Free for a limited time!

Happy spring!

My first indie published book has a brand-new cover, and to celebrate, it’s free until the end of the month!

If you read Bad Boys Behaving Badly: Secret Identities and remember my contribution to the collection—”Claimed by her Naga Bodyguard“—that story featuring a snake shifter takes place in the same world as Love Spells, Full Moons, and Silver Bullets.

Love Spells (for sort, cuz I gave it too long of a name!) takes place in a magical realm and features significant role reversals: she makes the money and she’s protecting him. It’s a fun swap.

In the story (which can stand alone but connects into the ongoing series), we get to encounter all kinds or creatures, from the normal witches, werewolves, and vampires, to the unique sirens, hellhounds, and even a minotaur and some leprechauns. I put my own spin on each type of creature.

And you’re not going to want to miss Lucifer, the fmc’s witty, snarky, wise-ass talking black cat!

Grab your copy today!

Here’s a preview:

Ian raced off as fast as he could, but she was faster. Of course, she was faster; she was a fucking vampire.

When she blocked off his retreat, he turned and started in another direction. Her laughter followed him. Like a cat with a mouse, she toyed with him. Mocking him, taunting him, and foiling each escape. He was under no false assumptions. She was playing with him.

“Little human, come with me,” she whispered. “I’d love to take you home for dinner.”

This time, when she spoke, no haze encircled him, just fear and dread. Her laugh was cut short when a wolf howled in the distance. Seeming on alert, her posture changed, and she lunged for him, all her teasing gone. He braced himself for her attack, sheltering his face as best he could, but her weight never hit him.

Mid-jump, something tackled her to the ground.

A beast, something definitely from a horror flick, rose up over her. It stood at least seven feet tall on its hind legs. Brown fur covered most of its body. It had a wide chest and wolf-like features but walked on two feet. Saliva fell from its mouth, dangling from its teeth like some rabid dog. Its attention turned to him but flickered back to the woman when she attacked it, kicking at its legs before launching nails-first toward the creature’s throat.

Movement behind him caused Ian to turn. More wolf-like creatures were barreling toward them, snapping tree limbs and leaving claw marks in the earth.

Abandoning the skirmish, Ian ran once more.

At one point, he’d been in fine shape, his body toned, his cardio excellent, but in the last year, he’d let physical exercise lapse, and now he felt the repercussions. His lungs burned, his legs ached. He wouldn’t be able to keep up this pace for long. He needed to find help or shelter. Somewhere to hide.

He didn’t bother to look back when he heard something, or more correctly, somethings, from the sound of it, in pursuit of him. He simply pushed on. Nightmare or not, it was his only chance. Praying he’d wake up, he tried running in a zig-zag pattern, but something threw him to the ground, and a second later, pain sliced across his back. Harsh, unforgiving, and deep, claws sunk into his skin.

He screamed in anguish, tears rushing to his eyes. Not a dream. So not a dream.

He was done for. This was the end.

Unexpectedly, the weight above him was removed. Ian pushed up a bit and watched as the vampire woman from before fought against the brown wolf creature.

Pushing to his knees, Ian felt blood dripping down his back. His shirt hung off his body, shredded by the wolf-man’s claws.

He staggered a bit, trying to get to his feet. That’s when he felt hot breath against his cheek. Twisting his head, he came face to face with another wolf-man. This one seemed bigger, its eyes black as night, as it stared at him, spittle hanging from its jowls.

Ian swallowed.

The creature opened its mouth and released a horrific roar.

Spit hit Ian’s face. The power behind that fierce sound moved Ian’s entire body, pushing him backward, like a fat pig blown from its straw house by the big bad wolf.

The creature stalked toward him, and once more, Ian’s legs propelled him forward. A few hundred yards, and he dove behind a pile of brush. He cowered there, knowing it was only a matter of time before they nabbed him.

With one hand, he reached back to assess the damage. The wound was deep. Three, maybe even four slashes across his skin. He’d need stitches or staples, and if he didn’t get help soon, likely a blood transfusion.

A low growl drew his attention. He peeked around the pile of twigs and leaves and spotted the two wolves pacing along what seemed to be an invisible line on the ground. Standing against a tree trunk further back was a woman.

“Why aren’t they attacking?” He wondered out loud as he used his sleeve to wipe sweat from his brow.

“Because they aren’t allowed to hunt on my territory.”

Ian’s gaze swung to the newest voice. This new being was just as shocking as the rest, with a purple and black dress that draped from her body, cut high in the front, revealing shapely thighs covered in torn stockings. Brown hair hung in ringlets around her shoulders, tumbling out from beneath a wide-brimmed pointed black hat. One hand was propped on her hip, and the other was wrapped around a corn broom handle. A heavy metal talisman hung around her neck. The green hue of her skin made her look as though she’d walked off the pages of a comic book and left absolutely zero question as to what she was.

A witch. Now there was a witch.

The vampire had been breathtaking, in a drugging sort of way, but this woman was stunning. Her beauty was raw and real. Or maybe that was just his loopy brain trying to make sense of this crazy world he’d stumbled into.

“Your territory?”

“Yes.” Her gaze dropped to him, and her mouth turned upward in a kind smile. “This is my land, and you are safe here.”

“You can’t keep him there forever, Quinn,” a deep voice spoke from behind the pile of forest rubble.

Ian took another look around the brush. Two men, both naked, one with raven hair and the other with sandy brown, paced that invisible line. “He won’t be leaving tonight, Draven. Go home.”

