ADDICTarium

The War Stories Chronicles 1

by Nicole D'Settemi

Genre: Memoir

Drugs. Sex. Detox. Art. Recovery. Prostitution. Music. Street life. Poetry. Toxic love. And, those are just on the surface. The layers and complexities of Addictarium will shock and enthrall you...

When wild-child, and south Florida escapee, Danielle Martino finds herself curled in a ball on the cold tile floors of her filthy rank bathroom in the tiny studio she rents with her fiancé and partner-in-crime, she knows it's time to quit abusing heroin. Severely impaired from shooting a bad batch of black tar heroin, and already partially blind from the infection that the muddy poison has caused, she is forced to hitch a greyhound bus to New York City, and to abandon her care-free, American-bohemian, drug infested life-style.

Hailed everywhere as a beautiful, unique, honest, raw and poetic account of recovery, Addictarium takes readers on a compelling journey through the life and eyes of the narrator; a creative, nomadic, deep--but, incidentally broken--young woman, and underlines the contributing factors to what it's really like to suffer from addiction. With magnificent candor--and sometimes emotionally crippling descriptions--we witness Danielle's fight towards recovery from more than just heroin, as Addictarium brings the readers on a fascinating and harrowing, brutal tale of a young women's recovery from total and mass self-destruction. 

--Addictarium highlights in the starkest of lights, why it is so difficult for addicts to receive the recovery they seek, when they finally do decide to put the drug down.

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Author Nicole D'Settēmi is a 33 year old writer, currently living in upstate New York. She has lived in five regions nationally, including South Florida and New York City. She has always been a self-described "poetic, nomadic, creative soul," and is an enthusiast of a variety of artistic mediums, but considers writing her number one form of art, and feels everything else is just an extension of that passion and creative outlet.

Nicole was raised in Niagara Falls, a tiny town bordering Canada, and can remember being as young as six, when writing her first lyrical, and philosophical poems. She specifically pin-points two pieces during those years, titled "If I Ruled the World," and "If the World Ended.” She also points out being selected at 6, for the "Young Authors Club," which was a city-wide project.

Nicole won two city-wide essay contests between the ages 9-11, which was when she received her first typewriter and then she started a fan-club and newsletter for her childhood hero, as well as penning letters to over 30 pen-pals internationally. She also had a poem named "And So It Begins" published which was written at 12.

Though Nicole (who was an honor student) rebelled by 15, and was incidentally expelled from school, she still wrote habitually. She once showed her “alternative-school” teacher a poem titled: "That's Life," which she penned at 14. He was so impressed with the piece; he had it faxed to every school in the city.

At 16 Nicole was uprooted from her small town and moved to Boca Raton, where she felt displaced and started to deal with depression. Hereditarily, mental illness and substance abuse ran rapid in her family tree, and by 20 she experimented with a plethora of chemical substances. By 23, she became addicted to shooting heroin, and was engaged to her co-conspirator and partner-in-crime. She attended an art school for photo journalism, but withdrew half-way through the year, due to a devastating addiction to injecting various drugs.

Addictarium was written while she spent two years in a therapeutic community for seriously addicted, and mentally ill, patrons. The author outlines her experiences, including the tale of losing her eyesight due to shooting a poisoned bag of heroin, which is when she was forced to hitch a greyhound bus from South Florida to Manhattan, and after several weeks of surgeries, was admitted to Daytop Village for long-term treatment, and drug addiction recovery. The book outlines many of the experiences she went through in the second phase of treatment, which she dubbed "the village," because of its extreme and eccentric melting pot of personalities.

During her tenure at Daytop, Nicole separated with her fiancé, and while in her stay at the recovery program in Queens New York, met her current fiancé, who was initially her substance abuse counselor. The book is also highly reflective of their relationship and its roots. Nicole credits the Latin, Brooklyn-bred counselor, 18 years her senior, with "saving her from herself.”

Nicole can now be found residing in the Poughkeepsie area with her fiancé, Miguel. They are both artists, and run a modest side business creatively assisting those in need of artistic direction digitally. Nicole is currently planning to eventually pen a prequel to Addictarium. She is also outlining a third individual novel, Narssitopia, which she claims will be a "psycho-dramatic thriller."

