wicked in the Woods

A Guardian of the Angels spin-off short story. This is part 1 of 4 - 5 that will give us a snippet of Leah's life before she arrives to Washington DC and is betrothed to Attic. . . .

Set in the early to mid 1800's in rural Europe near the Black Forest.


Wicked in the Woods

(Leah's Story, Part I)



--Zero--



THE TORCH TO HER LEFT BLEW OUT, smothering Leah in darkness. Light would make her way easier, but this was better—it drew less attention from the church guard. She descended two flights of steps, proving she'd committed each of her visits down here to memory.

The steps ended in the basement of the village monastery. Leah turned down the main corridor, made a left, and then ran her hands along the bumpy stone, counting the pillars she passed. Dust tickled the back of her throat and she rung out a cough, deepening it to make it sound male—just in case.

Her ears stretched, searching for sound. Hearing nothing but the slapping of her boots against the stone floor, she hurried her pace, tightening her grip on her bow.

She couldn't be too late already. She needed tonight. Needed a win.

Leah slunk around the corner to her left, drawing out an arrow from her quiver, warming it in her hands with a prayer. Let me aim true. Let me score perfectly.

A muffled cheering came down the corridor, and she let out a relieved breath. She made sure her brother’s cloak was on tightly and the hood hung low over her face, but not low enough to compromise her vision.

She’d fashioned a beard from the hair she’d cut from her brother earlier and had tied it around her face. With gloves to hide her long feminine fingers, she could pass as a man. A young man, maybe, but it just had to be enough to get in and win.

She stroked her bow once more and pushed the end door open, blinking in the torch-lit underground arena.

A weighty male, with beads of beer dripping off his chin, slouched on the wall. He growled. "Password."

Leah clapped three times palm to palm, then knocked her knuckles against each other. "Name's Zero," she grunted, striding past. "I’m here to win."

“Herwald is just starting on his last round. He’s the favorite to win.”

Leah glanced over his shoulder across the room at the large man pulling back his bowstring. He let his arrow sail a fine arc to hit the one of the ten targets set up at the other end of the arena. His aim was good. Very good.

But she was better.

“You sure you want to lose your money against that?”

She inclined her head and he beckoned her over to the sign up stall.

A roar from a pulsing crowd blew over her as she threaded her way through them to the sign up stall. She slapped a pouch containing the last of her money onto the table. She’d have it back before long. She added her name to the list of contestants. Three of the five she'd gone up against before. They'd be no match. The fourth sounded familiar, but she couldn't place the face. No doubt someone Zero had won against. The fifth name glowed on the paper. The handwriting much too . . . elegant for what was usually seen down here. Herwald Wolfe. The name made her shiver, and she unconsciously tugged her hood lower.

Another swell of cheers came from the spectators. She glanced back to see Herwald hit the middle of the last target. She tried not to feel the fear that threatened to make her arms shake and the back of her neck prickle. She was better. She had to be.

Within a quarter of an hour, it was her turn. She was the last to sign up, and it was all or nothing now. If she lost this round the winnings went to Herwald. And if she won . . . well, then her brother and mother would have to pay their greedy landlord. It wasn’t enough that they tended the land and farmed it and gave everything it produced to him. He wanted their mother and kept increasing the rent until she’d have to give herself to him.

Leah wouldn’t let it happen.

Her name “Zero” was called out. With a flip of her stomach, she pushed her way to the front.

The crowds whistled and shook their hands in the air. She heard some snorts.

“The guy won’t stand a chance.”

“Herwald has it in the bag.”

Nevertheless, people seemed excited, drawing in closer to the front and rushing whispers to each other.

Just ten shots, then she could take the money and go. She wouldn't have to care about this again until next week.

Herwald folded his arms at the side, his bow slung over his shoulder, and smiled as Leah placed her first arrow. The smile was arrogant and . . . and something else. His eyes looked too green. His build almost too tall.

The shiver rolled off her and she concentrated on the first target, set low to the floor.

Thwampk. It hit the center alongside Herwald’s.

Someone in the crowd pushed forward and Leah darted out the way of his shove with easy grace. She latched her gaze once more on her target, and shot.

Thwampk. Again. Right in the middle.

