"The Forgotten Child is an Amazing #Book" @LEckhart #Excerpt #Romance

Okay here we go. She’d expected an attack. He was really good at twisting things to his way of thinking. This man she married, at one time loved, had become an unwelcome stranger. “I think it has to do with no communication,” Emily rebutted. “The only time I know what’s new with you, is when I overhear you on the phone. You know… those nightly conversations with your mother. And come to think of it, that’s part of the problem. The only relationship you have is with your mother. And it’s just plain weird. You’re not a child. Grow up. It’s disturbing that you talk to her about what’s going on in your life, and not me. If you were being honest with yourself, you’d admit you’ve made no attempt to have a relationship with me. And I’ve ignored how you’ve treated me for years.”

Emily held up the flat of her trembling hand, unable to stop her mouth from spewing everything she’d suppressed for so long. She continued, “You’ve always had this strange relationship with your mom. What’s really sick, is I’ve had to stoop to eavesdropping when you’re on the phone with her. Just to find out your latest news. A vacation you’re planning with friends of yours. A new job you’re applying for in Seattle. Taking a few courses at night school. Don’t you think that as your wife I have a right to know about these things?”

He dumped his coffee down the sink. His face hardened into someone she didn’t know. “It wasn’t as if I was hiding it from you, but you’re sure happy to launch a war with my family. You could have just asked.”

Emily shut her eyes and let out a heavy sigh. Katy would be awake soon, and Bob needed to leave for work. “This is going nowhere,” she said. “I’m not going to keep fighting with you. I’d like you to move out. Take whatever you want.”

He didn’t answer her. What he did instead was grab his coat and storm out the door, slamming it behind him hard enough to rattle the double-pane windows. But apparently he wasn’t done with his temper tantrum, because he followed up by gunning the engine of their two-door rusted Cavalier, the tires squealing down the driveway. In her room, Katy screamed. Across the street, lights came on in the front window of the Hanson’s house. Great. She’d need to apologize now, for Bob disturbing them before six a.m. with his irresponsible behavior.

Emily raced down the hall to comfort her daughter, furious at Bob for yet another mess he’d created for her to clean up. Except this time, it didn’t stick—the mad, that is. With the words finally out of her, Emily felt the dark, oppressive weight lifting from her back, leaving her with a light peaceful feeling flowing through her body. You know, the feeling you get when you know you’ve finally done the right thing. Even though she had no money, no job, a child, and no idea how she’d make ends meet... still, the right thing. A dismal sounding outcome but, for the first time in years, Emily Nelson felt the sun shoot out a powerful ray of hope.

 

How do you tell a man there is something wrong with his child?

This is by far one of the best books I have read. Lorhainne Eckhart proved herself yet again  by pulling you in with a heartfelt story and keeping your attention with the passion that fills   the pages. ~ ROMANCE JUNKIES

A Real Tear Jerker: Omg, I loved this book. I stayed up all night trying to finish it. I cried,  My heart broke, I have an 18 year old with autism. This would make a fabulous movie...  Tammy

Overview:

He wasn't looking to love again. But what he got was a woman who shook his lonely bitter world upside down, and touched him in a way no other woman could.

Emily Nelson, a courageous young mother, ends a loveless, bitter marriage and strikes out on her own. She answers an ad as a cook and live-in caregiver to a three-year-old boy on a local ranch. Ranch owner Brad Friessen hires and moves in Emily and her daughter. But Emily soon discovers something's seriously wrong with the boy, and the reclusive, difficult man who hired her can't see the behavior and how delayed his son is. So Emily researches until she stumbles across what she suspects are the soft signs of autism. Now she must tell him, give him hope, and help him come to terms with this neurological disorder--to take the necessary steps to get his child the help he needs.

As their lives become intertwined, their attraction is unavoidable--a connection sparks between them. But just as they're getting close, Brad's estranged wife, Crystal, returns after abandoning the family two years earlier. Among the shock and confusion is one disturbing question Brad can't shake: How does Crystal know so much of his personal business, the inner working of the ranch, and Emily's relationship with his son?

Crystal must've had a plan, as she somehow gains the upper hand, driving a wedge in the emotional bond forged between Brad, Emily, and the children. The primary focus for care and therapy of three-year-old Trevor is diverted. The lengths to which Crystal will go, the lies, the greed, just to keep what's hers, are nothing short of cold and calculating. Emily's forced out of the house. Brad fights to save his boy, to protect what's his, and struggles over his greatest sacrifice--Emily, and the haunting question: Has he lost her forever?

More Praise for THE FORGOTTEN CHILD...

"Brilliant, there is no other word for it, heart grabbing, heart warming, gut wrenching, well written well researched, wanted to read it over & over again." Amazon Reviewer – Maureen

BLACK RAVEN'S REVIEWS - Ms. Eckhart has crafted a delightful story with engaging  characters, enough drama for a Hallmark movie, and enough unconditional love to last a lifetime.  ~Rated 5 Ravens and a Recommended Read by AJ!~ 

READERS FAVORITE *5 Star Review A real page turner ~ fast moving plot ~ a must read!
Reviewed by Brenda C. For Readers Favorite

I didn't expect I'd fall for the four main characters as hard as I did, but The Forgotten Child is an amazing book, not just for a romance fan like myself, but for single parents who may or  may not have a child with autism. ~ Reviewer ~ Adria

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Contemporary Western Romance

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Lorhainne Eckhart on Facebook & Twitter

The Colors of Friendship by K. R. Raye @KRRaye

Fortuitous Bumps 3

Melody checked her watch and then she did a sharp double-take.  How had four hours slipped past so quickly?  She couldn’t believe how fast she and Kevin had broken the ice.  They connected at once and talked, really talked, about everything: classes, parents, friends, dreams, and fears.  She felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought of their easy, refreshing evening coming to an end.  However, with the lateness of the hour she knew Imani would be worried.  “Oh my God, I need to get home before my roommate summons a search party.”