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Unleashed

Road Rage: The Blog Book 1

by Two Sharpe

Genre: Murder Thriller

On October 30th, a man calling himself Simon started a blog, Road Rage. He claimed that he was going to kill several people that offended him with their belligerent driving style. After several claimed murders, the FBI assigned Special Agent Monique “Nikki” Sebastian, to the case to monitor the blog and see if she could start a dialog with the suspected serial killer, to possibly verify his claims. Very quickly, Nikki realized that not only was Simon doing exactly what he claimed, she found that he is not your run of the mill serial killer. Simon seems to function with some sort of moral code and the victims he chooses may very well be deserving of the attention given. Nikki also found that she was not sure who was hunting whom, as the communication between her and Simon became very personal.

As you get to know Simon and the Rage that he carries with him, you will find there is a lot more to this man than some random serial killer. He is a man with very unique “problem solving” skills and he really enjoys his work and the mission he has taken on to help rid the world of some really unnecessary… bad drivers…

“Unleashed” is the first in the Road Rage the Blog series of novels. The books contain adult language and graphic violence. Enter at your own risk because you just might agree with Simon’s mission.

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Two Sharpe Publishing was created as a company to publish some books that my daughter and I wrote together.  This was not something Amanda nor I had ever even dreamed of, but then life has a way of sending you down the path that it wants… regardless of where you were planning on going.

On September 16, 2015, Amanda’s husband Kevin was on his way home from work late one night and was waiting for traffic to clear in the left turn lane about a mile from their home.  A drunk driver coming from behind Kevin, at what was estimated 75 mph in a 45 mph zone, veered out of the travel lanes and struck Kevin in the rear of his Dodge Neon with a full-size SUV.  Kevin was killed instantly in the crash.

Several months after Kevin’s death, Amanda wrote an autobiography of her life with Kevin called Stolen and she asked me if I would help edit the book.  Once we put the finishing touches on Stolen, we decided we would cowrite a fictional series called The Charly Stevens series.

People deal with the loss of a loved one in many different ways. After starting the Charly Stevens Series, we came up with another fictional series called Road Rage The Blog. It is a real time blog written by Simon, a man who has a great deal of rage, especially when he gets in a car.

Once we had an idea for the above projects, we needed a Social Engineer to handle publishing, website development, cover art, and social media for our company.  We were lucky enough to convince Kris Spoon to join our team.  Kris has a wide range of experience in the world of publishing and social media and has used those unique skills to create a platform for not only the works we have created to date, but for those to come.  We hope in the future to be able to help other authors bring their works to life through our company.

Thank you for reading about Two Sharpe Publishing!

-Amanda, Kris, & Scott-

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Chase groaned as he sagged down into his usual chair in the station meeting room. Garrett Wyld, his usual meeting neighbor, reached over to elbow him in the ribs.

“Easy, Wyld!” Chase swapped his mug of coffee to the other hand to keep from spilling any more. Even the shitty station coffee was a precious commodity on a chilly Alaska morning like this.

Garrett just chuckled and shook his head. “Something tells me I’m not the uneasy one. Why the long sigh, Kingston? You get lucky last night?”

Nearby squad members turned their heads, suddenly interested in the exchange. Chase took a sip of his coffee to avoid answering outright. It was a calculated risk, and he lost out—the brew was still hot as hell, even hotter than the blaze at the squad’s last house call. He avoided an outward grimace and paid the price as the fluid scalded his tongue and seared his throat.

“Maybe,” he said enigmatically. At least his poor abused tongue could still deliver the proper air of mystery . . . despite the cloak of mystery getting whisked aside in the next moment.

“You fucking dog.” One of the senior squad members punched his other shoulder, and when Chase switched his coffee from hand to hand this time, he was grinning.

“Ah, to be young!” another lamented.

Chase just shook his head. He had aged out of bragging about his conquests, but he wasn’t above receiving the heaped congratulations his reputation still earned him. He just wished he could remember the name of the gal he’d taken home last night . . . not that it made the least bit of difference. She had shipped in on a cruise liner out of Seattle and had already moved on to the next town by now. It had been fun, plain and simple, and that was how he preferred it. He’d show another sexy tourist the sights—and help her keep her bed warm—before the week was out.

