V.L. Locey's Blog, page 89

Throwback Thursday Tune

In honor of the fantastic musical Jersey Boys coming to the big screen, we`re going to enjoy the real Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons today!

O Captain! My Captain! Release Day Is Here!

Finally, the wait is over! You can pick up Maggie and Derrick`s romance today at the Secret Cravings Store!

O Captain! My Captain! Secret Cravings Store

For those who wish to wait, you should be able to pick up your copy at Amazon, B&N, and All Romance eBooks the Monday following release.

*~*~*
Can two forty something`s rediscover romance even though they`ve both been crosschecked by love before?


Being a single working mother isn`t easy. Just ask Maggie Charles. She`s juggling a job she hates, a rebellious teenage son, and the aftereffects of an abusive first marriage. There isn`t room in her life for a love affair, not that anyone would want to romance someone her age anyway, right? So why, after all these months, when she runs into the strapping Wildcats` captain at a charity event, does the sight of Derrick Andersson leave her so breathless once again? Is that reallydesire burning in the captain`s green eyes when he looks at her? Is it possible for a couple of been-there-and-done-thats to find love the second time around?

Tuesday Tales - Summer

Welcome to another edition of Tuesday Tales, and more White Moon, Yellow Leaves, a M/F contemporary romance.
 This week we`ll pick up as Dana discovers her son passing the time with Jonah the morning after she arrived at Mud Puppy Lake.
Our word this week is 'Summer'. As always, all comments are greatly appreciated. Make sure to check out all the Tuesday Tales authors great contributions.



White Moon, Yellow Leaves
*~*~*

I cracked the door, just enough to hear the conversation but not enough to let Jonah see how terrible I looked. From my angle I could just make out Rhett, bundled up in a black coat and Steelers knit cap facing the wood splitter. I could see nothing of Jonah but his back and the smooth strokes of a well-hued axe as it sailed through the air.
“Are you a real Indian?” My son asked. My forehead met the doorframe soundly. Oh. My. God. The child had no filter at all. A crack of wood preceded Jonah`s reply.
“Are you a real white boy?”
“Yep.” Rhett said, the quip sailing over his black and yellow hat. “Are you? A real Indian?”
            “You mean as opposed to a fake Indian?” the man asked, placing a halved chunk of maple back to his chopping block. His hair was tightly braided this morning. I had a very naughty image of that blanket of onyx satin falling over my face as Jonah lowered his naked body over mine. Once more I introduced my forehead to the doorframe, this time to drive the wanton thought away.
            “Uh-huh,” my son replied, his voice jarring me from the fantasy roughly. “My mom and I was watching a movie once, and she said they were fake Indians playing the Indians.”
            “Ah,” Jonah said, cleaving the half into quarters. I opened the door a bit wider to get some cold air to move into the front of my robe. I was suddenly feeling quite warm. “Yes, I`m a real Indian,” Jonah responded with patience.
            “Did you ever scalp anyone?”
I burst out the door, my state of dishabille forgotten.
“Good morning!”  I nearly screamed. I was so freaking chipper song birds would soon be lighting on my shoulders to sing me a cheery tune. Both males turned their heads to look at me. Rhett smiled. Jonah reached inside my nightgown and caressed my bare breasts with his eyes. A red leaf flittered down in front of me. I was worried my nightclothes may spontaneously combust. This young man, key word 'young', was doing seriously bad things to my state of mind.
“Hey mom!” Rhett jumped down from his stump, his mind moving from the Great Seneca Inquisition to the capture of a speeding dachshund. Then we were alone.
“Morning Miss Dana,” Jonah said, his fingers allowing the axe to slide to the ground smoothly.
“You can just call me Dana.” I found a lovely mushroom on the side of a pine tree to stare at. “I—He didn`t mean anything by that,” I stammered.
“It`s okay, he`s a kid. It’s the adults that ask those kinds of questions that need a good ass kicking.” Jonah smiled and stepped closer. I caught him approaching in my peripheral. My eyes, traitorous things that they are, left that fascinating fungus and latched onto his mouth. “You okay? You look kind of flustered.”
“Nope, I`m good.” I grinned feeling the cold seeping from the ground through my slippers. “Right as rain as they say,” I tacked for no sensible reason that I could see.
“Okay,” the man shrugged and turned to get back to work. His coat was woolen red and blue tartan and stretched tightly across his upper back. My fingers grew itchy just thinking of touching the wool and muscle beneath it. “If you don`t have anything planned this morning I told Rhett I`d walk the grouse path with him. Thought you might like to come along.”
I stared at that powerful back blankly then nodded. When he didn`t get a verbal reply his head turned to find me over his left shoulder. I was still nodding like a dullard.
“Charades work better if the other person is facing you.” He chuckled. I blushed then broke out in a summer sweat despite it being November. “Go get dressed and meet us at the lake. Can`t imagine I`d be able to keep my mind on the flora and fauna with you looking like you do.”
I ran a hand over my hair. “Wouldn`t want to scare the woodpeckers.” I was hoping to sound amusingly self-deprecating. To my ears I sounded pitiable. He lowered the axe yet kept his sight on the round of oak awaiting the chop to come.
“It wasn`t the effect on the birds I was worried about.”
A thousand and one very erudite replies lingered on my tongue. Instead of using one of those I went with the following:
“Yeah, okay, good. Well yeah, coffee.”
Nothing like brilliant repartee to impress, is there?



