 The magic of Potter Lake strikes again when Evonne Girard— cosmetologist and obsessed podcast fan meets Taj Wright— Registered Nurse and musician following a nasty fall in the parking lot at the Curl & Dye. There are jokes, there is flirting, lingering stares abound… but neither thinks they’ll see the other again any time soon. When Evonne takes a step toward adulting and moves out of her parent’s home, she discovers that the cute house she’s renting belongs to the handsome, sexy nurse with the eyes she can’t forget. But she’s not in Potter Lake to meet a man. She’s on a mission to prove to her parents that she isn’t the failure that showed up on their doorstep ten years ago. Taj is delighted to rent his guest house to the pretty, snappy former patient he can’t stop thinking about. Potter Lake was a place to run when his dream died, a haven to start over and give back what was given to him. When the opportunity to live that dream again rolls around, Taj isn’t sure that he wants it to come true. Evonne and Taj are forced to live in close quarters during a severe storm and quickly become more than landlord and tenant. When the same storm drives them from Potter Lake to a beachside retreat, worlds collide. One shared secret could change the trajectory of something beautiful. On a rainy night in Georgia, two hearts meet. They’re never the same again. CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE EXCERPT
Ebony followed closely behind me in the rental truck while I drove the rest of my belongings in my car. I pulled into the driveway and she parked behind me, then hopped right out with her mouth wide open. I could understand her reaction— the house was a beautiful stone stucco with huge windows facing the street. “This is what we’re doing now, Vonnie? This is how we livin’? Started in the basement, now we here?” “The owner said he left the key in the mailbox. Let’s grab them and I’ll give you a tour.” “Oh, he’s a he, is he?” Ebony followed. “He’s probably rich, too with this big ass house. Living here all by his lonesome. Have you met him?” “Not yet. He’s a doctor or something so I’ll probably never see him.” I reached into the mailbox and felt hard metal. I pulled out a set of keys and shook them in Ebony’s face. She frowned and swatted them away. “A doctor? If you don’t snatch him up, I will.” “The lease said the house was owned by some holding company, so I don’t know his name.” “I hope he’s nice. You know, not one of those thinks he’s God assholes.” “Me too, considering he lives so close. As long as he stays on his side of the property, we’ll be good.” “Unless he’s cute, then he can be on all of the property, if you know what I’m saying.” I took the path along the outside of the house, toward the front door. It was standard white metal, but it felt like the entrance to freedom to me. I inserted the key in the deadbolt and then the knob lock and swung the door open. A scent hit my nose, something light and clean. After walking around for a few minutes, I found the source: air freshener plug-ins, the Clean Linen scent. A small bouquet of bright yellow and white daisies sat on the kitchen counter along with a brief note: Welcome Home. We’ll meet soon. —TW I loved the friendly gesture. My landlord and I were going to get along fine. I set the note down and turned a full revolution, taking it all in. Ebony walked through the place, swooning at everything from the picture windows to the view of the backyard. “Ooh, Vonnie! You can do your videos here!” She dipped into an alcove space off of the kitchen. It was almost a room, the perfect amount of space. “Yeah, I thought that would be a good spot. I’m going to get something to dress up the back wall. I’ll do those open bookcases for products and display stands for my wigs. I can mount the ring light on this wall,” I tapped the wall nearest me. “And I’ll set up a shelf for the camera to sit. I can edit the videos anywhere, so I’ll probably do that—” “Hello?” A rich tenor that I hoped wasn’t attached to someone standing inside my place called into the house. I glanced at Ebony, eyes wide. She bounded out of the alcove. “Eb! Wait—” I wanted to grab her, in case it was a serial killer who haunted small towns and kidnapped cute black girls. “Hey. We’re back here.” Brilliant, Eb. Tell him exactly where to find us, chop us up and bury us in the backyard. “Who’s there?” Footsteps sounded on the tile just inside the door. “Hi. I’m here for Evonne.” I followed her around the corner. “Way to tell a stranger exactly where we are, Ebony. You know that’s how that girl got murdered on last week’s episode of The Butler Did It.” My eyes sought out anything I could use for a weapon, if I needed it. But then I realized that I wouldn’t. Need a weapon, that was. Because I knew the man standing in my kitchen. I could never forget his soulful