tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35912627915655892512024-02-07T11:13:56.101-08:00Adventures N WritingAuthor Michele ScottA.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.comBlogger198125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-10669615328735698372019-07-02T15:06:00.002-07:002019-07-02T15:06:23.428-07:00DADDY'S HOMEThis is the book that really started it all in some ways for me. I'd been writing and publishing for eight years under my name. I'd written the Nikki Sands and Michaela Bancroft mystery series before DADDY'S HOME came out and I'd built a decent cozy mystery genre readership. I'd actually written Daddy's Home before MURDER UNCORKED came out because my initial intent as a writer was to be a thriller author. However, after sending Daddy's Home out on A LOT of unsolicited submissions I hadn't found representation and the idea for Murder Uncorked came to me...and viola...an agent loved it and sold three books in that series (two of them hadn't been written yet) in two weeks after signing me. Nine books in the two different series later both series were dropped and I found myself asking...what next?<br />
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It was about that time that Amazon started the KDP program for Indies and I had five manuscripts that hadn't been published and none of them were what readers would consider "cozies." What did I do? I came up with the pen name AK Alexander (after my three kids...Anthony, Kaitlin and Alexander), found someone to create covers for me, hired a good freelance editor (my Yoda...Mike Sirota) and published them on KDP. For a year I'd check sales daily and not much was happening. I was happy when I sold more than a book a day! And, then...one day it happened! And, I still have no idea how it happened but it did! I checked my sales and I'd sold A LOT of books in the UK of Daddy's Home. Then, Daddy's Home within two weeks in the UK went to #1 on the Amazon charts and I'm not talking #1 in a genre specific category, I am talking the #1 e-book on all of UK Amazon! It stayed there for a few weeks and then, Mommy, May I? climbed the charts and it was #2! Six months after that, Daddy's Home hit #4 in the US Amazon store behind the Hunger Games series. It is still the book that has outsold all 32 other books I've written or co-authored and I loved writing it. I can still remember sitting at my kitchen table writing that book...that was my desk at the time. That way I could keep an eye on two little boys who are now grown men, and a baby girl who is now a grown young woman!<br />
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I think my favorite piece of writing that book was developing Holly's character and the way she worked a tough case and still balanced being a single mom. In book #4 which will be out this fall, Holly's life has changed dramatically. As the lead up to DEADLY AFFAIRS release I thought it would be a good idea to post a few chapters from the first three books here on the blog. So, I'll begin where it kind of all began (at least for me becoming a thriller author). Hope you enjoy the first chapter of DADDY'S HOME.<br />
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WARNING!!! Not for young eyes or the faint hearted! It's graphic and there's language that some readers might be offended by.<br />
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If you haven't read the book before and like what you read, here is the buy link off of Amazon...<b style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">https://tinyurl.com/y6l7zy3y</b><br />
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They call him “the Family Man,” the cunning killer who preys upon single mothers and their innocent children, hunting for a family to call his own. But when they fail to meet his unyielding demands for perfection—and they always do—he kills. </div>
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Holly Jennings is the San Diego PD’s top crime scene investigator. She’s also a single mother struggling to raise her daughter alone and to dealing with her feelings for another man in the wake of her husband’s death. The Family Man case hits her hard—but even harder when her friend becomes his latest victim. </div>
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Determined to stop this psychopath once and for all, Holly delves deep into the investigation, combing through evidence for clues to his identity. But the closer she gets to the truth, the further she must venture down a dark path that could cost her everything: her family, her newfound love—even her life. This edgy page-turner is guaranteed to keep readers riveted into the wee hours of the morning.</div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Daddy’s Home</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>by</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>A. K. Alexander</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>CHAPTER ONE</b></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Holly Jennings wanted to get this son of a bitch. She needed to see him stretched out, strapped down on a gurney. She yearned to watch the hypo hooked up to his veins, releasing the venomous fluid that would flow through his body, causing it to gradually shut down. Better yet, Holly wanted to take her nine-millimeter Glock, put it to his temple, and pull the trigger. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Blow the monster’s brains out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She slid down the steep incline, brushing off the leaves as she got to her feet, and took a pair of Latex gloves from her black bag, smoothing them over her hands. Even after four years of working the Crime Scene unit for the San Diego P.D., Holly still hadn’t gotten used to that acrid rubber smell and the puff of powder that flared out as the gloves snapped into place. It was like a wake-up call to her body. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Here we go again, Holly, grit your teeth.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Even her years of experience with death scenes never made the next scene easier. No matter how many times she had faced smells so foreign to the average nose—even those not so average, like Holly’s—the vile aroma always hit her hard. That first breath in ignited visuals of violence—visuals so completely opposite of anything normal, like a plunge into the depths of Hell. Then, too, there was always something about each victim, each situation, that caught a detective, or herself anyway, off guard. Each victim had been a real person with a real life, and within a matter of days, hours—or hopefully for their sakes, seconds—they became a statistic. Sickening. Yet, in spite of the shattered bodies and the putrid odors, Holly had to admit it was a job she almost relished.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Holly stepped along the perimeter of the taped-off crime scene, walking in line and with trepidation, hands behind her back—not an easy task while also carrying her bag, but a necessary one. Holly played by the rules. <i>Keep the crime scene intact, and don’t fall on your ass. The boys are watching.</i> She glanced back and saw both her partner, Chad Euwing—who she could screw up in front of and laugh about it over a shot of tequila—and Robb Carpenter—who she wouldn’t even think about messing up in front of; he’d run straight to the higher ups, who would love to demote <i>a skirt</i> if given a chance. So much for equality.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Robb was full of stupid one-liners like, “Didn’t you miss your nail appointment?” Or maybe, “We’re a little hormonal today?” <i>Asshole extraordinaire.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Holly reached the little girl first. She knelt down, and the natural instinct to touch her gave Holly an intense head rush. <i>Shut down the emotions. Do your job. </i>What kind of freak would do this to an innocent child? Only two weeks earlier she’d been in this exact position where a child and his mother had been violently slain. Was she dealing with the same killer here?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Focus. Think. Work. Examine. </i>It was again time to examine the UNSUB’s heinous work. The Unknown Subject of an Investigation. <i>The killer. The savage. </i>She pulled out a small recorder from her coat pocket and pressed the record button. “Time of day: ten hundred. Tuesday. Approximately fifty-five to sixty degrees, clear weather, post rain. Victim 1: Female Child. Approximately age four. Blonde hair. Eyes closed. Wrapped in cellophane. Starburst wound at base of left temple. Entry: <i>UNSUB is left handed</i>. Looks like someone braided her hair, put ribbons in it—UNSUB?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She leaned in closely. The smell of decay and death wafted past, nauseating her. It always did—another thing she knew that she’d never get used to. <i>Hold on. What was this?</i> She pocketed the recorder and took her magnifier from her bag. Gold links<i>. He took a necklace from you, didn’t he, sweet girl?</i> She scanned the wrapped body and face closely. There was a smudge of brown next to her lips. <i>Not blood. What is that?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“He’s a collector,” she yelled up to Chad. “Did we find anything missing on the Collins’ little boy or his mom? You talked to the grandparents about jewelry?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Yeah. No one said anything about any jewelry being gone,” Chad shouted back. “We know what he took at that scene.” The grave tone in Chad’s voice didn’t go unnoticed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“This one took something from the kid, too. Got your camera?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Right here.” Chad held up his 35-millimeter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Then come on down. Let’s get some pictures.” Holly looked back at the child, whose facial color held a greenish-purple tinge. She’d been out here for at least forty-eight hours. Luckily, it had been cold and rainy, preserving the body far better than if this had been a typical Southern California week.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Looking again through the magnifier, she noted that both maggots and beetles were prevalent. <i>You certainly took some care here, didn’t you? You wrapped her up nice and tight.</i> The time and obvious care the UNSUB had taken, wrapping up the child in the plastic wrap, had also helped to keep her body intact. <i>Maybe you’re still on her. Your cologne. Your hair. Something you wore. I’ll find it, you bastard. If you left something, anything, I will find it.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The sound of crunching leaves underfoot, as well as Chad’s humming of “Sunshiny Day,” announced his arrival. She used to hate it when he did that. But humming helped Chad to get through the scene. Every investigator had a tactic. Hers was to get as deeply into the killer’s head as possible when confronted with a victim. She had to detach herself in order to solve the crime. Later, she could think about the victims as they once were—living, breathing human beings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“The gunshot to the head was at close range. At least she didn’t suffer.” Holly shuddered. “Well, let me rephrase. I don’t think she suffered at the moment of death. Who knows what occurred beforehand. Look here.” Chad bent down next to her. “Soot around the wound.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“He didn’t wipe her clean?” Chad brought the camera up to his eye, focused, and started snapping close-ups.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“No.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Like the last kid.” Chad lowered his camera.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Exactly like the Collins boy. And I don’t think this is about him being in a hurry. There’s more to it. He feels responsible somehow. In his sick way, empathetic. The gunshot wound offends him. I’ll head over to Psych later and see if we can’t get some help with the profile. My initial impression is that he doesn’t like killing the kids.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Then why bother with the kid? Why not find a single female vic? What is it with the kids?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Well, assuming that we’re dealing with the same UNSUB, I don’t know. We could be dealing with someone totally different from the last scene. We’ll know soon enough when we check out the mom.” Chad gave Holly a knowing look. “Here, get a snap of her neck. See that?” Holly pointed to the few lengths of chain around her tiny neck.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“She wore a necklace?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Yep, and he took it. He carried her down here. Then yanked off the necklace. Any footprints?” Holly asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“With the rains we’ve had over the last couple of days? No.” Chad shook his head, and started clicking the camera again. “What’s that caked on the side of her face?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I don’t know.” But the word <i>cake</i> did ring true—chocolate maybe. Mark Collins had had peanut butter cookies in his stomach contents. “Maybe this bastard gives them goodies first. A real compassionate type, huh?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Twisted, Holly. This is one of the more bizarre cases I’ve seen. ‘Here kiddo, let’s have cake and ice cream before I murder you and your mom.’”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“We’re not dealing with your average psycho here.” After Chad was finished snapping away, Holly bagged the bit of chain. “Let’s check out Mom.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">They walked another five feet down and to the right before reaching the woman’s naked body, face down, a blue tarp tattered but still taped to her. “He didn’t take any time here,” Chad noted. “Looks like he basically dumped her and got the hell out of here.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I think you’re right. My bet is he was extremely angry with her, or whomever she represents to him. He doesn’t care about her. He’s pissed off, and she’s the root of his anger. He didn’t bother carrying her down. He tossed her like a bag of trash.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Chad snapped several photos of the body in that position. He then rolled her over with his gloved hands. “It’s possible she’s a mother figure to him.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“That’s one train of thought. Or a wife, girlfriend, even a sister. Someone else besides a mother may have raised him. Could be a grandmother. I don’t know. But his hate is deep-seated, and it’s directed at the women. This isn’t really about the children, by what I’ve seen so far. That is, if he is the same killer who murdered Patricia and Mark Collins.” Holly shook her head. She was frustrated at the dead end that particular murder investigation had led her to. The killer on that case was meticulous and left nothing at the scene. The similarities, however, were frightening.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Collins case was another single mother and child pair. They’d been taken late at night from their Hillcrest home. No one had seen a damn thing. Patricia Collins was the quiet type, not very social, and a dedicated mother. The only lead they’d had was that she had belonged to both the local gym and a dating service, neither of which had turned up anything.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Patricia had only had one date through the service, and the man had checked out completely clean. Holly had the police chief breathing down her neck, and these new murders, if they linked up to the other family, would have him in even more of a tizzy. Holly didn’t like dealing with Tom Greenfield in a tizzy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Holly nodded at Chad who pulled back the blue tarp covering the mother. “Oh my God!” Holly gasped, bringing her free hand up to her mouth. She had to look away momentarily. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Yeah. I guess you could say he was pissed,” Chad muttered before firing off shot after shot of film.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The woman looked to be in her early thirties. Presumably the child’s mother, she had been badly mutilated. Anguish and fright splashed across her face, her eyes frozen wide open. Holly’s gut said the killer had done the mutilating before he killed her. The woman had suffered quite a bit, whereas he had killed the child quickly. <i>Oh, God.</i> Had she witnessed the brutality her mother had endured?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Why would he cut off her breasts?” Chad asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The tarp was torn open enough to see the horrid wounds the killer had inflicted upon the woman. Holly shook her head. <i>Stay in his head. What are you so angry about? Why her? </i>Holly sighed. “Anger combined with wanting to either strip her of her womanhood or of her motherhood. I don’t know. He’s one sick fuck.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“So what do you think? Is he the same one who murdered the Collins boy?” Chad asked. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“He didn’t mutilate Patricia, except for the finger.” Holly stared blankly at the missing ring finger on this victim’s hand. “And, uh, yeah. He’s saved himself another ring finger. I’d say he’s the same killer. It adds up. Both kids shot in the head at close range. The medical examiner and ballistics will give us a better idea. The difference is in the mutilation here. Our other gal cooperated with him, maybe thought she would get out of it alive. He only severed her ring finger, and the M.E. believes that was done post mortem. I don’t think he did this after he killed this one, though. I think he tortured her.” Holly bent down next to the woman and picked up the woman’s stiff hand. “She fought back, though, before he cut it off. See the blood and skin on the other fingers and nail beds?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Chad bent down and took Holly’s magnifier from her. “We’re gonna get DNA off this. Let’s hope he has a prior.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Holly knew that was slim. Serial killers were usually very careful. <i>You fought him, didn’t you? </i>“You did good. We’ll get him, I promise you. I’m gonna find him for you,” she said in a barely audible whisper. She glanced back over at the body of the child. “Carpenter!” she hollered up to Robb. “Get down here. What the hell are you doing? We might have some fibers. Bring your kit, and let’s get some measurements and sketches drawn up. This scene isn’t going to stay preserved forever.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“You okay?” Chad asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I can’t stand that asshole. And you know he can’t stand me, especially if I’m running the scene. He’s still bent that he didn’t get promoted to my position.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“You earned it. Ignore him. That really gets under his skin.” He winked at her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Holly was fully aware of her title as Ice Princess around the department. She’d even caught a whiff of rumor about bets being placed as to who could get her in the sack.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She looked at her watch. It was almost lunch hour, and she had a forty-minute drive to make it to Chloe’s school. Her daughter’s second-grade class had plans for their Thanksgiving festivities. <i>Damn.</i> She had promised her that she would be there. She had already missed one dance recital and a school play this year. “Can you handle this from here? I promised Chloe I’d make it to her school assembly and Thanksgiving feast. Make sure Carpenter and the boys stay in line. I don’t want any mistakes. Our perp is good and careful, but he’ll screw up somewhere along the line. When he does, I want him behind bars until they’ve got him strapped to that gurney. I don’t want him out on a technicality because of something we got careless about.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Count on me.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Thanks. I know I can. I’d stay and hold the fort, but Chloe . . .”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Go, for God’s sake. I can handle this.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> “Call me if you get anything new. I planned to take the rest of the afternoon off and spend it with her. This morning she sent a big guilty arrow through my heart about how I’m always working. I know I shouldn’t take off, and Greenfield would skin me alive if he knew, but that might hurt less than my seven-year-old’s therapy payments down the line.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“No problem. Family first. You do what you need to, and I’ll plan to meet you at the medical examiner’s office in the morning.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Robb Carpenter passed her. “What’s the matter, Holly? Your thong up your ass today?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She kept walking. She heard Chad tell Robb to go fuck himself. Good friend. Behind the wheel of her Jeep, she pulled down the mirror and applied her tawny-colored lipstick, hoping to look more like a mother than a cop. She also put on some mascara, bringing her hazel eyes to life, and quickly brushed her short auburn hair back behind her ears. <i>A little better.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Holly quickly got onto the freeway and sped down the I-8, heading west, noticing the whites of her knuckles as she gripped the wheel tightly. She hated admitting that she had wanted to leave the scene. It wasn’t something she would typically do, although today she did have a good excuse. <i>That poor woman, what she must have suffered . . . Her breasts. My God! </i>She put a hand up to her breasts. He studies his victims, knows them or at least <i>of</i> them and their situation. What’s his motive? Why is he doing this? </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">He wasn’t some recluse, killing randomly. He had specific reasons for the women he chose. He carved up women just like her—young, single, and with a child. It was now up to Holly to track him down before he savagely butchered another family. </span></div>
A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-5818766037739307532019-06-12T21:15:00.000-07:002019-06-12T21:20:07.192-07:00Writing IdeasOne of the questions I receive most often from people curious about writing is..."Where do you get your ideas from?" Well, I get them from everywhere. I'm constantly inspired. If you want to write an essay, short story, a book, then I can assure you that all you have to do is open your mind to everything. Think about that for a moment. Think about the color yellow and then think about all of the hues that yellow comes in from light to lemon, to burnt, to gold...now take that color and place it on a dress and place that dress on someone and tell me who that person is and why that color of dress means something to her. How old is she? Does she carry memories that create sadness, happiness? What is important to her? Did she see something she shouldn't have? Did she invent something? Did she give in, win, lose, grow, what did she do....who does she want to be? Is she a leader, a victim, a survivor, evil, good, or do we know yet? Is she funny? Is she remorseful? Is she a child or an old woman? Does she carry secrets or is she the light in everyone's world?<br />
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Am I making my point?<br />
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Story ideas come from questions. Even basic questions.<br />
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If you want to write, you will find the stories because stories are everywhere. See someone, something and let your mind run with it by asking questions.<br />
