Category: Thrillers

Ripple Effect by Keri Lake…Release Day Blitz

 

 

 

Ripley

They call me RIP.
I’m a killer. A murderer. A psychopath.
In the eyes of the righteous, I’m a monster, born of sin and depravity.
I want to protect her, but I’m not a good man.
I want to love her, but I no longer feel.
She gets under my skin, though, and has awakened something inside of me.
Something I’d kill for.
I’m not her savior—not even close. In fact, I’m worse than the hell she’s already suffered.
I’m her vengeance. Tit for tat, as they say.
And if she’s not careful, I’ll be her ruin.

Dylan

For months, I’ve watched him.
I’ve fantasized him as my savior, my lover. My ticket out of the hell I’ve lived in for the last six years.
I never dreamed he’d be my nightmare.
Had I known what he really is, I’d have never gotten in the car that night, but life is full of cause and effect.
And sometimes the choice on offer isn’t a choice at all.
It’s the result of something already in motion, and we’re merely left to survive the ripple effect.

*This is an erotic suspense/erotic romance not recommended for readers under the age of 18 due to graphic violence and sex.

 

Prologue

 

Ripley
Ripple effect: noun
1. a spreading effect or series of consequences caused by a single action or event

 

    “Do you want to live?” The barrel of the gun presses into my temple, still warm from the bullets that were shot into my stepmother, who now lies in a lifeless heap in the corner. “This moment will determine whether or not I pull the trigger.”
   The stranger’s breath smells of warm tobacco and liquor.
   Thick red blood pools at my boots, and my eyes follow the scarlet trail across the wooden planks to the wounded man, crawling on his elbows toward the door.
   I just sliced through the back of his knees with a blade, like a robot at the gunman’s command. Sixteen years of being a relatively normal kid ripped out of my hands, as I watch my first victim, about to make myself a murderer.
    My lips are dry. So is my throat, fuzzy and scratchy like cotton. Fear will do that, but so can excitement.
   Staring down at my hands, coated in his blood, I suddenly long to wash him off of me, to keep him from infecting me, but I can’t yet. I have to finish him. That’s what the stranger with the gun has asked me to do.
   Kill my father.
   With slow, stalking steps, I follow behind, until he turns over onto his back, and the gore of the last hour bleeds out of more wounds than I can count.
   “Tell me, boy.” His voice is raspy, gravelly, and carries a slight gurgle from whatever is backing up in his throat. In spite of the panting rise and fall of his chest, he lets out a hearty laugh and slaps a hand to his heart with a hacking cough that sprouts a glob of blood onto his lip. “What’s yours … feel like?” Blood coats his teeth and choppy words confess he’s losing to death. “Tell you what … mine felt like. Your momma … she was … a beautiful kill. Fucking … begged me not to hurt you. Told me … I could do whatever … I wanted to her. So long as I left … you alone.” Another laugh and he twists to the side, vomiting blood onto the floor beside him. After a pause, he wipes his face across his sleeve and continues, “So I did … everything … to that whoring cunt.”
   I tighten my fingers around the blade’s hilt, and despite the rage that snakes through my veins, I don’t yet finish him. I’ve waited too long for this. Night after night, I fantasized of these very seconds and the final words I’d say to him.
   With the gun pointed at my back, I find the courage to kill or be killed. “Every … stab. Like butter. And when I slit her throat …” A sickly cough ends on a choking fit and the wet clap in his chest tells me I punctured his lung earlier. “Last thing she mouthed … was your name.”
   I kneel down beside him and reach out a hand that he bats away. I’m stronger than what little resistance is left in him, and I grip his skull, staring into his dark, soulless eyes. Both of mine are a different color—one blue, like my mother’s, and one hazel. One offers the ability to see a man’s true colors, the other allows me to watch him die without remorse. “You want to know how it feels to hurt you?” The detachment in my voice is foreign to me. Calm.
   His lips stretch into a bloodstained smile. “Yes. Tell me. Tell me … how it feels.”
   I stab the knife into his throat and give a brutal turn of the blade, watching his eyes widen in horror as his hand flies to the hilt. Gripping his hair tight, I tip his head back and guide his eyes to mine. “I feel nothing.”
   His brows dip with a frown and focus on mine for a moment as he gasps for the air that’ll never save him now.
   I push off of him, surprised at the apathy washing over me while he grasps at the gaping wound in his windpipe. Surely a son should feel something for his father. And yet, I don’t. He’d beaten the love out of me a long time ago, leaving nothing but a hollow that has since filled with hate.
   From behind, a firm grip of my shoulder has me looking down to the gold lion ring on the hand curled there, and back to the man wearing a black shirt and slacks, who stands behind me.
   “Well done, Ripley.” He puffs his cigar and gives a squeeze of my shoulder. “Well done, my boy.”
   The man who freed me from my cage disappears into the dark room behind me, and when I turn my attention back on the one I’ve just killed, a terrifying reality settles over me.
   I’ve traded one cage for another.

 

 

 

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Keri Lake is a married mother of two living in Michigan. By day, she tries to make use of the degrees she’s earned in science. By night, she writes dark contemporary, paranormal romance and urban fantasy. Though novels tend to be her focus, she also writes short stories and flash fiction on the many occasions distraction sucks her into the Land of Shiny Things.

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Vanished by T.K. Leigh…Release Boost

 

 

 

Title: Vanished
Author: T.K. Leigh
Genre: Mystery/Suspense/Thriller
Release Date: February 7, 2017

 

Blurb

Recommended for mature readers due to strong language and graphic violence.

Rayne Kilpatrick has everything. A job she’s dreamed of since a little girl. The perfect house. And a man she loves and is about to marry… Until he never returns from a humanitarian mission.

Gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

When footage of his gruesome murder by a Muslim extremist group is shown across the country and around the globe, she wants the person responsible for the disappearance of the man she loves to pay. She wants him to lose the one person who means the world to him, too, and she won’t stop until he does.

Alexander Burnham has everything… Finally. A job he enjoys where he can actually make a difference in the world. The perfect woman who he’s loved his entire life. And the most beautiful daughter a father could ask for… Until he walks into her bedroom one morning to find it empty.

Gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

It’s a race against the clock for Alexander to put the pieces together and find out who has taken his daughter and what they want from him. As information comes to light, he is forced to bury the guilt he feels after losing his fellow team member and focus instead on finding and saving his daughter…

Before it’s too late.

Vanished can be read in conjunction with or separate from the Beautiful Mess series.

 

Purchase Links

 

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU

 

 

Excerpt

This was no longer home to a fearless girl who had more love for Olivia than she deserved. This would now become a place of nightmares for her daughter. Would she ever be able to sleep in this room again? Would she ever want to sleep alone? Would she ever feel safe?

Olivia struggled to come to terms with what Melanie’s life would be like if she survived this. She hadn’t done anything to deserve this. Alexander wasn’t without his faults, and neither was Olivia, but Melanie was so young, so pure, so innocent. Now, at far too young an age, she would be jaded by the cruelties of the world.

Would she ever see her smile again?

Would she ever hear her carefree laugh?

Would she ever feel her unconditional love as she flung her arms around her?

Bleakness invaded Olivia right down to her core as she fell onto Melanie’s unmade bed. Sheets that were once warm from her presence had grown cold, and Olivia could no longer keep it in. She wasn’t just watching a made-for-TV movie about a successful, semi-famous family losing their daughter. She was living the nightmare. wishing with everything she had that this would all be over soon, that it wasn’t real.

“Wake up!” Olivia screamed, slapping her face as relentless tears streamed down her cheeks. She curled into a ball, the torment growing inside her becoming unbearable. It felt like someone was ripping her open with sadistic apathy, the pace languid and sluggish, taking pleasure from each strained breath she struggled to capture. Her skin prickled with the heat of a thousand branding irons. No matter how loud she screamed, it wouldn’t dull the pain.

“Wake up, Olivia!” she bellowed again, louder and more desperate. Nothing worked. No matter what she did, no matter how loud her cries, nothing would wake her from this nightmare.

Sobs wracked through her body as she fought for air. She tried to gain control over her body and tears, but it was useless. She was no longer in command of her own destiny. Even the seemingly innate task of inhaling and exhaling had become arduous and complicated. Melanie was her lifeline, her reason for living. Without her, Olivia’s heart gave out, her lungs refused to work, her body shut down.

Suddenly, a pair of familiar, strong arms cradled her, lifting her off the torturous bed, cocooning her in a shelter only they could provide. They comforted her sobs, giving her exactly what she needed. She cried into her husband’s chest, a hundred tears falling for every regret. No words were spoken. Lowering himself to the floor, he simply held her in his lap, wiping her tears, providing her with warmth in this cold, hateful world.

She didn’t know how many minutes ticked by as he remained there, silently assuring her with his presence that they would get through this, that everything would work out. Still, she knew they would never be the same. This had shaken their family to its core. There was no returning to the way things were before.

Olivia cried harder.

She cried for all the time she should have spent with her daughter instead of working tirelessly for one charity or another. She cried for all the times she told her no when she should have said yes. Yes, we can have pancakes for dinner. Yes, we can go feed the ducks at the pond. Yes, we can make Christmas cookies in July.