eyes, gorgeous dark skin, full lips… and the blue scrubs that seemed cut to fit him specifically, the way they stretched across his chest and cradled his arms in such a nice way. “Nurse Dude,” I finally said, when I could find my voice. He was such a pleasant sight, considering that he was probably not a serial killer. “Miss Girard.” “Nurse Dude? Miss Girard?” Ebony repeated, swiveling her head from me to him and back. “You know him?” “I-I-I…how... what...” I stuttered, then shook my head to arrange my thoughts and cajole my mouth into forming a complete sentence. “This is my new place. Do you live close?” “Yes, I’d say I live close.” He laughed, showing all of his teeth. “I own the place. I left you the flowers and the note… I’m—” I snapped my fingers and pointed. “TW! Taj Wright, Registered Nurse.” “The one and the same,” he said, with a modest nod. “I intended to be here when you pulled up. I don’t normally work day shift, but I switched so I could be here. We had a last minute walk-in and—” He waved a hand, then tugged at the hem of his scrubs. “So, welcome. Let me know if you have any questions. And you’ll want to pull the moving truck into the driveway. It sticks out into the street and the neighbors...” He hummed, wagging his head side to side while rolling his eyes. “I’m not leaving again tonight, so use my space.” “Ebony?” I hinted, since she had the key to the truck, but she stood there, her hands propped on her hips and her chest pushed up and out. “Ebony! Go move the truck!” “Oh, right!” She pulled the key from her pocket and teetered out on her stilettos. “Be right back!” I moved into the kitchen and leaned against the counter in front of the dishwasher. The scent of the air freshener hit me again and I realized that he had been inside my home. It didn’t feel like a violation, considering the house belonged to him. It was weird though, knowing that he had set things up for me, bought flowers, wrote a note. “So…” “So...” He mimicked, moving around the outside of the kitchen, leaning a set of meaty forearms onto the counter, muscular without hulking out like an NFL fullback. Whew. I was going to be living mere feet from him? Look at God. “So...” I repeated, wishing I had a bottle of water because my survey of him had me parched. “You didn't think you should let me know that you, in fact, are TWM, LLC, the holding company referenced on the lease? And that you own this house and would be renting to me? And that it was the same you that treated me at the clinic?” He shrugged strong shoulders and smirked. “I put the house under my LLC for tax and privacy purposes. And there’s no law that says a nurse can’t rent a house to a former patient. Speaking of—” He straightened, stretching out his arm. “Let me examine that cut. You didn’t come back to the clinic and let me check it out.” “Oh…” I clutched my still-tender hand to my chest. “No need. It’s fine.” “Then let me see it.” “It’s okay. You did a fine job.” “Then let me see it. Did it not heal okay?” “Is this what it’s going to be like? You coming down here to randomly check me for a fever?” He laughed, dropping his hand. “Not at all. I take that very seriously. I only came in tonight because the door was open and someone was here to tell me to come in.” “In the future, don’t do anything Ebony tells you to do. She has ulterior motives. She plans to kidnap you and make you her sex slave or Sugar Daddy.” Taj laughed. “Wait until you find out I’m only halfway kidding.” He laughed again, so hard this time that the corners of his eyes crinkled up. “So… well, I’ll let you unpack and get settled. I came down to tell you about the truck. Would be a terrible way to meet the neighborhood busy bodies.” He moved toward the door, talking as he walked. “Let me know if you have any questions. My cell phone number is on the lease, so call any time.” But suddenly I wasn’t ready for him to leave. “Hey, if you want to check this,” I offered, waiving my injured hand in the air. “For checking’s sake. It does still hurt.” His brow furrowed. He came around the counter toward me and immediately cupped my hand in his. He was warm and his skin was soft. He’d been wearing gloves when he treated me. “Any sharp pain? Like a stabbing feeling or throbbing?” “More tender, not constant throbbing pain. But if I press on it—” I did so, then flinched, sucking in air through my teeth. “Well, then don’t do that.” He peeled back the bandage and inspected the progress. “Hmmm. It shouldn’t be this red, but it could be irritated by using the hand a lot. Try to give it a rest tonight and leave the bandage off. Let it breathe. Let’s see how it looks tomorrow. It seems to have closed up fine.” “You think I’ll have a scar?” He peered closer, tipping his head one way and then the other. “Hard to tell. Why?” “They’re often on camera, so—” “Camera?” His eyes rolled