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Fang And Claw
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks -- EXCERPT: Ari I finished my test and brought it up to the teacher’s desk to place face-down on the slowly accumulating pile. Ms. Eventide was a Nocturne with sharp green eyes and a pale face. She nodded as I put down my paper and turned to go back to my seat. “Very good, Mr. Reyes, you may read quietly at your desk,” she murmured. I nodded, even though I knew that I wouldn’t be reading a thing. I would get out a book and pretend to read, of course, but mostly I would be watching Kaitlyn, who was even now getting up to place her own test on the teacher’s desk. But as she moved past me, the little human seemed to trip on something on the floor. She gasped and windmilled her arms, her test papers flying in all directions as she started to fall. I didn’t think—I just acted. Reaching down, I scooped her up before she could hit the floor and gathered her close to my chest. “Oh!” Kaitlyn gasped and for a moment I saw her full face, as I had that day in PE—both the lovely right side and the scarred left side. Then she turned away quickly, using her long hair to hide herself, as she always did. “Are you all right?” I asked, worried about her. “I’m fine. Please put me down.” She was trembling in my arms—shaking as though she feared me. I could smell the scent of her terror too—the sharp smell of adrenalin rose around me. But there was something else too—an added component to her usually sweet scent which I was, by now, completely addicted to. It was strangely metallic and…I don’t know how else to put this…cold. A scent like winter coming on. What was wrong with her? “Mr. Reyes, I believe you can put Miss Fellows down now.” The sharp voice of our teacher cut through me like a knife and I realized I had been cradling the little human to my chest and inhaling her scent, trying to work out what was different about her, while ignoring her request to be put back on her feet. “Forgive me,” I said quickly, setting her down gently. “I just…didn’t want you to fall.” Kaitlyn’s only answer was a frightened glance before she rushed back to her seat. But then she appeared to realize that her test papers were still all over the floor. She started to get up again, though by now, everyone in the class was staring at her—which I knew was agony for the little human. In all that she did, what she strove for most was simply not to be noticed—not to be seen. “Let me,” I told her and bent to pick up the scattered papers. Stacking them neatly, I placed them face-down on the teacher’s desk and resumed my own seat. Kaitlyn’s one visible eye—a lovely pale aquamarine that was striking in the pale, creamy brown of her face—followed me uncertainly. As I passed her on the way back to my desk she murmured, “Thank you,” in a voice so low I was certain no one heard but me. I nodded and murmured, “Welcome.” She stared at me for a moment more, then looked quickly away, her curtain of hair swinging down to hide her face. I wished she could have met my eyes just a moment more—I hated the fact that she was clearly afraid of me. I probably shouldn’t have swooped her up like that but what else could I do—just let her fall? Inside me, my Drake roared in negation. Kaitlyn was ours, he asserted passionately—ours to watch over, ours to protect. I could no more stand by and watch her fall and hurt herself than I had been able to let Sanchez get away with bullying her. But as I sat back down in my own seat, I couldn’t help lifting my nose to catch a bit of her scent once more. Her fear had faded but the new, cold note hit my nose, making it tingle. I frowned—why did she smell so strange? So unlike herself? I frowned as I wondered once again, what was happening to my little human? 
GIVEAWAY!