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Read the news, listen to what people are talking about, look at history, talk to your parents, talk to your friends, your children, talk to yourself (you have memories, don't you)...talk to strangers (except scary ones---those are the ones that are easy to write about. I am a thriller author). The point again is that stories are everywhere. So, if you want to write and you don't know where to start all you have to do is notice something that intrigues you (it can be as basic as the color yellow) and then begin asking questions. Those questions lead to characters and then ask more questions which lead you to a plot, which lead you to an entire theme, and world.<br />
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Stories are everywhere and YOU can create them. <br />
<br />A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-78861948242938104522019-05-30T21:04:00.002-07:002019-05-30T21:11:56.335-07:00Mental Health Awareness MonthSo May is Mental Health Awareness month. May has been observed as such since 1949 and was started by the Mental Health America Organization. I've gone back and forth on addressing this topic, which is quite personal to me and thus decided on the two days before the month's end to go ahead and relay my personal story in dealing with someone who was once very close to me and who suffered from mental illness. I'm sharing this in the hope that someone reading this recognizes any of it as being a piece in their life that they might be comforted, seek help or have some kind of positive result from it. I have shared some of this story almost a decade ago and to this day I receive a few e-mails each year from someone who themself is afflicted with deep depression and having suicidal thoughts, or from someone who has suffered a loss due to suicide. To find that original article, you can check it out here https://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/03/04/a-fathers-suicide/<br />
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I'm not certain where to begin here, so I'll just dive in. I met the father of my sons when I was sixteen. We went to college together and got married at twenty-two. Our first son was born soon after. Our second son was born two years later. They are both amazing, wonderful, intelligent, kind men today (I'm grateful to be their mom). Their dad (Mike) and I divorced when I was twenty-seven. We remained friends through the years until his death and if I'm honest now, we did so because even after our divorce I always felt fairly intimidated by Mike. I knew even as a teenaged girl that he wasn't always nice. In fact, he could be very cruel. However, he also had a funny and decent side. I can remember being a junior in high school and every lunch hour, Mike would go and sit with a kid who was handicapped and in a wheel chair. He and that boy would laugh all through lunch. This endeared me to him. He also loved our boys very much and played with them a lot as little kids. He hugged them a lot, took them to every movie under the sun and played video games with them. He was intelligent and he could also be very funny. However, he had a dark side.<br />
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As a young wife and mom, I never knew who I was going to encounter each day. Jeckyll or Hyde? That is an unnerving feeling. Was he going to be the nice, happy guy...or was he going to be angry, sad, distracted? I won't go into specifics but it wasn't an easy relationship. There was verbal, emotional and I can admit it now...there was even some occasional physical abuse. I know people who know me now would never believe I'd tolerate that but I did. Why did I do that? I'm not completely certain as to why other than I really had very low self esteem. I fell into victim mode easily and I lived there for years until I found the strength to say...enough. When I said, "ENOUGH!" it was loud, clear and finding my voice no matter the consequence was worth it.<br />
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I want to go back though a bit and discuss that Mike was not really a bad guy. That is not to ever excuse an abuser. If anyone reading this is an abusive situation be it with a spouse, partner, friend, parent...I beg you to reach out and get help, because here is the deal...mental disease begets mental disease. Trust me, if you live with craziness, you will begin to feel crazy at certain points.<br />
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I've done enough research and counseling to understand the differences between a narcissist, sociopath, psychopath and someone who is suffering mental illness. I also know what it means to be gas lighted by someone close to me and when dealing with that, you are typically dealing with a narcissist. They are the people who are very good at making you feel as if everything is your fault and they've done nothing wrong in the relationship...and then, you do actually question yourself. It takes on a kind of chaos of a different form. They are manipulative and undermining with a particular goal in mind without a true concern for others. However, that is an entirely other topic. Mike was not a narcissist. He was truly mentally ill. It doesn't excuse the abuse but it has helped me make sense of it.<br />
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Once out of the marriage, as I mentioned, we remained friends. We had grown up together. We co parented and he seemed to get help and get better. There was a time that he called me and asked me to forgive him. I told him that I'd forgiven long ago. I'd learned that holding anger, resentment, sadness did no good for my children, myself or for him. It was not easy but it lightened my world and I think in turn at some level it lightened his. Yet, he chose to take his life September 10, 2010. The after math of his suicide was the most horrific experience I've ever endured due to the impact it had on my sons who really loved their dad because as I've written...there was never a doubt that Mike loved his sons.<br />
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Looking back now... educating myself on mental health, years of counseling, I have come to realize that I was dealing with someone who was suffering deeply inside. I could never have healed him. However, maybe counseling, maybe meds, maybe something could have. I'll never know. What I do know is that for anyone who wonders who they might encounter each day (Jeckyll or Hyde) know that their illness doesn't excuse them from abuse. Know that some of those people are simply abusive, sadistic assholes and run! For some, they need real help and if they can get it...there is hope. But know that if you or someone you know is in a similar situation that mental illness causes chaos and heartache in so many varying degrees. Sometimes it can be turned around and sometimes it can't. Just know...that no one on either side of mental illness should be suffering. There are so many good people in the world with the tools to help. I wish now that I'd really opened up and talked to someone back then. I wish I'd not stayed a victim for so long. I wish that Mike would've sought help. And, then there is the other side of the coin in that...my sons for all they have been through are strong. They are courageous in ways that many aren't. For myself, I am stronger. I think I'm kinder. I think I recognize pain and can have empathy in ways I never had before. I won't go out there and say that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes we have to look deep to find meaning to the tragic things that occur in our lives. Sometimes discovering those meanings helps us grow and hopefully in turn prevent others from any suffering of the same ilk.<br />
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<br />A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-49031854314880603292019-05-29T12:30:00.000-07:002019-05-29T12:30:47.044-07:00Co AuthoringBeing a writer tends be a solitary experience outside of read and critique groups or conferences. However, those experiences are more about learning and discovering ways to improve our writing. They're where writers go to socialize...because as I already noted, it is a solitary profession. Except, when you have a co-author.<br />
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Writing with a co-author is a different experience in some ways but also the same in some ways as when you write a book on your own.<br />
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I'll explain how I've worked with two of my friends and co-authors in the past and what the differences and similarities are in the writing experience itself.<br />
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When I worked with JR Rain on our PSI series (Psychic Sensory Intelligence), I had come up with an idea I really liked but in a genre where I hadn't really developed a readership. My main readership is in the thriller and mystery genres, so doing a paranormal urban fantasy type of book wasn't something I'd really done before. JR had been a friend of mine for years and also a good mentor. He really knows the publishing business and he's a great writer. I reached out, told him my idea and we decided to collaborate as he had a readership in that genre. JR had worked with several co-authors at this point so I figured if I was going to do it that he was the right person to work with. I'd never worked with a co-author before and I was anxious because writing is solitary and personal. It's one thing to put a book out into the world and receive criticism (good or bad) from readers you don't know to writing a book with a colleague whose writing you respect and enjoy. But JR and I were on the same page (no pun intended...well, maybe) and we devised the way we wanted to work together. Since the overall idea was mine, I wrote out an extensive outline and character bios. Once I'd done that, I wrote the first chapter and sent it over to JR. Then, he wrote the second one...and back and forth in this manner until we had a completed manuscript. What was interesting though in this process is that storytelling has to be fluid, so even though there might be an outline at play, characters may decide (yes on their own...we are writers and characters do talk to us) that they want to deviate from the outline. This happened a bit writing the series with JR and at first I would sit back and read it...thinking...<i>hmmm, that's not how the outline went</i>...but then, I'd reread it and usually agree that the story had taken a turn for the better, that my co-author's idea worked to move the story forward in a more interesting way. What I really enjoyed about this was then figuring out how to write the next scene outside of the box that had been created by the outline. It sort of became like a game and I discovered something about myself as a writer. That was that I could be less rigid and free flow the writing at times rather than always being so focused on the outline. JR and I wrote four books this way and had a great time doing it.<br />
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I also worked with my good friend Jen Greyson on another urban paranormal/fantasy series. We talked a lot on the phone and e-mailed our ideas back and forth, which generated some great energy around the stories. We worked in tandem quite a bit in that we developed the characters and outline together through direct communication. Then, Jen would write a few chapters and send them to me. I'd edit, add to, delete etc and anywhere I felt the story needed to play out differently, Jen and I would discuss it and compromise or agree. I loved working with Jen and writing that series. We're currently figuring out how we continue it as we both have quite a few projects at the moment. I believe though that we will get back to it. It was just too much fun not to continue.<br />
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Writing with a co-author does eliminate the solitude to a degree because you're communicating with the other writer on a regular basis and sharing ideas, developing characters, themes, etc...Both Jen and JR live in other states so there was still the actual planting my self in a chair and writing the pages on my own. The nerve wracking part was when sending back pages to another writer and hoping they like them! There's also the accountability factor. When you agree to go into this type of partnership, you both have expectations of writing something good in a time limit that works for everyone and the hopes are you reach readers who love the books. At the end of the day when the book is published you are there for each other in a way that no one is there for an author who hasn't written with another writer. If the book bombs you can either support one another or point fingers (don't do that...) and if the book takes off, a celebration is in order.<br />
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Here is the best take away I think I can give on co-authoring...if you're considering it and you like the other person's writing style, their stories and appreciate and respect them as a person, then go for it. It can be a lot of fun and I found that I grew a great deal as a writer working with other writers. Growth is what it's really all about in my opinion. Not just in writing but life in all areas. As Benjamin Franklin said, "Without continual growth and progress, such words as improvement, achievement, and success have no meaning."A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-34979559000166123122019-05-08T21:15:00.001-07:002019-05-08T21:15:43.078-07:00Dead Celeb Chapter One<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 18pt; text-align: start;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Of all the books I've written, The Dead Celeb has received the most favorable reviews (4.8 stares on amazon), requests for more in the series and more readers e-mail me about this book than any other. So I thought it might be fun to post a chapter of it here every few days. Let me know if you want more of Evie and her cohorts (alive and dead)...</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;">FANS OF SOOKIE STACKHOUSE WILL LOVE EVIE PRESTON!</span></span></div>
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<span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;">"Skirting the edge of gritty and glossy Los Angeles, Michele Scott takes paranormal mystery in a new direction with romance, humor, intrigue, and a fantastic leading lady. I can’t wait to read the next in the series." -Elizabeth Hunter, best-selling author of the Elemental Mysteries.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; white-space: normal;" /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;">“A sexy irresistible supernatural mystery, mixed with a big cast of colorful characters. A fun, twisting plot worthy of Alfred Hitchcock that had me guessing until the very end (and guessing wrong I might add!). Michele Scott is a tremendous talent and The Dead Celeb is a helluva lot of fun to read."</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; white-space: normal;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;">--J.R. Rain, bestselling author of Moon Dance and Vampire Games.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; white-space: normal;" /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;">What happens when a small town girl moves to Hollywood to pursue her dreams and winds up smack dab in the middle of a murder investigation, haunted by famous dead celebs, and working for the biggest pop star in the music industry?</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; white-space: normal;" /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;">Introducing Evie Preston: Small-town girl and under-the-radar healer, currently trapped in a po-dunk Texas town but yearning for something more. When fate gives her the opportunity to move to Hollywood to follow her dreams, Evie finds herself navigating through the land of glitz and glamour, and the realm of (dead) celebrities…</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; white-space: normal;" /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;">Raised in Brady, Texas by her minister father and her beauty shop-owner mother, Evie has been trying to get out of town for years. When an old family friend gives her an unexpected gift on her birthday, Evie finally gets the chance to start fresh out west. Against her father’s wishes, she packs up her guitar, her dog, Mama Cass, and heads for California. </span><br style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; white-space: normal;" /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;">Once in L.A., Evie finds a singing gig at a local dive bar where she meets a slew of interesting characters including the owner himself, a former child star with a hidden past. She also scores a day job doing make-up for a famous and foul-mouthed pop diva. One of the job perks includes house sitting at a Hollywood Hills mansion. But what Evie doesn’t know is the house is also home to some famous celebrity spirits, including the essence of former Grunge rocker, Lucas Minx.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; white-space: normal;" /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;">As if things weren’t complicated enough, Evie finds herself in the middle of a murder mystery and discovers she’s being targeted by some nasty spirits. And to top things off, she’s developed a Texas-sized crush on her hot, but very dead, roommate, Lucas. </span><br style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; white-space: normal;" /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;">Maybe her dad was right and the City of Angels really is the City of Devils—all of them after her. </span><br style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; white-space: normal;" /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; white-space: normal;">WARNING: Strong language, sexual content, and mild violence.</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; text-align: start; white-space: normal;" /><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">DEAD CELEB</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">DEAD CELEB SERIES — BOOK ONE</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">MICHELE SCOTT</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="64" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/_KzKxDmGNMsD0nw09EyiIylVwF3veYp4n1MnHaBOUh-sRrEcfbLpX6xdoIRDqAvkMHu8VMUufvEvQYhMMb3NBOZGzJnYLw1Vz3dcCxYRqCCuepFr7YdSF5xOE_7HrSMbfYviBE6ZP4h9wRi0GQ" style="border: none;" width="127" /></span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-6c4c1d85-7fff-e31a-4837-0e5dda107772" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: auto; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: auto; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">DEDICATION</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For you Debbie Rosen because you get it!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img alt="DeadCeleb_chap" height="99" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/jafkL5FBAtJWqpcQMtZdu271pijCo8M7YFEH333z9xp7ExU3n0FFBILwy2TYo9jGP8NITEQPwlVFPnLotgk9WlkNC-a171oNHz2SNxjudXFpGWjzeltla2ipr9QZgFUGM4BEb22ke4Lwf0vWBw" style="border: none;" width="220" /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">CHAPTER ONE</span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">MY NAME IS EVIE PRESTON and I hang out with dead rock stars. Oh, and the occasional dead movie star or two. I’ve learned quite a bit about those who live on the other side over the past few months. For instance, they aren’t all ghostly and transparent. Oh no. The ones I see are almost always in full- color and 3-D except when they exert, ah … certain energies. Then they go a bit hazy. Oh, and they prefer to be called spirits.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yeah, I know … I sound completely insane. Like, “commit me” insane. But honestly, I am not crazy. Believe me, the first time I saw Bob Marley in my place (well, technically not my place, but I’ll get to that) in the Hollywood Hills, getting high and singing “Buffalo Soldier,” I thought I was either dreaming, hallucinating, or, yes, completely nuts. Thankfully, it was none of the above. In fact, Bob is a very real, very dead guy who likes to hang out with me, along with a handful of other deceased, famous rock musicians (and a few who never quite made the charts, one of whom I’ve recently developed feelings for—more about him later). So, not only do I hang out with dead rock stars, I also think I am in love with one, or at least in lust… which makes me totally screwed up. But I am not crazy. I swear.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Before I go any further, though, I need to take you back a few months to the day after my twenty-eighth birthday. Welcome to Brady, Texas—population 5,500—and, according to the sign on the main road into town, “The Heart of Texas.” Truth be told, the signs were everywhere. Signs, that is, telling me to get the hell out of Brady.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was at Mrs. Betty LaRue’s place. Her house smelled of Tide, home cooking, and mothballs. Betty was comforting me over the dismal turnout of my Mary Kay presentation—my latest attempt at becoming an entrepreneur—which she’d kindly hosted.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We were drinking apple-cranberry tea, with her Lhasa Apso, Princess, curled in a ball under Betty’s chair, and my dog (of indeterminate breed … possibly part-coyote and part-lab, with a dash of border collie in there), Mama Cass, across my feet. I loved how Betty always let me bring Cass in the house. My dog went everywhere with me, but not everyone was as gracious about her presence as Betty.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I really thought this would go much better,” I said, bringing the warm cup of tea to my lips.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Betty smiled sympathetically, the fine lines in her eighty- something face creasing deeper into her skin, “Oh, honey, I don’t know what happened to my girls today. I am so sorry. I thought there’d be at least ten of us. They all love my snickerdoodles. But you know how some of us old gals are; we forget things.” She twirled a yellow-white wisp of curled hair around her finger. The rest of it was pulled up into a loose bun (or chignon as Mama calls it). She’d obviously been in to see my mother that morning for her weekly hair appointment.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I nodded. “It’s okay, Betty. Thanks for hosting anyway, and the cookies were delicious. Three isn’t such a bad turnout.” Thing was, only Betty bought anything. Her friends, Margaret and Hazel, came for the cookies and samples. “And I made about ten dollars, so that will buy me a couple of meals. You’ll love that anti-wrinkle cream, by the way.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Betty ran a hand over her face and laughed sweetly. “Child, ain’t nothing gonna work on this face now. And I’m proud of these lines. I earned them.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I laughed back. “So you only bought the cream because you felt sorry for me?” Cass’s ears perked up and she lifted her head to peer at me.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Betty sighed. “Evie Preston, I have known you since you started kicking up a fuss in your mama’s belly.” She winked at me. “I’ve watched you try so hard to be exactly what your mama and daddy wanted, especially after all that bad business. And there was that unfortunate situation with—” She paused. “What was </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">his </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">name?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She brought her cup to her lips, her hand shaking ever so slightly. I sighed, knowing exactly what bad business she was referring to. As for the unfortunate situation, he was the star quarterback my senior year and the lucky recipient of my virginity. Sadly, he was also the jerk who then decided to share the news with the entire town. Thank God my mother was able to intercept </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">that </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">little tidbit before it reached my father’s ears.