Thinking of her brother and mother, she excited herself into a frenzy of quickly timed and beautifully aimed hits until only one of the targets was left.

If she hit it with precision, the money was hers.

Sweat matted her light blonde hair to her forehead. She could feel it rolling down to her temples and making her beard loose. Do this quickly and get out!

Herwald, closer now that she’d reached the last target, growled and if it weren’t for what was at stake, she might have let it warn her.

Instead, she let out a grunt and loosened the last arrow. The hit was fruitful, shaving a layer off Herwald’s own arrow.

Cheers whooped and Leah, keeping her hood low and gaze cast down, could see the crowd's feet jumping in their hurrah. They cheered on the man “Zero” that they thought had bested the large, intimidating Herwald. But how quickly would that cheer turn to distrust if they found out Zero was a woman? And barely nineteen, at that.

Perhaps they would think her involved in witchcraft and punish her? Because no ordinary woman—peasant—could do what she did.

She swallowed the fear that always came after a win, rallied up her confidence, and took the money offered to her.

Quickly escaping the arena, she made it out of the monastery and to the path that fringed the forest. It was a flat path but dropped away into rolling hills toward her left. The village, nestled into the valley below, was bathed in the moonlight, and from here she could just make out a corner of her home.

Her win jingled at her belt, and she let out a relieved sigh. Mother was safe this time.

A snapping branch came from somewhere behind her. She twisted and peered down the dark path and into the shadows pooling at the base of the trees, untouched my moonlight. Another snap.

An animal. Of course.

It had to be.

Except it felt off. Different. More calculated. She blinked hard, swinging off her bow and reaching over her shoulder for an arrow—

Thwampk.

She heard it before she felt it.

Then pain tore through her skin and burned in her stomach.

She gasped and fell to her knees.

An arrow end stuck out of her belly. She clutched the stomach around the arrow end and her fingers grew sticky and dark.

Her vision swam as she tried to process it. She’d been . . . she’d been shot.

A male figure came in and out of focus near the trees, then he was in front of her. The frame . . . tall . . . familiar . . . Herwald.

He whistled and his lips curled into a smile as he inspected his work. Then he reached down and yanked off the pouch at her belt. “That’s what you call a true shot, human.”

She blinked, and then there was nothing, only a rustling in the forest and a lancing pain that came with every breath.

A cool wind spiraled around her, heading in the direction of home. She couldn’t look at it. There was enough failure bubbling in her gut, rising up her throat and pouring out of her mouth, thick and red.

She tried to speak, but it came out a gurgle. Sorry.

Her vision sparkled silver as she took her last breaths. But before she could crumple forward into the ground, there came the soothing touch of cool fingers against her bloodstained hand. And then a voice that wormed its way inside and steadied her.

“This isn’t the end, Leah. For you it’s just the beginning.”

Lenny For Your Thoughts

A taste of the Contemporary Romance I'm writing set in Germany. This book is inspired by the town where my husband comes from--though all characters are fictional.

It's also the first love story I've written that spans over 18 years (from childhood to mid-twenties). Chapters fluctuate to tell the story from the now to the then and back. . . .

I hope this is the beginning of a Berlin based series . . .

Here's an excerpt before my editor has seen it, lol. :P (Thank bloody hell for editors, eh? :D)

Also, any German readers out there, feel free to pitch in if the German parts don't sound right. (But "Oma" is staying! :P)
___________________________________________

