C.R. Hiatt's Blog, page 4
March 28, 2013
ONE SHADE OF RED: Blog Tour and Excerpt
I am honored to take part in the blog tour for ONE SHADE OF RED by Scott Bury. I am probably THE ONLY woman who has not read Fifty Shades of Grey, but heard all the hoopla about the young, naive girl who fell in love with the handsome rich guy, so I was eager to see how the story would unfold if the story was reversed.
All I can say from what I have read so far: “Ooh la la…”
The One Shade of Red blog tour
Thanks, CR, for hosting the Launch Blog Tour today!
Fourteen great bloggers have generously agreed to host the blog tour from March 26 and April 6.
One Shade of Red is my second novel, a sexy spoof of the biggest selling book ever. Whether you loved or hated Fifty Shades of Grey (by now, there can’t be anyone literate who has not read it), you’ll appreciate how I turn the story upside-down.
In One Shade, the hero is the naive and awkward university student, Damian Serr. He starts a pool-cleaning business to make money during the extremely hot summer of 2012 in Toronto. His only customer, the beautiful and independent businesswoman Alexis Rosse, decides to teach him a few lessons about business — and about that connection between women and men, too.
One Shade of Red launches April 2 on Amazon, iTunes/iBookstore, Smashwords and other fine e-tailers. For links, visit Scottswrittenwords.blogspot.com.
The previous stop on the tour was Charity Parkerson’s blog, The Sinner Author. [link: charity-thesinners.blogspot.com/]
The next stop, March 30 , is Dawn Torrens’ My Books & I. [link: http://dawnsdaily.com/%5D
Today’s excerpt is from Chapter 5, where Alexis teaches Damian how to shop, and dress, for success.
Chapter 5: Shopping
If you knocked me out and woke me up in a clothing store, but still blocked my eyes, I could tell you how expensive the store was. High-end stores smell different from cheap retail outlets.
No, it’s more than that: there is a pervasive feeling about an expensive store. It’s probably the sum of a whole lot of little touches: more expensive cleansers, more frequently used; plus a little perfume in the air.
I think more expensive clothes smell better than cheap clothes, too. They sure feel better against your skin.
I came to these conclusions at the third high-end men’s clothing store on Bloor Street that Alexis took me to. And it was still only 11 in the morning.
Alexis lay another sports coat over my outstretched arm. I started to feel impatient as she turned again to the salesman, who held out two pairs of dress pants.
“The one on the left will go nicely with that jacket,” the salesman said. He was a short, bald man with a prominent belly, probably my father’s age and flagrantly gay. The name-tag pinned to his blazer proclaimed him to be Wilson.
Wilson and Alexis wandered over to another part of the store to look at shirts, leaving me standing there like a tree bearing expensive men’s clothes for fruit.
I thought back over the morning. I had gotten up early, dressed in what I thought were nice clothes, gathered my pool-cleaning stuff and driven to Alexis’ house, ready to start meeting her friends and neighbours for pool-cleaning interviews.
“Oh, no, that won’t do at all,” were the first words out of Alexis’ mouth when she opened the door. Not even “good morning.”
“What’s wrong?” As usual, she was stunning, wearing a short skirt and a loose, light-blue blouse with a lot of puffs and folds around the front of the neckline. At first glance, the outfit was modest, but every time she moved the cloth would reveal a little more smooth, light-brown skin. My eyes followed curves, wishing they could continue under the clothing.
“Damian, you’re going to a series of job interviews. You need to present a professional image to offset the customers’ nervousness about letting a stranger into their homes. You can’t show up looking like a bum. Come on.”
“Where are we going?” She led me through the house to the garage, which held four different, expensive cars.
She picked out a red BMW convertible. She looked at me, standing by the door to the house as she stepped in. “Well, come on.” I shut the passenger door as the garage slid up silently and Alexis put the car in gear. A stick-shift, I noticed.
Alexis drives stick.
It was a short drive from Rosedale to Yorkville. Alexis apparently had a monthly parking spot under one of the big office buildings for shopping convenience. It figured. Alexis would not be seen in a shopping mall, let alone a big-box outlet. No, only the high-end cachet of Bloor Street and Yorkville Avenue for her.
Alexis practically danced down Bloor Street from store to store. They were all painted mild beige and gray, and arranged their clothes in neat piles on tables placed just so. There were no “Sale” or “50% OFF!” signs in these stores. No: if you want a bargain, go somewhere else.
In each store, Alexis ran her hands over the material, admired the cut or the stitching or God knows what, chatted with the sales clerks and cooed over new arrivals. She even put a fedora on my head at one point and laughed.
Eventually, she got serious in some store with a name that didn’t make any sense and started picking out things as if she really intended to buy some. Why hadn’t we just come here in the first place? I thought.
Don’t feel annoyed and resentful, said my brain. She’s buying me clothes — expensive clothes, at that.
The best I could feel was bored. Clothes are boring. You put them on to cover up, keep warm, protect yourself. Some of my friends wear them to make artistic or political statements: Occupy Toronto, or Mumford & Sons.
But now I had to Dress for Success.
“Damian!” Alexis’ musical voice carried across the store. “Try these on.”
I trudged toward the changing rooms. Wilson took the jackets from me and hung them near the changing-room door, while Alexis refilled my arms with pants and shirts. “Let’s try on a few combinations,” she said. To Wilson, she explained, “We’re looking for a confident, somewhat professional look, but also remember: he works with his hands.”
Wilson smiled and picked out a jacket. I stepped into the changing room as the front door chimed. It was the biggest changing room I had ever seen: there was a rack at one end to hold up the clothes you were trying, another rack presumably for the crap you came in wearing, and a wide bench. There was even a bowl of mints.