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Deceived
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Google Play -- EXCERPT: The door swung open with a crash. “Sorry I’m late.” A slender Black woman swept in like a tropical storm. His first impression was color. Bright, vibrant movement. Whirling dervish. And color. He started at the bottom and surveyed his way up. Worn, pale blue Converse high-tops splattered with paint. Ripped skinny jeans with splotches of paint in bold red, yellow, bright blue, even some neon green and orange. A white tunic sweater slipped off one shoulder revealing bare skin and collarbones. The nipples of her small breasts pushed against the top, boldly proclaiming her braless. Her face was stunning: high cheekbones, regal nose, black arched brows. Striking hazel eyes shimmered with secrets and mirth, as if she had a private joke just for them. Except everyone probably felt like that around her. She was one of those people who oozed magnetism and sex appeal. Just like his father, if he were honest. And that thought made him want to gag and then spew all over the old man’s office. She had skin the color of rich Brazilian hardwood and hair a natural halo around her face. She had another splotch of paint on her bare neck, and her fingers were long and elegant and adorned with paint, as she gestured at the old men. “Problem on the metro. Was stuck on the train.” Everything about her screamed free spirit and unrestrained joy. “Ayesha, darling.” The judge walked toward her with open arms and embraced her. He squeezed her tightly, just a little too long. But in an odd turn of events, Marsh didn’t think his father’s touch was sexual. He seemed almost paternal. That was weird. “Good to see you again as well, Uncle Bobby.” “Lovely to see you again, my dear.” His father slung his arm over the woman’s shoulder and turned her to face Marsh. “This is my son, Marsh.” Uncle Bobby? Now Marsh was really confused. “Marsh, I want you to help Ayesha.” What the hell? # Ayesha Brown stopped in her tracks. Raised one eyebrow and scanned her gaze over Marsh Adams. So this was Marsh Adams. She’d been hearing about the prodigal son for years, but she’d never met him. He was…not what she expected. Oh, he looked a little bit like his father, taller, thinner, with his paternity written in the austere lines of his pale white face. She tilted her head and studied the angles of his face—he had the square jaw and high forehead that emphasized his eyes, but his nose was crooked, adding interest to the otherwise perfect lines. Peripherally she noted his clothes, appreciating the suit porn. Pinstripes. Tie. Shiny shoes. Stuffy. Tightly wound. Buttoned up. But that nose didn’t fit with the rest of his appearance. Since she knew how much heartache he had caused his father, she nodded once at him and stuffed her hands in her pockets. A clear rejection of cultural normative standards. She wasn’t about to shake his hand. 
GIVEAWAY!
Forever Summer
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble -- EXCERPT: “We could have texted if you wanted to talk,” I remind him, patting the spot on the bed where my phone has slipped down to. He pulls an elastic band from his wrist and snaps it into place around his hair, making a perfectly small bun before taking the towel, squeezing the excess water from the style, and taking a seat at the edge of my bed. “You’re trying to make it sound like you don’t want me here, but I know you do. You wouldn’t have let me in otherwise, and you wouldn’t have kissed me this afternoon.” There’s a pause, the night dripping in and our faces drawing closer. “Do you believe in love at first sight, Morrigan?” His voice hangs heavy and warm in the bedroom air. The question might be a rhetorical one, but I feel compelled to answer because I think I gave a shit answer the first time he asked me the question. “I used to,” I reply softly, a whispered lilt to my voice that matches his own. “You know, before.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “That’s interesting.” He clasps his hands together and rests them between his thighs. His eyes tell me that isn’t the answer he wanted. “You stopped believing in love at first sight when I finally started.” 
GIVEAWAY!
Reckless Times
-- EXCERPT:
The crowd is clamoring, calling my name. I can feel the vibration of their loud voices and violent energy from the locker room. I’m alone here. After so many victories in the pit, I’ve earned the right to privacy. Little butterflies flutter savagely in my belly. I’m not nervous; these are just the jitters before a performance. I curl my hands into fists, letting the power of my invisible chains run freely through my veins like a surge of electricity. For a fleeting moment, I wonder what my parents would do if they found out their precious disabled daughter is fighting against the meanest and strongest Idols in the biggest underground tournament in Hawk City. They’d probably have a heart attack. For starters, my family is one of the most prominent and