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Betty waved her free hand in the air as if to brush the painful thoughts away. “I know you were hoping to be a good Texas girl and marry a good Texas boy and have babies and run a family like your folks did, not because you really wanted it,” she said, shaking a finger at me. “But because your parents wanted it for you. And now, my dear,” Betty leaned over and gave me one of her rare, stern looks. “It’s high time you stopped pretending and started living!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What do you mean?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You got a God-given talent. You need to get out there and do something with it.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She tried to set the tea cup down on the side table and almost missed. I grabbed it and set it down for her. Betty beamed at me. “Thank you, honey! Always so polite.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I looked down at my dog, licking the unpolished toes peeking out of the only pair of high-heeled sandals I owned. “Fact is, Betty, I know I’m good, but there are a lot of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">good </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">musicians out there.” I dejectedly twirled the ends of my long, baby-fine hair. Mama always said God hadn’t been paying close attention when it came time to give me hair. It was stick straight, dark brown, and silky. I couldn’t do a darn thing with it, except put it into ponytails.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Betty waved her hand again. “Nonsense!” Placing her hands on the sides of her chair, she slowly pushed herself up to a stand and ambled over to the white brick mantle. She grabbed an envelope and handed it to me.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“What’s this?” I asked.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Your birthday was yesterday, wasn’t it?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You remembered?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She frowned. “I may be old, Evie, but I don’t forget birthdays. Especially when they’re for people I care about.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“That is so sweet of you.” I was flattered and grateful someone seemed happy to have me around.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Oh honey, you know you’re one of my favorite people. You got spunk! Had it since you came out ass-backward, showing the world what you thought of it.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Thank you, I think.” I couldn’t help smiling. Betty was the only one I knew who spoke the truth without holding back. Betty was authenticity at it’s finest. She didn’t tiptoe around stuff like my family. Tiptoeing was what we did best.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Open it! I don’t have all day. It’s about time for my nap.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I tore open the envelope and found a check inside for five thousand dollars, made out to me. I gasped.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Betty! What…” Cass jumped up, her huge ears pricked forward, tail wagging, watching me like a hawk. “It’s okay, girl.” She lay back down but still alert.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I was twenty-eight once too, you know, and I had dreams … big dreams.” Betty’s blue eyes glazed over for a moment. “I wanted to be a movie star, and I could have, too. I was damn good, like you are at what you do, and, believe it or not, I used to be good looking.” She winked at me again, but there were tears in her eyes. I knew about Betty’s dreams from long ago. I also knew there was a part of her life that hadn’t been so good.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“But then my folks, like yours, had other ideas and I decided to play by their rules. I don’t regret it … well, maybe I do a little. Thing is, young lady, you can sing like a nightingale and you can play the guitar like nobody’s business. You need to get the hell out of this town before you wind up like every other girl here—knocked up, changing dirty diapers, and cleaning up after some idiot male who spends his nights with a beer in one hand and a TV remote in the other.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I frowned. I’d already seen almost every girl from my high school graduating class living the life Betty had just described. The lucky ones skipped town and went to college. I hadn’t been quite that lucky for a variety of reasons. I had the grades and the desire, but life had other ideas. On the positive side, which is where I like to go, I’d at least not had the misfortune of marrying some guy who didn’t appreciate me, expected his dinner on the table when he got home from his shift at Walmart, and wanted his wife and children to obey, just because he said so.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Betty, I really do appreciate your vote of confidence but still, I can’t accept this.” I held the check towards her.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes, you can, and you will. Go live your life, Evie Preston. Pack up that van of yours, your guitar, and Mama Cass, and head west. You sing your heart out in every bar, every café, every church—I don’t care where you go, but go and sing. I know one thing: you have what it takes to be a star. Forget all about them cosmetics you’re trying to pawn…”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Mary Kay,” I interrupted. “It </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">is </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">a really good line. Mama swears by it.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She frowned and waved that hand at me. “Just forget all that, because you and I both know it won’t get you nowhere. That kind of thing is for people like Shirley Swan up the road trying to make an extra buck to take care of those four kids of hers. Take the money, cut your losses, and run. You gotta stop living for your mama and daddy. You didn’t cause what happened and you can’t never change it.” She shook her head vehemently. “Go on and live life. Do it for me. Humor an old woman, please?” Her blue eyes watered, the creases crinkling as she choked back emotion.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How could I refuse after a plea like that? I tried one last time, for the sake of courtesy. “But my daddy—”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Betty dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. “He’ll get over it. And your mama is gonna secretly be cheering you on. It’ll be hard on them, but this’ll be the best thing for all of you.” She sighed heavily. “Especially you, Evie. Trust me.” </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So I did. I trusted Betty LaRue.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The next day I packed up my 1974 VW bus, a suitcase of clothes, my Rosewood Gibson acoustic guitar, and Mama Cass. I pulled out of my parents’ driveway while Daddy waved his arms wildly in the air, yelling, “You’re gonna ruin your life out there, Evangeline!” (He’s the only one who ever calls me by my full name.) “Los Angeles isn’t the city of angels. It’s a city of heathens and devils!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I knew he was just scared. I’m pretty sure if I looked closer, I’d see tears in his eyes. But Betty was right. This was something I had to do.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I could see tears for sure in my mother’s big hazel eyes, the same color as my own, as she mouthed, “I love you.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I rolled down the window, choking back my own sobs. “I love you, too! I’ll call. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 21.6pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With blurred eyes, Mama Cass’s head in my lap, a Patsy Cline cassette in the tape deck (thank God for eBay—you have no idea how hard it is to find cassette tapes these days), I headed west to the City of Angels. For the first time in sixteen years, I felt like I could </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">finally </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Cutive, serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">breathe again. I was leaving behind the only two people I knew who I had never been able to heal even a little bit, and I didn’t think I ever could.</span></div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-64832436866756902912019-04-22T15:23:00.001-07:002019-04-23T07:44:41.827-07:00Murder Uncorked<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 18px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-indent: 0px;">Nikki Sands was like every other aspiring actress—waiting tables between jobs. But Nikki had taken serving wines to heart. She knew enough to impress Napa Valley’s golden boy, Derek Malveaux, who offered her a job at his vineyard. And though Nikki may have left her dreams of stardom behind, the world of wine is ripe with intrigue—and the seeds of sleuthing are planted…</span><br style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-indent: 0px;" /><br style="caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-indent: 0px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-indent: 0px;">Nikki has just set foot on Napa Valley’s rich soil when she realizes her new job may not be as safe as she thought. First off, Derek Malveaux is disconcertingly sexy. Second, his top winemaker is dead in the bushes outside Nikki’s cottage. It doesn’t take a connoisseur of foul play to know something’s taken a terrible turn…</span></span></div>
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Murder Uncorked was where it all began for me as far as becoming a published author. It wasn't the beginning for me as a writer. I'd been writing manuscripts for a dozen years at the point that I came up with the idea for this mystery series. Nikki Sands is still one of my all time favorite characters. Thought I'd share the first chapter of the first book. There are seven in total and two novellas in the series, along with a cookbook compiling the recipes from all the books...if you haven't read any of the books, then I'll explain. In the chapters where Nikki makes a meal or eats out, I included the recipes and wine pairings, which made for some fun research! Hope you enjoy!<br />
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Cheers,</div>
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Michele<br />
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Chapter 1</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Nikki Sands hated her job almost as much as she hated her past. She straightened her crisp white blouse and put on her best smile. She approached the couple at the table she was serving, and couldn’t help but notice the woman watching her with that unmistakable glint of self-importance that judged Nikki to be nothing but the peon who was waiting on them. The woman had a glamour-girl theme about her, but that hair needed a good hairdresser. Hadn’t she heard that frizzy platinum blonde was passé? Not to mention the Pat Benatar smoldering-eye-makeup look.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Tell me about your wine list. What do you recommend as a good red?” the man asked her. His look, compared to his date’s, was all-the-way chic. Dark blond hair with exactly the right amount of wave to it, mesmerizing ocean-blue eyes, high cheekbones, a golden tan, and a few fine lines gave him the right amount of that rugged-man look. Nikki couldn’t help thinking that Casanova was luscious. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I’m partial to this nice Medoc-Grand Cru Classe. It’s an excellent choice,” she said, pointing to one of the more expensive wines on the list. “The Bordeaux blend is smooth, and there’s a hint of fruit to it, so it’s not too dry.” If she’d had the money, the stylish Bordeaux would’ve been her first choice. The Medoc wines dated all the way back to Napoleon, and since that time had remained as some of the best out there. “But if you prefer something lighter, a good Red Zinfandel would be nice. We have a small production wine from Napa from the Downing Vineyards. It’s right here.” Nikki’s finger moved to the red zin. Glancing down at the man, her stomach lurched. He smiled up at her. “The Fly by Night Zinfandel,” she said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I think we’ll go with the Medoc,” the man replied with an approving smile. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki walked back to the bar to order the drinks from her pal and bartender, Maurice. She winced when an instrumental version of “Stormy Weather” started playing over the stereo system.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“What is it, doll?” Maurice asked. “You don’t like the oldies but goodies?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Are you kidding? I love them. What I can’t stand is that this place is supposed to be so upscale, yet we have to pipe in music on a system. I think management should really go all out and get a pianist in here.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“They’re too cheap,” Maurice replied. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">They both laughed, knowing that was the reality. Nikki glanced around to make sure their manager, Steve, wasn’t lurking. Nikki loved music of all kinds. She compartmentalized areas of her life by listening to music and songs. Stressful times, happy times, the handful of boyfriends, life in Los Angeles, and life in Tennessee, even her mother—all of them were associated with their own song, and each of them conjured up memories when she listened. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki noticed that the woman from the table she was waiting got up to go to the powder room, Manolo Blahnik pumps click-clacking as she sauntered across the hardwood floor. She caught up with Nikki at the bar.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Do us right, hon. I’d like tonight to be special, because I don’t want this one getting away.” She lowered her voice and leaned into Nikki, who got a whiff of her strong gardenia-scented perfume. “Tone down the wine expertise for me, okay?” The overblown blonde winked at Nikki, then proceeded into the rest room, coming back out after a few moments with her collagen-plumped lips painted raspberry-pink. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Something was wrong with this picture, but it wasn’t up to Nikki to make a judgment call. Lately, she’d been attempting to try something very anti-L.A. The concept of not judging others—something she found exceedingly difficult to do, especially in this case. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">However, after that out-of-place comment and the trip to the bathroom to do the lacquer thing on those lips, Nikki shamefully threw her new practice out the window and made her first—okay, maybe third—judgment call of the evening. She dubbed the woman “The Bimbo.” What was that asking her to tone down the wine advice about anyway? She was supposed to make suggestions about wines. It was part of her job. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Bimbo wore something that resembled a Band-Aid across her chest, with a skirt so tight and short that her date looked to be guaranteed to get a return on his dinner investment in the next few hours. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki’s stomach knotted, noticing the way The Bimbo stared at her, as if she were so much better than Nikki, just because she could snag some rich guy. Although her night job was far from glamorous, Nikki was an aspiring actress, after all—a profession, which seemed to garner notice from some men. But, at that moment the thought of being an aspiring actress-cum-waitress made her feel slightly queasy. She’d checked the mirror before coming to work, and there were signs of age that wise women referred to as “the signs of a life well lived.” Nikki called them what they were: crow’s feet. And crow’s feet were the death of every aspiring actress. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The pesky wrinkles aside, Nikki felt pretty good about her looks. She still maintained her natural blonde hair, which she wore just past her shoulders, and she thought her eyes were her best feature. They were kind of a mix between green, gray, and blue, depending on what she was wearing. The handful of boyfriends Nikki had in the past always told her that she was beautiful, even sexy. She was comfortable with her looks, but she didn’t think of herself as a sexpot by any means. Besides, all those compliments had come from men who were hopeful to get a little booty and shake as paybacks to their endearments and attention. Most of the men she’d dated had turned out to be no good . . . But this was no time to think about rotten men. There was wine to be poured. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki filled Casanova’s glass with a tasting of the velvety red potion. He swirled, smelled, sipped, swished, and swallowed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Excellent,” he said. “It’s got a different flavor to it. I can taste the berry, but . . .” He looked up at her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki glanced at The Bimbo, who at that moment looked like a cat about to pounce on her prey. Nikki smiled sweetly. The hell with it. “You’re right, the berry is a currant, but it also has a very smoky blend, with tobacco and fatty flavors,” she replied, while filling both of their glasses.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“It does.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Fatty?” The Bimbo asked. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“She’s talking about a bacon-type fat. It’s not put into the wines, but it has to do with the fermentation process, as well as the age of the wood in which the wine gets barreled.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Fascinating.” The Bimbo looked up at Nikki. She was vibing some serious daggers. “I see you don’t serve foie gras?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Actually, we do,” Nikki replied. “But it’s not always available. May I suggest the escargot? It’s excellent. The chef does it in a puff pastry shell with a white wine and garlic sauce. It would also complement your wine.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Bimbo batted her false eyelashes and waved her hand in front of her nose. “I don’t like snails. I find them repulsive.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><i>Sure, but you’ll eat a poor little duck’s liver.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Casanova didn’t look like he had much empathy for his date. This was getting amusing. Nikki stifled a smile. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I’m certain there must be something on the menu you’d like,” he chuckled. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I wanted foie gras,” she whined. “I don’t know if I really want to eat here. It’s not like the service has been spectacular.” She looked Nikki up and down, finally glaring at her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I think the service is excellent,” Casanova said mildly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Why don’t you take another moment to decide, and I’ll be right back. I might add that, if you’d care for oysters, we are serving them tonight, and they are divine, and we have a lovely Pinot Grigio to complement them with.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Super,” The Bimbo replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. “While you’re back there, can you bring me a scotch and water? I’m not much of a wine drinker.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Boy, this woman was scoring points with Casanova. Was she the same gal who only moments ago asked Nikki not to blow it for her? Her man had plunked down a mean chunk of change on a superb bottle of wine. Now, because she wasn’t getting her duck liver, she needed to make a scene. Nikki figured that from a man’s point of view, she must be good in bed, because why else would anyone put up with that? </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki walked to the bar and ordered The Bimbo’s drink. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Hey, gorgeous, back so soon? Looks like you’ve got your hands full over there tonight.” Maurice nodded in the direction of Casanova and The Bimbo’s table. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“What else is new?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“You tell me. How’s the acting going?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Honestly? It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. It would appear I’m past my prime at thirty-four,” she said. “Since the few shows I did as Detective Sydney Martini bombed so badly, I don’t know, Maurice. Maybe it’s time for a career change. I don’t think I can handle working here forever.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Maurice picked up a butter knife and feigned stabbing himself in the heart. “Oh, my apple dumpling, how those words hurt.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki waved a hand at him and giggled. She and Maurice did have a wonderful friendship, one they’d built over the past three years since she’d started work at the Chez la Mer. He was thirty years her senior and always a good listener. Nikki thought of him as the father she’d never had. “Face it, you love it here. You’ve been here for what, ten years?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Twelve,” he replied. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Twelve. Okay. But bartending is like being a psychologist. Sure, people place orders, but I’ve watched you, and I know how great you are with people. They talk to you. With me, it’s a rare smile and plenty of orders. If it isn’t just so, then I’m the fall guy.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Excuse me,” The Bimbo sang out over the din, “Yoohoo.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Maurice handed her the drink. “I could put a little magic in there, if you know what I mean.” He slyly took out a bottle of eyedrops from his shirt pocket. “She’d leave him high and dry and have to head for the drug store, for a box of Imodium AD.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Nah, that’s okay. That’d be bad karma, and I’ve racked up plenty of that already. I can handle her.” Nikki placed the drink on her tray and walked back over to the table. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“It’s about time. Did you enjoy your chat with the bartender?” The Bimbo asked her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Sabrina,” the man chided gently. “She’s doing her job.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki smiled at him. The Bimbo cleared her throat, as if Nikki were committing a crime by smiling at her date. “I apologize. Consider it on the house,” Nikki said, setting down the drink. But as she did, the woman shifted and started to stand. The drink spilled all over her short skirt.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Bimbo gasped, her eyes wide with shock from the cold drink seeping down her scantily clad body. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“You idiot! Are you totally incompetent? What the hell is wrong with you? This is a freaking Versace. You know Versace?” She rolled her eyes at Nikki. “Why am I bothering to say this to someone who buys her clothes at Wal-Mart?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">That hurt. Especially since she’d bought her shirt at Target, which she pronounced “Tarjay.” Don’t go there. Don’t tell her what she really is. Don’t . . . </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I certainly didn’t mean to. I really am sorry. I’m sure it can be cleaned. Please send us the cleaning bill.” Nikki could hear the trace of her Southern accent coming through. At that moment, she looked around and noticed the entire clientele was observing the scene, and that both the chef and manager had stepped forward. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Bimbo pointed a finger at her and blurted, “No. It won’t come clean. It’s ruined. I can’t go out like this,” she said, then turned her focus to Nikki’s manager. “She can’t do her job, it’s obvious. She’s flirted with my date, had a gab session with the bartender, and now she spills a drink on me. I don’t think so.