“Go ahead, tend to the new customer,” I heard Alexis say. “We’ll be here for a while. There are a lot of combinations to try.”
“Thank you, sweetie,” Wilson said. I heard him walk away and greet someone else.
I pulled off my clothes and dropped them on the floor, and paused to look at my body in the full-length mirror. I should have gotten a haircut, I thought, and dragged my fingers through it to try to smooth out the disobedient curls.
Even with slightly neater hair, the body in the mirror was too skinny. I held my arms out and I could no longer see my hands’ reflections. My legs were ridiculously long. Why couldn’t I have muscular legs like Patrick? At least my chest acne had cleared up.
The door opened a little and Alexis’ arm came in, holding a piece of cloth. “Here, try this, too,” she said.
I reached for her hand as she pushed her way inside. Startled, I stepped backward. She shoved the cloth into my mouth and pushed the door closed at the same time. It was wet and smelled …
It was her underwear. I dropped it and it slid down my chest.
Alexis locked the door and pushed her skirt down. “God, shopping makes me so horny,” she whispered.
Bio:
Scott Bury is a journalist, editor and novelist based in Ottawa, Canada. His articles have appeared in magazines in Canada, the US, the UK and Australia, including Macworld, the Financial Post, Applied Arts, the Globe and Mail and Graphic Arts Monthly.
His first published novel is The Bones of the Earth, a fantasy set in the real time and place of eastern Europe of the sixth century. He has also published a short story, Sam, the Strawb Part (proceeds of which are donated to an autism charity), and a paranormal story, Dark Clouds. His work in progress is tentatively titled Walking from the Soviet Union, and tells the true story of a Canadian drafted into the Red Army during the Second World War, his escape from a German POW camp and his journey home.
Scott Bury lives in Ottawa with his lovely, supportive and long-suffering wife, two mighty sons and the orangest cat in history.
He can be found online at www.writtenword.ca, on his blog, Written Words [link: http://scottswrittenwords.blogspot.com/], on Twitter @ScottTheWriter, and on Facebook [link: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Scott-Bury-author/347727125260907/%5D
March 27, 2013
Fireworks on the 4th featured Book of the Day…
Fireworks on the 4th is the featured Book of the Day on Kindle Books and Tips.
TWO KICK-ASS DETECTIVES ✪ A SINISTER GROUP BENT ON DESTRUCTION ✪ LET THE FIREWORKS BEGIN!
Get the book at KINDLE BOOKS AND THINGS
March 25, 2013
#99cent #SPECIAL – Velvet Rain by David C. Cassidy
Today is your last chance to purchase the amazing thriller, VELVET RAIN by David C. Cassidy, and for only 99cents. At the stroke of midnight, the price goes back to its normal price. So what are you waiting for? Go for it!
EXCERPT:
“Tell me your name.”
There was some hesitation, but then the words came dutifully, if dismally—four digits—not a syllable more. He grinned.
“Do you remember Sarah? Sarah-Jane?”
No reply.
“DO YOU REMEMBER SARAH-JANE?” The words blasted from the blackness like bullets.
“No.”
She was lying. He could smell deception, as if it were a rotting carcass splayed before him. He stepped into the light, his formlessness becoming form in silhouette. He paused, and then he slapped her with brutal force.
The woman wept. Her breath came as a thin whistle through the wide gap where her upper teeth had been. Her eyes, bulging from her emaciated face, gave her the appearance of a humanoid insect.
The physician retreated to the console. He pressed three lamps, red-yellow-red in precise order. There was a slight delay, and then a projector lamp switched on, giving life to a grainy black-and-white image on a large viewing screen.
The subject was a handsome Aryan, no older than fifteen. He was once a violinist, a virtuoso from Braunschweig whose performances brought tears to the eye. And yet, like the Australian, and later, the American, he had been skilled in so much more.
The boy, clearly frightened, was on the verge of tears.
Grinning behind the lens, Brikker took the woman’s photograph, then distanced himself from the reliable oak tripod that supported a green 4 x 5 Graphic camera. It was a solid military model, the workhorse of the press photographer and madmen.
For more info on Author, David C. Cassidy:
March 19, 2013
Thrills, Chills, and Kills #TCK4
On March 20 to March 22, my YA mystery-thriller, GONE AT ZERO HUNDRED 00:00, will be FREE through “Thrills, Chills, & Kills” Book Event, #TCK4. I have joined with the following bestselling authors to offer amazing deals on incredible books.
GO FOR IT.
FREE:
Velvet Rain by David C. Cassidy
Pit Stop by Carmen DeSousa
The Depot by Carmen DeSousa
Gone At Zero Hundred 00:00 by C.R. Hiatt
Gray Justice (Tom Gray #1) by Alan McDermott
Cassidy Jones and the Secret Formula by Elise Stokes
Amelia’s Story by D.G. Torrens
99 CENTS:
She Belongs to Me by Carmen DeSousa
This Time Forever by Patricia Paris
Letters to Gabriella by Patricia Paris
Double Bind by Seb Kirby
Take No More by Seb Kirby
While you’re there, check out the Tales and Treasures #TTWIN event, and enter for a chance to win one of those amazing jewelry pieces designed by @deevinehammer.
Bullets, Brass, and Badass…
March 18, 2013
Cover Reveal: ONE SHADE OF RED by Scott Bury
Launching April 2, 2013: ONE SHADE OF RED
Scott Bury turns the inexplicable mommy porn bestseller on its head.