wealthiest in the country. We don’t mingle with the lower classes. I snort. Yes, they’d be appalled, but mostly they’d be worried sick. Despite me being a high-level Idol, they think I’m defenseless thanks to my blindness. They know nothing about me, but they never made the effort either. I push thoughts of my parents to the side and focus on the here and now. I’m the current champion in the pit, and as such, I’ll only step foot in the small arena when all fights are done. This is something new that management implemented. I’m facing whoever wins the rounds. A smile blossoms on my lips as I remember my first time here. They thought I was an easy target. My disability was all they could see, never mind that I didn’t try to conceal my powers then. Strategy was not in my mind that first night. It didn’t matter. The fight was over before I could break a sweat. Heavy steps approach from outside my locker room. It’s Dick Santos, the arena’s manager. He knocks once before he opens the door. “It’s time.” I jump to my feet, shaking my arms to loosen up. “Who am I fighting tonight?” “The Boulder. Mean fella. Level fourteen. He can con—” “Let me guess. Rocks?” I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah, and he’s faster than most despite his size.” “What are the odds?” I stretch my arms. “Six to one.” “Six to one? That’s it?” “In his favor,” Dick continues. My jaw drops, and it’s not an act. I’m genuinely offended. “You’re kidding, right?” “Nope. Our little performance last night worked. You’re the underdog again. But don’t worry, kid. He’s got nothing on you.” Dick puts his hand on my shoulder, which I promptly push off. “I’m not worried. I’m pissed.” He laughs from deep in his belly, grating on my nerves. “I’m not. Tonight, I’m making bank.” Yeah, you and the guys. I stride out of the room, focusing on the fire burning in the pit of my stomach. What did The Boulder do to make people think he can beat me? I only received a couple of hits yesterday from Stone Man, and that was because Dick told me to. It doesn’t matter. I’ll show them. The two security guys at the end of the corridor tense when they see me approach. It’s funny how I can pick up subtle changes in people more easily than those who aren’t visually impaired. Without missing a beat, they open the double doors for me. I usually take a deep breath to get rid of the jitters. Not tonight though. I’m more than ready to do some damage. When I step out, the crowd roars, “Blind Fury! Blind Fury!” I don’t bask in the glory. Only one out of six think I have a chance to win. I’m surrounded by traitors everywhere. There’s only one person I can trust. Me. Dick announces my name as the defending champion, and once again, people go wild. But when he mentions the name of my opponent, the cheers are louder. I search for Leroy and Ezekiel in the crowd, my fan club. It’s easy to locate them as I’m already familiar with their auras. At least they aren’t rooting for the other guy. I let my chains loose so I can get a sense of The Boulder but keep them invisible for now. That’s how I see the world, through my chains. They pick up on the vibrations of everything around me: people, objects, obstacles. It’s not a perfect view, but it’s better than being completely in the dark. Quickly, I understand why the majority of those present think I’m going to lose. My opponent is massive, almost seven feet tall, and packing muscles. Now I know where his stage name comes from. “This is the famous Blind Fury?” He laughs. “I don’t know how I feel about fighting a helple—” I shoot my right chain out, wrapping it around his throat and cutting his tirade off. He chokes, clutching at the links in a vain attempt to break free. “You were saying?” I yank the chain hard, bringing the cocky idiot to his knees. Dick remains outside the ring. The first thing he told me when I stepped into the pit for the first time was that there were no rules. Losers can either forfeit, pass out, or die, and the choice always relies on the victor. The Boulder’s grunts tell me he must be getting purple by now. I could easily kill him, and no one would think less of me. On the contrary, the crowd would love me more. I’m tempted, and my chains are as bloodthirsty as I am. This is not who you are, Andy. At the last moment, I retract them. There’s a collective gasp of disappointment. The Boulder is still coughing as he staggers back to his feet. But instead of leaving the pit, he pulls all his energy to his core. He’s going to attack again, even though the fight’s pretty much over. Son of a bitch. Some people just don’t know when to give up. Strong vibrations concentrate around the man just before the floor cracks right under my feet. A huge mass forms in front of him. The fucker created a rock, which he launches in my direction. I have ample time to move out of the way, but I hold my ground. My chains form a protective circle around me, and in the next second comes the sound of rock shattering. “What the fuck is that?” he asks, shocked. I can’t tell exactly