Copyright 2012 ©by V.L. Locey
*~*~*
Click on the link below to return to the Tuesday Tales main blog for more great reads from the talented authors of Tuesday Tales.
Tuesday Tales
See you next week!

Derrick and Maggie Are On Goodreads!

O Captain! My Captain! is now listed on Goodreads in preparation for release this Wednesday, July 9th. I would so appreciate it if you`d add it to your 'Want to Read'  and/or 'Favorites' shelf. Thank you so, so much!


O Captain! My Captain! on Goodreads

Congratulations to Skeeter! She won the choice one of my ...

Congratulations to Skeeter! She won the choice one of my books at Amazon.





Skeeter, I`ll be getting in contact with you shortly via email to set things up. Many thanks to all who visited during The Freedom Hop! I hope you drop in regularly!

Happy Independence Day!

The Freedom Hop! Giveaway!

Live. Love. Read.
ROMANCE BECKONS
As a book lover, don't take for granted your freedom to read. In this era of technology, books are at our fingertips and reading is something we make time for. eBook, audiobooks and good old-fashioned paperbacks give readers of all types the opportunity to enjoy reading.

Which type of books do you enjoy? Is it the fingernail-biting suspense? The thrill of an erotic romance? Or the fantasy of paranormal romance? Do you like your books to take you out of this world? Or is all about the possibilities in a contemporary romance?

*INSERT BOOK & CONTEST INFORMATION HERE*

CHECK OUT ALL THESE GREAT AUTHORS for books you might enjoy!

Linky Link Here
*~*~*
Hello and welcome to my little corner of the interweb. My name is V.L. Locey. I`m a multigenre erotic romance author. Thank you for stopping by as we celebrate The Freedom Hop.
Now perhaps some of you may be wondering exactly what a multigenre author is. And, you may wonder why I chose to be one. Well, first off there was no choosing about it. My muse refuses to stay locked into one specific genre. Which is why you`ll find tales of mine that go range from gay shapeshifters to M/F hockey romances to M/M zombie apocalypses then back to M/F contemporary romances. I write what I am compelled to write, despite what some people say about such things. They, whoever they are, say that you should pick one genre and never veer from it. I politely disagree. I think an author should write whatever she/he wishes.
Much like the current debate about women writing gay romances. Those who are against it say that a woman can`t write gay romance since they`re not gay men. They, again, whoever they are, say that you can only write what you know. I`ve heard that saying before, and while it does have some merit, I think it`s just too limiting. So since I`m not a gay man I shouldn`t write M/M romance. Why? Isn`t love the same no matter what gender we`re writing about? I sure treat it the same be my story about two men falling in love or a woman and a man.