Kevin glanced at his watch.  “It’s 2:20?  Wow, I can’t believe you seduced me like that!”

“Yeah, right, you were definitely the one seducing me, making me lose track of time.”  She placed one hand over her chest and held the other by her head pretending to faint.  With her best Southern drawl she pronounced, “I was totally enraptured by your charm and captivated by your charisma, kind Sir.”

“Oh brother!”  Kevin laughed.  “Could you have been any further over the top?”  He stood, assisted Melody with her shoes and coat, threw on his jacket, and grabbed his books.  “Well, seeing as I’m such a gentleman, I have no choice but to walk you home, Little Lady.”

“Thank you, fine Sir.”  Melody accepted Kevin’s hand and he helped her downstairs.

They strolled out of the Union arm in arm into the cool, crisp night.  Neither talked, but instead smiled at each other from time to time.  The bright moon guided their steps along the path and Melody swore the stars winked down on them.  They arrived at her dorm room far too soon.  Reluctantly she released Kevin’s arm to wish him a good night.

Before she could say a word, he swooped in close.  Their noses almost touched and she could feel his breath tickle the fine little hairs above her lip.  He leaned down so their foreheads touched and he placed a protective arm around her shoulders.  “I know I’m being too forward, but I’ve told you more about myself tonight, than any ten friends know combined.  You sparked something in me when you knocked me down.  And I would be a little annoyed if you didn’t share these intense feelings—the ones consuming me now.”

Transfixed, Melody stood motionless at a loss for words.  Never before had she kissed a guy she just met, but she felt it inevitable.  Her heart leapt in her chest and the anticipation killed.

Kevin took her silence as acquiescence and teased her anxious lips with his soft kisses.  She couldn’t believe how magical the moment felt.  Her tongue willingly probed and parted his lips and then did a hesitant, searching dance with his minty tongue.  Her heart couldn’t stand much more and she pushed back, shocked that her lips were reluctant to follow.  She glanced at Kevin for a fleeting moment and rushed inside, closing the door behind her, not slowing until she had raced up the two flights to her room.  Only then, did she trust herself enough to stop.

Kevin probably thought she was a fool for running off leaving him standing there.  But sudden urges had overtaken her when they kissed and she wasn’t sure she could have stopped herself if she hadn’t left then and there.  What on earth was wrong with her?  This felt wonderful yet scary.  A guy had never affected her like this.  Deep inside, she couldn’t wait for more.  “Oh my, God, you’re such a harlot,” she mumbled to herself.  Taking a deep breath she unlocked the door and prayed Imani was asleep.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – New Adult, Contemporary

Rating – R

More details about the author

Connect with K R Raye on Facebook and Twitter

Website http://krraye.com/events.html

 

 

Quality Reads UK Book Club Disclosure: Author interview / guest post has been submitted by the author and previously used on other sites.

The Kings of Charleston (Vol. 1) - Kat H. Clayton

I stopped at the second floor and walked across a well-worn oriental rug on the landing. I made my way down the dark, narrow hallway, and peeked into the bedroom at the end of the hall. The walls were minty green with light pink silk drapes. I cringed and moved on. The next bedroom wasn’t much better, with busy red and white wallpaper that looked like something Grandmother Livingston would pick out for a china pattern.

I walked back down the hallway and entered the bedroom closest to the stairs that continued to wind up to the third floor. It had delicate pale gold wallpaper, and drapes that were done in a soft blue. The bedding on the king-size bed was a soft blue that matched the drapes. A plasma television hung above the fireplace. The room felt like an ethereal and calming piece of sky. I instantly felt a sense of peace I hadn’t felt since I found out about the move.

I dropped my backpack on the floor and walked into the attached bathroom. The floor and the walls were done in a soft cream tile, and matching blue bath mats were on the floor. They were just like the ones I had had in my bathroom. I seriously thought about hiding them under the bed to keep Mother from taking them away.

There was a large picture window over the Jacuzzi tub, which let in lots of light. I stepped into the tub with my shoes on and stared out into the very green, but disappointingly small, yard. It reminded me of a tiny English garden. There were several large oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, which looked like they were guarding the tiny yard with their skeletal limbs.

I drifted back into the bedroom, picked up my backpack, and pulled out a silver picture frame. I placed the framed picture of me with Wendy, my face nuzzled against her long mane of hair, on the white marble fireplace. My chest became tight as I stared at the photo and realized I wouldn’t be able to see any of the horses any time I wanted.

I heard the front door downstairs creak open and some chatter, then the stomping of feet up the stairs. I exited the bedroom to see Mother coming toward me, her necklaces jingling against her chest.

“Come downstairs, Casper, Mr. Roman and his family are here to meet us,” she said, batting her eyes at me.

Ah, I thought, Mr. Roman must have a wife, which is the reason for my mother’s sudden buzz of excitement. It must be someone she could build social circles with and use to start her party life all over. Great, I was now the only loner in the family.