Exhaustion set in as her cries subsided and she closed her eyes. The last thing she saw before drifting off was Melanie standing alone in a dark room, a blank expression on her pale face.

 

Beautiful Mess Series

 

CURRENTLY FREE

 

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU
AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU
AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU

 

Author Bio

 

T.K. Leigh, otherwise known as Tracy Leigh Kellam, is a USA Today Bestselling author of the Beautiful Mess series, in addition to several other works. Originally from New England, she now resides in sunny Southern California with her husband, dog, and three cats, all of which she has rescued (including the husband). In late 2015, she gave birth to her first (and only) baby. When she’s not planted in front of her computer, writing away, she can be found training for her next marathon (of which she has run over fifteen fulls and far too many halfs to recall) or chasing her daughter around the house.

T.K. Leigh is represented by Jane Dystel of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management. All publishing inquiries, including audio, foreign, and film rights, should be directed to her.

Author Links

Chapter Reveal…..Ripple Effect by Keri Lake

 

 

Coming February 24th

 

Ripley

They call me RIP.
I’m a killer. A murderer. A psychopath.
In the eyes of the righteous, I’m a monster, born of sin and depravity.
I want to protect her, but I’m not a good man.
I want to love her, but I no longer feel.
She gets under my skin, though, and has awakened something inside of me.
Something I’d kill for.
I’m not her savior—not even close. In fact, I’m worse than the hell she’s already suffered.
I’m her vengeance. Tit for tat, as they say.
And if she’s not careful, I’ll be her ruin.

Dylan

For months, I’ve watched him.
I’ve fantasized him as my savior, my lover. My ticket out of the hell I’ve lived in for the last six years.
I never dreamed he’d be my nightmare.
Had I known what he really is, I’d have never gotten in the car that night, but life is full of cause and effect.
And sometimes the choice on offer isn’t a choice at all.
It’s the result of something already in motion, and we’re merely left to survive the ripple effect.

*This is an erotic suspense/erotic romance not recommended for readers under the age of 18 due to graphic violence and sex.

 

 

