A few years ago, I watched a Hindi language, historical epic film called Jodhaa Akbar, starring Bollywood superstars Hrithik Roshan and Aishwarya Rai Bachchan.  As a librarian with a graduate degree in European history, I was intrigued by the 16th century historical detail in the film.  And I completely swooned over the beauty and charisma of the lead actors.  Being a film geek, I began to explore the Bollywood film genre.  I was, admittedly, drawn first to the beautiful costumes and song picturizations, but I soon found myself just as interested in the cultures of India.  I began to read non-fiction on modern India and watch Indian films (in Hindi and other regional languages) that went beyond the typical Bollywood masala formula.  Still, my favorite Indian films (and the ones I watch over and over) will always be Bollywood romances.  As a lifelong romance reader, I think this makes perfect sense.  There’s nothing as wonderful or satisfying as a delightful, fluffy romantic comedy or an angst-ridden, passionate romantic drama whether in print or on the screen.

My reading interests have paralleled my interests in Indian films and I’ve read several non-fiction titles on India and literary fiction by South Asian authors.  However, I’ve had to be very creative in locating mainstream romances with South Asian settings and/or South Asian characters, especially contemporary titles.  I’ve also received many recommendations from members of the romance reading community.  The following are titles that I’ve enjoyed with a strong romantic element and they represent a variety of genres including chick-lit, historical fiction, literary fiction, and traditional romances (category, paranormal, historical, etc.).

The Zoya Factor by Anjua Chauhan

Published by Harper Collins in India, this is the sweet and hilarious story of an advertising executive who becomes the “lucky charm” for India’s cricket team during the ICC World Cup.  She finds romance with the captain of the team.  There are several untranslated Hindi phrases in this book and some very specific cultural references that will be lost to most Western readers, but I still highly recommend it, especially if you’re interested in how an Indian author takes on the chick-lit format.  I also enjoyed Advaita Kala’s Almost Single, another chick-lit title by an Indian author, reviewed here at DA.

AmazonBook Depository

Saris and the City by Rekha Waheed

This Little Black Dress UK title written by a British author of Bangladeshi descent is a traditional chick lit story of a career-minded woman dealing with her conservative Bengali family’s demands and her attraction to the typical rich and gorgeous hero.

AmazonBook Depository

The Twentieth Wife by Indu Sundaresan

In this first in a historical trilogy about Mughal India, the love story of protagonist Mehrunnisa and Prince Salim is a blend of historical fact and romantic fiction.  This book piqued my interest in historical romance written by Indian authors and I recently stumbled upon a series of historical romances called Kama Kahani published by Random House India and written by Indian authors. The series, including titles like Kiran Kohl’s Passion in the Punjab, can be found through Amazon.co.uk.  They have beautiful covers and I particularly love the series’ taglines printed above the back cover blurb: “Are you a spirited beauty, your fire contained – buy only just – by the clinging brocade of your lehnga’s choli? A delicious Kama Kahani is sure to strike your fancy.”

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The Stolen Bride by Abby Green

Several years ago, Mills & Boon began to increase their presence in India and to search for promising Indian authors for their lines.  To date, two Mills & Boon titles by Indian authors have been published but they’re hard to find outside of India.  So, in the meantime, we’ve had some other interesting developments in the M&B/Harlequin Presents line, such as the late Penny Jordan’s 2008 title featuring an Indian hero and several more titles by other authors featuring characters of South Asian descent.  As a sometimes reader of the Presents line, I have enjoyed Abby Green’s The Stolen Bride and its Bollywood actress heroine and cringed at other lazier titles that simply shift the overplayed “sheikh romance” formula to the Indian setting.  I’ve also been inspired to collect vintage Harlequins and other category titles that are set in India (I’ve only found a couple that actually feature heroes or heroines of South Asian descent).  A pleasant older Harlequin Presents title set in India is Jayne Bauling’s Sophisticated Seduction (#25), published in 1996.

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The Mango Season by Amulya Malladi

In this literary fiction title, Indian born-Denmark based author Malladi writes a moving depiction of a young Indian woman’s struggles with her parents’ demand for an arranged marriage and her love of an American man.

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Finally, the following titles, which have been recommended here and elsewhere numerous times, should also be mentioned:

The Duke of Shadows by Meredith Duran

Historical romance partially set in India, with Anglo-Indian hero.

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Not Quite a Husband by Sherry Thomas

The 1890s northern Indian setting of this much-praised historical is superbly drawn.

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Demon Moon by Meljean Brook

A paranormal with a heroine of Indian descent, this is one of many examples of the culturally diverse heroes and heroines that have become happily commonplace in paranormals over the last several years.

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Sexy as Hell by Susan Johnson

The Bruxton Street Bookstore series has been a bit of a guilty pleasure for me.  This title features Osmond, Baron Lennox, a hero of Anglo-Indian descent who grew up in Hyderabad and now owns India’s largest bank.  Johnson excels at interesting and unusual historical detail, but it’s often overshadowed by her steamy content.

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These are just a few titles that have stood out for one reason or another in my search for romance with a South Asian flair.  I hope that these recommendations will lead to even more recommendations from other Dear Author readers.  Happy reading!

Related posts:

1. If You Like Books About Characters with Disabilities
2. Dear Author Recommends for March
3. REVIEW: The River Devil by Diane Whiteside

Name of debut release: The Haunting of Maddy Clare

Release date: 03/06/2012

Publisher: NAL

2 sentence summary: In 1920′s England, a girl working for a temp agency is assigned to be assistant to a ghost hunter. When they investigate the ghost of a dead servant named Maddy Clare, they get more than they bargained for.

Genre: Gothic, romance, mystery, historical, paranormal

Characters: Sarah Piper is a shy, lonely temp who is swept up in her very first ghost hunting case. Alistair Gellis is a young, rich, eccentric World War I vet who is obsessed with ghosts. Matthew Ryder is Alistair’s assistant – dark, damaged, and haunted by his war experiences.

What makes this story different: It’s a mix of genres. It’s a gothic ghost story, set in the 1920′s, with a romance and a mystery in it as well. The ghost story is the chilling, old-fashioned kind and it’s blended equally with the other elements.

Is this a series?:

Why you wrote this book: I love ghost stories, but most pure ghost stories don’t have a romance plot. I love old-school gothics and wanted to read one that was creepy and scary and romantic at the same time. I couldn’t find exactly what I wanted to read, so I wrote it myself!

Why is this your first published book? How many did you write before? I wrote two full manuscripts and half of a third before this one. The first two were rejected everywhere. I was halfway through my third manuscript and really struggling with it when the idea for this book came to me and wouldn’t let go.

As for why it was published, I think that the top reason was that after two and a half manuscripts, I found a voice that really worked for me. Once I settled into my voice, the writing flowed more easily and got noticed by first an agent, then an editor.

What’s your writing process? I have a day job so currently my writing process is “any way I can, at any time I can scrounge.” I usually start a manuscript longhand in a spiral notebook, because it’s easiest to carry everywhere and never runs low on batteries. Commuter trains, lunch breaks, whatever it takes. Once I have a good handle on what the book will be, I sit down at a computer and type.

When I’m on deadline, it consumes all of my evenings and weekends. I haven’t watched television in well over a year!

Your next published book. An Inquiry into Love and Death, NAL, March 2013

The last book you read that you loved. Just one? Oh gosh. Dark Road to Darjeeling, by Deanna Raybourn. Can’t Buy Me Love, by Molly O’Keefe. And yes, I just cheated.

The last book you read for research. Aside from dry World War I texts? The Pursuit of Love, by Nancy Mitford. Anything about or by the Mitfords is not only great research for the early twentieth-century era, but incredibly entertaining as well.

The romance book character you most identify with. Any Mary Stewart heroine ever. If I had to pick a favorite, possibly Nicola Ferris in the Moon-Spinners or Vanessa March in Airs Above the Ground.

You can check out more about Simone St. James and her books at http://www.simonestjames.com

Related posts:

1. Debut Print Book: The Wedding Beat by Devan Sipher
2. Debut Print Book: Don’t Let Me Go by J.H.Trumble
3. Debut Print Book: Under the Same Sky by Genevieve Graham

To avoid a repeat of that tl:dr trauma, and because I am a Geek and a Nerd and a Dork with NO LIFE, I decided take the opportunity to use a social media site I’ve been dying to try. Because this is ALL. ABOUT. ME.

Read With Me Vicariously: Live-Tweeting & Storifying Badass by Sable Hunter

Prologue and Chapter 1
In which a Texas preacher’s daughter runs away to Shady Lady Ranch in Nevada for Self-Imposed Slutification under the tutelage of mentors Destiny, Desiree, Roxy and Claret.

Chapter 2
In which newly-slutified Avery Rose Sinclair and her pink Miss Kitty sleeping bag and her pink Miss Kitty suitcase full of sex toys arrive back in Kerrville on a Harley Sportster. Bar fight, blow job in hotel room, ecstasy, hero leaves.

Chapter 3
In which our heroine displays her Shady Lady Stripper Skillz, news of Slutification hits local headlines, deflowering occurs and our hero shows his true colors as a Manwhore McCoy.

Chapter 4
In which our heroine outs herself as an erotica writer named SABLE HUNTER and then gets a microphone stuck in her mouth.

Chapter 5
In which we enjoy granny panties, Braveheart, bacon and glitter.

Chapter 6
In which we meet villain-bait stock characters, enter our hero’s Secret Basement Playroom, push up through the Valley of Delight, rejoice in our heroine’s expanded vocabulary, and get called up to the Big Leagues of Sex. Also, plot moppet puts Sub collar on family dog.

Chapters 7 & 8
In which I attempt to distract myself from Tuesday’s clusterf–k in North Carolina with a hermaphrodite, sex on a mechanical bull, ooey-gooey pumpkin butter cake, some unexpected and inexplicably good writing (!) which segues into bizarre POV switching with the family dog, then yet another Tebow kidnapping but this time foiled by family dog, and, finally, swelling organs during HEA.

I just saved you about 15 pages of narrative plot recap. You’re welcome.

First impressions….

I didn’t hate it. I even LIKED parts of it. I’m in Book Review Purgatory, actually considering a C- grade. But what if my enthusiasm is merely disguised relief that it wasn’t a FLAMING CESSPOOL OF CRAP like the last book? I need to think about this. My worldview has been disrupted. My personal paradigm has shifted. I might need a sabbatical in Kerrville, Texas, to reconnect with my Inner Bitch Goddess.

If my doctor does recommend Cowboy Immersion Therapy, my first shrine of worship will be Hardbodies Bar. If they don’t have Isaac’s black leather Dom hood with the Tebow Rockin’ T ranch brand embossed on the forehead on display, I’m going to be REALLY disappointed.

Also, I’m 99 percent sure that me and the mechanical bull should stay far, far apart. But what’s a mental health sabbatical without a visit to the emergency room?

Let’s make it a road trip. You know you want to come with me. No, wait, a bus trip. That way we can drink heavily and let someone else do the driving.

Second thoughts….

It’s going to have to be a D+. *sigh*

I wanted to give Isaac a C, I really did. He is by far the most evolved male in the family. We have the usual “baby” talk, but for the most part he treats Avery as an equal in the relationship, even conceding her power as a submissive over him in their sexual encounters. He thinks she looks sexy in her flannel granny nightgown. He teases her, but he respects her. I know, right???

Also, he feeds the dog under the dinner table, and I’m a complete sucker for that sort of thing.

Our heroine Avery Rose continues the painful Hell Yeah! tradition of naïve, childlike virgins. But in this case, her backstory actually makes sense – she’s a “church mouse” who’s been overprotected and repressed by her ultra-conservative parents. She might be a bit of a dumbass in stressful situations (see below) but she’s not a doormat:

“Do I need to remind you that just a couple of days ago; you couldn’t wait to see the last of me? Do you think I’m stupid? It doesn’t take a genius to know the only reason you want to marry me is because you feel guilty.”

For the first time in the Hell Yeah! series, I felt a real connection between the hero and heroine. Their struggles were much less manufactured than in the previous books – they’ve lusted after each other for years, and they both think they’re not good enough for the other. They’re both willing to adapt to make the relationship work, and not just in the bedroom.

The Bad Sex is considerably toned down in this volume, as is the rampant infantilization I found so appalling in the previous books. Oh, there’s misogyny all right, but only a small part of it comes from the hero or his brothers (see “Humiliations Galore” below).

But before we address that issue – again – let’s take a look at an excerpt from the beginning of Chapter 8:

The scene: Bro # 2 Jacob (he who rescues naked pregnant virgins) confronting Bro #5 Noah (the Uptight Self-Righteous Accountant) about Noah’s knee-jerk condemnation of our hero Isaac:

Jacob: “Your brother is a damn good man. He may walk to the beat of a different drummer – but so do you. And I hate to tell you this, but I much prefer his cadence to yours….”

Noah: “Jacob, I…”

Jacob: “No, let me finish. I don’t often speak my peace – and this has got to be said. I love you and I have forgiven you, but I can’t completely forget that your reluctance to accept Jessie almost cost her life – and me my world. You push too hard, Noah. You’re too unyielding. You think you have all the answers and like black and white are the only two colors in the rainbow. Even you have to admit – you were wrong about Jessie, as wrong as wrong can be. And you’re wrong about Isaac and Avery. After Jessie was kidnapped, it was Isaac who stuck with me through thick and thin. He never left my side. I don’t discount what you did – you fixed up the nursery for her and you were the first on the scene and were wounded so that she could be saved. But – and this is a big but – it wouldn’t have happened at all, not like it did, if you hadn’t interfered and said things that made her believe I didn’t love her. Now, you’ve pushed Isaac away and he, in turn, has pushed Avery aside. What if they’re supposed to be together and what if your unyielding spirit and narrow-minded bullshit tears Isaac from our lives and destroys their happiness? How would you feel then?”

Where the HELL YEAH! did that come from? Except for the peace/piece thing and some odd punctuation, that right there is pretty damn decent writing. Stuff like that pops up out of nowhere in all four books – it’s like there are two different people writing them. Or maybe one person with multiple personalities.

Or maybe the author is teasing me on purpose just to fuck with my head.

Which brings me back to the downgrade to D+. Despite the much-improved characters and plot, and a few other flashes of good writing, the frequent applications of excruciating drivel completely ruin the credibility and likeability.

Ultimately, this book gets sucked back down into the author’s inevitable death spiral of insulting misogyny wrapped in cutesy twaddle. For example….

Self-Imposed Slutification: A Girl’s Guide to Gittin’ Girly

Step 1: Determine your goal.

The way she saw it – she had a choice. She could either give up on Isaac McCoy, forever, or she could attempt to transform herself into a woman he could be attracted to.

In other words, she’s Sandy from Grease!.

Step 2: Apply for admission.

“Operator. May I assist you?”

She took a deep breath and plunged in. “Yes ma’am, I’m looking for a number in Nevada for the Shady Lady Ranch.”

There was a pause and then the grandmotherly sounding operator had to put her two cents in. “Honey, you have a sweet little voice. I can tell you’re a nice girl. Do you realize you are enquiring about the number for a house of ill repute?”

Avery cleared her throat, stuck her chest out and stood up for herself. “Yes, ma’am, I am. I need that number, if you don’t mind. I’m tired of being the good girl. I want to learn how to bad.”

I learned that the Shady Lady Ranch [NSFW, obviously] is a real place. But the telephone operator? We had a teaser of that scene in Book 2, and I was sure it had to be a joke. It wasn’t.

Step 3: Complete an internship.

“That’s right. Now, suck the head like you’re eating a big ole juicy plum.” Three of Nevada’s finest ladies of the evening leaned over Avery as she yummed down on a pink plastic Jackrabbit.

…She stood up and wrapped the dildo in a paper towel, so she could remember to clean it properly when she got back to her room. It had been a new one, of course. They had allowed her to take it out of the plastic sealed container. The ladies had all been very nice to her, and she wasn’t a germaphobe, but she was cautious. Despite knowing the sheets were carefully laundered, Avery slept in the childhood sleeping bag she had brought from home. That sleeping bag had seen some action, lately. Even now, just thinking about Isaac made her nipples puff up and beg for attention. Last night, Avery had touched herself. After her bath, she had lain on her pink kitty sleeping bag and rubbed her breasts. It had felt so good. She hadn’t made herself come, but she had given kitty something to think about. Avery was determined that Isaac would give her that all-important first orgasm. Perhaps she was being sentimental, but it seemed necessary to her that she save all of those momentous experiences to share with him.

Her PINK KITTY SLEEPING BAG. In the WHOREHOUSE. Giving Kitty SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT.

Who is the intended audience for this book? How is that romantic? I don’t understand. I honestly cannot comprehend how other readers can find this type of characterization endearing.

It’s like we’re in a weird existential erotica version of The Emperor’s New Clothes and NO ONE has the balls to tell the author that stuff like this isn’t just over the top – it’s FUCKED. UP.

Step 4: Graduate with honors.

“I’ve stocked this with a bunch of goodies and a list of reminders of the new weapons you have in your repertoire. Remember, you now can do a mean lap dance, you know how to work a stripper pole, you are proficient in oral sex and seductive moves, and you know more sexual positions than the writers of the Kama Sutra.”

The sex toys and portable stripper pole are stored in the heroine’s little pink MY KITTY SUITCASE.

At that point, I threw up in my mouth. And then I decided I need some of whatever the author and her five-star fangirls are smoking.

But then I changed my mind again because that might weaken my defenses and I’d become ONE OF THEM. They would ASSIMILATE ME LIKE THE BORG.

Plus, recreational drugs probably wouldn’t be a good addition to all the Xanax and alcohol it takes to survive these books.

Step 5: Share your knowledge.

In the quiet hours of the night, she had penned her first erotic story and sent it off to her publisher before she could change her mind. It had been called, “Cowboy Heat” – and of course, Isaac had been the hero. All of the girls had downloaded the free eBook reader app and had bought her stories. A few had even asked for her autograph. She had to admit she sort of enjoyed the attention. It had been difficult never sharing that part of her life with anyone. One night they sat up until the wee hours of the morning talking and laughing. She told them the plots of several more novels she had in the works and showed them how to find her website and her blog.

A few key takeaways from this lesson:

1. Our heroine makes the hookers pay for her books. She doesn’t give anything away for free.
2. The title of our heroine’s first naughty romance book is Cowboy Heat. Sound familiar? [More on this below.]
3. Our heroine publishes ebooks. She has a website. She has a blog. And yet she had to call directory assistance to get a phone number for a brothel? Is there a Google blackout in the Texas Hill Country?

Step 6: Conveniently forget knowledge when confronted with a REAL LIVE PENIS.

“Did you know there’s a wet spot at the front of your thong?” he asked gruffly.

What? That wasn’t the reaction she was expecting. Every bit of the bravado left her body. Cripes! “Sorry,” she crossed her arms over her breasts – now she was embarrassed. “I don’t understand…”

Avery might have missed the class on feminine moistness, but at least we don’t have to sit through the lecture and PowerPoint presentation.

Kinky Stuff: BDSM Info-Dumping Sponsored by Wikipedia

In the Texas BDSM world, he was known as Badass – and it was a title he had earned. Isaac was a badass. He liked his sex rough and hot, but most importantly he had to be in control.

If you’ve read my previous reviews, what’s coming next won’t be a surprise.

“I’m no DOM, ya flea-bitten varmint! I’m Riff-Raff Sam, the riffiest riff that ever riffed a raff!” – Yosemite Sam, Sahara Hare (1955)

“I ain’t no DOM. I’m a pirate – Seagoing Sam, the blood-thirstiest, shoot ‘em first-iest, doggone worst-iest buccaneer that’s ever sailed the Spanish main!” – Yosemite Sam, Buccaneer Bunny (1948)

“Any one of you lily livered, bow legged varmints care to SLAP LEATHER with me? In case any of ya get any idears, ya better know yer dealin’ with. I’m the hootinest, tootinest, shootinest, bob tailed wildcat in the west.” – Yosemite Sam, Looney, Looney, Looney Bugs Bunny Movie (1981)

God, I love the internet. Yes, I took a few liberties with the original scripts. It’s called creative license. Where were we?

In this book, “rough and hot” sex means spanking and mild bondage. And giggling. Lots of giggling.

I guess inaugurating the brand-new mechanical bull could be kinky, but mostly it’s more of a “how exactly does that work?” kind of thing. And then of course I obsess about why they’re not cleaning it with hospital-grade antiseptic. Gross.

Anyway: Not sure what BDSM is all about? Here’s a helpful getting-started guided:

“What I’m telling you is that your penchant for being in control, especially with a partner who craves to submit – is no shame at all. No more so than those who prefer to drive a foreign car over a domestic.” He knew she preferred foreign cars, herself. [Kindle location 992]

Huh? What? That was a conversation between our hero Isaac and Nana Bogart, Voodoo Queen of New Orleans, whom we met briefly in the previous book. Nana drives a Lexus.

Why…? Never mind. It doesn’t matter, because it’s filler.

Remembering what she had read in the very basic article on BDSM, Avery sank down in a classic slave position – on her knees, hands behind her back and head bowed. [Kindle location 2167]

The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing Erotic Romance, Chapter 20 (Page 217): Getting Wild and Kinky.

Isaac didn’t know what to say. But, he had to say something. “Don’t judge her too harshly. Food is good, but gluttony is bad. Beer is good, but an alcoholic’s life is miserable. The relationship between two people that enjoy a power exchange may be more beautiful than you realize, but even that can have its dark side. Any form of addiction or extreme overuse can be dangerous. Harper may not be able to control her craving for domination, that doesn’t mean she’s beyond help. [Kindle location 2662]

Bro #5 Noah’s ex-girlfriend Harper is the conveniently convenient S&M pain junkie in question. Because we need to read about a stock character being nearly beaten to death to understand The Dark Side of Kinky Sex.

He had never been one to collar a woman, but he knew what it meant. It was a visible, recognizable sign of possession, ownership and commitment. Among his kind, it was as meaningful and binding as an engagement ring – more so. [Kindle location 2979]

AMONG HIS OWN KIND??? The little I know about this lifestyle I learned from Sarah F and Cherise Sinclair, but I’m guessing that’s probably not an appropriate way to refer to the BDSM community.

The scene: Master Isaac and his Dom-in-training Levi, are discussing a new acquaintance. [Kindle location 3041]

Isaac: “So what did you hear about the lovely Miss Baker? I saw quite a few cowboys checking her out. If you’re gonna throw your hat in the ring, you’d best do it in a hurry. Is she into kink?”

Levi: “Hell, she gives kink a whole new meaning.”

Isaac: “Well, don’t leave me hangin’.”

Levi: “That’s the whole problem – she’s hangin’.”

Isaac: “What are you talking about?”

Levi: “She’s pretty, you know – I mean real pretty. And I was attracted to her, big time.”

Isaac: “So, what’s the problem?”

Levi: “Man, I mentioned to Terence Lee that I intended to ask her out and he laughed at me…. He said that it’s rumored Pawnee has a . . . damn, a cock – a little one, but a cock, nonetheless. Supposedly everything else is there and all of it functions perfectly. It knocked me for a loop, I tell you.”

Isaac: “That beautiful woman is a hermaphrodite? I thought they were, you know, rougher looking. She seems so – normal – beautiful, I mean.”

…Isaac had seen a lot of things. He knew transsexuals, bisexuals, homosexuals, even some who claimed to be asexual, but never had he met someone with both male and female genitalia.

Isaac: “God, I bet she’s lonely.”

Yes, it’s actually handled quite sensitively. But why do we need a hermaphrodite in this story? We don’t. What does this have to do with the plot, the main characters or BDSM? Nothing. Do you feel insulted that the author felt it necessary to use this for a throwaway bit of unresolved melodrama? I do.

A Cry for Help: Inserting Yourself Into your own Romance Novel

Feeling insecure? Need to justify your own existence?

Or maybe you’re slightly on the narcissistic side and love to see your own (fake) name in print as often as possible?

For either case, try a little subtle self-reference in your next writing project:

Writing romance novels was fun as well as fulfilling. A tiny smile played over her lips. During the past year, she had become a pro at promoting her books. With meticulous care, she had researched the markets and what types of books were selling and which ones weren’t as popular. It amused her that the hottest, fastest growing market was erotic romances. [Kindle location 1113]

“I just hope it doesn’t get out that I write racy romance novels…. I write love stories, most of them are mild – but the last one was a bit risqué. But don’t worry, only the girls know my pen name – Sable Hunter.” [Kindle location 1721]

No time like the present – after all, they were sharing everything else. “I write romance novels. Most of them have been just contemporary, but I’ve started writing erotic novellas, and they’re selling like hotcakes. I’m a smut writer!” she announced proudly. [Kindle location 3012]

Turning, Avery opened a drawer on her nightstand and handed her friend a book. “There you go. I hope you enjoy it. Remember, it’s sort of risqué – not as spicy as my current WIP’s, but pretty racy, all the same.” “Sable Hunter, I like that name. Neat.” [Kindle location 3099]

Need another example of literary self-referentiality for comparison? Try this more ironic representation.

Sworn to Secrecy: Protecting Your Super-Dom Identity from Evil-Doers

Keeping his involvement in the BDSM world from his brothers hadn’t been easy. [Kindle location 2665]

“I have been known to wear a hood and a cape and gloves – it makes it rather medieval. Except, if you look closely – there is the McCoy brand in the middle of the forehead.” [Kindle location 2734]

NOW do you know why I want to go to Kerrville so badly?

“Do you have the hood? We need McCoy’s hood if this is going to work.”

“Yes, I have it.” He pulled it from the inside pocket of his jacket. “The last time I cleaned Isaac’s playroom, I took it. It wasn’t hard; he keeps it out in plain sight.”

“I knew he would. It was custom made. If you’ll look, their brand is in the forehead like the mark of the beast – damn rocking T. I had seen him wear it too many times – I knew he would still have it.” [Kindle location 3558]

Avery stopped in her tracks. “Isaac!” There was no one else he could be. He wore his costume. The one that he had shown her and told her it was reserved for special occasions. The cape and hood made him look dangerous and mysterious and when he lifted his gloved hand and beckoned her to him, she almost broke into a run. He was back! And he wanted to see her! [Kindle location 3650]

Logic, cleanup in Book 4. Stand by for further fuckups.

Me Likeum Squaw: Stereotyping for Fun & Profit

Last week someone rightfully called me out for a lazy and offensive analogy about developing countries. Consider me smacked.

For my plea bargaining, I will utilize the “Yes, I’m a dumb shit, but HEY LOOK OVER HERE >>>” line of defense:

“Skye is something else, Isaac. Hell, she’s just about fuckin’ perfect. I don’t know if it’s that Indian blood or what – but she makes my heart beat like a war drum.”

“So, paleface, is it okay if I tease your little Indian princess?”

If I was Skye the Indian Princess, I’d beat Noah the Uptight Self-Righteous Accountant with something a LOT harder than a war drum.

Shit My Dog Says: Baffling Your Readers with Bizarre POV Switching

Kindle location 3613-3643:

Lady was hungry. Not just for meat – that was good, but there was always meat to be had.

So the women get called “baby” and “doll-face” and “kitten,” but the DOG gets called LADY? Yeesh.

…The people were hopping around and holding on to one another – sometimes they seemed so silly. Oh, yeah. She could smell it – dessert.

…Time for a whine. Licking the lips couldn’t hurt.

“Are you hungry? Do you want some candy? I’ll share. It’s not chocolate, so it won’t hurt you.” She set down the treat and Lady grabbed it.

“She” being our heroine Avery. In case you were confused.

Wow! That was one of the best things she had ever had in her mouth. I want another one!

This time – the very next sentence – “she” is Lady the family dog. Then we get a double switch from third- to first-person voice.

“You have a sweet tooth, don’t you? Here’s one more, but that’s all. I don’t want to make you sick.” Avery gave her another tasty morsel.

…Lady opted to put a paw on her knee. Affection never hurt. “You’re a sweetie. Aren’t you?”

That was Avery asking the question, not the dog.

Yes, I’m a sweetie. And I want more candy. Maybe, if I set up and look cute.

…“Lady, do you want to walk with me?”

Yeah, why not. I like you, Avery. You’re nice. Lady followed Avery through the crowd hoping she’d drop one of those candies. That’d be nice.

First back to third back to first. Completing the full circle of literary hell.

…Where are you going? Lady kept up. Don’t go over there. We don’t know that man. And he doesn’t smell right. He has family smells on him, but he’s not family. Stop! “Woof! Woof!”

Who exactly is the audience for this book? I don’t understand. I’m confused. Again.

Ruining the Moment: From Dumbass to Kickass and Back in 0.3 Paragraphs

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Avery lashed out, hitting him in the face with her bound hands.

Ooooh, finally a Hell Yeah! heroine gets to kick some ass!

…She had never feared death, but she had assumed she would live to get married, have children – possibly pass away at an advanced age with some heart ailment or least get the chance to choke on strawberries.

Please don’t ask. I have NO clue.

“You are Ajax – the man who hurt Noah and Harper. Mostly, you’re a coward.”

Hostage negotiation protocol courtesy of CSI: Kerrville.

…”I may just fuck you before I carve you up. How would you like that?”

“No!” Being beat was one thing, being raped was entirely different. “I would hate it! Just the idea of your filthy body touching mine makes me want to throw up!

Yeah, that’ll stop him. He wouldn’t want you to hate him.

“Bitch – I’ll make you sorry you were ever born.”

“I can’t stop you from hurting me, but you can’t steal my memories. Isaac was wonderful to me, I love him and you can never make be sorry I was born. Loving him was worth it all.”

…Tears sprang to her eyes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of crying out. Instead, she made him regret he hadn’t chained her feet first, because she brought her knee up hard and tried to jam his balls up into his throat.

Oh, HELL YEAH!

“Isaac is a good man – you’re a sniveling eunuch. I’ll bet you can’t even get it up, can you? Is that why you do this? Is hurting women the only way you can get off?”

Never mind. *headdesk*

Another blow. But what he said stung worse. “You may love him, but does he love you? I know what kind of woman Isaac McCoy craves – a real submissive – and that’s not you. You’re not worthy to be McCoy’s woman.”

And suddenly our vicious bad guy turns into Dr. Phil and examines his victim’s feelings. W. T. F.

All the tenseness – all the fight left Avery’s body. “You’re right.” She submitted to the bonds that fettered her, and bowed her head.

My head is bowed too. Over the toilet.

Humiliations Galore: Demonstrating Your Utter Contempt for Women

Example 1: Women belong in the kitchen.