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Casanova took The Bimbo by the arm. “Quiet down. Let’s all relax. It was an accident, okay?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The Bimbo yanked her arm out of his hand. “Accident, my ass. That clumsy woman spilled my drink all over me and ruined my fifteen-hundred-dollar outfit.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I wouldn’t have spent fifteen dollars on that,” Nikki muttered. Oops. Self-control was another issue Nikki was working on, but a person can only take so much abuse, and this broad had tried her patience. Not to mention she’d insulted her fashion sense. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I heard that. Now she insults me. Unbelievable,” The Bimbo said, spinning back around to face Steve, the restaurant manager. “I want her fired. I have a lot of friends in high places. I’ll tell all of them how terrible this place is, if you don’t do something about her.” She pointed a long lacquered nail at Nikki. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Nikki,” Steve said, his face beet-red. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Casanova pulled The Bimbo to the side and was saying something to her. Even though the manager beckoned Nikki, she couldn’t help notice out of the corner of her eye that the cute guy seemed to be chewing out The Bimbo. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Listen—” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki held up her hand before her manager could continue. “Don’t bother, Steve. I know what you’re going to say. I’m sorry I caused such a problem tonight. It’s not a big deal. I’ll make it easy for you.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki could see by the look in Steve’s eyes that he did feel bad, but she knew he had no choice. She couldn’t blame him at all. She went into the kitchen and grabbed her purse. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Maurice followed her. He held out a drink to her. “Hundred-year-old scotch, princess. Drink it with me.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She smiled and fought back any emotion. Why was she so upset anyway? She hated this job and its bad sound system. It was a miserable job. Well, except for Maurice. Steve was okay, too. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“You have customers.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Forget ’em. They can wait a few while I have a nip with you.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I certainly don’t want to get you canned, too. Actually, I wasn’t fired, not technically. I quit,” she said, half-laughing. She was trying really hard to fight back her tears, which were a mixture of anger, shame, and that feeling of failure that sticks in the gut. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He waved a hand at her like she was being silly, which she knew she was. Steve would never fire Maurice. He was as much a part of Chez la Mer as the pristine crystal chandelier in the entryway. He held up his glass. “To bigger and better things for the princess.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She clinked her highball with his and watched as the amber liquid swirled around inside the glass. She took a sip of the bold smoky drink. Very smooth—all the way down. Her stomach warmed. “That is good,” she said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The chef came in, poured himself a glass, too, and nodded at Nikki with a smile. He was a man of few words, but he could make dirt taste divine, and Nikki knew that he liked her. He was always giving her his latest dessert invention to try first or to take home with her. She’d miss him, too. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The chef took his glass, walked back over to the stove, and picked up where he’d left off. Nikki finished the contents of her glass, leaned in, and gave Maurice a kiss on the cheek. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Don’t be a stranger,” he said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I won’t.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“You shouldn’t be alone. Are you going home?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“In a bit. I think I’ll stop off at the Liquid Potion and have another drink,” she said. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Be careful.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki pulled on her sweater and went out the back entrance, not wanting to have any more contact with The Bimbo or Casanova. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, tears finally flowing freely. So she’d hated the job, wanted to move on . . . This was simply the catalyst to get her to do so. But the reality was, she had no prospects. Her acting career was pretty much sunk. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Now she’d have to figure out what her thing really was, because the rent would come due in a couple of weeks, and Nikki was already low on cash. She knew that Aunt Cara would help her out if things got completely desperate, but Nikki didn’t want to put either one of them in that position. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She wiped away the tears, stood up straight, and started walking up the street. No more of this feeling sorry for herself. That Nikki Sands was far, far away. The new Nikki Sands was a survivor who could figure out what she wanted from life. She had to, because there was no way, no-how, Nikki was going backward after coming this far. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She walked a few blocks up the street and entered the wine bar off Wilshire Boulevard, looked around and found an empty seat at the counter bar. It was a bit early yet for the party crowd. She was glad, because the patrons who were already there were dressed to the nines, and her cheap white blouse, as crisp as it might be, along with her waitress’s standard black crepe pants, were not working with this crowd. Yes indeed, wine was in order. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. Young, California-tanned, and athletic, he matched the decor of the place—faux-finish golden walls, candles in Gothic iron candelabras, crushed copper velvet draperies. Segovia’s guitar music played in the background. Very Hollywood. Maybe she should’ve walked a bit farther east and found something more like a dive to drown her sorrows in. She was looking a bit pool-bar girl for such a swanky place. Screw it. She was here and ready for some vino. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I’ll take a glass of your Saddleback Sauvignon Blanc,” she answered. “And can you fill that to the brim, please?” It was a bit pricier than what Nikki wanted to pay, but it isn’t every day that a bimbo wanting desperately to be Paris Hilton turns your life inside out. So why not splurge?</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Nice wine,” a deep voice from behind her said. “This seat taken?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki lifted her head to see none other than Casanova sliding onto the stool next to her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I thought I might buy you a glass of wine, as well as apologize for my date’s rudeness. You ran out before I got the chance.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Silenced by surprise, Nikki shifted on the suede-covered bar stool and nodded, then shook her head. “Wait.” She found her voice, ironed out the drawl in it before speaking again. “Let me get this straight. You’re here to apologize to me and buy me a drink?” She searched the bar. “What’s the deal? Where’s Ms. Thing? Is she hiding in the wings? How did you find me, anyway?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Bring me a bottle of the Saddleback Cellars,” Casanova said to the bartender, who set Nikki’s glass down in front of her. Casanova then picked up the appetizer menu and scanned it. “Can we also have a plate of your goat cheese and mixed mushroom bruschetta?” He turned back to her and stuck out his hand. “I’m Derek Malveaux. I hope you don’t mind an appetizer. Sauvignon Blanc goes so well with mushrooms.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki hesitantly returned the handshake. “Okay.” She couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say at the moment. She was stunned at the turn of events. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I’m not here to prove anything. I felt terrible about the incident at Chez la Mer. My date treated you horribly. I called for a car to take her home. And as for finding you? Seems your bartender friend agreed with me that you would appreciate an apology. I got your job back, too, if you want it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">For the second time in less than five minutes, a wave of shock overtook her. Nikki shut her trap again, having to think hard for a response. She had no clue as to what to make of this man. Why on God’s green earth would he do such a thing for her? After all, he had it in the bag with The Bimbo. What was his deal? “I get it. You’ve decided to go for the vulnerable girl, the one who’s just lost her job.” She knew she was far more of a challenge than The Bimbo, and men supposedly liked the thrill of the chase. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He eyed her. “No. I really am here to tell you that I’m sorry and buy you a drink.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Okay.” He was hot, he had good taste in wine, and she didn’t have any other prospects. But Nikki wasn’t a bimbo, and memories of her last breakup warned her to tread carefully. She promised herself to keep it all together, including blouse buttons and pants zipper. The next man she allowed to get her naked would most certainly be one she was in love with. Gorgeous or not, she was sure that Casanova was far more interested in getting naked than in experiencing love.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki held up her glass of wine. “Here’s to apologies accepted.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">They clinked their glasses and brought them to their lips. Derek’s lips were full, with a perfect cupid bow in the center of the upper one. They were very sexy, and kissable. The bartender set the bruschetta in front of them. They each took a bite. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“You’re right. The Sauvignon Blanc works well with this. Good idea. So, tell me, Mr. Malveaux . . .” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Derek, please.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Okay, Derek. Tell me what happened to your date. She didn’t exactly seem to be your type. And, to be blunt, are you hitting on me?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Sabrina, my date for the evening, was not someone I would have asked out. I can tell you that much. I don’t live here in Los Angeles. I’m down for business, and one of my clients set the two of us up. Trust me. All I wanted to do today was have my meetings and go back to the Century Plaza, maybe have a massage in the spa, order room service, and retire for the night. And, no, I am not hitting on you. I’m apologizing to you over a glass of wine.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki sized him up. Was this really the truth? Hard to say. There were plenty of men out there who knew how to tell a good story. This was L.A., and for all she knew, Derek was an aspiring actor with a bunch of fables ready to tell to any damsel he wished to bed. “Why didn’t you cancel the date?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“My client said she was a nice woman, and—” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Had a nice bod.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Yes, he did add that. I should’ve canceled, anyway, even if I might lose an account.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I can’t believe that. Over a defunct date?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“She’s best friends with my client’s wife.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Then he’d have to be one shallow jerk. I hope that’s not the case. I’d feel even guiltier for losing you your client than for spilling a drink all over your date’s designer outfit.” She laughed. The wine was making what he was saying easy to buy into. He poured her a second glass. They polished off the bruschetta. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Tell you what,” Derek said. “Why don’t we go back to the Plaza? Have dinner with me. I’ll get you a car back to your place afterward.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Nikki shook her head. “I don’t know about that.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“It’s only dinner.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">It wasn’t like he was coming on to her. In fact, Nikki felt a bit irritated at the fact that he hadn’t come on to her—at all. Was her getup that bad? Oh, God. Maybe she should’ve checked herself in the mirror in the bathroom. What if her mascara had run all over the place? And stress could make her break out in hives, too! What if Derek was staring at a red, rash-pocked face with a running black mascara mess? Not to mention, she hadn’t taken a comb to her hair since walking from Chez la Mer to the bar, and there’d been a slight wind. This could not be good. She’d been dead wrong about Derek Malveaux. He really had only wanted to apologize to the pitiful waitress. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“What’s the matter, Nikki?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I, you know, should really get home. I’m sure you’re tired. I’m tired. It’s been a stressful evening for me.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He frowned, and the few lines on his forehead crinkled together, as he appeared hurt by her response. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">She touched his hand. “This has been great, and I really appreciate the apology. But, please, you don’t have to do any more for me tonight.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I don’t get you,” he said. “One minute, you think I’m making a play for you. The next minute, I’m Saint Derek.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I don’t know. At first I thought you were trying to score with the ditzy waitress, which by the way, I am not. But, I’ve sat here with you for a while, and not once have you even tried to flirt with me.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Let’s start from the beginning, okay? I think you are a very beautiful woman. I’m sorry that the woman I was out with was so horrendous to you; so, yes, I felt that an apology was in order. Yes, I did, and do, want to get to know you better. However—” Nikki started to comment. He held up his hand to her, and she closed her mouth in response. “However, I am not trying to get you into bed. I’d like to have dinner with you, and I actually may have a proposal for you. Something you might be interested in.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Are you some positive-thinking guru? You know, the kind who teaches that you can do anything you want as long as you try? Achieve your dreams, blah, blah, blah.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“No, but I believe in that way of thinking. I own a winery. That’s how I make my money.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Then it hit her. Malveaux Estate. Some of the best Cabernets and Merlots to come out of the Napa Valley region. A major winery. They also produced a Chardonnay that was quite good. Nikki couldn’t afford the wines, but working at Chez la Mer, she’d tasted a few. It now made sense to her why The Bimbo had made that comment to her about her wine expertise. Nikki was a threat to her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“Derek Malveaux,” she replied in wonderment. “Of Malveaux Estate?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">He nodded. “What do you say, we head over to the Plaza, have dinner, and I’ll tell you my proposition?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">“I’d say you’re on.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">The evening hadn’t gone as planned, but it certainly hadn’t been boring. And, Nikki had to admit, she couldn’t help wondering what Derek Malveaux’s proposal might be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Goat Cheese and Mixed Mushroom Bruschetta</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">If you want to make an elegant but easy appetizer, try the Goat Cheese and Mixed Mushroom Bruschetta. Sauvignon Blanc is a good choice to accompany this treat. It is light and fruity, which enhances the earthy flavors in the bruschetta. Nikki and Derek shared a delightful bottle of Saddleback Cellars Sauvignon Blanc with their appetizer. The Sauvignon Blanc contains a citrus and hibiscus nose with a wonderful gold/green color. The wine is crisp, with a clean acid balance and light sweet oak; it’s youthful and is a perfect food wine. It will give you the flavors of summer and the pleasures that come from a well-crafted wine. Enjoy! </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">5 ounces Portobello mushrooms </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">4 ounces shiitake mushrooms </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">2 ounces oyster mushrooms </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">2 tablespoons olive oil </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">1 tablespoon unsalted butter </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">2 shallots </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> minced cloves of garlic </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">¼ cup chicken broth </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">⅓ cup dry white wine </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">1 teaspoon dried thyme </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">1 teaspoon dried basil </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">salt and red pepper flakes </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">12 slices of rustic baguette: sourdough, Italian, even whole grain for the health conscious </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">4 ounces goat cheese </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;"> ripe red tomatoes, cored & diced </span></div>
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<span style="font-kerning: none;">Chop the mushrooms. Heat olive oil and butter over medium heat in a sauté pan. Add the shallots and garlic and mix for 1-2 minutes, stirring often. Add the mushrooms and raise the heat a bit. Mix everything for about 8 minutes. Add chicken broth, white wine, and dried seasonings and cook until the liquid is evaporated. Season with salt for taste. Preheat broiler. Spread the bread slices with goat cheese and spoon the mushroom mixture evenly over the bread. Place the tomatoes on top. Broil for 4 minutes, or until mushrooms begin to brown. Serves six.</span></div>
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A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-47229524331816814952019-03-25T11:14:00.001-07:002019-03-25T11:14:43.095-07:00PeaceFinally getting to the fifth "P" in my five "p's" to publishing...(in reality, I've found that they work for pretty much any goal you want to achieve).<br />
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The first four "P's" were 1. Purpose 2. Passion 3. Perseverance 4. Patience...and now Peace.<br />
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What do I mean by having peace when working toward a goal? It's similar in some ways as to having patience. We tend to have to be patient to see our goals come to fruition. After all, it is the journey not the destination where we find a lot of joy. However, the difference in having patience versus peace along the way is that patience obviously implies waiting. Peace on the other hand is a sense within ourselves. When I've written a book and have made the decision that it's ready to be sent off to my agent, editor or out into the world, I have to sit back and realize that I have to be comfortable with that decision. It's important that I conclude I've done my best work, I'm happy with it and I'm ready to release it. This is a gut thing. We all know when we've done our best and when we haven't. I admit that I did put a book out a few years ago that I knew wasn't my best work and I was uneasy about it. I published it independently and had felt pressure to get another book out and I caved under the pressure. After a few months, I knew I needed to take that book off of all the publishing platforms and rewrite certain scenes, add a few chapters and do some more editing. Only after I had done that did I feel the sense of peace that I think is needed when trying to achieve our goals. That particular book has never gone on to be a bestseller, but, I'm satisfied that it is now the best I could write it at this point and so I can have peace of mind in letting it go out into the hands of the readers. Being at peace with something is a great feeling. Even with something small like cooking a meal for my family. I really enjoy cooking so I always set out to do my best and when I set food out on the table it's nice to have a sense of peace that I'm feeding good, healthy food to my family. Granted... it's not until I hear the words, "This is good, Mom," that I breathe a sigh of relief and that peaceful feeling comes over me.<br />
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Having peace in your work, in your life, in the small things is about doing the best that you can in all that you do. Some days that's easier than others, so we can't be too hard on ourselves when we flap. I've been guilty of a frozen pizza for dinner here and there (and, I am not admitting to the occasional In N Out Burger, although I have it on good word that extra crispy fries there might be really great...with animal sauce)...and as I said in a more important goal...not putting out my best book.<br />
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There you have it... my five personal "P's" to achieving. Hope you've enjoyed it.<br />
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Next week, I'll be doing something different...possibly posting new chapters, old chapters, ruminating on whatever I want. That's the nice thing about having a blog, you can write what you want. I'm not sure anyone reads this blog and that's okay. Keeps me writing anyway and I'm at peace with that. :)<br />
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Have a wonderful week!<br />
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Cheers,<br />
MicheleA.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-66577465491241368192019-03-11T16:29:00.000-07:002019-03-11T16:29:08.319-07:00PatienceThe fourth "P" on this path to what is a pretty simplistic path to achievement (but sometimes simplicity is the best approach) is patience. Again--it's not up to me to decide how someone reaches their goals. I'm just expressing my opinion and what has worked for me...in particularly in the area of my writing.<br />
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So, patience..., this one of all of the "P's," might be the hardest to master for some. We live in a society of "NOW"--Fast food, binge watching, the availability to download books on a whim, online shopping, access to all sorts of things that interest us can be found immediately in the "google culture," etc. Therefore, waiting for anything can be difficult at best and tormenting at worst. I think it'll become increasingly difficult for younger generations to accept and process that patience is really a virtue. I do believe (again, my opinion) that good things come to those who wait and to take that a step further, I believe that good things come to those who learn, apply, allow and accept.<br />