Women want the perfect man, so they can change him. But when university student Damian Serr discovers a rich, beautiful woman who’s voracious about sex, he doesn’t try to improve on perfection. It’s all that he can do to hold on for the ride.
Damian has always followed the rules, always tried to please others. At 20, he still dates the girl next door because his parents like her parents. When Nick, his university roommate, asks Damian to take over his pool-cleaning business so he can take an internship in London, Damian can’t say no — especially to Nick’s first and only client, a rich widow.
But widow Alexis Rosse is far from helpless or lonely. This beautiful financial genius is busy turning the markets upside-down, and she revels in sex wherever, whenever and with whomever she wants.
Over the summer, Alexis gives Damian an intense education. Day after day, she pushes him to his sexual limits. The only question he has is: will she break them?
For more info on Scott Bury:
COVER DESIGNED BY David C. Cassidy
March 13, 2013
Treasure This: Treasure Me, 99 Cents
Treasure This: Treasure Me, 99 Cents
Christine Nolfi’s award-winning Treasure Me is on sale Friday March 15 – Sunday March 17. “Highly recommended” by Midwest Book Review and “One of the best of the Indies” by USA Today, the sweet and sassy blend of mystery, romance and comedy is the first book in the Liberty Series. An excerpt:
Chapter 1
“Where are you? Give me back my wallet!”
From somewhere inside Birdie Kaminsky’s apartment, the man in blue pinstripe stormed through the rooms like a long distance runner stoked on Red Bull. Flinching at the fury in his voice, she dangled from the window ledge and stared with wide-eyed fear at the pavement three stories below.
The man was seventy years old if he was a day. He probably worked out, which explained how he’d pursued her up three flights of stairs and made it into her apartment before she locked the front door.
Old men and their treadmills. It was something she should’ve considered before she’d picked his pocket on her way home from a light day of breaking and entering.
Birdie tried to ignore the sickening whoosh of fear zigzagging through her body. Her teeth were chattering, so she clamped her mouth shut. Three stories above terra firma made a straight drop a stupid idea. Like any good thief she was agile. But the last time she’d checked she hadn’t sprouted wings. If she let go of the windowsill and took the plunge, she’d break her legs.
“Where are you hiding? You aren’t taking my money, do you hear me?”
Something crashed to the floor inside her apartment, the sound too close for comfort. Had it come from the hallway that led from the closet-sized living room to the pea-sized bedroom? With any luck, Marathon Man would stop in the bathroom to check if she was hiding behind the shower curtain.
She gasped as her hold on the windowsill loosened. “Oh, shit!”
Pressing her long legs forward, she flattened against the building’s brick façade. To her left, the drainpipe snaked down to the street. Reach for it and risk falling? Today was her thirty-first birthday and therefore a lucky day. On the other hand, her landlord had threatened to evict her this morning if she didn’t make good on her rent and a demonic old geezer was pounding on the bedroom door she’d had the sense to lock before she’d stupidly made her escape.
The window on the other side of the drainpipe slid open with a bang! Fear scuttled her heart. Mr. Chen stuck his head out and relief swamped her.
“Birdie! What happened?”
“Uh . . .”
Another wave of fists pounding and Mr. Chen’s mouth formed an O. “Is it the police? Did they threaten you? You didn’t squeal on the Poker Kings, did you?”
Mr. Chen held Poker Kings, a Tuesday night game, in his apartment. He did a great job of seeding his hand with Aces and he was always worried the cops would find out. Birdie figured he should worry about the other tenants learning he was fleecing them. The overworked Lexington Police Department had bigger fish to fry.
She smiled at him gamely. “Um, Mr. Chen, could you help me out? I’m gonna fall if you don’t.”
“Oh. Right.”
To her surprise, he jimmied a brick from the wall. Then another. When he’d finished, he grabbed her left foot and steered it toward the handy inverse steps he’d created. Stretching to the drainpipe, she grabbed hold then started toward his window. For all she knew, he hid his ill-gotten poker winnings behind the bricks.
No matter—his thieving heart was her salvation. She shimmied toward him with her pulse rattling inside her skull.
When she reached his window he helped her through and into the kitchen.
The fragrant scents of ginger and garlic mingled in the air. A wok sat on the counter. Evidently Mr. Chen had been preparing an early dinner while she’d been chased upstairs by the man whose pocket she’d picked.
Ignoring the rumbling in her stomach, she darted through the apartment. In the living room she found Mrs. Chen seated in the shiny new wheelchair Birdie had snagged from an assisted living facility last month. It hadn’t seemed fair for Mrs. Chen to spend hours on the phone, arguing with bureaucrats in her broken English. All she’d needed was a new set of wheels. Birdie was familiar with the pricey new facility—she’d eaten a free lunch in the cafeteria on more than one occasion. So she’d dolled up in a tight-fitting nurse’s uniform and set out to snatch a wheelchair.
She’d marched right into the lobby, cornered a hunky security guard lounging by the front desk, and announced she needed to assist a woman who was having trouble getting out of her car. All too eager to help, the security guard was still checking out her ass when she rolled the wheelchair out to the parking lot.
Dismissing the memory, she paused before the wheelchair. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Chen.”
“Birdie, hello. You stay for dinner?”
“Naw. I have to leave the city.”
“For good?”
“My time in Lexington is up.”
“You a crazy white girl, but we miss you.” Mrs. Chen thrust out her lower lip. “Wish you stay longer, steal a car for Yihung. His Buick is a beater.”
“I’ll grab him a Mercedes the next time I’m in Kentucky.” Regret sifted through her and her fingers were stinging, too. Hell, her thumbs were bleeding—she nearly had lost her purchase on the windowsill and plummeted to the ground. “You take care of yourself, okay?”