The set-up: Part of the ongoing engagement party festivities for Joseph and Cady (MCs of the previous book) include daily hunting trips. It’s like a Regency country house party but in Texas. Apparently women are actually allowed to handle weapons because Syke the Indian Princess bagged a big one.

“Skye, you sure did get a good deer yesterday. That buck dressed out at a hundred and a quarter. I saved the antlers for you – and I saved something else, if you want them.” He held his hand out – palm up – with those two round buckeyes lying in the center.

…she rolled them between thumb and forefingers. “These are very nice, but they don’t belong to my deer. These balls are a little small for my deer. Have you felt between your legs to see if you’re missing anything?”

See what I mean about the good writing popping up out of nowhere? She’s really really good with the funny stuff.

But then – *~*sigh*~* – we immediately fall backwards into the quagmire of drivel:

Jessie jumped up and took Skye by the hand and they began planning dessert for the evening.

Oh NOES. A GIRL is making jokes about TESTICLES! Quick, put an apron on her!

Example 2: Condoms are needed only when having sex with slutty women.

He took a condom from his nightstand drawer and sheathed himself.

“I’m on birth control,” she whispered.

Isaac didn’t say anything. There was no use hurting her feelings, but pregnancy hadn’t been his first thought – it was how many men she had given pleasure.

You know that classic Seinfeld episode called The Subway where Elaine is on the way to a lesbian wedding and her subway stalls in a tunnel and she’s counting “one banana two banana” trying not to freak out and then the lights go out out and she screams “MOTHER-BLEEEEEEP” internally? The exact pitch and intonation of that “MOTHER-BLEEEEEP” was my precise reaction to reading that.

If I didn’t love Frances (my Kindle) so much, she would have HIT THE MOTHER-BLEEEEEPING WALL. Fortunately, that bit appeared at the top of the page, and the next bit was visible at a glance:

“Damn.” She was a virgin! How in the fuck was that possible?”

He knows she’s a virgin because she displays all the symptoms of Hymen Mislocation Syndrome.

Example 3: Women still belong in the kitchen.

A brief set-up for this one: Our heroine Avery used some of her book profits to go into partnership with her BFF Tricia in a floral design business.

“You’re going to make bouquets with Tricia Yaeger? That’s what you want to do with your life? You’d rather do that than be with me?”

But before you judge our poor hero too harshly, you should know that Isaac said that only because…

“ – deep down – he questioned his value as a man.”

I believe the lesson here is that a heroine’s purpose in life is to stay at home and prop up the vulnerable ego of her man.

Example 4: The Microphone Mishap.

Kindle location 1881:

At this very moment, she was so mad at him she could spit. But – unfortunately – her mouth was otherwise occupied.
Her tall, broad-shouldered bad-boy was laughing at her. “How did you get your lips stretched around that big old thang, darlin?” He looked at her with a twinkle in his sapphire blue eyes.

There was no way she could talk with the broad, round head in her mouth – so she glared at Isaac for all she was worth.

My Kindle note: “WTF is going on here???”

Good gravy, he was trying to help her. Avery felt her face flame. “Can you open your mouth any wider, baby? I can’t seem to pull it out.” A loud guffaw from behind him made Avery clamp her teeth down on the smooth surface instead of trying to let go. It was obvious that Isaac’s double entendres were not going unnoticed. “Now, don’t you bite down on my Peavey, sugar.” Titters of amusement floated across the stage and Avery growled, making Isaac laugh all the harder. “What kind of engagement party can we have if you swallow the microphone, dumpling-doll?”

At this point Avery takes the name of Elvis Presley in vain, which gets her another BIG RED X on my Badass scorecard.

And the humiliation wasn’t over – oh, no. It just kept getting better. “You know, there are better things you could have between these lips. All you had to do was ask.” A knowing look from him told her that he knew he was pissing her off, royally. Arrgghh! With a gasp of indignation, her jaws opened just wide enough for Isaac to pull the microphone free. “That’s my girl,” he praised her.

And WHY did she attempt to swallow the microphone in the first place? Because she’s a Closet Smutographer, that’s why.

Avery couldn’t think of a believable lie, so she stuck with the unbelievable truth. “Before I came over, Tricia had teased me about how big my mouth was. She said I couldn’t keep my mouth shut to save my life.” What she wouldn’t tell him was the secret Tricia warned her to keep – about her erotic romance writing.

Is it just me, or did that explanation make absolutely NO sense whatsoever? Is it just me, or does it seem like the author grasped for any possible excuse to write about using a microphone as a sex toy?

After compiling all of that, I’m downgrading again. D with no +.

Example 5: The Glitter Incident.

“If you tell that story in mixed company, Aron, you will wake up tomorrow with your manhood all dressed up and nowhere to go. Do you understand me?”

The scene: Avery is being inducted into the McCoy Joy Club by her future sisters-in-law. No, really, the club was mentioned in the previous book, but I completely forgot to beat it to death with my mocking stick.

ANYWAY, to welcome Avery to the family, Libby [heroine of Book 1, fiancee of aforementioned Aron] shares her latest most giggly blushing moment. I have to use a complete and un-ellipsed excerpt [Kindle location 2493-2513] to make sure I do this justice:

“I’m waiting to hear the story of what you did, Libby.” Jessie [Book 2] had sat patiently while the niceties had been taken care of.

“Me, too,” Avery admitted shyly. She sat out cups and arranged tea bags and sugar and cream for everyone to help themselves.

As the kettle hissed – Libby entertained them. “I made a fool out of myself, that’s what. Cady – this party is going to be great, but I’ve gone overboard, I guess. You know I was making those individual place cards with everybody’s name done in glitter.”

“I told you that you were going to too much trouble,” Cady [Book 3] was emphatic. “I am the happiest woman in the world to be marrying Joseph – I didn’t need any fancy decorations.”

Jessie shooed Cady, “We know – we know – Joseph is a sex god. They all are. Let her finish the story.” Granny Fontenot whooped at the sex part. She might be old, but she wasn’t dead.

“Anyway…” Libby continued. “I had been working down in the craft room and I had scattered glitter everywhere. As I was trying to clean up, the phone rang. I had been wiping down the counters and when I ran to our bedroom to get this checklist for the caterer, I had that washrag in my hand. I laid it down on the vanity counter next to the sink. When Aron got it in his head that I had to keep the doctor’s appointment, I did a quick wash up just to make sure I was clean . . .” her face fell, and she looked sheepish. “I used the wrong rag.”

“Oh no,” Jessie yelped. “I can see where this is going.”

Yes, so can we, god help us all.

“Yes,” Libby leaned over and held her head in her hands. “When the doctor got me all spread out like a filleted pork chop, he cracked up and said – ‘Well, hello there. This is the first time anyone’s ever decorated it for me.’ I had glitter everywhere.”

Stay seated…. We’re not done yet….

“You were Vajazzeled!” Avery laughed. “When I was out at the Vegas cathouse, I heard all about it.” Now all eyes had turned on Avery.

“What were you doing in a cathouse, pray tell?” Jessie was having the time of her life. She loved being in this family. There was never a dull moment. The giggles and the titters grew to mammoth proportions as Avery explained what she had been up to and Libby continued describing the doctor’s red face and Aron’s shock that she had presented her lady parts in full glitter glory.

Angrish: A character [or READER] is so angry, PISSED OFF, or shocked that he or SHE is LITERALLY UNABLE to form a coherent sentence. Other strong emotions are sufficient to render a person [READER] unable to speak proper English (or whatever language is being spoken at the time), but shock, ANGER, and PURE RAGE are the most common. It usually takes a little while for him or HER to recover, at which point he or SHE explodes into rage normally. The technical name for this rhetorical device is “aposiopesis”.

Source: TVTropes.org

I don’t care how many people I piss off with this statement, but if you think that scene is a humorous depiction of female solidarity, YOU ARE WRONG. WRONG WRONG WRONG. You and ^THAT BULLSHIT^ and the author are so F’ING WRONG that I am already having another SPASM of APOSIOPESIS.

It’s demeaning. It’s belitting. It’s patronizing. It’s condescending. It’s bullshit.

Now, let me be clear that I’m not condemning the Vajazzeling. If you’re into that sort of thing, go for it. Take pictures and post them on ratemyvajazzle.com. And then send us the link so we can vote. [Seriously – I am *wildly* curious about this, because all I can think is “OMG, itchy. Getting itchier. I need to scratch. RIGHT NOW.”]

I can respect a glittery hoohah only if it’s a choice.

If, however, you’re an author who inflicts unsolicited Vajazzling for the sole purpose of demeaning even further an already marginalized female character, you will receive a Flailing of Angrish that will rival the infamous Tapestry of Obscenity produced by Old Man Parker that has been hanging in space over Lake Michigan since 1949.

I’m so full of APOSIOPESIS I have no idea of that sentence I just wrote is grammatically correct. That’s how Angrish I am.

I’m adding the Accidental Vajazzling AND the Microphone Mishap to the Falling Head-First into the Bubble Bath episode from the previous book as proof that a female author can indeed be revoltingly misogynistic.

And now I’m DOWNGRADING AGAIN to a D-. The only thing saving this book from an Big Fat EFF (F) is the fact that it wasn’t nearly as painful as the last one.

Now let me tell you what I REALLY think….

I think I’m going to change my mind yet again and track down one of those fan-girl squee bongs before Hell Yeah! Book 5: Skye Blue is released.

For now, I’ll just take my ANGRISH and APOSIOPESIS (my new favorite words) back to my Mean Girl Cave of Righteous Indignation and let the author herself enlighten you on the State of Modern Erotica. If you like FULL GLITTER GLORY, you’ll find lots of it on Sable Hunter’s website.

The following is an excerpt from her blog post in early January. Punctuation, spelling and grammatical errors and ALL CAPS are hers; bold and [ANGRISH] are mine.

I cant seem to write a story where the heroine is a woman with experience. So far, it just hasnt worked for me. I cant really explain it…but I thought I would delve into the possibilities, just to see if I could work it out. Im not sure about my motivation…after all, Im not a virgin and I havent been for a long time. Maybe, I wish I were. Thats a strange thought.

I tend to write my romance novels with the hero in mind. For some reason, Im more sympathetic to his viewpoint and I love to tell whats on his mind and how he is feeling. That may be because Ive never met a hero (in the flesh, anyway) and every time I write a story, I create the man of my dreams. Holding out for a hero is more than a song…its a life…long yearning for some women. So, I tend to write my romance novels, delving into the heros psyche. But what kind of hero have I created? I formulate the men in my stories to be honest, strong, possessive, faithful…all qualities of a good dog…plus gorgeous and sexy as hell. They have never breathed a word that they expect their chosen woman to be an innocent. But I tend to reward their good behavior and sterling qualities with a pure woman.

I got amused as I planned this article. It made me think some wild thoughts about why a man would want a virgin…get this…ala William Shatner…TO GO WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE.

Or every man loves to explore VIRGIN TERRITORY. Or the value of a woman increases if she is AS PURE AS THE DRIVEN SNOW. After all, said hero would get to initiate her, wow her, train her in his likes and dislikes and know that no man had ever enjoyed what he had claimed as his own. I actually used the term in a novel I just released he POSSESSED WHAT HE HAD ALREADY CONQUERED.

Something is terribly wrong with me.

Now, Im kidding here…for the most part. I guess the truth is…I love to write about virgins. And sometimes I go to great lengths to make my heroines virgins. Although every scenario is possible…some of them I had to work to get them to sound plausible…

I write about virgins…I am compelled to write about virgins. And not only are they virgins…but by the end of the books most of them end up pregnant. So…the hero gets to conquer, and stake his claim in the most enduring way possible…by fathering a child.

I think this stems back to the time when I read sweet romances. While I was growing up I inhaled romance novels. Sometimes I read two a day. My school backpack was always full of Harlequins and Loveswepts…I had one teacher that condemned by reading choice…so for her I would read thick, brainy novels and discuss them in depth with her…but at night, under the covers…with a flashlight, I would visit worlds where love conquered all, right prevails over wrong, and holding out for a hero is not an impossible dream. I guess Im an incurable romantic.

My readers like my virgins…and they like the fact that they usually end up pregnant. I know this because theyve told me so. My books usually can make you laugh, cry, and sweat.

I try to weave humor in with poignancy and spice it up with sex hot enough to make you sleep in a bathtub full of ice. I know the sex is hot…it turns me on…if it didnt, I would be doing something wrong.

Bottom line, I write what I like to read. There is something about an innocent woman placing her faith and trust in a macho, alpha male who teachers her that she is his perfect woman…that just turns my heart inside out.

Final (and this time I mean absolutely finally final) grade: D-.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A shamelessly self-serving footnote that wasn’t actually cited anywhere in the above text and therefore really isn’t a footnote, it’s more like a P.S. and I told DA Jane she could edit it out so if you see this and think it’s obnoxious blame her not me:

Our blog mistress Jane apparently doesn’t understand sarcasm when she sees it on Twitter, so now a lovely little m/m “romance” called Red Knight Rising is plugging up my TBR queue. The author’s name is Alex Ironrod. Ironrod. Alex IRONROD. I’m pretty sure the publisher is deliberately fucking with me. Go ahead and read the excerpt – I triple dog dare you. Except if you’re at work, because it’s so very very Not Safe For Work. But even if you only look at the description page, don’t stare at the cover too long; it would be like the eyeball equivalent of getting your tongue frozen to a metal flagpole.

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Name of debut release: Overseas

Release date: 05/10/2012

Publisher: Putnam

2 sentence summary: A First World War infantry officer follows the woman he loves across time to contemporary Manhattan.

Genre: Romance, time travel, general fiction

Characters: Julian Ashford is a First World War soldier-poet, in the mold of Rupert Brooke and Julian Grenfell, bred in the prewar romantic tradition and forced to adapt to a postmodern age of irony and cynicism.
Kate Wilson is a determined young Wall Street analyst, disillusioned with her job and with her experience of 21st century courtship.

What makes this story different: Overseas combines the emotional impact of a truly sweeping love story with the unique premise of a book set during the First World War and modern-day Manhattan. The parallel stories — the Armageddon of war, the financial crisis of 2008 — bring out the book’s themes: namely, the vast cultural gulf between the world of a hundred years ago and the world today, and the ways in which crisis tests our true character.

Why you wrote this book: Long before Downton Abbey swept across the landscape, I’ve been fascinated by the first twenty years of the 20th century: a period of enormous social, technological, and artistic upheaval, and yet a time of enormous confidence and optimism for the future. The long Edwardian summer gave rise to a generation of brilliant young men, scholars and athletes who sought the sublime, and who marched off to war in their idealistic thousands. The First World War destroyed both that generation and its sense of purpose, and transformed the romantic outlook into one of irony and cynicism.

I’d always wanted to write about this period, but when the first idea for Overseas formed in my brain, it was a First World War infantry officer walking the streets of contemporary Manhattan. It took some time for me to realize that in Julian and Kate, the woman he loves, I had the makings of a literal clash between the world of 1914 and the world that came after; I could tell this tale in the most compelling way of all: a really great, immersive love story.

Why is this your first published book? How many did you write before? I wrote two other manuscripts before Overseas, both of which were set in the period before the First World War. The first had a compelling story with dull characters; the second had interesting characters but a dull story. I certainly never expected a time travel novel to be my first sale!

What’s your writing process? I used to slog along at a steady pace, but with Overseas, by the time the plot had fully formed in my mind, I was so deeply involved in the story that I could hardly stop writing long enough to sleep and feed my kids! I’ve found that process really works well for me, though it takes a toll physically. I let an idea sit and grow, and once I’m starting to write the scenes in my head, I know it’s time to get the words down. I’ll take six to eight weeks to draft, and then a few more weeks to edit. By that time, ideally, the next idea is taking root.

Your next published book. Set in an exclusive Rhode Island beach community in the summer before the great New England hurricane of 1938. Tentatively titled “A Storm Is Rising.”

The last book you read that you loved. I’m ashamed to say that I only recently discovered Meredith Duran, and spent a wonderful two weeks devouring her backlist. At Your Pleasure was fantastic, a fresh and compelling historical period for the romance genre.

The last book you read for research. I was dissatisfied with my knowledge of Victorian and Edwardian sexual vocabulary, so I went to the source: a memoir called My Secret Life, by the pseudonymous “Walter”, which covers about fifty years (and about 1000 partners) in this gentleman’s single-minded pursuit of tail. A real eye-opener, and as graphic as it gets. Of course, as it turned out, I couldn’t use much of his vocabulary, which would be deeply offensive to the modern female reader!

The romance book character you most identify with. Oh, that’s a tough one! Having recently read and loved Sarah MacLean’s A Rogue By Any Other Name, I found myself really relating to Penelope: we’re both pleasers, which is a tough road to take through life, because you’re always doubting and blaming yourself. At one point I actually found myself choking up, which I almost NEVER do while reading, no matter how moved I am. So it must have hit a nerve!

You can check out more about Beatriz Williams and her books at http://www.beatrizwilliams.com

Related posts:

1. Debut Print Book: Wicked as They Come by Delilah S. Dawson
2. Debut Print Book: Don’t Let Me Go by J.H.Trumble
3. Debut Print Book: Under the Same Sky by Genevieve Graham

As someone who uses a power wheelchair due to a neuromuscular disease, I have a personal interest in how authors use disability themes in their books. Over the past couple years I’ve read dozens of romances where one or both of the protagonists lives with some sort of disability. Unfortunately, I’ve found that most books are downright offensive in their portrayals of disability. Of all the books I’ve read, these are the only ones I’d recommend.

Heroes with Disabilities

Flowers From the Storm – Laura Kinsale
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/360259.Flowers_from_the_Storm

This is a bit of a cheap place to start, I admit. First of all, recommending this book is like recommending Nora Roberts, unless you live under a rock, chances are that you’ve read this already. Secondly, it deals with a temporary disability, although the hero never quite shakes off all the effects of his stroke. That said, I love this book’s take on dealing with a neurological disability. The parts of the book written from the hero’s POV are as clever as they are insightful, and pull the reader into his frustration and confusion with him. Where I think the book excels, though, is in how the hero never loses his dignity. He rages in frustration at others’ patronizing treatment of him, but retains his pride throughout. The heroine doesn’t save him, she provides the means for him to save himself. Few books with disabled characters manage to do this, and I appreciated it.

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Simple Jess – Pamela Morsi
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/692935.Simple_Jess

Deprived of oxygen at birth when the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, the hero, Jess, lives with an intellectual disability, hence the nickname “Simple Jess.” Set in the early 20th c. Ozarks, this book manages one of my favorite portrayals of disability in romance. Jess is never used as a morality yardstick – you have no idea how many books separate the protagonists from the villains based on how they treat the disabled character – and is never the object of pity. He’s a dignified man who goes through life to the best of his ability. He sees how other people treat him, but never internalizes their patronization. For her part, the heroine never treats Jess any differently than she would treat anyone else. She doesn’t do Jess a favor by hooking up with him, she’s just drawn to the man who makes her a happy woman. It’s a great book full of wonderful characters.

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The Write Man for Her – Christie Walker Bos
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/4315240-the-write-man-for-her

A commenter on Dear Author pointed me towards this one when I whined about how books make disability out to be a dreary, angst-ridden existence, and I really enjoyed it. While not flawless – it does feature a number of disability-theme cliches like his ex leaving him because of his injury, the presence of wheelchair sports and “normal” sex – I liked how the hero is just a man in a wheelchair. He’s an English professor, a basketball player, a good cook, and a handsome dude, leaving “wheelchair-user” and “paraplegic” refreshingly low on the character-definition totem pole. The heroine’s his student (It’s a non-degree, online course. They’re both divorcees and about the same age.) and sets out to make a move on “Professor Hottie” before she even knows he’s a wheelchair-user. It’s just a romance between two people, one of whom just so happens to sit in a chair.

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Lord Carew’s Bride – Mary Balogh
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/227636.Lord_Carew_s_Bride_Signet_Regency_Romance_
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6545729-dark-angel-lord-carew-s-bride

Although the author clearly uses the hero’s disability – a limp and diminished dexterity in one hand – for a blatant “seeing beneath the surface” allegory, the lack of angst over his body or sense that the heroine is doing the hero a favor by digging him saves the book for me. It’s such a cute story about two people finding the best friend they didn’t know they had that I’ll forgive Balogh the ham-fisted appropriation. Despite her best efforts, it’s not actually a story about ignoring someone’s “flaws.”

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A Man Like Mac – Fay Robinson
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2284185.A_Man_Like_Mac

Oh I loved this one! An Olympic-level distance runner comes back to her college running coach for help rehabbing after an accident. He’s seen the medical reports and knows she has no chance of competing again, but agrees to help figuring he’s in a unique position to help someone adjust to a life changed by injury. Mac’s just a great character. He’s perfectly adjusted to his paraplegia, continues with his career in college athletics, has meaningful friendships (lord save me from sad, disabled loners in romance) and is just your typical straight man. He’s not some sad wretch the heroine deigns to love, he’s her salvation. It’s out of print and not in ebook, but Amazon has a ton of used copies for cheap. Totally worth tracking down.

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Heroines with Disabilities

These stories are the hardest to find. A heroine with a disability almost invariably is a sad, helpless martyr thrown into a story merely as fodder for the caretaker alpha sort of story. It’s not an accident that there are only three heroines with disabilities on my list and they’re books I still have reservations about.

What a Scoundrel Wants – Carrie Lofty
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3225515-what-a-scoundrel-wants

This is the strongest portrayal of a disabled heroine I’ve read so far. The blind heroine in the novel is not only not helpless, she’s a talented chemist with a penchant for explosives. The hero is Will Scarlet and this medieval-ish Robin Hood retelling is a fun sort of swashbuckling read. It does have the heroine rape the hero and a bit of an info dump problem, though. The book was a debut novel, and it shows.

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Out of the Blue – Sally Mandel
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/1981887.Out_of_the_Blue

This one’s not really a romance novel so much as a novel with a romance. It’s the story of the heroine finally coming to terms with a diagnosis of MS. It’s told in the first person and follows the heroine going through life as a 28-year old private school teacher in New York five years after her diagnosis. When she meets a man who makes his interest in her known, the life she thought she was comfortable with starts to confuse her. It’s an interesting look at someone finally accepting that she needs the help loved ones offer, but the martyrish “I don’t want to be a burden” theme really grated on me. The hero and the heroine’s foul-mouthed mother calling the heroine out on her BS helped, though.

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Samantha’s Cowboy – Marin Thomas
http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7101554-samantha-s-cowboy

This one’s complicated to rec. The heroine deals with nightmares and memory problems after head trauma incurred as a teenager. Her wealthy family has provided for her every need, but as a 32 year-old woman she’s desperate to break out on her own and live the independent life she knows she’s capable of. She’s a great character with a wonderfully healthy outlook. She’s aware of her limits but is prepared to work around them. She’s sick of being treated like a child by well-meaning friends and family and is ready to put in the work to prove to herself and others that she can run her own life. Unfortunately, she’s a great character trapped in a mediocre book. It has a wicked case of series-itis, an overly precocious child character and a flimsy deception-based conflict that goes on a bit too long. I can recommend it for the heroine, but the book’s nothing special.

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Now, I know the next step with these has the commenters leave their recommendations. I’m just going to warn you kids, though, that if you suggest Phantom Waltz, I’m going to unfriend you on Goodreads and block you on Twitter.

Here’s (http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/2543252-ridley?format=html&shelf=disabled-h-h) my shelf of books with disabled characters if you’d like to check them out to see what I don’t like or what I plan to buy.

Related posts:

1. Dear Author Recommends for March
2. REVIEW: Highland Champion by Hannah Howell
3. REVIEW: The River Devil by Diane Whiteside

The following is an excerpt from Beloved Vampire posted with the approval of Joey W. Hill

Clarifications for this excerpt: After Lord Mason rescued Jessica from the tomb of his previous lover and servant, Farida, he brought her to his South American estate. This is one of her first nights there. Though Farida has been dead for centuries, Jessica has a special connection to her through a journal, such that at times her thoughts wander and merge with those of the woman he once loved. Jessica does that to cope with the terrible memories she has of her former vampire master, Raithe.

Mason has marked Jessica so he can speak in her mind.

When Jessica rose abruptly and nodded her goodnights to Amara and Enrique, she was conscious of their scrutiny as she left the room. What would they say about her after she left? Why would she care? She had to quell an urge to bolt into a run in the hallway, escape the shadows at her heels.

In the horror movies, it was always the one who left the campfire first who got attacked by the monster. She firmed her chin. The stairwell was lit, and she remembered her way well enough to take only one wrong turn before she reached the hallway with her room. When she slid into her room, the dim night lamp was on. Then she froze.

The French doors were open, letting in the sea breeze, as they’d been this morning to let in sunlight. Her rational mind told her that. Still, there was a big black hole of night yawning in the corner of her room like a vortex, and the darkness that had dogged her heels closed in. She pressed her back against the door and told her heart to calm its pounding. This was stupid. She could walk over there, close the doors, and the night would not reach in with grasping fingers. The shadows in the corners would not coalesce and grab her, blind her and hold her, come at her with pain and wicked whispers, sly laughter. Raithe was dead. He was gone.

She slid down the door, wrapping her arms around her knees. Had it come to this? Needing someone in her room with her like she was a child? She’d managed fine all those months when sick. Yes, because she’d had something worse to fear, and because she’d been careful to ensure she was in a well-lit room by the time night fell. She’d been here less than a few days and her guard was already slipping.

No, she was fine. She was going to get up, walk across the room and close those doors any minute now. Leaving them open wasn’t an option. She couldn’t possibly go to sleep with that dark eye staring, unblinking, at her. In the distance, there was a dotting of landscaping lights in the garden, a couple sconces on the verandah, but not nearly enough. She tried to listen to the ocean and be soothed by it, but instead all she heard were sibilant whispers.

Trying to get a grip, she looked over at the bed. It had been turned down, the sheet dusted with flower petals. Then she noticed the basket on the nightstand and, more importantly, the aroma that came from it. Keeping one eye fixed toward the opening to the night, she rose and sidled closer to the basket to fold back the cloth napkin.

Chocolate chip cookies. Warm from the oven, a full dozen of them. Of all the choices of comfort food, it ranked as king, particularly to an Ohio girl so far from home. It didn’t matter that she’d had three small meals today, that her shrunken stomach was still full from dinner. Pulling the blanket off the bed, she backed to the far side of the night table. Wrapping herself up, she slid back to the floor, wedging in the corner, putting the table as a block between her and the open doors.

She slid the basket over to her with a finger hooked inside the edge. Cradling it in her lap inside the nest of the blanket, she withdrew a cookie and took her first bite. As she did, she fixed her eyes on the darkness outside the French doors and tried to see past it to the moonlight, the clouds shifting in the sky. Tried to calm herself with the smell of tropical flowers and quiet rush of the ocean, devoid of whispers.

Grudgingly, she had to admit Mason was right about one thing. He could heal her body, but her mind needed a lot of work. Okay, one step at a time. Tonight, being here in the corner was as brave as she was going to get. She ate another cookie, positioned her head on the wall and kept silent watch, bolstered by chocolate. Maybe she’d fall asleep in this position and wake when safe, fierce sunlight was bathing the room.

Jessica, you’re not in your bed.

His voice, a soft murmur in her mind, didn’t frighten her as she might have expected it to do. “Amara didn’t tell me you imposed bedtimes. I’m not six.” Even if she was camped on the floor with chocolate chip cookies and a fear of the boogeyman.

Get in your bed, habiba. You will be more comfortable there. And I am here. Nothing will hurt you.

“After I finish my cookies.”

Now. Or I come tuck you in personally.

Muttering, she rose, holding the cover around her, but swayed, staring at the door. “I can’t.” God, I’m pathetic.

Here. I’ll fix it. Don’t be afraid. The doors slowly swung shut, and she heard a latch close. An automated shade rolled down, completely shutting off the outside view.

“How did you—” But of course it made sense for a vampire to have controls that could remotely seal off every door and window with the push of a button. In daylight, she might perversely find that frightening, because it kept her shut in. Now, it brought some comfort.

Into bed, habiba.

She slid under the covers, putting the cookie basket close to hand on the pillow beside her, re-covering it with the napkin. There were several pillows, and she drew one close to her body, holding on to it as she adjusted her head on the pillow above it. She lay facing the door, but brought the cover up so she could tuck her chin down and not see it. She was six, if she was pretending that hiding under the covers would keep her safe.

That might not keep you safe, but I will, Jessica. Anything that wishes you harm will have to come through me.

“Even your own kind? When will you tell them about me? Turn me over to them? I know that’s why you’re keeping me. You’ve probably already told them I’m here.”

I will not be turning you over to the Council, Jessica. We will talk more of it later, but the only reason I am keeping you here is to keep you safe, until I can figure out how to let you live your life without being a fugitive from my kind. You may leave when I’m certain you will be safe.

She dug her fingers into the pillowcase, and for some reason the crisp, white fabric reminded her again of the bloodstained front of his shirt. She’d touched it, she remembered, felt the warmth of his body beneath it. It was a myth, that vampires were cold. Raithe, her old master, had had an insidious heat that emanated from his pores. Like Satan. Heat and brimstone pouring from his skin, lips stretched back from fangs, a venomous hiss heralding fetid breath, even as he turned everything inside of her cold.

Jessica, stop that.

She snapped out of it, to find that she’d dug her nails into her arm, deep enough to draw blood.

“I can’t believe you, Mason. I know you want me to. But I can’t.”

All I ask you to do right now is believe one thing. That you will sleep tonight without fear. I will not let anything happen to you for the next eight hours. Can you do that? I am with you.

She felt it again, then, that warm touch on her mind that spread through her body and settled over her like a cloak. “How do you do that?”

Magic.

“Right.” She tried for a snort, got a yawn. Burrowing deeper into the blankets, she stretched out her fingertips to touch the basket. She should thank Amara for the cookies tomorrow. It was a nice touch, even for a vampire’s servant whose motives she mistrusted. “What are you doing, anyway?” she mumbled. “Other than being a Peeping Tom.”

If that was my intention, it appears you’re sleeping in your clothes. And your shoes. Very disappointing. I’m sorting through contractor invoices.

Her lips curved in a sleepy smile, but she worked her toes under her sandal straps, let them slide off and fall out from under the covers to the floor, then curled her feet back under the comforter. Her mind drifted. “You’re sitting at a desk somewhere in this opulent palace, doing paperwork?”

Unfortunately, my magic does not extend to having checks write themselves. Or handling contractors trying to take advantage of my abundant wealth.

“How did you get so rich?”

Strip dancing in Vegas.

She achieved the snort this time, then she sobered, her eyes drooping further. “Those gifts, the ones in Farida’s tomb. They were beautiful.”