A snarl came from the brown-haired man. “I’ve tasted his blood, his flesh. Give him to me.”

The vampire, presently fixing her wild hair, sighed. “I’m going to find a new quarry. Enjoy your mortal, Quinn. You know where to find me if you want rid of him.”

Ian watched the exchange with interest. In fact, he was quite invested, as it seemed his life was being negotiated.

Faster than he could see, the vampire disappeared between the trees, but the men remained.

“I want him, Quinn. Give him back.”

“You’re wasting your breath, Draven. Leave now, or I will turn away all business that comes from your pack.”

Draven, the man who had taken a pound of flesh from Ian’s back, growled. “This isn’t over.” Then as Ian watched, he transformed back into a wolf creature and fled, leaving the raven-haired man behind.

He exhaled rather loudly. “I hope you aren’t making a mistake, Quinn.”

Ian glanced to the witch, whose eyes narrowed. “Think carefully about what side you’re on, Alec, and about what your conscience can live with.”

“The pack comes first. Always.”

“And you don’t ever let me forget it,” the witch—Quinn—said.

The raven-haired man looked as though he wanted to say more, but he merely shook his head, turned, and shifted into wolf form before following in the direction Draven had taken.

Blinking, Ian tried to make sense of any part of what had happened. One minute he was fighting with Priscilla, and now he was face-to-face with a witch.

He glanced up at her, wondering if he should start running again, but when he tried to move, his body gave up, collapsing in pain.

The broom dropped to the ground as Quinn came closer, tsking softly. “And just what sort of mess have you gotten yourself into?”

Contest

I’m also going to give away a sticker bundle. These stickers will include a few Clayridge specific stickers, as well as some fun “reader” type stickers. To enter, comment on the blog post and tell me: if you were a powerful witch/wizard/mage/sorcerer what would you want your power to be?

Enjoy your copy of Love Spells!

Before there were bounty hunters, there were SEALs. And I loved writing my Uncharted SEALs series. All those rugged, alpha heroes and strong heroines. Humor. Action. Spicy sex. All the ingredients that make stories fun for me to write, and hopefully, fun for you to read.

With Uncharted SEALs, I experimented a bit. For the first time, I did sequels with the same characters—for the simple reason I couldn’t say goodbye to them. I wanted to see inside their Happy-Ever-Afters. Through Her Eyes and Between a SEAL and a Hard Place share the same main characters, as do Dream of Me and Heart of a SEAL.

Big Sky SEAL gave birth to my Montana Bounty Hunters, introducing Jamie and Reaper, who, as a result of their work in Big Sky, earned their own satellite office of MBH. A fun theme I used in two of the stories was a cruise ship. Both Before We Kiss and Hard SEAL to Love are set on the same ship and have the same supporting characters. Plus, Hard SEAL to Love features a disabled female vet!

This time, I’d like you to read the very fun introduction of Big Sky SEAL.

Enjoy!

   

   

   

Click on the covers to learn more!

Contest

Win your choice of one of my Uncharted SEALs stories! There will be 2 winners! All you have to do to enter is answer me this…

Do you still like alpha hero stories, featuring ex-military men? What’s one you’ve read recently you really enjoyed?

Big Sky SEAL

Romance sparks between a bounty hunter and a SEAL on the hunt for an escaped terrorist…

A former military police dog handler, Jamie Burke, along with her former bomb dog Tessa, are still trying to adjust to civilian life. With a jaded, testy personality, Jamie has few friends. Now, a bounty hunter, she’s tasked to help federal and local law enforcement search for an escaped terrorist in the Crazy Mountains of Montana.

Former SEAL, Sky Reynolds can’t believe Jamie Burke is part of the task force. The last time he saw her was in Afghanistan. Back then, he thought he’d never stand a chance with the pretty, ballsy blonde, sure she had someone waiting for her back home. But here she is, still single, still prickly as hell. Assigned to stick close to her and her dog Tessa during the hunt, he’ll use the situation to get close. This time, he’s not letting her slip away.

When Jamie’s captured by the terrorist, it’s up to Sky, his fellow SEALs, and her motley crew of bounty hunters to save her…

Excerpt from Big Sky SEAL…

According to the satellite image, Mosby’s cousin’s crude hunting shack stood in an isolated clearing deep in a woodsy area at the foothills of the Salish Mountains. Jamie Burke and her partner for this takedown, Reaper Stenberg, parked their SUV a quarter mile down the gravel road leading to the Montana cabin.

Lock and load time. Jamie drew deep slow breaths to slow her heart, while getting her head “in the zone”. They were going after a badass. A mistake could turn deadly.

Reaper opened the back hatch of the SUV and reached into their bag of weapons and gear.

First, they donned Kevlar jackets. Jamie clipped her badge onto her web belt and slid her Glock into the holster strapped to her leg. Then Reaper held out a shotgun with an orange stock.

She glared. “Seriously? You expect me to take down Mosby with a bean bag round?”

“I don’t expect you to take down a damn thing, other than notes.” He smirked. “I’ll handle Mosby. If he gets past me, you nail him in the gut with this.” His glacier-blue eyes narrowed. “Your Glock is your last resort. You’ll be coming through the back of the cabin. Think I’d trust you with real bullets when I’ll be in the line of fire?”

“I’m a better shot than you,” she muttered, thinking of her last weapons qualification test and the ten tightly grouped shots in the circle around the heart on her target.

“On the range. This is the real world, sweet cheeks.”