The door blew open, and every head turned from Chase as the fire chief entered. Chase may have been the life of the party, but even he knew he was no match for the big boss himself.

“Listen up.” Hank Logan crossed to the desk at the front of the room and tossed his clipboard down. He leaned back against the table and crossed his burly arms. Chase leaned forward despite himself. He had never seen Hank’s clipboard get the table treatment so early in a meeting. His chief wasn’t even looking to it as a reference now. He was looking straight into the faces of his men.

Something was up.

“New assignment,” Hank told them. “I’m taking a volunteer contingent down to California. Cedar Springs, to be exact. She’s a small town that’s used to the wildfires this time of year passing her by. This latest fire reared up over the past few days.” Hank nodded as if to himself. “Still fairly tame, so it’s a control job to help the local squads keep it from spreading anywhere populated. Low risk, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be dangerous.” Hank surveyed the crew’s faces once more. Chase suppressed the urge to look at Garrett. “A call for supplementary support passed across my desk this morning,” Hank continued, “and I agreed to it. I want to take some men with me down south. Like I said, it’s all voluntary.”

“I’m in,” Chase blurted. No one seemed surprised that he was the first.

“Could be weeks,” Hank noted. “Maybe even months. Think the pretty tourists who disembark down at the port can spare you?”

Chase rocked back in his chair and flipped up the bill of his cap with a grin. “They’re going to have to.”

“If Kingston’s going, then so am I,” Garrett volunteered. “Can’t let you boys have all the fun!”

Hank nodded. “Anyone else?”

The shouted affirmations came quickly after that. As Hank’s offer sank in, every member of the squad suddenly realized that he or she could use a little extra Vitamin D. Once the contingent had filled out, they were dismissed. Chase rose, still grinning, and left at the head of the class. His pulse raced with equal parts caffeine and excitement for what his summer now had in store. Still, one question lingered in his mind.

“Cedar Springs,” he said aside to Garrett as they headed for the locker room. “Why does the name sound familiar?”

“I was wondering that myself, and then I remembered,” Garrett said as he pulled open his locker. “Cedar Springs is Chief’s hometown.”

“How the hell do you know a thing like that?” Hank almost never talked about himself. He left the airing of intimate anecdotes to . . . well, to people like Chase.

Garrett shrugged. “He mentioned it once to me when we went out for a drink.”

“Bet you he has a childhood sweetheart stashed away down there,” Chase said.

Garrett snorted his disbelief. “I’ll take that bet.” They shook on it, then locked eyes. Chase could see his own excitement mirrored in Garrett’s expression. Screw dangerous, this latest assignment was going to be more fun than a summer’s worth of Alaskan nights spent in the company of any one of those down-south Dorothys who hailed from the Emerald City.

Guess I’ll have to find a girl’s bed to warm down in Cali, Chase thought as he tossed back the rest of his coffee.

He was looking forward to it.

The beauty looked right at him. She’d no doubt sensed his boat’s arrival. No frown, though her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. If he hadn’t been staring into them, he may not have noticed. Maybe the boat slip was open for rental.

Aidan knew he turned women’s heads without trying, and mostly it annoyed him. Because the aforementioned women then made a pass at him. He wanted to be the chooser in any hookup. This particular beauty could stare as long as she wanted. Instinct assured him he could still be the chooser here.

The blonde stole his breath. He wasn’t usually a go-after-blondes guy, except for the brief crush he’d had after meeting Rhett’s wife Lily, though she wasn’t yet Rhett’s when Aidan met her. He could make a second exception for this fresh-faced beauty.

Her green eyes reminded him of twin emeralds, visible even from here. Eyes that bored into your soul and squeezed at your heart. Despite the desire tugging at his body, his faithful instinct suddenly cried out, This woman will be important to you.

His little tour guide hopped from a bench to the gunwale with grace and then tiptoed down the narrow ridge to the stern. He couldn’t help but grin at her athleticism and balance. Her eyes never left his, though his may have wandered down to her beautiful tanned legs and back up.

She stopped dead. Her lips, luscious and a perfect pink, twitched and then stretched into a smile.

Aidan’s heart threatened mutiny if he didn’t get closer. The woman was gorgeous.

How rosy could he make those lips with a properly-delivered kiss?