Mrs. Chen glanced at the ceiling, where pounding footsteps sounded. “You got money?” When Birdie started rifling through the pockets of her army surplus coat, the woman reached for the purse she’d left on the couch. She handed over a wad of bills. “Not much. You take.”
“Mrs. Chen . . .”
“Take!” The woman’s dark eyes snapped. Mr. Chen came into the room and she looked up at her husband. “Make her take my dough from bingo. I only give back to St. Vincent’s Church if I keep.”
There wasn’t time to argue. Birdie took the cash. Then she sighed at the sight of the large Mason jar in Mr. Chen’s hands, the one he sat beside his chair on Tuesday nights. Quarters, nickels, dimes—his poker winnings over the last few weeks. His generosity was sweet, but she couldn’t possibly lug a gallon jar to the Amtrak Station without drawing stares.
“Mr. Chen, I can’t—” She cut off when he opened a pocket on her oversized coat and poured in coins. She found her voice as he moved to the other side, to weigh her down equally. “I won’t be able to run if I’m lugging this much cargo.”
“With legs like yours? You can run, Birdie. Now go. I’ll keep the man upstairs busy. It’ll give you time to get away.”
“You’ll do that for me?”
“Sure I will.” Mr. Chen bounced his gaze across the pockets adorning her army coat. “Have you got the story with you?”
She’d placed the newspaper clipping from the Akron Register in a Ziploc bag for safekeeping. It was stashed in a zippered pocket above her heart.
Mr. Chen was the only person she’d shown it to. She didn’t trust anyone else in the building, not with a potential windfall at stake. Every family had a legend or two, and while Birdie’s clan also possessed stories of prison breaks and deals gone sour, a yarn from the Civil War probably didn’t amount to much. It was also possible her mother, who was an expert at deceit but an amateur with the truth, had pruned important facts from the story. She wasn’t above playing Birdie like a mark if it suited her purpose. And a tale of lost treasure, hidden away by a freedwoman when Abe Lincoln was in office, seemed more like a fairy tale than anything else.
But on the chance the newspaper article led to something of real worth, Birdie kept the clipping on her at all times.
She made a tapping motion over her right breast. “I’ve got it.” When Mr. Chen nodded with satisfaction, she added, “Thanks for taking care of the guy upstairs. Oh. Give this back to him.”
She pulled the man’s wallet from her army coat and flipped it open. Jackpot—four hundred dollars was inside. It was more than enough to cover a quick grab-and-dash excursion to Ohio.
Pocketing the bills, she thrust the wallet at Mr. Chen. “Gotta go.” The ceiling above them quaked. “I’ll call sometime next week to see how you and Mrs. Chen are doing.” She gave him a quick hug, then dashed out of the apartment.
A blast of November wind nearly took her off her feet as she headed down the street. The Greyhound station was only three blocks away. It was no problem to hoof it.
Thirty minutes later, she was elbowing her way through the crowded aisle to a seat in the back of the bus. The floor was wet with a slushy snow-rain mix. Somewhere up front, a baby’s wail cracked the air. Newspapers rustled and someone popped open a can. As the bus lumbered from the station, she glanced out of the window at the buildings streaming past, a few parking lots, then they were outside of the city with the rolling Kentucky hills turning white beneath the falling snow.
She pressed her face to the window and blew out a breath. A moist haze settled over the countryside reflected through the glass. Sunlight pooled in orange puddles beneath the hills as the blue of night bled into the horizon. It would be dark soon, and her muscles were leaden with exhaustion.
Staying in any town for too long was never a good plan, but she’d really taken to the Chens. She didn’t relish the possibility of never seeing them again. Mrs. Chen had taught her how to fold dumplings so the papery skins resembled tiny kites and Mr. Chen had become an unexpected confidant. The minor criminal tendencies that lured him to the card table enabled him to accept, if not admire, her larger transgressions. Their daily conversations about Mrs. Chen’s cardiovascular health and the gossip they shared about the other tenants had provided an endearing constancy. It had been some time since she’d stayed in a city long enough to learn her way around, let alone make an acquaintance. Friendship was rare, a gem she unearthed when the Chinese immigrant lobbed questions at her every time he found her creeping down the hallway.
It might be several years before Birdie risked another friendship. By necessity, a thief avoided the gummy substance of relationships. Familiarity was dangerous leverage in an alliance if one member made her living slipping wallets from pant pockets and lifting bills from unattended purses. The threat of prison time plagued her and she’d tried to go legal.
Learning the knack was impossible.
Summoning up her mother’s lessons required less discipline. In a busy department store, she’d dart through the mysterious contents of a purse swinging from a woman’s shoulder while its nearly unconscious owner wandered through the silks and taffetas. She didn’t consider her targets ‘marks’ as her mother did. Rather she viewed the unlucky souls as members of a separate tribe. Her greatest shame came not from the money she took but from the personal mementos that found their way into the pockets of her coat: a crumpled grocery list, the cheery newsletter from an elementary school. A photograph of a family pressed close together before a mantle festooned with greenery.
Of course, she’d taken nothing from the Chens except their unprejudiced affection. For the space of nine weeks they’d been everything to her. Pulling her collar up to her ears, Birdie rocked in time with the rumbling bus. The loneliness she wore like a second skin became unbearable. She began chewing her nails.
Across the aisle, a man with a beard was devouring a cupcake with brown frosting. It dawned that her birthday was nearly over. Thirty-one years old . . . most women were settled down by now with a husband and children. Not that she understood much about family life. Her mother, the notorious Wish Kaminsky, never stayed long with any man. She’d dragged Birdie from state to state as if they could live with their roots sheared off or flourish without a sense of permanency.