what he’s seeing, but when my chains are in full display, awe is the most common reaction I get. They must look badass. He doesn’t get another chance to attack before I send both chains in his direction. One pierces his right thigh, and the other wraps around his body, squeezing him in a bone-crushing hold. “Aargh! My leg. What did you do to me, bitch?” Slowly, I walk in his direction, stopping when I’m in front of his collapsed form. “You should have forfeited when you had the chance.” “Never. I’d rather die.” It’s the first time I’ve faced someone with a death wish. I’d never truly considered killing anyone for sport, but today, the temptation is huge. “Careful, buddy. I’m feeling quite murderous tonight.” My chains squeeze him until the first crack of bone breaking echoes in the pit. The Boulder screams and curses, but he won’t relent. I won’t have a choice. If I don’t kill him, I’ll never be allowed back. The crowd will boo me out of the pit, if they don’t do something worse like ask for my head. Suddenly, there’s no more resistance coming from him. Ah fuck. Did I kill him? I listen closely, something hard to do when everyone around is talking and cheering. Then I hear it, the faint sound of his breathing. He’s not dead, simply passed out. Relief washes over me, but I can’t let anyone see. Maintaining the cold mask, I pull away and walk over to my side of the pit. Dick tsks as he joins me in the ring. When his attention diverts to me, I sense the difference in his demeanor. He’s beaming, probably counting his profits already. “What an evening, am I right, folks?” he addresses the crowd. They respond with cheers and hollers. “How about we make it even more exciting?” The yelling goes up a notch, making me wince. Sometimes having enhanced hearing is a curse. “Blind Fury has remained undefeated for five weeks straight. I’m doubling tonight’s grand prize. If there’s anyone here brave enough to challenge her, come forward now.” Immediately, the noise lowers until only murmurs can be heard. I frown, glowering in Dick’s general direction. I didn’t agree to a final challenge. It’s not that I can’t do it. It’s the fucking principle. I’m not his bitch to do as he pleases. I’d storm out of the pit if that wouldn’t brand me a coward. Minutes go by without anyone stepping forward. Dick keeps egging on the crowd. I don’t know why he wants another fight so badly, but my patience is wearing thin. I stretch my arms and fake a yawn, ready to get the fuck out of here, when I sense a familiar presence nearby. My blood runs cold. I came here to forget he exists, to unleash my wrath on strangers, wishing it was him. “I’ll do it. I challenge Blind Fury,” Stephan declares. A myriad of emotions washes over me. Rage, longing, shame. Damn everything to hell. What is he doing here?
GIVEAWAY!
Title: Pushing Up Posies
Author: Jo Michaels
Genre: Women Sleuth
Editor: Tia Silverthorne Bach with INDIE Books Gone Wild
Publication Date: February 20th, 2020
Blurb:
Your favorite dirty grannies are at it again!
Monty, Minerva’s dead husband, is alive—yeah, she nearly peed her pants when she discovered that—and turns out, he’s running from several dangerous people. Unfortunately, he underestimated a woman’s fury when scorned.
The CDC has ordered the women into action: bring Monty in and hand him over. ASAP.
Minerva may have other plans…
It’s another crazy, fun-filled adventure with the grannies, and their shenanigans have just begun.
Buy Link:
Grey is the New Black: https://amzn.to/356GNTG
Pushing Up Posies: https://amzn.to/39Q5SEa
Jo Michaels loves writing novels that make readers gasp in horror, surprise, and disbelief. While her browser search history has probably landed her on a list somewhere, she still dives into every plot with gusto, hoping "the man" will realize she's a writer and not a psychopath about to go on a rampage. Her favorite pastimes are reading, watching Investigation Discovery, and helping other authors realize their true potential through mentoring. She's penned the award-winning Pen Pals and Serial Killers series and the best-selling educational book for children, Writing Prompts for Kids, which has rocketed the kids that use it into several awards of their own.
Most of Jo's books feature the places she's lived: Louisiana, Tennessee, and Georgia. That's given her a special amount of insight to what makes those locations tick. Her works are immersive and twisty, and she wouldn't want it any other way.
Author Links:
Website: http://WriteJoMichaels.com
Facebook: http://facebook.com/WriteJoMichaels
Twitter: https://twitter.com/WriteJoMichaels
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/WriteJoMichaels
Instagram: http://instagram.com/WriteJoMichaels
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2rkgBSZ
Buy Link:
Grey is the New Black: https://amzn.to/356GNTG
Pushing Up Posies: https://amzn.to/39Q5SEa
Strange Girls
A Women in Horror Anthology
with stories selected by Azurra Nox
Genre: YA Horror
For fans of American Horror Story, Shirley Jackson, and Creepshow.