She crimped her mouth and loaded a bean bag round into the chamber of her weapon, then stuffed two more shells into the pockets of her jeans. The rounds, intended to disable rather than kill, were filled with fabric “pillows” containing birdshot. Although his caution made sense, she couldn’t let him know she was relieved to carry non-lethal rounds—she’d seen enough death and never wanted to kill again. The fact he didn’t trust her aim—or, perhaps, her nerves—rankled. Still, they’d be inside close quarters, and the “non-lethal” round was far more dangerous than when used, as recommended, to hit targets twenty to sixty feet away.

Didn’t matter to Reaper that she was ex-military and knew her way around firearms. Since being discharged, she’d caught a desk at Montana Bounty Hunters, learning the ropes of the paperwork end of the job, and training with the agency’s owner, “Fetch” Winter, until he’d felt comfortable letting her ride shotgun with his most experienced hunter.

From the moment Fetch told Reaper she was his responsibility, he’d been on her ass. No doubt Reaper hoped she’d quit inside a week, but she was entering her second week and rather enjoying the fact her stubborn acceptance of his constant snarky disses annoyed the crap out of him. She’d weathered similar, un-PC comments during her time in the military. They rolled off her back like rain off a duck’s ass.

Lastly, he handed her an earpiece and inserted his own. “Testing,” he whispered. When she took her time responding, he raised an eyebrow. “You got it turned on?”

She raised her hand and shot him the bird. “I heard you loud and clear.”

He hefted a battering ram with one huge hand and rested it on his shoulder then passed over a lock pick kit. “Don’t keep me waiting. As soon as you’re in place, I’ll knock down the door.”

“Shouldn’t we make sure he’s inside first?”

He scowled. “Think I’m a rookie, rookie? Peek in a window on your way. And don’t get your head shot off.”

“Geez, I’d almost think you cared,” she said, giving him a sly grin and a wink.

His expression remained stony.

The time was mid-afternoon, still plenty of light, but she knew he was too impatient to get this catch-and-release finished. They’d already logged ten days on the road, interviewing Mosby’s high school buddies, family members, and former cellmates. A girlfriend who was pissed Mosby was willing to let her car be taken, part of the collateral of his bail bond, mentioned the hunting cabin. After a quick trip to a local Bureau of Land Management office that morning, they had what they hoped was their first break in this case.

They jogged down the quarter mile track to the edge of the clearing. She stayed close to his heels while his long blond ponytail flapped down his back. Not for the first time, she noted his broad shoulders and powerful build. If only he wasn’t such a dick to work with… When they halted, she noted the rusty white pickup parked next to the porch. Someone was home.

Reaper gave her a curt nod then broke left following the tree line, while she kept to the brush to the right, until she was midway down the long side of the shotgun shack. With her heart rate kicking higher, she edged carefully toward a window and shot upward to glance inside.

A man sat in the shadows of a living room in a ratty easy chair, watching TV.

She edged upward again, quickly studied his profile, then crouched to pull the bench warrant from her back pocket to check out their target’s picture. Same bald head and heavy brows, same black tribal tattoo climbing up his shoulder from under his grubby white wife beater to wrap around his neck. “It’s him,” she whispered. “In the living room. Front door’s ten feet from his chair.”

“Is he armed?”

“Didn’t see a weapon. I’m heading to the back door.” She kept close to the side of the house, came around the back, and then halted when she noted the modified back door. “Big damn dog door,” she whispered. “I didn’t see a dog.”

“Good. Door saves us both some time. Get your ass inside, Burke.”

Jamie knelt, lifted the rubber flap, and peeked inside. Still no dog in sight. Tightening her mouth, she pushed her weapon through first, angled her hips, and crawled into the opening, her hands sliding on greasy tile. “I’m inside,” she whispered as she lay sprawled on a floor that smelled like onions and beer. Did the guy use the floor to fry his hamburgers?

“On three,” came Reaper’s raspy whisper. “One…two…three…”

As she shoved to her feet, she heard a distant crash as the wooden front door splintered, and then the clatter of nails on linoleum from a room just beyond the kitchen. She rushed through the doorway into a bedroom just as a short, very muscular brindle pit bull jumped onto the mattress, heading in the most direct path toward her. She darted into a bathroom, climbed onto the toilet seat, then the small counter. When the dog stood on his hind legs, snapping at her boots, she leapt toward the doorway and slammed the door closed, trapping him inside.

The dog thudded heavily against the wood and then barked like a hellhound.

The sound of furniture thudding came from the next room. Something glass hit the floor and shattered. Muffled grunts and curses sounded.

“Bastard, stay down!” Reaper shouted.

Speeding toward the living room, Jamie halted when she saw Daniel Mosby with Reaper hanging on their target’s back, his arm around his neck in a chokehold.

The two large men hit one side of the doorframe then the other. Mosby’s face was red, his teeth bared. Three inches taller and burlier than Reaper, Mosby kept moving.

Pulse racing, she backed up toward the kitchen doorway.

“Shoot him, Burke!” Reaper growled. “Shoot the fucker!”

Sucking in a breath, she raised her shotgun, aimed for Mosby’s large belly, and pulled the trigger.

Mosby grunted, his black eyes widened, and he screamed, despite the arm cinching his thick neck. And despite the direct hit, he kept coming.

She backed up into the kitchen, sure Mosby would drop any second, but he lunged toward a wall, slamming Reaper against it. Reaper’s hold loosened.

Mosby shook him off and aimed an elbow behind him, catching Reaper in the chin as he went down. Mosby’s dark gaze locked with hers, and he rushed forward.