If we follow that reasoning, that you should only write what you know, we would have never had the pleasure of reading about Hogwart`s School of Wizardry, as I think J. K. Rowling is neither a young boy or a wizard. We would have never met the cast of thousands that backstab, sleep with siblings, and on occasion orchestrate Red Weddings or dally with dragons. I`m pretty sure George R. R. Martin is not a blonde princess with dragon blood, a lord of Winterfell, or a witty yet loveable midget. We would have never learned about the Hunger Games, since Suzanne Collins isn`t a young woman named Katniss living in a post-apocalyptic world, to the best of my knowledge.
I think we all should have the freedom to write and read whatever we wish, don`t you? If you could pen one story about anything you wished, what would you write about? Let me know in the comment section and I`ll enter your name in the drawing for a free digital copy of any of my books currently listed on Amazon. 

V.L. Locey on Amazon

Yep. Your choice if you win. All I need is a comment and contact info. If you do not leave your contact information I`ll pass over your name. I know that sounds harsh, but I simply do not have time to track down people on the internet. So, comment, drop that contact info, and a free book might be yours! Thank you for stopping by. Make sure you visit all the other participating authors as well.

O Captain! My Captain! Tease

Only seven more days until Derrick and Maggie`s book can be yours! You can preorder your copy now at the Secret Cravings Publishing store:

O Captain! My Captain! Order Link

Tuesday Tales - Sea

Welcome to another edition of Tuesday Tales, and more White Moon, Yellow Leaves, an M/F contemporary romance.
Last week we met our leading lady, Dana, her son, Rhett, and her great-aunt, Josephine. This week the threesome have arrived at the tiny cabin on Mud Puppy Lake, and we meet our leading man. (He still makes my heart flutter and it`s been nigh onto two years since I penned this tale!)
Our word this week is 'Sea'. As always, all comments are greatly appreciated. Make sure to check out all the Tuesday Tales authors great contributions.