You know them. Those girls that aren't quite like everyone else. Those girls who stand out in the crowd. Those girls that dare to be different. Those girls are dangerous.
In Strange Girls, twenty-one authors dare to tackle what makes the girls in this collection different. Vampires, selkies, murderous mermaids, succubus, and possessed dolls take center stage in these short stories that are sure to invoke feelings of quiet terror and uneasiness in the reader. Following the successful debut of Women in Horror anthology with My American Nightmare, Strange Girls is the sophomore effort to showcase these talented women in a genre that is often dominated by the male gaze.
Dare to take a walk on the dark side.
Stories in the Anthology:
24 Hour Diner by Charlotte Platt
Sideshow by Jude Reid
The Doll's House by Alyson Faye
Blood by Red Claire
Self-Portrait with Pears by Rachel Bolton
Personal Demons by Angelique Fawns
Friends with Benefits by E.F. Schraeder
Night Terrors by Angela Sylvaine
The Girl Who Never Stopped Bleeding by Sam Lauren
Leda and the Fly by Marnie Azzarelli
Jenny's Bobo by Hillary Lyon
Extinguishing Fireflies by Rebecca Rowland
The Eyes of the Dead by Danielle R. Bailey
My Mirror Wife by Ash Tudor
Pattern of Faerytales by Azzurra Nox
Campfire Tales: The Bloody Rings by Emma Johnson-Rivard
Cracked by Regan Moore
Angel of Death by Phoebe Jane Johnson
Her Garden Grows by Maxine Kollar
Revival by Madison Estes
A Song Only She Can Hear by Wondra Vanian
Tribal Influence by Erica Ruhe
Born in Catania, Sicily, Azzurra Nox has led a nomadic life since birth. She has lived in various European cities and Cuba, and currently resides in the Los Angeles area. Always an avid reader and writer from a young age, she loved entertaining her friends with ghost stories. She loves horror movies, cats, and a good rock show. She dislikes Mondays and chick-flicks. CUT HERE, her debut paranormal urban fantasy was inspired by a nightmare the writer had a few years ago. Some of her favourite authors include Anne Rice, Oscar Wilde, Chuck Palahniuk, and Isabella Santacroce.
$10 Amazon Giftcard
Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!
Creeping Beautiful
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo / Bookbub -- EXCERPT: ADAM By the time that job was over I realized something. I loved her. I guess that’s what happens when you get used to something and then someone tries to take it away from you. Because our trip home from Pensacola was two days later than planned and Indie Anna didn’t smile a single second of that ride. She didn’t cry, either. But I could tell she wanted to. And I did exactly what McKay told me to do if things went sideways. I did not yell. Not once. I just said, “It’s fine, Indie. It’s gonna be fine,” in the most soothing voice I could manage as I watched the Company doctor restrain her to the bed and fix her up. And the game we played on the drive home was a new one called Let’s Pretend That Didn’t Happen. Knowing what I do now, I probably wouldn’t have played that game with her. I probably would’ve done a lot of things differently if I had known how good she’d get at pretending shit didn’t happen. But hindsight can kiss my ass. You can’t change the past. Indie Anna Accorsi is a beautiful little mess. She is a lovely little bundle of blonde hair and blue-eyed darkness. And even though I should have all kinds of regrets about how she came to be mine and how we came to be hers, I would absolutely do it all again. Knowing her now, I wouldn’t change a thing. Because if all those terrible things hadn’t happened, she would belong to him right now. She would be living in that little brick house with Nathan St. James. She would be whole, and normal, and maybe even happier. And my heart would be shattered into tiny shards. Millions of bitty pieces. So yeah. I’m a selfish piece of shit. But I want what I want. That’s the only way I can explain it. Maybe she didn’t become mine the day of the auction, but the day that asshole triggered her without my permission, she did. She is.
GIVEAWAY!