We descended down the spiral of stairs. She clutched my hand, giving it a squeeze as the front foyer came into view. A man and a woman were chatting with Dad. As we walked closer, I noticed another individual standing in the shadows behind them. He was tall, handsome, and my age.

As we approached, Dad waved his hand out toward me. “Tyson, this is my daughter, Casper.”

“Hello,” I responded, and extended my hand to the debonair man.

He took my hand into his warm, dry grip and shook it like a well-trained politician. He would have definitely fit into the category of hot older men, along with Brad Pitt and George Clooney. I was immediately drawn to the sharp jaw line of his square face. He was very tan, which was only made more apparent by his white dress shirt. His eyes were a piercing light blue and his hair was a nice shade of dirty blonde.

“Hello, Casper,” he said in a commanding voice. He had a thick Southern drawl that reminded me of Bill Compton, the vampire from True Blood, but a little more elegant and genteel. He let go of my hand and waved toward the woman beside him. “This is my wife, Jillian.”

The elegant woman stepped forward. She was a tall, slender woman, who was a good two inches taller than me and my mother. She was wearing a linen suit that complimented her olive skin. Her face was shaped like a heart, with long black hair billowing around her elegant neck. I couldn’t help but stare at her Angelina Jolie lips and violet Elizabeth Taylor eyes. She took my hand and shook it once before letting it go. She didn’t say a word, but smiled, revealing her perfect white teeth.

Finally, the boy standing off to the side came up to me and I let out a heavy breath. He had definitely inherited his parents’ glamorous, beautiful genes.

“Hey, I’m Cal,” he said in a husky Southern accent.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – YA / Mystery / Suspense

Rating – PG13 (No sex scenes, some violence)

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Kat H Clayton on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://kathclayton.com/

Jack Canon’s American Destiny by Greg Sandora @gregsandora

CHAPTER ONE

I’ll never forget the look on my dad's face. We were stopped at a checkpoint by dangerous looking men in military uniforms. Soldiers hollering back and forth waiving weapons, searching through our things, taking anything they wanted. One guerilla was approached by an emaciated little boy with skin so thin it strained to cover his veins. Crying out, eyes bulging from hollow sockets, the child’s spindly arms grasped for the soldier’s leg. The helpless act was answered with the butt end of a rifle, sending the child violently to the ground. Semi convulsing, blood gushing from his head, the boy curled up in a tiny brown ball and went to sleep. At least that's what my mom told me.

That scene played over and over in my head growing up. It made me sad, but mostly furious, that life could be so unfair. Our family missionary trip to Africa meant to teach us love, compassion and understanding had burned a fire in my belly so intense it stayed with me throughout my life. Even at the tender age of ten, I knew someday I’d change this cruel and unjust world. That was forty years ago.

A long recession has brought desperate times. Many in the working middle class are unemployed or have fallen below the poverty line, millions have lost their homes. People lucky enough to have jobs are doing triple the load, working every day with a lump in their throat, feeling disposable, fearing they’re next. In a sick twist, Big Business and Big Banks got bailed out, but the government screwed the people. Honest Americans are feeling anxiety, shame and hopelessness as suicides, domestic violence, and homicides are climbing to an all time high.

Oh yeah, there are still plenty of guys buying Ferrari's, but the disparity between rich and poor has become obscene. The wealthy have become fatter, picking off the laboring carcass of a foreclosed middle class. The underlying greed is unconscionable.

I’m the Senior Democratic Senator from Kentucky. My name is John Canon; people call me Jack. Though my once brown hair has turned a little gray, I can’t complain, having served nearly three terms in the most powerful city on earth. I’ve gotten a bit softer around the middle, but I’ve learned good clothes can hide it. The biggest eye opener of my political career so far: an unsuccessful bid for the Presidency. It was a major shock to find out--what it’s really going to take--to fulfill my destiny:

To someday have the power, to dedicate the highest office in the land, to make things right. This time I’m all in.

Sandy Collins, my assistant, sticks her head in, peeking around the door, "Morning Jack, how you doing?”

“I’m alright, just working on some lines for my stump speech.” Sandy’s my right hand and more importantly my best friend. It only makes sense though, even at eight years old my best friend was a little girl, I just loved holding her hand.

Men are hard-wired to want women like Sandy. She’s a drop-dead knockout. She likes her high heels, which put her about five-nine, and wears her blonde hair straight, pulling it into a ponytail at least part of the day. Her only negative, she’s a bit naïve for someone turning thirty-seven.

“Jack, did you want me to do all your Christmas shopping again this year?” Sandy had great taste in gifts. She put a lot of thought into her choices, usually hitting a home run with my family, especially the kids. It’s like she was tuned in to what my girls would want.

Ignoring her question, “Listen to this,” speaking my notes as I’m writing, “this country is being run by elitists who could care less about ordinary Americans.”

I’d actually written, couldn’t give one sweet shit, but adjusted it for a broader audience.

“The system is badly broken, the wealthiest Americans have profited unfairly, taking advantage of an increasingly helpless public.”

Bud, my campaign manager, chief of staff, and close friend for the past 15 years, enters the office listening, mid-sentence.

“Devastated by the economy, the rich have gamed the system, bought everything up on the cheap. Greed threatens our way of life.”

Sandy commented, “It sounds so bleak Jack.”

“Jack, I’ve arranged for the transfers.”

Bud was being careful with Sandy in the room. He’d gotten me elected to the senate, but despite several tries going all the way back to McGovern he’d never won a presidential campaign.

“Bud, just say it straight, if we can’t trust Sandy we’re done already.”