Shells are made to be cracked.
I stare down at the tiny white egg, wedged between the ashtray filled with cigarette butts and the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the balcony.  Hardly broken in two halves, the busted center reveals an underdeveloped bird inside, nearly devoured by the bugs that crawl in and out of the shell.  I can just make out one bulbous eyeball, surprisingly intact, staring back at me.  Mourning Dove, I’d bet.  They seem to flock to this shithole every year, for whatever reason.
The nest teeters on the edge of the eave somewhere above me, as if the mother intentionally chose this most dangerous spot to lay her egg then up and abandoned it.  Left to the careful watch of carnivores.
Poor little bird.
A tickle hits my arm and I slap a hand to my skin, before scratching at the spot just below a black monarch butterfly tattoo, digging my nails into the place where I’m certain I felt something crawling over me.  I hate when my long wisps of hair skim across the surface like a translucent web dancing over my skin.  Insects give me the willies.  Well, except for butterflies, I don’t mind them so much.  My therapist put a name on it once, said I had ento-something-phobia—a fear of bugs.  It’s not really the bugs themselves I fear, though.  It’s the idea that something could breach the barriers of my skin, and infest, just like the shell that housed that bird.  Sometimes I have dreams about them, crawling over me, nesting inside of me.  
The very thought casts a shiver down my spine, and I’m grateful for the pane of glass that separates me from the macabre outside my window.  
Wind rattles the glass in its frame, the tendrils of late winter snaking their way beneath the thin afghan wrapped around my shoulders.  It’s been mild, unseasonably warm enough for bugs and early blooms, but that Chicago wind carries the vestiges of a brutal winter.
The fog of my pills is lifting, making me more aware of the cold, but I’m holding off for something stronger.  I’ll need it tonight.
From below, the mumbled shouts of Lady Ortiz, as I call her, push their way through the rotted wood planks that separate our balcony from hers.  She and Mr. Ortiz are fighting again, their voices escalating into the crash of broken glass.   The Yorkie, three floors below, barks an incessant plea to take a piss outside, and I wonder if his owner, Mrs. Silvia, has finally kicked the bucket.  The lady’s pushing ninety, and the pungent reek of ammonia that fills her apartment seeps through the heating ducts of this place sometimes.
Oddly enough, in spite of the noise, the smells, and the crawling bugs, this is my moment of peace. Escape.  Freedom.  
I must be the only teenage girl on the planet who longs for quiet moments without the gossip, the socializing, and all the damn noise.  In a generation of selfies and the desperate need for validation, sometimes I like to slip onto the other side of the mirror and simply watch.
Fringed by the glow of my bedroom light, I study the broken shell, eyeing an ant that marches away with a chunk of something far too big for its size, and I’m reminded that the world takes what it wants even after death.
That’s how I got here, this shithole apartment smack in the middle of Chicago.  Just like insects, after my father’s death, the bank took our house, the creditors took our cars, and shame stole our pride as we bounced from shelter to shelter, my mom and me.  I was nine years old when he died, and as innocent and vulnerable as a baby bird trapped inside a fragile shell.
Because he committed suicide, my dad’s insurance policy was considered null, and we were left without a pot to piss in.  For a while, though, we got by.  My mom landed a job dancing, and as a veteran’s widow, qualified for something like Section Eight housing.  I was left home alone most nights, but it worked.  We survived. Things were okay for a while.
I can’t even remember the moment life changed for us.  
Feels like it happened in the span of a year, but I know it only took one fleeting second in time, when she didn’t have to worry about me, when the weight bearing down on her lifted and she felt high as the clouds.
An odd dichotomy, heroin—the way it rolls off the tongue as two completely opposite things—a selfless and courageous woman, and a selfish agent of destruction.  
My mom gave up one for the other and that began our descent into some of the darkest days of my life.
My stomach twists, and I curl into myself, bringing my knees tighter to my body.  
Almost time.
Two silhouettes hit my periphery, and I turn toward the mouth of the alley, where they move abruptly, limbs flailing, as if they’re in the thick of a fight.  I focus on them for a moment, spotting the sag of his slacks just below his un-tucked shirt, and realize they’re not fighting at all. They’re fucking.  A prostitute and her John pressed against the dirty bricks of the building, beside the overflowing dumpster. Her dark skin is hard to make out, but his crisp white shirt stands out like a beacon of debauchery.
This alley is a constant stream of slum life stories.
Staring at them drudges a memory of sitting tucked beside a line of garbage cans in the back alley of a bar, watching a rat pick at a maggot-infested chicken leg lying in a toxic pool of wastewater, while the sounds of my mother’s animalistic grunts and moans drifted from the other side.  Nothing but meat and the stench of rot taunting my gag reflex.  Through a small gap between the wall and garbage, I could just make out a man’s naked ass slamming into her, his dirty fingers curled around her bony thigh.  Even then, no more than eleven years old, I knew what she’d become before the word was brutally carved into her skin. Whore.  Junkie.  A prostitute, always searching for the next high.
The two in the alley stop moving.  Only that they’ve begun to pull their clothes back on tells me one of them must’ve climaxed.  There is no big finale, or magical moment of ecstasy in the underbelly.  It’s all quick and quiet fucks, while breathing in the fog and reek of stale sex and damp garbage.  He tugs his slacks over his hips and holds up an object, which I’m guessing is a thin wad of cash.  She reaches for it and the guy strikes her with the back of his hand, the echoing smack that kicks her head to the side is the first sound I’ve heard between them.  
He’s probably her pimp.  If she fights him, she’ll have to drag her ass across the city looking for an unclaimed street corner, and pray some crazy lunatic doesn’t pick her up and turn her into a human skin rug with her head mounted on his wall.
At seventeen, I know more about organizational hierarchy and job security than the average middle-aged CEO, and just like the corporate world, success depends on how many people get fucked.  
Wolves and sheep.
For those of us in the flock, survival comes down to how well we manipulate, because a predator’s eyes are naturally drawn to the most innocent.  So when my mom’s John started giving me that carnal look, I began carrying a pocketknife, and at thirteen, I once held it to the junkie’s throat, threatening to slice out his voice box if he ever touched me again.
Sometimes the sheep can be cunning, though.
My mom once tried to make me pickpocket—a lesson that landed us in the back of a cop car.  Took ten minutes with the cop before we were released with a warning, and it was then I learned a valuable lesson in life:  even at a woman’s weakest, sex could be her most powerful weapon.
I glance back at Charlie, my stark white Dogo Argentino, stolen from one of my mother’s back alley conquests.  If not for her, I wouldn’t be sitting here, letting the blood-sucking insects feed off of me, after my mother spiraled straight to her grave.  
Charlie gives me purpose.  If there is a God, I truly believe he put her in my life to keep me from doing stupid shit.  That, or to give me a weakness, because Lord knows I’d probably go psycho bitch crazy and end up in a padded cell if anything ever happened to my beloved dog.
Because of her, my heart is a tenderer piece of meat for the insects to tear apart.
At the opposite side of the room is another bed that belongs to my eight-year-old foster sister, Layla.  Well, for now anyway.  She won’t be here long.  This place is a revolving door for foster girls, most only staying a couple months max.  I don’t know where they go, and honestly, I don’t care.  There’s no point getting to know them.  In the time I’ve lived with the Westpricks, at least two-dozen girls have been in and out of here.  In some ways, I resent them, getting out and moving on to something else.  Maybe somewhere better.
I’m the only one who ever stays.  The constant in this hellhole.
Since I was nine years old, I’ve been bounced around from house to house, wishing and hoping for things that just don’t happen to kids where I come from.  For six of those years I’ve been lost.  The forgotten.  The unwanted.  I’ve been hurt in ways that have forever changed my landscape and numbed me to future pain.  
But now I have Charlie, who’s a reminder that good things can come from bad situations, and that even a beast can penetrate the hardest of hearts.  
Charlie makes me think of my mother more than I care to.  Perhaps because it was my mother who stole her for me, unwittingly gifting me my own personal guardian angel.  
I miss her sometimes, though.
The memories of her are like bent photographs that I pull from my back pocket from time to time, wishing I could set them out on a shelf someday.  But life’s too short, particularly in this part of the city, to dwell on what will never be again.
My mom wasted away before I even hit middle school. Police told me it was an overdose, but I think she got a hold of a tainted batch of heroin.  
And I’ve been caught up in the system ever since.
A few places worked out okay.  They let me keep my dog, which was cool, but people tend to give up on kids who don’t love as easily as others.  I acted out.  Punched my first foster mother in the face and broke her nose.  Didn’t even have a good reason, really, except that she was the first person I had to deal with after my mom died.
Lucky for me, my caseworker managed to track down my mom’s sister, Chanel, and her long-time boyfriend, Randy.  I’d never met her before, never even knew my mom had a sister. Aside from the fact that Chanel treats Layla and me like her favorite Barbie dolls, the two of them can’t stand us most of the time.
Doesn’t matter, though.
Two more months and I’ll be out on my own.  
I close my eyes so tight they ache.  Two more months.  That’s when I graduate and can get the hell out of this shithole, and away from the shady foster system that threw me into the hands of Randy Westprick, as I like to call him, and my flighty aunt.  In a few weeks I turn eighteen and no one will own me anymore.  No one.
I could run away now, ditch school and hit the streets, but that would put me on the same path as my mother and I’d rather die in this hellish place than repeat her mistakes.
The neon sign across the alley blinks a mesmerizing repetition of lost hopes that reflects off the patches of water along the pavement.
A shadow slips along my periphery, and I lift my gaze as a dark figure stalks down the alley toward the old fashioned-looking diner that sits across the narrow cross section on the corner.  A place that reminds me of the Boulevard of Broken Dreams painting I once saw at the mall.
It’s him.
Head to toe in black, the stranger’s tall frame remains concealed in the leather coat he always wears.  I flip open the dull brass pocket watch, the only remnant left of my real dad, and check the time.  Ten o’clock, as usual.  Churning in my stomach has me hugging my mid-section.  
Almost time.
Every Friday I watch the stranger enter the diner, choosing the corner booth beside the window, where he orders a burger and drink.  It’s only Friday he orders a burger.  Some nights he’ll come in, grab carry-out, and leave. But not on Fridays.  On those nights, he stays and sits alone, never seems to make small talk with the waitress—the same lady who waits on him every time he ventures in.  Their interactions are brief and as cold as I’d imagine from a man like him.  In spite of that, the sight of him makes me dream things.  I don’t know who he is, but I fantasize that he’s a deft killer by the way he carries himself with such lethal grace.  If he is, then this is the side his victims never get to see—his vulnerability, choosing the same place, the same seat, the same time every Friday night.  It’s a sadness that speaks to me, because without fail, I find myself settling in by my window at the very same time.  
Occasionally, he goes at different times, on different days, some weeks not at all, which might seem erratic to some, but I’ve watched him long enough to know there’s a pattern.  One that I’ve picked up on, because that one week he’s not there, is repeated precisely four weeks later.  Perhaps it’s mindless on his part, maybe his visits correspond to events in his life that I’m not privy to, but I’m a creature of patterns, and I’ve memorized his.
From as high as my window, I can see he’s big.  A man, not a boy, at least ten years my senior.  His bulky frame fills the creases of the leather coat he wears, and he reminds me of something straight out of a comic book—not the hero, but the menacing antihero, the bad guy no one expects to be good.
No, in my fantasy, he’s bigger.  Meaner.  Stronger.  A man who kills on instinct.
Beneath the cover of my blanket, I sneak my hand down inside my shirt, closing my eyes the moment my fingertip makes contact with my hardened nipple.  I imagine his lips closing over it, the scratch of his day-old scruff against my skin and his strong hands holding me in place, the gruff in his voice as he says my name like a fervent prayer.  I imagine he smells good, not like stale beer and the putrid mix of body odor and bacon grease, but something deliciously masculine.
I shouldn’t want for a grown man this way, but I do, and I don’t even know him.  
For months, I’ve held this invisible rendezvous with him, staring down from my perch, imagining him stealing me from this cage.  Turning me into whatever he is.  Killer?  Criminal?  I don’t even care, so long as it’s tougher, more wicked than Randy Westprick.
I fault him for my lack of interest in the boys at school.  Not that I’m allowed to date them anyway, but I’m certainly not touching myself to any of the guys my age.
Sometimes he stares out the window and I swear his gaze scans up to my balcony. However, if he sees me, he never makes it known.  Perhaps to a man like that, I’m nothing but a young girl, hardly a threat for noticing him.
With my bottom lip caught between my teeth, I succumb to the visuals toying with my mind and the soft moan that escapes me has me stealing a furtive glance back at Layla to make sure she’s still asleep.
He takes his usual seat, filling the booth with his bulky frame.  Some nights I picture sliding into his lap, his body crushing me against that table, as I straddle his thighs.  I imagine his massive arms enveloping me.  His tongue across my skin and in my mouth.  Sweat dripping down my back, along my spine where the palm of his hand holds me in place.  How he’d feel without the pills denying me the sensation of his cock filling me.  The edge of the table beating into my back with every punishing drive of his hips, and the tight clench of his jaw in that reckless moment when he finishes inside of me.
My lips part at the vivid imagery, and my belly tightens while I circle my nipple with the pad of my finger.
If anyone were after him, he’d be hard to miss in those bright lights, the way he stands out like a splotch of black paint on a stark white canvas. He hasn’t looked this way once tonight, which allows me to study him intently, admiring his virile features.
He’s beautiful.  A sad, but beautiful man.
The click of the doorknob sends a knot straight to my throat and my stomach sinks like bricks in a murky river. The sound alerts my dog, who I can hear rustling in her bed, and a low growl rumbles in her chest.  
I slip my hand out of my shirt, straightening myself beneath the afghan.  
A beam of new light invades the soft glow of the Christmas lights I’ve strung around the room for Layla, and as my nightmare enters, Charlie’s growl dies to a whimper.
The thud of his boots across the floor sound like the hooves of the devil coming to claim my soul.  A scuffling tells me he’s stumbled, but not even that prompts me to turn around.  
Drunk again.
The moment I caught him hunkered down in front of the television with a six-pack, I knew he’d come for me.  I don’t want to look at him.  I hate him.  The smell of him makes me sick, like a walking deep fryer.  
If not for Charlie, I’d climb over the railing of the balcony, spread my arms, and fly.  The police would find a broken shell of me.  They’d study me, the same way I studied the baby bird, while the world dissects pieces of my story to suit their curiosities, leaving nothing but a picked over carcass.
All because my mother abandoned her nest.
They’ll never know it was he who gave the final push, and it won’t even matter.  Once he injects the drugs, I’ll fall into dissociative bliss, tucked away in the same fog that kept my mother oblivious of the world around her, on rose-colored clouds, and a never-ending dream.  
The darkness behind my eyelids is my only refuge from the hell around me, and I’ll willingly climb inside, burrowing myself in that place where no one can touch me.  While my body’s propped on the cold metal of the washing machine, I’ll be miles away, fallen deep into the rabbit hole.  No one can find me there.  Not Randy, nor the men who see the photographs of me that he takes in the dingy laundry room of this apartment complex.  
Although he never violates me himself, for whatever reason, he likes objects.  The more common they are, the more he gets off.  He once had me masturbate the end of a vibrating toothbrush and used it for months after—smiling at me every time he brushed his teeth.  
I’ve been defiled in every sense short of rape, stripped and purged of innocence, feeding his disgusting obsession with me.  
I often wonder what Chanel’s like when she’s not hopped up on pain pills.  If she’d be jealous and accuse me of fucking her man, or if she’d take pleasure in watching him do it.  I once tried to tell her about him taking me down there and snapping pictures of me.  She offered me one of her pills and asked if I liked the boots her friend had handed down to me.  
I can’t blame her too much, though.  Randy likes to use her as his personal punching bag, and most days, she’s sporting a bruise somewhere.  Even if it’s not always visible.  He’s hit me a few times, but unlike Chanel, I hit him back, even at the risk of more pain, because I believe once you show weakness, it’s easier to fall prey to it.
A tug at my elbow and I glance to the side, swatting at his arm.  “Don’t touch me.”
Sometimes Randy offers gifts—small tokens that come with his usual pep talk about how it’s not abuse because he never actually penetrates me and the photos don’t show my face.  That’s a lie.  I once swiped his phone when he passed out on the couch and deleted a good few dozen pictures of me—his little mementos.  I couldn’t stand to look at my own face—droopy eyes singed with the apathy toward whatever he forced me to do. I’d hoped to see shame in those photos, but it seemed buried too far beneath the effects of the drugs.
He’s threatened to circulate them throughout the school if I say a word about any of this.  Send them to all my classmates on Facebook, as if they’d come from me.  Like he’d ever let me have my own account.  As far as the world is concerned, I don’t exist.
“C’mon,” is all he says, before walking out of the bedroom.
I give one more glance toward the man in the diner, as he stares off, waiting for his food.  Maybe one day he’ll look up and see me.  
Maybe he’d want to kill Randy Westprick, if he knew that somewhere close by, a girl was forced to do bad things.  Very bad things.
For now, the drugs will put up a barrier, separating my mind from the horrors of my reality, much like the pane of glass that separates me from the insect-ravaged bird outside my window.
Maybe it won’t hurt as much this time, knowing that I do this to keep Randy from slaughtering my dog or taking away the pills that have become as necessary as the air I breathe.  A vicious cycle of escaping to survive and surviving to escape.
Because sex is power.
And even the hardest shells are made to be cracked.