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What do what I mean by that? I'll use my own life as a writer as an example. I was fortunate to know at a young age that I wanted to be a writer. But, when you get ready to go to college and want to tell your parents that you want to be a novelist it doesn't always equate in parents' minds that this is a solid way to make a living. So, I decided that journalism would at least seem more of a credible idea. But, I never lost the dream and fortunately fate (or God, The Universe) has a way of redirecting our paths back to our original intentions even though we don't always understand that is what is happening in the moment. I became pregnant at 21 (my last year in college) and when Alex made his way into the world he was six weeks premature and needed to stay in the hospital for a period and then come home with monitors and needing a lot of care (side note...he is now a fully healthy, amazing adult). So, with a newborn baby at home I started dreaming about writing fiction again. And, that is what I did. But before that, I began reading everything I could on the craft. Then, I set a goal. I was going to write a book. Goal set, learning taking place and then what? Application. I took a correspondence course via Writer's Digest and after almost a year I had a completed manuscript.<br />
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Now, comes the patient part! I repeated the first two habits almost daily for twelve years. I learned consistently through reading, workshops, read and critique groups and applying myself by writing eight more manuscripts and as many partials. I queried literary agents every week. I would call Mondays...marketing Monday. That's when I'd write my query letters and go to the post office and mail them out. I'd try to do 3-5 every week. And, every week...rejection letters would show up in the mailbox. I think the postman wanted to run away from the crazy woman waiting for her mail every day and then swearing or tearing up the the mail. Yet, I knew deep down that if just one agent out there believed in me then I had a real chance and after twelve years that happened. I was lucky enough that my agent did truly believe in my work and sold three books of mine in three weeks, and then another three within nine months. Time sort of caught up with me during that "allowing" phase. Allowing is another way of viewing patience. Good things typically take time. They take time to grow. It takes time to get good at something and we never really master anything because that would be boring. It's in the learning and applying that the adventure takes place, and when you live with purpose and passion and you've been persistent, I think that allowing patience to take hold becomes an easier practice.<br />
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Patience isn't always easy. It rarely is. I like the way Benjamin Franklin thought of it... "He that can have patience can have what he will."<br />
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I'll tackle "acceptance," and my final "P," in a few days. I'd love to hear thoughts on any of my "P's" so far and what processes you utilize or believe in that help you achieve goals.<br />
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Cheers,<br />
MicheleA.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-18257215123650727452019-03-04T12:18:00.000-08:002019-03-04T12:18:11.142-08:00Persistence The third "P." If you've been following the blog over the past few weeks, you know I've been going back over my 5 "P" belief system. It's pretty basic and simple. It's truly what I have found in the past to guide me on the journey to achieving my goals and dreams. If you didn't read the first two "P's"...read them.😉 The first is purpose and the second is passion...and now onto persistence.<br />
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The achievement of goals and dreams don't always tend to come easily. At times, they do, but for the most part they are a work in progress. Reaching them and having an achievement is satisfying and elating at the same time. However, it's the journey in getting there that causes that end result of what I think of as "happiness." Without the twists and turns and even bumps along the way in seeing your dreams and goals manifest, I'm not certain that the feelings of achievement would be all that great. That's why I think you should set goals that are a bit beyond what feels realistic. When I set a goal at twenty-two-years old to be a New York Times best-selling author that felt pretty out of reach. At that time it was beyond realistic for me in many ways. It took over two decades to reach the goal and the journey had tons of twists, turns and bumps. However, when I reached it the joy and sense of accomplishment was an incredible high.<br />
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What got me there beyond knowing my purpose and feeling passionate about it was persistence. Even when I hit rough patches, it was about sitting down in front of a computer or jotting down notes in a notepad, or attending a workshop, or reading a book on writing that got me to the result I desired. It ultimately was a constant practice of writing.<br />
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I'm fortunate to be surrounded by highly motivated people and achievers. My daughter is a competitive equestrian in the world of there day eventing. In that world, I know many of the top riders here in the US and internationally and I can tell you that it is one extremely tough sport. But what makes the top riders stand out is their daily practices. It is their commitment to their horses and their sport that paired with persistence, which has put them at the top of their game.<br />
<br />
It's like that with anything in life. To me, that includes personal relationships with the people you love in your family and with your friends. To achieve solid "goodness" in any area of our lives, I believe we need to ask the question...am I being persistent in doing the best I can daily in the areas that I truly want to achieve in?<br />
<br />
So...what are you persistent at? What does the journey look like for you?<br />
<br />
Have a wonderful week!<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
MicheleA.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-74743794041107981252019-02-24T12:00:00.001-08:002019-02-24T12:00:23.847-08:00PassionHi Readers & Friends,<br />
<br />
Last post I wrote a bit about purpose and what that means to me. Hopefully, it got those of you who read it thinking about your own purpose. Today, I want to add to it and write about passion.<br />
<br />
The first big talk I ever gave to writers occurred at the Southern California Writer's Conference in San Diego several years ago. Not only was I really nervous to give a talk in front of my peers, but I also hoped what I spoke about would truly resonate with the audience whether or not they continued with their writing path or went a different route. I thought long and hard about what I wanted my message to be. What it came down to is my ideology on what it takes to be a good writer and in reality what it takes to really be good and achieve at anything in life. I call it the "Five P's."<br />
<br />
The first was obviously...PURPOSE. Have you discovered what your purpose really is? We all have one. We have this life to live here and I truly believe no one was put here by accident. There is a purpose we all have and whether or not you discover that as a kid, in middle age or even as a senior...I think to live a fulfilling life that exploring what your purpose here in this world and for yourself and those you love is important. But, I already wrote about purpose so you can check that out from the last post. 😊<br />
<br />
PASSION is my second "p" and it goes along with purpose. A great quote from Bishop T.D. Jakes is "If you can't figure out your purpose, figure out your passion. For your passion will lead you right to your purpose."<br />
<br />
Ask yourself...what do you love in this world? Is it helping others? Is it writing? Is it singing? Is it math? Is it yoga? Is it animals? The list is endless, right? And, when you know what makes you truly tick and what you really love (and it can be many things) then dive in wholeheartedly. Don't hold back. Life is short. It really is. It's too short not to take risks, not to dive off the deep end once in awhile and see what happens. I've found that if I do what I love and I do it passionately that I feel a sense of peace and happiness from within. There is nothing to lose when we stretch ourselves because we are passionate about something. For me, that might mean writing outside of my comfort zone if I'm inspired by a story. It's probably why I've written in a variety of genres. I'm passionate about the stories themselves and they inspire me, not so much what sells for me because it's where I've built a readership. It's because I love what I'm writing at that moment. I try hard to achieve this in every aspect in my life whether it be in taking care of my family, singing in the car, dancing by myself in my room, falling in love, cooking a meal and in so many other areas. Passion means truly living. It doesn't mean that everything will always be rosy and wonderful but it does mean that you will likely have a life with zero regrets. One last quote (those of you who know me, know I really like quotes)... "There is no passion to be found playing small--in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living." Nelson Mandela<br />
<br />
So, what are you passionate about and are you living a passionate life? What does living a passionate life mean to you?<br />
<br />
XO,<br />
Michele<br />
<br />
PS...Next week I'll write about the third "P"A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-53242748999706329022019-02-11T11:20:00.001-08:002019-02-11T11:20:44.193-08:00Dear Readers/Friends,<br />
<br />
It's been awhile since I've written on the blog but all of that is changing! In fact, it's been awhile since I actually finished a book and put one out...that's about to change, too. Life sometimes gets in the way and can even derail us of our purpose and unfortunately I am guilty of allowing this to happen with myself.<br />
<br />
And, when I really take a moment and reflect on what I just wrote above...the word that hits me is "allowing." I allowed myself to be derailed by difficult circumstance that took me down a bit of a rabbit hole. It happens to a lot of us in life (derailment from our purpose or passion), but it doesn't need to define us and the good news is that we can crawl out of the hole at any time. What defines me in part is "WRITER." I lost sight of that and I blamed my health, publishing, algorithms, Amazon, losing my dad, my divorce and on and on. Guess what? It was all BS! It's on me! As a writer being one of my main purposes in life, I look back now and regardless of everything outside of my control I had one thing that I was and could be in control of, and that was my writing. I realize now that even if I'd only written a paragraph a day during the time down the hole, I still would've been authentic and true to a large part of my purpose in life. But, I didn't do that and I got sidetracked and bogged down...until I called bull**** on myself and said...you better write! It doesn't matter if I'm my books are on the bestseller lists right now, or if sales aren't great. It doesn't matter if someone writes a negative review about something I wrote. It doesn't matter if I don't receive back a response from an e-mail I've written to someone in the business. None of that matters. What matters is that I write!<br />
<br />
So, I ask you...has anyone out there ever lost sight of their purpose? What did you do? Or are you there now? If your purpose is to be a chef, even if you aren't there yet--are you cooking? If your purpose is to be an artist--are you painting? If your purpose is to be the best possible parent you can be--are you learning and teaching and coming up with ways to manage your family to be the optimum parent possible? It doesn't matter what your purpose is, what matters is that no matter what the outside circumstances happening around you that cause pressure or overwhelm in your life, are you still in some way living up to what you were meant to do/be? It can be done in baby steps. One of my favorite quotes by Wayne Dyer is, "I cannot always control what goes on outside. But I can control what goes on inside."<br />
<br />
You can expect new blogs, even vlogs, essays, articles and of course books out of me this year! Back to living my purpose! I hope you're living yours.<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
<br />
MicheleA.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-86791392467383576402017-03-24T11:31:00.002-07:002017-03-24T11:32:13.796-07:00The Dead CelebHave you read The Dead Celeb? If you haven't here are the first two chapters for you to enjoy over the weekend. I have something exciting coming Monday for you. If you've read it and lpved it, share with your friends!<br />
<br />
Have a wonderful weekend.<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
Michele<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBCChmH_WvfY-cr5_P72Uhrw8aDeOzeWrH2_ve-brfSVSna6BilRAHncCoDmLu4VkL1aKtVoRnODLHWEMwq3OFe7zZccflxfgGQ4segbD5ldqYGfFKzVoY_it0szDhTaLId3sDKlOdyva/s1600/The+Dead+Celeb+-+Updated+01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBCChmH_WvfY-cr5_P72Uhrw8aDeOzeWrH2_ve-brfSVSna6BilRAHncCoDmLu4VkL1aKtVoRnODLHWEMwq3OFe7zZccflxfgGQ4segbD5ldqYGfFKzVoY_it0szDhTaLId3sDKlOdyva/s320/The+Dead+Celeb+-+Updated+01.jpg" width="204" /></a></div>
<h2 style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 24.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">CHAPTER ONE<o:p></o:p></span></h2>
<div class="noindent" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span lang="X-NONE" style="font-family: "american typewriter";">MY NAME IS EVIE PRESTON and I hang out with dead rock
stars. Oh, and the occasional dead movie star or two. I’ve<span style="color: black;"> </span>learned quite a bit about those who live on the
other side over<span style="color: black;"> </span>the past few months. For
instance, they aren’t all ghostly and<span style="color: black;"> </span>transparent.
Oh no. The ones I see are almost always in full-<span style="color: black;"> </span>color
and 3-D except when they exert, ah … certain energies.<span style="color: black;">
</span>Then they go a bit hazy. Oh, and they prefer to be called spirits.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">Yeah,
I know … I sound completely insane. Like, “commit<span style="color: black;"> </span>me”
insane. But honestly, I am not crazy. Believe me, the first<span style="color: black;"> </span>time I saw Bob Marley in my place (well,
technically not my<span style="color: black;"> </span>place, but I’ll get to that)
in the Hollywood Hills, getting high<span style="color: black;"> </span>and
singing “Buffalo Soldier,” I thought I was either dreaming,<span style="color: black;"> </span>hallucinating, or, yes, completely nuts.
Thankfully, it was none<span style="color: black;"> </span>of the above. In fact,
Bob is a very real, very dead guy who likes<span style="color: black;"> </span>to
hang out with me, along with a handful of other deceased,<span style="color: black;"> </span>famous rock musicians (and a few who never quite
made the<span style="color: black;"> </span>charts, one of whom I’ve recently
developed feelings for—more<span style="color: black;"> </span>about him later).
So, not only do I hang out with dead rock<span style="color: black;"> </span>stars,
I also think I am in love with one, or at least in lust…<span style="color: black;"> </span>which makes me totally screwed up. But I am not crazy. I swear.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">Before
I go any further, though, I need to take you back a few<span style="color: black;">
</span>months to the day after my twenty-eighth birthday. Welcome to<span style="color: black;"> </span>Brady, Texas—population 5,500—and, according to the
sign on<span style="color: black;"> </span>the main road into town, “The Heart of
Texas.” Truth be told,<span style="color: black;"> </span>the signs were
everywhere. Signs, that is, telling me to get the<span style="color: black;"> </span>hell
out of Brady.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">I
was at Mrs. Betty LaRue’s place. Her house smelled of Tide,<span style="color: black;"> </span>home cooking, and mothballs. Betty was comforting
me over<span style="color: black;"> </span>the dismal turnout of my Mary Kay
presentation—my latest<span style="color: black;"> </span>attempt at becoming an
entrepreneur—which she’d kindly<span style="color: black;"> </span>hosted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">We
were drinking apple-cranberry tea, with her Lhasa Apso, Princess, curled in a
ball under Betty’s chair, and my dog (of<span style="color: black;"> </span>indeterminate
breed … possibly part-coyote and part-lab, with<span style="color: black;"> </span>a
dash of border collie in there), Mama Cass, across my feet. I<span style="color: black;"> </span>loved how Betty always let me bring Cass in the
house. My dog<span style="color: black;"> </span>went everywhere with me, but not
everyone was as gracious<span style="color: black;"> </span>about her presence as
Betty.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“I
really thought this would go much better,” I said, bringing<span style="color: black;"> </span>the warm cup of tea to my lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">Betty
smiled sympathetically, the fine lines in her eighty-<span style="color: black;">
</span>something face creasing deeper into her skin, “Oh,<span style="color: black;"> </span>honey, I don’t know what happened to my girls
today. I am so<span style="color: black;"> </span>sorry. I thought there’d be at
least ten of us. They all love my<span style="color: black;"> </span>snickerdoodles.
But you know how some of us old gals are; we<span style="color: black;"> </span>forget
things.” She twirled a yellow-white wisp of curled hair<span style="color: black;">
</span>around her finger. The rest of it was pulled up into a loose bun<span style="color: black;"> </span>(or chignon as Mama calls it). She’d obviously been
in to see my<span style="color: black;"> </span>mother that morning for her
weekly hair appointment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">I
nodded. “It’s okay, Betty. Thanks for hosting anyway, and<span style="color: black;"> </span>the cookies were delicious. Three isn’t such a bad
turnout.”<span style="color: black;"> </span>Thing was, only Betty bought
anything. Her friends, Margaret<span style="color: black;"> </span>and Hazel,
came for the cookies and samples. “And I made<span style="color: black;"> </span>about
ten dollars, so that will buy me a couple of meals. You’ll<span style="color: black;"> </span>love that anti-wrinkle cream, by the way.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">Betty
ran a hand over her face and laughed sweetly. “Child,<span style="color: black;">
</span>ain’t nothing gonna work on this face now. And I’m proud of<span style="color: black;"> </span>these lines. I earned them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">I
laughed back. “So you only bought the cream because you<span style="color: black;">
</span>felt sorry for me?” Cass’s ears perked up and she lifted her head<span style="color: black;"> </span>to peer at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">Betty
sighed. “Evie Preston, I have known you since you<span style="color: black;"> </span>started
kicking up a fuss in your mama’s belly.” She winked<span style="color: black;"> </span>at
me. “I’ve watched you try so hard to be exactly what your<span style="color: black;"> </span>mama and daddy wanted, especially after all that
bad business.<span style="color: black;"> </span>And there was that unfortunate
situation with—” She paused. “What was <i>his </i>name?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">She
brought her cup to her lips, her hand shaking ever so<span style="color: black;">
</span>slightly. I sighed, knowing exactly what bad business she was<span style="color: black;"> </span>referring to. As for the unfortunate situation, he
was the star<span style="color: black;"> </span>quarterback my senior year and
the lucky recipient of my<span style="color: black;"> </span>virginity. Sadly, he
was also the jerk who then decided to share<span style="color: black;"> </span>the
news with the entire town. Thank God my mother was able<span style="color: black;">
</span>to intercept <i>that </i>little tidbit before it reached my father’s
ears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">Betty
waved her free hand in the air as if to brush the painful<span style="color: black;"> </span>thoughts away. “I know you were hoping to be a good
Texas girl<span style="color: black;"> </span>and marry a good Texas boy and have
babies and run a family<span style="color: black;"> </span>like your folks did,
not because you really wanted it,” she said,<span style="color: black;"> </span>shaking
a finger at me. “But because your parents wanted it for<span style="color: black;">
</span>you. And now, my dear,” Betty leaned over and gave me one<span style="color: black;"> </span>of her rare, stern looks. “It’s high time you
stopped pretending<span style="color: black;"> </span>and started living!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“What
do you mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“You
got a God-given talent. You need to get out there and do<span style="color: black;"> </span>something with it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">She
tried to set the tea cup down on the side table and almost<span style="color: black;"> </span>missed. I grabbed it and set it down for her. Betty
beamed at<span style="color: black;"> </span>me. “Thank you, honey! Always so
polite.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">I
looked down at my dog, licking the unpolished toes peeking<span style="color: black;"> </span>out of the only pair of high-heeled sandals I
owned. “Fact is,<span style="color: black;"> </span>Betty, I know I’m good, but
there are a lot of <i>good </i>musicians<span style="color: black;"> </span>out
there.” I dejectedly twirled the ends of my long, baby-fine<span style="color: black;"> </span>hair. Mama always said God hadn’t been paying close
attention<span style="color: black;"> </span>when it came time to give me hair.
It was stick straight, dark<span style="color: black;"> </span>brown, and silky.
I couldn’t do a darn thing with it, except put<span style="color: black;"> </span>it
into ponytails.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">Betty
waved her hand again. “Nonsense!” Placing her hands<span style="color: black;"> </span>on
the sides of her chair, she slowly pushed herself up to a stand<span style="color: black;"> </span>and ambled over to the white brick mantle. She
grabbed an<span style="color: black;"> </span>envelope and handed it to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“What’s
this?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“Your
birthday was yesterday, wasn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“You
remembered?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">She
frowned. “I may be old, Evie, but I don’t forget birthdays.<span style="color: black;"> </span>Especially when they’re for people I care about.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“That
is so sweet of you.” I was flattered and grateful someone<span style="color: black;"> </span>seemed happy to have me around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“Oh
honey, you know you’re one of my favorite people. You<span style="color: black;">
</span>got spunk! Had it since you came out ass-backward, showing<span style="color: black;"> </span>the world what you thought of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“Thank
you, I think.” I couldn’t help smiling. Betty was the<span style="color: black;">
</span>only one I knew who spoke the truth without holding back. Betty was
authenticity at it’s finest. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She<span style="color: black;"> </span>didn’t tiptoe around stuff like my family.
Tiptoeing was what<span style="color: black;"> </span>we did best.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“Open
it! I don’t have all day. It’s about time for my nap.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">I
tore open the envelope and found a check inside for five<span style="color: black;"> </span>thousand dollars, made out to me. I gasped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“Betty!
What…” Cass jumped up, her huge ears pricked<span style="color: black;"> </span>forward,
tail wagging, watching me like a hawk. “It’s okay,<span style="color: black;"> </span>girl.”