“Alright Jack.” Bud turned to Sandy, “We got our asses handed to us the first time around cause Jack here didn’t want to break the law. This time I’m funneling huge donations into Super Pac’s that we’ll control. ”

“Bud, Sandy’s in the thick of this with us. Honey, you know we aren’t supposed to be getting the money for them. Let alone this crazy kind of money. If anyone finds out we’re all going to jail.”

Sandy said, “Give me some credit boys, I get it. Besides you’re only doing what everybody else does already.”

Bud cautioned, "Never before to this degree. When the Republicans are coming after us we’re gonna need every dime to fight off the attack.”

Politics is a tricky game and, lucky for me, Bud was an expert player. I’m excited to have a guy like him with only one thing left to prove. This was to be Bud’s last time out of the gate. His doctors told him his heart wasn’t up to handling the stress of another major campaign. He was willing to put it all on the line, because he believed in me, but deep down in my heart I knew that more than life itself, Bud Singer wanted to go out with the win.

Bud spent a lot of time on the cocktail circuit and at charity events rubbing elbows with the rich and famous, lining up contributions. He looked in Sandy’s direction, trying to engage her directly, “The Country my father knew was built on cheap energy. Families of the fifties could live well on one income. We took weekend joy rides in the country - in big heavy gas guzzlers, just for the fun of it.” He looked over at me then back to Sandy.

“Remember the station wagons Jack? People moved to the suburbs in droves. Our factories were busy making all kinds of products – Made in America was the sign of Quality. We were a nation of producers, not just consumers. That’s all changed now. This country is going to the dogs.”

Sandy wasn’t even faking interest in Bud today, she told me once he reminded her of a sinister figure, a shorter version of Orson Wells in a suit. Even when Bud worked at it, he never seemed to hold her attention for very long.

“Jack, I was serious before, do you want me to get started on your presents? I was in Macy’s the other day listening to Christmas music; it’s getting to be that time of year again.”

Sandy was making every effort to get my undivided attention; she stood right in front of me, bent over my laptop and looked chin out straight into my eyes, “Jack the store’s been decorated since Halloween.”

“We’ve still got over a month” – then I thought for a second.

“Yeah, maybe you could pick up a couple of gifts for the kids and help me with a few ideas for Kathy’s and I’ll go get those, myself.”

“Great Jack, I’ll put together a tentative list and we’ll go over it when you can focus.”

Sandy turned and did an exaggerated one-foot-crossing-the-other walk, accentuating her hip movements as she left the room. If she wasn’t getting my attention in the room, she was determined to get it going out.

Bud shook his head, “She’s a tease.”

“She’s right Bud, you don’t give her much credit, remember she graduated cum laude from Boston.”

“In journalism, for Pete’s sakes Jack, get real.”

“You just don’t like reporters.”

“No really, don’t you think it’s odd that in all the years you’ve known Sandy she’s never had a boyfriend. Hell, I don’t ever remember her having a date.”

“What are you getting at?”

“She’s a beautiful woman Jack, where I come from there’s a line around the block for a girl like that.”

“Well for one thing she never stops working, you know sometimes she’s texting me late into the evening.”

“She should put herself out there, get married.”

“I’ve begged her to take some time off but she never does.”

“What a waste.”

Bud was right, Sandy didn’t have much of a personal life; it was my fault, I had her managing both the Campaign Administrative Staff and the Senate Office.

“I never thought I’d say this, but we may be working the girl too hard, Jack.”

“I’ve taken her out a couple of times after work for Martinis.”

“Does she ever mention her personal life?"

“Not really, we talk mostly about work and me being president. She really wants it for me.”

Sandy usually accompanies me on business trips to help me stay organized. She’s a kindred spirit and knows first hand the difficulties of being a Senator.

“Jack, running for president can rip you apart if you are not ready. I just hope she understands that we’re in a dogfight, any misstep in this arena and they’ll eat us alive. You know how I worry.”

“Relax she knows we’ll do whatever it takes to win.”

“But can she keep it to herself?”

“Yeah, Bud, she’ll never betray my trust. Listen to this,” my reading glasses were hanging on my nose, “our mission is to take America back for the people.” I continued reading aloud.

“Big oil is causing the American Dream to fade away. Regular, hard-working, middle class families have lost their homes. The Government bailed out the banks but didn’t do a damn thing to help the people. We have become a nation of service providers, importing nearly everything we use. America is like a locomotive, once powerful, that has left the tracks, on a collision course with economic disaster.”

Bud said, “I like that line; it’s got powerful imagery. You didn’t really answer me though. Do you think she really gets it?”

“Bud, I think that little walk shook you up.”

“Why, do I seem fixated?”

“You can’t stop talking about her! Listen, we had a heart to heart a long time ago and I told her the game is rigged. To make a difference in this world, we’ve got to get our hands dirty, really dirty. Bud, I promise you she’s with us all the way to the White House.”

“Okay, I hope you’re right. I don’t want to see her on 60 minutes some night spilling her guts out about you.”

I wedged my feet on top of the desk, leaned back in my chair, and continued typing notes and reading them aloud; the thoughts were coming. “Recession President Gillard Barker, third year in office with nothing, no, scratch that… with little going right.”

Bud said, “Barker still thinks he can be re-elected. The power of the Presidency has to be intoxicating; it’s blinding him to reality.”

Barker said in an interview, ‘The Democrats’ dismal four years left such a bad taste with voters, it would take two Republican terms to wash it out.’