A silence this time, but it was almost as if she could hear him breathing. With her eyes closed, she imagined him beside Farida. Beside her. His breath stirring her brow, his hand stroking. He’d worn a heavy signet ring then, something amber, she remembered. The cool metal of it had touched her sometimes when he’d caressed her.

Sleep, my love. I’m here. His arms wrapped around her body, her head tucked under his. She’d never been happier than when he did this, held her so close, their legs tangled so one of his was between her thighs, one of hers wrapped around his hip as they slumbered, as if even then they tried to be as closely connected as possible. Sometimes her last prayer of the day was to the old gods and goddesses, the ones she still believed moved in the shifting sandstorms or hid in the cool waters of the oasis, living under Allah’s indulgence.

Great Beings, thank you for this perfect moment, which shall make all other moments bearable. Let me always do your Will, in gratitude for this great happiness you give me. To be his. To have his love.

She drifted to sleep, imagining herself with long dark hair that spilled over his arms as he held her. The sound of the desert wind rose outside, fluttering against the tent sides.

On the other side of his estate, Mason had his eyes closed as well, elbows braced on the desk as he drifted in that dream with her, felt the touch of long, black tresses mixed with the image of short, brown curls. Trusting dark eyes against wary gray ones, a lush curved body giving way to a lean, small-breasted torso. It had been difficult not to go to her, especially when she’d started to hurt herself, her mind floundering. But she’d managed it—by immersing herself in her fantasy. It had been so powerful, she’d taken him right with her.

Amara was right. Jessica Tyson wasn’t like the others. He just wasn’t sure what that made her to him yet.

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I was wrong. So very, very wrong.

I also bitched and whined about the misogyny in the previous book, but Oh. Dear. God.

This was worse.

Therefore, I’m subtitling this review:

Continuing Adventures In Epic Assholery And Virgin Sacrifice: A Misogyny Manifesto

NOTE: For the purposes of this review, I’m defining “misogyny” as:

• Infantilizing or otherwise demeaning and marginalizing women;
• Inferring or stating outright that life without a man is not worth living;
• Demonstrating double standards regarding male and female sexuality (e.g., manwhores rewarded with virgins);
• Depicting assertive female characters as sluts;
• Referring to female characters as “fresh meat”;
• Repeatedly comparing female characters to abused or abandoned animals; AND/OR
• Depicting a woman in premature labor serving coffee and doughnuts to lazy-ass men who are perfectly capable of getting the fucking coffee themselves.

It can be a little confusing, so here’s a handy dandy flowchart. Also available in printer-friendly PDF. It’s even color-coded for extra impressiveness! (Yes, I have a day job. Shut up and keep reading, and stop picking on me because I worked really hard on this and now you’re hurting my feelings.)

But wait, there’s more! In addition to the character inconsistencies, eye-rolling “coincidences” and inane detail we’ve come to expect, we also get a whole muddle of unnecessary paranormal nonsense – all of which completely distracted me from the Bad Sex. And of course that just sucked all the fun right out of this, officially making it the Absolute Worst Book I Have Ever Read.

(No, I have not read The Book That Shall Not Be Named, because I refuse to pay $10 for a crappy self-pubbed ebook. I only budget $5 for that sort of thing.)

Let’s get this over with – I need to cleanse my brain with… Something. Anything.

WARNING: This review/diatribe contains irrelevant analogies, bad sports metaphors, gratuitous musical interludes, self-indulgent run-on sentences (heh) and buckets of righteous indignation (it’s a manifesto, duh), with definite overtones of Mean Girl. It’s also very long, so I hope you brought snacks.

Status Updates: Read With Me Vicariously

Status: 35% (Sunday, April 15)

Oh holy crap, I was NOT expecting a paranormal. So far I’ve literally had to put this down and walk away three times. My Kindle notes consist of numerous “WTF???”s and “Huh???”s, several “OMG”s and “GAH!!!”s, countless “asshole!”s and “dickhead!”s and two or three “dumbass!”s. It’s great fun, if you have a high pain threshold.

Status: 65% (Wednesday, April 18)

Still struggling to finish this unholy mess. Instead of a Magical Orgasm Cure, we get a Catholic /Druid/Voodoo Cure. This happened much earlier than expected, so I guess the last third of the book will be locating the Random Villain via psychic readings. The suspense is killing me.

Status: 85% (Thursday, April 19)

I completely and unequivocally revoke my previous comment about this book being great fun. It wasn’t the suspense that was killing me.

Apparently there’s no end to the Epic Assholery – it’s RELENTLESS. I honestly have no clue how ANY woman could find this “hero” anything other than a complete and total DICKHEAD. I need a shortcut key on my Kindle for easier “ASSHOLE!” notations.

And the so-called “heroine” is just as bad. A Voodoo Priestess SHOULD NOT BE A DOORMAT. I mean, really – use your fucking MAGICK already and hit him with a stunning spell or something and put the rest of us out of our misery.

I don’t want either one of them to have an HEA. I want him to fall off one of the stupid cliffs he climbs and I want her to crawl back under her grandmother’s cauldron and I want them to NEVER EVER see each other or talk to anyone else EVER AGAIN.

The Random Villain has completely disappeared – but at least he POISONED THE WATERHOLE before he left, so maybe we’ll get lucky and Tebow Ranch will be like
Chernobyl and the Homeland Fuckwadery Police will cordon it off for the next 500 years.

(moment of silence to re-bury the memories….)

My Kindle took a much-needed rest at that point. I have never stopped reading at 85%. Ever.

I had to summon my Inner Goddess for the strength to continue, but I managed to finish it – without any inebriated e-mailing of the author! I know, right??? I was, however, forced to make a separate “Sable Hunter” collection on my Kindle because I don’t want her books contaminating my real books. The entire McCoy family* is now in digital quarantine.

FUN FACTS: My Kindle clippings for this book totaled 730 highlighted passages and 198 notes. I tried to do a scrolling screen capture, and my laptop almost melted.

The plot….

Misogynistic daredevil asshole, paralyzed in a motocross accident, hires ugly voodoo priestess, who doesn’t know she’s really a guardian angel, to restore his manhood. Also, celebrity chef Emeril Lagasse makes a cameo appearance.

The opening scene….

Ready, set, asshole:

Joseph McCoy’s philosophy was simple; every woman needs multiple orgasms in order to be happy. Without a doubt, he had done his part in spreading happiness to as many beautiful, deserving women as possible. The latest candidate for his benevolent attention was leaning forward, displaying her silicon enhanced chest for his viewing enjoyment.

I hope you didn’t fall out of your chair yet, because that was just the first half of the first paragraph.

As he felt his dick rise to the occasion, Joseph checked the clock on the wall. Hell! He didn’t have time to diddle with this little darlin’….

“When you played for Texas, they called you ‘The Stallion’. Would you care to elaborate on how you acquired that particular nickname?”

Stretching his long muscular legs out in front of him, Joseph crossed one custom cowboy boot over the other. “Well darlin’,” he graced her with a slow, seductive wink, “I’m not certain how I got HUNG with that handle, but I assure you that I’ve tried to live up to the image.” He couldn’t help but chuckle when her gaze slid down his body and got slowed down by the speed bump of his erection. Teasingly, he put his thumbs in his belt, one on either side of his signature Superman belt buckle –

Hang in there, almost done….

and caught her eyes as she looked back up, letting her know that he knew she was ogling his manly credentials.

Still with me?

That was just the kick-off of a scrimmage at the Real Assholes of Texas training camp. Joseph plays running back. You know, like Doak Walker, whose namesake award our hero won in college.

Ogling his manly credentials, indeed. I don’t remember learning that in journalism school.

But then again – DAMN, that was a good opening, story-wise. We’re hooked with the first sentence and by the end of the first paragraph, we know exactly who our “hero” is. Yes, he’s an asshole, but we know immediately what to expect from him and we can maybe even hope for his redemption. If Sable Hunter can write like this, WHY WHY WHY does she insist on burying her talent underneath truckloads of nonsense? Gah.

Joseph’s accident….

Texas Motocross, Marble Falls Raceway:

If he could win today, the Yamaha sponsorship would be a sure thing. Afterwards, he would call that hot little reporter and ease the ache in his dick.

Eh, he’s got the Yamaha thing locked up even if he doesn’t win – corporate sponsors love an athlete who can maintain a stiffy even while racing a motorcycle.

But then: big jump, big rock, big crash. And just as in the previous book, a really well-written dramatic scene is completely wasted to make room for the utterly ridiculous.

Cady’s mysterious dream(s)….

Sometimes things aren’t necessarily the way we think they are. Sometimes they’re not even close.

Some people think this is a good book. They’re not even close.

We meet our heroine, Acadia Renaud, as she’s pacing the marble halls of Heaven, arguing with Master Gabe. I have questions about that, but I’ll save those until later.

Acadia, known as Cady, has seen Joseph’s accident from above, but is unable to do anything to help. She’s so upset she huffs around in consternation and thinks naughty words. Until:

“You are going to earth.”

Yay!

“We are doing to send you back to the beginning. You can’t just drop into the time/space continuum fully grown. We’ve processed the paperwork; you are going to have to be born and grow up and make your way in the world just like any other human being.”

(I’ll save all my questions about the logistical stuff too.)

And then…our heroine wakes up. Alone.

Like a teenager, she grabbed her pillow and practiced kissing. She ought to be good at it by now; this pillow had seen a lot of action over the years.

Cady is lonely because she’s plain. You know, homely. How ugly is she? Our heroine is so ugly, she’s a 28-year-old virgin.

But never fear – Cady has *~*hope*~*, helpfully supplied by her Granny Fontenot, an old hoodoo woman who lives deep in the bayou country of Terrebonne Parish.

Her grandmother had pulled the cauldron close and had pushed both of their hands down into the dark water. Cady would swear on a stack of Bibles that the water had gone from stone cold to almost boiling in a few seconds.

That bit was purely for fun, but this next bit is important, so PAY ATTENTION:

“Sweet girl, one day you will be as beautiful on the outside as you are within. There is a man destined to fall in love with you, never doubt it. At first, he will be attracted to your sweet and gentle personality. Soon, he will begin to see you in a different light – and when he does, you will grow more beautiful everyday. His love will make you beautiful – not only in his eyes, but in other’s eyes as well.”

So while our heroine doesn’t know she’s actually a Guardian Angel, she does know she’s got a raging case of The Uglies and must Earn The Love Of A Man to be cured. Kinda like Nanny McPhee, but different.

You’ll notice I didn’t say “the love of a GOOD man.” Even an asshole will do.

Nope, no misogyny here….

So then Cady has ANOTHER dream, in which she wakes up in Joseph’s hospital bed and finds him sprawled on the floor. He’s shirtless, so she immediately recognizes his pecs from previous dreams and gives him a big ol’ smooch.

Acadia knew true happiness for the first time. For she had not only kissed Joseph, but he returned her kiss – and oh, it was glorious!

Jacob, despite his paralysis and sprawled-on-the-floor predicament, responds in his usual manly manner:

Her kiss was so precious; her taste was the sweetest nectar….

All that pillow practice is finally paying off, girl – woohoo!

It was nothing like the meaningless, faceless lust he had exchanged with countless women whose names he could not remember. He felt something – he could swear he did – below his waist – a twitch – hell, was he dreaming!?!?

I think that was foreshadowing, but I’m not sure for positive. I’m also not sure what narrative purpose this dream serves, other than to reinforce the already blindingly obvious fact that Joseph is a manwhore and then leave him twitching helplessly on the floor.

The voodoo/hoodoo/catholic/druid stuff explained….

In New Orleans, traditional witchcraft is a combination of the Celtic craft, voodoo, hoodoo, with a little Appalachian Granny Magic thrown in for good measure. If you asked them what their religion was, they would tell you Catholic. Their everyday life, however, was filled with mojo bags, spells, charms and a constant awareness of the supernatural.

The more you know.

Cady’s Aunt Honoria is THE Aunt Honoria. You know, the High Priestess of Santeria and administrative assistant to Her Supreme Highness Head Witch and Highest of All High Priestesses Nana Bogart. I think we’re supposed to actually know who this Bogart woman is, but we’re a little light on the voodoo up here in the Land o’ Lutherans, so I’m just going to smile and nod and pretend I recognize her because I’m pretty sure I don’t want to piss her off.

Aunt Honoria summons Cady’s presence to share a different version of the future:

“I see darkness ahead for you. I don’t know what that entails, but I am afraid for your life.”

But Cady knows – or maybe she doesn’t, it’s very confusing – that Joseph is a McCoy, so he’ll be worth the risk of Death and Darkness.

Cady had never experienced joy with a man. If there was any chance of knowing a man’s love, even for a little while – Cady was willing to step into hell for the opportunity.

Remember, kids: Life without a man isn’t worth living.

Misogyny? What misogyny?

Meanwhile, back at the hospital….

Joseph was ready to go home. He had one of the cute little nurses’ aides get all of his gear together.

Nope, no misogyny here. Move along, folks.

Was he going to have to live like this forever? Was there anyone in the world that could help him?

The soundless cry rose from his heart and reverberated out into the universe – and lo and behold – as the old fairy tales read – someone was listening. A connection was made. Help was on the way. Sometimes there are wonders in this world that will literally blow your mind.

If you need a cookie break, take one now, because that was just the end of Chapter One, and you’ll need the sugar high to keep your spirits up.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch….

Snarling, he realized he hadn’t ‘evacuated his bowels’. What a crock of shit. He couldn’t even tell when he needed to take a dump!

Luckily, Mr. Limpdick McCrankypants has his big brother Jacob for manly support:

“You will make love to a woman again, Joseph. Don’t you dare give up!”

But that inspiring pep talk isn’t enough, because Joseph’s beloved Playboy magazine comes in the mail and no matter how hard he tries…. Nothing. Nil. Nada.

I was going to copy in that whole extremely descriptive paragraph, but the important facts are that the centerfold’s name is Lisa Reinhart and we never find out if Joseph’s urine catheter survives intact.

Is this Heaven? No, it’s New Orleans. No, wait, it’s Heaven.

Master Gabe reappears in Cady’s dreams to give some final (?) advice, which she doesn’t seem to appreciate.

“I read every word of the memo you sent me,” she assured her superior. “But since I won’t have any memory of my existence here, how will any of this information be of help to me?”

That was Cady asking Master Gabe, not me asking the author.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch….

It’s now younger brother Noah’s turn to pull Poor Joseph out of the doldrums:

“Just because you’re off your feet for awhile doesn’t mean you have to be so damn cranky. You make me think of that bull we used to have – you remember Hannibal?”

If it were me, I would have named him HanniBULL. Get it, get it? I crack myself up sometimes.

But Poor Joseph is determined to prolong his pity party:

“Yea, I remember him. He was a big, grey Brahmin bull. His dick was so long when it was hard, he stepped on it.” As soon as he said the words, he sobered. Would he ever get hard again? Would he ever know what it was like to slide into a woman’s hot, wet pussy again? Shit!

Noah, however, is undiscouraged, reeling off a string of hilarious – I’m not being sarcastic this time – dick jokes. Other Brother Isaac gets in on the act and manages to get Noah yelling “MY DICK IS SO BIG…” right as the Baptist preacher walks in the door.

And yet again, a well-written – and truly funny – scene is completely ruined by an immediate plunge into a Morass of Misogyny.

(What’s my alliteration score so far? Am I close to earning my letter for my letter jacket?)

Joseph gets some good news….

You’ll recall that Joseph is understandably upset that paralysis has Taken Away His Manhood. Lucky for him, one of his friends knows somebody who knows somebody whose brother’s uncle’s step-cousin’s dogsitter had a similar type of erectile impairment:

“I’ve seen a miracle, Joseph. I can give you the name of a woman who can give you back your manhood.”

Our hero cuts off his BFF’s explanation of voodoo vs. hoodoo and empaths vs. traiteurs to get to the more important employment questions:

“What does she look like, this miracle worker?”

You’d be correct in thinking that’s not on the Equal Employment Opportunity hiring checklist. But let’s keep in mind we’re dealing with not just a McCoy, but with an impotent McCoy, and they’re bad enough when they can pop wood.

(Oh good lord, I can’t believe I just wrote that. I’m blaming certain m/m authors who may or may not read this blog but who shall remain nameless. You know who you are.)

Whoops, where were we? Oh, right – the Morass of Misogyny:

“I don’t want a beautiful woman to see me this way. If I’m going to let somebody watch my urine flow through a tube into a bag, I want her to be so ugly that I don’t care one way or the other.”

Misogyny? What misogyny?

During a brief phone interview with the Cady the Physical Therapist Voodoo Priestess Unknown Guardian Angel, Joseph initially believes that he could “put up with anything for a month, even an ugly woman’s hands on him.” But when she informs him they’ll need to (gasp) be on a first-name basis (shudder), his non-existent manhood clenches:

Now wait a minute. He didn’t need some wallflower getting any ideas about him. He might be paralyzed, but he wasn’t desperate… Joseph had never been comfortable around unattractive women. And now, he wasn’t comfortable around attractive ones.

Nope, no misogyny here, better keep looking.

Joseph decides he’s man enough (>snort<) to withstand the Onslaught of Ugliness and offers Cady the job. She, of course, accepts immediately and drives 606 miles nonstop to Meet Her Destiny.

Wait, back up, I forgot the Dream Sex!

During the phone interview with Joseph, Cady is able to voodoo-sense his concerns about her falling in love with him. But, alas, it’s already too late.

How do we know it’s too late? Because after she hangs up the phone, she immediately has Dream Sex with Joseph. And not just pillow-kissing Dream Sex:

She was going to have to change the sheets. Cady looked at the huge wet spot staining her pale pink bottom sheet. Her encounter with Joseph might have all been in her mind, but her orgasm and ejaculation were real enough to force her to strip her bed and do a load of laundry.

I know I said I was going to save all my questions about the paranormal stuff until later, but I must know: Is this type of Creamy Dream Sex typical of angel/mortal couplings?

Also: If a girl angel loses her virginity during Dream Sex, does it still count? Or will her hymen just keep growing back like Jessica’s on True Blood? Can STDs be transmitted during Dream Sex, or are angels immune like werewolves?

Meanwhile, back at the ranch….

I just love saying that. It’s now time for some spooky paranormal foreshadowing:

Acadia Renaud drove under the Tebow Ranch sign. As soon as she did, she felt it. Evil. Flashes of red obscured her vision. Something was very wrong at this place. A sense of foreboding enveloped her. Parking, she sat for a few moments; waiting to see if she could glean more information from the black cloud of ominous emotion that had crashed into her spirit.

Believe it or not, this Odor of Ominous Foreboding is NOT wafting from Joseph and His Amazingly Magnificent Misogyny. There’s a Random Villain in our midst, but he’s kind of an enigma (see below), so we’ll worry about him later.

Cady stopped at the door, an overwhelming feeling of destiny swamping her senses. She didn’t know what the future would hold for her here at Tebow Ranch, but whatever was ahead was going to be a wild, wild ride.

Oh, honey – you have NO idea. You should have just stayed right there and let yourself drown in the Swamp of Destiny.

Hmmm…. Drowning in the Swamp of Destiny: A Memoir by Cady Renaud.

Or maybe a voodoo-themed “Swamp of Destiny” restaurant chain. You know, like Planet Hollywood but with alligator gumbo on the menu and over-priced cocktails served in little miniature cauldrons and shrunken heads on the walls.

Or, better yet…. Wait for it….

Swamp of Destiny: A new HBO miniseries from the producers of Game of Thrones.

Sweet Jesus Honey Dews, the possibilities are endless. I’m claiming copyright on that RIGHT NOW: Swamp of Destiny©. Swamp of Destiny™. Swamp of Destiny®.

And don’t even THINK about plagiarizing that. I’ll out you on Dear Author and stick a Twitter hashtag (#SwampStealer) on you so fast you won’t even have time to post a whiny half-assed apology on your own blog. And don’t bother me with that “Sable Hunter used it first” crap. She used “swamp” as verb, and I’m using it as a noun, so it’s completely different.

Oh god help me, there’s another one coming….

Diddlin’ with the Darlins’: A Memoir by Joseph “The Texas Stallion” McCoy.

This, my friends, is why I write snotty book reviews instead of fiction.

The meet-cute….

One of the only good things about this book was the full-text copy/paste of “Joseph Meets Cady” from the previous book. Kinda like one of those dead-virus vaccinations you get before travelling to a developing country.

In spite of himself, his face broke into a grin. He didn’t care how many times this woman emptied his pee bag. If he had special ordered a homely woman feature by feature, he couldn’t have done better.

Misogyny? What misogyny?

Our hero is distracted from this Horror of Homeliness when his future sisters-in-law (our previous heroines) arrive:

Libby and Jessie came skipping through the living room on their way inside with big bouquets of flowers from Libby’s garden. Now, this was how women were supposed to look!

Yes, SKIPPING. Misogyny? What misogyny?

But Joseph’s attention returns to our heroine’s unattractive appearance when Libby teases Cady about their adjoining rooms.

She must realize that there was no way that she could ever be his type. Why, Joseph McCoy had dated some of the most beautiful women in the great state of Texas.

Misogyny? What misogyny?

As Libby shows Cady to her room, Joseph feels compelled to explain his rehab plan:

“If she can help you, does it matter how she looks?” Jessie was smarter than the average bear.

Misogyny? What misogyny?

“In addition to her having the right certification, I insisted that she be homely. If I’m going to let a woman see me at my worst, I don’t want it to be a good-looking woman. And Cady Renaud suits me just fine. She’s coyote ugly.”

Ohhh, THAT misogyny.

And take a WILD guess who overhears him.

Thus endeth Chapter Three. I told you you’d need that cookie.

Decision time: Should I keep reading?

Oh, HELL NO! But I did anyway.

Crappity crap crap, I completely forgot about my extended sports metaphor. The quarterfinal round of our Man-Meat Marathon kicks off with Joseph’s teeny tiny little conscience crawling out from under its rock.

Closing his eyes, he knew what he had to do. He left to go and apologize to Cady….

Out of nowhere, Joseph felt a chill down his back. He remembered that Ms. Renaud practiced a form of witchcraft. Suddenly, he couldn’t get out of the room fast enough.

I got chiiiiills, they’re multiplyin’, and I’m looooosin’ control….. Oh, sorry. You should also consider that an apology in advance for what I inflict on you later.

Just outside, Cady slid down the wall of the house until she could sit on the ground…. Desperate to just get away, she had gone out the closest exit she could find – the window.

If I ever get to be a Voodoo Priestess Guardian Angel, I’m going to make DAMN sure that I get a pair of wings that work, because there’s NO WAY IN HELL I’m crawling out of windows to avoid obnoxious assholes.

Above the sound of crickets and the occasional mooing of a cow….

That’s not particularly relevant, but it was too good to leave out.

Could she deal with this? Could she put aside her crushed hopes and take care of business? …She wanted, no she needed to protect and help him despite his rejection of her as a woman. Chewing on her lip, she decided what she would do: she would toughen up, get in his face and do everything in her power to get him back on his feet. And along the way – if they became friends – so much the better, friendship was better than nothing.

Which sign goes better with that ankle-length denim jumper she’s wearing: “Hi! I’m a Martyr!” or “Kick Me, I’m a Doormat!”?

Oh Sweet Jesus Honey Dews, writing that just made me realize that she climbed out a window while wearing an ankle-length denim jumper. I pity the poor stunt double when this gets made into a Lifetime TV Movie.

But that’s missing the important literary subtext of this passage: Cady does indeed find the inner strength to “get in his face.” Well, not his face, exactly. You know what I mean. Anyway, for Cady, “getting in his face” is a euphemism for…. Um, well, I guess it’s a euphemism for waiting around for Joseph to treat her like cow shit stuck to the bottom of his custom-made cowboy boot. Again. Which is coming up right about…now.

Those of you still rooting for Joseph will cheer as he pulls off the mother of all backhanded apologies:

“Cady, I’m so about what you heard me say. I’m not usually so stupid.”

No, but you’re always an asshole.

He tried not to look at her and judge – but could she have picked a more unbecoming outfit? He tried to decide if she were overweight. Hell, it was hard to tell. Hell, it was hard to tell. Her clothes didn’t touch her anywhere and she was wearing one of those dresses that women usually wear when they want to cover up a multitude of sins. Her hands were small and delicate and the feet that were peeking out from her floor-length skirt were narrow and sorta pretty. But a woman had to have more than cute hands and feet – what was in-between was pretty damn important. Hell! He was doing it again! What the fuck difference did it make how she looked? Wasn’t she exactly what he had hoped for? “It’s none of my business how you look or how you dress. I respect your ability and I need you. From this moment on, I promise to treat you with the respect you deserve. Okay?”

Well, since you asked so nicely…. Fuck off, douchebag.

But instead of pushing him out of his wheelchair and yelling “NUMBNUTS HAHAHAHAHA” while pointing at his perma-flaccid member, Cady leaves her last two milligrams of self-respect at the barn door and returns to fulfill her promise to Restore the Manhood.

The worst thing that could happen would be if she were foolish enough to develop a lasting crush on him. Right now, it was just wishful thinking.

A lifelong crush is the WORST she can imagine? AFTER he calls her “coyote ugly” and she climbs out a window??? The mind-boggling hypocrisy of that so-called apology must have made her forget the Portentous Shiver of Doom she experienced at the Mouth of Hell. Oops, I mean the gates of Tebow Ranch. Sorry, my bad.

Voodoo to the rescue….

To get all our ducks in a row with the series meta-timeline, we’re now in the frantic search for Jessie, our beloved Homeless Orphaned Dyslexic Pregnant Virgin heroine from Book 2.

While Joseph parks his Mercedes Z-class motorized wheelchair in the middle of the kitchen and whines about not being able to chase after Tiny Little Impotent Penis Guy like his non-paralyzed brothers, Cady quietly retrieves her Secret Stash of Voodoo Stuff:

While the family and authorities searched for Jessie, she lit candles and laid out a map of the local area. Being alone in the house (Joseph must have time-traveled somewhere), she visited Jessie’s bedroom and took a bit of hair from her brush to use as a spiritual connection. Braiding it into a heart shape, she held it tight in one hand while she let the pendulum swing over the map. After a few moments, it settled and stopped very near to the ranch. Jotting down the locale, she placed a discrete call to Kane Saucier.

Yes, the sheriff of Kerr County, Texas, is named Kane Saucier. His brother Zane is an attorney, but Zane is blind, so it’s pretty easy to remember who’s Law and who’s Order. Kane (with a K) has his own spin-off short story (!), which is free (!!), but it’s only available from the publisher’s website and there’s NO WAY IN HELL I’m entering my name and address on that order form. But someone needs to please-oh-please-oh-please download it for me, because I can’t bear to miss out on more sexy dialogue like this:

“I think I’ll mosey over that way and head my little filly off at the pass before she gets corralled by those bow-legged cowpokes.”

No, I did not make that up. Kindle location 5109.

ANYWAY, let’s not lose focus on the real mystery here. Not the spiritual connection part, that’s all cool. I’m talking about the mysterious heart-shaped pendulum made of braided hair. Exactly how much hair did Cady remove from Jessie’s hairbrush to be able to braid it into a heart shape? When was the last time Jessie cleaned her damn hairbrush?

Then again, who the hell cares, because the Magical Hair Heart leads the Joseph-less McCoy Posse directly to the correct abandoned farmhouse three miles away. Tiny Little Impotent Penis Guy gets shot (in the chest, sheesh) by Noah, who thereby redeems himself from getting Jessie kidnapped in the first place, and Jessie gets her Magical Orgasm Cure. You know, for her PTSD.

So, all’s well that ends well. Except we’re only in Chapter Four and Joseph’s manhood is still missing.

Is that a rifle, pardner?

No – it’s the starting gun for the semifinals of our Third Weekly Tournament of Assholes: The Is She Hot or Not? Lightning Round!

Uff da, I wish it was the lightning round. It’s more like the bottom of the sixth with two outs and it’s 97 degrees in the shade with 157% humidity and I’m dying to stand up and sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame just to have a chance to surreptitiously disengage the extremely sweaty undergarments from my tender openings but the batter keeps hitting foul balls and the so-called relief pitcher keeps faking throws to first to hold the runner on base and then another goddamn foul ball and then the guy on first makes an ill-timed attempt at second and gets hung up in a rundown which gives the runner on third enough distraction to steal home and now the game is tied and the face-painted asshole next to me gets so excited he Spills. My. Beer.

That’s what reading this book feels like: One big long pointless run-on sentence. With no beer.

You think I’m overreacting, but I’m not.

The entire rest of the book – we’re less than a third of the way through so far – is an endless repetition of “You’re not pretty enough, WELL MAYBE, let’s have sex with brain-melting orgasms, YEE HAW THAT WAS HAWT NO WAIT NEVER MIND, you need a makeover to be pretty enough, GOOD LORD WOMAN WHY ARE YOU CRYING?”

You think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not.

From Chapter Four – this scene has been edited for length to fit within your gag threshold:

Seeing his discomfort, she tried to make light of it at her expense, maybe that would put him at ease. “Remember, that’s why you wanted a homely therapist.” She spread her hands in concession to the point. “Well, here I am – coyote ugly – whatever that means. So, don’t think of me as a female, think of me as asexual – just a person.”

Actually, he’s probably thinking of you as a spineless doormat. Then again, maybe not:

… Her eyes were the warmest golden brown, exactly the color of an amber jewel…. And her cheekbones were high, and her lips were full and looked so soft and suckable…. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he had been wrong, but he was beginning to think she was kinda cute.

I need one of those bite-guard things to keep my teeth from grinding. Remind me to put that on my Christmas list.

“What is coyote ugly, by the way? Just for future reference.” Cady put her hands on her waist, and Joseph couldn’t help but notice how small it was. He would give a good of hunk change to see what kind of figure she was concealing so completely.

“Is it some kind of ‘dog’ reference? I’ve heard that before.”

That she would admit someone had called her a ‘dog’ brought a funny feeling to Joseph’s chest. That was a shame. But hadn’t he done the same – or worse? She folded her arms under her breasts and he could see that she did have a pair – a rather large pair. Nice.

You might think I deliberately left something out of that last bit to make it even more ridiculous. I didn’t.

“It alludes to a man being so drunk in a bar that he takes any woman home with him…. The stupid comparison comes from a coyote’s willingness to chew off his own leg in order to get out of a trap.”

“Oh…. That is a serious insult.” She could feel tears welling up behind her eyes and she called upon every magical atom in her body to quell them. It would humiliate her even more if Joseph saw her cry over something he said.

You might think this dreadful scene is finally over. It’s not.