With no time to load another round in the shotgun, she considered her Glock, but that was her last resort.

Brains over brawn—a cliché that had served her well in tighter situations. The bastard was big and lumbered toward her like a bear. Likely his size intimidated most men, but she wasn’t a man. And she wasn’t scared. Although she was good at pretending fear. She widened her eyes and sank into a crouch, raising a hand as though to cover her head.

Behind Mosby, Reaper groaned. “Goddammit, Burke. Use your fucking weapon!”

But she had a better idea. Killing was easy. And Mosby had sworn he’d never be caught, never spend another day in prison. She wanted the sorry asshole to spend years thinking about the fact he’d been bested by a woman.

As he rushed her, she kept her feet flat on the greasy floor and ducked to the side. Just as he came within reach, she swept out a foot and tripped him. On his way toward the dirty tile, she spun and clocked him in the back of the head with the butt of her shotgun.

He hit the floor hard, arms sprawled from his sides, and didn’t move.

Before he could stir again, she stuck a knee in his lower back, pulled back one meaty arm, and latched a cuff around his thick wrist, then repeated the action with the other. When he was secured, she shot to her feet and stood over him, at last withdrawing her Glock from its holster to point toward his ass in case he roused. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder at Reaper. “You through napping?”

“Bitch,” he wheezed from the floor.

“He wasn’t armed. What’s your excuse?”

Reaper sat and leaned against the kitchen wall, working his jaw side to side. He winced. “I was just softening him up for you, babe. Nice takedown, by the way.”

And then he smiled—a real smile, not his usual one-sided smirk. She grinned, relieved that at last he saw her worth. “I’m still too scrawny to get his ass to our vehicle. You rested?”

He chuckled and pushed upward, not hiding a groan as he straightened. “Wait until I tell Fetch. He said you were a firecracker, and that I shouldn’t count you out in a fight.”

UPDATE: The winners are…Lisa Kendall and Cindy!
*~*~*

I love doing flashback highlights! It’s not only a reminder to you but also to me of the many stories I’ve written. Did you know before I wrote bounty hunters that I had this entire series of SEAL-hero stories? Read an excerpt from the second “Uncharted” book!

Enjoy! ~DD

   

   

   

Click on the covers to learn more about these stories!

Contest

Win your choice of one of my Uncharted SEALs stories! There will be 2 winners! All you have to do to enter is answer me this…

What author’s older series have your recently discovered and devoured? Spread some love!

Her Next Breath

Ex-SEAL Jackson Keller’s first mission with the Charter Group’s spec ops unit is a bust. Instead of capturing a drug lord in his Mexican compound, he finds a beautiful, naked woman. But she may have information they need to nail the narco-terrorist, so he takes her, sealing his fate. She’s his to watch, his to “manage” until the op’s done.

Suri McAnally’s made some mistakes—mainly trusting her college roomie who just so happens to be the son of one of Mexico’s most dangerous drug lords. If Jackson can save her, she’ll do whatever he says, mirror his moves, and try to keep her insta-lust under control. Her next breath depends on it.

Excerpt from Her Next Breath…

When Suri awoke, it was to discover she was resting inside the curve of Jackson’s arm, her thigh draped over his, her head on his chest. She didn’t know who’d moved the blanket. Maybe they’d both naturally gravitated together. She hated to think she might have been the one to cross the line demarking their personal space.

Partly because she didn’t want to wake him, and partly because it was a new experience lying inside a man’s embrace, she held her breath and remained perfectly still. She breathed in his scent, which was a sagey musk combined with the remaining odor of the paint he’d worn on his face. His skin was smooth, warm, tanned and cloaked a hard, very muscular frame. Her fingertips tingled, and she very nearly gave into the temptation to run one tip over his hard abs. Instead, she curled her hand into a fist.

Last night when she’d seen him fully for the first time—without the paint, his body nearly nude—she’d felt her knees wobble. He was devastatingly handsome, not in a pretty-boy way. He was too manly, too large, all hard angles and lovely bulges, with short, nearly dark-brown hair and those cloudy gray eyes. Even the stubble on his chin made her thighs clench.

Suri hoped she didn’t sleep beside him for many more nights or she’d grow accustomed to his physique. Any man she met after this little adventure would pale in comparison.

Her glance traveled downward to the sheet barely covering his hips. Maybe it was the fold of the sheets, but the fabric was tented.

“Playing possum?”

She raised her head and met his gaze, blushing because she’d been caught staring at his sex.

“Didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You’re breathing, aren’t you?” he muttered in a graveled tone.

She frowned, not understanding, and then pushed away from his body although she instantly regretted the loss of his warmth. When she’d first awoken, she’d felt sheltered, safe—and not just from Diego and his henchmen. She’d felt…cherished.

Ridiculous, she knew. And slightly pathetic. Was she really so needy for human connection that she was romanticizing over Jackson?

But in the morning light, his face wasn’t quite so hard-bitten. Scruffy, dark bristles covered his chin and jaw; his gaze rested on her rather than spearing her.

His glance cut away, and he looked at his watch. “Chow’s nearly over. We should dress.”

“I’m starved.”

The corners of his mouth twitched.

His first smile?

And then his features grew remote again, his mouth firmed. “Get dressed. I need to check in with Teague.”

Aware his gaze followed her still, she rose and stretched her arms high, and then headed to her pillow case.

“You do that on purpose, don’t you?”

She aimed a grin over her shoulder. “Why, whatever do you mean?”