November 14, 2013
Three-in-the-fucking-morning

A shriek ripped through the night—and the dream I’d been having about rolling in luke-warm wax. I sucked in a gulp of slightly burned cookie-scented air, from my dismal attempt at baking earlier that day, and leaped out of bed.
Huh. Uh. What . . . ?
Oma! Shit.
I had to save Oma from her knife-wielding night terrors. Move. One foot. Then the other. That’s right.
Or perhaps I should say, I had to save the neighbors from Oma.
Two bounds from the door, and three from the stairs leading down to the ground floor, the shriek came again.
Huh?
This time it didn’t sound like the cuss-filled cries I’d gotten used to years ago. It sounded deeper, another type of familiar, and—
Kasper, I swore. But I smiled and stumbled in the dark room, outlined dimly with moonlight that peeked through a slit in his curtains, toward my cell phone that’d fallen in the crack between my bed and side table.
Karlo, the fuck. He’d changed my ring tone for Halloween two weeks ago—in a failed effort to make the whole day a big affair—and I’d forgotten to change it back.
Hurrying to get the call before it screamed again, I stubbed my toe on the corner post of my bed.
Aghhhhhhhh—
Fuck-fuck. Double shit. Fuck.
I lunged for the phone, knocking a framed photo from my side table that the culprit on the other end of that damned line had given me when I’d visited him in Berlin that summer. I swiped the screen.
“Damn you, Karlo,” I said, trying to hold a growl that broke as soon as he interrupted.
“Know it’s late, Lenny. Sorry, I . . .”
I sat back on my haunches, the bed covers brushing against my arm and night t-shirt, and the carpet itching cruelly under my knees. Karlo didn’t sound his usual vibrant self.
“What happened?” I asked, voice dropping instantly into concern. I picked up the photo from the floor and polished the glass with my t-shirt.
The photo was of a bird just as it took off from its perch of hundreds of dried up Berlin posters. I’d been watching Karlo as he’d taken the shot, and maybe had mentioned something about it, because later that week, I’d found it framed, perched in the middle of the cot he’d set up for me in his kitchen-lounge.
I bit my lip as I rested the photo back in its spot, angled toward the bed where I could see it before I switched off my reading lamp at nights. Holding that photo had been the moment where I’d stopped dreaming of ‘one-day’ moving to Berlin like my sister had, and decided to do something about it.
Karlo sighed down the line.
“Is it something to do with that girl you’re seeing?” I prompted. What was her name? Olivia?
There was a moment of quiet and then his voice again. Yep, all the party had left his words, all right. “Yeah, she—I’m pretty sure she’s going to dump me. I really thought she was the one too.”
I held back from a sharp desire to snap at him and say of course she was never going to be ‘the one’ because if she were, wouldn’t Karlo have introduced her to me by now?
I flopped onto my side of the bed. The side of the bed that Karlo and . . . that Karlo had always shoved me over to as kids when we had sleepovers. Even after so many years, it’d still remained ‘my’ side. “I’m sorry, Karlo. Someone will come along who’s perfect for you.”
“But what if they’ve come and I’ve just fucked it up?”
“Nah. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be. You can’t miss rightness like that, and when it comes, you’ll just know, yeah?”
“How come you’re suddenly such a know-it-all?”
“Oma Niki.”
“Naturlich.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what she told me.” Of course, when she’d described it, she’d said: love’ll bite you in the ass like a fucking mosquito, and once it’s tasted you, Schatz, it just won’t want to stop. She’d snapped her cane to my ass to emphasis the point.
Karlo grunted. “The witch didn’t use those words, I bet.”
There Karlo went again, pretending he despised Oma, when, in fact, she was the best family Karlo had. He’d just never gone and admitted it.
I said, “I’ll pass on your kiss.”
“Jesus, Lenny. It’s three in the fricking morning. Why the hell are you still talking to me?”
“Because you needed my all-knowing advice.”
“Oma Niki’s ‘all-knowing advice’ you mean. . . . Anyway, get back to sleep, idiot.”
“You too, dick-a-roo.”
“You’re terrible at this.”
“Taught by the best.”
“Yeah.” Karlo laughed, the timbre of it heading into giggling territory. I smiled. The dork. “Anyhoo, thanks for putting a stupid, wonky smile back on my face. Even if only for a couple of seconds.”
“You want longer?”
“I want forever.”
“Ha. Well, I could promise a whole weekend’s worth if you swing down this way. There’s the town festival this Saturday. We can check it out. Hey, maybe sis’ll come down too. Can you give her a lift? And . . .” I should spit it out and say it. Come on, Lenny. He’s your best bloody friend. The only one who ‘gets’ your crazy. “ . . . and there’s something I want your help with.”
“Planting more wax mushrooms in the backyard?”
“Nope. Something much bigger.”
“Fine. But . . .”
“Fine, butt? Why thank you—”
“Stupid fuck.” I heard his grin—that type of ability came after a lifetime of friendship. “Look, thing is, if I come down there, I’m going to have to see Julien.”
The name was a punch to my sleep-deprived gut. I couldn’t even repeat his name if my bloody life depended on it. “He’s . . . in town?”
“You didn’t know?”
“Since . . . when?” Since when had that fucker—I wasn’t joking with the pet name this time—come back?
Karlo went quiet. “This is awkward. Thought your auntie would have told you. He’s home for a while.”
“Home,” I murmured, brain still echoing Julien’s name.
“Yeah, and I don’t know why you hate him so much, but I don’t ‘kay? He was only ever nice to us in school for the most part. Besides, it’s been years. He’s finished uni, for crying out loud. We’ve all changed.”
“What are you saying, Karlo?” I managed faintly.
“I’m saying, maybe you could give your cousin a second chance?”