“It’s all right. There’s no use for me to worry about something I can’t change.”

“I’m not a beauty consultant, but I am a connoisseur of women and I can see some things you could change easily enough.”

“I tell you what; I’ll let you analyze my shortcomings, if you’ll let me help you in the shower…. Since you smell like a sexy, clean male, I have to assume you are taking sink baths.”

Was she flirting with him? After everything he’d said to her? The hint of sexual tension in the air was pleasurable.

Okay, we’re done. For now. Imagine ^that^ ghastly episode multiplied by an average of five instances per chapter, times nine more chapters.

Our heroine goes back for more humiliation. Every. Single. Fucking. Time. And then she throws herself on a downed power line to save his life.

The angst! The drama!

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’re still in the middle of chapter four – our starting quarterbacks are still in the game, sticking close to the Hot or Not playbook, but the second- and third-stringers have been rotating in and out to keep the pseudo-plot moving:

Random Villainy, condomless sex, Emeril buys dinner, Joseph punches a Marine in the face, more condomless sex in penthouse suite of five-star hotel, non-appearance by menstrual fairy, hints of marriage proposal, boobtastic reporter from page one returns and vows Woman Scorned revenge, Random Villain returns, purchase of pregnancy test, finger-fucking in a restaurant booth, job offer instead of marriage proposal, she hides in room, she forgives him, more condomless sex, Nathan runs away, boobtastic reporter gets revenge by instigating Big Misunderstanding, Isaac apprehends Random Villain (see below), minor character disappears, Nathan is found, Big Storm, Cady FINALLY figures out she’s the World’s Worst Guardian Angel, Cady throws herself on downed power line, awakens to gasp “have them check the baby!”, ultrasound shows twins, Joseph fucks up marriage proposal, she cries, she forgives him.

The happy ending….

“Joseph, I’m not blind – I know how I look. But my grandmother used to tell me that when I met the man who would really love me I would become beautiful in his eyes and the more he grew to love me, the more beautiful I would become. That’s you, Joseph – if I’m beautiful, it is your love that made me so.”

And in heaven there was much rejoicing for one who was lost had come home.

And on earth, there was much sorrow for those who think misogyny is synonymous with romance.

The epilogue….

Ladies and gentlemen, I present another entry in the WTF Oh Dear God She Really Didn’t Write That Did She? Hall of Fame:

Dr. Angel McCoy stood up to accept the award for her work in stem cell research.

No, that’s not it, keep reading. Dr. Angel’s twin, Gabriel, was born with a severe paralysis and died shortly after birth. You know, that divine retribution thing. Anyway, her parents and four sisters are in the audience (no sons for Joseph, because God actually does have a sense of humor).

Get ready for the Hail Mary pass:

As they watched their daughter accept the Nobel Prize for advancement in medicine, Joseph held Cady’s hand.

Not just any ol’ stem cell award, mind you – the motherfucking NOBEL PRIZE. Now THAT’S an epilogue.

Game. Set. Match. And that’s the end of the sports metaphors because I’m switching to something a little more high-brow. Show tunes, baby. Show tunes.

Our heroine….

Acadia loved Joseph almost more than she loved God. And that fact could get her in serious trouble. Angels are supposed to love God above all else. Acadia tried, but Joseph owned her heart.

Remember a few paragraphs ago when I apologized in advance for what I was going to inflict on you later? This would be it. Out of all the snark I’ve written about this dreck, I’m surely going to hell (or maybe even Hell) for this one:

How do we solve a problem like Acadia?

How can we smack some sense into her brain?

How do we find a way to like Acadia?

Words like ‘ugly voodoo angel’ give me pain

Many a thing you know you’d like to tell her

Many a time you feel like being MEAN

But how can we make her heed

The clues she so badly needs

Why does she lose her shit in EVERY scene?

Oh, how do we solve a problem like Acadia?

Damn she just makes me want to stab my spleen

When I’m with her I’m confused, out of focus and bemused

And I never know exactly where I am

Vacillating like the weather, she’s as spineless as a feather

She’s a virgin, she’s an angel

She’s a lamb

She has voodoo nice and sweet, brings an asshole to his feet

She can make a throbbing cowboy lose his cool

She is horny, she is wild, she is clueless, she’s a child

She’s a doormat! She’s a martyr!

She’s a FOOL!

Maria von Trapp might have been a nun, but she had balls under that habit. Cady Renaud, not so much. There are very few one-syllable words pathetic enough to describe her.

There are, however, numerous examples of her pitiable ineptitude and general wretchedness:

Of course she knew what ‘69′ was, but that was like saying she knew what The Kentucky Derby was – it didn’t mean she had ever been there.

Oh. Dear. God.

Cady was running a tub of water and added bubble bath – a little too much bubble bath. Joseph walked in while she was leaning over the tub trying to mash the bubbles down before they floated over the top, just in time to see her fall over headfirst into the tub.

Need proof? Kindle location 4510.

“Could we not talk, please?” Joseph was a master seducer, and he was following a script that he had probably used a million times, and she couldn’t bear the thought of just being a much needed dress rehearsal for his next big performance. “I mean, you can tell me what to do. But don’t say nice things to me. Okay?”

Or maybe you could remind yourself of your “Toughen Up and Get In His Face” Declaration of Womanhood and tell him to FUCK OFF.

Cady loved him so much. With all the energy she possessed, with every bit of magick she could muster – Cady called forth the paralysis that hampered Joseph and invited it into her own body….

After a few minutes, she felt it. Her body began to tingle and not in a good way. …. Good. If she was hurting, that meant Joseph was free from pain for the first time in weeks.

…Now she needed to surround herself with blue light and try to rejuvenate her body. And if she could do it without Joseph being any the wiser, that would be perfect.

Please, by all means, let’s not make a McCoy aware he owes anything to a woman. Even if she’s literally sacrificing herself.

But before we judge our heroine too harshly, let’s recall there’s a reason she is the way she is:

After all, Cady knew what she looked like. Mud fence was a term she was too familiar with.

Other things you should know about our heroine:

• She wears non-prescription eyeglasses, styles her curly lush butt-length hair in a bun and has caramel skin.
• Her signature piece of apparel – the ankle-length denim jumper – is embroidered with kittens. Or maybe it was embroidered BY kittens. There is definitely embroidery involved.
• She’s a close personal friend of celebrity chef Emeril Lagasse. They’re related through voodoo. It’s a New Orleans thing.
• She’s only technically a virgin, because she knows her way around a tampon and a dildo.

But seriously, I think Cady’s Little Miss Martyr von Doormat routine galled me even more than Joseph’s whiny manwhore, because we knew he was going to be an idiot. Cady is supposed to be a highly educated and well-respected physical therapist, a Guardian Angel, AND a Princess Royal in the voodoo world. Talk about potential – can you imagine what a real PNR author could do with a character like that? But instead of kicking ass and brewing potions, our heroine flagellates herself at the feet of a man who treats her like dirt. Again and again and again. And then she drags herself back for more.

Because without the Love of a Man, her life is completely worthless. Even her immortal life.

Misogyny? What misogyny?

Then again, does it really count as misogyny if she’s such a spineless fucking DOORMAT? Or would that be like “she deserved it” victim-blaming? Discuss amongst yourselves.

Summing up Cady in one paragraph:

“What?” It took a moment for Cady to realize that Joseph was through with her. He pushed her – not hard – but hard enough for her to realize he wanted her gone – now. Trying to get her body to follow her mind’s directive – she hesitated. He pushed again and she became overbalanced and tumbled off the bed backwards. With a small cry, she hit the floor. Her torn gown gaped open and she rushed to pull it back together, totally mortified. “I’m sorry. I’ll go.”

Just to be clear: He pushes her out of bed and SHE apologizes. Kindle location 2260.

Our hero….

This was hard for a man who prided himself in making women dream, cream and scream on a regular basis.

I think it’s safe to say Joseph McCoy’s reign as Emperor of Assholia will forever be known as the Golden Age of Misogynistic Fuckwadery. However, I predict that Noah the Uptight Self-Righteous Accountant will stage a coup in Book 5. Let’s hope the civil war is long and painful.

Hell, he couldn’t even piss by himself. Every time a nurse came in and wanted to mess with the catheter that was stuck up his dick, he just wanted to throw a fuckin’ bedpan at ‘em.

Heart-wrenching, isn’t it? Let’s a throw a pity party for poor Joseph. Oh, wait, never mind – he’s already sent out the invitations:

None of the women who had once been at his beck and call would even answer his emails, much less their cell phones….. Maybe his current situation was a testimony to how shallow his life had become.

Maybe? MAYBE??? All I can say is quid pro quo, asshole. What goes around comes around. You reap what you sow. Too bad, so sad. Boo-fuckin’-hoo.

“Hey, my face is up here.”

Before his accident, he had enjoyed women eating him up with their eyes. Now he knew they weren’t lusting after his physique, they pitied his condition.

Awwww, poor baby.

Joseph was used to being adored – he expected it. That was one of the reasons being ignored by women after his accident had devastated him, so.

Do you need a tissue?

Long, perfect legs – gorgeous skin – he had never seen a more perfect little figure on a woman before. Granted, he couldn’t see her top – but what he could see was Grade A Number One.

Never mind. Fuck off, douchebag.

During the trip to New Orleans, Joseph gets all pissy with a slightly drunk Marine who’s flirting with Cady in a crowded restaurant. Our hero is patriotic enough to warn off the young serviceman by calling him “soldier boy” before punching him in the face.

He might be a crip, but he was covering the ground he walked on and there wasn’t a man in the bar who didn’t realize that the cowboy had claimed his woman.

Other things you should know about our hero:

• His best friend Beau is a world-famous hunter of endangered Cuban crocodiles.
• He can bench-press 400 pounds.
• He set a free-fall speed record in a jump sponsored by Red Bull. (I have no clue what this actually means.)
• He broke diving records for the longest cave passage (hahahahaha) by proving underwater springs near Tallahassee, Florida, were linked.
• He holds the record for free-climbing El Capitan in California. Ten hours.
• He lost his virginity in hayloft with Tiffany Robinson.

Summing up Joseph in one paragraph:

If he stopped now, it would break her heart. Shit! He was going to hurt her, either way he went. What the hell! He might as well please them both.

A summing up of the summing up….

Before we leave our lovely couple, let’s have one more example why these are the most one-dimensional and COMPLETELY FUCKING RIDICULOUS main characters I’ve ever read:

Laying her head on his shoulder she reveled in the rightness of being with Joseph. So, she endeavored to convey to him how she felt without burdening him with her love. “There is no like you. No one.” She kissed him right over his heart, feeling the strong beat beneath her lips. “Thank you for allowing me to share this precious time with you, Joseph. I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”

“Me either, baby. Let’s take a nap, and we’ll go another round.”

(moment of silence for individual contemplation and reflection….)

Intentional humor or subtle irony? You make the call. But please note that in context, there is nothing that indicates the author is anything other than completely earnest.

Our hero and heroine never change. Cady shows up a martyrific doormat and stays a martyrific doormat throughout the entire book. Joseph shows up a douchebag and does absolutely nothing to redeem himself, even to the point of fucking up his marriage proposal after the Power Line Incident.

They’re both so horrible, the Bad Sex isn’t even funny. What a waste.

Even more reasons why this is the Absolute Worst Book I have ever read:

Inane details…. Joseph likes to wear burnt orange Longhorn lounge pant sets during his physical therapy sessions. I honestly thought “Longhorn” was some kind of specialty Texas brand of flannel, but then I Googled it, and silly me. College football Longhorns. Duh.

Ridiculous character inconsistencies…. He-man Joseph compares his brother’s leather jacket to a Dooney and Burke purse. The man wears Longhorn lounge pants for god sake, how the hell is he so familiar with luxury-brand handbags? Is he a closet metrosexual?

Eye-rolling coincidences…. Cady just happens to be close personal friends with celebrity chef Emeril Lagasse – AND Emeril is a big fan of Joseph’s! I know, right???

Condomless sex…. With a MANWHORE. But it’s okay, because her period is irregular. GAH!!!

And last but not least, let me introduce you to our Stalker of the Week….

Mr. Random McVillainy is out for revenge – but not on our current hero Joseph. Mr. McVillainy is plotting against Jacob, the hero of the previous book. Mr. McVillainy has the impressive timing of invading the ranch at the exact same time as the villain of the previous book. I know, right??? Unlucky for him but lucky for us, Mr. McVillainy is quickly apprehended in a very specific location critical to the plot of the next book (see below).

No need to worry about the actual character name, as he appears only four times, in one- or two-paragraph scenes that pop up out of nowhere like prairie dogs on the open range (if prairie dogs were more like slimy little weasels and not totally adorable). Like most stalkers, Random is kind of a loner, but he is charmingly in touch with his emotions, especially while committing acts of pointless vandalism (CRASH!!! Yea, this was going to help his feelings, quite a bit.).

Random and probably stupid questions about paranormality….

In the spirit of transparency and full disclosure, I am not a fan of paranormal romance. I made it through about four Sookie Stackhouse books, but only because I was attempting to watch True Blood at the time and wanted to claim Alexander Skarsgård as my Vampire Boyfriend (>>>eye-candy link<<gross.

Anyway, that means I’ve never read any PNR with angels, demons or other such magical entities, so I’m in no way familiar with the infrastructure, architecture or etiquette of Heaven (or Hell), which means that I have some rather naive questions about paranormal-type things.

For example, naming conventions. Cady’s heavenly boss is Master Gabe, which I’m assuming is either Archangel Gabriel or one of his namesake minions. However, “Master Gabe” is also the name of a Dom in a BDSM book I read, so I kept worrying that this Master Gabe’s feathery wings would interfere with his flogging technique. Would that be blasphemy?

Also, the bureaucracy in Heaven:

He filled out his part of the form and handed it to her with instructions on where to go to arrange for her transfer.

So Heaven isn’t an earth-friendly paper-free workplace? Sheesh, even back in 1946, Clarence didn’t have to bother with paperwork when George Bailey was about to throw himself off the bridge.

Also, heavenly transportation:

“Acadia!” Master Gabe caught up to her just before she stepped onto the escalator. “I need to give you a bit more advice.”

Escalators? Are angels not allowed to use their wings while in Heaven? If you can’t have wings to escape annoying assholes and you can’t use them in heaven, then WHAT IS THE POINT OF BEING AN ANGEL?

Also, heavenly curfews:

A horn blew and a bell rang out – heralding the last call for those who were scheduled to depart the hallowed halls.

How does “last call” in Heaven work with various time zones and the International Date Line? If the angels miss their window, do they have to wait 24 hours, or can they just be transferred back to yesterday? Is that considered time-slipping or is that only for mortals?

I’m not even going >THERE< with my questions about the Voodoo/Hoodoo/Appalachian Granny Magic stuff.

For all you paranormal readers or voodoo practitioners out there: please be assured I am not making fun of you. I am, however, making fun of the author’s completely self-indulgent whim of including angels and voodoo in the book at all. None of the other books have it, it’s a confusing and possibly insulting mishmash of spiritual beliefs, it’s completely irrelevant to the actual plot (or lack thereof), and there’s absolutely no consistency in how and when it’s applied throughout the book.

Speaking of irrelevant self-indulgence:

Dear God: After I die, I would like to be an Office Worker Angel. Or maybe a Bus Driver Angel. I don’t I think would I would make a very good Guardian Angel. Thank you for your consideration. And for chocolate. Amen.

Another gratuitious musical interlude: A dream deferred….

I was totally planning on expediting my trip to Hell by bastardizing the lyrics to the Schoolhouse Rock “Interjections” song. Sweet Jesus Honey Dews!

For those of you young’uns who just went “huh?” – look it up on YouTube. I don’t have time to fill in all the gaps in your pop culture education. I have bad erotica to read, dammit.

Anyway, after a few chapters of exclamation point hunting, I realized the options for rhyming were significantly limited, so instead, I’m gifting you with a condensed version of Up the Mountain of Manhood: Joseph’s Epic Journey.

• Hell! (no time for diddlin’)
• O God! O God! O God! (motocross crash)
• Shit! Damn! (dream sex with kissing and possible twitching in the nether regions)
• Hell! Damn! Fuck! (dream sex with orgasm)
• Shit! (Strip Truth or Dare)
• Hell! (Cady lets her hair down)
• Ow! (the real physical therapy begins)
• Wow! (actual kissing with definite tingling in the nether regions)
• Hell! (Cady gets a makeover)
• Shit! (Cady gets a bikini wax)
• Damn! (blood rushes south)
• Holy Shit! (penetration)
• Fuck Yes! (orgasm)

It’s actually quite poetic and lyrical, in a weird sort of way.

Speaking of Bad Sex…..

Example #437 why I should NEVER be allowed to write fiction

So way back up there in the rundown of Chapters 5-13, you might have noticed a reference to finger-fucking in a restaurant booth. Yes, they sat on the same side of the booth. ANYWAY, after this extremely descriptive episode, Joseph meets and greets his fellow Texans, shaking hands with half the population of Kerrville and handing out beer to the rest.

During the entire scene, which includes the Marriage-Proposal-No-Wait-Just-Kidding-It’s-A-Job-Offer, THIS is what I fixated on: “He didn’t wash his hands after finger-fucking her. Why isn’t he washing his hands? OH GROSS he just touched that poor waitress on the arm. He still hasn’t washed his hands. Oh Dear God DO NOT take that beer bottle from him. WHEN is he going to wash his hands???”

Listen up, kids: That’s what reading this dreck will do to your brain. Or maybe it’s the menopausal hot flashes. Either way, you’re fucked.

The Misogyny Manifesto

Forget it. The manifesto part, I mean – if you’ve read this far, I hope I don’t have to convince you any further about the misogyny.

I’m sorry if I got your hopes up, but I’m going to allow my lingering TANGENTY ALL CAPS TANGENTS to fester in the Swamp of Destiny for another week while I read Badass: A Memoir by Isaac “Bad Boy” McCoy.

Why? Because of this sentence right here:

With one graceful movement, Isaac tore a whip from the wall and let the long black snake slice through the air coming down with a stinging blow on the bare hands of the man who dared to breach his inner sanctum.

No, not THAT kind of inner sanctum, THIS kind of inner sanctum:

“I’m a Dom, Kane – a sexual Dominant.”

Oh, HELL YEAH! Indiana Jones + Sex Dungeon = Put that in your pipe and smoke it, George Lucas.

In addition to the Big BDSM Reveal, we also learn that Isaac sneaks food to the dog under the dinner table. My expectations for Master Isaac have increased exponentially.

My standards are still low, but my expectations are high.

The wrap party

Before we sing Happy Trails for this week, I’d like to leave you with these inspiring glimpses into the afterlife:

“What difference does it make if I am beautiful or not? I only want to help Joseph. He won’t care about how look. Will he?” Her innocent question caused Master Gave to take a deep breath and consider carefully before answering. Acadia was strong in many ways, but her little spirit was fragile. She didn’t realize how easily she could be broken.

But then the heavenly last call bell rings:

The conductor motioned for her to follow him. “Hey, cutie! If you’re going with me – it’s time.”

Yes, Virginia (>snort<), there really is Misogyny in Heaven. Can I get an Amen!?

No? Didn’t think so.

More irrelevant self-indulgence, this time in pretentious footnote format:

* I cannot believe I didn’t notice this before, but lookie what I found on the title page:

Six brothers. One dynasty.

If Nathan the Plot Moppet gets his own book about losing his virginity, I’m going to have to get my Xanax prescription refilled early, and my doctor is going to ask why, and how in the HELL YEAH! am I going to explain that?

Unless, of course, the de-virginizer is a cougar. Like a Dynasty-era (nice segue, huh?) Joan Collins kind of cougar. How totally wicked AWESOME would that be???

Related posts:

1. GUEST REVIEW: Hot on Her Trail by Sable Hunter
2. GUEST REVIEW: Cowboy Heat (Book 1 of the Hell Yeah! series) by Sable Hunter
3. REVIEW: Ravishing in Red by Madeline Hunter

Name of debut release: Wicked as They Come

Release date: 03/27/2012

Publisher: Pocket, S&S

2 sentence summary: When hospice nurse Tish Everett forces open the ruby locket she finds at an estate sale, she has no idea that a deliciously rakish Bludman has cast a spell just for her. She wakes up in a surreal steampunk world, where Criminy Stain, the dashing proprietor of a magical traveling circus, curiously awaits.

Genre: paranormal, steampunk, romance

Characters: Tish Everett is an Atlanta hospice nurse who just wants to get over a relationship gone bad and take care of her dying grandmother.
Criminy Stain is a magical and wicked Bludman, or blood drinker, who runs a traveling circus in a world called Sang. He’s like an extra-naughty Mr. Darcy.

What makes this story different: My world fuses a steampunk Victorian-type world with a new twist on vampires. Half the population are blood drinkers called Bludmen, but instead of being rich and perfect, most of them are oppressed by the humans and forced to live in ghettos in the cities. The animals are blood drinkers, too, and the folk have more to worry about from bludrats and bludbunnies than the Bludmen. Criminy is an unusual, playful twist on the typical alpha male, and the carnival adds a quirky goth flavor to the tale.

Is this a series?: Yes, the Blud series

Why you wrote this book: After watching the entire series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and getting addicted to the album Like Vines by The Hush Sound, I dreamed that I woke up naked in a very strange world and saw a dude leaning against a tree who looked like a naughty, long-haired Mr. Darcy. That became Criminy Stain, and I had to write the story just so I could spend more time with him.

Why is this your first published book? How many did you write before? This is my third book and my first sale. The first book I wrote was a tragically flawed story about a married woman who accidentally slept with the Greek god Zeus, and the second book was a middle grade adventure about basement goblins and talking attic rats.

What’s your writing process? I get obsessed with a story idea, chew on it for a while, write a loose outline, and dive right in. The first draft usually takes around a month, but the rewrites and edits take forever.

Your next published book. Wicked as She Wants, out spring 2013 with an e-novella out this fall called The Mysterious Madam Morpho.

The last book you read that you loved. Maggie Stiefvater’s The Scorpio Races entirely captured my attention with a new mythology and lyrical prose. And The Fault in Our Stars just destroyed me to bits.

The last book you read for research. Um… Fifty Shades of Grey. *shifty eyes* For research.

The romance book character you most identify with. Elizabeth Bonner from Sara Donati’s Into the Wilderness books. She’s as quietly rebellious as I am.

You can check out more about Delilah S. Dawson and her books at http://www.delilahsdawson.com

Related posts:

1. Debut Print Book: Don’t Let Me Go by J.H.Trumble
2. Debut Print Book: Under the Same Sky by Genevieve Graham
3. Debut Print Book: The Wedding Beat by Devan Sipher

The following is an excerpt from Dragon Bound posted with the approval of Thea Harrison

When he discovered the theft, Dragos Cuelebre exploded into the sky with long thrusts from a wingspan approaching that of an eight-seater Cessna jet.

Modern life had gotten complicated. His usual habit was to focus Power on averting aircraft when he flew or, simpler yet, just file a flight plan with the local air traffic control. With his outrageous wealth and position as one of the eldest and most powerful of the Wyr, life scrambled to arrange itself to his liking.

He wasn’t so polite this time. This was more a get-the-fuck-out-of-my-way kind of flight. He was blinded with rage, violent with incredulity. Lava flowed through ancient veins and his lungs worked like bellows. As he approached the zenith of his climb, his long head snapped back and forth, and he roared again. The sound ripped the air as his razor claws mauled an imaginary foe.

All of his claws except for those on one front foot where he held a tiny scrap of something fragile and, to be frank, inconceivable. This tiny scrap was as ludicrous and as nonsensical to him as a hot fudge sundae topping an ostrich’s head. The cherry on the hot fudge sundae was the elusive whiff of scent that clung to the scrap. It teased his senses into frenzy as it reminded him of something so long ago that he couldn’t quite remember what it was—

His mind went white hot and slipped from its mooring in time. Existing in his wrath he flew until he came to himself and began to think again.

Then Rune said in his head, My lord? Are you well?

Dragos cocked his head, for the first time coming aware that his First flew behind him at a discreet distance. It was a measure of his rage that he hadn’t noticed. Any other time Dragos was aware of everything that happened within his vicinity.

Dragos noted that Rune’s telepathic voice was as calm and neutral as the other male’s physical voice would have been had he spoken the words aloud.

There were many reasons why Dragos had made Rune his First in his Court. Those reasons were why Rune had thrived in his service for so long. The other male was seasoned, mature and dominant enough to hold authority in a sometimes unruly Wyr society. He was intelligent with a capacity for cunning and violence that came close to Dragos’s own.

Most of all, Rune had a gift for diplomacy that Dragos had never achieved. That talent made the younger male useful when treating with the other Elder Courts. It also helped him to navigate rocky weather when Dragos was in a rage.

Dragos’s jaw clenched and he ground massive teeth shaped for maximum carnage. After a moment, he answered, I am well.

How may I be of service? his First asked.

His mind threatened to seize again in sheer incredulity of what he had found. He snarled, There has been a theft.

A pause. Rune asked, My lord?

For once his First’s legendary coolness had been shaken. It gave him a grim sense of satisfaction.A THIEF, Rune. He bit at each word. A THIEF has broken into my hoard and taken something of mine.

Rune took several moments to absorb his words. Dragos let him have the time.

The crime was impossible. It had never happened, not in all the millennia of his existence. Yet it had happened now. First someone had somehow found his hoard, which was an incredible feat in itself. An elaborate fake setup complete with state-of-the-art security was located below the basement levels of Cuelebre Tower, but no one knew the location of Dragos’s actual hoard except himself.

His actual hoard was protected by powerful cloaking and aversion spells older than the pharaoh tombs of Egypt and as subtle as tasteless poison on the tongue. But after locating his secret lair, the thief had managed to slip past all of Dragos’s physical and magical locks, like a knife slicing through butter. Even worse, the thief managed to slip out again the same way.

The only warning Dragos had received was a nagging unease that had plagued him all afternoon. His unease had increased to the point where he couldn’t settle down until he went to check on his property.

He had known his lair had been infiltrated as soon as he had set foot near the hidden entrance to the underground cavern. Still, he couldn’t believe it, even after he had torn inside to discover the indisputable evidence of the theft, along with something else that trumped all other inconceivability.

He looked down at his clenched right foot. He wheeled in an abrupt motion to set a return path to the city. Rune followed and settled smoothly into place behind him, his rear right wingman.

You are to locate this thief. Do everything possible, Dragos said. Everything, you understand. Use all magical and nonmagical means. Nothing else exists for you. No other tasks, no other diversions. Pass all of your current duties on to Aryal or Grym.

I understand, my lord, Rune said, keeping his mental voice quiet.

Dragos sensed other conversations in the air, although no one dared direct contact with him. He suspected his First had begun giving orders to transfer duties to the others.

He said, Be very clear about something, Rune. I do not want this thief harmed or killed by anyone but myself. You are not to allow it. You should be sure of the people you use on this hunt.

I will.

It will be on your head if something goes wrong, Dragos told him. He couldn’t have articulated even to himself why he pressed the matter with this creature who for centuries had been as steady and reliable as a metronome. His claws clenched on his implausible scrap of evidence. Understood?

Understood, my lord, Rune replied, calm as ever.

Good enough, he growled.

Dragos noticed they had returned over the city. The sky around them was clear of all air traffic. He soared in a wide circle to settle on the spacious landing pad atop Cuelebre Tower. As soon as he settled he shifted into his human shape, a massive six-foot-eight dark-haired male with dark bronze skin and gold raptor’s eyes.

Dragos turned to watch Rune land. The gryphon’s majestic wings shone in the fading afternoon sun until the other male also shifted into his human form, a tawny-haired male almost as massive as Dragos himself.

Rune lowered his head to Dragos in a brief bow of respect before loping to the roof doors. After the other male had left, Dragos unclenched his right fist in which he held a crumbled scrap of paper.

Why had he not told Rune about it? Why was he not even now calling the gryphon back to tell him? He didn’t know. He just obeyed the impulse to secrecy.

Dragos held the paper to his nose and inhaled. A scent still clung to the paper, which had absorbed oil from the thief’s hand. It was a feminine scent that smelled like wild sunshine and it was familiar in a way that pulled at all of Dragos’s deepest instincts.

He stood immobile, eyes closed as he concentrated on inhaling that wild feminine sunshine in deep breaths. There was something about it, something from a long time ago. If only he could remember. He had lived for so long, his memory was a vast and convoluted tangle. It could take him weeks to locate the memory.

He strained harder for that elusive time with a younger sun, a deep green forest and a celestial scent that drove him crashing through the underbrush—

The fragile memory thread broke. A low growl of frustration rumbled through his chest. He opened his eyes and willed himself not to shred the paper he held with such tense care.

It occurred to Dragos that Rune had forgotten to ask what the thief had stolen.

His underground lair was enormous by necessity, with cavern upon cavern filled with a hoard the likes of which the world had never seen. The treasure of empires filled the caves.

Astonishing works of beauty graced rough cavern walls. Items of magic, miniature portraits, tinkling crystal earrings that threw rainbows in the lamplight. Art masterpieces packed to protect them from the environment. Rubies and emeralds and diamonds the size of goose eggs, and loops upon loops of pearls. Egyptian scarabs, cartouches and pendants. Greek gold, Syrian statues, Persian gems, Chinese jade, Spanish treasure from sunken ships. He even kept a modern coin collection he had started several years ago and added to in a haphazard way whenever he remembered.

On the ostrich’s head was a hot fudge sundae. . . .

His obsessive attention to detail, an immaculate memory of each and every piece in that gigantic treasure, a trail of scent like wild sunshine, and instinct had all led Dragos to the right place. He discovered the thief had taken a U.S.-minted 1962 copper penny from a jar of coins he had not yet bothered to put into a coin collecting book.

. . . and on the hot fudge sundae atop that ostrich’s head perched a cherry. . . .

The thief had left something for him in place of what she had taken. She had perched it with care on top of the coin jar. It was a message written on a scrap of paper in a spidery, unsteady hand. The message was wrapped around an offering.

I’m sorry, the message said.

The theft was a violation of privacy. It was an unbelievable act of impudence and disrespect. Not only that, it was—baffling. He was murderous, incandescent with fury. He was older than sin and could not remember when he had last been in such a rage.

He looked at the paper again.

I’m sorry I had to take your penny. Here’s another to replace it.

Yep, that’s what it said.

One corner of his mouth twitched. He gave himself a deep shock when he burst into an explosive guffaw.