She lay back down but still alert.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“I
was twenty-eight once too, you know, and I had dreams … big dreams.” Betty’s
blue eyes glazed over for a moment. “I<span style="color: black;"> </span>wanted
to be a movie star, and I could have, too. I was damn<span style="color: black;">
</span>good, like you are at what you do, and, believe it or not, I used<span style="color: black;"> </span>to be good looking.” She winked at me again, but
there were<span style="color: black;"> </span>tears in her eyes. I knew about
Betty’s dreams from long ago. I<span style="color: black;"> </span>also knew
there was a part of her life that hadn’t been so good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“But
then my folks, like yours, had other ideas and I decided<span style="color: black;"> </span>to play by their rules. I don’t regret it … well, maybe I do a<span style="color: black;"> </span>little. Thing is, young lady, you can sing like a
nightingale and<span style="color: black;"> </span>you can play the guitar like
nobody’s business. You need to get<span style="color: black;"> </span>the hell
out of this town before you wind up like every other<span style="color: black;"> </span>girl
here—knocked up, changing dirty diapers, and cleaning up<span style="color: black;"> </span>after some idiot male who spends his nights with a beer in one<span style="color: black;"> </span>hand and a TV remote in the other.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">I
frowned. I’d already seen almost every girl from my high<span style="color: black;"> </span>school graduating class living the life Betty had just
described.<span style="color: black;"> </span>The lucky ones skipped town and
went to college. I hadn’t<span style="color: black;"> </span>been quite that
lucky for a variety of reasons. I had the grades<span style="color: black;"> </span>and
the desire, but life had other ideas. On the positive side,<span style="color: black;"> </span>which is where I like to go, I’d at least not had
the misfortune<span style="color: black;"> </span>of marrying some guy who didn’t
appreciate me, expected his<span style="color: black;"> </span>dinner on the
table when he got home from his shift at Walmart,<span style="color: black;"> </span>and
wanted his wife and children to obey, just because he said<span style="color: black;"> </span>so.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“Betty,
I really do appreciate your vote of confidence but still,<span style="color: black;"> </span>I can’t accept this.” I held the check towards her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“Yes,
you can, and you will. Go live your life, Evie Preston.<span style="color: black;">
</span>Pack up that van of yours, your guitar, and Mama Cass, and<span style="color: black;"> </span>head west. You sing your heart out in every bar,
every café,<span style="color: black;"> </span>every church—I don’t care where
you go, but go and sing. I<span style="color: black;"> </span>know one thing: you
have what it takes to be a star. Forget all<span style="color: black;"> </span>about
them cosmetics you’re trying to pawn…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">“Mary
Kay,” I interrupted. “It <i>is </i>a really good line. Mama<span style="color: black;"> </span>swears by it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">She
frowned and waved that hand at me. “Just forget all<span style="color: black;"> </span>that,
because you and I both know it won’t get you nowhere.<span style="color: black;">
</span>That kind of thing is for people like Shirley Swan up the road<span style="color: black;"> </span>trying to make an extra buck to take care of those
four kids<span style="color: black;"> </span>of hers. Take the money, cut your
losses, and run. You gotta<span style="color: black;"> </span>stop living for
your mama and daddy. You didn’t cause what<span style="color: black;"> </span>happened
and you can’t never change it.” She shook her head<span style="color: black;"> </span>vehemently.
“Go on and live life. Do it for me. Humor an old<span style="color: black;"> </span>woman,
please?” Her blue eyes watered, the creases crinkling<span style="color: black;">
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<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">How
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<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">Betty
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of you.” She<span style="color: black;"> </span>sighed heavily. “Especially you,
Evie. Trust me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">So
I did. I trusted Betty LaRue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">The
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Daddy waved his arms wildly in the air, yelling, “You’re gonna ruin your life
out there, Evangeline!” (He’s the only one who ever calls me by my full name.)
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<span style="font-family: "american typewriter";">With
blurred eyes, Mama Cass’s head in my lap, a Patsy Cline<span style="color: black;">
</span>cassette in the tape deck (thank God for eBay—you have no<span style="color: black;"> </span>idea how hard it is to find cassette tapes these
days), I headed<span style="color: black;"> </span>west to the City of Angels.
For the first time in sixteen years, I<span style="color: black;"> </span>felt
like I could <i>finally </i>breathe again. I was leaving behind the<span style="color: black;"> </span>only two people I knew who I had never been able to
heal even<span style="color: black;"> </span>a little bit, and I didn’t think I
ever could.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-67462439927357461302016-12-05T11:05:00.000-08:002016-12-05T11:05:08.522-08:00Cooking by the BookThe first book that I ever had published was MURDER UNCORKED. It wasn't the first one that I ever wrote, but it was the first one that an agent wanted to represent and that was sold along with two other books in the series. If you've read about Nikki Sands and her eccentric friends on the vineyard solving murder mysteries, eating great food and drinking wine, then you know that first book turned into a series of seven with two short stories as well. Readers of the series also know that there are recipes and wine pairings in the books.<br />
<br />
Readers have asked me through the years if I would put the recipes and wine pairings in one compilation. I have now done that and am happy to say that it is permanently free on Nook, iBooks, Kobo, etc. You'll find the recipes from all of the books and you'll also learn where the ideas came from and some of my personal journey while writing each book in the series. The best part is that it is FREE! I've also made MURDER UNCORKED permanently free! If you have a Kindle and want to receive the books free, please e-mail me at michele@michelescott.com and I'll send you the PDF. Hope you enjoy!<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
Michele<br />
<br />
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<br />A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-38837372266994575042016-12-03T12:46:00.000-08:002016-12-03T12:46:32.149-08:00ImaginationRemember when you were a little kid and you could play all sorts of games, fantasies, adventures that you created in your head? I sure do. I can remember playing Charlie's Angels with my friend Jill...there were only two of us, so we pretended a third one was there. We just imagined her. I can also remember going out on riding trails with my friends on our horses and we could create some amazing adventures about cowboys and Indians, and being bad guys...or good guys. We had a blast! I feel grateful that my imagination has continued to inspire me. I may not play dress up with my friends any longer so-to-speak, but I create pages of stories that I have so much fun doing.<br />
<br />
Thinking about imagination and writing...and childhood, got me thinking about a program I developed several years ago and worked with kids in schools. With the season's chill upon us and many families finding themselves indoors over the next few months, I wanted to share with you an idea to help any little ones you have in the house that might spark their imagination. If you've got kids who like to create stories, and I think most kids do, then this is a fun exercise you can do with them. This is really geared toward the little ones. I'll add some exercises over the month for older kids who are aspiring writers that you can share with them, or even use yourself.<br />
<br />
So, with the little ones I worked grades pre-K-1st I made worksheets that we later turned into a picture book (get out the crayons). The story I made up was...If I were an animal, I would be a (blank...they'd fill in the blank), and on that page they'd draw that animal in any way they wanted to. The next page was: My name would be (blank). I'd go on an adventure to (blank), and I'd meet a (blank). You get the idea. Each sentence was a page for them to fill in the blank and draw their picture. It opened them up creatively and they were learning how to spell words. It's a lot of fun and if there are so many ideas you can do. You can create a holiday book, an alphabet book, a book about their favorite thing to do... If you want any ideas or further help in doing this with your child, feel free to e-mail me a michele@michelescott.com and I'd be happy to help you and your child(ren) create their own story, which can also be a pretty neat gift to give to their other parent, grand parents, teachers, etc...<br />
<br />
On a side note, for your kids ages 8-11 who love to read, I want to share with you that my children's book The Clover Siblings and the Evil of Desmal is now permanently free on iTunes, Nook, Kobo, etc. It's still showing $2.99 on Kindle, but I am working to get that changed to free as well.<br />
<br />
I hope you're enjoying the holiday season and that you take time for your family and friends! Many Blessings!<br />
<br />
Michele<br />
To check out The Clover Siblings and where you can download for free, visit:<br />
<br />
https://www.books2read.com/u/47kNk8<br />
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<br />A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-41320694255698305702016-12-02T11:38:00.001-08:002016-12-02T11:38:48.558-08:00Conspiracy TheoriesLet's face it...we're living in some very different times. There's a lot that feels unsettling these days and so much divineness around the world that I think many people are questioning their values and thoughts. I know that I certainly am and as a writer my brain is running rampant with all sorts of book ideas.<br />
<br />
However, the book I want to write about today was the first book that I ever wrote--COVERT REICH, and the reason I wanted to blog about it is that for a book I wrote twenty-five years ago, there are some messages in that book that in a weird way I see taking shape in our real world today--maybe not to the extent of what I fictionalized a long time ago, but still...there's some messages that I put in the book that I think if we looked around today we'd find evidence of some of the scary plot I created way back when.<br />
<br />
The premise of COVERT REICH is: A sect of the US government has devised a plan to rid society of those they feel are "undesirable" within the culture.<br />
<br />
I developed the idea when my oldest son Alex was born. He was six weeks preemie and spent two weeks in the hospital. It was a very difficult time as a young mom to see him in an incubator where I could only touch him through gloves that I put my hands through on the side of the incubator. He was hooked up to all sorts of monitoring machines and receiving medication for his under developed lungs. This was obviously very upsetting for me, but a nurse showed me an infant that had been addicted to drugs and his mother had given birth and left him for foster care. This baby had no fight in him. He was pretty still every time I looked at him. My son, on the other hand did his share of crying, moving around, etc...and although it upset me to see him struggle and not be able to hold him, the nurse explained to me that he'd be fine because he had a will to survive, and the baby who was detoxing from drugs did not have the same survival skills. That disheartened me a great deal.<br />
<br />
Two weeks later, my son was big enough, healthy and strong enough to come home with his monitors (I'm happy to say that he is a very healthy 25 year old now) and because I needed to be at home with him, I decided that I would try to pursue my dreams of being a writer. What would I write about? Well...I knew I always wanted to write thrillers and mystery because that's all I ever pretty much read. As I was coming up with ideas, I watched a Sixty Minutes program about drugs, the impoverished, the government and the belief of their involvement in keeping the poor addicted to drugs, and also the sterilization of welfare recipients. Combined with Alex's stay in the hospital and seeing some very sick infants, along with that news story, I found my what if... and three hundred and some odd pages later, I had written my first book. I had originally titled it COVERT WOMB and when I finished it I went on to write more books.<br />
<br />
A few years ago that original storyline, which hadn't been published kept nagging me to take another look at it. So I did and with the help of my Yoda (my editor Mile Sirota) we went back through and reviewed, polished and I self published it on Amazon where I've now sold a lot of copies.<br />
<br />
More and more COVERT REICH reminds me of my beginnings as a writer, but lately it's made me think again about humanity and where we are in this day and age...do we love our neighbors? And, if we don't, shouldn't we? We sure need to. Hatred, discrimination, prejudice, paranoia, manipulation and divisive words and actions will lead is away from positive growth and inclusiveness. In fact, it has the potential to lead us into a downward spiral of destruction.<br />
<br />
In the hopes that each of us will reach out to one another in a loving manner with kind actions and words (especially during this holiday season), I'm placing COVERT REICH on sale for .99 for the month of December. Any royalties received on that book for this month will go to Oxfam.org, which is a charity I believe in. I hope you'll check out the book.<br />
<br />
Many blessings to all of my readers, your families, friends, and to all. Here is a link to the book on Amazon: <b style="font-family: Verdana, Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">http://tinyurl.com/zposlwj</b><br />
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<br />A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-69866556822998933882016-07-22T21:07:00.000-07:002016-07-22T21:07:38.023-07:00To Blog or Not to Blog?Considering these kinda strange times, this question is lame. I'll admit it. Who really gives a rat's ass as to what I have to say? I'm not even sure at times how much I care about what I have to say, but you know what? I'm going to say whatever I want here on my blog because I can and if you care--then great... I love that you think I have anything important to say. If you don't care...great. I probably will still like you if we ever meet. I like most people. If you love animals...it's guaranteed that I'll like you even if you're weird. I'm positive that if any of my kids are reading this right now that they are sufficiently embarrassed--at least the one under 18. The older two accept me for who I am at this point. They understand that changing me is highly unlikely without a lobotomy and I am sorry...but I'm not prepared to take enough Xanax to get me to that point. The youngest one should never read anything I write because I guarantee her mortification will be worse than mine at some of the lyrics I am exposed to daily via certain rappers that she claims she simply listens to for "the beat." Yeah, right??? The last time I checked, I was not born yesterday, but I am also not that old yet. I swear!!! There are just some things I don't want to hear.<br />
<br />
Indulgent rant is now over. Oh...one more thing...my grammar sucks, so on this blog expect all sorts of commas in wrong places, tenses might at times be off and there are probably a few dozen grammar rules I'll break on a regular basis. However, I can craft a good story, but commas and all of that can get me, so bitch if you want about it, it's one of my faults--grammar...I am just grateful for a good editor and the fact that I can use (the three ellipses)... when I don't know what else I should do! So, ...!<br />
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Here's what my plans are for this blog--a little bit of everything. Sometimes, I'll write about life, my life, maybe...my dog or horse's life, kids' lives, my past life, my future life, your life, how I craft a story, or what wine I think you should drink with whatever recipe I conjure up. If there are five people still reading here, I figure I'm good. Hang out. We might have some fun.<br />
<br />
Tonight... while I sip a nice Chilean red blend, I just may turn serious--considering what I'm writing...my latest thriller. Ah...nah...I'll save that, because the week has been long and it's a Friday night and who really feels like being serious (I promise we will get to it, and deeper--serious shit, as if shit can be serious.) However, I do have some deep stuff to write about and I tend to be an open book.<br />
<br />
Tonight, I just want to say, "hi," to my readers who I consider friends. I've been in and out as a writer for you over the past few years. A lot of that had to do with my dad's passing and some other family situations that needed my complete attention (that's as serious as I'll get for now)..., but I want you, my readers/friends to know that I am back at the keyboard, taking notes on the legal pads, daydreaming of what ifs to put on the page and working diligently on providing you with the best stories I can create for you. I love you, am grateful for you and appreciate your patience in waiting for each and every book. You bring me joy and I hope that my stories take you out of any day to day stress you may be having and allow you to be entertained. I've got a lot of stories to tell. I hope you'll join me! Looks like I've answered my own question--I'm blogging again.<br />
<br />
XO!A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-54873413036706715982015-05-29T11:43:00.001-07:002015-05-29T11:43:43.435-07:00Researching the ThrillerI get asked quite a bit about what it's like to write a thriller, or how do I write a thriller. Well...it's a good question. Out of all the genres that I do write in, I really enjoy writing a dark thriller the best. Not sure what that says about me, but it's true. I totally love 48 Hour Mysteries, Dateline, anything that involves a dark mystery.<br />
<br />
When I sit down to write a thriller, just like anything that I write, I always start with the what if... Once I have that initial what if down, I create characters and a plot around the question. Creating a killer is daunting. Let's face it...murderers are really, really bad, heinous individuals--especially the ones that I write, and they can be exhausting to write. When I have a character semi-developed and a plot line moving along, that's when I bring in the experts. Let me just say that it is true that fact is stranger than fiction. While working on my new thriller The Preference, which is a part of the Holly Jennings series, I'm having the privilege of working with two experts. One of them is a homicide detective and I'm terribly afraid that he thinks I'm really disturbed, but every time I send him a scenario, he says, "Wow! Cool!" Okay, I'm good with that. He then challenges me as far as with questions I never thought to ask, or answers I need to really think on--things like considering blood splatter, DNA testing, how long it takes for lab tests to come back, toxicology reports, etc. I mean, sure I knew that in some ways. I couldn't have written the thrillers I currently have out there, but I want to go that extra mile with this book, and having a real homicide detective to work with is helping me make it that much more legit. Of course, it is fiction so it can't come close to fact. ;) However, the way the investigation is conducted can be as close to fact as I can possibly achieve--thus going to the experts!<br />
<br />
I'm also working with a criminal psychologist on this book. Again--there's some really weird stuff going on out there. I mean, I thought I wrote real bad guys, but there is some evil out there that the doctor has told me about that has made me squeamish (I don't do squeamish typically) and even may have caused me to have a nightmare or two recently. Like working with the detective, the psychologist helps me see angles that I may not normally see. Killers have real patterns and reasons as to why they do what they do. She has helped me find the reason and the pattern of my current villain.<br />
<br />
So...if you are looking to write a thriller, I strongly suggest doing the homework. Talk to the experts and make your novel the best possible book that it can be!<br />
<br />
Look for The Preference this July! Available for pre-order now! <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Preference-Holly-Jennings-Thriller-ebook/dp/B00W37D3O8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1432924709&sr=8-1&keywords=the+preference+ak+alexander">http://www.amazon.com/Preference-Holly-Jennings-Thriller-ebook/dp/B00W37D3O8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1432924709&sr=8-1&keywords=the+preference+ak+alexander</a>A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-83685304249647050752015-05-28T09:34:00.002-07:002015-05-28T09:37:52.624-07:00It's Been Awhile....Wow! So, I haven't blogged here since 2012! A lot has happened in three years! If you know me, then you know that. I am no longer a full time writer. The passing of my Dad in June 2012 prompted me to go back to work at our family business--Professional's Choice. http://www.profchoice.com<br />
<br />
However, that has not meant that I've given up writing. In fact, I am still putting out two to three books a year, have worked with some co-authors including the great JR Rain, and try very hard to keep myself entrenched in the writing community.<br />
<br />
I'm currently working on the third novel in the Holly Jennings series. It's titled The Preference and in a few days, I will be posting the first chapter here. The book will be out in July! Here is the cover, which I love.<br />
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For those of you who have not been in Holly's world at all, I'm going to share a little bit here. My international bestselling thriller DADDY'S HOME is where it all started, so for today, I'd like to give you a tidbit from that book. Here is the first chapter and I hope you enjoy it!<br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">Holly Jennings
wanted to get this son of a bitch. She needed to see him stretched out,
strapped down on a gurney. She yearned to watch the hypo hooked up to his
veins, releasing the venomous fluid that would flow through his body, causing
it to gradually shut down. Better yet, Holly wanted to take her nine-millimeter
Glock, put it to his temple, and pull the trigger.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Blow the
monster’s brains out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">She slid down
the steep incline, brushing off the leaves as she got to her feet, and took a
pair of Latex gloves from her black bag, smoothing them over her hands. Even
after four years of working the Crime Scene unit for the San Diego P.D., Holly
still hadn’t gotten used to that acrid rubber smell and the puff of powder that
flared out as the gloves snapped into place. It was like a wake-up call to her
body.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">Here we go
again, Holly, grit your teeth. Even her years of experience with death scenes
never made the next scene easier. No matter how many times she had faced smells
so foreign to the average nose—even those not so average, like Holly’s—the vile
aroma always hit her hard. That first breath in ignited visuals of
violence—visuals so completely opposite of anything normal, like a plunge into
the depths of Hell. Then, too, there was always something about each victim,
each situation, that caught a detective, or herself anyway, off guard. Each
victim had been a real person with a real life, and within a matter of days,
hours—or hopefully for their sakes, seconds—they became a statistic.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sickening.