Heartwood

Paranormal/Mystery/Romantic Suspense

All going well, this novel will be out in April. I decided to try something a bit different this time--and I'm having fun with writing an anti-hero main character. :D

---------------------------------
Teaser: (Draft)

Chapter One


"So you want me to help you cheat on your wife, Herr Roerden?" Don steepled his fingers, elbows on his spotless glass desk, and leaned forward in his brown leather office chair. He extended both index fingers and rubbed his nose as he eyed the dirty blond, double dimpled man before him. A grin like that was a waste on a liar like him.

Though its charm might up his chances . . .

"Call me Christian."

He smiled. This was a job. He wasn't there to make friends. "Do you know what it is I do, Herr Roerden?"

The man swiveled his chair, the plastic and metal squealing. His gaze flew to the framed photographs on the wall.

"Well, it looks like you're a photographer as well as a professional liar."

Don kept his focus on Herr Roerden, not the black and white prints, noting the jiggle he made with his foot, and disliking him some more.

Lying was something he was not blessed with; he could only speak in truths. Semantics had become everything to him. "It's less about the photography as it is about the trees. There are so many . . . unique trees in Berlin."

He stood, moved in front of the twelve glass covered trees hanging spotless on his wall, and opened the door. "I'm afraid you've got the wrong man."

Herr Roerden frowned, stopped jiggling his foot, and swiveled to face him. "I was told you were the best at what you do—"

Don interrupted him with a short, rough laugh. "Aye. That I am."

"Then—"

"I do not deal in lies. Only in truths."

The dimples on Herr Roerden's face seemed to move from his cheeks to between his eyebrows. He lifted a hand and rubbed the spot.

Don paused, his grip lessening on the door handle. This man had money, that much was clear by the Rolex on his wrist and the Luis Vuitton, waxed alligator leather shoes. He could justify overcharging this man. He shut the door again and smiled. "I can help you with your request. But I must warn you, my services don't come cheap."

Herr Roerden pursed his lips and readjusted the strap on his Rolex. "They never do with me."

Don allowed a small, acknowledging smile at the man's perceptiveness.

He moved back to his chair. "This is how it works. First, don't get any ideas about weekly meetings and status updates. This will be your only session with me. I will give you what you need to know, and you can take and use it as you wish."

It was Herr Roerden's turn to pause. His eyes narrowed on Don for a moment before he gave a short, stiff nod.
"Good." Don clasped his hands together behind the back of his head. "Then pay attention. This is how you cheat on your wife without her suspecting."

Herr Roerden took out his cell phone.

"What are you doing?" Don said, looking at the phone.

"Notes."

"That type of stupidity will get you caught before you even begin."

"How do you know—"

"That you haven't cheated on your wife, yet? Reasonable assumption, I'm afraid. It's the case of eighty percent who walk in here. That, the phone, and the way you dress. All ironed and freshly shaven and ready to write notes. That's someone who likes a plan. Someone who doesn't do things spontaneously."

"You base all your judgments on stereotypes?"

"Gladly." Don closed his eyes and began the list he'd spoken a thousand times. "Number one: admit to a fault. Something you've done or a weakness you have. Bring this fault up on your own, and your wife will trust you more for it--"

"So, what, tell her I lied about liking the Blutwurst she insists on making every week?"

Don reopened his eyes. "Don't interrupt, Herr Roerden. And think bigger. Like, for example, telling her you have a gambling problem or a drinking issue—something that's true. And tell her something big enough she doesn't suspect there could ever be anything larger hiding behind that.