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Related posts:

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2. REVIEW & GIVEAWAY: Dragon Bound by Thea Harrison
3. Recommended Reads Saturday: Magic Bites by Ilona Andrews

Soooo, after laughing my way through the first book of this series, I strapped on my big-girl undies for Book 2:

Jacob McCoy wishes for a wife and a family. Tis the Season for miracles when a young woman shows up on his doorstep: homeless, in danger and expecting a child – Jacob’s child.

Their relationship is complicated by the fact that, A – they’ve never met before and B – she’s a virgin. Jessie is determined not to be a burden to the McCoy family. As far as she’s concerned, she is just passing through. Jacob has a different opinion – he wants Jessie in his life, in his bed and in his heart.

It’s a good thing I suited up in protective gear, because in between the vomit-inducing Insta-Love and some serious WTFery, this book PISSED ME OFF. Therefore, I am subtitling this review:

A RETURN TO TEBOW RANCH: WHERE THE WOMEN ARE CHILDLIKE VIRGINS AND THE MEN ARE MISOGYNISTIC FUCKWADS.

This is going to take a while, so fasten your seatbelts – it’s going to be a long and wild ride. Like getting your bra strap caught on the fake horns of a mechanical bull and you can’t get off until someone takes pity on you and unplugs the damn thing.

Warning: If you don’t like spoilers or dirty words, go elsewhere. You know, in case that “fuckwads” thing wasn’t a big enough hint.

THE PLOT….

The short version: Homeless orphaned dyslexic pregnant virgin hides out in baby daddy’s barn to escape her bipolar stalker/serial killer. Also, she’s mistaken for a mermaid.

For the long version, I’m going need to use a lot of excerpts, and you’ll need to get your own pair of big-girl undies because I’m not sharing.

THE SET-UP….

Our spunky heroine Jessie Montgomery tracks down her unborn baby’s father (be patient, you’ll see), hitch-hikes from Austin to Kerrville (pop. 22,826 – see below), stalks him to a baseball game and….

Stowing away in the back of his truck, she left her old life behind, knowing that wherever he went was where she longed to be.

You’ll find this itinerary on page nine of the Homeless Orphaned Pregnant Dyslexic Virgins Handbook, although hitch-hiking is generally not recommended if your baby daddy doesn’t know you or your unborn child exist. Luckily, just two blocks from her Austin apartment, Jessie was able to catch a ride with an elderly couple who bought her a hamburger and gave her $30 before dropping her off at the Kerrville Little League Park. Maybe wearing a “Hi! My name is Mary Sue!” name tag helps with that sort of thing.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Jessie makes like a “lonely ghost,” hiding with the horses (second stall from the end on the left, between Sultan and Paladin) and surviving on ketchup sandwiches (made from bread and ketchup packets stolen from the concession stand). To earn her keep, she cleans tack and mucks out stalls. This goes on for two days before the call of the stock tank is too much to resist.

FUN FACT: Our author must have predicted our squickiness with the possible vaginal infections and whatnot, because this time we learn (in a rather lengthy paragraph) that this is a 20,000-gallon rainwater irrigation tank with actual pipes and pumps and stuff, not the icky livestock kind with cow slobber and green slime. As Aron the Eldest recalls fondly, “That old stock tank seems to see more action than the Playboy mansion.”

Anyway, Nathan, our resident plot moppet, spies Jessie bathing in the stock tank. Unlike our previous Hell Yeah! heroine, Jessie does not engage in full public nudity at this point in the narrative.

To a thirteen year old – long hair and glistening water on a near naked female could only mean one thing…. Wow!

…”You’ve got to see this, Jacob. It’s better than the time Isaac found that two-headed snake.”

If it were me, I would have used an exclamation point (!) instead of a period (.), because if anything is worthy of a more exclamatory form of punctuation, it’s a two-headed snake (!).

After some intense Older Brother Interrogation, Nathan reluctantly admits his eyewitness account might be more like wishful thinking:

“This girl, mermaid or not, had bosoms.” Nathan held his hands out in front of his chest, measuring for Jacob, the bountifulness of the mermaid’s blessings.

Nathan is obviously much too young and innocent to use blasphemic fruit analogies, so we’ll just have to imagine a well-timed “Sweet Jesus! Honey Dews!” interjection.

“You looked at her pretty close, didn’t you? Did you happen to see a tail?”

“Yea, she had a really nice tail.” Nathan was measuring in the air again – rounded circles – innocent in his appreciation of the female form.

I hate to interrupt the dramatic tension, but I just can’t let this one go: “rounded circles” is redundant.

“No, no – but, I meant fish tail.” This gave Nathan pause, and he put a finger to his chin in deep thought.

“Shucks! I guess she was just a regular ole’ girl, I don’t remember a tail.”

Jacob, our hero, investigates and finds Jessie full nekkid in the barn. It apparently takes her a long time to find her backup pair of Virgin Panties. Then again, maybe she couldn’t find the ladder to get out of the stock tank. Or maybe she had to use a hair dryer to get rid of her mermaid tail like Daryl Hannah in Splash.

Oh, sorry:

Humming? Did he hear humming?

…Jacob was speechless. There was an absolutely beautiful, nude girl standing in front of Paladin’s stall. He couldn’t quite hear what she was saying [“Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis “The King” Presley], but he could see enough to fall deeply in lust. His eyes roved over the most curvy, gorgeous backside he had ever been privileged to ogle. Inflating with desire, his cock began to thicken and grow.

Our hero is deflated when he’s called back to the house for a minor family emergency, but he begs his Little Mermaid to stay. So she does. She finally gets dressed. She also fixes her hair and makeup because “she wanted to look as nice for Jacob as she could.” It doesn’t mention anything about brushing teeth, but we’ll hope so, because Heinz on Wonder Bread probably makes for some nasty morning breath. All of this prettying up occurs in the luxury apartment/studio above the stables.

Our hero returns to the barn and gets all forlorn and stuff when he can’t find Jessie right away, so he relieves these emotional emotions by jacking off:

Jacob needed relief in the worst way; even it was from his own hand….

If he didn’t bury himself balls deep in a woman’s hot pussy soon, his dick was going to fall off from disuse and neglect. He wanted to suck on those sweet, peach nipples that had tempted him so sweetly. Jesus! He wanted to squeeze that pair of perfect tits until he made the sweet doll beg him to love her all night long! God! Jets of cum shot up and out from his cock in a high arc, testifying to the tremendous need that had built up after months of celibacy – a drought of the worst kind.

Jessie, she of the Sweet Peach Nipples, is perving unnoticed from the stairwell. Being a Virgin, our heroine is understandably dazed by the size and power of Jacob’s manhood:

Mother Mary Full of Grace! Jessie Montgomery was more turned on than she had ever been in her life. Leaning against the stairwell wall, she peeped around the corner and fell head over heels in love. Jacob McCoy was more man than Jessie had ever seen in the flesh….

Mesmerized, she licked her lips as Jacob began to pleasure himself in long, rhythmic pumps and pulls that Jessie could feel from the tip of each nipple to deep inside her aching, empty vagina.

That last phrase confused me for a minute, but then I remembered that her *uterus* is occupied, not her vagina.

Thank the Lord, he was standing in a section of the barn where a shaft of sunlight cut down through the semi-darkness and spotlighted his more than generous assets.

Just like that one scene in The Natural where Glenn Close stands up in the bleachers and the sun hits her just right and Robert Redford sees her and hits the game-winning home run! I love that movie.

And this was the father of her unborn child? Jessie dropped her head in her hands and groaned silently. What she wouldn’t give to have been able to acquire his sperm the old fashioned way.

I KNOW, just BE PATIENT and save all your questions until the end.

The author doesn’t specify if Jacob cleans his manly essence off the stable floor, but he does take the time to carefully tuck and zip.

Jessie, our Bare-Naked Angel/Tantalizing Trespasser, removes all traces of *her* arousal before walking into town to fill out some job applications. On her meandering, sun-dappled journey, she scampers (yes, really) through a field of sunflowers conveniently located “about a block from the ranch road.”

QUESTION: Can someone help me out with the distances here? Would that be like a city block, or is that an “Everything’s Bigger in Texas” thing? I’m from Iowa, and around these here parts, we measure our homesteads by acres. In the first book of the series, it stated that the McCoy’s land holdings total about 535,000 acres (home to 20,000 mama cows; the bulls must have their own ZIP code), the equivalent of 835 square miles. It’s about 85 miles from Austin to Kerrville, which means that…. Oh, to hell with it. Never mind.

After she’s done skipping and scampering and scaring the bejesus out of flocks of birds, Jessie earns her “heroine” status by rescuing young Nathan from drowning in the Guadalupe River. Yes, REALLY. Surprisingly, this part is actually pretty good, but then the Insta-Love vomitry resumes and ruins the moment.

When the ambulance arrives, Jessie tries to hide in the woods, but alas, Jacob’s inner Nekkid-Virgin Radar works much too well:

It was their second meeting and once again she was as naked as a jaybird in whistling time.

QUESTION: I’m familiar with the “naked as a jaybird” cliché, but what does “in whistling time” mean? Is that another Texas thing? I need a glossary.

As she puts on her lemon yellow sundress and little white panties, Jacob’s manhood reinflates:

As if drawn by a giant magnet, he found himself moving toward her at a steady, predator-like pace. God! He was an absolute goner! To ease his discomfort, Jacob rubbed his swollen dick through his jeans. It wasn’t enough – not by a long shot.

No glossary needed there, but I did wonder if the “not by a long shot” thing was intentional or not.

“I can’t believe you’ve had to see me naked twice in one day. You should be getting hazard pay.”

Jessie, honey, with the number of girls the McCoy brothers have seen naked, they should be handing out haz-mat suits.

Why was she putting herself down? Didn’t she know how precious she was? “Babe, you didn’t have to get dressed on my account. I liked looking at you all unclothed and cuddly.”

Cuddly. Just what a naked pregnant woman wants to be called. Thumbs up on that one, dude!

Rubbing his nose over the silken skin of her cheek, he found it was just as soft as he imagined it would be. “You smell like a Bit-O-Honey candy bar. I bet you taste just as sweet.”

QUESTION: Jessie was just nearly drowned and hasn’t showered yet, so does that mean the Guadalupe River smells like a Bit-O-Honey? What exactly is upriver?

Her loins felt like they were on fire. She wasn’t unfamiliar with sexual urges, she read romance novels. But until now, her sex drive had been a very private and personal matter.

Did you catch the big ole’ WTF red flag in there? Clue: It’s not the use of the word “loins” (see below).

So, with loins flaming and bosoms heaving and steel rods straining (actually, it’s just one steel rod, but I wanted to maintain the plural for poetic balance and dramatic emphasis), we move on to…

CHAPTER THREE: IN WHICH THINGS ARE REVEALED AND QUESTIONS ARE ANSWERED.

You’ll be relieved to know our horny couple has finally made it to the privacy of the truck.

“God, what you do to me!” Jacob exclaimed as he placed her on the seat. We’re never going to get anywhere at this rate.” He was hard as a rock and as primed as a pile-driver. “Look at your nipples, baby. You’re as excited as I am, aren’t you?”

You’d think if her nipples were as primed as a pile driver, he wouldn’t have to ask.

Jessie looked down. The thin, yellow material did nothing to hide her breasts. Suddenly, she was past self-conscious. “I’m sorry, I had no idea,” she gasped, covering them with her hands. “I can’t go anywhere like this,” she moaned….

She must have the 12-hour extended-release type of pile-driving nipples. Better her than me.

“Move those hands, doll-face. You don’t ever have to hide from me.”

Doll-face. You’re on a roll, cowboy, keep up the good work.

But, God Almighty! Her tits were magnificent! They were high, with large areolas and prominent distended nipples.

In case you’re confused: Her nipples are distended. You know, like pile-drivers.

Reverently, he smoothed his hands in a circle around her breasts, cupping and lifting them, relishing their perfection….

“I’ve got to get them in my mouth. Is that okay with you?” He didn’t think that he needed to ask permission, but he was going to take every precaution with this treasure. He had found her, she was his, and he didn’t intend to give her up anytime soon….

Jacob now takes off his hat, so you *know* things are gonna get romantic.

“Are they sensitive, baby?” He was hungry to know everything about her.

Jessie didn’t really understand the question. She was past thinking. “I don’t know,” she gasped. “Help me find out. Okay?”

Well, if you’re really not sure *and* you insist….

…he opened his lips and enveloped one velvety morsel in the wet heat of his mouth. Sucking deeply, he pulled at her breast with strong draws, letting his tongue lave the tip-end as he fed his ravenous hunger.

Blasts of heat and pleasure swamped Jessie. “Yes!” she keened. They were sensitive.

Oh, good. I was worried that the ravenous laving wouldn’t create enough friction for her velvety morsels.

Tingles of electric rapture assaulted her senses. “Jacob! That’s so good, love.” She cradled his head and held him close, reveling in the magic he was creating at her breast.

The other one. Jacob wanted the other one. He had to pull himself away from one nipple to suck its lonely twin.

Now that the twins have had equal lovin’, Jessie feels comfortable enough to actively participate in the ravenous laving:

She consumed him – devoured him – ate at his lips like she was starving to death. At the same time, he was rubbing and pulling at her nipples. Then it happened. Jacob felt it. Jessie shimmered under his hands…. It was the first time that he could remember holding a piece of heaven in his arms.

Sparkles of electric heat radiated out from Jessie’s womanhood.

I felt quite shimmery and sparkly after reading that. Like one of those really nice July 4^th sparklers sold only in big tents across the Missouri state line, not just the cheap kind in the checkout aisle at Walgreen’s.

She could feel her pussy grasping desperately around nothing. Unspeakable pleasure flowed out from her breasts and up from her clitoris. She felt like she had been thrown off a cliff and the only hope of salvation was the anchor that she clung to – Jacob McCoy.

Did anyone else envision Wile E. Coyote plummeting to earth clinging to an Acme-brand anchor? Maybe it’s just me.

“Thank you, Jacob. Thank you. That’s never happened to me before.” Holding him to her, she marveled as aftershocks shot through her system.

“You’re one special treasure, darling. Not every woman can come just from having her breasts petted and kissed. You are so responsive, so good for my ego.”

To demonstrate *his* thanks, Jacob proves he’s not just a manwhore:

Reaching in the back seat, he found a spare shirt of his that he kept with him for emergencies. Wrapping it around her shoulders, he cupped her cheek. “Now, we’ve covered you up. I don’t want anyone else staring at those succulent little nipples.”

QUESTIONS: Do they teach that preparedness skill in Boy Scouts, or is that another Texas thing? Are nipple-protrusion emergencies more common in Texas? Because these McCoy brothers sure are handy with the nipple-covering shirts.

Jacob and his Angel of the Morning somehow manage to keep their hands to themselves long enough to drive back to the ranch, where he introduces Jessie to one of his younger brothers:

“The pleasure’s all mine, beautiful.” It was easy to see that the sweet talk and silver tongue was a family trait.

Jacob bristled, even though he knew his brother didn’t mean anything by the endearment. “Do I need to say ‘Tag’?” Jacob growled, irritably. “Tag” had always been the code word that the McCoy brothers used to alert the others that a particular female had been honed in on and weeded out of the herd for his own personal delectation.

Weeded out of the herd. Three for three, bro. Awesome. Way to go.

When she arrived in the living room, she hung back and just watched – amazed at the level of testosterone in the room.

I can smell it from here.

During her brief stay at Testosterone Hall (aka Beefcake Heaven), Jessie learns that eldest brother Aron’s fiancee has nicknamed his manhood “Krull the Warrior King.” We’re not told explicitly if Jacob’s own manhood is threatened by this, but it’s soon apparent that Jessie’s nipples-only climax provided enough ego-stroking for him to drag her into bed.

All it took was being near to her and his dick was like a stick of dynamite.

Again with the Wile E. Coyote/Acme product mental picture. I clearly need to get out more.

THE BACKSTORY….

So now (still Chapter 3), despite the danger of explosion (although an *implosion* would be great right about now), Jessie takes the opportunity to tell Jacob her Homeless Orphaned Dyslexic Pregnant Virgin sob story.

This is good, but it’s too complicated to explain more than once, so PAY ATTENTION:

• Jessie’s mean parents, who called her fat and stupid, conveniently died years ago (hence the “orphan” part).
• Because she’s severely dyslexic (that part speaks for itself) and functionally illiterate, she had to drop out of school and work nights cleaning offices.
• One of the offices belonged to a doctor, who convinced her to become a surrogate for his infertile wife.
• She accepted the offer, did her duty with the catheter and the sperm at the Austin Cryobank (see, I *told* you your “pregnant virgin WTH?” questions would be answered), and moved in with the good doctor and his wife.
• All was sunshine and roses until the doctor started putting the moves on her. No, really, he was almost creepy about it, what with the hovering and the staring and the webcams and the nighttime bedroom visits and all.
• As if Dr. Creep wasn’t bad enough, a letter from the cryobank arrived, informing Jessie and her benefactors that <gasp> THE SPERM WAS MIXED UP <shudder>. I know, right??? Dr. Creep *McCay* isn’t the father of Jessie’s baby – Jacob *McCoy,* Studly Young Millionaire Philanthropist Cowboy, is. (Again, please save all your questions until the end.) The cryobank was – and still is – very sorry for their “whopper of an error.”
• Dr. and Mrs. Creep tried to force Jessie to have an abortion, so she fled (hence the “homeless” part). Of course she gave back the money they gave her, because she’s a good girl, she is.
• She asked a friend to Google “Jacob McCoy,” and voila, pages and pages of detailed personal information about our Studly Young Millionaire Philanthropist Cowboy magically appeared, pointing her directly to the McCoy’s Tebow Ranch in Kerrville, Texas.

So after that dramatic Lifetime Movie flashback, Jacob says “Yeah, whatever, I read the letter from the sperm bank.” Or the equivalent thereof.

Jacob’s world would never be the same. In less than twenty-four hours, it had become a place of wonder and hope. And it all centered on this beautiful, sweet woman that made every fiber of his being vibrate with need.

The vibrating leads to rubbing, which leads to penetrating (God Bless Texas! This was amazing!), fisting (yes, really) and catapulting (Acme catalog, Medieval Weaponry section), and Jessie is no longer a Pregnant Virgin. She’s just Pregnant. Although, she’s still a Homeless Dyslexic Orphan, so she’s got that going for her.

DECISION TIME: SHOULD I KEEP READING?

Oh, Hell Yeah! (See what I did there?)

THE ANGST! THE DRAMA!

We’ll fast-forward through the incessant “I’m not good enough for him” whining, neonatal paternity testing, baby belt buckle buying (alliteration, yay!), wine making and hayride planning to get to the much-anticipated appearance of the stalker/serial killer – none other than (surprise!) Dr. Creep McCay.

After killing his infertile wife (she was a nagging bitch, dammit), stuffing her into a jumbo garbage bag and throwing her body in the Colorado River (he weighted it down with cement blocks just in case), the good doctor follows Jessie to the McCoy ranch, kidnaps her (a cattle prod is involved), and drags her off to a conveniently abandoned farmhouse just a few miles from the McCoy ranch.

It turns out that Dr. Creep’s serial killer-ness is caused not only by his bipolar disorder (I *know,* we’ll cover that later), but also by his TINY LITTLE IMPOTENT PENIS.

No, really – as God as my witness, I am *not* making this shit up. Nor would I ever want to, because it’s even worse than it sounds (see below).

THE HAPPY ENDING…

Sorry to leave you hanging like that – but never fear! Thanks to the private investigator the McCoys have on retainer (Roscoe, P.I.), and the convenient arrival of a Voodoo Priestess (see below), our hero and various brothers are able to come to the rescue just in the nick of time. Tada!

Jessie, our former Homeless Virgin but still Pregnant Dyslexic Orphan, takes advantage of Jacob’s offer of a Magical Orgasm Cure to relieve her mild post-hostage icky feelings. All is now sunshine and roses again, and we even get an epilogue titled “A Glimpse Into The Future.”

OUR HEROINE….

She could see it now, “Hello, Jacob. You don’t know me, but I’m pregnant with your child.” Good grief! He was going to think that she was a crazy woman.

All righty. We’ve already established that Jessie is a Homeless Orphaned Dyslexic Pregnant Virgin. And as you’ve probably already guessed, this means Jessie is an eye-rollingly naïve and childlike Mary Sue.

But, to her credit, we can’t say Jessie isn’t a planner:

Jessie had devised a plan. She would introduce herself to Jacob and explain the situation, making sure that he understood that she wasn’t asking or expecting any type of support for their child. What Jessie truly wanted from Jacob was his assurance that he wouldn’t challenge Jessie for custody….

Tentatively, her plans were to find a job and stay in Kerrville, close to Jacob. That way he would know she was willing to let him be as much, or as little a part of their baby’s life as he wanted to be. And if, for some reason, they made him uncomfortable – she could move on – knowing that she had done right by Jacob McCoy.

Poor, poor Jessie – not only is she homeless and orphaned and dyslexic and pregnant and blindly optimistic, she’s also <shakes head sadly> *fat*:

Oh, why couldn’t she be willowy and graceful? She had way too many curves to ever be considered attractive. Foot! And there was no hope for her to get any thinner, not anytime soon. After all, she was four and a half months pregnant. And the sad thing was, she couldn’t blame her overabundant figure on her pregnancy. She had been chunky to start with; and as the baby grew, so would she. Hopefully once her bundle of joy was born, he would keep her hopping and she could shed a few pounds.

This self-assessment is proven true when Jacob checks her clothes and finds she’s <gasp> a size 12 and <shudder> a D cup.

GAH!

(Excuse me a moment while I attempt to unclench my fingers so I can type again.)

Jessie must have used up all her Lucky Charms on her hitch-hiking adventure and pain-free deflowering, because the shit really starts hitting the fan during the 374^th Annual Tebow Ranch Harvest Hayride:

“Do I know you? You look awfully familiar to me.”

Jessie shook her head. “No, I don’t think we’ve met.”

The woman continued to stare. “I know! You’re the woman who cleans my office building! Why you’re on staff here aren’t you? What are you doing sitting over here with the guests? Shouldn’t you be passing our drinks or something? Do the McCoy’s know the help is mingling with the guests?”

Actually, that bit of random time travel to Regency England (via the Portal of Very Convenient Coincidences) was just a mere speed bump on the road to rock bottom. The very next person she meets is a big fan of hers:

“Hey, cutie. Come here!” A man grabbed her arm and pulled her onto the dance floor. “I’ve been watching you. I knew you looked familiar, and it just hit me. You’re that girl from the website.”

Jessie was trying to pull away. The man had bad breath and his hand was sliding down her waist, perilously close to her butt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have a website.” She was just about to cry, all she could think about was how bad she wished Jacob would find her.

“Stop trying to pull away. I know why you’re here. You’re part of the entertainment, aren’t you? Those pictures of you sure did make me hot. I used them as lighter fluid, if you know what I mean.”

That is like the worst party *ever,* and she still has abduction by the serial killer with the Tiny Little Impotent Penis to look forward to.

SUMMING UP JESSIE IN ONE PARAGRAPH:

“Do you think I could have a glass of milk when we get there?” Jessie looked at him hopefully.

Not. Making. This. Shit. Up.

OUR HERO….

Jacob had a soft heart for children, old people and animals.

Also, naked pregnant virgins.

Jacob McCoy is our Studly Young Millionaire Philanthropist Cowboy. We know he’s a successful businessman because he has his own office with a real Rolodex and his own personal Bunn coffeemaker.

He’s not just your typical “inherited some cows” kind of Texas millionaire – he made his fortune using his very own smarts (like Wile E. Coyote Super Genius kind of smarts) by purchasing land containing vast deposits of methane gas. I would have assumed that the McCoys’ eight kajillion head of cattle could have provided the world with enough methane, but what do I know?

Anyway, Jacob’s charitable endeavors cancel out his environmental crimes. (Methane is a greenhouse gas, you know. I looked it up.) He coaches Little League and raises money for cancer victims and serves as a volunteer firefighter and rescues naked pregnant virgins. He’s just your typical Texas good ole’ boy.

Although Jacob is a Studly Young Millionaire Philanthropist Cowboy, he’s bored with fucking random girls. His newest greatest burning desire is to marry and have lots of babies. Lucky for him, he doesn’t even need to fuck another boring female to achieve his goal!

Here’s where your lingering “sperm bank mix-up WTH?” question gets answered: Because he’s a volunteer firefighter, Jacob took the precaution of banking his sperm in case of fire hose injury or chemical exposure or unauthorized use of Acme products or something.

I have no idea if this is plausible, but whatever, we’ve got more important things to worry about. Trust me.

For example, the Cryobank must have had to special-order an XXL sperm catcher, because Jacob’s cock is – get ready – nine (9) inches long and six (6) inches around.

(Excuse me a moment while I unclench other things.)

We know these precise dimensions because Jessie is able to accurately mentally measure Jacob’s pulsating manhood while he’s jerking off in the barn – even though she’s never actually seen a real live penis before! That important life skill must be in the advanced section of the Homeless Orphaned Dyslexic Pregnant Virgin Handbook.

And get this: Jacob’s Rod of Steel is named Johnson – just like his older brother Aron’s penis! I know, right???

Some men were adequate lovers and some were exceptional; Jacob had been told by reliable sources that he ranked in the top one percentile.

QUESTION: What’s our sample size here? The entire state of Texas or just the Hill Country? I need some kind of reference point before I trust these so-called “reliable sources.”

Amongst the family, Jacob is sometimes known as “Deuce,” but he doesn’t really mind, because:

Being the number two son wasn’t so bad, but as far as nicknames go, he much preferred the one that the Texas Cowgirl Sorority over in Austin had penned on him after they had seen him wrestle down a thirteen hundred pound steer during a bulldogging exhibition. They called him Texas Torque because of his massive chest and arm muscles.

QUESTIONS: (1) Is a Texas Cowgirl Sorority a real organization? (2) If so, is there just one, or is there a whole system with chapter names like Pretty Little Fillies and Bare-Nekkid Virgins? (3) Did the Sorority Cowgirls PEN him up in a stall after the rodeo and PEN the nickname on him like a temporary tattoo?

SUMMING UP JACOB IN ONE PARAGRAPH:

Knowing that Jessie was going to need clothes for the dance, he had gone crazy and went to Sarah Jane’s boutique and bought ten different outfits for his Angel-baby. And before he left the town square, he had stopped at the florist and bought a dozen peach colored roses. The color reminded him of her nipples.

To reiterate: I am *not* making this shit up.

OK, ONE MORE JACOB FACTOID:

He was an avid hunter and enjoyed bagging big game.

“Shhhhh, be vewwy, vewwy quiet. I’m hunting virgins.” Elmer Fudd this time. Sorry.

MOVING ON TO THE *SERIOUS* WTFery….

Oh, so much WTFery, so little time. At this point, I’ll just ignore Nathan, the “innocent” 13-year-old who says “bosoms” instead of “boobs” even though he’s being raised by *five* he-man older brothers. I’d show some of Nathan’s dialogue to my 13-year-old nephew to get his expert opinion, but I don’t want to scar him for life and I need my sister to babysit next weekend.

I will also withhold my questions about where and when Jessie, the never-before-set-foot-out-of-Austin city girl, acquired her expertise in stall mucking, tack cleaning and horse whispering. It could be just a natural progression from cleaning offices.

So let’s start with the next-most obvious:

Dear Mr. Jacob McCoy

We regret to inform you that an unfortunate error has occurred in the management of your sperm deposit. Due to a lab error, our records indicate that your sperm was released by mistake [kinda like premature ejaculation, but different] and used in a surrogate pregnancy. Due to the possibility of an unauthorized use of your deposit [<snort>], we regret to inform you that a Ms. Jessie Montgomery may be eighteen weeks pregnant…. Ms. Montgomery disappeared before we could do additional tests to confirm parentage….

To protect you, no information other than your name was given to Ms. Montgomery. If she chooses to get in contact with you, it will be at her own volition. We apologize for any embarrassment or inconvenience this will cause you….

Our administrator and legal counsel are awaiting your call. To you, again, we owe our sincerest apologies. Mistakes like this are truly unfortunate, but due to the human factor – correcting them is not always an easy task.

Sincerely

Horace Brown, Director of Austin Cryobank

What. The. Ever-Loving. Fuck.

Let’s revisit a key sentence: “To protect you, no information other than your name was given to Ms. Montgomery.”

How, exactly, would purposefully releasing identifiable personal information without consent be considered protection? Is Texas exempt from all those HIPAA regulations and endless Thou Shalt Not Divulge Anything Even Remotely Personal privacy forms?

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg, my friends. Our skillful author somehow manages to schedule all these revelations so that Jacob read this letter *after* he’s seen his Bared-Naked Angel but *before” he learns her name. Naturally, he’s so overcome at the prospect of impending parenthood that he doesn’t make the Naked Girl in Barn <===> Missing Pregnant Virgin connection.

Luckily, his older brother Aron is available to reacquaint him with reality:

“If they can’t keep up with their man juice any better than that over at the Cryobank, you can’t trust anything those people say. That baby might not even be yours.”

Sadly, Aron’s suspicions are correct, because (SPOILER!) the neonatal paternity test proves that Jacob is *not* the father of Jessie’s baby. I know, right???

Jacob is understandably upset, so he calls up our good friend Horace Brown to get the low-down:

There was a scandal at the sperm bank. It seems that Jacob’s problem was not the only problem. The Cryobank had been sued for negligence. It seems their records were lacking in clarity, quality and quantity. They had declared bankruptcy just that morning. Accusations had come from several avenues. They had kept no record of any diseases, genetic disorders or any problems that could be handed down from their donors.

You’ll be happy to know that Jacob ignores all the hem-hawin’ and apologizin’ and reams Horace a new one over the phone.

You’ll also be happy to learn that the actual for-real-this-time bio daddy, a gentleman named David Bell, is (to paraphrase Horace’s legalese) conveniently dead, eliminating any further recriminations from this continuing fiasco.

Also: Horace’s original letter about the mishandled man juice was printed on the letterhead of the Austin Cryobank’s OFFICE OF CRITICAL ISSUES.

HAHAHAHAHAHA<deepbreath>HAHAHAHAHAHA

Of all the WTFery in this entire book, those four words *still* make me laugh the most. I’m dedicating that one to all my public relations colleagues, and to Jane and all the other attorneys out there.

MOVING ON….

This next one made me grind my teeth so hard I think I scared small children and neighborhood dogs:

“Keith McCay is quite a character. He was diagnosed as being bipolar as a child. There are three documented cases of animal abuse in his past, which is not an uncommon side effect of manic depression.”

Wow. Just… Un-fucking-believable. Ms. Hunter, you just stepped over “clueless” and landed in a big steaming pile of “lazy and offensive BULLSHIT.”