White Moon, Yellow Leaves




“Wait until you walk the grouse path,” Aunt Jo-Jo said, her enthusiasm catching apparently because Leopold began to bark shrilly as we neared our cabin. It was the last one in the line, nearly hidden by tall green pines and crimson oaks. We pulled into a small gravel drive beside the bungalow. Leopold was nearly turned inside-out so great was his need to get out of the car. My son was in a similar state.
“I`m gonna go walk the grouse path right now!” Rhett announced, fumbling to free himself from the seat-belt.
“You don`t even know where the grouse path is,” I laughed, his ebullient mood chipping away at my dour disposition. The doors front and back flew open. Lad and dachshund escaped their confines. “Stay away from the water!” I shouted as I slid from the car with a popping spine.
Aunt Jo-Jo`s cane was already on the ground by the time I got around to helping her from the rear. Her silver head came to my chin when she got her feet under her properly. None of the women in my family are particularly tall. And most tend to be on the round side. Think Hobbits in babushkas. I blame that on the Polish cooking. Not being short, being round.  I grew up eating pierogies, halupkies, and kielbasa. My size sixteen ass is a direct result of dough stuffed with mashed potatoes, stuffed cabbage, and spicy sausage, as well as divorcing a cheating husband. Let`s not forget all those nights spent making love to pints of mint chocolate chip.
“Looks like Andy has gotten the cabins all opened up,” Jo-Jo noted, her eyes roaming over the other smaller homes used for hunting camps. The summer folks wouldn`t be here until Memorial Day weekend of next year. A brisk wind blew over the lake, carrying the smell of rotting leaves and mineral rich water. Aunt Jo tugged her bright pink sweater under her chin then toddled towards her cabin, her steps muted by the blanket of wet leaves.
“I thought Andy had fallen down and broke his hip,” I called over the yips of boy and wiener dog racing around tree trunks.
“Maybe one of his kids stepped in,” she shouted to be heard over the ruckus.
I nodded and began the chore of toting in a week`s worth of food, clothes, and kid stuff. Knowing Andy Big Deer as I did, he probably gimped down from his house to tend to the cabins as he`s been doing for fifty years. Andy is one stubbornly proud caretaker. Arms filled with duffle bags and suitcases, I turned to look at Hans and Jo-Jo`s retreat. It was a simple home, quite small in comparison to a couple other houses along the lake, but well-loved. I always thought it looked like it should rest beside the sea in Maine instead of a New York State lake.
 The sides of the little bungalow were cedar shake shingles, baked slate grey by years of sun and fog. Many were ragged on the edges. I made a mental note to talk to Andy`s son and see about getting some shingle replacement done next spring. A porch sat waiting for someone to sweep the leaves off the flagstones and knock the cobwebs from the corners of the slightly bowed roof. A tendril of wood smoke wafted past, tickling my nose.
Rhett and Herr Poopbottom tore past me, each with a stick, then disappeared around the side of the cabin. The standard mother warning about running with sticks bubbled up from behind the mound of crap in my arms. I heard the front door squeaking open and Aunt Jo pattering on about how nice it had been of Joe`s boy to get the wood stove going. Turned sideways to try to force my rump and the mountain of bags through the narrow doorway, I paused when I heard Rhett shout. I listened, my biceps straining under the load, to see if a wail of pain or a laugh would follow. What came next was a dachshund kicking up twigs and leaves in his wake with a six year old boy on his whippet of a brown tail.
Rhett tripped over his sneakers, a common occurrence when the lad was nearing mach, and crashed into me. The heavy load teetered precariously. Herr Poopbottom went between my legs like a rocket hound. I danced to avoid stepping on the dog and the entire unstable load as well as its bearer fell into the cabin. Bags and suitcases tumbled down over me. Rhett stumbled over his mother lying buried under the debris then raced to throw his arms around Aunt Jo-Jo`s round waist. I kicked at a Spider-Man duffel bag and caught a peek at a pair of big work boots stepping onto the porch. They were worn brown leather and well scuffed on the toes. The boots were exposed up to the ankle where they then gave way to light blue denim that hugged muscular thighs as thick as a New York pine, or so it seemed from the planks of the floor.
I didn`t know if I should look any higher since my ears and nose were beet red already. I decided to roll with it then blew a strand of dirty blonde hair from my face with panache. The jeans climbed up and up and up, the lean waistband hidden behind beech and ironwood chunks freshly split for the stove. All I could see were well-corded forearms the color of sienna. The man stepped over me splayed so gracefully on the floor, dropped his armload into the rack by the door then turned to gaze down on me. Plump lips were tugged up in a bemused smile, a white splash of perfect teeth set into a face crafted by the Seneca gods themselves.  High cheek bones set off a nose that was a bit too wide to be considered Hollywood perfect. It was the nose of Andy Big Deer. It fit his face perfectly.
His eyes were obsidian. His hair, black as a raven`s breast, was pulled back into a thick ponytail. He folded his arms over a New York Rangers XXXL hoodie that was littered with chips of bark, moss, and dirt.
“Andy always says that Dana Prescott makes grand entrances,” he chuckled. One dark eyebrow moved up his smooth brow. He then did the gentlemanly thing by uncrossing his arms and extending a hubcap-sized hand down to me.
“Good Lord, is that really you, Jonah Big Deer?” Jo-Jo exclaimed with a frightened boy still buried in her belly. He pulled me to my feet with ease. His hand was warm and calloused and lingered in mine for a second too long. “I haven`t seen you since your mother came down with Joe. It was that time I ate that bad mushroom and got so sick. Hell, what was that? Twenty years ago?”
I slid my suddenly damp palm from Jonah`s then tipped my head back to look at the young man. He smiled widely at my aunt. Something sinful began to sizzle deep inside my stomach.
“Yes, Ma`am, it probably was,” he replied politely, those dark eyes roaming over my child snuggled up to my great-aunt. “I was probably his age, maybe younger.”
“I don`t remember making any grand—you`re only twenty-six?” fell from me before I could stop it. Jonah glanced back at me.
“Actually, I`m only twenty-five.” He winked. “I best get the rest of that wood in for the other cabins. Sorry about scaring the boy.” Jonah bent to pick up a duffel bag, place it in my hands,  then exit with much more poise than I had displayed.
“He`s twenty-five,” I muttered, a duffel bag dangling from my fingers absently. Well, so much for that hot flapjack of attraction on the griddle of love. “Who wants pancakes for dinner?”