The bus shook and bumped down the highway. Her mood sinking, Birdie slid low in her seat. Cupcake Man leered at her with dots of icing on his teeth. Curling her body toward the window, she drew out the Ziploc bag and unfolded the newspaper clipping with exquisite care.
Second Chance in Small-town America. A journalist named Hugh Schaffer had written the article. It was a nice feature with several photographs of the restaurant, The Second Chance Grill. The restaurant’s owner had sold off everything she owned to save a local girl with leukemia. When the story broke last summer, Birdie watched the coverage on the national news. She thought nothing of it until her mother, Wish—who’d recently landed on the Fed’s radar and was now scamming her way toward Mexico—mailed off the paper before hopping a bus in southern Ohio.
The article told of an auction at the restaurant. Once people learned the proceeds would be used to save the sick girl, every last item was returned.
Including a Civil War-era portrait in a shadowbox frame. Bringing the article close, Birdie gazed intently at the photograph.
Curiosity swirled through her. No, she wasn’t responsible for the slaves her French ancestors had owned in the dawning years of the new republic. She’d only traveled through the South a few times and had never set foot on a plantation. Houses outside suburban Charleston now sat on the thousands of acres once owned by her forebears, the illustrious Postells. It was only fitting that their mansions had burned to the ground during the Civil War. Like slavery itself, they’d gone to ash.
Still, the story of a singular love had traveled down through the generations alongside the tales of slavery. Love between a plantation owner, who was Birdie’s ancestor, and the beautiful slave who’d comforted him after his wife’s death. The slave became a freedwoman and traveled north with riches given to her by her beloved. According to legend, the treasure had been stashed away for all these years.
Was any of it true? Birdie wasn’t sure. The bits and pieces of lore gleaned from her mother never gave enough detail to tell.
In one of the Akron Register photographs, The Second Chance Grill’s buxom chef stood in the foreground. But it was the portrait, clearly visible behind her, that gripped Birdie’s attention.
Is the woman in the portrait the freedwoman Justice Postell?
She knew enough American history to realize a daguerreotype of a black woman, taken in the mid-1800s, was unusual. The dress she wore was elegant, the collar tightly ruffled with tiny beads—like pearls—scattered across the bodice. Could a freedwoman have owned a dress so luxurious? The portrait seemed to confirm the stories passed down in Birdie’s family of how the plantation owner sent the black slave, Justice, north to freedom with hidden fortune. Once free, Justice became a successful businesswoman and wealthy in her own right. After she’d escaped slavery in South Carolina, where had she gone? In what state had she lived? The answer was shrouded in history.
Still, Birdie wouldn’t have believed she was actually looking at a portrait of Justice Postell if it weren’t for Hugh Schaffer’s article. The feature seemed to unravel some of the mystery behind a scrap of parchment her mother kept in a safety deposit box in Santa Fe. Wish swore the parchment had once belonged to Justice and was a clue to the location of the treasure.
Liberty safeguards the cherished heart.
The parchment had been passed down through generations in Birdie’s family as the once-proud plantation owners bred low and became a family of con artists and thieves. The cryptic message was never decoded. During those infrequent times when Birdie and her mother landed in the same city—and if they were getting along—they’d stay up late drinking Rum and Cokes and theorize about the meaning behind the words.
Every snippet of family lore agreed on one fact: Justice never sold whatever she’d carried north to freedom. Gold bullion? Antique French jewelry worth thousands on today’s market?
Liberty safeguards . . .
So many guesses, and Birdie had never fully believed any of the stories. Until now.
The town where the portrait resided was Liberty, Ohio.
* * *
“Don’t even start with the excuses, Hugh. You’re fired.”
Trapped inside the glass-walled office, Hugh Schaeffer planted his feet before the City Editor’s desk and tried to get his bearings. Outside in the newsroom, journalists and copy editors were hard at work. He would have been too, if Bud Kresnick hadn’t confronted him the moment he stepped off the elevator and ordered him into the corner office.
It was just like Bud to incinerate a relatively happy Monday by leveling threats. ‘Relative’ being the operative word. Hugh’s latest live-in love, Melissa, had moved out of his apartment, taking his flat-screen TV with her.
Women, the thieving witches, always took something on the way out. His flat-screen TV. His microwave. Last March, Tamara Kelly made off with his entire sound system including the speakers he’d installed in every room of his condo. From the looks of the plaster, she’d used a blunt spoon to dig them out.
The weaker sex, my ass. Every last member of the pilfering sex should be banished to the seventh circle of hell.
Hugh grappled for a sense of calm. “You don’t want to fire me.” His trusty intuition warned that this time the City Editor would make good on the threat. “I’ll work late. Move up the deadlines, pile on the work—I’m your man.”
“Bullshit. You missed another deadline.”
“An oversight.”
Bud folded his hands over his expansive gut. “I went to press with a hole on page one. Know what I filled it with? Page four fluff. A ribbon cutting ceremony that’ll make me the laughingstock of every respectable paper in Ohio.”
“It won’t happen again,” Hugh said, thinking, this is the third deadline I’ve missed this month.
It wasn’t his fault. Melissa had been spilling tears across his apartment, in some sort of premenstrual funk over the sculpture she couldn’t finish. She blamed his vibes, claimed his energy was dark and repressive and his inability to commit thwarted her creative flow. He’d vacillated between consoling her and camping out in front of the tube to watch the Browns lose to the Steelers, with a six-pack at his elbow.