This lovely bit of pseudo-psychology comes from Roscoe, the McCoy’s private investigator who was called in to figure out who was *mutilating cattle* on the ranch. Because that’s the kind of thing private investigators named Roscoe do.

Let’s get a few things straight – all found easily using this nifty new invention call the World Wide Web:

• Animal abuse would be a SYMPTOM, not a SIDE EFFECT.
• Animal abuse is NOT associated with bipolar disorder.
• Bipolar disorder and psychosis are NOT synonymous.

There, see how easy that was? Remember: Watching CSI does *not* qualify you to invent spurious mental illnesses to justify your serial killer’s serial-killerness. DO YOUR FUCKING HOMEWORK.

BUT WAIT – THERE’S MORE!

Remember back in the plot set-up where I mentioned the big ole’ WTF red flag? @Lisa J, this one is for you:

From chapter three:

…she knew from sad experience that what she saw and what was really there on that sign were two different things. Her severe dyslexia had colored every facet of her life – holding her back and making her worthless in her mother and stepfather’s eyes.

From chapter four:

“I have been reading a lot of these erotic romance novels and I have a whole list of things that I’d like to try. Do you think you’d be interested in trying them with me?”

His eyes widened, and his lips slid into the sexiest, most confident smile that she had ever seen. “You have a list?”

She nodded, realizing that the wicked gleam in his eye might seriously get her into trouble.

“Can I see it?”

Oh, Lord! How embarrassing. “I guess,” she winced, as she remembered some of the things she had written down. Now he would know all of her deepest, darkest desires.

What a sweet moment. And what luck that Jessie managed to find so much dyslexia-proof erotica!

Our heroine is so severely dyslexic, she’s functionally illiterate. She had to drop out of high school, works at menial jobs, can’t read a recipe and can’t even sign her name legibly. And yet, SHE’S READING EROTIC ROMANCE NOVELS AND WRITING LISTS OF SEXUAL POSITIONS SHE WANTS TO TRY.

Lazy and offensive, strike two. It’s BAD ENOUGH to use dyslexia to make your heroine naïve and childlike, but conveniently forgetting about it during the sex scenes is just FUCKING RIDICULOUS.

(Unclenching again.)

Let’s all take a deep cleansing breath before we continue, because we need to address…

THE TINY LITTLE IMPOTENT PENIS.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And seriously, if you have any type of triggers regarding abuse, do NOT read this excerpt.

Keith didn’t talk to her very much. He hit her, and pinched her, and slapped her – but he did not talk to her. And, he wasn’t giving her much to eat. For most of the day, he left her bound and gagged on the floor. When he did show up, he didn’t stay long. Only long enough to attempt another rape.

He was really pathetic. If he weren’t a monster, Jessie would have felt sorry for him. Because, Keith McCay definitely had a problem. Now, she knew why it had been necessary for a doctor to extract the sperm for insemination. He hadn’t even been able to get it up for a cup.

When he mauled Jessie, sometimes he would get an erection, of sorts. His little penis was so short that as far as weapons goes (sic), his was a penknife in a world of swords and sabers. Once, she had made the mistake of laughing and he had kicked her in the stomach. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. Her baby was still okay, it was still moving. So, she didn’t laugh. Everyday, they went through the same ritual. Thank God for small favors and small dicks.

Just to be clear on this: Even after being bound, gagged, starved and repeatedly beaten over several days, our spunky heroine is able to LAUGH AT HER ABDUCTOR BECAUSE HE CAN’T GET IT UP.

It’s not every Mary Sue, or erotica author, who can appreciate the ironic humor of attempted rape.

(I’m taking a break to unclench again.)

(Still unclenching.)

(Almost done.)

KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON….

Thanks to the Power of Kindle, we can do some scholarly textual analysis on the recurrence of significant words and phrases:

• “Naked” = 29 times.
• “Cream” = 11 times, both as a noun and a verb, and only one of those is referring to ice cream.
• “Lave” or “laving” = five times. Four for her, one for him. Or maybe I should say four by him, one by her.
• “Nipple” or “nipples” = 63 times. SIXTY. THREE.
• “Doll” = 26 times, none of which are referring to toys.
• “Pussy” = 27 times, none of which refer to felines.
• “Little” = 205 times. TWO HUNDRED AND FIVE. (Making for a HELL YEAH! of a drinking game. We’d be praying to the porcelain god by page three, passed out by chapter two and dead before any virgins get penetrated.)

The use of various euphemisms for male genitalia also provides some interesting linguistic observations. Common slang terms are prevalent, with “cock” outgunning “dick” 36-32. Quite surprisingly, Fabio-esque descriptors such as “manhood” and “rod” are used relatively infrequently (seven and two, respectively). The anatomically correct “penis” appears seven times, while the proper noun “Johnson” is used only once.

BUT WAIT – THERE’S MORE!

We’ve pretty much covered the “women are childlike virgins” portion of the review. You might have thought we’d already covered the “misogynistic fuckwads” part as well, but you’d be so very, very wrong. WE HAVEN’T EVEN GOTTEN STARTED.

In addition to the assholery of our manwhore hero Jacob, we also get to know his equally dickheaded siblings. I hope you kept your big-girl undies on, because it’s time to meet the Extraneous McCoy Brothers.

INTRODUCING ISAAC, THE TATTOOED MOTORCYCLE-RIDING BADASS BROTHER….

I was initially inclined to believe Isaac would be my favorite McCoy brother:

“Bummer,” Isaac sighed. “Misplacing a good looking, naked woman is never a good thing.”

I changed my mind. Help me, Nathan McCoy, you’re my only hope.

Like all Tattooed Motorcycle-Riding Badasses, Isaac is secretly in love with a Good Girl. We don’t yet know for sure if this Good Girl is a Virgin, but considering she’s a preacher’s daughter, it’s probably a safe bet.

Like all Good Girls, Avery Rose is certain she has the Power to Tame the Badass, so Isaac has to use all his rakish charm to dissuade her:

“Don’t do that, Avery! Have a little pride!” Isaac was about to do something that he swore he’d never do. He was going to hurt a sweet and innocent little thing. It was Isaac that picked up the kittens and puppies that people threw away on the side of the road. It was Isaac that climbed trees and put little birds back in the nests and fed baby squirrels when hunters would kill their mamas and leave them to starve. But, sometimes you had to hurt somebody in order to help them. “Go home, Avery. I don’t want you.”

…Now for the killing blow. Isaac braced himself. It was going to hurt him a hell of a lot more than it would her. “You aren’t my type, Avery. In fact, I don’t think you’re anybody’s type.” At her wounded expression, he knew that he was almost there. He pulled back the knife and prepared it for the final thrust. “You’re not woman enough to interest me, Avery. I like my dates to excite me. Face it, baby – you’re not woman enough to interest me. Go home.”

And *this* is supposed to make me want to read Isaac’s sequel, mysteriously titled Badass? Yay! I can hardly wait!

Oh, on second thought, never mind.

Asshole. Dickhead. Fuckwad.

(NOTE: I’m saving the scene with the telephone operator (yes, really) trying to talk Avery out of calling a Nevada brothel (yes, really) for Isaac’s Badass review. Just to give you something to look forward to.)

INTRODUCING NOAH, THE UPTIGHT SELF-RIGHTEOUS ACCOUNTANT BROTHER…

Being an Uptight Self-Righteous Accountant, Noah deems it his privilege to open other people’s mail, so naturally he finds the letter from the Cryobank’s Office of Critical Issues. (hahahaha) And naturally he believes it his duty to Protect the Family by ordering a secret background investigation (Roscoe, P.I., is a *very* busy guy).

The bitchy office worker (Cassandra Tarpley) and lighter fluid guy (Tom Riley) at the hayride must have been invited by Noah, because close observation of both incidents affirms his belief that Jessie is an Embarrassment to the Family.

After seeing how Cassandra had reacted to her and hearing that old Tom Riley recognized her from those nudie shots on the internet, Noah knew it was time to lay his cards on the table.

The winning hand is a legal contract absolving his big brother of any and all parental rights and responsibilities. As he bullies Jessie into signing the contract, Noah mocks her admission of dyslexia:

“You can’t read any of it?” He asked in amazement.

“Very little,” she confessed.

“How did you finish school?” At her silence, he surmised. “You didn’t even graduate high school did you?”

The nudie pictures must have distracted him from that part of Roscoe, P.I.’s background report.

“No,” she said in a small voice.

With a broad, sweeping motion, Noah pulled the paper to him and began to read.

When he’s done reading the legalese word for fucking word, Jessie asks:

“Is this some sort of prenuptial agreement?”

Because dyslexic = totally fucking clueless. No wonder he’s treating her like dirt.

With shaking hand, Jessie picked up the pen and wrote her name. Noah looked at her signature. “You had better just make an X, these signatures are like hen scratch.”

Jessie has irked him so much he doesn’t seem to remember that HIS OWN YOUNGEST BROTHER HAS DYSLEXIA.

You might think that would be enough to satisfy Noah’s Assholierthanthou Shame Quota, but you’d be wrong.

“…you have to realize that it was never you that he was attracted to-“ Noah raked his eyes up and down Jessie’s body. He didn’t say it out loud, he didn’t have to. Noah told her with his eyes that she wasn’t pretty enough to attract Jacob under normal circumstances. “It was the baby.”

“Oh.”

Jessie’s one word response struck a sympathetic chord in Noah. Pushing it aside, he put what was best for the family in the forefront. “You know it’s true, Jessie. You should see the women that Jacob is used to dating.” Sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind.

He’s not done yet…. He waits until a suitably dramatic moment for the Big Reveal of the Nudie Photos to finish squashing her like cow shit under a cowboy boot.

And *then* he scrapes our Homeless Orphaned Dyslexic Pregnant Mary Sue off the bottom of his boot by kicking her off the ranch with no clothes, no money and no transportation – straight into the waiting arms and Tiny Little Impotent Penis of her stalker/serial killer.

Asshole. Dickhead. Fuckwad.

(Don’t worry, both Jacob and Jessie forgive him because he was just doing it to Protect the Family.)

Noah’s sequel, mysteriously titled Skye Blue, is coming soon. I hope it’s released before October 1, because that’s my birthday. (Hint, hint.)

INTRODUCING JOSEPH, THE PARALYZED RECKLESS DAREDEVIL BROTHER….

In Book 1, Reckless Daredevil Joseph was paralyzed after a motocross crash. Fortunately, his filthy rich family was able to immediately build him an on-site rehab center at the ranch, so he was able to go home after only two days in the hospital. No, really.

Anyway, Joseph is understandably upset that being paralyzed has Taken Away His Manhood, and the Acme Triple Strength Fortified Leg Muscle Vitamins aren’t working for him. Luckily, one of his friends knows of a Voodoo Priestess from New Orleans who has the power to Restore His Manhood.

I am NOT MAKING THIS SHIT UP. Except for the part about the Acme vitamins.

Being both a McCoy and Reckless Daredevil, Joseph is also a Ladies’ Man, so naturally one of his first employment reference questions is:

“What does she look like, this miracle worker?”

You see, Joseph doesn’t want a beautiful woman to watch him piss into a bag.

Joseph’s sequel, mysteriously titled Her Magic Touch, is up next, so I won’t spoil it with any more excerpts. But just so you don’t underestimate *his* misogynistic fuckwadery, you should be aware that Joseph’s nickname (used in newspaper headlines and magazine covers and Guinness Books of World’s Records and farmers’ almanacs) is “The Texas Stallion” and his signature piece of apparel is a Superman belt buckle.

Asshole. Dickhead. Fuckwad.

AND JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT JACOB LOOKED GOOD BY COMPARISON….

When Noah accuses Jessie of being a hussy, Jacob valiantly defends her honor:

“She was a virgin, you asshole. I ought to know, it was my hand that prepared her, and my dick that tore through the barrier.”

Holy crap, is that romantic or what? Things are clenching again, and not in a good way.

This last one is going to be painful (metaphorically, not “rip your hymen apart” painful), so be grateful I saved this until the end:

“My last doctor told me that I would probably have to have a cesarean. Even though my hips are huge, my pelvic bone is narrow.”

…Kissing her hard on the mouth, he chuckled. “And I hate you are going to have to have surgery, but I’m kinda thrilled that you’ll stay tight for my pleasure. My cock is fast getting addicted to that snug little pussy of yours.”

Just so we’re clear here: Our “hero” looks forward to his baby mama’s C-section so his 9x6er can stay tightly sheathed.

Oh. My. Fucking. Holy. Sweet. Sister. Frances.

(NOTE: My Kindle’s name is Frances, so that’s not just an idle epithet.)

ASS. HOLE. DICK. HEAD. FUCK. WAD.

What kind of woman writes shit like that? What kind of woman *reads* shit like that and thinks “oooh, how *sexy,* I’m going to give this book five stars!”??? I really don’t understand, and I really hope I’m not the only one who finds that disturbing.

I’m so assholed-out right now, I’m just going to ignore the “my hips are huge but my pelvis is narrow” bullshit and spare you the details of Jacob’s lactation fetish. Usually I’m all “yeah, fetish, safe, sane, consensual, it’s all good.” But lactation fetish + keeping the pussy snug? NO *FUCKING* WAY.

NOW LET ME TELL YOU WHAT I *REALLY* THINK…..

I think someone needs to invent a male episiotomy so we can volunteer Jacob as a human test subject. I think Joseph needs to get a penile catheter infection. I think the heroine of Noah’s sequel needs to run far and run fast. I think the Texas Department of Social Services needs to stage a raid on Tebow Ranch and rescue poor Nathan.

I’m still a little sweet on Isaac, so we’ll give him a bye this round.

I think Sable Hunter needs to take a look around and determine what planet she’s living on – and what century she’s living in. In her hands, Kerrville, Texas, is a creepy cowboy version of Stepford, filled with testosterone-steaming Alpha Males and the helpless damsels in distress who fall at their feet.

The county line must have flashing signs that say “All Females Must Check Brains and Self-Respect at Gate. Infantilizing Pet Names Required.” NOT ONCE is a female character depicted as an intelligent, independent *adult* woman. Jacob calls Jessie his “doll” and his “angel-baby” so often it’s beyond nauseating, it’s downright *disturbing.* And let’s not forget the numerous comparisons of our heroines to puppies and kittens and baby birds and motherless squirrels.

So far, only Joseph’s Voodoo Priestess is showing signs of being a grown-up worthy of being called a “heroine” – but then, she’s got witchcraft and powerful dead ancestors to back her up. I’m hoping she’ll use her bat guano incense to stun Joseph into a coma in the next book, but I have a feeling I’m going to be *really* disappointed.

Grade: F

Related posts:

1. GUEST REVIEW: Cowboy Heat (Book 1 of the Hell Yeah! series) by Sable Hunter
2. REVIEW: Red Hot Renegade by Kelly Hunter
3. A Special Guest Post on Cultural Appropriation By Handy Hunter

I’m always on the lookout for cheap, fun and short erotica, and this one caught my eye because it was free, it had decent ratings on Amazon and Goodreads, and the blurb was intriguing:

“Aron McCoy has sworn off women – except for sex. When Libby Fontaine arrives at Aron’s Tebow Ranch, she is determined to cram a lifetime of living into a few short months. The doctor has told her that she can’t count on her remission from leukemia being a permanent one. Their attraction to one another is instantaneous and overwhelming. But when Aron finds out that Libby is innocent – he backs off. He has nothing to offer a girl who deserves white lace and promises. Then Aron catches Libby pleasuring herself in his stock tank and hears her cry out his name – and the heat is on.”

I wasn’t expecting award-winning literature, but this is less adult erotic romance and more “middle-schoolers giggling over the dirty words.”

And the similes. MY GOD, the similes.

You’ve never seen a collection of Sex Similes like this, and you likely never will. I’m considering asking my academic adviser to approve “The Use of Religious Metaphors in Self-Published Erotica” as the topic of my poster project (just THINK of the flowchart possibilities!).

THE PLOT….

Warning: spoilers and lots of dirty words ahead!

The blurb was actually a great synopsis – think mash-up of Dying Young and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Except nobody dies, nobody sings and nobody gets kidnapped (yet – there are sequels, god help us).

Representing Dying Young, we have Libby, our 25-year-old heroine. Libby was diagnosed with a rare leukemia as a teenager, and she’s just been informed she’s finally in remission. Because her illness has left her “on an island” (one of the rare nice metaphors in the book), Libby is a very frustrated virgin who reads erotic romance novels by the hundreds.

After listening to an explanation of the difference between porn and erotica, Libby’s grandfatherly oncologist shoos her out the hospital doors with instructions to adopt hedonism and get laid. None of my doctors have ever said this, so I’m assuming this prescription is contraindicated for anxiety/depression/OCD patients.

Horny virgin? Check. Physician approval? Check. Let the games begin.

Representing Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, we have the McCoy family. Our hero is Aron, the eldest, who has been holding down the ranch with his brothers after their parents are killed.

Aron has a LOT of brothers. Unfortunately, they’re not named alphabetically like Seven Brides’ Pontipees or the Bridgertons, so it was impossible to keep them all straight. All the brothers are helpfully given a “type” to prep them as sequel bait: overlooked nice-guy, tattooed bad-boy, reckless daredevil, etc. We even have a 13-year-old with dyslexia as a plot moppet. In the end, however, these guys are pretty irrelevant, so they shall hereafter be referred to individually and collectively as Extraneous McCoy Brother(s) (EMBs).

Anyway…. In between medical treatments, Libby has learned to cook from a family friend named Bess. When Bess takes a leave of absence from her job cooking at the McCoy’s ranch, Libby and her orgasmic brownies are ready to fill in.

This is a Very Convenient Coincidence – Libby has been friends with an EMB since high school, and she’s quietly swooned for Aron the Eldest for years. She even went to all his high school football games and rodeos, and if that doesn’t prove Unrequited Love in Texas, I don’t know what does.

Decision time: Should I keep reading?

This premise actually might have worked; the set-up in the first few pages was amusing enough to keep me reading. But once Libby and Aron got their eyes and hands on each other, it quickly went downhill and stayed there.

I came very, very close to DNFing because the inconsistent heroine, asshole hero and random point-of-view changes were amateurish, and the laughable sex and dialogue were sometimes painfully immature.

Did I mention the Sex Similes? My GOD, the similes. [see below]

But I sucked it up and fast-forwarded to the end to satisfy my curiosity about how ridiculous the plot crisis and HEA would be. It was everything I expected, and not in a good way.

OUR HEROINE….

To demonstrate, let’s meet our heroine. Libby has been fighting cancer for years, and yet “her midnight black hair hung to her waist in thick, spiral curls.” She must have the fastest-growing – or most chemotherapy-proof – hair in Texas. But that’s Pageant Country, so maybe there’s something in the water.

You’ll be glad to know that extensive chemo and radiation can also give you a heart-shaped little butt, bouncy melon boobs AND magnetic nipples (don’t ask).

Sheltered Horny Virgin + Erotica = ???

On her first night living at the ranch, our sheltered heroine is all hot and bothered after the hero dumps her because she’s a virgin (see below), so she decides to swim in the stock tank. Her lack of appropriate swimming attire isn’t a problem; from her erotica reading, Libby learned that being a Sheltered Horny Virgin makes you invisible, so she doesn’t hesitate to get nekkid in full view of the umpteen EMBs inside the house.

Our hero, of course, is perving unnoticed in the barn/studio:

“It appeared that she was trying to figure out how to climb into the tank. There was a ladder about twenty feet to the left of her, but if he called out that information he would give himself away and she would vanish from his sight like a frightened fairy. She placed her hands on the rim of the tank and tried to pull her little self up and over. Partially successful, she managed to get her incredible ass elevated so that he could see a sweet little crack and past that – paradise.”

Libby finally finds the damn ladder and frolics [yes, really] in the water for a while, then gets down to business. She somehow manages to masturbate to noisy orgasm, yelling out our hero’s name in full sentences while back-floating and hanging onto the edge of the tank.

She is adept at such masturbation because of all the erotica-reading. Libby’s erotic novels are like naughty After School Specials, because they all have Very Important Lessons; in addition to self-pleasure, Libby displays her knowledge of tongue-sucking during her first grown-up kiss, and even uses cucumbers for blow-job practice [I'm assuming the hospital cafeteria was all out of bananas]. She’s a VERY enthusiastic and dedicated erotica reader.

And yet when The Big Moment nears, Libby suddenly becomes the wide-eyed innocent, asking:

“Is being a woman’s first lover more trouble than it’s worth? Is it not pleasurable for a man?” Her innocence humbled him. Before he could reassure her, she continued, “Would it be better for you if I found someone in town to – deflower me?”

She used the word “deflower,” and yet I kept reading

During the actual deflowering, she tries to suppress her second orgasm (the first was oral) until Aron can join her:

“’Aron, no. I don’t want to come, yet. I want to wait until you’re inside me. I want to wait for you.’ She tried, in vain, to hold off the impending climax. ‘I’m going to use up all my orgasms.’ She truly seemed dismayed.”

A limit of two orgasms per sexual encounter? This poor girl needs better erotica.

A few days later, after she acclimates herself to multiple orgasms, she becomes concerned about the wetness she feels down there :

“’Wait, sweetie. I’m already wet. Let me change and put on something clean. You don’t want to get my stuff all over your leg.’ She got up off the bed and went to dig in the drawer where he put her underwear. His mouth dropped. Was she serious?

‘Come back here, Libby Lou.’ She stopped to see what was wrong. ‘Pull off your panties, baby. I want to feel all of you – wet and wild – right against my skin. Your dripping little pussy is a badge of honor for me; it’s my way of knowing that I’m doing something right.’ He held out his hand to her.

‘Are you sure?’ She was serious.”

Libby, honey, he went down on you before you were even deflowered. Don’t worry, maybe “Moistness down there is Your Man’s Badge of Honor” will be the Very Important Lesson in your next erotic romance.

Other things you should know about our heroine:

• Her favorite interjection is “Cheez-n-Crackers!” [spelled and capitalized exactly like that]
• She has a remarkable ability to speak in full sentences during orgasm.
• She can suck her own nipples while riding a horse.
• She mixes up the words “teats” and “tits” while milking a cow.
• She prefers wieners to live bait.

OUR HERO….

Now let’s get a closer look at our hero, Aron. He’s not just a rancher, he’s also a sculptor. This makes Aron a Sensitive Artist Cowboy Alpha Male, which means that, by the rules established in the Romance Tropes Act of 1978, his patronizing bullshit is really romance in disguise.

Aron has (starting from the top):

• Crisp dark hair;
• Lapis lazuli eyes;
• A heavy five-o’clock shadow;
• Shoulders as wide as a John Deere tractor [I'm assuming this is referring to a corn-harvesting combine and not a riding lawn mower];
• Little round brown nipples; AND
• Tree-trunk thighs.

ALSO: A ginormous, frequently turgid cock named Johnson. But you probably knew that already.

Buckets of alpha male goodness, condensed into one convenient scene.  We really, and I mean REALLY, get to know our hero the first night he meets Libby. I have to use a timeline for this – the chronology is important because it Just. Keeps. Getting. Better.

The scene: Aron enters the kitchen to find Libby and all the EMBs chatting about food and whatnot. Libby is facing away from Aron, while his brothers are facing towards him.

NOTE: This positioning is vital to what happens next.

(1) Before she even turns around to see him, Libby gets all spine-chilly and toe-tingly because Aron is Bringing The Heat.

(2) When she turns halfway around (the full frontal will come later), Aron gets (you guessed it) an instant hard-on (“Lord Have Mercy!”).

(3) The “Raw Honey” double-entendre on Libby’s tight t-shirt starts him fantasizing about the “taste of her cream” and he wants to see if he can fit his hands around her tiny little waist.

(4) Her bouncing boobs almost bring tears to his eyes. He somehow manages to suppress the urge to “catch those sweet little tits before she hurt herself.” He knows the boobs are real because they jiggle and wave.

Keep in mind that she’s only half-turned towards him at this point.

(5) Aron cleverly attempts to hide his ginormous erection by hiding it with his Stetson. This smooth move is noticed and smirked over by an EMB. Aron flips off the EMB.

(6) This has to be a full quote because I can’t make this shit up:

“Watching his brothers surround the tempting little morsel, Aron opted to utilize a tactic that had come in handy when the McCoy’s [sic] would be out carousing pre-Sabrina [the Wicked Ex-Wife]. They had tried to avoid stepping on one another’s toes, romantically speaking. Whenever one would see a little filly that caught his eye, he would look at her and simply say one word that would alert the others that she had been claimed and was strictly off-limits to the rest of the McCoys [no apostrophe this time]. Stepping closer to the table, he loudly proclaimed, Tag!”

Classy, huh? Let me go fan myself for a moment.

(7) Now we get the full-frontal: “Turn around, baby. Let me see your face.” Please note this is AFTER he’s mentally tasted her cream, been struck blind by her boobs and tagged her like a prize heifer. Aron visually caresses Libby’s perfect eyes, perfect nose, perfect cheekbones, blah, blah, blah.

(8) Aron is now desperate to touch Libby, because “a handshake would be much too mundane to satisfy this particular need.” So, in retaliation for his still-Stetson-hidden erection, Aron gets Libby pre-orgasmic with some wrist-fondling. This is also observed by all the EMBs.

(9) When they finally sit down at the dinner table to eat Libby’s magnificent lasagna and garlic bread, the EMBs are bamboozled [no, really] by their celibate-since-divorce brother ogling their new employee:

“He was eating Libby up with his eyes, as if she was a lioness in heat and he was the predatory head of the pride, the only male allowed to mate.”

Not to ignore the lioness-in-heat-at-the-dinner-table squickiness, but this analogy isn’t even true. Wikipedia says female lions can mate with several males, and because the lionesses are the hunters of a pride, Aron wouldn’t be a predator, he’d be a protector. But I digress….

(10) At no point during this prolonged eye-fucking has our hero formally introduced himself. He now takes the opportunity by identifying himself as “the eldest of these useless rascals.” Yes, he actually calls the EMBs “rascals.”

(11) When Libby points out that she’s known him for years, our hero responds with the ever-so-classy, “Why don’t I remember you?”

(12) While contemplating her overlooked cute-as-a-buttonness, he dumps a boatload of food on her plate and says “There you go, sweetie, eat up.” Libby quickly discerns that this Aron’s way of ensuring her well-being.

(13) After some (finally) innocuous small talk, Aron’s monster boner revives when Libby says, “I hope you’ll be pleased with my performance.” [Cue Beavis and Butthead laugh]

(14) Libby shares her Make-A-Wish® desire to ride a horse, rope a calf and help with branding, and, of course, the EMBs are eager to help. Aron the Eldest is displeased because his “TAG!” claim obviously didn’t stick:

“’Hey!’ Aron quelled the racket. When all was quiet, he simply stated. ‘Whatever Libby wants to learn, I’ll be the one teaching her.’ At Libby’s confused look, he tapped her on the end of the nose and smiled another one of those ten thousand watt scorchers.”

Remember, Libby is a Sheltered Virgin and Aron is a Sensitive Artist Cowboy Alpha Male, so condescending nose-tweaks are an appropriate way for Aron to establish his paternalistic dominance.

(15) While Libby explains her friendship with the McCoy’s former cook Bess, Aron feels her up under the table. I forgot to mention that the 13-year-old plot moppet is sitting on Libby’s other side during all of this.

(16) Get ready – this one is even better than the “TAG!” thing:

“’I’m grateful to Bess for bringing you to me.’ Aron’s softly whispered words flowed straight to her breasts. Instantly, her nipples swelled and hardened. Before she realized it, they were eagerly protruding, and the thin little t-shirt was an insufficient barrier from prying eyes. Seeing the effect his words had on her, Aron instantly excused himself and in a moment returned with one of his shirts from the laundry room. Draping it over her shoulders, he whispered, ‘Slip this on, sweetheart.’ He winked at her as she flushed as much from arousal as embarrassment. ‘I’ll take care of you, baby.’

It had gotten quiet at the table. ‘What?’ Aron challenged. ‘Libby was cold.’”

That’s so romantic I think I’m going to barf. I’ll ignore the mid-paragraph POV change for now.

(17) After dinner, Aron gets all swoony when Libby tells him she left a Personal Package of Orgasmic Brownies in his office. Aron doesn’t like to share *anything* with the EMBs.

(18) Aron and Libby manage to clean up and start the dishwasher before the “lust-shock” sets in again.

(19) When Aron leans forward to kiss her, he causes Libby to have a total eclipse of the heart (see below).

(20) Before tongues touch, Libby is “a little minx.” After tongue-mashing, our hero raises her status to “a little stick of dynamite.” Libby mentally thanks her erotic romance novels.

(21) Unfortunately, Libby didn’t learn other Very Important Erotica Lessons, because she reveals during a post-kiss sigh that she’s a Virgin.

Prepare yourself, and don’t say I didn’t warn you:

“’Damn.’ Aron backed off, even more. She reached to pull him back, but he evaded her touch. Embarrassed, Libby let her hands drop. ‘I don’t do innocents, love. I refuse to be the one to besmirch your virtue.’”

Yes, he actually says “besmirch your virtue.” I’ll wait while you recover.

(22) Libby (believe it or not) attempts to call him out that bullshit, but instead of smacking him upside the head, she goes all Passive-Aggressive Virginal Heroine and asks (you guessed it), “What if I want to be besmirched?”Aron, our Sensitive Artist Cowboy, turns and walks away.

Other things you should know about our hero:

• He’s not just an artistic cowboy, he’s a God-fearing one. We know this because his favorite interjection is “Lord Have Mercy!” [capitalized and punctuated exactly like that].
• He has a private investigator on retainer for “various things.”
• He has a remarkable ability to make up childish pet names on the fly, such as Lil’ Lib, Libtastic, Libbykins and Libalicious.
• He has no gay friends. We know this because he uses words like “glory-hole” and “fisting” to mentally describe vaginal sex.

THE DEFLOWERING SCENE….

So now we’re past the dumping-the-virgin and masturbating-in-the-stock-tank nonsense and getting to the good stuff.

Let’s start with a few teasers:

“Before she knew what to expect, he had slid down her body, kissing her navel. There, he stopped to minister to the tiny well; afraid it would feel left out on his epic journey.”

…I never knew my belly-button could feel emotions like envy. Cool.

“He lapped at her cream like a happy tomcat.”

…Does Paypal’s no-bestiality rule include similes?

“Hot waves of joy rained down upon her, searing her with bolts of white-hot electricity.”

…That sentence just makes my head hurt.