Yet, in spite of the shattered bodies and the putrid odors, Holly had to admit
it was a job she almost relished.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Holly stepped
along the perimeter of the taped-off crime scene, walking in line and with
trepidation, hands behind her back—not an easy task while also carrying her
bag, but a necessary one. Holly played by the rules. Keep the crime scene
intact, and don’t fall on your ass. The boys are watching. She glanced back and
saw both her partner, Chad Euwing—who she could screw up in front of and laugh
about it over a shot of tequila—and Robb Carpenter—who she wouldn’t even think
about messing up in front of; he’d run straight to the higher ups, who would
love to demote a skirt if given a chance. So much for equality.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Robb was full
of stupid one-liners like, “Didn’t you miss your nail appointment?” Or maybe,
“We’re a little hormonal today?” Asshole extraordinaire.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">Holly reached
the little girl first. She knelt down, and the natural instinct to touch her
gave Holly an intense head rush. Shut down the emotions. Do your job. What kind
of freak would do this to an innocent child? Only two weeks earlier she’d been
in this exact position where a child and his mother had been violently slain.
Was she dealing with the same killer here? Focus. Think. Work. Examine. It was
again time to examine the UNSUB’s heinous work. The Unknown Subject of an
Investigation. The killer. The savage. She pulled out a small recorder from her
coat pocket and pressed the record button. “Time of day: ten hundred. Tuesday.
Approximately fifty-five to sixty degrees, clear weather, post rain. Victim 1:
Female Child. Approximately age four. Blonde hair. Eyes closed. Wrapped in
cellophane. Starburst wound at base of left temple. Entry: UNSUB is left
handed. Looks like someone braided her hair, put ribbons in it—UNSUB?”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">She leaned in
closely. The smell of decay and death wafted past, nauseating her. It always
did—another thing she knew that she’d never get used to. Hold on. What was
this? She pocketed the recorder and took her magnifier from her bag. Gold
links. He took a necklace from you, didn’t he, sweet girl? She scanned the
wrapped body and face closely. There was a smudge of brown next to her lips.
Not blood. What is that?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“He’s a
collector,” she yelled up to Chad. “Did we find anything missing on the Collins’
little boy or his mom? You talked to the grandparents about jewelry?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah. No one
said anything about any jewelry being gone,” Chad shouted back. “We know what
he took at that scene.” The grave tone in Chad’s voice didn’t go unnoticed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“This one took
something from the kid, too. Got your camera?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Right here.”
Chad held up his 35-millimeter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Then come on
down. Let’s get some pictures.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">Holly looked
back at the child, whose facial color held a greenish-purple tinge. She’d been
out here for at least forty-eight hours. Luckily, it had been cold and rainy,
preserving the body far better than if this had been a typical Southern
California week.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">Looking again
through the magnifier, she noted that both maggots and beetles were prevalent.
You certainly took some care here, didn’t you? You wrapped her up nice and
tight. The time and obvious care the UNSUB had taken, wrapping up the child in
the plastic wrap, had also helped to keep her body intact. Maybe you’re still
on her. Your cologne. Your hair. Something you wore. I’ll find it, you bastard.
If you left something, anything, I will find it.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">The sound of
crunching leaves underfoot, as well as Chad’s humming of “Sunshiny Day,”
announced his arrival. She used to hate it when he did that. But humming helped
Chad to get through the scene. Every investigator had a tactic. Hers was to get
as deeply into the killer’s head as possible when confronted with a victim. She
had to detach herself in order to solve the crime. Later, she could think about
the victims as they once were—living, breathing human beings.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“The gunshot
to the head was at close range. At least she didn’t suffer.” Holly shuddered.
“Well, let me rephrase. I don’t think she suffered at the moment of death. Who
knows what occurred beforehand. Look here.” Chad bent down next to her. “Soot
around the wound.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“He didn’t
wipe her clean?” Chad brought the camera up to his eye, focused, and started
snapping close-ups.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Like the last
kid.” Chad lowered his camera.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Exactly like
the Collins boy. And I don’t think this is about him being in a hurry. There’s
more to it. He feels responsible somehow. In his sick way, empathetic. The
gunshot wound offends him. I’ll head over to Psych later and see if we can’t
get some help with the profile. My initial impression is that he doesn’t like
killing the kids.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Then why
bother with the kid? Why not find a single female vic? What is it with the
kids?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Well,
assuming that we’re dealing with the same UNSUB, I don’t know. We could be
dealing with someone totally different from the last scene. We’ll know soon
enough when we check out the mom.” Chad gave Holly a knowing look. “Here, get a
snap of her neck. See that?” Holly pointed to the few lengths of chain around
her tiny neck.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“She wore a
necklace?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yep, and he
took it. He carried her down here. Then yanked off the necklace. Any
footprints?” Holly asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“With the
rains we’ve had over the last couple of days? No.” Chad shook his head, and
started clicking the camera again. “What’s that caked on the side of her face?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I don’t
know.” But the word cake did ring true—chocolate maybe. Mark Collins had had
peanut butter cookies in his stomach contents. “Maybe this bastard gives them
goodies first. A real compassionate type, huh?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Twisted,
Holly. This is one of the more bizarre cases I’ve seen. ‘Here kiddo, let’s have
cake and ice cream before I murder you and your mom.’”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“We’re not
dealing with your average psycho here.” After Chad was finished snapping away,
Holly bagged the bit of chain. “Let’s check out Mom.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">They walked
another five feet down and to the right before reaching the woman’s naked body,
face down, a blue tarp tattered but still taped to her. “He didn’t take any
time here,” Chad noted. “Looks like he basically dumped her and got the hell
out of here.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I think
you’re right. My bet is he was extremely angry with her, or whomever she
represents to him. He doesn’t care about her. He’s pissed off, and she’s the
root of his anger. He didn’t bother carrying her down. He tossed her like a bag
of trash.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Chad snapped
several photos of the body in that position. He then rolled her over with his
gloved hands. “It’s possible she’s a mother figure to him.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“That’s one
train of thought. Or a wife, girlfriend, even a sister. Someone else besides a
mother may have raised him. Could be a grandmother. I don’t know. But his hate
is deep-seated, and it’s directed at the women. This isn’t really about the
children, by what I’ve seen so far. That is, if he is the same killer who
murdered Patricia and Mark Collins.” Holly shook her head. She was frustrated
at the dead end that particular murder investigation had led her to. The killer
on that case was meticulous and left nothing at the scene. The similarities,
however, were frightening.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Collins
case was another single mother and child pair. They’d been taken late at night
from their Hillcrest home. No one had seen a damn thing. Patricia Collins was
the quiet type, not very social, and a dedicated mother. The only lead they’d
had was that she had belonged to both the local gym and a dating service,
neither of which had turned up anything.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Patricia had
only had one date through the service, and the man had checked out completely
clean. Holly had the police chief breathing down her neck, and these new
murders, if they linked up to the other family, would have him in even more of
a tizzy. Holly didn’t like dealing with Tom Greenfield in a tizzy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">Holly nodded
at Chad who pulled back the blue tarp covering the mother. “Oh my God!” Holly
gasped, bringing her free hand up to her mouth. She had to look away
momentarily. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah. I guess
you could say he was pissed,” Chad muttered before firing off shot after shot
of film.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">The woman
looked to be in her early thirties. Presumably the child’s mother, she had been
badly mutilated. Anguish and fright splashed across her face, her eyes frozen
wide open. Holly’s gut said the killer had done the mutilating before he killed
her. The woman had suffered quite a bit, whereas he had killed the child
quickly. Oh, God. Had she witnessed the brutality her mother had endured?<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">“Why would he
cut off her breasts?” Chad asked. The tarp was torn open enough to see the
horrid wounds the killer had inflicted upon the woman. Holly shook her head.
Stay in his head. What are you so angry about? Why her? Holly sighed. “Anger
combined with wanting to either strip her of her womanhood or of her
motherhood. I don’t know. He’s one sick fuck.”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“So what do
you think? Is he the same one who murdered the Collins boy?” Chad asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“He didn’t
mutilate Patricia, except for the finger.” Holly stared blankly at the missing
ring finger on this victim’s hand. “And, uh, yeah. He’s saved himself another
ring finger. I’d say he’s the same killer. It adds up. Both kids shot in the
head at close range. The medical examiner and ballistics will give us a better
idea. The difference is in the mutilation here. Our other gal cooperated with
him, maybe thought she would get out of it alive. He only severed her ring
finger, and the M.E. believes that was done post mortem. I don’t think he did
this after he killed this one, though. I think he tortured her.” Holly bent
down next to the woman and picked up the woman’s stiff hand. “She fought back,
though, before he cut it off. See the blood and skin on the other fingers and
nail beds?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Chad bent down
and took Holly’s magnifier from her. “We’re gonna get DNA off this. Let’s hope
he has a prior.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Holly knew
that was slim. Serial killers were usually very careful. You fought him, didn’t
you? “You did good. We’ll get him, I promise you. I’m gonna find him for you,”
she said in a barely audible whisper. She glanced back over at the body of the
child. “Carpenter!” she hollered up to Robb. “Get down here. What the hell are
you doing? We might have some fibers. Bring your kit, and let’s get some
measurements and sketches drawn up. This scene isn’t going to stay preserved
forever.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: large;">“You okay?”
Chad asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I can’t stand
that asshole. And you know he can’t stand me, especially if I’m running the
scene. He’s still bent that he didn’t get promoted to my position.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You earned
it. Ignore him. That really gets under his skin.” He winked at her. Holly was
fully aware of her title as Ice Princess around the department. She’d even
caught a whiff of rumor about bets being placed as to who could get her in the
sack.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">She looked at
her watch. It was almost lunch hour, and she had a forty-minute drive to make
it to Chloe’s school. Her daughter’s second-grade class had plans for their
Thanksgiving festivities. Damn. She had promised her that she would be there.
She had already missed one dance recital and a school play this year. “Can you
handle this from here? I promised Chloe I’d make it to her school assembly and
Thanksgiving feast. Make sure Carpenter and the boys stay in line. I don’t want
any mistakes. Our perp is good and careful, but he’ll screw up somewhere along
the line. When he does, I want him behind bars until they’ve got him strapped
to that gurney. I don’t want him out on a technicality because of something we
got careless about.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Count on me.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Thanks. I
know I can. I’d stay and hold the fort, but Chloe . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Go, for God’s
sake. I can handle this.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Call me if
you get anything new. I planned to take the rest of the afternoon off and spend
it with her. This morning she sent a big guilty arrow through my heart about
how I’m always working. I know I shouldn’t take off, and Greenfield would skin
me alive if he knew, but that might hurt less than my seven-year-old’s therapy
payments down the line.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">“No problem.
Family first. You do what you need to, and I’ll plan to meet you at the medical
examiner’s office in the morning.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Robb Carpenter
passed her. “What’s the matter, Holly? Your thong up your ass today?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">She kept
walking. She heard Chad tell Robb to go fuck himself. Good friend. Behind the
wheel of her Jeep, she pulled down the mirror and applied her tawny-colored
lipstick, hoping to look more like a mother than a cop. She also put on some
mascara, bringing her hazel eyes to life, and quickly brushed her short auburn
hair back behind her ears. A little better.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Holly quickly
got onto the freeway and sped down the I-8, heading west, noticing the whites
of her knuckles as she gripped the wheel tightly. She hated admitting that she
had wanted to leave the scene. It wasn’t something she would typically do,
although today she did have a good excuse.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">That poor
woman, what she must have suffered . . . Her breasts. My God! She put a hand up
to her breasts. He studies his victims, knows them or at least of them and
their situation. What’s his motive? Why is he doing this?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">He wasn’t some
recluse, killing randomly. He had specific reasons for the women he chose. He
carved up women just like her—young, single, and with a child. It was now up to
Holly to track him down before he savagely butchered another family.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Interested in reading more? Stay tuned, I'll put up another chapter in a couple of days. If you don't want to wait, here is the link to Amazon. Tomorrow, I'll be posting about what it's like to jump back into Holly's world as a homicide detective. I'm currently working with a homicide detective and a criminal psychologist on the new book. It's fascinating an I'll share about it tomorrow. have a wonderful day!<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Daddys-Home-K-Alexander-ebook/dp/B009CAI0Z6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1432830480&sr=8-1&keywords=daddy%27s+home+ak+alexander" target="_blank">http://www.amazon.com/Daddys-Home-K-Alexander-ebook/dp/B009CAI0Z6/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1432830480&sr=8-1&keywords=daddy%27s+home+ak+alexander</a></span>A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-81125715107785933442012-12-24T09:21:00.000-08:002012-12-24T09:32:36.085-08:00Kindle Fire HD Giveaway!For all of you who loved The Grey Tier, and are anxiously awaiting the sequel, I assure you that I am working on it. In gratitude and in celebration of the holidays, I am running a giveaway for a Kindle Fire HD. Please follow the directions and enter to win. Happy Holidays!
<script src="//www.punchtab.com/mast/14534/giveaway_widget.js"></script>
A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-58774319481910962412012-11-26T09:21:00.001-08:002012-11-26T09:21:14.351-08:00GIVEAWAY TODAY!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QPvo_S67c4dxquwycRmfc1_rIQCShqrCsnRkeNMEMwxuZnav48F506aiPgssW2m2XaeKb2JcnfJxwiN0RMxNVK_4l7V-AXuMOggi4WnNtAKDzy9iC9wV2HxsXVT4rDL4PHFZeY4eulXc/s1600/The+Grey+Tier1d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QPvo_S67c4dxquwycRmfc1_rIQCShqrCsnRkeNMEMwxuZnav48F506aiPgssW2m2XaeKb2JcnfJxwiN0RMxNVK_4l7V-AXuMOggi4WnNtAKDzy9iC9wV2HxsXVT4rDL4PHFZeY4eulXc/s320/The+Grey+Tier1d.jpg" width="204" /></a>I know that today is cyber Monday, and although there is nothing terribly techy about THE GREY TIER, I figured a little paranormal sort of fits the bill. That said, for TODAY ONLY (Monday Nov. 26, 2012) I am gifting free e-reads of THE GREY TIER to anyone who e-mails me at michele@michelescott.com. All you need to do is type in THE GREY TIER in the subject line and be sure that you let me know the e-mail address you want it sent to. When you receive the gift, all you have to do is accept it. I will not use your e-mails for anything else other than for today's giveaway. You will receive your gift by midnight tonight! Enjoy.<br />
<br />
Here is a the back copy and a couple of reviews from THE GREY TIER!<br />
<br />
FANS OF SOOKIE STACKHOUSE WILL LOVE EVIE PRESTON!<br /><br />"Skirting the
edge of gritty and glossy Los Angeles, Michele Scott takes paranormal
mystery in a new direction with romance, humor, intrigue, and a
fantastic leading lady. I can’t wait to read the next in the series."