On the other side of the desk, Bud wasn’t buying. “You’ve got an addiction, pal. Now it’s cost you your job.”
Hugh glowered. “I’m not a heavy drinker. Not anymore.”
“I’m talking about women.”
He flinched. “Okay—you’re right. I need a twelve-step program.”
“You also need a job since you’re no longer employed by the Akron Register.” When Hugh grumbled a protest, Bud waved the words away. “Listen, I was excited when I hired you. I knew you’d been thrown off four other newspapers. I also knew you’d once been a fine investigative reporter, one of the best in the state. I even felt bad last summer when I gave you the Liberty gig. You’re a cold-hearted bastard, and writing cotton candy prose must’ve nearly killed you.”
Which was true. Writing an upbeat feature about the money raised to pay for a kid’s bone marrow transplant wasn’t exactly Hugh Schaeffer material. No one had been gunned down at close range or absconded with thousands of dollars of public money. There was no sexual impropriety in high office to report or juicy grist about a corporation dumping some toxic stew into Lake Erie.
But he’d taken the assignment without complaint because Bud wanted to punish him for missing yet another deadline. Not my fault. Hugh was between live-in lovers at the time. When he met Zoe, a vivacious personal trainer, he left the article on union corruption in limbo.
Dodging the thought, he stuffed his pride. It was time to grovel. “If you fire me, there isn’t a newspaper in Ohio that’ll put me on the payroll. Not with five strikes against me.” Nervous tension wound through his muscles—this would be the end of his career. What would he do? He’d be a failure, a has-been—he’d be pathetic. “I’ll do anything. Give me one more chance.”
At the desperation in Hugh’s voice, Bud lowered his brows. But the City Editor surprised him when his expression softened. “Maybe you should try therapy.”
“What?”
Bud slowly rubbed his chin. “Seriously, pal. Get a therapist. Talk about it.”
“Talk about . . .” A sense of foreboding crept into his blood.
The members only club of newspaper editors was so tight knit, it was nearly incestuous. Had Bud heard through the grapevine about Hugh’s involvement in the Trinity Investment scandal? Ancient history, but it was the kind of archeological dig that could bury a man for years.
Fourteen years had passed since he’d written the article that derailed his life. Had Bud learned the sordid details from a colleague? The article, written when Hugh was a rookie, brought him perilously close to his subject. Naïve and eager, he plunged into the murky world of celebrity when he was too young to comprehend the danger. Had he loved the celebrated philanthropist, Cat Seavers? Impossible to recall—the intervening years had washed away the particulars of his emotional state even if they hadn’t absolved him of his sickly remorse. Her death and the subsequent uproar nearly destroyed him. He sought absolution in drink and women. He survived, barely, and his journalistic style became edgier, more in-your-face.
When he couldn’t find his voice, Bud said, “What are you, two years away from forty? All you do is chase tail, which has me thinking you aren’t chasing so much as running.”
“I’m not running from anything,” Hugh replied with enough heat to nearly convince himself. But if the City Editor had been a goddamn mystic he couldn’t have been more accurate.
“Tell you what.” Bud turned toward his computer and navigated through the Internet. “Remember those websites for the Perini girl? The ones where people donated cash for her bone marrow transplant?”
“Of course.”
“They’re still up, bringing in money.”
“She had the operation months ago.” Hugh’s inner antenna went on alert. Why were people across the country still making donations? Blossom Perini was on the mend. “What’s her father doing with all the cash?”
“Gee, Hugh, I don’t know. Think he’s funneling greenbacks into a vacation condo?”
“Could be.”
“Lots of good people donated money for the girl’s medical expenses. A real shame if Anthony Perini misappropriated the funds.”
Hugh’s brain whirled. “He could be doing anything—investing, buying cars—I’ll bet he’s already put thousands in his 401k, the bastard.”
“You tell me.”
“Okay, I will.” It might take a few weeks to uncover the scam, but if it put him back in Bud’s good graces, what the hell.
“But don’t tell me on my dime because you’re fired. You want to do some digging? Do it without an expense account from the Akron Register.”
Stunned, he let out a gargled laugh. “You’re telling me to spend a few weeks in Liberty without a paycheck or an expense account? Are you shitting me?” How much did he have in his checking account—a thousand dollars? Saving for a rainy day had never been his style. “If you want me to jump through hoops, I will. But not without greenbacks to make the gymnastics palatable.”
“Then forget it. I’m cutting you loose.”
The irritation churning Hugh’s gut mixed with fury. “That’s it? I’m fired unless I dig up dirt without pay?” Which wasn’t the worst of it. Liberty was a time warp from the 1950s. They rolled up the sidewalks and turned out the lights at 9:00 P.M. No nightlife, nothing. “You think I’m so desperate I’d consider it?”
Bud picked up a pen and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger with galling disinterest. “I have work to do.” He turned back to his computer. “And stay away from women while you’re in Liberty. Who knows? You might produce decent copy if you give your gonads a rest.”
“What sort of asshole demands work without pay?”
“Watch it—”
Hugh placed his palms on the desk. “I won’t do it.” Scowling, he leaned close. “You got it, Bud? The answer is no.”
Christine Nolfi’s contemporary fiction novels continue to earn high marks on Amazon and GoodReads. Her debut Treasure Me is a 2012 Next Generation Indie Awards finalist. Midwest Book Review lists Treasure Me, Second Chance Grill and The Tree of Everlasting Knowledge as “highly recommended.”