"Now, where was I? . . . Yes, number two: details. Vagueness will have you caught out in a flash. Make things feel more real with details. Of course, you'll have to pay attention to your surroundings. Whatever details you give must be correct. Be careful here, this doesn't mean babble on and on. Just a few, clear details about where you were and what you did. Also, concerning details, make sure when you take your ring off you don’t have a give away tan line.

"This all leads me to number three: mix business with your . . . extracurricular pleasure. Even if it's only for a few minutes. That way the details you give will be truth. Also, it'll alleviate some of the guilt when you tell your wife where you were. Again, it's all about focusing on the truths.

"Number four: answer your phone. Show you always have time for your wife.

"Number five: suggest a lunch date. Something that clashes with her schedule. Ask them out to lunch that day. Then, make sure you are at the place you wanted to take them out to that day. You won't believe how often an important appointment will be rescheduled so the wife can surprise you. Be ready for that surprise, and surprise her back.

"Number six: gain her sympathy. Never blame work. Blame yourself for not being efficient enough to juggle all your commitments and deadlines.

"Number seven: Know how to spot a lie. This will help you become more self-aware. Make sure you use contractions, give direct answers, vary tone, and speak clearly—that'll limit the risk of having to repeat yourself and save you from tripping up.

"Number eight: if your wife lies about something, let it go.

"Number nine: Don't force a smile. If you can't do it naturally, don't do it at all." Though Don was sure Herr Roerden here wouldn't have too much of a problem with the occasional dimpled grin.

"And last, number ten: when you panic or get caught out saying you were somewhere you weren't—and this happens to most people, no matter how much I tell them not to lie in the first place—you can use my name. Once. State simply that you had a therapy meeting with me, that you needed some guidance on a private matter. That's it. No embellishment. That way, if your wife looks me up and rings me, I can say that it's true.

Herr Roerden began jiggling his foot again. "Isn't that a lie?"

"No. It's an equivocation. This, right now, this is that therapy meeting, this is that guidance on a private matter. So long as you don't state the date and time yourself, neither will I. Should you embellish, then, I'm afraid I won't be much help. I only tell truths, Herr Roerden. You'd best remember that."

Don dropped his hands from behind his head, threading his fingers through his hair and pulling out from behind his ear a heart shaped leaf. "Of course, there's another way to get what you want."

"What's that?"

"You can just tell her the truth off the bat. It might sting like a bitch for a while, but if you slip up on these . . . let's call them 'selective truth' rules, that sting'll be nothing. Your conscience will be eaten alive. And don't say you don't have a conscience--that's the only reason you're here. If you didn't have one, you wouldn't give a fuck if she found out. You're here because there's a part of you that needs your wife, that likes her, even."

Herr Roerden swallowed, his Adam's apple jutting out and his fingers stilled on the arm of his chair. Don continued, "You're here because you don't want to hurt her. You just don't love her like that anymore. You want to protect her feelings. You're here because you can't stand the thought of confronting such a hard truth with the person you once cared so much for and who thinks you still do. And, you're also here because you are weak. Because you've tried, but you haven't been able to get this other woman out of your head. You need her, and she's given you all the signals that your advances would be welcome."

Herr Roerden breathed out slowly and undid the strap of his watch. "Something like that." He laid the Rolex on the desk. "Think of this as payment."

Don stood as Herr Roerden did, and passed him the leaf he twirled between his fingers. "One last thing, Herr Roerden, and think of this as a disclaimer. I don't guarantee you won't get caught. But by following my advice, it'll up your chances that you wont."

. . .

Lethed -- Out Now

Over the past half year, I buckled down and wrote Lethed, the sequel to Veined. I loved getting back into this trilogy. It’s been fun, spending time with Sylva, Attic, and Marcus again.

For the most part, I enjoyed writing the story.

Sure, there were times I banged my head against the desk. Times where I might have shed a tear or two in frustration. And even times where I was tempted to rip the whole draft up. But mostly, I was just really, super excited. So much so that I couldn’t stop wiggling in my squeaky chair (which my office mate will attest to).

So yeah, Lethed has been born. And not without the wonderful support of my family and friends, beta-readers, cover designer, and editors. Without this cast backing me up, Lethed would never have made its deadline. Thank you all so, so, so much!

Lethed is available on Kindle, and in the next few months both Veined and Lethed will be available in print editions too.