His gaze narrowed, but a one-sided smile curved.

Feeling as though she’d accomplished something noteworthy, she entered the bathroom, closing the door against the temptation that was Jackson Keller.

SAMAEL is the first book in the Blackwell Brothers’ Redemption trilogy, featuring three brothers with a very interesting job—they’re reapers.

Being the sons of the Grim Reaper comes with expectations, and their father is not happy at how they’ve been conducting business. He’s given them each an ultimatum— learn to reap with compassion and do the job to his standards or face eternal exile. Stranded in the town of Redemption with limited powers and money and no way to communicate with the outside, they’ll all play the game, reap the soul, and return to their normal lives. It’s a straightforward plan—until they meet their assignments.

Samael
Blackwell Brothers’ Redemption, Book 1

Love her. Protect her. Reap her soul.

Samael Blackwell is the son of Death—and he’s officially out of chances. After centuries of reaping souls with zero regard for the rules, his father sends him to the dead-end town of Redemption. With only a few hundred bucks and the clothes on his back, Sam has one last shot to prove he can do the job right: reap with compassion or lose everything.

It should’ve been easy. Find the soul. Finish the job. Walk away.

Then he meets Adrianne Sharp.

She’s strong, guarded, and hiding from a past that refuses to stay buried. The connection between them is instant—and impossible. Because Adrianne isn’t just anyone. She’s his assignment.

And her soul’s on the clock.

To win back his old life, all Sam has to do is watch her die. But what if the cost of redemption…is her?

He was sent to end her story. But she just might rewrite his.

An excerpt…

He pushed into a seated position and got his first glimpse of himself. It wasn’t only his watch that was gone. He no longer wore his custom Tom Ford suit and hand-tooled Italian shoes. In their place were worn jeans, a plain white T-shirt, a battered leather jacket, and boots that had seen their best day a decade ago.

He pushed himself upright and brushed the dirt and debris from his clothes. Raking his fingers through his hair, he scanned his surroundings. There were trees everywhere, not a high-rise to be seen. A huge crow swooped down and perched on a nearby branch, cold black eyes staring directly at him.

“Malaki. Why am I not surprised the old man sent you to spy on me?” Crows were often employed as messengers between the land of the living and the realm of the dead. Malaki was his father’s companion, his personal assistant, as it were. “You tell him I’ll play his game, and I’ll damn well win.”

*~*~*

Want to read more? You can find SAMAEL here:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F2SDQMVF/
B&N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/samael-n-j-walters/1147212495
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/samael-13
iBooks: https://books.apple.com/us/book/samael/id6743937757

About the Author

N.J. Walters is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author who has always been a voracious reader, and now she spends her days writing novels of her own. Vampires, werewolves, dragons, assassins, time-travelers, seductive handymen, and next-door neighbors with smoldering good looks—all vie for her attention. It’s a tough life, but someone’s got to live it.

Visit her at:
Website: http://www.njwalters.com
Blog: http://www.njwalters.blogspot.com
Newsletter Sign Up: http://eepurl.com/gdblg5
Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/N.J.WaltersAuthor
Twitter: https://x.com/njwaltersauthor
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/NJWalters
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/njwalters
BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/n-j-walters

UPDATE: The winner is…Deb Robinson!
*~*~*

I’ve never been one to believe in superstitions. At least, not until I really started thinking about common ones and what happens when I encounter one. I never walk under a ladder, I’m very careful with handling mirrors, and I spent years studiously avoiding stepping on cracks in the sidewalk, hearing the old superstition reciting in my head: “If you step upon a crack, you will break your mother’s back.”

These superstitions are ingrained in our culture and have been for centuries. Doing genealogy research on my family, I came upon a story from one hundred years ago about my great-great-grandmother getting all the way to the train station before realizing what the date was. She’d packed up her trunk with all her belongings, ready to move to another relative’s home half a state away. Upon hearing that it was Friday the 13^th, she turned to her daughter and said, “Take me back home. I’m not traveling today.” My husband’s grandmother studiously changed direction if a black cat even hinted at crossing her path, fully embracing another common superstition.

Thankfully, I don’t subscribe to other common superstitions. I don’t have a lucky pair of underwear or socks that I have to keep gross to accomplish things. If it comes down to washing the luck out of a pair of dirty shorts, I’m happy to remain unlucky! This brings me to my latest short story published in an anthology of stories from eight authors entitled Romance is a Drag: A Queer Anthology #1. “Jake’s Tryst” takes place in Los Angeles, following the budding romance between a soccer superstar and a local drag queen.

Jake Cavegn is superstitious, believing he can only perform well and win by abstaining from alcohol and men during the playoff season. With a championship win under his belt, he can finally let loose and consider a hookup now that the postseason is complete. His team goes out to Tossers, a bar in West Hollywood, to watch a drag show. Olivia Tryst captivates Jake with her performance, and after a drink, Jake takes Olivia home for the night. While he enjoyed the night with Jake, Brodie Rossi, Olivia Tryst out of drag, doesn’t do repeats, preferring a one-night-only performance with hookups. Jake’s persistence inspires Brodie to take a chance and date him, but Brodie’s branding as the family screw-up keeps his guard up.

Can Brodie accept Jake’s superstitions into the next playoff season, and can Jake open Brodie to the possibility of a lasting relationship? Find out in Romance is a Drag, now available on all platforms.