Treasure Me – 2012 Next Generation Indie Awards Finalist
Amazon: http://tinyurl.com/72mvu8m
Barnes & Noble: http://tinyurl.com/c6qd2hh
@christinenolfi on Twitter
GoodReads Author Page: http://tinyurl.com/7e2xgjq
FaceBook Author Page: http://tinyurl.com/c3sf4yv
Amazon Author Page: http://tinyurl.com/9due77l
TREASURE ME Copyright 2011 by Christine Nolfi. All rights reserved.
March 10, 2013
New cover for FIREWORKS ON THE 4TH
COVER REVEAL: FIREWORKS ON THE 4TH
As I mentioned on my previous post McSwain & Beck get a makeover!, I hired the extremely gifted, David C. Cassidy to give my YA mystery-thriller series a whole new look. I wanted covers that illustrated the gritty and edgy nature of the stories. The new cover for Gone at Zero Hundred 00:00 was unveiled last weekend, and today, I am honored to show you the awesome new cover for Fireworks on the 4th. David did an excellent job at showing the peril McSwain & Beck are up against as a dangerous group descends on their city.
I hope you love it as much as I do!!!
CR HIATT
P.S. David C. Cassidy can be reached at the following:
http://davidccassidy.com
https://www.amazon.com/author/davidccassidy
http://facebook.com/davidccassidyauthor
http://twitter.com/davidccassidy
http://facebook.com/davidccassidyphotography
http://shadesoflifephotography.ca
March 3, 2013
McSwain & Beck get a makeover!
In this new world of publishing, we writers are in the driver’s seat and in charge of navigating the roads necessary to achieve our success. Sometimes, we may take a wrong turn and need to turn around, and sometimes, we may need to chart a difference course. In that vein, McSwain & Beck are getting a makeover!
When I first contacted an artist to design the original covers for Gone at Zero Hundred 00:00 and Fireworks on the 4th, I wanted to show that the stories were filled with action and adventure, and give the reader an idea about the cool fictional location that the series was created in. The current covers definitely do that, in spades. They’re beautiful.
The reality is; I should have focused on showing the mystery and danger involved in the story. So I have taken the plunge. I hired David C. Cassidy to revamp the covers. In Gone at Zero Hundred 00:00 the crimes depicted are straight from the headlines-type stories, and developed from interviews with big-city detectives – the subject matter becoming more prominent every day.
The new cover for Gone at Zero Hundred 00:00 shows that the story is gritty, edgy, and reveals the danger inside the pages.
Updated cover for Fireworks on the 4th revealed in the next few days…
CR HIATT
March 1, 2013
COVER REVEAL: IMMUNE
COVER REVEAL, BOOK LAUNCH, GIVEAWAYS…
Author Name: Shannon Mayer
Title: Immune
Release date: March 6, 2013
Age Group: Adult
Genre: Urban Fantasy
Tour organizer: Lysa Lessieur (lysa@pegasusdesigns.com)
Book Description:
Blurb: *Warning* I’m so sorry Mom, this one will be no good for you to read either. There is a full on sex scene (nipples and everything), violence and well, lots of bad words. You know— the ones you used to wash my mouth out with soap for? Consider yourself warned.
Underestimating demons is a bad idea, and it’s a mistake Rylee may pay for with not only her life, but the life of a child who has gone missing. That is, unless she allows O’Shea to help her; trusting the man who once sought for a way to bring her down.
If only life were that simple. And in Rylee’s world, it rarely is.
Two Giveaways:
Giveaway #1: “Reader and Fan Appreciation Giveaway” Feb 28th – Mar 13th
Three winners will receive a $5 Amazon Gift Card AND a SIGNED copy of Priceless.
Open to United States and International.
Rafflecopter code: a Rafflecopter giveaway
Giveaway #2: “Reviewer Appreciation Giveaway” Feb 28th – Mar 27th One Grand Prize Winner receives an iPAD Mini or $250 Amazon Gift Card, a SIGNED copy of Priceless AND their name will appear in the THIRD book. TWO winners will receive a SIGNED copy of Priceless AND their name will appear in the THIRD book. TWO SIGNED copies of Priceless. ONE SKYPE chat with Shannon Mayer. Open to United States and International.
Rafflecopter code a Rafflecopter giveaway
Title: Priceless
Release date: November 2012
Age Group: Adult
Genre: Urban Fantasy
Special: Priceless will be on sale for ONLY $0.99 through March 6th!
Blurb: *Warning* If you are my mother, do not read this book. There are things like “F” bombs, sexual tension, and naughty, sexy supernatural creatures. Please don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Overview:
When children go missing without a trace, there is only one person who can find them.
Welcome to the world of Rylee Adamson, a woman with unique abilities, some wild friends and a unstoppable drive to save those who can’t save themselves.
But when the details of a missing child duplicate that of her worst case, things start to get freaky. And not in a good way.
Shannon Mayer lives in the southwestern tip of Canada with her husband, dog, cats, horse, and cows. When not writing she spends her time staring at immense amounts of rain, herding old people (similar to herding cats) and attempting to stay out of trouble. Especially that last is difficult for her.
Social Media links:
Blog http://shannonmayer.blogspot.com/
FB https://www.facebook.com/ShannonMayerAuthor
GR http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5172000.Shannon_Mayer
Twitter https://twitter.com/TheShannonMayer
Amazon http://www.amazon.com/ShannonMayer/e/B005L43124/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1
February 23, 2013
Cassidy Jones and the Seventh Attendant – COMING SOON!
Some things are better left buried…Cassidy Jones isn’t one of them. Please support @CassidyJonesAdv on @Indiegogo. http://bit.ly/14Mh51H
PROLOGUE
Slouching against the concrete wall, Arthur King Junior tore another page from the Bible that had been slipped through the steel door’s tray slot that morning. It was a gift from a well-meaning prison guard who hoped the message inside would reform Arthur.