Dangerous Groundby Susan Hunteron Tour February 17, 2020 to March 20, 2020Synopsis:
A Murder Among Friends … Everyone is anxious to connect with actor Ryan Malloy when he returns to town for his 15-year high school reunion. Everyone except crime writer Leah Nash. She doesn’t have many fond memories of Himmel High’s golden boy. But it turns out she’s not the only one who isn’t a fan. Before the weekend is over, Ryan Malloy is murdered. The hard-headed but soft-hearted Leah is unwillingly drawn into investigating his death by the pleading of Ryan’s terminally ill mother. She soon discovers that Ryan’s self-absorbed journey through life trampled on the dreams of a number of people. His old girlfriend, his best friend, his own brother, a local businessman—there’s no shortage of suspects—or secrets. But the solution eludes Leah, until the past and the present collide in a dangerous confrontation that threatens one life and ends another.
Read an excerpt:Chapter 1 I parked my bike just inside the cemetery gates. It took only a few steps down the tree-lined path for the heat and humidity of a mid-summer Wisconsin day to slide away into the cool dark shade. Overhead, the soft murmur of thousands of leaves stirring in the light breeze accompanied me as I walked slowly toward my sister’s grave. Both of my sisters are buried in the cemetery just a few miles outside of Himmel, Wisconsin. My father is as well. But today it was Annie I’d come to visit. My heart beat a little faster as I neared the gravesite. I’m not afraid of the dead. It’s the memories they leave behind that haunt me. Quiet Annie with her soft voice and big blue eyes, too shy to join the other laughing, shouting kindergarteners at recess—but the first to run over to comfort a little boy struggling not to cry on the first day. Imaginative Annie, commandeering our wide front porch as a sailing ship for her and her cat, Mr. Peoples, to travel around the world. Kind-hearted Annie, sharing her Halloween candy with me when I’m forced to surrender my own treats as penalty for talking back. Sweet, brave, compassionate, eight-year-old Annie, who ran into a burning house to save Mr. Peoples twenty-two years ago, and never came back. Over all the years since, people—my mother, my aunt, my therapist (yes, I went that route once), my best friend—have reassured me that her death wasn’t my fault, that I was just a child. But, I was older. I should have been watching over her. I should have seen her slipping back to the house after we’d all escaped. In my deep heart’s core, I can’t ever forget that. Now and then, and always on her birthday, I go to the cemetery to see her. I know that she isn’t really there. But her grave is an anchoring spot for me. I catch her up on the good, the bad, and the ugly happenings in my life. She knows what hurts me, and she knows what frightens me—secrets I don’t share with anyone else. I tell her what our mother is up to, and how others she knew in life are doing. I say all the things to her that I would if she were still here. I try to make up for the fact that I’m alive, and she isn’t. But, of course, I never can. When I’m talking to her at the cemetery, it feels as though she can really hear me. And I know that she answers. Not right there, at the grave, but later, in unexpected ways. Sometimes, I hear Annie speak to me through a chance remark a stranger makes, or a phrase that leaps out at me from a book, or a sudden flash of insight on a problem I’m wrestling with. I don’t share that belief with very many people. If I did, I might be forced to resign my membership in the Doubting Thomas Society, to which all good journalists should belong. But I can’t accept that those occurrences are just coincidental. I really can’t. So, on the anniversary of her birth, once again I sat down on the bench in front of her grave and told her how sorry I was that she had died. That I hadn’t saved her. That I still missed her. And then I told her what was really going on in the seemingly successful life of Leah Nash, former small-town reporter, current true crime author, and soon-to-be business failure. *** When I say I talk to Annie, I mean that literally. I have a one-sided, out-loud conversation with her, though only when I’m sure I’m alone. Some people already think I’m crazy. No need to give them additional proof. On this particular day, I had a serious problem weighing on my mind. Not long before, I had made what seemed, at the time, like a brilliant decision. The Himmel Times Weekly, the paper where I’d started out in journalism, and where I’d found a home again after a self-inflicted career injury, was closing. I decided to buy it. I asked a wealthy, community-minded, local attorney, Miller Caldwell, to invest with me. And then I asked a lot of other people—reporters, an editor, stringers, office and sales staff—to work very hard, for very little money, in the