Links:
Universal Link: https://books2read.com/u/mvGOkq
Amazon US: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Romance-Drag-1-Queer-Anthology/dp/B0F1HX3M1V
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/romance-is-a-drag-shane-k-morton/1147012142
Queer Romance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/book/romance-is-a-drag-anthology/
Add it to Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/229150671

Excerpt:

“When’s your next performance?” Jake asked, focusing on Brody. He still had some makeup on, highlighting his cheeks and eyes.

“Thursday night. Momma Belter has us booked for drag queen bingo at a senior center in Weho, and then back at the club.” Brody set his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. “Friday is Genderfuck and Saturday is Pageant. Category is…” Brody paused.

Chloe, their waitress, returned with two pints. “Here you go. Food should be up soon.”

After she left, Jake stared at Brody. “What’s the pageant theme?”

“Sports Star Realness.” Brody took a sip of his cider.

Jake laughed. “You’re kidding.”

Shaking his head, Brody set his glass on the table. “Serving up glamorous sporty looks for the new millennium.”

“What are you wearing for that?” Captivated by Brody’s descriptions of what he had in mind, Jake marveled at his sheer creativity and ingenuity.

“I haven’t decided on the Saturday look yet. It has to slay on the runway but be free enough to perform in.” Brody frowned. “I don’t know much about sportsball. Not that the other queens do either, but I plan to win the competition.”

“Competition?” Jake asked, surprised at this aspect of performing.

“Tossers is paying out five thousand dollars to a charity of the winner’s choice. Pride House needs every penny it can get.” Brody’s face hardened, determination shining from his eyes. “I plan to win for them.”

Jake had never been hotter for anyone. Not only insanely talented and gorgeous, but Brody also worked for a charity that literally saved young people’s lives.

“I could help you if you want.” He winked at Brody. “I happen to know a lot about”—he air-quoted—“sportsball.”

His eyes lighting up, Brody leaned forward. “Yeah?”

“Sure,” Jake said, thoughts of Brody in slutty versions of jerseys and shorts flashing through his mind. “I have some stuff you can borrow if you want to come home with me tonight.”

Brody frowned, but before Jake could say anything, Chloe returned, carrying their dinners.

“Here you go, folx.” She placed the plates in front of them. “Get you anything else?”

“Everything looks great,” Jake said, giving her a smile.

Brody nodded but stayed quiet.

“Enjoy,” she said and strode over to another table.

“Like I said, I don’t really do repeats,” Brody said quietly. He poured the dressing over the salad, not looking at Jake.

“Niall’s gone for a few days.” Jake stabbed a cherry tomato with his fork, undeterred. “We’d have the place to ourselves.” He popped the tomato into his mouth.

Brody placed his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his wrist. “I can’t have attachments.”

“Consider it another hookup,” Jake said. “I have some awesome cheese for an omelet in the morning.”

Raising a brow, Brody seemed to warm to the idea. “What kind of cheese?”

“It’s an herbed asiago.” More confident, Jake leaned in. “It came from a local farm, and the flavor is fantastic. I’d be happy to share it with you.”

“You make it hard to say no.” Brody frowned again. “This has to be a no-strings-attached arrangement.”

“I can work with that,” Jake said. “Although, you’ll have to return the gear I loan you.”

Brody relaxed and picked up his fork and knife. “Okay.”

****

Contest

For a chance to win a $5 Amazon gift card, share whether you have any superstitions!

About the Author

Brent Archer was born in Spokane, Washington, and lived there most of his adolescent life. At 18, he left for Seattle to attend the University of Washington for Electrical Engineering. Quickly, it became apparent that he wasn’t wired for the required science and differential equation classes, and so he switched his major to International Studies with a minor in History. After graduation, he pursued an acting career in musical theater and dance. Once thirty hit, however, he decided to focus on numbers, getting a certificate in accounting, and became the Financial Controller of a non-profit arts and music organization.

Though writing most of his life, he never thought to submit his work for publication. In 2012, he visited his cousin Delilah Devlin in Arkansas, and she prodded him to write a story and submit it. So, he did, and it sold right away. With the encouragement of Delilah, his other writing cousin Elle James, and his husband, Brent embarked on a writing career. He’s loving the journey, finding inspiration and a story everywhere he goes, whether it be the local coffee shop, driving through each of the United States, or riding the train to explore the world.

UPDATE: The winners are…Roxie Jones, Steph, and Debra Guyette!

*~*~*

I’ve told you all before that I love my Montana Bounty Hunters. From the first stories in the original series set in Bear Lodge, MT, I tried hard to make each of the bounty hunters individual rather than cookie-cutter characters with different names. I loved devising unique takedowns because they’re fun to write, and they showcase who these men are. I especially loved writing Hook because I got a chance to take a deep dive into the research to make his disability real and still make him sexy as hell. I hope you enjoy his story!

Hook

MONTANA BOUNTY HUNTERS: Authentic Men… Real Adventures…

Former Army Ranger, Dylan “Hook” Hoecker, has a new job along with a new prosthetic arm. Being a bounty hunter is the closest career field he could find as a civilian that gives him the adrenaline rush that is his addiction. So, when his first solo assignment is to keep an eye on a flight risk the boss bonded out of jail, he’s not thrilled. However, he soon discovers a fresh addiction—one mouthy, nerdy redhead, who resists his attempts to keep her out of trouble.