Copyright 2012 ©by V.L. Locey

*~*~*
Click on the link below to return to the Tuesday Tales main blog for more great reads from the talented authors of Tuesday Tales.
Tuesday Tales
See you next week!

Please Welcome Jami Davenport!

I`m so happy to have the lovely Jami Davenport here today. Jami is one of my fellow Seduced by the Game authors, and she`s here to share some great news about her newest sports romance, Time of Possession. 



BLURB:
The clock’s ticking down, and Estelle Harris and Lumberjacks quarterback Brett Gunnels are about to enter crunch time.




SYNOPSIS:
CRUNCH TIME
Supposedly undersized for the NFL, Brett Gunnels went off to do a stint in the US Army right out of high school. Returning damaged yet stronger and more determined than ever to prove himself, he was picked last in the draft. Mr. Irrelevant, they called him. The last few years as a backup quarterback have given him no opportunity to compete for the starting job. That’s why he has a chip on his shoulder the size of Puget Sound.
Estelle Harris is engaged to a man she doesn't love, working a job she hates, and fooling everyone including herself in the process. Her love of animals is the only thing that gives her purpose—a love she shares the Lumberjacks’ reclusive quarterback. And then their mutual friendship turns a hot, dark, forbidden corner and there's no going back.
True love is like football. It’s not always how long you have the ball. It’s what you do when you get it.
AUTHOR BIO:
An advocate of happy endings, Jami Davenport writes sexy romantic comedy, sports hero romances, and equestrian fiction. Jami lives on a small farm near Puget Sound with her Green Beret-turned-plumber husband, a Newfoundland cross with a tennis ball fetish, a prince disguised as an orange tabby cat, and an opinionated Hanoverian mare.
Jami works in IT for her day job and is a former high school business teacher and dressage rider. In her spare time, she maintains her small farm and socializes whenever the opportunity presents itself. An avid boater, Jami has spent countless hours in the San Juan Islands, a common setting in her books. In her opinion, it is the most beautiful place on earth.



AUTHOR LINKS: website: www.jamidavenport.comblog: jamidavenport.blogspot.comfacebook: www.facebook.com/jamidavenporttwitter: www.twitter.com/jamidavenportgoodreads: /1637218.Jami_Davenport

RAFFLECOPTER: HTML: a Rafflecopter giveaway
LINK: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/disp...