 

Keri Lake is a married mother of two living in Michigan. By day, she tries to make use of the degrees she’s earned in science. By night, she writes dark contemporary, paranormal romance and urban fantasy. Though novels tend to be her focus, she also writes short stories and flash fiction on the many occasions distraction sucks her into the Land of Shiny Things.

For news, updates and sneak peeks at the sexy cover model candidates for her annual Cover Model Contest, subscribe to her newsletter: http://eepurl.com/HJPHH

 

 

 

Cover Reveal…Pieces of Me by Shiloh Walker

Title: Pieces of Me
Author: Shiloh Walker | @shilohwalker
Genre: Romantic Thriller
Nobody knows that better than Shadow Harper. It seemed like a
dream come true when a rich, suave older man noticed her during her second year
of college. Stefan Stockman seemed to love her obsessively. He came into her
life and swept her off her feet, seduced her, married her…and then slowly,
eventually, that dream come true became a living nightmare.
 
Now, three years after she finally escaped him, she’s trying to
put her life back together. Haunted by memories, struggling with post-traumatic
stress, she spends most of her time locked away in her home on Pawley’s Island,
a small town on the South Carolina coast. Her rare moments of joy come from her
trips to the nearby beach.
 
She compulsively checks the locks on her doors, makes sure she has
her cell phones—five of them—and if she misses something on her schedule, it
throws her into a panic.
 
When she accidentally leaves a sketchbook on the beach, an anxiety
attack seems imminent. Her art has become her salvation, her sanity, and losing
even one sketch is like losing a piece of her soul. When she returns to hunt
for the sketchbook, already fearing it’s gone for good, she’s surprised to find
it still sitting there, saved by a sexy fellow beach lover— the mysterious
Dillian Jenkins.
 
He’s brash, bold, brutally handsome…and gentle. He’s the exact
opposite of the man who’d tormented her for years, and Shadow finds herself
slowly, almost reluctantly, falling for him. Even obsessing over him.
 
When her ex-husband once again intrudes on the happiness she’s
finally discovering, Shadow turns to Dillian. But will she find shelter
there…or another betrayal?
 
Obsession can be deadly …
 
 

 

 Shiloh Walker is an award-winning writer…yes, really!
She’s also a mom, a wife, a reader and she pretends to be an amateur
photographer.  She published her first book in 2003. Her latest suspense,
The Right Kind of Trouble, released in August 2016 from St. Martins.
 
She writes romantic suspense
and contemporary romance, and urban fantasy under the name, J.C. Daniels.
 
Facebook: http://bit.ly/2eLa5R8
Twitter: @shilohwalker
 
 
 
B&B Promotions | @banbpromotions

 

Vanished By T.K. Leigh…Release Blitz

 

 

 

Title: Vanished
Author: T.K. Leigh
Genre: Mystery/Suspense/Thriller
Release Date: February 7, 2017

 

Blurb
Recommended for mature readers due to strong language and graphic violence.

Rayne Kilpatrick has everything. A job she’s dreamed of since a little girl. The perfect house. And a man she loves and is about to marry… Until he never returns from a humanitarian mission.

Gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

When footage of his gruesome murder by a Muslim extremist group is shown across the country and around the globe, she wants the person responsible for the disappearance of the man she loves to pay. She wants him to lose the one person who means the world to him, too, and she won’t stop until he does.

Alexander Burnham has everything… Finally. A job he enjoys where he can actually make a difference in the world. The perfect woman who he’s loved his entire life. And the most beautiful daughter a father could ask for… Until he walks into her bedroom one morning to find it empty.

Gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

It’s a race against the clock for Alexander to put the pieces together and find out who has taken his daughter and what they want from him. As information comes to light, he is forced to bury the guilt he feels after losing his fellow team member and focus instead on finding and saving his daughter…

Before it’s too late.

Vanished can be read in conjunction with or separate from the Beautiful Mess series.

 

Purchase Links

 

99c for release day only
AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU

 

 

Excerpt

This was no longer home to a fearless girl who had more love for Olivia than she deserved. This would now become a place of nightmares for her daughter. Would she ever be able to sleep in this room again? Would she ever want to sleep alone? Would she ever feel safe?

Olivia struggled to come to terms with what Melanie’s life would be like if she survived this. She hadn’t done anything to deserve this. Alexander wasn’t without his faults, and neither was Olivia, but Melanie was so young, so pure, so innocent. Now, at far too young an age, she would be jaded by the cruelties of the world.

Would she ever see her smile again?

Would she ever hear her carefree laugh?

Would she ever feel her unconditional love as she flung her arms around her?

Bleakness invaded Olivia right down to her core as she fell onto Melanie’s unmade bed. Sheets that were once warm from her presence had grown cold, and Olivia could no longer keep it in. She wasn’t just watching a made-for-TV movie about a successful, semi-famous family losing their daughter. She was living the nightmare. wishing with everything she had that this would all be over soon, that it wasn’t real.

“Wake up!” Olivia screamed, slapping her face as relentless tears streamed down her cheeks. She curled into a ball, the torment growing inside her becoming unbearable. It felt like someone was ripping her open with sadistic apathy, the pace languid and sluggish, taking pleasure from each strained breath she struggled to capture. Her skin prickled with the heat of a thousand branding irons. No matter how loud she screamed, it wouldn’t dull the pain.

“Wake up, Olivia!” she bellowed again, louder and more desperate. Nothing worked. No matter what she did, no matter how loud her cries, nothing would wake her from this nightmare.

Sobs wracked through her body as she fought for air. She tried to gain control over her body and tears, but it was useless. She was no longer in command of her own destiny. Even the seemingly innate task of inhaling and exhaling had become arduous and complicated. Melanie was her lifeline, her reason for living. Without her, Olivia’s heart gave out, her lungs refused to work, her body shut down.

Suddenly, a pair of familiar, strong arms cradled her, lifting her off the torturous bed, cocooning her in a shelter only they could provide. They comforted her sobs, giving her exactly what she needed. She cried into her husband’s chest, a hundred tears falling for every regret. No words were spoken. Lowering himself to the floor, he simply held her in his lap, wiping her tears, providing her with warmth in this cold, hateful world.

She didn’t know how many minutes ticked by as he remained there, silently assuring her with his presence that they would get through this, that everything would work out. Still, she knew they would never be the same. This had shaken their family to its core. There was no returning to the way things were before.

Olivia cried harder.

She cried for all the time she should have spent with her daughter instead of working tirelessly for one charity or another. She cried for all the times she told her no when she should have said yes. Yes, we can have pancakes for dinner. Yes, we can go feed the ducks at the pond. Yes, we can make Christmas cookies in July.

Exhaustion set in as her cries subsided and she closed her eyes. The last thing she saw before drifting off was Melanie standing alone in a dark room, a blank expression on her pale face.

 

Beautiful Mess Series

 

CURRENTLY FREE

 

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU
AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU
AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU

 

Author Bio

 

T.K. Leigh, otherwise known as Tracy Leigh Kellam, is a USA Today Bestselling author of the Beautiful Mess series, in addition to several other works. Originally from New England, she now resides in sunny Southern California with her husband, dog, and three cats, all of which she has rescued (including the husband). In late 2015, she gave birth to her first (and only) baby. When she’s not planted in front of her computer, writing away, she can be found training for her next marathon (of which she has run over fifteen fulls and far too many halfs to recall) or chasing her daughter around the house.

T.K. Leigh is represented by Jane Dystel of Dystel & Goderich Literary Management. All publishing inquiries, including audio, foreign, and film rights, should be directed to her.