“She placed her hands on the lapels of his shirt and pulled hard and it parted as easily as if she had said ‘Open Sesame.’”

…Gotta love those snap-up Western shirts.

“This was a whole different ballgame. Libby wasn’t just participating; she was recruiting, coaching and leading the cheers.”

…And we haven’t even gotten to the Extended Sex-As-Sport Metaphor yet! (see below)

“Latching on to one nipple, he gloried in her response as she rode his hand to nirvana.”

…Cue “Smells Like Teen Spirit” background music. And what if he’d been able to latch on to TWO nipples? Where would she go then? Disney World?

“’Roll over,’ she demanded. How could she have forgotten this? It would be like going to Florida and missing Disneyworld.”

…In reference to her long-awaited opportunity to administer a blow job on a real penis and not just a cucumber. And I guess that answers my previous question.

“His penis was engorged with passion and anxious to enter the Promised Land.”

…But can it part the Red Sea to get there???

“I want to see your joystick.”

…I didn’t know they had videogames in the Promised Land.

“Here he was, hard as a rock, and she was gallivanting around like a butterfly.”

…Gallivanting is a good word. I should use that word more often.

“When she had him down to his shorts, she sat up beside him like it was Christmas morning and she was waiting to open a gift under the tree.”

…Cue Dick in a Box video.

“Any other time he would have been gung-ho for her enthusiasm, but right now he was about to go all Mount St. Helens on her.”

…Um, Mount St. Helens spewed ash, not lava.

Let’s all take a deep, cleansing breath before we continue, because…

IT’S KICK-OFF TIME!

“’No more teasing, love – or the game is going to be over before the quarterback even gets onto the field.’ Spreading her thighs, he maneuvered himself over her.”

‘Are you heading into the end zone? She asked with a straight face as he pressed the blunt end of his dick at her tender opening….”

…So does that mean the other end of his dick is the sharp end? He’s very considerate of her tender opening.

“’Going for a touchdown,’ he grinned as he pressed forward a half-inch. Suddenly, the sensation overwhelmed him. He hadn’t ridden bareback since Sabrina. She hadn’t wanted to feel his naked cock inside of her; she said she couldn’t stand the feel of his slimy sperm as it gushed inside of her body. He couldn’t imagine Libby ever saying anything like that. Sweet Jesus! Ecstasy! She was warm, wet, silky, tight, and as soft as the inside of a cream puff. ‘I’ll never last,’ he moaned.”

…Read that last paragraph again – mind-boggling, isn’t it? Fortunately, our hero does have the required stamina, enough for a page and a half of pumping and milking and grunting and moaning before we resume the Simile Sex:

“’I like you, Aron McCoy,’ she exhaled in a rush, another orgasm barreling down on her like a freight train….

‘Come on, baby, that’s the touchdown – let’s go for the extra point.’ He urged her on, gyrating his hips, nudging her cervix with the sensitive end of his dick. ”

…Quick question: If the blunt end of his dick is also the sensitive end, does that make the sharp end insensitive? I’m confused.

“The sound of his balls slapping on her rear end in a jungle beat only spurred him to increase his driving speed.”

…That last sentence was sexy, huh? Thanks to our hero’s heroic staying power, we can endure a little more incoherent pleasure, yada, yada, yada….

“He mindlessly thrust into her creamy depths, her little body a welcoming port to his marauding demand.”

…So I guess his football team is the Buccaneers? He may be marauding her velvet channel, but at least he’s using a blunt sword.

“Flashing, crashing bombardments of ecstasy pummeled into him with a fiery culmination…. He cried out his deliverance as great jets of cum shot deep within her and she kept milking him, her body begging for more.”

…”Deliverance”  wouldn’t have been my first choice of word for a cum shot.

“At last, in absolute contentment, he stretched out over her, covering her, claiming her.”

…That’ll cost him a 15-yard penalty for excessive end-zone celebration.

If I were the coach, I would have called for a two-point conversion instead of the extra point. Then again, he could always try for a field goal in the second half if the score is tied.

To recap (think slo-mo replay with color commentary):

We have the overall football theme, interspersed with:

• Dairy farming (milking);
• Rodeo (bareback, spurs);
• Baked good (cream puffs);
• Transportation (freight train);
• World music (jungle beat);
• Auto racing (driving speed);
• Piracy (welcoming port, marauding);
• Porn (cum shots); AND
• The afterlife (deliverance, fiery culmination).

I’m exhausted just reading that, and I don’t even have cancer.

BUT WAIT – THERE’S MORE!

Now we’re at the end of Chapter Two (!) and it doesn’t get any better….

Libby gets thrown from a horse AND gets into a bar fight with Sabrina the Evil Ex-Wife (“You’re going down, you loud-mouthed Jezebel!”) Unfortunately these events do not occur simultaneously, that would have been AWESOME.

There’s some drama about Aron’s first horse sculpture and a Family Crisis.

And, of course, we have the Magical Orgasm Cure for cancer. I won’t even mention the “why am I puking in the morning?” thing.

As if all that wasn’t enough, the dorky Texas slang, purple prose, bad similes and mixed metaphors continue to fly fast and free.

Pre-deflowering:

• “When he lowered his head to capture her lips, he blocked out all the light. She welcomed the darkness; it was momentous, like the total eclipse of the sun.”
• “Her smile lit up his world. His body began to instantly heat as if it had been graced by the warmth of the rising sun. Aron tried to move forward, he was frozen; immobilized, entranced.”
• “She sucked on his neck like she was auditioning for Twilight.”
• “Moonlight gave the pale skin of her arms and legs an iridescent quality. She could have been a wood nymph come out to play.”
• “He would kiss her over and over and then, he would allow his steel-hard cock to sink into the rich velvet of her womanhood.”
• “Twin globes of perfection hung down like the most delicious melons. Sweet Jesus! Honey-dews!” [No, I did not make that up.]
• “Aron had never been privileged to suckle on nipples as large as hers [Libby's]. Sabrina’s nipples had been stingy, just like the rest of her.”
• “…he longed to rub on them like Aladdin’s lamp….”
• “God, he would suck and slurp, devouring all of that precious womanly flesh like a starving man presented with a T-bone steak.”
• “Aron’s hand kept up with her erotic dance, his own level of excitement reaching plateaus that he had rarely ever scaled.”

Post-deflowering:

• “As she swan-dived off the cliff of rapture, Libby wondered how in God’s name would she ever live a day without him.”
• “Libby took his penis in her hands, as if she were about to say a prayer….”
• “She opened herself up to him and provided him a place to play.”
• “Bellowing aloud, he shot his essence down her throat and she accepted it like she was born to it.”
• “…her incredible breasts were scrubbing up and down on his chest revving his engines to the highest gear.”
• “’You’re too precious to risk on a real horse, so I’ll just let you ride my rocking horse.’ If it hadn’t felt so good, she would have laughed at him, but her clit was having a party on his pelvic bone as she rode herself to heaven and back.” [Nope, didn't make that one up either.]
• “…he could ram upward, letting his cock torpedo into her lush haven with staccato like strokes.”
• “…those talented hands were shaping and kneading her breasts as if they were molding clay and he was creating a masterpiece.”
• “…her vagina was opening like a night blooming flower, offering his manhood a good time and close quarters.”
• “Sinking his teeth in to her neck, he held her still like a stallion would a mare.”
• “…he manipulated her breasts into trembling mounds of passion.”
• “…his penis rose up, seeking her heat like a moth to a flame. She opened to him, her vulva swollen and flushed a deep rose. With a moan of relief, her body stretched to received full length and breadth of his pulsating staff.”
• “Her cream was anointing his cock, proclaiming a desperate need for his brand of possession.”
• “Aron became a mad man; his hips pistoning in and out of her like an out of control jackhammer.”

That gets us halfway through the book. No lie.

Just for fun, I tried to do a search on my Kindle for the word “like.” My Kindle is still trying to recover, hiding in the corner and whimpering in fear like a puppy who piddled on the carpet awaiting the smack of a newspaper.

Saving two of the best for last:

These are cringe-worthy, so again you’ve been warned….

“Freeing his enormous cock from his jeans, he gave it room to stretch and bob like a hungry python seeking a meal. There was no way in hell that he was going to be able to stay away from her. She was the most tempting, succulent goddess he had ever been privileged to pay homage to.”

Hmmm – a hungry python paying homage to succulent boobs, what a lovely mental picture. Pythons squeeze their prey to death, so I guess if Aron the Cowboy Artist sculpted this, it would be like some kind of reptilian BDSM ropework?

And I don’t think pythons “bob and stretch,” but I’m kind of relieved his dick wasn’t a cobra, because I’d hate for it to be cooped up inside one of those baskets.

“Your kisses are sweeter than Mounds candy.” [Take a WILD guess where this is heading…]

‘Hey, if we’re talking candy bars – I’d rather be an Almond Joy instead of Mounds.” Shit! He enjoyed picking at her; she was more fun than a barrel of monkeys.

“What’s the deal?” she played back. “They’re both coconut?”

“Yeah,” he said as he nipped her chin.” But, Almond Joys got nuts, Mounds don’t.” She squealed as he pinched her on the butt cheek. “And if you’ll slip your little hand between my legs, I’ll prove to you which category I fall into.”

My first thought was “I’ll bet that tagline is trademarked, so that’s a copyright violation.”

Then I thought, “Candy bars, shit and monkeys during foreplay. That’s a combination you don’t see every day.”

MY GEEKY EDITING PET PEEVES….

The editing and formatting of this self-pub was barely tolerable. Just because you don’t have a professional editor doesn’t give you an excuse to be lazy.

A few tips for any aspiring self-published author:

• Point of view should not change in the middle of a paragraph.
• Breaks or indents between paragraphs are a good thing. Random capitalization and punctuation are not.
• Apostrophes are used for contractions and indicating possession, not plurals. THERE ARE RULES. LEARN THEM.
• The word “slurp” is not, and never will be, romantic.
• Only preschoolers should wear “panties.” Someone, anyone, for the LOVE OF GOD, find a better word.

I have more, but you’ll have to pay me cash money to hear them.

NOW LET ME TELL YOU WHAT I *REALLY* THINK….

This would have been an F, but it was redeemed by a truly funny jail scene and a nice moment between Libby and one of the EMBs towards the end. The bicep cannons on the Cover Cowboy cancel out the creepy religious sexual metaphors.

It’s now back to the regular price of $4.99 (still free in the Kindle Lending Library), and it’s going on my “Thank God It Was Free” shelf.

The sequels are free in the Kindle Lending Library, so I girded my loins and downloaded Book 2. Hot on Her Trail showcases a homeless orphaned dyslexic pregnant virgin hiding out the EMBs’ barn to escape her bipolar stalker/serial killer. This heroine also swims naked in the stock tank, and we know how well THAT works out. This sequel was equally bad, but in different ways – and instead of making me laugh, it PISSED ME OFF. But that’s another review.

Books 3 and 4 feature wheelchair sex and a preacher’s daughter gallivanting (see what I did there?) in a Nevada cathouse. Book 5 will likely include a blind nun being trampled by stampeding livestock. God only knows what will happen to the poor plot moppet.

I’m not sure if I should be intrigued or scared. My Kindle will never forgive me. Wish me luck.

Sincerely,

Kelly (KKJ)

Editor’s note from Jane. I don’t mind the word “panties” but Kelly failed to mention that this book takes place on TEBOW Ranch.  Sweet Jesus Honey Dews.  I demand you all use that in your vocabulary from now on.

This beauty is only on sale at Amazon as the author is participating in the Kindle Owner’s Lending Library which makes the book exclusive to Amazon. It is free to Kindle Prime members.

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2. A Special Guest Post on Cultural Appropriation By Handy Hunter
3. REVIEWS: Heat of the Moment, Heat of the Storm, Heat of Passion by Elle Kennedy

Name of debut release: What Lies Beneath

Release date: 04/03/2012

Publisher: Harlequin Desire

2 sentence summary: After a deadly plane crash, Cynthia wakes up in the hospital with a reconstructed face and no memory of her life, family or the handsome, but distant, fiance at her bedside. Will is intrigued and attracted to the new woman his fiancee has become, but can he risk his heart again, not knowing what might happen when her memory returns?

Genre: Series Contemporary Romance

Characters: Cynthia Dempsey is recovering amnesiac trying to come to terms with her life. Before the accident, she was a fierce advertising executive, heiress to a technology fortune, and a sorry excuse for a fiancee. Now, she’s uncomfortable in her own skin, embarassed by her past and feels like her life is all wrong.

Will Taylor runs the family newspaper empire. As his relationship with his fiancee started to disintegrate, he buried himself deeper and deeper into his work. Cynthia’s accident forces him to put down the smartphone and work with her to rebuild what they have together.

What makes this story different: I’ll admit I hadn’t read an amnesia book before, so I’m told that I did it wrong. I can’t say too much more without giving away, but I think I gave the traditional hook a fun twist.

Why you wrote this book: I was on the treadmill at the gym at a miserably early hour when I came up with the general idea for this book. And I mean basic. A three line blurb at best. Really just a “what if…?” When the project I had out was rejected, the editor asked what else I had. I pitched the blurb and they said they wanted to see it. So I wrote the proposal in a weekend and mailed it. Desperation is a powerful motivator.

Why is this your first published book? How many did you write before? This book was my eleventh. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out where I fit in. My voice and my characters don’t fit everywhere. Fortunately, I got picked out of the slush pile by an editor who ‘got’ me and I was able to bring together the right project with the right publisher at the right time.

What’s your writing process? I am a huge plotter. I can write a synopsis that will make a panster cry. I typically come up with a general idea, then get together with my plotting group to flesh it out. I develop a fairly detailed synopsis and turn that into a chapter by chapter outline. From there, it’s just me, my favorite chair and my laptop, banging out chapters on nights and weekends around my day job to get out a draft. Then I set it aside for a week or two. Clean my house. Go grocery shopping. Get some distance. And then read through it again, revising and layering. Then I mail it off.

Your next published book. More Than He Expected, Harlequin Desire – July 2012

The last book you read that you loved. I really enjoyed Halfway to the Grave by Jeaniene Frost. I have a huge crush on Bones.

The last book you read for research. The Mammoth Book of Jack the Ripper by Maxim Jakubowski

The romance book character you most identify with. I suppose I should say that I identify with Jane Eyre or Elizabeth Bennett, and I’m sure there are pieces of them in me but I don’t think they really fit. I’ve been told that Charley Davidson from Darynda Jones’s Grave series reminds people of me. Sarcastic. Snarky. No nonsense. Fun. I can see that.

You can visit Andrea Laurence at her website: http://www.andrealaurence.com/

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From Nicci:

I am recommending this book because From the very first chapter, I was hooked. The storyline is compelling and kept me enthralled, but it’s the characters that commanded my attention. Silhara is one of the most interesting heroes I’ve ever read, and Martise’s quiet strength and determination is the perfect complement to such a powerful character. This is a world where treachery and magic go hand-in-hand and where temptation and hard choices are the coin of the realm. Draven’s primary characters are brilliant, but her secondary characters are just as finely drawn. This has become one of my favorite books, and I’ve re-read it more than once.

The following is an excerpt from Master of Crows posted with the approval of Grace Draven.  You can find more about http://www.gracedraven.com/

They passed a trio of those travelers near the stairs.  Like their unfortunate counterpart outside, the three sprawled on the floor in a tangle of bones and decayed clothing.  Broken toys discarded by a vicious child.  Protected from the elements, their bodies still bore hints of mummified flesh that stretched parchment-thin over skulls surrounded by matted hair.  The shadow of a dying scream was stamped on each withered face.

From outside, the keep was modestly sized, but like the gardens and dale itself, all was an illusion.  Inside, it expanded into an endless maze.  She lost count of the number of corridors they walked or the stairs they climbed.  They passed through spaces either drowning in shadow or bathed in the red light of a setting sun.  Silhara never paused, never stopped to check his bearings.  He seemed as familiar with Iwehvenn’s labyrinth as he was with Neith’s.  Martise was on the verge of asking him how much farther they had to go when he stopped at a partially open door.

She almost barreled into his back.  At some point in their wanderings, she had grasped the back of his shirt so as not to lose him.  He tugged until she released the death grip she had on his clothing.

“The library,” he whispered.  “If our luck holds, the papers are there, and we can leave before nightfall.”

She almost shoved him aside then.  Wandering through this cursed crypt during daylight was bad enough.  She had no intention of being anywhere near the keep once the sun went down.

Silhara arched an eyebrow.  “My apologies, apprentice.  I’m in your way.”  He bowed in mock apology and gestured that she precede him into the library.

Eager though she was to find the papers and escape Iwehvenn, Martise stepped cautiously over the threshold.  The witchfire torch hovering beside her cast an emerald haze on a chamber of dust-covered opulence.  She drew in a breath, awed by the sight of towering bookcases crammed with what was surely thousands of years of knowledge.

“Don’t just stand there and gawk, woman.  Unless you’ve a mind to spend the night here?”

Silhara’s soft admonishment ended her bewitchment, and she began searching the room.  The library was a shambles, with furniture overturned and scrolls spilled onto the floor.  Parchment lay scattered in haphazard patterns, tucked into corners, caught between chairs and tables.  Surely someone other than Silhara had been here.  She didn’t think he’d be so careless with such works.  Martise glanced at him, puzzled.  He shrugged.

“I’m unlike many of the thieves who’ve ransacked this place.  First, I’ve lived through the experience, and second, I know wealth isn’t always measured by coin.  Those who usually brave Iwehvenn are only interested in books as a source for their campfire fuel.  This was not my doing.”

He set the crossbow against a table, within easy reach, and crouched beside her to shift through the papers.  “Just gather them all.  I’m certain I left them in here, and from the way this room looks, whoever came after me wasn’t interested in a good book.”

Martise stacked parchments together, her bare hands burning with the taint of the lich’s magic.  As soon as they made it back to the stream by the plum trees, she was going to bathe and burn the garments she currently wore.  Silhara’s instructions that she bring extra clothing made sense now.

Her satchel was almost full and growing heavy on her shoulder.  Silhara stood and helped her rise.  “The light fails outside.  We need to leave.”

She was on the verge of telling him he’d get no argument from her when an icy fear suddenly poured over her skin, rendering her immobile.  The library swam before her eyes, its walls warping and splitting with fissures.  Something waited outside.  Something malevolent.  Ravenous.  Martise grasped Silhara’s arm.  His austere features, bathed in the green witchlight, were strained.  “Something comes,” she whispered.

His nostrils flared, sensual mouth flattening back against his bared teeth.  “We’re being hunted.”  He hefted the crossbow, grabbed her wrist and raced for the door.

Terror gave her feet wings, and she easily matched his long stride.  They stumbled to a halt on the landing.  At the far end of the black cloister a phantom mist raced toward them, roiling white and blood-flecked as it climbed the stairs.

Silhara cursed and reversed direction, wrenching Martise’s arm as he ran across the landing to the other stairway.  He skidded to a halt as the risers suddenly crumbled, sending a cascade of rotting boards falling to the first floor.  Martise, in full charge behind him, twisted sideways at the last moment in a failed bid to keep from hitting him.  She lost her balance.  A burst of pain radiated along her hip when she struck the floor.

“No!” Silhara bellowed, crashing to the floor with her.  Her momentum catapulted her over the balcony’s jagged edge, and her scream echoed in the cavernous dark below.  Her knife and Silhara’s crossbow fell, the bow glancing off her shoulder before striking the ground with a clatter.

The ache in her hip was a twinge compared to the agony bursting across her shoulder and back.  She dangled midair, tethered only by Silhara’s iron grip on her arm.  He sat on the floor, one foot braced against a broken pilaster to keep her from dragging him off the landing with her.

“You don’t look like you weigh this much,” he grunted through clenched teeth.

Martise barely heard him.  The darkness below gaped like an open mouth, waiting to swallow her.  The ghostly cloud paused on the landing, rolling and turning back on itself.  It picked up speed as if sensing its prey’s helplessness.  She could feel its hunger, a craving for the very essence of life.  Her life and Silhara’s.

Her wrist and forearm burned, chafed by Silhara’s rough palm as she slipped slowly from his grasp.  “Let go,” she whispered.  “You promised me a clean death.”  Shattered bones on the stones below were preferable to what the soul eater planned.

He tightened his grip, hard enough to numb her fingers.  “Don’t be tiresome,” he snarled.  “You’re holding the papers and the knowledge to translate them.”

Were she not hanging midair and facing imminent death by either a long fall or a lich’s avaricious appetite, she might have laughed.  Her rescuer was quick to assert his own motivations for saving her, and they had little to do with nobility.

The lich drew closer, carrying with it the fetid scent of evil.  Behind its vaporous form, the walls and landing warped and melted.  Silhara cursed and recited a familiar spell, one Martise hoped he’d never use on her again.  The incantation flung her upward, hard enough that her stomach dropped to her feet.  She flailed in the air.  He immediately invoked a descent spell, and she fell toward him in a flutter of tunic, satchel and hair.  He caught her neatly, and just as quickly tipped her out of his arms.

His hands skimmed her sides.  “The satchel.  You have the satchel.”  Relief hoarsened his already raspy voice.

Who cares about this bag of papers?  She wanted to scream at him.  They weren’t going to make it out of Iwehvenn.  The soul eater was almost upon them, shrouding them in a mist of cold, putrid air.  She yelped when Silhara pulled her close, his arm a tight band around her waist.

“Hang on, and don’t fight me.”

He gave her no time to question him.  Agony ripped through her body, and her vision blackened.  She arched against him, her fingers clawing his arms as he almost broke her ribs in a crushing vise.  Her surroundings faded, going gray and nebulous.  An enraged shriek buffeted her ears.  When she regained her bearings, it was to find herself still clasped in Silhara’s suffocating embrace, but in another chamber.

“What…” she asked before he cut her off.

“Not safe yet.  The lich is right behind us.”

Alerted by a peculiar tone in his voice, Martise looked up.  He was ashen beneath the bronze skin, lips leached almost white.  Blood trickled in a thin line from his left nostril to bisect his upper lip.

“Again,” he said.

This time she was more prepared, though the pain and crushing weight of the spell was just as torturous.  They emerged in an ante-chamber, surrounded by the husks of dead men.  More blood streamed from Silhara’s nose, dripping off his chin.  He stumbled, holding onto Martise as much for balance as to bring her with him through the spell’s bonding.

“Stop this.”  She wiped her sleeve under his nose in an attempt to staunch the crimson flow.  Her efforts left a smear across his cheek and a red stain on her shirt.  “You’re killing yourself.”  She’d read of the spell he used.  Half-Death they called it, part of the black arcana and outlawed by Conclave.  Complex and very handy in tight spots like these, it was known to kill the mages who used it.

His eyes were sunken in his pale face.  “Better dead than enslaved.”

The remark struck her harder than if he’d balled his fist and punched her.  Martise knew he referred to the lich, but his short statement encapsulated every motivation, every reason and every justification for why she was here with him in the first place.

He took a long breath that gurgled with blood.  “Once more.  I can do this once more.”

Martise doubted it, but even weakened by his own incantations, he was far stronger than she.  The most she could do was hang on and hold him up when he fell after the third time.  For fall he would.  Few mages had ever withstood Half-Death multiple times, and none had done so still standing.

The third time made her scream.  She might as well have fallen from the keep’s second story, the pain was so sharp.  They emerged in the outer courtyard, under a twilight sky.  Silhara collapsed against her.  Reeling from the shock of the spell, Martise staggered beneath his weight but managed to lower them both to their knees.  The mage slid lifeless in her arms, awash in blood and colder than a day-old corpse.

Her own pain forgotten, she laid him gently on the dusty ground.  Her fingers traced a palsied pattern over his stained mouth and came away wet when she pressed them to his chest and the scarlet ruin of his shirt.  “Don’t you dare die yet, you bastard.”

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Related posts:

1. Recommended Reads Saturday: Memory of Morning by Susan Sizemore
2. Recommended Reads Saturday: Magic to the Bone by Devon Monk
3. Recommended Reads Saturday: Magic Bites by Ilona Andrews

From Darlynne:

I am recommending this book because The fantasy genre of magic users in urban settings is turned on its head and re-imagined in this Portland, Oregon-based series about Allie Beckstrom, magic Hound and reluctant daughter of the city’s most powerful businessman. Magic is available to all, but the use of it exacts a steep price; for some, it’s illness or migraines, for Allie, it’s that plus holes in her memory. She can Hound spells to see who cast them, who off-loaded the pain of doing so on innocent and unsuspecting victims.

There are a number of things I love about this series. Allie is so vulnerable herself and yet she is fiercely loyal, the first to come to the aid of others. She has no money, having refused her father’s fortune and influence; she carries a notebook and pen to record her activities in case of memory loss. She is funny, smart and determined and, in later books, has The Best Sidekick Ever: Stone, the accidentally re-animated gargoyle.

Portland makes a great setting, too, perhaps because I’ve spent time there, but also because it’s not the usual urban location. Rainy and cloudy days–except for two weeks in July–lend themselves very well to my idea of magic.

There is a romantic interest for Allie, a powerful magic user of Native-African-American-Asian descent. Not the usual hero, and his intentions are not immediately clear. Their relationship is sweet, sad and hopeful, one of the most satisfying I’ve read.

The world of magic here is harsh and cutthroat; alliances change or are revealed to be other than first thought. The idea of magic as a commodity, like electricity, makes for an interesting and complicated environment. Allie’s uneasy relationship with her father takes some unexpected turns and I have no idea how that will play out.

I should mention that Ms. Monk’s website has been rated by some WOT (web of trust) users as unsafe. I’ve never had a problem from visiting there and am dismayed that an internet tool would be wielded like that for who-knows-what reason. I hope DA readers won’t avoid the books or the site because of that.

The following is an excerpt from Magic to the Bone posted with the approval of the editor of Devon Monk.

It was the morning of my twenty fifth birthday, and all I wanted was a decent cup of coffee, a hot breakfast, and a couple hours away from the stink of used magic that seeped through the walls of my apartment building every time it rained.

My current fortune of ten bucks wasn’t going to get me that hot breakfast, but it was going to buy a good dark Kenya roast and maybe a muffin down at Get Mugged.  What more could a girl ask for?

I took a quick shower, pulled on jeans, a black tank top and boots.  I brushed my dark hair back and tucked it behind my ears, hoping for the short, wet, sexy look.  I didn’t bother with make-up.  Being six foot tall and the daughter of one of the most notorious businessmen in town got me enough attention.  So did my pale green eyes, athletic build, and the family knack for coercion.

I  pulled on my jacket, careful not to jostle my left shoulder too much.  The scars across my deltoid still hurt, even though the creep with the knife had jumped me three months ago.  I had known the scars might be permanent, but I didn’t know they would hurt so much every time it rained.  Blood magic, when improperly wielded by an uneducated street hustler, was a pain that just kept on giving.  Lucky me.

One of these days, when my student loans were paid off, and I’d dug my credit rating out of the toilet, I’d be able to turn down cheap Hounding jobs that involved back-alley drug deals and black market revenge spells.  Hell, maybe I’d even have enough money to afford a cell phone again.

I patted my pocket to make sure the small, leather bound book and pen were there.  I didn’t go anywhere without those two things with me.  I couldn’t.  Not if I wanted to remember who I was when things went bad.  And things seemed to be going bad a lot lately.

I made it as far as the door.  The phone rang.  I paused, trying to decide if I should  answer it.  The phone had come with the apartment, and like the apartment it was as low-tech as legally allowed, which meant there was no caller ID.

It could be my dad–or more likely his secretary of the month– delivering the obligatory annual birthday lecture.  It could be my friend Nola, if she had left her farm and gone into town to use a pay phone.  It could be my landlord asking for the rent I hadn’t paid.  Or it could be a Hounding job.

I let go of the doorknob and walked over to the phone.  Let the happy news begin.

“Hello?”

“Allie, girl?”  It was Mama Rossitto, from the worst part of North Portland.  Her voice sounded flat and fuzzy, broken by the cheap land line.  Ever since I did a couple Hounding jobs for Mama a few months ago, she treated me like I was the only person in the city who could trace lines of magic back its user and abuser.

“Yes, Mama, it’s me.”

“You fix.  You fix for us.”

“Can it wait?  I was headed to breakfast.”

“You come now.  Right now,” Mama’s voice had a pitch in it that had nothing to do with the bad connection.  She sounded panicked.  Angry.  “Boy is hurt.  Come now.”

The phone clacked down, but must not have hit the cradle.  I heard the clash of dishes pushed into the sink, the sputter of a burner snapping to life, then Mama’s voice, farther off, shouting to one of her many sons–half of whom were runaways she’d taken in–and all of whom answered to the name Boy.

I heard something else too, a high, light whistle like a string buzzing in the wind, softer than a wheezy newborn.  I’d heard that sound before.  I tried to place it, and found holes where my memory should be.

Great.

Using magic meant it used you back.  Forget the fairytale hocus-pocus, wave a wand and bling-o, sparkles and pixie dust crap.  Magic, like booze, sex, and drugs, gave as good as it got.  But unlike booze and the rest, magic could do incredible good.  In the right hands, used the right way, it could save lives, ease pain, and streamline the complexities of the modern world.  Magic was revolutionary, like electricity, penicillin, plastic, and in the thirty years since it had been discovered and made accessible to the general public, magic had done a lot of good.

At first, everyone wanted a piece of it–magically enhanced food, fashion, entertainment, sex.  And then the reality of such use set in.  Magic always takes its due from the user, and the price is always pain.  It didn’t take people long to figure out how to transfer that pain to someone else, though.

Laws were put in place to regulate who could access the magic and how and why.  But there weren’t enough police to keep up with stolen cars and murders in the city, much less the misuse of a force no one can see.

Things went downhill fast, and as far as I can tell, they had stayed there.

But while magic made the average Joe pay one painful price each time he used it, sometimes magic double dipped on me.  I’d get the expected migraine, flu, roaring fever, or whatever, and then, just for fun, magic would kick a few holes in my memories.  It doesn’t happen every time, and doesn’t happen in any pattern I can fathom.  Just sometimes when I use magic, it makes me pay the price in pain, then takes a few of my memories for good measure.

That’s why I carried a little blank book–to record important bits of my life.  And it’s also why four years at Harvard, pounding tomes for my masters in business magic hadn’t worked out quite the way I’d wanted it to.  Still, I was a Hound, and I was good at that.  Good enough I could keep food on the table, live in the crappiest part of Old Town, and make the minimum payment on my student loans.  And hey, who didn’t have a few memories they wouldn’t mind getting rid of, right?

The phone clattered and the line went dead.

Happy birthday to me.