up, meeting mine. “Will you be shooting any low budget films?” I laughed, yanking my hand back from his grasp. Then regretted doing so, not from the twinge of pain but because he was so warm. “I have a web channel. Hair by E. I do beauty and hair reviews and stuff. Aside from that, I need to be able to use both of my hands at the salon.” “You should be fine, Miss Girard. But let me know if you need a referral to a plastic surgeon.” A beautiful brown, lushly lashed eye winked at me. “See, there you go. Giving me shit.” He laughed. “You make it so easy.” “If y'all are done flirting,” Ebony interrupted, a large box labeled WIGS, 1 of 4 in her arms. She didn’t seem amused at how close Taj stood to me or how friendly we seemed to be toward each other. “We need to unload that truck so I can return it tonight. I’m not letting my car sit at the rental place all night.” “I’ll let you get to it. Holler if you need anything.” Taj sauntered out of the kitchen and out of the front door, pulling it closed behind him. I made a half turn, trying to decide where to start. “That box is wigs, so let’s start a stack along that wall.” I pointed toward the hallway leading to the alcove. Ebony smirked, slowly sauntered past me and set the box down, then pushed it against the wall. Then she turned to me, a hand propped on one hip. “Nurse. Dude.” “Don’t start, Eb. I’m going to grab some boxes. Did Daddy put his dolly in the truck?” “Nuh uh, Vonnie.” Stubborn, she folded her arms across her chest and planted her stance, her head tipped to the side. “You weren’t going to tell me about the super cute chocolate nurse with the face and the arms and the chest and the eyes and shit? And how he lives next door?” “He was my nurse at the clinic the night I fell, Ebony. He bandaged my cut, that’s all.” “Had to be more than that. Y’all got nicknames for each other. Miss Girard.” I rolled my eyes to the ceiling, noting the beautiful, hand cut wooden fan for the first time. The design details in the house were impressive. “I flipped him shit. He flipped it back. He happens to own this house, which I told you I didn’t know when I rented it. Can we unload this truck now?” “Fine. But expect me to be out here visiting a lot. I might need a lot of personal health care from your landlord.”
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 In a dark vision of the near future, Los Angeles has become a desolate wasteland after a multi-pronged biological, nuclear, and EMP attack that paralyzed Southern California on a day that the rest of the nation celebrated independence. For the unlucky "New Angelinos," there is only one way out: gain entry into the New United States through The Raffle. When raffler Ramsey Arami wins The Raffle after ten years of trying, he believes he will finally reunite with his wife and daughter in the New United States. But only if he follows the rules of the New United States. Climaxing in Area 51, Randy Smith delivers a fast-paced geopolitical thriller that is equal parts suspense and philosophy, adventure and romance, science and technology in a future with unsettling parallels to our present. CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE EXCERPT
May 19, 2027 “You have three hours and fifty-nine minutes before the Raffle,” the blond haired, blue-eyed female guard said at the end of the narrow hallway we had been walking. She pressed her hand against a pad next to a door and it opened. A sign above the door said “Raffler #1”. As she stared into my eyes to see my reaction, she said, “Please enter your waiting room, Raffler #1.” I nodded and surveyed the room. It was small, about one-hundred-fifty square feet with a single cot covered with white linen sheets and a pillow. Folded blue coveralls lay at the end of the cot. Perched halfway between the cot and the ceiling was what appeared to be a white, plastic-covered square speaker. Next to the speaker was a black-paneled clock with red-colored digits displaying the current time: 8:01. A small white desk stood against the left-side wall with a white swivel chair. The desk and chair reminded me of a smaller version of a desk my wife and I had in our home office almost eleven years ago. Positioned in the center of the desk were a new notepad and two sharpened pencils, also things I hadn’t seen in almost eleven years. Noticing that I was staring at the desk and the pad of paper, the guard said, “We encourage Rafflers having progressed this far to write.” “Write what?” I asked cautiously. “Anything they desire. A prayer, their thoughts, or a letter to individuals they knew before July 2016 that may live now in the New United States.” “And why do you encourage writing?” “Because writing is a skill New Angelinos have not used regularly in many years.” She watched my reaction before continuing. “If your Raffle ticket gets picked tonight, you