Author Links

Cover Reveal…Girl In The Mirror by Elizabeth Reyes

Title: Girl In The Mirror (Looking Glass)
Author: Elizabeth Reyes
Genre: Romantic Thriller
Expected Release Date: Spring of 2017


BLURB

A girl without a past.

Margaret Hellman awoke in a hospital with no memory of the horrific accident that claimed the lives of her sister and their best friend.

After years of struggling to regain a fraction of her memories, Maggie is left with no choice but to accept her past is gone. Despite the tormenting void in her heart.

Then the triggers start.

Tiny indiscernible but profoundly emotional glimpses of her past. The day she meets him, at her sister’s graveside sets off the most explosive trigger to date. It’s so overwhelming Maggie’s convinced she’s supposed to remember—she needs to.

As the puzzling pieces of her past start to come together, it’s clear something’s amiss. But nothing can prepare her for the shocking reality of what really happened that fateful day seven years ago.

Girl in the Mirror is a psychological romantic thriller with a twist you’ll NEVER see coming!

Goodreads

Okay so Monday when I announced the cover reveal was coming I mentioned this “stand alone” has now turned into a series and that I’d explain a little more today. Here goes.

Behind the Series

Want to read the first Two Chapters of Girl in the Mirror???   Purchase Eli’s newest release, Lila and she gives you those two chapters as a bonus!!!

Amazon US

Amazon UK

iBooks

Smashwords

Kobo

Nook

AUTHOR BIO

 

“I write because I must. It’s not a choice or a pastime, it’s an unyielding calling and my passion.”

USA Today Bestselling Author, Elizabeth Reyes continues to answer to her calling on a daily basis. Since releasing her debut novel Forever Mine (Moreno Brothers #1) in 2010 she has now published 24 full length novels total and fast at work on the next. The excitement her Moreno Brothers, 5th Street, and Fate series have garnered has far exceeded her wildest dreams. It is with as much excitement that she’ll continue to put out books related to these series as well as introduce brand new ones very soon.

Stay tuned for more exciting news about what’s in store for 2017!

Author Social links:

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Newsletter signup | Instagram | Radish| Wattpad| Printerest |

The Devil’s Daughter by Katee Robert…Release Day Blitz & Review

THE DEVIL’S DAUGHTER

 by Katee Robert

FBI agent, Eden Collins is going home… to catch a killer.  Fans of Audey Harte’s It Takes One and Kendra Elliott’s Bone Secrets series, will devour The Devil’s Daughter, the fast-paced and suspenseful first book, in the Hidden Sins series by NYT and USA Today Bestselling Author Katee Robert.

Title: The Devil’s Daughter

Author: Katee Robert

Series: Hidden Sins #1

Genre: Romantic Suspense

Release Date: January 24, 2017

Publisher: Montlake Romance

Print Length:  316 pages

Format: Digital and Paperback

ISBN: 1503940918

Synopsis:

Growing up in a small town isn’t easy, especially when you’re the daughter of a local cult leader. Ten years ago, Eden Collins left Clear Springs, Montana, and never once looked back. But when the bodies of murdered young women surface, their corpses violated and marked with tattoos worn by her mother’s followers, Eden, now an FBI agent, can’t turn a blind eye. To catch the killer, she’s going to have to return to the fold.

Sheriff Zach Owens isn’t comfortable putting Eden in danger, even if she is an elite agent. And he certainly wasn’t expecting to be so attracted to her. As calm and cool as she appears, he knows this can’t be a happy homecoming. Zach wants to protect her—from her mother, the cult, and the evil that lurks behind its locked gates. But Eden is his only key to the tight-lipped group, and she may just be closer to the killer than either one of them suspects…

Get More information at: Goodreads  | Amazon | Barnes & Noble 

 

I have to say that I am really love this side of Katee Robert.  Most people read her more contemporary romance books, but I am absolutely loving her romantic suspense side.  And this book is definitely more thriller and suspense than romance, but there is a tiny bit of it.

So if you read the synopsis (which I would assume one has) then you know that Eden has returned to her childhood town, one she vowed never to return to.  However, it’s the circumstances that has her more on edge than just being back home.

Eden is helping out the local police unofficially on a case where the trail leads to her mother’s cult, Elysia.  Elysia is based on the Greek myth of Demeter and Persephone.

There are so many things I love about this book.  Katee is able to write a very thrilling and suspenseful plot that leaves you guessing til the very end.  Katee does a great job of explaining the cult’s beliefs and culture, which helps filtrate into the case they are trying to solve.

Everything ties together so perfectly in the end.  And what makes it so great is how Katee slowly and methodically gives you all the pieces to slowly put together.  Trust me – you may think you have all the pieces in place perfectly together, until you realize that there is more to the puzzle.

The Devil’s Daughter is captivating, thrilling and suspenseful must read.  A fantastic start to her newest series.

Excerpt

By the time she made it back to the courtyard, it was empty, everyone having gone off to their varying duties. Martha might be a monster of a particular variety, but she had a well-run establishment. But then, she would. Keep her people too busy to stop and wonder about some of the insane shit she preaches. That saying about idle hands didn’t originate with the Greeks, but her mother had never been shy about incorporating whatever dogma she found most useful. No one questioned it.

No one but Eden.

And she’d paid for every question she’d asked.

She stopped next to her car, slowing her movements, because if she didn’t exert total control, she was going to fling herself into the driver’s seat and tear out of here as fast as the car could go. She wouldn’t stop in Clear Springs. She’d just keep driving until she put a few states between her and Elysia.

Not an option. You made damn sure of that.

She noticed the door was unlocked and frowned. Had she locked it when she got here? Eden couldn’t be sure. She’d been so rattled and practically bursting with adrenaline and dread that it was entirely possible she’d headed for her mother’s house without pausing to lock the door.

But she didn’t think so.

She opened the driver’s door cautiously, half expecting something to explode. She only had cursory bomb training, so even if she swept the vehicle, she couldn’t be sure she’d find something. If there was even something to find. Hello, paranoia, my old friend. She turned a slow circle, trying to figure out if someone would have had enough time to plant something. If a person had the know-how, setting up a bomb in a half hour was cake.

Way to be reassuring.

She leaned back into the car, a flash of white and yellow catching her eye. Frowning, she leaned in farther and used the pen in her cup holder to hook the circular wreath of daisies lying on the floorboard of the passenger side. It looked like the kind of thing she’d made when she was a kid and bored out of her ever-loving mind during the summer. She’d weave together the flowers that grew in the fields of Elysia into something very similar to this and wear it while she pretended she was Persephone, just waiting for her Hades to appear and whisk her away to be his queen. Eden dropped it like it’d caught fire. She’d completely forgotten about playing that game. Hell, no one knew she’d done it. She’d always been alone out there.

Or so she’d thought.

She wanted to throw the flowers away, to rip the wreath apart and grind it beneath her boots. But it was most definitely some kind of evidence. Even if there was no trace on there to find whoever had left it, it was proof that someone had been watching her when she got here.

Apparently my instincts aren’t as ravaged as I thought.

She wasn’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Katee Robert learned to tell her stories at her grandpa’s knee. She found romance novels at age twelve and it changed her life. When not writing sexy contemporary and speculative fiction romance novels, she spends her time playing imaginary games with her wee ones, driving her husband batty with what-if questions, and planning for the inevitable zombie apocalypse.  Connect with Katee at: Website | Facebook | Twitter| GoodReads | Instagram |

 

Depraved Heart by Patricia Cornwell…Blog Tour Stop & Review

About Depraved Heart

Paperback: 496 pages
Publisher: William Morrow Paperbacks (January 3, 2017)

Dr. Kay Scarpetta is working a highly suspicious death scene in Cambridge, Massachusetts, when an emergency alert sounds on her phone. A video link seems to be from her niece Lucy. But how can it be? It’s clearly a surveillance film of Lucy taken almost twenty years ago.

As Scarpetta watches she comes to grips with frightening secrets about her niece. That first clip and others sent soon after raise dangerous implications that increasingly isolate Scarpetta and leave her confused, alarmed, and not knowing where to turn. The diabolical presence and singularly depraved heart behind what unfolds seems obvious but strangely, not to the FBI. Certainly that’s the message they send when they start harassing Lucy and begin building a case that could send her to prison for the rest of her life.

In the latest novel in her bestselling series featuring medical examiner Dr. Kay Scarpetta, Cornwell captivates readers again with the jolting twists, high-wire tension, and cutting-edge forensic detail for which she is renowned, proving yet again why she is the world’s number one bestselling crime writer.

 

My Review:

Depraved Heart is book number 23 in author Patricia Cornwell’s Kay Scarpetta series and admittedly the first in the series I have read.  I’m a huge fan of forensic, psychological, and mystery TV so I figured I would give this series a try.  Well, I wasn’t disappointed.  This book with filled with suspense and I loved it.