Aidan heard the whine of an incoming boat. Ignored it. Assumed the craft would scoot to one of the multitude of slips and docks on the other side of the boat ramp. Plus, he refused to take his eyes off his smiling tour guide just yet.

Assumed, as the saying went, often made an ass of me.

The large incoming pleasure craft swooped to a blunt landing on the other side of the dock by throwing the powerful engine into reverse to halt forward motion. The subsequent tsunami-sized wake had no such reverse or brake and pitched his boat and the tour vessel up on a roiling crest and back down, sending his green-eyed girl into a dive.

Headfirst.

Over the side.

Grabbing for balance himself, he couldn’t tell if she made a clean entry. He scrabbled toward the bow of his boat.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Four seconds. Too long.

The water looked to be six or seven feet deep at low tide. The beauty should have surfaced. He kicked off his shoes and went over the side at the spot where she went down. The fool driver of the errant boat hollered, “Hey!” but Aidan kept going.

The dark marina water made it hard for him to see her. Aidan went by feel more than sight when he searched. Precious seconds elapsed until his hand felt a sneaker. He tugged the beauty’s motionless body from beneath the darker shadow of the tour boat and bolted for the surface.

Forcing her head above water, he made a straight shot between the boats and under the dock—only possible, Thank God, due to low tide—and gained his footing at the base of the boat ramp. He swung the girl up and into his arms.

When he reached shallower water, he angled her front first over his arm. She coughed twice and spit out a couple mouthfuls of seawater. At the top of the ramp, he stepped up onto the dock, then knelt and laid her down prostrate, ready for CPR.

He put an ear to her chest. Grabbed a limp wrist and felt for a pulse, then heaved a sigh of relief at her slow but steady heart rate. She coughed. He put his ear to her nose and mouth and detected breathing. Shallow, but air in and air out.

Come on, baby. Open those beautiful green eyes for me.

“You there!” The late boat arrival glared down at him.

Aidan ignored the jerk and scooped the unconscious woman into his arms, ready to sprint for the parking lot for a ride or directions to the closest doctor or hospital.

An arm grabbed Aidan and swung him around. The jerk was tall, only a couple inches shorter than Aidan’s six foot three. Had the look of a football player going to seed with a belly paunch already committing a false start. Dark-haired and glowering . . . a fight picker who now blocked his path. Aidan had no time for this.

“Don’t you touch her!” Jerk shouted.

“I’m taking her to the nearest doctor,” Aidan hollered back at him, “and you’re going to tell me where that is.”

“You’re not taking her anywhere!”

“That your boat?” Aidan nodded at the newly arrived sleek speedboat just to clarify.

“Yes. Now leave her alone!” the pompous jackass commanded.

“You don’t know how to drive a boat, you knocked her into the water, and you deserve this!” Aidan planted a foot in the ass’s gut and booted him backward into the marina’s dark water.

Location: Somewhere on the Southern Indian Ocean

No one saw the attack coming.

The first blast tore a hole in the hull at 1:37 in the morning. By 2:15 the aft portion of the supply vessel, Marion Dufresne II, was pointing to the starless sky, while its nose was dipped below the frigid black ocean. A cutting wind battered the exposed keel and the remaining crew who managed to hold on to the outer railings.

Freya Nilsson clung to the thick frame of the eighteen-ton oceanographic crane, though it too was already slipping beneath the waves. She cried out, but her voice was drowned by the howling Antarctic maelstrom and the ship’s three, huge, Wärtsilä diesel engines, now churning nothing but air. Freya shivered uncontrollably, her hair and clothes frozen to her skin. “KJ!” she cried out, again.

Her son didn’t answer.

Freya sobbed, tears freezing halfway down her cheeks. “KJ, where are you?”

A flash of lightning illuminated the angry ocean and a thick layer of clouds covering the heavens, but the attacking vessel was nowhere in sight. A deafening clap of thunder filled the air followed by a wave of needle-like raindrops that shattered across her face. The vessel reared up and the engines roared. A muffled explosion beneath the water cleaved the ship in two and the nose began to sink.

Have to jump, Freya thought. Can’t let them take KJ! She pushed off the crane and dropped into the icy ocean below.