hope that together we could keep the Himmel Times alive. It was exhilarating at first. But it had become an increasing source of anxiety for me. Just as we were getting off the ground, Grantland County Online, a digital-only news site (and I use the term “news” loosely), had gotten a major infusion of capital and a new publisher. Now GO News, as it’s more commonly known, was kicking our butt. “The scariest thing, Annie,” I said, “is that we’re barely keeping our heads above water, while GO News keeps getting bigger. They don’t have the expenses we do—no print edition, no delivery costs, and they don’t spend a lot of staff time fact-checking. Plus, they started Tea to GO. Did you know that the cool kids say, ‘spill the tea,’ when they mean ‘what’s the gossip?’ “Tea to GO is full of ‘What married school official was seen in Milwaukee with a very attractive staff member last Thursday night? Did we say late, last Thursday night?’ That kind of garbage. It’s almost all blind items—the better to avoid lawsuits, my dear. But people are eating it up. Every time you go into the Elite Café, someone is trying to figure out who the latest gossip is about.” I paused for a bit of a wallow in self-pity. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried to shake things up at the Times, to get us moving ahead, but so far nothing I’d done had made much difference. “We have a good team. Miguel is much happier since he gave up the managing editor job. He really didn’t like bossing people. And Maggie McConnell is doing great in that spot. She’s got the instincts, the skills, and forty-five years in the news business behind her. If she could only spin straw out of gold, she’d be perfect. But since she can’t, we’re making do with a budget so lean it might as well be made out of turkey burger. “I gave Allie Ross—you remember, I told you about her. She’s the high school kid we’ve been using as a stringer. Anyway, I gave her a part-time job for the summer in the office. She’s doing the routine stuff, obits and inside pages copy—weddings, anniversaries, club news. She’s got promise, but she’s only fifteen. Troy, the other reporter besides Miguel, is a little bit of a suck-up—and his news judgment isn’t quite there yet. Still, he’s a hard worker. The stringers are a pretty mixed bag. “Now, here’s a twist I bet you didn’t see coming. I hired Mom to take April Nelson’s place as office manager. I know, I know, it’s a dicey move. But she’s smart, and efficient, and she gets the job done. Plus, she comes cheap. It’s been a little challenging, I admit. Remember when I used to get mad at her and say, ‘You’re not the boss of me!’ and she’d send me to my room? “Well, now I’m the boss of her, only I don’t get to send her to her room. Yes, OK, I’m not supposed to be doing the day-to-day. That’s Maggie’s job. I understand that. But I can’t just hide away in my office and write my next book if the paper is falling apart two floors below me, can I? “Everybody took a leap of faith when we reopened the Times, and everyone is putting everything they have into it. I can’t let them down. I have to find a way to keep us afloat. I just didn’t know it would be so hard, Annie.” I paused for a breath before I wrapped things up. “And then there’s Gabe. I don’t know. I like him as well—no, probably better than—anyone I’ve gone out with in a long time. He makes me laugh, and he’s really smart. And he likes strong women who speak their minds. In my experience, a lot of men don’t. So what’s the problem, right? Well, it’s not exactly a problem. It’s more that I’m afraid a problem might be coming. Lately, it feels like he’s pushing me a little, like for a commitment or something. Can’t we just enjoy each other? Can’t we just be without getting all serious, and defining things, and making plans? I don’t want to change things. That’s when things go bad, when you try to change them.” I slumped back against the bench with a sigh. Usually, when I lay everything out to Annie, it makes the issues seem a little more manageable. This time it all still felt overwhelming. Then, a voice spoke. *** Fortunately for my mental health, it wasn’t Annie’s. I turned and looked behind me. “Coop! How long have you been standing there?” I asked, trying to remember exactly what I’d said out loud. It’s not that Coop and I have major secrets. He’s my best friend, after all. Still, I don’t tell him everything I tell Annie. “Long enough,” he said with a grin that didn’t offer me much comfort. I tried to move the conversation away from my chat with Annie, particularly the Gabe part. “What are you doing here?” “Your mom said you were here. I called your cell, but it didn’t go through.” “Yeah. It’s a dead zone—pun totally intended—in the cemetery, except for the hill. What did you want?” “Nothing. I brought something for Annie.” I looked down at his right hand and saw that he carried a small pot of pink