Someone is trying to frame Dr. Kay Scarpetta’s niece and it seems to be at the hands of someone they had been dealing with, and fearing, for the last twenty years.  Someone they had counted out but never really forgotten about.  Someone wha was beyond mentally unstable and completely diabolical.  Now, they are all on a mission to figure out just what’s going on, who is sending these bizarre videos from twenty years ago to Dr. Scarpetta’s phone, and how to get out of this alive.

From start to finish I was kept on the edge of my seat.  The pieces of this puzzle are given to the reader on a slow and steady pace which only added to the overall suspense.  There were more than a few times I actually said “wow, this woman is completely psychotic” out loud.  I also enjoyed the heavy forensic details in the book.  At times it was a lot to digest while trying to keep up with what was going on with Lucy but it really did add an authentic layer that I appreciated.  Now, I can’t give anything away as to who ends up being responsible for orchestrating this entire scheme but I will tell you to buckle up for a crazy ride! My mother has been a huge fan of Ms. Cornwell for years and I was really happy I gave this series a try.  I will certainly be reading more!

Thank you, Ms. Cornwell, for one hell of a book!  I highly recommend it to anyone looking for a well written and well thought out psychological thriller.

4LovesRLB Four Loves

J signature

Purchase Links

HarperCollins | Amazon | Barnes & Noble


About Patricia Cornwell

Patricia Cornwell is recognized as one of the worldís top bestselling crime authors with novels translated into thirty-six languages in more than 120 countries. Her novels have won numerous prestigious awards including the Edgar, the John Creasey (New Blood) Dagger, the Anthony, the Macavity and the Prix du Roman díAventures. Beyond the Scarpetta series, Patricia has written a definitive book about Jack the Ripper, a biography and two more fiction series among others. Cornwell, a licensed helicopter pilot and scuba diver, actively researches the cutting-edge forensic technologies that inform her work. She was born in Miami, grew up in Montreat, North Carolina, and now lives and works in Boston.

Find out more about Patricia at her†website, and follow her on†Twitter,†Facebook, and Instagram.

Author Guest Post from Valentina Giambanco, author of Blood and Bone

Synopsis:

After two years in the Seattle Police Department, homicide detective Alice Madison has finally found a measure of peace she has never known before–a sense of belonging.

When a local burglary escalates into a gruesome murder, Madison takes charge of the investigation, only to discover that this is no ordinary killing. She finds herself tracking a serial assassin who has haunted the city for years–and whose brutality is the stuff of legend among the super-max prisons of the Pacific Northwest.

As she delves deeper into the case, Madison learns that the widow of one of the victims is being stalked–is the killer poised to strike again? As pressures mount, Madison will stop at nothing to save the next innocent victim . . . even if it means playing a killer’s endgame by presenting herself as the bait.

 

 

THREE BOOKS THAT INSPIRED ME WHEN I WAS YOUNGER AND INSPIRED ME TO WRITE

 

I have always loved stories. One of my earliest memories is making up adventures for my stuffed toys. And I’ve never really played with dolls; I remember owning a doll as a sort of experiment for a few weeks but it could not keep up with the rest of the crew and was quickly sent back to where it came from. I loved stories and adventures and – since I started reading and before I could do joined up writing – the books I read reflected the need to find new worlds and push my boundaries.

WHITE FANG by Jack London, THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS by Thomas Harris, and A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT a novella by Norman Maclean are very different works but somehow all have shaped how I write, and are still a source of inspiration. .

I grew up in various cities in Mediterranean Italy so obviously I found my joy reading about frozen Alaska, dog sleds and snow so deep it makes trees disappear. It was a world so exotic to me that it could have been another planet. WHITE FANG – with its wolfdog protagonist – was perhaps the first introduction to a world beyond jolly fairy tales and happy endings. It was an occasionally brutal portrait of the Klondike Gold Rush of the 1890s and it was quite relentless in its perspective of wilderness vs humans vs animals. Ultimately there is happiness and redemption but in order to get there the wolfdog has to experience all kinds of dangers and injustice. I fell in love with that wilderness and it was probably the first book about a serial killer I ever read – nothing is as beautiful, intriguing and ultimately lethal as an Alaskan winter.

THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS knocked me for six. Here was a bad guy – one of the most iconic villains of all time – and in a baffling way I was not altogether sorry he found freedom by the end of the story. The rookie agent sent to his web of deception is as beautifully written a young woman in a men’s world as she could be. Thomas Harris was a crime reporter before he started writing fiction and his style was then sparse and economic (that goes for the first two novels he wrote; by the time HANNIBAL comes along his style is grand guignol meets crime fiction with a dash of sheer unbridled nuttiness).

The notion that the antagonist was possibly the most important factor in the book was a revelation. The small touches that make Clarice Starling leap off the page were like a writing masterclass – I reread the book each time I start a novel of my own; the bar is set impossibly high but it gives me something to aim for. When I started writing my first novel – THE GIFT OF DARKNESS – and was creating the character of Alice Madison, Clarice Starling was the inspiration; the young woman who hunts down monsters to protect the innocent.

A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT by Norman Maclean is a complete change of pace. This gentle story about two fly-fishing brothers and their reverend father has stayed with me since I first read it (yes, the Robert Redford film is excellent but its brilliance lies in the fact that they kept much of the first person narrative from the book).

The first line of the novella says so much: ‘In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly-fishing.’ The story is set in an early 20th-century Montana family and the relationship between the brothers lies at the heart of the tale. One of them – a fly-fishing artist – is ultimately beaten to death by criminals and his grieving brother must somehow find the answers he seeks in nature. He loved his brother but didn’t understand him; he badly wanted to help him and yet his brother wouldn’t let him. The story manages to deal with the deeper questions of life, love and family relationships with a light touch; they are explored in the description of the wild Montana rivers which seem to remind the readers and the characters that there are always more powerful forces at work. The last words of the novella are I’m haunted by waters and could not be more fitting; this story still haunts me and the odd sentence or turn of phrase will pop up unbidden when I least expect it.

The influence of these books has shifted and changed as the years have passed but they are still there, still present like specks of gold in rocks. Now I write about a homicide detective in Seattle – a young woman who could be a distant relative of Clarice Starling – and nature and wilderness have been present and essential in each of the books in the Madison series.

And, finally, many years after reading WHITE FANG, last summer I met not one but two wolfdogs – and yes, it was just as amazing as I had hoped.

THREE BOOKS THAT INSPIRED ME WHEN I WAS YOUNGER AND INSPIRED ME TO WRITE

 

I have always loved stories. One of my earliest memories is making up adventures for my stuffed toys. And I’ve never really played with dolls; I remember owning a doll as a sort of experiment for a few weeks but it could not keep up with the rest of the crew and was quickly sent back to where it came from. I loved stories and adventures and – since I started reading and before I could do joined up writing – the books I read reflected the need to find new worlds and push my boundaries.

WHITE FANG by Jack London, THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS by Thomas Harris, and A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT a novella by Norman Maclean are very different works but somehow all have shaped how I write, and are still a source of inspiration. .

I grew up in various cities in Mediterranean Italy so obviously I found my joy reading about frozen Alaska, dog sleds and snow so deep it makes trees disappear. It was a world so exotic to me that it could have been another planet. WHITE FANG – with its wolfdog protagonist – was perhaps the first introduction to a world beyond jolly fairy tales and happy endings. It was an occasionally brutal portrait of the Klondike Gold Rush of the 1890s and it was quite relentless in its perspective of wilderness vs humans vs animals. Ultimately there is happiness and redemption but in order to get there the wolfdog has to experience all kinds of dangers and injustice. I fell in love with that wilderness and it was probably the first book about a serial killer I ever read – nothing is as beautiful, intriguing and ultimately lethal as an Alaskan winter.

THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS knocked me for six. Here was a bad guy – one of the most iconic villains of all time – and in a baffling way I was not altogether sorry he found freedom by the end of the story. The rookie agent sent to his web of deception is as beautifully written a young woman in a men’s world as she could be. Thomas Harris was a crime reporter before he started writing fiction and his style was then sparse and economic (that goes for the first two novels he wrote; by the time HANNIBAL comes along his style is grand guignol meets crime fiction with a dash of sheer unbridled nuttiness).

The notion that the antagonist was possibly the most important factor in the book was a revelation. The small touches that make Clarice Starling leap off the page were like a writing masterclass – I reread the book each time I start a novel of my own; the bar is set impossibly high but it gives me something to aim for. When I started writing my first novel – THE GIFT OF DARKNESS – and was creating the character of Alice Madison, Clarice Starling was the inspiration; the young woman who hunts down monsters to protect the innocent.

A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT by Norman Maclean is a complete change of pace. This gentle story about two fly-fishing brothers and their reverend father has stayed with me since I first read it (yes, the Robert Redford film is excellent but its brilliance lies in the fact that they kept much of the first person narrative from the book).