Despite already being frozen, the shock of the glacial water stole the breath from her lungs. Before she could swim to the surface, Freya was sucked under. Tumbling down, down, down, she struggled to find her bearing. Her lungs burned, poisoned with carbon-dioxide. Instinctively, she kicked and fought and pulled until somehow, as if pushed upward, she eventually broke the surface.

Freya took a massive gulp of life-giving salty air, only to be pulled beneath again as a piece of the ship crashed into the ocean beside her. The falling debris dragged her farther and farther into the deep. She jerked and thrashed, but it only served to steal the energy from her stiffened limbs.

Blackness enveloped Freya’s mind, the cold claiming her will to fight. Yet, even as death stalked her, she couldn’t let go. KJ needed her. She couldn’t die. Refused to die. Freya summoned her last drop of power and kicked. Once. Twice. Three times. And then, she could breathe again. The wind whipped her jet-black hair about her face, and the rain stung her eyes. But she was alive.

The silhouette of the supply vessel bobbed in the distance, ass up, before gurgling down into its watery grave. Gone. Still the attackers were invisible. With only the lasting image of where the Marion Dufresne II had just sunk as a destination, Freya paddled forward. Fighting against the chop of the ocean, she inched along. The spray blinded her and the salt burned, but she had to find him.

“KJ where are you?” she called. “Answer me, baby. Please.”

Only the squall howled back.

Her legs tightened and Freya plunged below the surface again, choking on yet another mouthful of seawater before once again scrambling upward—to a light. A bright circle of light rippling on the surface.

A strong hand clasped her under the armpit and pulled. Freya was lifted from the water, her hip smacking into the hull of the lifeboat. She fell backward into the bow, panting and coughing. “KJ … have to find KJ.”

“Cover her. Someone cover her,” a familiar voice said from above.

“I got it. Are there any more?” a woman asked. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

“I don’t think so. I only saw her,” the first voice answered.

Freya lay in the boat, covered in a thermal blanket, her eyes screwed shut. “I’m sorry, Kelly,” she whispered. “Our son. I’m sorry …”

Do Jewish vampires avoid the Star of David?

Does killing time damage eternity?

Do you need a silencer if you shoot a mime?

Can a hearse carrying a corpse drive in the carpool lane?

If a person dies and then rises from the dead, do they get a refund for the coffin?

“Did you fall in?”

Widening my eyes at the piss-colored wall tile, I restlessly sigh, dramatizing my annoyance. Can I not get a moment of fucking peace around here? It’s the only place I’m able to ponder life.

“Just taking a piss break, Amos.”

“Could you at least give a courtesy flush?” The fucker laughs, and it echoes midstream while I throw him a middle finger from behind the door. Without seeing him, I know he’s checking out his bald reflection in the mirror, blinding the room.

“I’ll get right on top of that,” I reply like a dial tone as I near the finish line, imagining I’m pissing on his face. He’d probably like that shit, though.

“You know, there are urinals in here.” His pompous voice reverbs, giving me a double dose of his assholery.

“Oh. I thought they were snooty sinks.” I yawn as my actions also echo within the stall. Jackwad.

“Don’t be playing around in there. I need a face-to-face after lunch, so make sure I don’t see more than your face and zip your pants.” He just wants to think of me holding my dick. Perv.

On the third shake, I qualify for playing with myself as I check my watch at the same time. I don’t want to see him when I leave this stall. I guess it’s time for the big guns, so to speak.

Rolling my eyes, I moan—not my greatest moment—and noisily suck air between my teeth, praying to God nobody else walks in right now. With a loud, stuttered sigh, I give the fourth shake, grinning to myself. I hear his jaw, and his disbelief hit the sink. Don’t fuck with me, comrade. You’re no match for me.

Amos mutters, “Okay. Okay. Just stop. I was only kidding. I’m leaving. My office in 30.”

“Yes, Obi-None.”

Because Amos Vaughn is so transparent, I know he’s squinting his eyes at me from the other side of the door, unsure of how to respond. Lacking comeback skills, he heaves his brawny body into the door, at the mercy of my patience. “It’s 29 minutes now, Rod.”