Chapter 1—Mr. Irrelevant Brett Gunnels had fostered an intimate relationship with his clipboard over the past several football seasons. After all, as the backup quarterback, he played his game on that clipboard, not out on the football field. Every Sunday during the season he stood on the sidelines making endless notes. One day he’d get his chance, a chance to prove that Mr. Irrelevant—the title bestowed on the last player picked each year in the NFL draft—was anything but. Today, like any game day, Brett roamed the sidelines, clipboard in hand. Every once in a while, he stopped, cupped his hands to his mouth, and called out warnings or advice to the Seattle Lumberjacks’ starting quarterback. Not that Tyler Harris heard him or would listen even if he did. Harris did his own thing, and to hell with anyone else, even his teammates and coaches. A couple penalties set the Jacks back to San Francisco’s forty yard line, and the offense was looking at third and twenty-five with fifteen seconds on the clock. Harris took the ball from center and stepped back, staying in the pocket with the coolness and finesse of the elite quarterback he was. A second later, the pocket collapsed around him and he scrambled, running for his life while looking for an open receiver. Every one of them was covered. Harris never saw the streak of pure muscle and brawn coming from his blindside. Brett cringed as the linebacker slammed into Harris with a vicious hit, falling on him in the process. Harris was known for his toughness, but from Brett’s point of view, knees didn’t bend like that.As the offense returned to the huddle, a couple of them looked toward Harris, as if expecting him to bounce to his feet. He always did. But not this time.Sprawled on his back, the two-time championship quarterback didn’t move. Not even an eyelash. A hush came over the crowd, eerie in its silence, while a cold wind of fear blew through the stadium. Harris’s cousin and the Jacks’ top wide receiver, Derek Ramsey, knelt beside the immobile quarterback, as the coaches and trainers hurried onto the field. The offensive line huddled nearby, pretending not to stare but doing so anyway, worry etched on the big guys’ beefy faces.Brett might not like Harris much—not many guys did—but his grudging respect for the guy’s talent and work ethic overrode any personal issues he might have. Besides, no one wanted to see a teammate laid out on the field like that, or anyone else for that matter.An icy shiver radiated up Brett’s spine as his brain transported him to another time where sand stretched as far as the eye could see, another body down and not moving. Nothing. Just like Harris was now. A cold sweat trickled down Brett’s forehead, and he dropped his clipboard and scrubbed his face with his hands, forcing those memories back into the compartment where he kept them tightly locked up. This wasn’t a war zone—well, not exactly—and his teammate was known for his dramatics. He was probably taking a two-minute siesta at the expense of everyone’s nerves. Any second, he’d hop to his feet and chastise them for being such pansy-asses.Only Harris didn’t move. Brett couldn’t stay on the sidelines and do nothing. He ran onto the field to join his teammates standing in concerned clusters. Harris’s chalky face looked like death. Brett swallowed back the fear and bolstered his courage. He’d be okay. He had to be. He was too mean and too tough to be seriously injured. After several tense minutes, Harris sat up and shook his head. The team breathed a collective sigh of relief. Groggily, he accepted assistance to his feet, only to have his knee buckle. He went down again, clutching his leg, pain carved into his usually stoic face as he rolled back and forth on the turf. A few seconds later, two linemen helped him onto a cart, and they zipped him off the field and down the tunnel. Only then did Brett realize the coach was yelling at him. “Gun, get your helmet on and get your ass out there on that field.”Standing on the fifty yard line, the guys in the huddle gawked at him, waiting for him to assume control. Frantic, he looked for his helmet but couldn’t find it. Zach Murphy, their All-Pro linebacker, shoved it in his hands. Strapping it on as he ran, Brett got to the huddle, only to find the mic in his helmet wasn’t working. After tapping on the helmet a few times, he took several deep breaths and squelched the growing panic inside him. He could do this. He would do this. He had to do this. The team was counting on him.Brett turned to the guys gathered around him, his gaze determined. He knew exactly what play to call in this situation, having rehearsed it over and over in his mind and on the practice field. He called for a quick out-pass to Derek, hoping to catch the defense expecting a run because of the quarterback change. He took the snap from center, pedaled backwards, and tossed an easy lob to Derek, who collided with a defensive end as they both went for the ball. The end batted the ball into the air, and a San Francisco linebacker in the right place at the right time scooped it up before it hit the ground and ran it back for a touchdown. Game over.




At first his stunned teammates stared at the end zone as if they couldn’t believe their bad luck. Then one by one, guys patted him on the back amid murmurs of “good try,” “tough break,” and “we did the best we could.” Regardless, Brett blamed himself because that’s what a good quarterback did. A great one carried the whole team on his shoulders and found a way to win. Just not to