The first line of the novella says so much: ‘In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly-fishing.’ The story is set in an early 20th-century Montana family and the relationship between the brothers lies at the heart of the tale. One of them – a fly-fishing artist – is ultimately beaten to death by criminals and his grieving brother must somehow find the answers he seeks in nature. He loved his brother but didn’t understand him; he badly wanted to help him and yet his brother wouldn’t let him. The story manages to deal with the deeper questions of life, love and family relationships with a light touch; they are explored in the description of the wild Montana rivers which seem to remind the readers and the characters that there are always more powerful forces at work. The last words of the novella are I’m haunted by waters and could not be more fitting; this story still haunts me and the odd sentence or turn of phrase will pop up unbidden when I least expect it.

The influence of these books has shifted and changed as the years have passed but they are still there, still present like specks of gold in rocks. Now I write about a homicide detective in Seattle – a young woman who could be a distant relative of Clarice Starling – and nature and wilderness have been present and essential in each of the books in the Madison series.

And, finally, many years after reading WHITE FANG, last summer I met not one but two wolfdogs – and yes, it was just as amazing as I had hoped.

 

Thank you for this wonderful post, Valentina! ~Jilly

Find Valentina’s books here:



About the author:

Valentina Giambanco was born in Italy. She started working in films as an editor’s apprentice in a 35mm cutting room and since then has worked on many award-winning UK and US pictures: from small independent projects to large studio productions. Valentina lives in London.

Her books were originally published under the name of V.M. Giambanco

 

Visit her website for more information

Bitter Moon by Alexandra Sokoloff….Book Spotlight and Excerpt

bittermoon-cover

 

Synopsis:

Book Four in the Thriller Award-nominated
Huntress/FBI series

It is strongly recommended that you read Huntress Moon, Blood Moon and Cold Moon first.

FBI agent Matthew Roarke has been on leave, and in seclusion, since the capture of mass killer Cara Lindstrom–the victim turned avenger who preys on predators. Torn between devotion to the law and a powerful attraction to Cara and her lethal brand of justice, Roarke has retreated from both to search his soul. But Cara’s escape from custody and a police detective’s cryptic challenge soon draw him out of exile—into the California desert and deep into Cara’s past—to probe an unsolved murder that could be the key to her long and deadly career.

Following young Cara’s trail, Roarke uncovers a horrifying attack on a schoolgirl, the shocking suicide of another, and a human monster stalking Cara’s old high school. Separated by sixteen years, crossing paths in the present and past, Roarke and fourteen-year-old Cara must race to find and stop the sadistic sexual predator before more young girls are brutalized.

BUY THE eBOOK:
Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon DE

BUY THE PAPERBACK:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble

BUY THE AUDIOBOOK:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble

Chapter One

It is the moon that wakes her.

It is always the moon that tells her, somehow, that sends the rush of fight-or-flight chemicals into her blood, galvanizes her body with a warning of danger, a command to wake and act. The eerie light is bright through the window, shimmering in the room.

Now the metallic scratching on the door announces Its presence.

It is here again, the monster, coming for her. The thing that butchered her family. That left her scratched and bleeding and almost dead.

But she has that few moments’ advantage because she knows. She knows the sound of It, Its smell, the hoarse and grating breath, the stench of sweat and malevolence. She knows what has come for her because she has been in a room with It before. She was small then, small and innocent and helpless. But she is bigger now, bigger and stronger and deadlier.

And she has something else. This time she is angry. This thing has stolen her family, has left her alone and scorned and shunned. This time she will fight, and fight to kill.

The creature slips stealthily into the tiny locked room, the counselor with the pitted skin and fat sausage fingers, and the fifteen-year-old bully he has brought for company or for camouflage or maybe for both.

The man is muttering, his breath reeking with alcohol. “Hold her down. Little whore…you know you want it. Strutting around like you own this place. Grab her arms. Hold her down—”

She launches upward, out of her bed. It is caught unawares, and she is a spitfire, punching and scratching and kicking. It happens in moments: the boy’s nose is broken, his eye bleeding; the man’s testicles crushed. And as the boy shrieks and the man lies moaning and clutching himself on the floor, she breathes through the fire in her chest and picks up the man’s foot in both hands and holds the leg straight and brings her foot down as hard as she can on the knee to snap the joint—

The man screams once…and is silent. Passed out. She stands in the dark over the still bodies of the man and the boy, her whole body shaking, her heart slamming in her chest. The harsh breathing is still there, all around her, resonating in the room. Then It slowly recedes, foiled, but not vanquished.

She breathes in, breathes out, calming the frantic racing of her heart.

It will be back, she knows.

For now, she sits and waits for Them to come to take her to jail.

She is twelve years old.

Find out more about this series:

This gripping, Thriller Award-nominated series follows a haunted FBI agent on his hunt for what may be that most rare of all killers… a female serial.

Huntress Moon Blood Moon Cold Moon Bitter Moon

About the author:

a-sokoloffAlexandra Sokoloff is the Thriller Award-winning and Bram Stoker, Anthony, and Black Quill Award-nominated author of the supernatural thrillers The Harrowing, The Price, The Unseen, Book of Shadows, The Shifters, and The Space Between; The Keepers paranormal series, and the Thriller Award-nominated, Amazon bestselling Huntress/FBI Thrillers series (Huntress Moon, Blood Moon, Cold Moon), which has been optioned for television. She has also written three non-fiction workbooks: Stealing Hollywood, Screenwriting Tricks for Authors, and Writing Love, based on her internationally acclaimed workshops and blog (www.ScreenwritingTricks.com), and has served on the Board of Directors of the WGA, West (the screenwriters union) and the board of the Mystery Writers of America.

Alex is a California native and a graduate of U.C. Berkeley, where she majored in theater and minored in everything Berkeley has a reputation for. She lives in Los Angeles and in Scotland, with Scottish crime author Craig Robertson. www.Alexandrasokoloff.com

Blog URL: http://www.screenwritingtricks.com

Facebook URL: http://www.facebook.com/alexandra.sokoloff

Twitter: http://twitter.com/AlexSokoloff

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/AlexandraSokoloff

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/axsokoloff/

Amazon: The FBI Thriller Series: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B011M9AOBM?keywords=huntress%20moon&qid=1451693113&ref_=sr_1_1_ha&s=digital-text&sr=1-1

 

Love You Dead by Peter James….Book Spotlight, Excerpt, & Giveaway

love-you-dead-cover

 

About Love You Dead:

An ugly duckling as a child, Jodie Bentley had two dreams in life – to be beautiful and rich. She’s achieved the first, with a little help from a plastic surgeon, and now she’s working hard on the second. Her philosophy on money is simple: you can either earn it or marry it. Marrying is easy, it’s getting rid of the husband afterwards that’s harder, that takes real skill. But hey, practice makes perfect . . .

Detective Superintendent Roy Grace is feeling the pressure from his superiors, his previous case is still giving him sleepless nights, there have been major developments with his missing wife Sandy, and an old adversary is back. But worse than all of this, he now believes a Black Widow is operating in his city. One with a venomous mind . . . and venomous skills. Soon Grace comes to the frightening realization that he may have underestimated just how dangerous this lady is.

Love You Dead is the gripping twelfth book in Peter James’ Roy Grace series.

Book Links:

Amazon  |  B&N  |  IPG Books

 

 

Excerpt (can also be found on the Pan Macmillan website site)

1

Tuesday 10 February

The two lovers peered out of the hotel bedroom window, smiling with glee, but each for a very different reason.

The heavy snowfall that had been forecast for almost a week had finally arrived overnight, and fat, thick flakes of the white stuff were still tumbling down this morning. A few cars, chains clanking, slithered up the narrow mountain road, and others, parked outside the hotels, were now large white mounds.

Everyone in the smart French ski resort of Courchevel 1850 was relieved – the resort managers, the hoteliers, the restaurateurs, the seasonnaires, the ski-rental shops, the lift companies, and all the others who relied on the ski season for much of their livelihood. And, most importantly of all, the winter-sporters themselves. After days of blue skies, searing sunshine and melting snow, which meant treacherous ice in the mornings and slush and exposed rocks in the afternoons, finally the skiers and snowboarders, who had paid top money for their precious annual few days on the slopes, now had great conditions to look forward to.

As Jodie Bentley and her elderly American fiancé, Walt, put on their skis outside the boot-room entrance of the Chabichou Hotel, the falling snow tickled exposed parts of their faces beneath their helmets and visors.

Although a seasoned skier and powder hound, this was the financier’s first time skiing in Europe and he had been relying all week on his much younger fiancée, who seemed to know the resort like the back of her hand, to guide him.

They skied down carefully in the poor visibility to the Biollay lift, just a couple of minutes below the hotel, went through the electronic turnstiles, and joined the short queue to the chairlift. A couple of minutes later, clutching their ski poles, the wide chair scooped them up and forward.

Walt pulled down the safety bar, then they settled back, snug in their cosy outfits, for the seven minutes it took for the lift to carry them to the top. As they alighted, the wind was blowing fiercely, and without hanging around, Jodie led the way down an easy red then blue run to the Croisette, the central lift station for the resort.

They removed their skis, and Walt, despite suffering from a prolapsed disc, insisted on carrying Jodie’s skis as well as his own up the ramp to the lift. As a red eight-seater gondola came slowly round, he jammed their skis into two of the outside holders, then followed Jodie in. They sat down and pushed up their visors. They were followed by another couple and, moments later, just before the doors closed, a short man in his fifties clambered in after them, wearing a smart Spyder ski outfit and a flashy leather helmet with a mirrored visor.