As Bud was walking toward the door, he chided, “I still think he’s a cocky bastard.”

I answered, “It happens, Bud. Look at Carter.”

Neither of us wanted to admit it, but many leaders in our own Party were afraid the president was right.

Buy Now @ Amazon & Smashwords

Genre – Political Thriller

Rating – PG

More details about the author

Connect with Greg Sandora on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.gregsandora.com/

Colorado Mandala by Brian Heffron

“Alan and I came up here last spring and jumped off the cliffs for accuracy. It was great trying to go straight through an inner tube jumping all the way from the top,” Michael said. “Too low for that this year, though. Bad luck!”

“Yeah, bad luck,” I said with sarcasm. Alan was probably Michael’s craziest old Colorado friend. I had been driving up here to this canyon all morning from Manitou Springs so I was looking forward to stretching my legs and uncramping my stiff muscles. Today’s boisterous outdoor activities were planned late, late last night at a bar table, which should explain a lot, including my cramped, water-starved muscles.

“This is it,” Said Michael. “We’re almost there.”

The cliffs rose on both sides. On our left, the steep red rocks plunged straight to the road’s edge. On the far shore, the cliff face rose sheer from the foaming rapids. The stream thinned and accelerated through this new alley-like narrows. I tried to estimate the depth of the water, to see if it could ever be safe to jump from the top. No, it seemed much too shallow, perhaps from halfway up.

“This is it,” said Michael. “Right there, see the white water? Well, it spills out into a slow pool and then you can ride it all the way down.”

I slowed down and pulled off the road onto a narrow shoulder where I parked in the shade of an overhanging ledge. The kid, who I had only met today, took off as soon as I stopped. He hadn’t said much during the whole trip up, but just sat smiling. I figured he was just shy.

Michael and I were in long pants and had to change. Sarah followed our thirsty dog Strider down to the stream’s edge where he drank deeply. I peeled off my jeans and put on my climbing shorts. My legs felt great to be unfettered. After we had both changed we got the truck tire inner tube off the jeep roof and walked upstream high above the water. On a huge boulder along the river we passed about ten Denver teenagers. Almost all of them were wearing sailor’s watch caps. They thought that made them look tough; a few were playing guitars, and all were drunk and loud.

We left the road and made our way toward a crack in the cliff. It became a loose shale path leading steeply down to the torrent. Michael hurried down, jumping from rock to smooth rock, all the while rolling the wide inner tube in front of him. He pulled up short of rushing in and slowly dipped his foot into the water.

“Ahhh,” he grimaced, “it’s freezing!”

Just under six feet tall, Michael was an extremely striking figure. He had a shock of rebellious dirty blonde hair that cascaded to his shoulders. His eyes were an intense shade of flinty gray that shined out from young crows’ feet like a lantern light in darkness. His face was like a nervous animal’s, moving, twitching, and seemingly always ready for any action. He instantly jumped on the inner tube and paddled out into the fastest part of the current, his back muscles undulating with the effort. He soon left my sight, bouncing down over a roller coaster of white water, yelling.

His husky voice soon faded away in the fleeting foam. The shore’s thick dust clung to my feet and itched. I waded in to my knees; the water was chilling cold, a shimmering white reflection of the sky above. The bottom was covered with smooth worry-stone pebbles and sloped away into a sharp V. The stream was about thirty feet across at that point. In the center the current was the slowest, although still fairly fast. The water rushed along both sides of my rapidly numbing and whitening climber’s legs. It felt wonderful though, and thoroughly purged whatever was left of my hangover. I squatted down and splashed my face in the icy water.

Presently I saw Stuart coming down from the road with the inner tube. He slid like a skier in the loose gravel. His long straight hair was the exact same shade as his mother’s. He had a habit of flicking his bangs out of his eyes with a short swift shake of his sandy head.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Literary Fiction

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Brian Heffron on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.brianheffron.net/brianheffron.net/Welcome.html

Time Killer by Todd M. Thiede

“Hey, Max, come in here, would you?” Captain Perry calls out.

Max holds up his finger. He wraps up his call with his mom and heads to Perry’s office.

He walks into the Captain’s office to the sounds of ‘oooohs’ and ‘aaaahs’ of the other detectives. He even hears one of them say, “Nice working with ya, Max. Good luck!” He waves his hand in dismissal at the guys.

As he heads towards the back offices, he calls, “Hey, Captain. I was just planning on going to the gym for a quick workout. Can this wait for thirty minutes?” The captain denies his request.

Max is always impressed by the numerous awards and commendations on the Captain’s office wall, including a Purple Heart from Vietnam. He thinks, if I had a dollar for every time the Captain told me the story of how he got that Purple Heart, I could have retired already.

Although Max has been a detective now for six years, he still gets butterflies every time he goes into the Captain’s office. Like a kid getting called into the principal’s office. “What did I do this time, Cap?” Max says with a chuckle.

“It isn’t what you did. It is more of what I am going to do to you,” Captain Perry says with a grin. “You are getting a new partner today.”

Max drops his head and shoulders and slowly shakes his head from side to side. “You know I work better alone. Can’t you give McCarren the rookie? He needs a partner bad. If not just for the help on his cases, how about just to babysit him, you know hold his hand, give him a pacifier, that type stuff?” He winks at Perry.

The Captain assumes a serious face and leans forward, “Look Max, you haven’t had a partner for two years now. Ever since Curtis suddenly decided to move to L.A. I mean, come on. He was a detective here for over ten years and then after only six months of working with you, he feels the need to move to a warmer climate. You are getting this partner no matter what. Besides she has a lot in common with you.”