will be Re-Patriated to the New United States. Our Re-Partition Laws require Re-Patriated New Angelinos to have a job within two weeks of re-entry. And not all jobs available to Re-Patriots are the manual labor jobs that New Angelinos have been doing for the past ten years.” “And who will read what I write?” “That is entirely up to you. At 11:59 tonight, you will hear over the speaker above the number of the Raffle winner. If you are the winner and choose not to submit a letter for delivery, you may take your writings with you and nobody will ever read them or ask them of you. Your writings are yours to keep as a last physical memento of your time in New Angeles.” “Am I supposed to believe no one will read the writings if I am picked tonight?” “The ability to trust and show you are trustworthy are important skills to possess. By allowing you to participate in the Raffle we trust you no longer show the effects of M-V-16 Virus. Those showing effects of the Virus fail to advance as far as you have today.” She paused and made direct eye contact with me, presumably to make sure I understood before continuing. “And being able to trust in the New United States is also important for Re-Patriation eligibility. So, if you are told your writings will not be read if you choose not to submit them, then you should trust us.” I realized believing, or at least pretending I believed, that my writings would not be read was another stage of the Raffle. Having never been so close to having my number drawn, I agreed to buy what she was selling, but I was still confused. “Why would I choose to submit what I write to you?” “On the other side of this wall you will find two slots, one marked destruction and the other marked distribution.” She looked back in my eyes and said, “The destruction slot leads to an incinerator beneath us, and you may deposit your writings into the destruction slot at any time and they will not be read.” She paused again, presumably for effect. “If you deposit a letter with sufficient delivery details to someone you believe lives in the New United States and the letter is submitted by 11:49 tonight, then we will deliver it per your instructions. Of course, that means we will thoroughly read your letter to ensure the best possible chance of delivery.” I nodded and said, “Thank you for the explanation.” While stepping forward I made a slight asking bow to her with a head nod towards my room, “May I enter?” She squinted her eyes, making a mental note of my moves. I realized I passed another test by asking permission before entering the room. “One more matter you should know that occurs at exactly 11:49 tonight. You must decide whether you will increase your chances tenfold by pledging your next ten Raffle entries. We call it ‘Pledging Your Ten’”. “‘Pledging Your Ten’?” I said with surprise. “The Proclamation never mentioned ‘Pledging Your Ten’.” I reached into my yellow jumpsuit to retrieve my obligatory copy of The Proclamation. “We completed the Settlement over ten years ago, Raffler #1. You are ignorant of many adjustments the New United States has made to the Raffle. If you are willing to maximize your chances tonight, we will document the pledging of your next ten Raffle tickets. If you fail to win tonight, you will not be allowed to participate in the Raffle for the next ten years.” “Am I required to pledge my ten Raffle tickets?” “No, you are not required to Pledge Your Ten, though, in making your decision, you should consider what the seven other Rafflers will do tonight.” I nodded and looked away into the room. “Can I pledge less than ten?” “No, Raffler #1. You may choose to Pledge Your Ten or take your chances with your single Raffle ticket tonight.” I nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. Anything else I should be aware of before I enter?” I asked respectfully. “You may enter, Raffler #1. Please remove your jumpsuit once the door is closed behind you. We have fresh coveralls for you on the cot.” As I stepped into the room, I looked at the clock, which said 8:04 pm. I then heard the door whoosh closed behind me and lock itself. I realized I spent precious minutes learning about my choices before the Raffle tonight. My mind ruminated about the length of my questions: Was that another part of the test? Did I take too long? Was I too short? The rumination lasted a precious minute: once the clock hit 8:05, my mind began to race. I stared at the clock, then closed my eyes, and breathed slowly until I was in complete control of my nerves. I continued to breathe until I had full control of my thoughts and mind through my brief standing meditation and opened my eyes to see it was now 8:07: Three hours and fifty-two minutes until the Raffle. I nodded to myself while staring back and forth at the desk and the cot, and asked myself, “Sleep or write? What will