Felicity Gronkowski is grateful for the bone the head of Montana Bounty Hunter threw her. She didn’t have the money to pay for bail, but he has a soft spot for former military, and she bartered to install a new computer system in his satellite office in Bear Lodge. Being on the outside of jail was her first imperative because she has to figure out who framed her for a series of high-end robberies while she worked installing home security systems. However, her bounty-hunting babysitter isn’t giving her any slack. Every time she thinks she’s given him the slip, he’s one step ahead of her. Either she has to find the perfect method of distraction to escape him or she has to enlist his help to clear her name.

Contest

Are you all caught up reading the original Montana Bounty Hunters series?

For a chance to win a download of one of the stories you may have missed
(I’ll pick three winners!), tell me this:
I am currently thinking about stories to add to my MBH Yellowstone series. Do you have any ideas for fun stories or perils my hunters might face in Yellowstone?

Here are all the Bear Lodge Montana Bounty Hunters! Yes, it’s an old meme, but do you really care? 

MONTANA BOUNTY HUNTERS: Bear Lodge, MT
Authentic Men… Real Adventures…
Reaper: https://amzn.to/2NztLpv
Dagger: https://amzn.to/2zo6Dav
Reaper’s Ride: https://amzn.to/2KKkisI
Cochise: https://amzn.to/2zq4avV
Hook: https://amzn.to/2UrpyYh
Wolf: https://amzn.to/2yUTjr5
Animal: https://amzn.to/2H4Roob
Big Sky Wedding: https://amzn.to/33GprwK
Quincy: https://amzn.to/2QlleM8
Brian: https://amzn.to/2ZV8m2G

Excerpt from Hook:

Dylan “Hook” Hoecker had no problem keeping pace with Dagger and Cochise as they raced along the dark alleyway, following the skip they’d tracked to a gun shop in Libby. Scooter James had made the crew the moment Dagger entered the premise. Perhaps it was Dagger’s burly physique that had tipped him off, or maybe he was just nervous having three intense-looking dudes enter the store, but he’d run for the back exit.

No, Hook’s legs had never been an issue. He ran like the wind, easily leaping over a barrel Scooter dumped on its side, hoping to trip them. Beside him, Dagger cursed, and Hook couldn’t help smiling as the big guy went down. This skip was his. When he reached the end of the alley, Scooter veered left and ran through a stand of motorcycles, tipping over one, which sent the rest slowly falling like dominoes. Bikers sitting at outdoor café tables nearby rose and filled the street, shouting and moving toward their Harleys, forcing Cochise and Hook to push past them.

Cochise went down when one biker stuck out a foot, perhaps angry that their chase had scratched his ride.

Hook waved his prosthetic arm, which, sometimes, had even those who weren’t so tight with the law pausing and giving him a break. He didn’t mind one bit using his disability to give him an advantage. He shouted out a “Thanks, man,” when one biker rolled his bike forward to clear his path.

Now, it was just him following the slap of Scooter’s Adidas on the pavement. Hook paced himself, forcing himself to keep his breathing even so he’d outlast his target. He didn’t use every bit of his strength to close the gap, because he knew he’d need anything extra to take the fucker down once he began to slow.

In his mind, Hook thanked his physical therapist, who’d concentrated on helping him make the adjustment to his new circumstance, learning to use his prosthetic, but who also continued to meet him on the track three or four mornings a week to make sure he worked out the rest of his body to help, not only keep him toned for the work he did, but to keep his dark moods at bay. Raydeen Pickering was a hero in his mind, because she went the extra mile for every man and woman she accepted into her treatment program.

Ahead of him, Scooter ducked into another alley.

“He’s turned again,” he said, knowing the others could hear him through the radio in his earpiece. “Left, into an alley.”

“I’m behind you,” Cochise said. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

“I’m cutting through another alley. Will try to get to the street before he does,” Dagger said in his ear.

Hook went left and entered an alley lit by a single golden bulb at the back door of a restaurant. He ran past rank-smelling trash bins and plastic bags but didn’t see his mark ahead. “Don’t see him,” he said, and then slowed and turned.

Something dark swung at his head, and he held up his right arm to deflect the blow from a two-by-four from a pallet, no doubt. But the board hit plastic and metal and bounced off. Hook swung under it with his left, catching Scooter in the chin. Their target dropped like a sack of rocks across a row of trash bags lined up on the dirty, smelly pavement. Read the rest of this entry »

UPDATE: The winners are…Kerry Jo, Beckie, and Debra Guyette!
*~*~*

After yesterday’s excitement, it’s hard to concentrate, but…back to work!

I know many of you come to my website to read my daily blog, but have you fully explored the many stories I have ready for you to consume? Have you read a short story written by me? I’ve written short stories that have appeared in many Cleis anthologies and stories that appeared in Penthouse Magazine. Do you remember those with the sexy, cute cartoons? Yeah, “Tailgating“ was one of those. I’ve written short stories that appeared in my own curated anthologies, my Boys Behaving Badly stories. I love writing them. Most often, they’re not connected to anything else I’ve written. They’re a chance for me to experiment. One theme that runs through all of them is a deep eroticism. So, if you’re into sexy stories, look no further. I would like to know if you’ve read one of my short stories before, and if so, which one was your favorite?

Comment for a chance to win your choice of
one of these stories! I’ll choose
three winners!

Click on the covers to read more about these stories!

And if you haven’t read my shorties, check out the full list here!

Tailgating at the Cedar Inn

Two construction workers come to the aid of one woman looking for a last taste of freedom…

I stepped out of the shower onto chipped and cracked aqua blue tiles with grout so dingy it was hard to tell what color it had been. Not that the bathroom was dirty, thank god. Just old. Like the rest of the 60’s-built motel I’d found on the little back country road.