flowers. Pink was Annie’s favorite color. Tears sprang to my eyes. I quickly blinked them away. “That’s so nice. Why?” He shrugged. “I know what today is.” I’m all about keeping my tough outer shell polished, but I was so touched, I couldn’t keep up the facade. “You’re a pretty great friend, you know that?” He smiled, but he looked embarrassed, and tried to cover it by moving to put the flowers next to Annie’s headstone. “Did you really come just to put flowers on Annie’s grave?” “No, not just for Annie. I took some to Rebecca, too.” He was kneeling, positioning the flowers, with his back to me. I couldn’t see his expression. “Oh.” Rebecca had been Coop’s wife and my nemesis until she was killed last year. I wasn’t happy that Coop had lost someone he loved, but I couldn’t pretend I was sorry she was gone. She’d done everything she could to break up our twenty-year friendship and came close to succeeding. I couldn’t think of anything nice to say about her. So, I employed the Thumper rule, and didn’t say anything. Coop apparently didn’t want to get into the subject of Rebecca either, because as he stood and turned to me, he said, “I’ll walk out with you. I’ve got my truck. We can throw your bike in the back and you can ride home with me.” “Yes, please. I didn’t realize it was so hot. I just about sweated to death pedaling out here.” “Yeah, I can see that,” he said, taking in my damp, bedraggled hair, slipping from its hair clip, and the beads of moisture coalescing into a river of sweat running down the side of my forehead. “You kind of look like you just took a shower.” He sniffed the air, “Except you don’t have that shower-fresh scent.” “Shut up,” I said. “I’m a head-sweater from way back. Deal with it.” I smiled though, because there’s something very nice and very easy being with a person who really doesn’t care how you look—or in the present situation—smell. We walked together in companionable silence, until I’d decided he hadn’t heard any of my one-sided conversation with Annie. That dream died in the next minute. “So, what’s going on with you and Gabe? He’s a nice guy, Leah. You’re not getting ready to toss him overboard, too, are you?” “No. Why would you say that? And what do you mean by ‘too’?” “You really want to go there?” He cocked an eyebrow. It’s a not very funny running joke between Coop and my mother that I always find a reason to cut my romances short. “No, I don’t. I thought you didn’t believe in illegal surveillance, and what do you call lurking around cemeteries where people are having a private conversation? It’s nothing. Really.” He looked at me for a second, but all he said was, “OK.” Our conversation was cut off as a tall woman in her fifties, her hair pulled back and hanging in a long, gray braid down her back, appeared and abruptly crossed the path in front of us. “Hello, Marcy,” I said. She looked up as though surprised we were there. “Leah. Coop.” She nodded but didn’t stop to talk. We knew where she was going. To the top of the hill on which sat a small granite building that resembled an ancient Greek temple. The family mausoleum held Marcy’s grandparents, her own mother, and Marcy’s baby daughter, Robin. One day, it would hold Marcy, too. We watched in silence as she reached the building, pulled a key out of her pocket, unlocked the door, and slipped inside, like a ghost gliding through a wall. It had been sixteen years since Marcy White’s baby had died, and she still came every week. People said she brought a different book each time and read it to Robin. They said it like it was something weird, or even crazy. Not me, though. I understood why she did it. “You know what, Coop?” I asked, as we continued on down the path. “What?” “I’m calling bullshit on death.” *** Excerpt from Dangerous Ground by Susan Hunter. Copyright 2019 by Susan Hunter. Reproduced with permission from Susan Hunter. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Susan Hunter is a charter member of Introverts International (which meets the 12th of Never at an undisclosed location). She has worked as a reporter and managing editor, during which time she received a first place UPI award for investigative reporting and a Michigan Press Association first place award for enterprise/feature reporting. Susan has also taught composition at the college level, written advertising copy, newsletters, press releases, speeches, web copy, academic papers, and memos. Lots and lots of memos. She lives in rural Michigan with her husband Gary, who is a man of action, not words. During certain times of the day, she can be found wandering the mean streets of small-town Himmel, Wisconsin, looking for clues, stopping for a meal at the Elite Cafe, dropping off a story lead at the Himmel Times Weekly, or meeting friends for a drink at McClain's Bar and Grill. Catch Up With Susan Hunter On:
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