Rod. Yeah. That’s me. I used to be just Greg Rodwell. A nickname given to me by a former coworker troll has transcended even her tenure here. Now, most of my coworkers and my godforsaken boss call me it. Though, that’s the tamest version of names the bitchtress used to call me, giving that my middle name is Richard. Draw your own conclusions. Sometimes I’m still Greg at work, but not often and only by a select few. I’ll never escape Rod while working here. I’ve accepted it. I just hate the source.

I’ve also accepted that I’m the office clown, making everyone laugh. In reality, I should be a goddamn marvel for the services I provide since most of my coworkers are garbage humans. I’ve crafted my distance, deflecting with my carefully sculpted wit, aged to perfection in oak barrels for nearly 29 years—an undiluted, rye wit, you could say. That’s my superpower. Fuck me. I need a job at a distillery.

Tucking myself and my shirt back into my pants, I kick at the handle. Emerging from the stall as I buckle my belt, the sound of the flushing toilet swirls the Amos-free room just as Crick Scanlon enters. I instantly grin. With his Caesar haircut, circa George Clooney 1996, this particular coworker is a favorite of mine. Maybe it’s because he’s the Arctic opposite and doesn’t outwit, allowing me to polish my skills. To those who don’t know him, he has a wallpaper-paste personality. That’s their loss. Because of his eerie quietness and formalness, his rare laughter is a goldmine. He takes anything I lob at him. Crick is the coloring book to my bucket of crayons. I aim to shock the hell out of him, making him laugh or gape in horror, which, coincidentally, is how my mother often looks at me on any given day. “Hey, Crock. Get fucked last night?”

His face reddens faster than a novice ass at a BDSM club. He looks at the wall with an expression like I just kicked him in the liver. “Uh, no. Um…you?”

My grin doesn’t falter even as I go for a depressing lie. “You know it. All night. Every night.” He’s a decent-looking guy. He could probably find a date if he tried. I’m pretty sure he’s gay like Amos, not that they’re dating each other. That would be fucking disturbing. Crick deserves way better. Not Amos Vaughn. He’s a sick fuck.

Crick makes an effort to not look at me. I dig his awkwardness, so I grab a bigger shovel. “If you’re like me, I bet you’re a beast in the sack.” When he looks at my hands working my buckle, I tease, “I’m not doing no replay of last night for you.” He swallows loud, gaping at me. Bingo. “Just yanking your chain, Crack. Calm down.” I laugh when he looks at the ceiling, still quiet. “Maybe I can help you find a date. What’s your type?”

“I’m not really into dating right now.”

Finished with my belt, I go for the sink. While washing my hands, I watch Crick scratching his arm through an unnecessary sweater for the early October weather. “Come on now. I know a sex fiend is hiding beneath that submissive exterior.” Images of him being collared at one of those clubs make me flinch at my own reflection.

He shrugs as I catch a surprising quirk of his lip in the mirror. “I’m boring, Greg. I don’t have much luck as you do, especially with a certain coworker.” Goddamn it. Don’t say her name.

The sudsy water swirling in the sink temporarily enthralls me, so I don’t have to see either of our expressions. “Uh… She’s… We’re—”

“Shasta?”

Looking up at the mirror, I glare at both of us. Shit. Joke’s on me.

Shasta. Enough said.

Actually, no. I have plenty I want to say about that meat sock. I wish I could blame Shasta for what we did, but I was the one who went to her. It was a last-ditch effort to forget my life for the night. And shit did I do things with Shasta I’m not proud of, not that I wouldn’t do them again. Just not with her. And thanks to a busted condom, I’m glued to her. Enjoy that mental image.

Grabbing a paper towel, my smile shrinks faster than my dick earlier, feigning jerking off for Amos. “Never.”

“Well, Greg, I mean, you do have a daughter with her.”

Shooting my wad—not that kind—into the trash, I try to laugh, but I’m still caught off guard by his unusual commentary. “No. Yeah. I meant, never again, not even if hell froze over, melted, caught fire, and then froze again. Damn, Crick. You know how to destroy a guy’s day.”

He clears his throat as he inches toward a urinal. “I didn’t intend to. I’m sorry. I thought since you were joking around, I needed to engage.”

“Jesus Christ. What a day for you to grow a vagina.”

I return to the mirror, adjusting the Windsor knot of my Storm Trooper tie while he says, “Um, right. Well…” Through the mirror I see him staring at the urinal, and I’m half expecting him to start singing In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel. I never said he wasn’t peculiar.