I toweled my hair then shook my head like a dog, not caring where the droplets landed. It wasn’t a mess I’d have to clean up. For one last night I could be irresponsible, messy, even if it was only in a small way.

I draped the towel over the edge of the old white tub and sauntered naked into the small room with the double bed. It smelled of tobacco and industrial cleansers. The bedding looked clean if a little nappy from wear, but I peeled back the quilt-top and tossed it on the floor anyway. Pristine white sheets beckoned.

Just as I lay back, sighing with relief, sounds from outside the room jarred me from my happy haze. Tires squealed, masculine laughter bellowed through the thin walls, and car doors slammed.

I sighed and stared at the bared rafters above me. The laughter faded. I reached across to flip off the switch to the nightstand lamp with its yellowed shade. Lying in the darkness, I willed my body to relax, one limb at a time. I’d driven three hundred miles that day. I’d have gone another fifty for a decent hotel, but the shorter route my Garmin had found led me through narrow two-lane roads deep in the Ozark Mountains. I doubted I’d have found anything nicer.

I should have stuck to the Interstate, but I’d wanted to shave some miles. Little did I know that the route would keep my foot busy pushing on the gas pedal then the brake the whole way. Exhausted, nerves shattered, I’d seen the crooked Vacancy sign outside the Cedar Inn and made my decision on the spot, swerving into the empty gravel parking lot. Not until I’d opened the door to my tiny, musty room did I have second thoughts about my decision. But how bad could it really be? I’d turned on the swamp cooler set into a window frame and felt my hair frizz instantly.

Not that I’d really cared. There wasn’t anyone around to impress. Other than the clerk at the front desk, a skinny, twenty-something redneck with puppy dog eyes, the place was deserted. I’d shivered a little bit at the thought, double-bolted my room door and checked the locks on the remaining window. Visions of the shower scene from Psycho didn’t put me off taking a long, lukewarm soak to wash away the road grime and sweat.

The cooler purred, spilling muggy air into the room. The sheets felt clammy. Still, I grew calm as my body warmed the sheets beneath me, then a little horny when I wondered if the room might have little peepholes for the clerk to watch me. He’d been cute if a little skinny. I wouldn’t mind if he watched—at least not in my fantasies. Who knew how long it would be until I felt comfortable enough, private enough to indulge in a little one-handed play when my grandmother slept in the room next to mine.

I slipped a hand between my thighs and lazily trailed my fingers through my cleft until my breath caught and heat pooled. I raised my knees and let them fall open, tilted my hips and thrust two fingers inside my pussy. I wasn’t in a hurry. I wasn’t even that eager to come. The motion soothed and excited, allowing my mind to let go of my troubles—the firing, the break-up, the move to my grandmother’s house—and focus only on the pleasure curling deep inside my core.

When the blare of a TV sounded from outside, I had third and fourth thoughts about my decision to stop here for the night. What the hell? Why had someone moved their television set outside rather than watch in the seclusion of their room where the sound would be somewhat muffled.

I gritted my teeth, swung my legs over the side of the bed and reached for shorts and a tee, slipping them over my nude body and the keys in my pocket before I stomped to the door and flung it open.

Not that the two men sitting on the truck noticed me—at first.

Under the single flood light that illuminated the parking lot, I noted the construction company logo on the side of the pickup backed up to the door of the room beside mine. Then I eyed the large men seated on the sides of the truck bed, their shirts gone, faded jeans stretched over thick thighs. Their attention was glued to the basketball game, blaring from the small screen of the TV they had set in the bed of the truck on top of a white ice chest. They held Budweisers in their grips.

At last, one of the men’s heads turned. He spotted me then whistled at his friend. Soon both their gazes peered down.

I felt foolish standing in my bare feet with my wet hair spiked around my head. Why hadn’t I simply put a pillow over my head to muffle their noise? But I was testy. Moody. I’d lost my job, had a blow-up with my boyfriend over the fact I wouldn’t be splitting rent with him for a while, and cut my nose off to spite my own face by breaking up with him. Homeless now, I had no options. Grandma’s in Little Rock was my last resort.

Tonight would be my last night of freedom before I moved under her roof and abided by her rules. She’d pay the bills—if I knuckled under and went back to school. Something I resented after being on my own for a couple of years, living by my rules.

Which might have been exactly why I remained, rooted to that spot. The men seated on the truck would never meet Grandma’s high standards.

Sweat gleamed on their naked chests and both of them were thickly muscled and a little dirty—as though they’d come straight from work without the benefit of a shower.

The shine only served to emphasize the depth of the musculature and their starkly masculine features. Their tanned, leathery skin stretched across cheeks and jaws that were sharpened to rough edges by hard work.

Both their gazes homed on me, and while I knew the smart thing would have been to retreat without a word to my room and relock the door, I tilted my chin and thrust out my chest. “Can’t you watch the game in your room?”

“We botherin’ you, sweetheart?” the one closest to me said, sliding off the truck to land in front of me.

I peered a long way up and frowned into the face tilted my way. We stood close enough I could see the bristles of his evening shadow. He wore a ball cap that shadowed his eyes, but glints of blond hair shone beneath it. “It’s late. I was trying to sleep.”

“It’s not that late,” he drawled. “Join us for a beer?”

I glanced behind him and noted the grin on his buddy’s face. He was bare-headed with shaggy brown hair and a devilish quirk to his firm lips. The game seemed to have lost its fascination. Their gazes drank me down like I was long cool drink.