-Elizabeth Hunter, best-selling author of the Elemental Mysteries.<br /><br />“A
sexy irresistible supernatural mystery, mixed with a big cast of
colorful characters. A fun, twisting plot worthy of Alfred Hitchcock
that had me guessing until the very end (and guessing wrong I might
add!). Michele Scott is a tremendous talent and The Grey Tier is a
helluva lot of fun to read."<br />--J.R. Rain, bestselling author of Moon Dance and Vampire Games.<br /><br />What
happens when a small town girl moves to Hollywood to pursue her dreams
and winds up smack dab in the middle of a murder investigation, haunted
by famous dead celebs, and working for the biggest pop star in the music
industry?<br /><br />Introducing Evie Preston: Small-town girl and
under-the-radar healer, currently trapped in a po-dunk Texas town but
yearning for something more. When fate gives her the opportunity to move
to Hollywood to follow her dreams, Evie finds herself navigating
through the land of glitz and glamour, and the realm of (dead)
celebrities…<br /><br />Raised in Brady, Texas by her minister father and
her beauty shop-owner mother, Evie has been trying to get out of town
for years. When an old family friend gives her an unexpected gift on her
birthday, Evie finally gets the chance to start fresh out west. Against
her father’s wishes, she packs up her guitar, her dog, Mama Cass, and
heads for California. <br /><br />Once in L.A., Evie finds a singing gig at a
local dive bar where she meets a slew of interesting characters
including the owner himself, a former child star with a hidden past. She
also scores a day job doing make-up for a famous and foul-mouthed pop
diva. One of the job perks includes house sitting at a Hollywood Hills
mansion. But what Evie doesn’t know is the house is also home to some
famous celebrity spirits, including the essence of former Grunge rocker,
Lucas Minx.<br /><br />As if things weren’t complicated enough, Evie finds
herself in the middle of a murder mystery and discovers she’s being
targeted by some nasty spirits. And to top things off, she’s developed a
Texas-sized crush on her hot, but very dead, roommate, Lucas. <br /><br />Maybe her dad was right and the City of Angels really is the City of Devils—all of them after her. <br /><br />WARNING: Strong language, sexual content, and mild violence.<br />
<br />
Check out the book trailer! <br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-16147999653891377212012-11-25T19:50:00.002-08:002012-11-25T19:50:44.804-08:00The Hot Mess!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I am pleased to host my good friend Gayle Carline on adventuresnwriting. Gayle is one of my most favorite people in the world. She is funny, smart, sweet, and kind. Plus, she is a horse chick! I love her and I love her writing! She is running an awesome contest right now! Read Gayle's books and enter the contest!!!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I’d like to thank my good buddy Michele for giving me a
little space on her blog to run a contest for my new book, THE HOT MESS. If you’ve
been following the other blogs in the contest, you’ve come to the right place.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
It’s the third book in my Peri Minneopa Mystery
series. Peri is a housecleaner-turned-detective, who traded in her dustmop for
a PI license. Surveillance and background checks are easy money, unless you’re
getting chased, beaten, or shot—which seems to happen to her on occasion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
In THE HOT MESS, Peri is asked to investigate a case
of arson and murder. It’s not exactly on her menu of services, but she agrees
to help her friend. What she uncovers are family secrets… and danger. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5Yrt3Hd2qG39Ot4TKbgeIS9Gge5mhXEOT3XztWs_4FZw0nI3_fbLGhysle4CNLrbd0fW_8k8n6x7V20VdlbYH_KgfeBTr8ErxSPKi9KD3eccsMofx7u3pUSQpHMBy-9BHsDg43J5b5K0/s1600/HotMessCover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt5Yrt3Hd2qG39Ot4TKbgeIS9Gge5mhXEOT3XztWs_4FZw0nI3_fbLGhysle4CNLrbd0fW_8k8n6x7V20VdlbYH_KgfeBTr8ErxSPKi9KD3eccsMofx7u3pUSQpHMBy-9BHsDg43J5b5K0/s320/HotMessCover.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
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Here are the rules: There are excerpts from the book
on this and four other blogs (see below). Visit my blog on Monday, November
26th, and I’ll ask five questions, the answers to which can be found in these
five excerpts. The first person who answers all five correctly gets a free copy
of THE HOT MESS, either e-book or paperback. I’m feeling so good about
everything right now, I might even give out more free copies.</div>
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<br /></div>
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EXCERPT:</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Skip looked up at the ceiling, watching the
lines of water running toward a common bead, forming a ball and falling when
they got too heavy. The battalion chief, Cornelius Danes, had warned him not to
stay too long in the house. The fire department liked to err on the side of
caution when it came to civilians.</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Finish up and let’s get out of here. This
might not be the safest place to be.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jason nodded his answer. Skip watched him
label a final bag, before turning toward the doorway. </span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I hate unstable crime scenes,” the CSU said,
pointing to the bedroom ceiling. Skip followed his direction and saw the bulge
in the drywall. The water was pooling here. It wouldn’t take much to bring the
ceiling down and ruin any evidence.</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Both men turned and left, moving through the
rest of the house at a quick pace. Chief Danes was waiting for them at the
doorway.</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Get everything you need?”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Jason held up his camera. “Need a few quick
pictures of the rest of the house.” He disappeared down the hall toward the
kitchen.</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Almost,” Skip added, and did a quick visual
sweep of the room. In the last, untouched corner of one of Benny’s beloved end
tables, he saw something he recognized. He pointed to the object. “Chief, can I
take this with me? I may need it to help me with the homeowner.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The chief agreed, so he picked it up. It was
the ashtray from the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some Came Running</i>
movie set. Skip recognized it because Benny had shown it to him numerous times.
There were a few dark smudges, but it had survived the fire without cracking.
He carried it outside and waved it at Peri.</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’m hoping we got enough evidence to figure it
all out,” Skip said, stripping off his hazard gear. “We may not be able to get
back in there.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Wish I could tell you different, but it’ll
need a couple of days to dry out before anyone can assess the amount of damage,”
Chief Danes told him. </span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The chief was still in his yellow uniform,
carrying his helmet under his arm. His stocky build, along with his
six-foot-four frame, made light disappear from doorways when he entered a room.
A few gray hairs at his temple teased at his age, although his coffee-colored
skin showed no wrinkles.</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Skip paused, scratching through his short,
peppery hair. “Any obvious cause?” </span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“There are remnants of cans, looked like
paint and turpentine, where the blaze was hottest, so I’m guessing the
homeowner was going to do some painting. My gut tells me it’s about the
hoarding.” He regarded the house. “Granted, there wasn’t the kind of filth you
associate with that kind of thing, but did you see all the furniture in there?
All it took was a faulty wire, a can of turpentine and poof, it all goes up.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Yeah, Benny’s got a little problem.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Well, now it’s a big problem. We try to
educate people but no one wants to think it could happen to them. This is gonna
be an insurance nightmare.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Skip thought about Benny’s obsessive need for
his things. “I’m guessing the insurance will be the least of Benny’s bad dreams.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He returned to Peri, who waited on the
sidewalk. It amused him to see her attempting to look uninterested in what was
happening. Her expression seemed almost indifferent, but her body was tense and
restless, her fingers clenching and unclenching. He smiled and stretched his
hand out as he approached, offering her the ashtray.</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“His favorite ashtray,” Peri said. “Perfect.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Time for me to go to work.” He took his
notepad out and observed the audience standing at the police barricade. “Think
the neighbors might know anything?”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He could see the wheels in her brain grinding
as she scanned the crowd. “Are you working on anything right now, Peri?”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ve got a meeting this morning with a
potential client. Other than that, just finishing a background check on an employee.
Why?”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Because I wish you were too occupied to want
to snoop into this thing.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She grinned. “Ah, Skipper, when do I snoop?
Okay, forget I said that. All I want to know is, do you know who the body
belongs to, and was it arson?”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I don’t know and I don’t know. Chief Danes
thinks it was probably faulty wiring and paint cans, compounded by classic
hoarder’s neglect. Fire started in the living room, body was in the back
bedroom.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Benny’s mom used to be in the back bedroom.”
Peri frowned. “Paint cans? Why would there be paint cans in the living room?”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Again, I don’t know. Doesn’t sound like our
Benny, to paint anything. Body was a young male. Blanche couldn’t determine
cause but time of death is probably about the same time as the fire.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“This is all sounding weirder and weirder.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“It’s too early to call anything weird. We on
for dinner tonight?”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">She ran her hand down his back. “I was
thinking take-out and fool around.”</span></div>
<div class="StyleMyTextFirstline05BottomDottedAuto3ptLine" style="line-height: normal;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">He smiled. “I’m on board with that. Now let
me get my work done.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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* * *</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The other blog sites are:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Our own adorable Andrew Kaufman, <a href="http://www.andrewekaufman.blogspot.com/">http://www.andrewekaufman.blogspot.com/</a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The lovely and talented Jenny Hilborne, <a href="http://jfhilborne.wordpress.com/">http://jfhilborne.wordpress.com/</a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A sweet cozy writer Teresa Trent, <a href="http://teresatrent.wordpress.com/">http://teresatrent.wordpress.com/</a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mr. All-Things-Dean-Martin, <a href="http://ilovedinomartin.blogspot.com/">http://ilovedinomartin.blogspot.com/</a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When you’ve visited them, come on over on Monday and see me at <a href="http://gaylecarline.blogspot.com/">http://gaylecarline.blogspot.com/</a></div>
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A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-56047463141794889472012-10-31T10:27:00.001-07:002012-10-31T10:27:28.062-07:00My Belief on The AfterlifeI know Katie Couric posted this morning on her thoughts on an Afterlife. Unlike, Katie, I am absolutely positive there is an Afterlife. I know it in my heart. It is simply a knowing for me. Here are a few brief stories from my life that have allowed me to accept this as a truth for me.<br />
<br />
I've had a lot of loss in the past two years. It has not been easy, especially the loss of my Dad. My brother passed shortly after my Dad (actually 2 months to the day that Dad died), and my ex-husband who had still been a friend committed suicide two years ago. In my ex-husband's case I had to witness the loss of innocence within my sons on top of losing their Dad. Not easy, but my faith has gotten me through much of this.<br />
<br />
Growing up I lived in a haunted house. I really did. Things would disappear and then show up in very strange places (like under a bed), doors and cupboards would slam in the middle of the night, radios would go off and on, etc. There were countless incidents in that house that caused my Dad who did not believe in such things to do some research on ghosts, spirits, and the property we lived on, which turned out to be former Indian grounds. There was nothing ever harmful that I felt in that house, and I actually did see a little girl spirit one day there. I also had an experience when I was nine-years-old right after my grandfather passed away. I was very close to him and we shared the love of horses with one another. He was a really special person in my life and his death was a very sad experience for me. Until...he visited me one night in my room. He was lit up brightly and wearing the same mechanic jumpsuit he'd worn daily for years. He very clearly told me that I should not be sad or worried because he was happy and safe.<br />
<br />
As I grew into adulthood, I couldn't help wonder if it was my wild imagination as a kid was the reality of things. But, then my husband and I moved into an old home in an older area of San Diego. Things happened in that house all the time. When our daughter was born, she had toys that made noises by squeezing them, etc. Those toys would go off at all hours. A friend of mine would come over and refuse to go downstairs because she felt someone was always down there (it was a basement we turned into a family room). My husband didn't believe it was due to a ghost, until one day, he was in the laundry room with no windows opened and the detergent bottle went flying across the room. That was enough to convince him! Then our Ridgeback Java would stare up at the ceiling and bark, his eyes following something. That was definitely a bit disconcerting.<br />
<br />
Right before my Grandma passed away a few years ago, I asked her before she died if she could show me a sign after she was gone that I knew she was okay. She passed in July that year and the day we buried her it was excruciatingly hot. There was a drape of pink roses across her casket. My Mom and I each took a rose and when we got home we put them in a vase. Those roses survived for two weeks, and still looked perfect right up until TWO WEEKS! These were roses that had been out of water during the ceremony for a couple of hours. It was a hot July! There is no way unless through something far more powerful than I think I can wrap my brain around that they would have survived. Do I think that was a sign from my Grandma? You bet! So, does my Mom.<br />
<br />
A year after my Grandma passed, my best friend Hillary died from breast cancer. The night she passed away I was with her. At one point in the evening, she opened her eyes and said to me, "Why me?!" Then she drifted in and out of consciousness. An hour later she opened her eyes again and said, "I am ready to go home now." Ten minutes later she was gone. That night in bed, thinking of her and all the fun we had together and all that we had shared, I was so sad. I drifted off to sleep and both John and I were woken by our stereo going off playing soft, lovely music--not on a station we would have set. We like classical but it is not our first choice. I knew it was Hillary letting me know she was okay.<br />
<br />
I have more stories that involve the passing of pets. I even have a couple of scary stories that I won't talk about.<br />
<br />
My last story is the most recent. It involves my Dad. My Dad passed away on June 27th of this year. He was truly a wonderful parent and grandparent--full of love, life, and positivity. Losing him has been the hardest thing I have ever gone through, after witnessing the pain and experience my sons have gone through at the loss of their own Dad.<br />
<br />
For the last few months I felt like my Dad hadn't been around, that he wasn't giving me a sign, and it really troubled me.<br />
<br />
Then, two weeks ago when I was in New York for some very important meetings, I woke up at 4:30 in the morning, wondering what the hell I was doing there. I was filled with doubts, and frustration. I fell back asleep, and the next thing you know, I am with my Dad. It is my young Dad from when I was a kid. I am pushing him in his wheelchair, and he is wearing this gorgeous purple scarf, which he would have never worn when he was here! Everything around us is white and light and beautiful. I can see images going past us and I know they are people, but I can't make them out. In front of us are a lot of stairs like in a Coliseum that lead down to the shore, and ocean. He tells me, "Why are you worried? You will be great! Just do everything I taught you. You got this!" Then, I began to lose control of the wheelchair and it is heading toward the steep stairs. Suddenly, Dad lifts himself up out of the chair and is floating. He begins to laugh and says, "Don't worry. I don't need that thing anymore! I can't be hurt any longer and I don't hurt any longer. I could have walked with you." I ask him why he didn't walk with me then. He laughs and says, "I thought it would be fun to have you push me around again!" Then, I woke up. My day went beautifully. My meetings were successful, and I had a sense Dad was right there with me all day.<br />
<br />
Some might say that was just a dream. I don't think so. So, if you wonder what my view is on an Afterlife? I think it's pretty clear...I have no doubts. What it completely looks like, I have no clear idea. I just know that this place here on Earth is not the end.<br />
<br />
I'd love to know your thoughts!<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
MicheleA.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-29003501472901288742012-08-30T09:56:00.001-07:002012-08-30T09:56:18.417-07:00Why I Like Book Trailers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
A lot of writers wonder if book trailers help sales. I'm not sure if they do or don't. What I do believe about book sales is that authors want to look at all possibilities that are there to make readers aware of their books.<br />
<br />
The reason I really like book trailers is because I am a visual writer. When I write a book, I see it play out like a movie in my head. I do that because it's just how I write, but also because somewhere in the back of my mind (not too far back) I am always hopeful that something I write will be made into a movie, or for TV. I am a big believer in putting out to The Universe things we would like to have happen in our lives. Therefore, the book trailer for me, is a small step toward that ultimate goal. And, it also gives readers an idea of what the book is about. It is a visual back jacket of the book.<br />
<br />
I'd love to know what writers and readers think...Do you as a reader enjoy book trailers? If so, what do you like about them, and if not, what don't you like? Do you as a writer think they help you in any way? If so, how?<br />
<br />
Thanks for reading!<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
MicheleA.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-41801319177404684012012-08-24T08:30:00.002-07:002012-08-24T08:31:56.023-07:00The Pricing Game on Indie Books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Today I am running a .99 Sale on some of my A.K. Alexander thrillers--DADDY'S HOME, MOMMY, MAY I?, COVERT REICH, & THE CARTEL. These books are some of my bestsellers, so you may wonder why I might do that.<br />
<br />
There are a couple of reasons. First and foremost has to do with gaining new readership and also loyalty to the current readers. Many readers who have not heard of a book, or an author, may be more inclined to spend .99 on a book than 2.99 and up. I could be wrong in that theory, and not all readers care. However, let's face it, many of us don't have extra spending cash these days, making that .99 price tag more appealing.<br />
<br />
The Big 6 price their e-books at 6.99 and up. I know because six of my books are still owned by a Big 6 publisher and are priced at 6.99 to 7.99. (GIVE ME BACK MY RIGHTS--ugh...as you know, whole 'nother story).<br />
<br />
I have to admit that I don't like deep discounting. Writers work hard and it can be a difficult pill to swallow when you know what you have written is worth more than a buck. Other writers don't really like it because it raises the bar to compete with. However, it is business and sometimes it is good business. Every store in the world has an occasional sale. It gets things moving, and at times, we discover something new and cool that we may have not tried before.<br />
<br />
So, I hope that if you have not read any of my A.K. Alexander books that you will take a .99 cent risk and give one a try--And, spread the word. The best way for books to get out there still is by word of mouth.<br />
<br />
I'd love to hear your opinion on pricing Indie books.<br />
<br />
Thank You! Have a wonderful weekend!<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
MicheleA.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3591262791565589251.post-36643639884453478602012-08-23T11:10:00.000-07:002012-08-23T11:10:27.926-07:00Is the Big Saga Book Dead?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A lot goes on at the borders in our country. A LOT. Have you watched Border Wars? That is some crazy stuff. I'm not going to get into the politics of any of it. And, I read Don Winslow's book SAVAGES, which I thought was a good read and pretty damn realistic. I also thought his style of writing was interesting.<br />
<br />
Like Winslow, I have written a book with THE CARTEL theme, but it's quite a bit different from SAVAGES. THE CARTEL is a saga that begins in 1969. It's all about betrayals, relationships, and the drama that occurs in most families. This is a big book, and I have always been hopeful it would be one of those books that would reach a wide audience. It's been out for some time and it has a slow growth. I think that sagas don't have the appeal they once did back in the day. remember THE GODFATHER, THE THORNBIRDS? My parents devoured those books. I read them, too, as I got older and fell in love with those full type of stories.<br />
<br />
In hopes of starting a resurgence back to big saga (they do say that everything comes back around), I am offering this book on Kindle for only .99. The book gets great reviews and it'll stick with you (I think).<br />
<br />
Anyone here that passes the word on (because books still sell through word of mouth), let me know, and I will gift you a copy of DADDY'S HOME., which is my #1 bestseller.All you have to do is e-mail me at michele@michelescott.com, let me know what e-mail to gift the book to, and write THE CARTEL in the subject line. Easy.<br />
<br />
Here is where you can find some information about the book and read an excerpt: http://michelescott.com/books/the-cartel/ <br />
<br />
I would love to know if you read sagas? Would you read a saga? Or, in your opinion, is the Big Sagaish book just plain dead?<br />
<br />
Thank You!<br />
<br />
Cheers,<br />
Michele <br />
<br />A.K. Alexanderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02365909229606536388noreply@blogger.com0