I snort. “You need a bathroom pass or an engraved invitation?”

He slightly smiles. I’ll take that as a win. “No. I was just…”

“I’m just busting your balls.” Crick looks away from me, and I feel super awkward now for saying that. “Uh, right. Anyway, enjoy. Not too much. There’re some sick bastards working here.” Why can’t I just shut the fuck up? As I leave, I hear his quiet laugh. There’s that, at least.

When I reach the hallway, I’m ticked for now thinking of Shasta. I guess talking to Crick does have its drawbacks.

Taking a left, I steer clear of my office since it’s attached to Amos’. I’m not ready for that follicle-challenged psycho again yet.

Approaching the open door, I hear a familiar voice. Stopping in the doorway and leaning against the frame, I straighten my tie and cross my arms.

She looks my way with a bright smile as she talks. I don’t know how she does it, but I grin back at her. It’s a requirement.

Hadley.

My favorite person.

Well, I guess next to my infant daughter and my older sister, Eden, but to be fair, my daughter is new in town, and my sister is dead.

I watch Hadley move as she talks. I’m always watching her.

Hadley and I have been BFFs since I started working as a paralegal at the law offices of Rhodes, Dryden, Charleton & Associates over three years ago. Only that long? It feels like I’ve been rotting here for a century and a half.

Hadley turns her attention back to her computer screen as she nods. Her honey-brown ponytail dances along while I stare, and I can’t help but do that, even though I have no right. When she laughs, my gaze drops to her bouncing tits, larger than they used to be only months ago. Her left hand goes to her chest, and her sapphire and diamond rings catch the overhead light, blinding me while reminding me. I didn’t give her those rings, but I may as well have with the lengths I went to get them on her finger.

Jennifer Shirk has a bachelor degree in pharmacy-which has in NO WAY at all helped her with her writing career. But she likes to point it out, since it shows romantic-at-hearts come in all shapes, sizes, and mind-numbing educations. She is a USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of sweet (and sometimes even funny) romances for Montlake Romance and Entangled Publishing. Her novel, FIANCE BY FATE, a 2015 Readers' Crown Finalist, became an Amazon #1 bestseller for Series Romance. And recently, WRONG BROTHER, RIGHT MATCH, WON the Sweet Traditional category of the 2017 Golden Quill Contest and became a #1 Amazon bestseller for Holiday Romance and USA Today bestseller. She serves on many volunteer boards in her community, but is most proud of her work on the Ocean City Free Public Library Board of Trustees, where she has served as President for over 3 years. She resides in a beach resort in NJ, and when she's not involved in all the above, she's taking care of her most treasured possessions: her husband, daughter, and dog (Sox).

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Veterinarian Wade Roberts is done with love. But try convincing the elderly folk of Cape Harmony who are determined to play matchmaker. Now the young single women in town are bombarding him with baked goods and love notes, and being “taken” is the only way to stop the meddling grannies—which is why he needs a fake fiancée. Fast. Arden Pearson loves planning weddings. Other people's weddings, that is. After her own engagement ended in disaster, she prefers to live vicariously through her work. But when she needs to persuade a big client that she’s capable of planning the celebrity wedding of the year, she’s willing to go as far as pretending to be engaged herself to her best friend’s older brother. Soon their ruse has everyone in town believing they make the perfect couple—including Arden. She’s always been nothing more than a kid sister to Wade, and it might take a village to convince him otherwise...

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The Enforcer

Bad Romance Book 2

by Shanna Bell

Genre: Contemporary Mafia Romance

HIM...

In real life, the Beast doesn’t end up with Beauty. 

So I have to stay away from her.

Even if it will kill me to see her with another man.

HER...

He thinks I can’t handle him.

But I know what I want.

I will wear him down if it’s the last thing I do.

Game on...

Disclaimer:

* contains adult language and (explicit) steamy scenes

* the male mc loves to swear (the female mc is working on his f-bombs)

* can be read as a standalone

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I like reading and writing about sassy women who can save themselves and alpha men with a heart of gold (sometimes). Yay to insta-lust, nay to insta-love.

If you're into romantic suspense, happily ever afters, and some steam (ok, sometimes a LOT of steam) try one of my books!

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