Captain Perry barely finishes his sentence before Max cuts him off. “She? Are you kidding me? I graduated top of my class at the academy. I was a patrol officer for only one year and then I became the youngest detective in town at the age of 23. I have been your best detective ever since then. For the past six years, I have solved your toughest cases and, with the exception of Curtis, I have been pretty fair with my fellow detectives.”

“Someday, Max, you are going to have to explain to me what happened with Curtis. He said it had nothing to do with you and you deny it as well, but I still think something fishy went on,” Perry says.

“Six years, Captain! Six great years and this is how you repay me?” Max’s resentment is clear in his voice.

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Mystery / Thriller

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Todd M. Thiede on Facebook & Twitter

Website http://www.toddthiede.com/

Poison Pill by MA Granovsky (Excerpt)

***

Olga Mueller was thrilled to learn she’d be able to upgrade to business class on her flight to Istanbul. She took it as a sign that the rest of her airport and flight experiences would be just as easy, and indeed, she breezed through security in five minutes, leaving her with almost three hours to wander around the dingy corridors or sit in the worn out chairs near the gate.

Neither the shabbiness of the airport nor the ridiculousness of its ever-changing security regulations could dampen her mood at that moment. She had time to herself, a rarity in Olga’s world. The fact that she wasn’t at work and couldn’t reasonably be expected to cater to every whim of whatever stray partner who wanted something from her felt like an exotic luxury. She was giddy with possibilities. She could read a book; she could sit and do nothing; she could drink coffee and eat a donut without the crumbs littering a work document.

Olga was an attorney at Kress, Rubinoff & Twist PLLC. With a web of eight offices spanning six continents, 612 attorneys, 1058 support staff, and $2.8 M in average annual profits per partner, Kress Rubinoff was at the top of the global legal food chain. As an associate, Olga was expected to be available 24/7, carry her firm-issued BlackBerry at all times, and check it at least once an hour. There were few acceptable exceptions to this rule but an international flight still qualified as one such bona fide reason to disconnect.

The BlackBerry vibrated and blinked its red eye from the outside pocket of her handbag, reminding Olga that the international flight exception unfortunately didn’t encompass the time in the airport prior to embarkation. Her jaw clenched as she debated whether she could get away with ignoring the incoming messages. But reflex won out and, instead of shutting her BlackBerry off, she began scrolling through the twenty-seven new messages that had queued up while she was checking in and going through security.

Ignoring all firm-wide messages not directed at her specifically, Olga concentrated on the eight that were sent only to her. One was from her friend Cindy, asking if she had time to go to dinner that evening, and seven were from Eric McIvor, the partner she worked with most. Olga chose to read and answer Cindy’s message first.

“Would love to go to dinner,” she typed, “but am at JFK, flying to Istanbul, where will be pulling ten-hour days sorting boring, dusty & useless docs for pending litigation. Will be in Istanbul and will have no chance to see any sights. Can you tell I’m bitter?”

While waiting for Cindy’s reply, in which Cindy would be duty-bound as a friend and fellow attorney to offer unqualified commiseration, Olga began reviewing McIvor’s messages, by now numbering twelve, with the last four carrying a red exclamation mark denoting high priority.

Honestly, he’s like a child, she thought. When McIvor wanted something it had to be done that instant. She moved to the nearest seat, dropped the laptop case onto it, then sat on the edge of the adjacent seat. Chewing on a nail absentmindedly, she started reading McIvor’s messages.

They made no sense to her. They concerned some case she wasn’t involved in, one in which the parties had apparently finally settled. He was directing her to drop everything, review and mark up the draft settlement agreement attached to his first e-mail, and send him the marked-up version with whatever changes she thought were needed. The rest of the messages were iterations of the same thing, each more hysterical in tone than the last.

The man has some kind of chemical imbalance, Olga thought, not for the first time. Here she was, at the airport, ready to fly to Turkey on another of McIvor’s cases and she was supposed to review a 64-page settlement agreement negotiated in a case she knew nothing about, then opine on the suitability of its provisions in a neatly typed, well-reasoned e-mail, suitable for forwarding to the client.

Giving McIvor the benefit of the doubt, Olga decided he must have forgotten which of his associates worked on which of his cases. Therefore, she responded to his last e-mail by explaining that it wasn’t her case, that it was Robert’s. McIvor replied almost instantly. “I know. I want you to look at the settlement agreement. Do you have a problem with that?”

Olga did have a problem with that. Or several. She debated whether to elaborate by e-mail or chance a tongue lashing from the increasingly irate McIvor by calling him. Her fear of McIvor’s temper won. She spent the next several minutes explaining where she was and why she couldn’t do what he was asking of her. Then she changed the settings of her BlackBerry to “quiet,” so it only blinked but no longer vibrated with each new incoming message, and dropped it into the depths of her handbag. She knew that her refusal to further engage with McIvor was an act of grand disobedience and that her chances of continuing employment with Kress Rubinoff were diminishing with each such display of attitude, but she no longer cared. She was tired.

Olga tried to get back the sense of exhilaration she had before becoming aware of McIvor’s e-mails, but to no avail. She couldn’t rid herself of the mounting mixture of stress and anger that was by now shaking her physically. She decided to find a bar and down a double vodka to calm her nerves. Normally, she would have rejected this option for fear of slowly descending into the attorney alcoholic cliché she never wanted to become. But this time her state was unusually acute, coming as it did on the tail of a period in which she had worked thirty-eight fifteen-hour days in a row. She gathered her belongings and walked to the nearest saloon.