‘Bonjour!’ he said in a bad French accent. Then added, ‘Hope you don’t mind my joining you?’ He settled down opposite them as the gondola lurched forward.

‘Not at all,’ Walt said.

Jodie smiled politely. The other two strangers, both busy texting on their phones, said nothing.

‘Ah bien, vous parlez Anglais!’ The stranger unclipped his helmet and removed it for an instant to scratch the top of his bald head. ‘American?’ he said, pulling off his gloves, then removing a tissue from his pocket and starting to wipe his glasses.

‘I’m from California, but my fiancée’s a Brit,’ Walt said, amicably.

‘Jolly good! Beastly weather but the powder at the top should be to die for,’ the man said.

Jodie smiled politely again. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

‘The south – Brighton,’ the stranger replied.

‘Good lord, what a coincidence! So am I!’ Jodie said.

‘Small world,’ he muttered, and suddenly looked uncomfortable.

‘So what line of business are you in?’ Walt asked him.

‘Oh, in the medical world. Just recently retired and moved to France. And yourselves?’

‘I have a group of investment trusts,’ the American replied.

‘I was a legal secretary,’ Jodie said.

As the small gondola climbed, rocked by the wind, the snow was turning into a blizzard and the visibility deteriorating by the minute. Walt put his arm round Jodie and hugged her. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t go too high this morning, hon, it’s going to be very windy at the top,’ he said.

‘The powder’s going to be awesome up there,’ she replied, ‘and there won’t be too many people this early. There are some really fabulous runs, trust me!’

‘Well, OK,’ he said, peering dubiously through the misted-up windows.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ the Englishman said. ‘Trust your beautiful young lady – and the forecast is improving!’ As the gondola reached the first stage, he waited politely for them to alight first. ‘Nice meeting you,’ he said. ‘Bye for now.’

The other couple, still texting, remained on the gondola.

With Walt again insisting on carrying Jodie’s skis, they trudged the short distance to the cable car. Normally jam-packed with skiers squashed together like sardines, this morning the huge cabin was three-quarters empty. Along with themselves there were just a few die-hards. Several boarders in their baggy outfits, two rugged-looking, bearded men in bobble hats, wearing rucksacks, who were sharing swigs from a hip flask, and a small assortment of other skiers, one wearing a GoPro camera on his helmet. Walt raised his visor and smiled at Jodie. She raised hers and smiled back.

He removed a glove, jamming it between his skis, produced a chocolate bar from his breast pocket and offered it to Jodie.

‘I’m fine, thanks, still stuffed from breakfast!’

‘You hardly ate anything!’ He broke a piece off, put the bar back in his pocket and zipped it shut, then chewed, peering out anxiously. The cable car rocked in the wind, then swayed alarmingly, causing everyone to shriek, some out of fear, others for fun. He put an arm round Jodie again and she snuggled up against him. ‘Maybe we should get a coffee at the top and wait to see if the visibility improves?’ he said.

‘Let’s do a couple of runs first, my love,’ she replied. ‘We’ll find some fresh powder before it gets ruined by other skiers.’

He shrugged. ‘OK.’ But he didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic. He stared at her for some moments. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘you’re incredible. Not many people can look beautiful in a helmet and visor, but you do.’

‘And you look every inch my handsome prince!’ she replied.

He tried to kiss her but the top of his helmet bashed against her visor. She giggled, then leaned closer to him and whispered, ‘Too bad there’s other people on here,’ running her gloved hand down his crotch.

He squirmed. ‘Jeez, you’re making me horny!’

‘You make me horny all the time.’

He grinned. Then he looked serious again, and a tad nervous. He peered through a window into the blizzard, and the car yawed in the wind, then swung, almost throwing him off balance. ‘You have your cell with you, hon?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You know – just in case we lose each other in this white-out.’

‘We won’t,’ she said, confidently.

He patted his chest and frowned. Patted it again, then tugged open another zipper. ‘Jeez,’ he said, and began to pat all over the front of his stylish black Bogner ski jacket. ‘I can’t believe it, how stupid. I must have left mine back in the room.’

‘I’m sure I saw you put it in – your top right-hand pocket – before we left,’ she said.

He checked all over again, and his trouser pockets. ‘Goddammit, must have fallen out somewhere – maybe when we were putting our skis on.’

‘We’re going to stay close. Just in case we do get separated, then plan B is we both ski back down to the Croisette and meet there. Just follow the signs for Courchevel 1850 – it’s well posted all the way.’

‘Maybe we should ski straight back down and go and check it’s not lying in the snow outside the hotel.’

‘Someone’ll find it if it is, darling. No one’s going to steal it, not at that lovely hotel.’

‘We’d better go back down, I need it. I have a couple of important calls to make this afternoon.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Sure, fine, we’ll ski fast!’

Five minutes later the cable car slowed right down, and a shadow loomed ahead. The car rocked from side to side, bumping against the buffered sides of the station, slowly sliding in, before stopping. Then the doors opened and they stepped out in their heavy ski boots, onto the gridded metal walkway.

They shuffled along it, then carefully down the steps and out into the ferocious blizzard, their faces stinging from snow as hard as hailstones. They could barely see a few feet in front of them, and the group ahead, ducking down and clipping into their boards, were little more than shadowy silhouettes.

As they stood beside a sign mostly obscured with snow, Walt laid their skis down on the ground, kicked the ice away from the bottom of his boots, tapping them with his ski poles to make extra sure there were no lumps of snow stuck there, then stepped into his bindings and snapped them shut.

As the silhouettes began to move away, Jodie said, ‘Hang on a sec, darling, I need to clean my visor.’

Walt waited, turning his face away from the wind as best he could, while Jodie tugged down one of her zippers, produced a tissue and wiped the inside of her visor, then the outside.

‘This is horrible!’ He had to shout to make his voice heard.

‘We’re almost at the highest point in the whole resort,’ she said. ‘As soon as we get off this ridge we’ll be out of the wind!’

‘I hope you’re right! Maybe we should start with something easy – is there a blue run back down? I don’t fancy anything too challenging in this goddam visibility!’

‘There is and it’s lovely. There’s one tiny steep bit to get into it, then it’ll be a glorious cruise. It’s my favourite run!’

He watched the last of the silhouettes disappearing as Jodie pulled her gloves back on, then stepped into her skis.

‘Ready?’ she asked.

‘Uh-huh.’

She pointed to the right. ‘We go down here.’

‘Are you sure? Everyone else has gone that way.’ He pointed in the direction that the others who had been in the cable car with them had taken.

‘You want the hardcore black run down or a gentle blue?’

‘Blue!’ he said emphatically.

‘That crazy lot have all taken the black.’ She glanced over her shoulder and could just make out the cable car leaving the station for its return journey. It would be around fifteen minutes before the next load of skiers arrived. Right now, they were alone. ‘Blue?’ she said. ‘Are you sure? I’m sure you’d cope with the black.’

‘Not in this visibility.’

‘Then we go this way,’ she said.

‘I can’t see any sign pointing this way, hon. There must be a signpost up here, surely?’

With one ski pole, she began to brush away the fresh powder snow from the ground beside her. After a moment, tracks were revealed beneath it, frozen into the cruddy, icy surface beneath. ‘See?’ she said.

He peered at them. They led straight ahead for a couple of yards before disappearing into the swirling white blizzard. Looking relieved, he smiled. ‘Clever girl! I’ll follow you.’

‘No, you go first in case you fall over – I can help you up. Just follow the tracks. Bend your knees and brace yourself because the first fifty yards or so are a bit steep, then it levels out. Just let yourself go!’ She shot an anxious glance around her to make absolutely sure no one was watching.

‘OK!’ he said with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. ‘Here goes! Yeee-ha!’

He launched himself forward on his poles, like a racer out of the gate, and whooped again. ‘Yeee-ha!’

Then his voice turned into a terrible scream. Just for one fleeting second before it was swallowed by the wind.

Then silence.

Jodie turned round, then pushing with her poles, headed off in the direction all the other skiers had taken, oblivious to the wind and the stinging snow on her cheeks.

 

Giveaway:

To be entered to win a print copy of LOVE ME DEAD, comment on this blog post with the title of the book you are currently reading.

(contest on 12/8/16 and US addresses only, please)

Author Bio: 
peter-james-black-coatPeter James is an international bestselling thriller writer. He is a New York Times bestseller
as well as having 11 consecutive Sunday Times No 1s and he is published in 37 languages. His DS Roy Grace crime novels have sold 18 million copies worldwide. Prior to becoming a full-time author he was responsible for 25 movies. In 1994 Penguin published his novel ‘Host’ on two floppy discs as the world’s first electronic novel. His novels have won numerous awards most recently the coveted 2016 CWA Diamond Dagger for sustained excellence and he was publicly voted by WH Smith – Britain’s biggest book selling chain – The Best Crime Author Of All Time. Visit him on YouTube: www.peterjames.com/youtube
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