I do?” Using the buttons on the side I stripped off and folded my mandatory yellow jumpsuit and placed it under the cot. I also removed my obligatory copy of the Proclamation and my Raffle ticket. I put on the coveralls and placed the Proclamation and the ticket in the front left pocket. Trying to relax, I sat on the cot and placed my head in my hands. My racing mind felt like it was thumping, but I realized the thumping was just my heart. I was so close to leaving New Angeles, but I didn't want to get my hopes up. Only eight Rafflers remained. And how many of us would “Pledge Your Ten”? Maybe the others will think if they advanced this far this year then they will again next year and choose not to pledge their next ten Raffles. But, logic told me everyone would pledge their next ten Raffle tickets to increase their chances of being picked tonight. And if everyone else was maximizing their chances, then I should as well. After breathing in deeply and exhaling, I looked at the clock. It was now 8:10. I thought about my wife and daughter. I had not seen or communicated with them in almost eleven years. The last time I saw them was when I dropped them off at LAX on July 3, 2016 for their trip to visit my wife’s parents near Boston. Although I wasn’t sure they were still alive, in my heart I believed they were and my belief kept me alive these years. It fueled my instinct to survive and continue every time I wanted to quit. I hoped every day to see them again. And now if the security guard told the truth, I had the chance to at least write them a letter. Other than documenting New United States fuel shipments to the Asian Quadrant I had written little in the past 11 years so my writing skills were poor. Still, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity: I decided to write a letter to my wife and daughter.  Secrets of Lady Lucy It’s never easy keeping secrets… Only her desire to crush the Crown’s enemies could induce Lady Lucille Stanford to endure another Season. For years she has worked secretly for the Home Office, and she has come to London with one purpose: foil the attempted kidnapping of a highly valuable target, identity unknown. Inconveniently, Lord Harrington—Lucy’s brother and guardian—has other plans. He won’t be satisfied until she is at long last married. He never forgets a face … After years on the Continent, Blake Gower, Earl of Devonton, returns to England in need of a wife. He should not be surprised when his best friend Harrington’s sister recaptures his attention. But there’s more to the woman Lady Lucy has become than the delightful girl Blake remembers. When she takes an unexpected jaunt to the country during the height of the Season, Blake is determined to know why—and to discover all Lady Lucy’s secrets. Unwilling to give up her patriotic mission for marriage, Lucy is conflicted when she meets the enigmatic Lord Devonton. She never expected to feel this way about a man again. When the ransom demand comes due—will it be for Lady Lucy’s heart? CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE EXCERPT
“Lucy!” Lady Lucille Stanford’s best friend whispered harshly at the open door. Lucy pressed herself deeper into the desk cavity. Blast, she had nearly been found out. She hurriedly folded and tucked the unread parchment in her hand under her garter. “Lucy, are you in here?” Muffled steps on the plush carpet came closer. “Lady Lucille Stanford, come out from under the desk, now!” Lady Grace Oldridge’s tone did nothing to alleviate Lucy’s frustration at having been discovered. She smoothed out her gown and slowly rolled to her full height, all five feet two inches. “Grace, please don’t be mad. I just needed a little time to myself.” Despite having successfully kept her unusual activities and investigations a secret during her first Season, Lucy was finding it increasingly difficult in her second now that her twin brother Matthew, Marquess Harrington, was intent on finding her a husband. At two and twenty, Lucy was practically on the shelf—and far too old for this to be merely her second Season. If she had her way, she would have had none. After losing James, for years she had successfully avoided all of it—the Season, a husband. But Matthew was no longer amenable to her resistance to marriage. The only advantage of being in Town among the ton was her ability to access resources that facilitated what she now considered her true avocation. Engulfed in a reassuring hug from Grace, Lucy was struck with guilt—which swiftly evaporated as she caught sight of Grace’s fierce expression. “You scared us all to death when we couldn’t find you in your usual hiding spots. I thought someone had… Well, never mind. We need to go back to the ballroom. I’m certain your brother is about to have an apoplexy.” |
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