Climbing onto a bar stool, Olga reflexively fished out her blinking BlackBerry but willed herself to leave it on the bar rather than read the incoming messages. She rotated it so its evil red eye faced away from her and ordered her double shot of Smirnoff.

While waiting for her vodka to be poured, Olga swiveled around to survey her fellow patrons. The man sitting one seat over from her looked familiar. She noticed he was reading a book titled Advances in Turkish Metallurgy, Twelfth Century B.C. to the Present, and that helped place him as the man who had glared at her so disapprovingly while checking in at the business class counter. By his looks, she didn’t peg him to be Turkish.

As friendly a person as Olga was generally, she tended to keep to herself with strangers, especially the good-looking ones, like her fellow barfly. She’d already noticed his height and his athletic build and admired his easy gait as he walked away from the check-in counter, but now she had an opportunity to observe him in greater detail. By the lines forming on his face and his tan, she guessed he was in his mid-thirties and loved the outdoors. His hands were finely shaped, with long fingers, and no wedding ring or indentation or tan line where one would have been. Just then, the man turned to speak with the bartender and Olga was struck anew by the unusually dark grey color of his eyes, and by their coldness.

But the grey-eyed man was her only viable option for a conversation partner. She weighed her discomfort at speaking to someone that striking and unfriendly against her discomfort at drinking alone, and the latter won. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, she thought, while downing her double shot in one gulp. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to face her target.

“Hi!” she began brightly, only to earn a scowl and a withering flash of the man’s eyes, leading her to finish in a much quieter tone. “We’re on the same flight.”

“So are hundreds of other passengers,” the man responded and turned back to his book. Olga blushed and was mortified to feel her eyes smarting as she hurried to turn away. She hadn’t expected her opening to go that badly.

The man glanced over at her, taking in the empty shot glass standing in front of her just as it was making friends with a fresh, full one, and appeared to soften. “I apologize. That was rude even by my standards. Rough day?” he asked, indicating the shot glasses with his chin.

“You could say that. And apology accepted. For the record, I don’t make it a habit to speak to strangers in bars. Chatting with you was supposed to provide the illusion that this is a social drink and not an I-will-crawl-out-of-my-skin-with-stress-unless-I-have-a-shot drink.”

The man hesitated a moment, deciding between brushing Olga off and continuing their interaction. With a sigh, he marked the page where he stopped reading with a bar napkin and turned back to Olga. A hint of a smile lit his face as he extended his hand. “I’m Benedict. If nothing else, you do have a novel approach to conversations.”

“If you chat with me long enough, you’ll experience all sorts of nonsensical and non-linear discussions, I promise. I’m Olga.” They shook hands and Olga was surprised by the calluses on his palm. She didn’t guess him to be a man who earned his living by hard physical labor.

“Isn’t your BlackBerry company enough for you? It’s been blinking nonstop since you sat down.”

“The BlackBerry is not company, or at least not friendly company.” She picked up the device and scrolled through the new messages. “In fact, it’s the source of the trauma that has led me to drink this afternoon. I’m communicating with my deranged boss. Or to be more accurate, he’s communicating with me. Now in all capitals. Bolded.”

“What about?” asked Benedict, appearing genuinely interested in her answer. Olga obliged with a short description of her back and forth with McIvor. She heard her cell phone ring, but by the time she fished it out of her bag, the call had gone to voicemail. She recognized the number as McIvor’s and vacillated about whether to listen to the message.

“Was that him?” Benedict asked, then took a sip of his martini.

Olga nodded in response.

“Go on then, put him on speaker. I’d love to hear what this ogre sounds like.”

“If you insist.” Olga accessed her voicemail without much enthusiasm.

“Olga, this is Eric. I’m sick of the fucking attitude you’re giving me here. I don’t give a shit where you are, what you’re doing, how you’re feeling, or what else you’ve got going on. You’re my associate, and you do what I tell you to do. If I tell you to wipe my goddamned ass you ask what brand of toilet paper you should use. Now go find a fucking printer, mark up the proposed settlement agreement and get it back to me before your flight leaves. We’re talking about hundreds of millions of dollars of the client’s money here. For once, just show a little dedication to your job. Please.”

Olga felt rage welling up, but was distracted by Benedict’s laughter. She glared at him only to feel her anger dissolve as she realized just how absurd it all must sound to any sane listener. She couldn’t help but laugh then, too.

“I don’t know why it’s funny,” she said. “I could lose my job over this. It doesn’t matter how irrational his demands are. He owns me.”

“You must admit that the toilet paper brand comment is an interesting update on the ‘I say jump and you ask how high’ adage,” answered Benedict. “And he does not own you. As a lawyer you of all people should know that slavery was outlawed here a while back.”

“Sorry, I need to deal with this right now before it spirals out of control any further. When the bartender comes back this way, can you please order me another double shot and a Cobb salad?” She slid off the stool and headed to an empty corner with her cell phone, noticing with satisfaction that Benedict swiveled to watch her depart.