“Fat chance of that!” Arthur said loudly to no one in particular, since he was alone in the prison cell, which was a quarter of the size of his bedroom suite’s walk-in closet at his Seattle home. In fact, the dingy mattress on which his backside was now parked filled half of the concrete floor.
“Okay, fellas,” he addressed the prison guards who might be listening on the other side of the door. Or maybe they weren’t—Arthur really didn’t care. “Enough with the hot box already,” he blathered as he carefully folded the thin paper into an airplane. “Learned my lesson real good. The décor alone is punishment!”
He glanced up from his creation to look for a target. The tiny space boasted a stained white toilet, wall sink, square barred window near the ceiling, and cream-painted walls. Arthur actually didn’t mind the blandness of his surroundings. He liked being the only source of color, which he was, in his bright orange jumpsuit.
“Tell your colleague that I’m sorry for biting his hand,” he rambled on, referring to the prison guard he had sunk his teeth into when the man had ordered him to stop griping about what he was being served and move along in the cafeteria line. The assault had landed Arthur in solitary confinement for five days. He was on day two.
Narrowing his eyes on the toilet bowl, Arthur took aim. “I promise to be a good boy and eat all of my peas.” He launched the airplane. Hitting the toilet rim, it joined the other planes that had missed the mark on the floor.
Arthur spat a furious cuss word and savagely ripped another sheet from the Bible. “I’m bored, bored, bored, BORED!” he shouted like a petulant child, meticulously folding another plane. “Come on! This is prison! Where’s the action?”
As if a prayer had been answered—not that Arthur King Junior prayed—the alarm suddenly sounded.
Arthur straightened up on the mattress. Shouts, screams, and cheers could be heard under the blare of the alarm. When the unmistakable rapid pops from automatic weapons added to the commotion, Arthur eagerly jumped to his feet.
“Yeah! This is more like it!” he whooped, pumping his small fist in the air. Gleeful, he listened to the violent ruckus come closer, only feeling apprehension when the screaming, shouting, and gunfire entered his corridor.
Covering his ears, Arthur backed up to the concrete wall, wishing he had been satisfied with “bored.”
The corridor fell silent. Lowering his hands, Arthur listened. Footsteps echoed; heels clicked against the concrete. The commotion in the distance again sounded like a battlefield.
The clicking stopped outside his cell door.
“Arthur,” a woman’s voice sang from the other side, “stay clear of the door.”
BANG! Something struck the door with the force of a wrecking ball, denting the steel. Flattening his back to the wall, Arthur’s heart pounded with a mixture of excitement and fear. BANG! BANG! The door flew off the hinges, crashing into the wall inches from Arthur. The thrill of nearly being crushed by it brought a twisted smile to his weasel-like face.
A petite woman who looked like she was made of china, with the palest complexion and hair that Arthur had ever seen, stepped into the doorway. Sapphire eyes cold as glass regarded him from a classically beautiful face, framed by ivory curls. Her attire suggested that she was preparing to have tea with the Queen of England: a perfectly fitted, high-collared dress in dusty rose, a matching hat rimmed with a two-inch veil, pearl earrings, and lacy white gloves.
Arthur’s eyes slid down her delicately formed figure to her shapely calves, which appeared to be made of metal. Metal feet sported dusty rose pumps.
“My eyes are up here,” the woman lightly reprimanded.
Grinning, Arthur looked up into her icy eyes. “Brrrr.” He shivered playfully. “Where have you been all my life, gorgeous?”
“Behave,” she scolded, peeling the glove off her left hand, which shone with a metallic gleam. “Time to go.” She smiled at him sweetly. “Daddy wants you home for dinner.”
Throwing back his head, Arthur exploded with laughter.
***
If you have been living under a rock and haven’t heard about the adventures of Cassidy Jones, check out the first two books in the series:
Cassidy Jones and the Secret Formula, Book One:
One Girl. One Accident. One Incredible Superhero.
Cassidy Jones is your typical fourteen-year-old— that is, until a seemingly harmless accident in the laboratory of a world-renowned geneticist turns her world upside down. Discovering incredible strength, speed, and enhanced physical senses that defy logic, Cassidy embarks on an action-packed adventure that has her fighting for answers…and for her very life.
Cassidy Jones and Vulcan’s Gift, Book Two:
An Ancient Secret Has Come To Life, And Everyone On The Planet Is At Risk…
Two months after being infected with a strange retrovirus, Cassidy Jones continues to live a double life while she struggles to master her newly gained superpowers. High school has become the only normal thing left in her life—except for tall, dark, and handsome Emery Phillips, who shadows her every move, making sure she doesn’t reveal her secret. But when a sleepover at Catamount Mountain Zoo takes a menacing turn, all bets are off as Cassidy is drawn into another riveting and perilous mystery that threatens the planet.
Cassidy Jones and the Seventh Attendant, Book Three: Coming Spring 2013
Some secrets are better left buried…
When the mysterious Gavin Phillips returns to Seattle after a prolonged and unexplained absence, he threatens to expose fifteen-year-old Cassidy Jones’s incredible secret: she is a superhero. But his presence is far more sinister than she realizes, for it soon becomes apparent that his hidden agenda holds a dark and dangerous intent that will unleash an unparalleled evil upon an unsuspecting world. Can Cassidy stop him before all is lost?
Order an advanced copy by donating to the Indiegogo campaign: Cassidy Jones and the Seventh Attendant