***

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Legal Thriller

Rating – PG

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Maria Granovsky on Twitter & GoodReads

Here Among Us by Maggie Harryman (Excerpt)

Chapter Two

Flynn rang the bell and then waited while snow tumbled down through the glaring beam of the overhead light. Footsteps started and stopped on the other side of the imposing mahogany doors and she imagined her sister primping one last time before the hall mirror until Maeve opened the door and the light from the hall’s extravagant crystal chandelier spilled over them. When their eyes met, Flynn was sure she saw her sister’s mouth twitch the way it had when they were children and she was forced to do something she dreaded, then her lips parted to reveal a brilliant, artificially-whitened smile.

“Welcome,” she said, encircling Didi in her arms. “You must be exhausted. Come in.”

Didi let out a howl of delight, forgetting her grief and exhaustion. “Aunt Maeve you look wonderful,” she said, leaving her duffel on the step for Flynn to drag in.

Although Flynn had been hoping Maeve had let herself go in the ensuing three years, become lumpy and misshapen, finally suffering the relentless tug of gravity that would have savaged the perfect tip of her nose into a droopy ball, puffed her hollowed cheeks, caved and circled her wide set eyes with dark shadows, even she had to admit her daughter was right. Maeve hadn’t changed one iota, not aged a day, in years.

Standing in the soft hall light, she was more beautiful, more regal at forty-seven then she had been at thirty. Certainly, she was more self-possessed. No, Maeve’s looks hadn’t faltered with time, appeared concrete and intractable in fact, and once again Flynn was forced to recognize one of life’s most annoying truths—by some freak accident of birth, Maeve had inherited every possible genetic marker for beauty available to the human race and been stunning since just about the day she was born. Reaching 5’9” sometime in her mid-teens and never weighing more than 130 pounds, she had thick honey blonde hair, streaked with shades of red and brown, lime green eyes, their mother’s high cheekbones and perfect aquiline nose and their father’s strong jaw. Maeve’s beauty had eclipsed any woman she ever stood next to and as her plainer sister, Flynn had disappeared into her shadow. The way families do, roles were divinely parsed out; Maeve was the beauty and Osheen, the athlete. With few choices left and a natural affinity, Flynn had carved her own niche in their family as the smart one, even while absorbing two of life’s most facile lessons early on; the sort of exquisite beauty with which Maeve had been blessed was the ultimate prize and gifts allotted at birth were in no way fair. By the time Flynn had reached high school, she’d given up wondering how it was that her parents had created the most talked about beauty for miles around and only four years later produced another daughter who was described by those same Maeve admirers as “pleasant to look at.” Long before high school Flynn had already learned the valuable lesson that in life, fair was rarely part of the equation.

While the entire world bowed to Queen Maeve, there were only two people Flynn had ever known who were unimpressed—Osheen and their mother. Osheen never noticed his older sister was any different from any other girl. As to Oona, whenever someone commented about Maeve’s looks she either remained stubbornly mute, denied them altogether or said, “I suppose God gives us the gifts we need most to get through this awful life.” What the hell did she mean, Flynn often wondered, that Maeve needed her beauty because, God help her, a life of comfort and leisure awaited her?

But then, she’d done the same thing to Flynn, downplaying how easy is was for her to excel in school. Even when Flynn had gotten a near perfect score on her SATs, Oona had asked her high school guidance counselor how a test offered to anyone who could pay the fee to take it could be all that difficult. It wasn’t until years later when Flynn realized this reshaping of reality was Oona’s way of never playing favorites, ensuring, she thought, neither girl would suffer the jealousy that tore sisters apart. It hadn’t worked. For most of their lives, there had been something solid and razor sharp wedged between them that had nothing to do with beauty or intellect. If Maeve had been as plain as a doorknob and Flynn as dumb as a post, they still wouldn’t have gotten along.

But Maeve adored Didi.

“Deirdre, you’ve grown a foot since I saw you last. You’re gorgeous!” Maeve turned her around to face the hall mirror and stood behind her, gently pulling back her shoulders just as their mother had. Flynn wondered if Maeve dared comment on the pierced brow.

“I think…no I know, you’re going to be far prettier than I ever was.”

Flynn watched as Didi tried to smooth the thick mane she generally refused to brush. “Really Aunt Maeve?” she said, still gazing ahead.

“Yes, really. And look at your figure. Do you work out? Tell me you do or I’ll die of jealousy. I have to see you in clothes.”

Flynn watched the smile on her daughter’s face fade. No mention of the nose piercing but a dig at her clothes? This could get interesting. One wrong word about her clothes and enlightened Deirdre would hand Maeve her head.

“Clothes? What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Absolutely nothing. I love your look. In fact there’s a shop in the Village called Zap that has the most delightful…”

“You know ZAP?” she said. And then, looking to her aunt with a degree of admiration Flynn didn’t think her daughter capable of she asked, “Do you shop there?”

Flynn almost laughed aloud. ZAP sold a mixture of new and used clothing, the more ripped, frayed and generally trashed the better. They didn’t carry cashmere sweater sets.

“I think it’s a little young for me but I can’t wait to take you there. It’s the least I can do to reward you for your brilliance. Your grandmother tells me you’re at the top of your class.”

Didi smiled sweetly, “Oh yeah, I am. In fact, I’m ahead so this year I’m doing independent study. Gives me options,” she said.

Maeve smiled into the mirror. “One can never have enough of those.”

Flynn had finally had enough and interrupted. “We may not have time,” she said, and Didi shot her a look as though surprised she had been followed from the airport.

“Really, mom? We have five days.”

Buy Now @ Amazon

Genre – Literary Fiction

Rating – R (Strong language, adult themes)

More details about the author & the book

Connect with Maggie Harryman on Facebook