If Boy had been hurt by magic, Mama should have called 911 for a doctor who knew how to handle those sorts of things, not a Hound like me.  Suspicious, superstitious, Mama always thought her family was under magical attack.  Not one of the times I’d Hounded for her, had her problem been a magical hit.  Just bad luck, spoiled meat, and once, (shudder) cockroaches the size of small dogs.

But I had done some other jobs since I’d set up shop here in Portland.  Every one of those sent me sniffing the illegal magical Offloads back to corporations.  And nine times out of nine, even that kind of proof, my testimony on the stand, and a high-profile trial, wouldn’t get the corporation much more than a cash penalty.

I rolled my good shoulder to try to get the kink out of my neck, but only managed to make my arm hurt more.  I didn’t want to go.  But I couldn’t just ignore her call, and there was no other way to get in touch with her.  Mama wouldn’t answer the phone.  She was convinced it was tapped, though I couldn’t think of anyone who would be interested in the life of a woman who lived in North Portland, in the broken-down neighborhood of St. John’s, a neglected and mostly forgotten place cut off from the magic that flowed through rest of the city.

I tipped my head back, stared at the ceiling and exhaled.  Okay.  I’d go and make sure Boy was all right.  I’d try to talk Mama into calling a doctor.  I’d check for any magical wrong-doing.  I’d look for rats.  I’d bill her half price.  Then I would go out for a late birthday breakfast.

A girl could hope, anyway.

I walked out the door and locked it.  I didn’t bother with alarm spells.  Most single women in the city thought alarm spells would keep them safe, but I knew first hand that if someone wanted badly enough to break into your apartment, there wasn’t a spell worth paying the price for that could keep them out.

I took the stairs instead of the elevator, because I hate small spaces, and made it to the street in no time.  The mid-September morning was gray as a grave and cold enough, my breath came out in plumes of steam.  The wind gusted off the Willamette River and rain sliced at my bare face.

Portland lived up to its name.  Even though it was a hundred miles from the ocean, it had that crumbling brick warehouse and industrial feel of the working port it still was, especially where it had built along the banks of the Willamette and Columbia rivers.  The Willamette River was practically in my backyard, behind the warehouses, train and bus station.  Without squinting I could see four of the mis-matched bridges that crossed the water, connecting downtown with the east side of the city.  Over that river and north, close to where the Willamette and Columbia met, was Mama’s neighborhood.

I zipped my coat, pulled up my hood, and wished I’d thought about putting on a sweater before I’d left.

A bus wouldn’t get me to Mama’s fast enough.  However, the good thing about being a woman and six foot tall, was that cabs, few and far between though they may be, stopped when you whistled.  It didn’t hurt that I had my dad’s good looks, either.  When I was in the mood to smile, I could get almost anyone to see things my way, even without using magic.  True to the Beckstrom blood, I also had a gift for magic-based Influence.  But after watching my dad Influence my mother, his lovers, business partners, and even me, to get his way, I’d sworn off using it.

It wasn’t like I had wanted to go to Harvard.  I had Juilliard in mind: art, not business; music, not magic. But my dad had severe ideas about what constituted a useful education.

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Related posts:

1. REVIEW: Magic to the Bone by Devon Monk
2. Recommended Reads Saturday: Magic Bites by Ilona Andrews
3. Recommended Reads Saturday: Memory of Morning by Susan Sizemore

I am recommending this book because Because I really like this book. It’s an alternate world without magic, but the flavor she was trying for, and I think got, was Jane Austen crossed with Patrick O’Brian. I love the voice of the first person narrator, who is both highly observant and remarkably clueless at times. I love the worldbuilding, which hangs together well enough that I am able to spend time exptrapolating details. I’ve purchased copies to give as gifts as well as my own copies to keep and recommended it to friends when it was on sale.

It’s one of my three favorite ebook originals. (The other two being Ice Blue ( A | BN), a mystery by Emma Jameson, and Elizabeth McCoy’s Herbwitch / Herb-wife ( A | BN ) duology, an unusual fantasy romance which had me hooked from the first drabble the author posted on her LiveJournal, several years ago.)

Excerpt

The following is an excerpt from Memory of Morning posted with the approval of Susan Sizemore.

I think I shall start by telling you about the first time I was ever kissed. You might think that this is romantic, but actually – actually, it was romantic, for me – but it was just before the Battle of the Arum Sea and there was a great deal more going on. Yes, I was there at the great engagement when the Southern Fleet took on the pirates and broke the hold those marauders held over the southern islands. I was a surgeon’s apprentice aboard the frigate Moonrunner. Mind you, apprentice wasn’t the proper term anymore even if it was the official one. I had served my two year contract already and was moving into the twenty-sixth month of service aboard the ship. I didn’t mind one bit that the ‘Runner was late returning to port, except for my need to pass the final exam to grant me the Surgeon Certificate. Not many woman hold the title surgeon and I was anxious to officially be among that small number. I was ambitious and anxious to grab onto our brave new meritocrat society and make my mark. Being Doctor Megere Cliff was not nearly enough for me. The Imperial Navy needed surgeons, so they took on female apprentices when the Imperial College of Surgeons had yet to bend to pressure to allow women in their ranks. Getting your hands bloody delivering a baby was one thing, taking a knife to cut through muscle was unladylike. I’d taken advantage of the military’s need, not only for my own purposes, but from a growing sense of the rightness of serving my country, just as both my brothers had as well. Our generation wanted to war with Framin to end, so a new society would have a chance to grow in the Ang Empire.

While I was technically a civilian contractor, my heart and soul had been taken over by love of the sea – adventure, the fear and excitement of battle, the camaraderie – in some ways it was the captain I loved, the brash and famous Dane Copper, but more on that later. The point is, I was a well-trained, efficient surgeon by the time this battle came along. My apprentice master was Dr. Samel Swan, by the way. Fine teacher, brilliant man and I thought my heart belonged to him – though any liaison between us could never be! I was quite young at the time, in case you hadn’t guessed, full of romantic longings I was smart enough to keep under control. And no, it wasn’t Swan or Copper that kissed me. Most folk thought they were more likely to kiss each other, but I knew that wasn’t quite true.

Back to the kiss, and the battle, too, I suppose, though I saw most of it inside the bowels of the ship and what I saw was what I always saw – blood, gore, screams, dying. I sawed off limbs and shut the eyes of the dead. I made choices of who had a chance to live and who was only waiting to die and acted on those choices. I knew well that battle is anything but glorious. Oh, it’s exciting, at least the before and after parts can be, but the fight itself is nothing but gruesome necessity.

The early morning before the battle, just around dawn,  I finished making preparations in the surgery and then made my way up to the main deck. I knew I’d be belowdecks for many hours to come and wanted some fresh air. I wanted to greet as many of the crew as I could and bid them the All’s Protection for the day. I wanted to see what I could of the battle order, though I assumed the nearest Imperial ships might be beyond the horizon, or lost in a morning fog. The Moonrunner was set out as bait, after all. Of course, I also wanted to do my duty as part of that bait.

Civilian or not, I didn’t often get to wear civilian clothing, and the skirt and bodice I wore now wasn’t even my own. My own dresses – of which I had only two packed in my sea trunk – were modest and middle-class, the necklines high and proper. I’d had to borrow something more provocative from Ganna Broom who supervised the laundry crew. Currently, the tight lacing showed off more cleavage than I thought I actually had. The bright scarlet skirt was full and swirling, but the material was thin.

The point, you see, was to appear to pirates as if we were a civilian ship. It should be easy enough for the pirates to believe that we were ripe pickings blown off course by the recent spate of bad storms. Anyone who had ridden out those storms, as the Moonrunner, and the pirate fleet had, would not be surprised by any flotsam spied floating – helplessly – this far south of safe shipping lanes.

So, I walked around the deck, hips swaying with the roll of the waves, my bosoms preceding me, and tried to look like a woman waiting to be ravished.  The other women on deck, officers and able seaman alike, did the same. There are never that many females on board a warship, but we did our best to pretend to be simple passengers rather than, say, capable merchants. The appearance of the whole ship was supposed to plant a sense of vulnerability in the pirates minds. We women had decided to flaunt our femininity.

Of course there’d be women among the pirates, but they’d be armed and dangerous. The point of this exercise was for those aboard our ship to appear lightly armed at most and far from dangerous.

It wasn’t only we women dressed in civilian clothes. I spotted Captain Copper lounging by the wheel, dressed in an emerald green swallowtail coat and black trousers so tight it was evident why the fashion circulars referred to this current male style as Masculine Unmentionables. I know it was wrong to stare at the ship’s commander the way I did – no doubt my mouth hung open – but how could one help it? Captain Copper runs a tight ship and he’d normally be the last one of his crew to be seen in anything but the knee-length blue coat, red vest, buff trousers, black boots and tricorn hat of a proper officer. Well, he wasn’t wearing a hat now. His dark blond hair was loose around his shoulders, and instead of a starched cravat, he wore his shirt unbuttoned down half his chest. The sight was enough to send a hot rush through me, and likely most of the women and some of the men who caught a glimpse of our captain this morning.

If the pirate admiral was a woman, I knew what booty she’d be claiming.

I didn’t notice the man who’d come up behind me until he put an arm around my waist and swung me to face him. I had no idea who he was. Which is certainly an odd thing to say since I’ve already mentioned I’d been on the Moonrunner for over two years. There were one hundred and ninety four crew members aboard the second class frigate and I knew them all well. This man was a stranger. Which was one of the reasons my mouth continued to hang open as he smiled at me.

Not a handsome stranger, either, but very much a virile man. He was a long-faced, hooked-nosed fellow with a beard that made his face seem even longer. Dimples showed through the scruffy hair on his face. He had blue eyes and brown hair, worn long like all sailors, and loose around his face, as we all wore our hair this morning. He pulled me close to a body that was long and lean, the muscles hard as rocks beneath the layers of cloth. And the bulge at his crotch gave evidence of hardness as well. And he was tall. I’m not all that short a woman, but this man towered over me. And the hands holding me were big. Hard, strong, callused sailor’s hands. I couldn’t have broken his hold even if I’d been able to recall the self-defense lessons Lieutenant Breeze had drilled us civilians in so many times.

From the way I instantly melted against him, I guess I didn’t want to break that hold to begin with. The male wants female recognition shot through me, shaking me from my head to my toes and heating my insides far more than staring at the captain had done. Maybe it was proximity. Maybe it was the natural tension before a battle reverberating between us.

It was – devastating.

You might have guessed I was still a virgin when I mentioned a first kiss. Certainly not for lack of opportunity, but definitely for my own reasons, I was indeed a virgin. Neither ignorant or innocent though – please recall that I am a doctor.

“Good girl!” he said when I sank into his embrace.

His accent was distinctly not that of Ang. The words had a lilt to them, but not the same as the rich tones of Welis. The Empire is made up of thousands of islands, large and small, and I’m hardly familiar with the accents of all of them, even if I had run into people from all over while serving on the Moonrunner.

“From the north, are you?” I asked.

“As far north as can be,” he told me.

I knew that this man did not serve on board my ship. Who was he? What was he doing here? Holding me. My hands were on his shoulders, so I suppose it can be said I was holding him back. His coat was of fine brown wool, my sensitive fingers all too aware of heated skin and muscle beneath the cloth.

“Who?”

“A servant of the Empire,” he answered.

I’d never seen anyone’s eyes twinkle with so much mischief. I couldn’t help but laugh.

Then I remembered that the Fleet Admiral’s flagship had been seriously damaged in the most recent storm. For a while it was thought that the ship was lost, but it had limped close enough to the rest of the fleet for crew members to be transferred to other ships before it was scuttled. A boatload of officers had been dropped off the night before. I’d been scrubbing the surgery at the time and had retired to my hammock before meeting any of the newcomers. What an interesting way to make a staff officer’s acquaintance, I thought now. I assumed no one but an officer would dare behave as boldly as he did. Unless he was an able seaman that mistook me for one as well. No, no working class man would have such a bold and assured way about him.

I managed to find my voice. “Sir, I trust your – our – behavior is meant to be spied by the enemy.”

“That too,” he said.

Then he kissed me.

It was obviously a memorable, watershed moment or I wouldn’t be mentioning it. Well, I didn’t know it was watershed at the time, but it was certainly – wonderful.

His lips were demanding and gentle all at once, his tongue teased my lips open and his tongue and mine twined and danced and I quite simply caught fire – brain, body, soul. I loved the taste of him, the feel of our bodies pressed together, the scent of him.

At first I didn’t realize the explosive roar in my ears was actually the sound of cannon fire. And considering how often I had heard cannon fire in the last two years, my mistaking it for the roar of my heart says quite a lot about my state at the time.

But the man kissing me was not so dazzled by the moment. He realized what was happening and let me go.

He was still smiling as he patted my behind. “Battle stations, gel,” he said, and ran toward the bridge, long legs striding in that assured way sailors acquired during a lifetime at sea.

I watched him for only a moment before turning down to my own station belowdecks.

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Recommendation

Magic Bites  by Ilona Andrews is recommended by Angela James, Executive Editor of Carina Press, and general lover of books.  Angela:

I am recommending this book because Magic Bites and the rest of the books that follow are one of my favorite urban fantasy series. As a fantasy reader, i find myself interested in and compelled to read more about both the world the authors have developed, but also about the characters. It’s not just the protaganists we get to know, but also a cast of secondary characters, and supporting characters. Not in a way that overwhelms, but gradually, over time.

As a romance reader, I’ve found myself satisfied with the progression of romance that develops over the course of the series, and also finding that I trust the authors not to break my heart and suddenly kill of a character they’ve brought me to love, as I might otherwise be concerned about with a book from other authors who write fantasy/urban fantasy.

I’ve been recommending this series for years and will continue to do so whole-heartedly, to fans of both romance and fantasy, to those who love ongoing series with the same protagonists, to those who appreciate fine worldbuidling, character development, fascinating plots and fun mythology.

Excerpt from Magic Bites

The following is an excerpt from Magic Bites posted with the approval of Ilona Andrews

When life backs you into a corner and offers you no escape, when your friends, your lover, and your family abandon you, when you’re at the end of your rope, panicked, alone, and losing your mind, you know you’d give anything to make your problems go away.  Then, desperate and eager, you will come to Unicorn Lane, seeking salvation in its magics and secrets.  You’ll do anything, pay any price.  Unicorn Lane will take you in, shroud you in its power, fix your problems, and exact its price.  And then you will learn what “anything” really means.

Every city has one of those neighborhoods, dangerous, sinister places, so treacherous that even the criminals who prey on other criminals shun them.  Unicorn Lane was such a place.  Thirty city blocks long and eight blocks deep, it cut through what used to be Midtown like a dagger.  Half-crumbled skyscrapers stood there, mute witness to the past’s technology, the husks of GLG Grand, Promenade II, and One Atlantic, gnawed down to the bones by magic.  Rubble choked the streets and sewage overflowed from the busted pipes in foul-smelling streams.  Magic pooled there, lingering even in the strongest of tech waves, and hideous things that shun the light found refuge there, among the dark carcasses of gutted high rises.  Lunatic mages, vicious, perverted shape-changers who feared a death at the hand of an unforgiving Pack, Satanists, and rogue necromancers all ran to Unicorn, for if they could make it there and survive, no lawman on this earth would force them out.  Unicorn Lane held on to its own.

Hell of a place for a rendezvous.

I drove up 14th Street, parked Karmelion in a secluded alley, and walked the two remaining city blocks.  Ahead a stone wall had crumbled, a pitiful attempt of some fool on the city council to contain Unicorn Lane.  I climbed over the wreckage.  A large block of concrete barred my way, glistening silver in moonlight.  It looked slick, almost slimy, and I leaped over it.

Five minutes into the Unicorn an old sign on the side of an abandoned house announced that I had reached my destination, corner of 13th and Unicorn.  In front of me, an old apartment complex stared at the street with empty windows.  To the right, a tangled mess of concrete and steel framework marked a collapsed office building.  The debris spilled onto the street, burying the pavement beneath the rubble.  The street was open on the left, but shrouded in darkness.  I stood very still, waiting, listening.

The moonlight spilled onto the ruins, enameling concrete in silver and lead.  Thick, inky darkness pooled in the shadowy alcoves and burrows and stretched forth, mingling with light, spawning half-shadows, and blurring the lines between real and illusory.  The eerie landscape appeared false, as if the ruined buildings had vanished, leaving behind treacherous shadows of their former self.  Ahead in the depths of Unicorn Lane something howled, giving voice to a tortured soul.  The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood on their ends.

Someone or something watched me from the darkness.  I felt their stare press me like a physical burden.  Moments dragged by, with minutes in tow.  After a while I glanced at my watch.  It had stopped.

Somewhere in the darkness the Beast Lord prowled.  I didn’t know what he looked like.  I didn’t know the species of his beast.  Few people outside of the Pack claimed to have met him and nobody seemed willing to discuss the experience.  The only thing certain about him was power.  By the latest count, he commanded a force of three hundred and thirty seven shapechangers in Atlanta alone.  He wasn’t in charge because he was the smartest or the most popular; he ruled because of those three hundred and thirty seven he was unquestionably the strongest.  He was in charge by the right of might; that is, he had yet to meet anyone who could kick his ass.

Among the shapechangers wolves were the most numerous, then came the foxes, the jackals, the rats and then the hyenas and the smaller felines: lynxes, bobcats, and cheetahs. There were the exotic forms too, the werebuffalos and wereserpents, but the buffalos formed their own Herd in Midwest and the serpents were solitary.

Another howl ruptured the quiet, still too far away to be a threat.  The Beast Lord, the leader, the alpha male, had to enforce his position as much by will as by physical force.  He would have to answer any challenges of his rule, so it was unlikely that he turned into a wolf.  A wolf would have little chance against a cat.  Wolves hunted in a pack, bleeding their victim and running them into exhaustion, while cats were solitary killing machines, designed to murder swiftly and with deadly precision.  No, the Beast Lord would have to be a cat, a jaguar or a leopard.  Perhaps a tiger.

I had heard a rumor of the Kodiak of Atlanta, a legend of an enormous, battle-scarred bear roaming the streets in search of Pack criminals.  The Pack, like any social organization, had its law-breakers.  The Kodiak was their Executioner.  Perhaps his Majesty turned into a bear.  Damn.  I should have brought some honey.

My left leg was tiring.  I shifted from foot to foot…

A low, warning growl froze me in mid-move.  It came from the dark gaping hole in the building across the street and rolled through the ruins, awakening ancient memories of a time when humans were pathetic, hairless creatures cowering by the weak flame of the first fire and scanning the night with frightened eyes, for it held monstrous hungry killers.  My subconscious screamed in panic.  I held it in check and cracked my neck, slowly, one side then another.

A lean shadow flickered in the corner of my eye.  On the left and above me a graceful jaguar stretched on the jutting block of concrete, an elegant statue encased in the liquid metal of moonlight.

Homo Panthera onca.  The killer who takes its prey in a single bound.

Hello, Jim.

The jaguar looked at me with amber eyes.  Feline lips stretched in a startlingly human smirk.

He could laugh if he wanted.  He didn’t know what was at stake.

Jim turned his head and began washing his paw.

My saber firmly in hand, I marched across the street and stepped through the opening.  The darkness swallowed me whole.

The lingering musky scent of a cat hit me. So, not a bear after all.

Where was he?  I scanned the building, peering into the gloom.  Moonlight filtered through the gaps in the walls, creating a mirage of twilight and complete darkness.  I knew he was watching me.  Enjoying himself.

I gripped the saber.  A shadow darker than the rest shifted at the opposite wall.  It was low, around the level of my waist.  It made no move in response to my glare.

Diplomacy was never my strong suit and my patience had run dry.  I crouched and looking at the shadow, called out, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

Two golden eyes ignited in the shadow.  The darkness shifted and the eyes went up and up and up, towering above me.  A single enormous paw moved into the moonlight, disturbing the dust on the filthy floor. Wicked claws shot forth and withdrew.  A massive shoulder followed, its grey fur marked by faint smoky stripes.  The huge body shifted forward, coming at me, and I lost my balance and fell on my ass into the dirt.  Dear God, this wasn’t just a lion.  This thing had to be at least five feet at the shoulder.  And why was it striped?

The colossal cat circled me, half in the light, half in the shadow, the dark mane trembling as he moved. I scrambled to my feet and almost bumped into the grey muzzle.  We looked at each other, the lion and I, our gazes level.  Then I twisted around and began dusting off my jeans in a most undignified manner.

The lion vanished into a dark corner.  A whisper of power pulsed through the room, tugging at my senses.  If I did not know better, I would say that he had just changed.

“Kitty, kitty?” asked a level male voice.

I jumped.  No shapechanger went from a beast into a human without a nap.  Into a mid-form, yes, but beast-men had trouble talking.

“Yeah,” I said.  ”You’ve caught me unprepared.  Next time I’ll bring cream and catnip toys.”

“If there is a next time.”

I turned and there he stood, wearing a loose T-shirt and sweatpants.  A modest shapechanger, how refreshing.  You wouldn’t even know that he had changed, save for the glistening sheen of dampness on his skin.

He approached, moving with the easy grace of a cat, and stopped a mere foot away from me.  Again I fought an urge to step back.  A couple of inches taller than me.  Blond hair, cut too short to grab.  The way he held himself gave an impression of coiled power.  His eyes, under reddish-blond brows, were gray-green and flecked with gold.  They contained no menace, but I knew, felt it on some primitive level, that he would kill me in an instant should it suit him.

He looked me over slowly, judging, taking my measure.  I could blush demurely or I could do the same to him.  I chose not to blush.

The Beast Lord had a strong square jaw.  His nose was narrow with a misshapen bridge, as though it had been broken more than once and hadn’t healed right. Considering the regenerative powers of shape-changers, someone must’ve pounded the Beast Lord’s face with a sledge hammer.

“What kind of a woman greets a Beast Lord with ‘here, kitty, kitty?’” he asked.

“One of a kind,” I murmured the obvious reply.

At first glance, he looked to be in his early to mid- twenties, but his build betrayed him.  His shoulders were wide, his back broad and corded with muscle, showing the strength and power a man developed in his early thirties.  Overwhelming confidence bordering on arrogance shone from his eyes.  This man expected to be obeyed and took compliance as his due.

I swallowed.  The way he looked it me…  I didn’t like the way he looked at me.  Like I was a mouse to be played with.

“I’m the Lord of the Free Beasts,” he said.

“I figured.”  Perhaps he expected me to curtsy.

He leaned forward a little, puzzling over me as if I were an odd-looking insect.  ”Why would a knight-protector hire a no-name merc to investigate of death of his diviner?”

I gave him my best cryptic smile.

He grimaced.  ”What have you found out?” he asked.

“I’m not at liberty to tell you that.”  Not with the Pack suspect.

He leaned forward, letting the moonlight fall on his face.  His gaze was direct and difficult to hold.  Our stares locked and I gritted my teeth.  Five seconds into the conversation and he was already giving me the alpha-stare.  If he started clicking his teeth, I’d have to make a run for it.  Or introduce him to my sword.

“You will tell me what you know now,” he said.

“Or?”

He said nothing, so I elaborated.  ”See, this kind of threat usually has an ‘or’ attached to it.  Or an ‘and’.  ’Tell me and I’ll allow you to live’ or something like that.”

His eyes ignited with gold.  His gaze was unbearable now.

“I can make you beg to tell me everything you know,” he said and his voice was a low growl. It sent icy fingers of terror down my spine.

I gripped Slayer’s hilt until it hurt.  The golden eyes were burning into my soul.  ”I don’t know,” I heard my own voice say, “you look kinda out of shape to me.  How long has it been since you took care of your own dirty work?”

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I always describe myself as a geek at heart because I’m such a huge fan of cult shows such as Farscape, The X-Files, and Firefly.  I’m no stranger to fanfiction and I have read the good, the bad and the ugly. It’s been a fun ride because fanfiction can fill in the missing bits or expand the universe of a television show, book or movie. It also helps to form a community and define it. I have been involved in the fandoms I mentioned above, and I loved the community aspect of it. It can be engaging and inventive, as well as hilariously intentionally and unintentionally bad. Fanfiction is a way where fans can invest and add to an established world that they love and it brings about many discussions. It can also bring on the fanwankery, which at times can be quite funny and entertaining.

In the past few years, fanfiction has also become a launching pad for authors – partly because of the followings they have gained and the popularity of the fandom they belong to. This development has the potential to change fanfiction and its fandoms, and not necessarily in good ways.

I never thought that fanfiction would actually become commercialised or widely practiced for profitable gain. Fanfiction is a great medium where fans can enrich and be a part of the world that they love. It has always been a great thing that fandom can revitalise and bring back shows or even books from an early – or abrupt – demise. Recently both “Firefly” and “Farscape” were able to get resolutions due to the influence of their fanbases.

Fanfiction can be a fantastic medium to keep fandom alive or even to help it grow. In the 50s/60s, the Lord of the Rings novels gained huge popularity due to science fiction and fantasy fan groups, who embraced Tolkien and the world he created by keeping it alive. They wrote fanfic in fanzines and attended conventions that helped spread the word about the books. Due to this ACE released unsanctioned bootlegged paperback copies which reached a wider audience, after claiming that the US copyright was void because the original US publisher, Houghton Mifflin failed to protect the rights to the series. However, Tolkien appealed to his fans, who then helped to campaign against this edition. This caused ACE to relent their claim to the rights and paid back royalties and letting the book go out of print. Nonetheless, the success of the series and the grassroots campaign, led to another publisher, Ballantine, to later release an official revised version. Since then, Lord of the Rings has inspired countless authors and made an impact in the genre of fantasy and science fiction.

Star Trek is another major fandom that helped to expand the sub-culture of fanfiction and its fandoms. It showed how influential a collective group of fans can be, by turning a dead show into the pop cultural phenomenon that Star Trek is today. Star Trek fanfiction was influential in helping to create well-known terms, such as the MarySue character (which stemmed from a fanfic story in a fanzine that had a perfect heroine with no flaws and is loved by all). The term is now widely used to describe this trope in fiction and shows how fandom and fanfiction influences have spread to other mediums, especially the wider mainstream, which has picked upon its popularity and phrases.

The growth of fandom and its ability to create influence through word of mouth recommendations is a factor which studios and publishers are keen to tap into. They can take advantage of stories that are popular among fanfiction readers and writers because there is an established fanbase and it’s an attractive and profitable audience to target. The popularity of Star Trek and Lord of the Rings shows how it can catch the attention of publishers or studios and help reignite a text or a show out of obscurity.

Historically, however, fandom has not been about making money, and any attempts to do so by fans were frowned upon. I never suspected that being part of a fandom was about making money or even to nurture a personal following for personal gain. The goal was to be part of a community where people could partake in and celebrate their fandoms and immerse themselves in that fandom’s universe. I felt really proud and happy to be a part of Farscape’s fandom. We were instrumental in bringing the show back from cancellation and we helped to bring about a resolution, in the form of a mini-series, which concluded the series perfectly. My experience in that fandom was that it was about forming a sense of community and belonging, and the idea of fans profiting from this was an anathema.

This notion of not profiting seems to be changing for some fans and fandom, especially recently with Twilight, especially when you have publishers like Omnific and The Writer’s Coffee Shop repackaging and publishing Twilight fanfiction into books. There has been fan uproar associated withCassandra Clare (The Mortal Instruments) andE.L James (Fifty Shades trilogy), who have used fandom and the fan following linked to it to gain big publishing deals because of the hype and buzz linked to the fandom they wrote for.

I never really gave much thought to this new development in fanfiction-turned-published-books because in the past it was never really an issue. I was aware of a few authors who had used elements of their fanfic in their books or started out writing it, but they have only published original works.  But the idea of writing a full fanfic and gaining a following, particularly if it is an enthusiastic and active one like Twilight or Harry Potter, in my opinion, is definitely venturing into a ethically grey area.

Some fanfiction isn’t close to the base material because it’s either set in an alternative universe from the original text, or has all-new characters (OOC) inhabiting the world that the original author has created. But it does borrow heavily and use elements  which the fanfiction writerimplements into the story, and despite differences from the original text, it is still set in that universe and aimed at the fanbase’s readers. Overall with fanfiction and all the different varieties it has, such as alternative universe (AU) or same sex pairings (Slash),  there is an understanding that fanfic writers are not to profit despite any differentiations. The fact that there are now publishers who are dedicated to turning fanfiction into published books with the potential for profit is not a good. It changes that key tenet of fandom, of commercialising a text for which they don’t have the copyright or full ownership.

I can see the appeal of the retellings of public domain books such as the recent literary mashups of paranormal and classic literature, or Jane Austen inspired fiction (which is a sub-genre in itself) or even parodies that are legally fine. Some may argue that the notion of originality and the moral use is in question. Those books are in the public sphere and there is no legal restraint, so I can also understand and see the appeal of turning a popular fanfic story into something more commercial. I have read and enjoyed books that were partly and fully based on fanfiction. In some cases I was not aware of the connection until I read the books, but in the past few months I’ve come to believe that if a story was originally based as a fanfic it doesn’t matter how many rewrites or editing takes place, that original intention and story was aimed at and belongs to that fandom.

The more I think about this issue the more strongly I feel that taking an entire fanfiction story and turning that into a published book is ethically wrong. It’s an easy way to cash in because there’s already a built-in fanbase that is able to market the book via word of mouth. It’s a disservice to the original text and its author, and essentially they aren’t producing an original piece of text — even if they have edited and reworked the fanfiction to avoid copyright infringement over characters or setting. The original root of that story is based on another author’s fictional playground.

Yet contrast this with original fiction that has been self published or even posted freely on fiction sites which can also garner a huge following like authors such as: Amanda Hocking, S.C. Stephens or Susan Ee. The rise of self publishing/epublishing has grown tremendously over the past few years, and I feel that there is no good reason why an author would follow the route other fanfic turned published writers have previously done unless  they don’t fully believe in their writing could stand out because of competition. Another factor is that  they are using fandom as a cynical ploy to market their books due to the support of a vocal and popular fanbase, which can be a fantastic marketing tool. Those writers who have done so have downplayed their fanfiction origins because it lessens the idea that this is not a fully original story to a wider audience they hope to reach, especially if it concerns hitting mainstream success.  However, the thought that the author does not believe what they wrote is strong enough to stand on its own merits but decided to publish it so they could profit by exploiting their fanbase is disappointing. Although not all fanfiction writers turned authors have followed suit. For some, their time with fandom and writing fanfic has helped to hone their writing skills and has been a fun and enjoyable experience.

I personally feel that in the long run fanfiction and its future is not going to be as expressive or free because of the fears that aspiring authors will be using fanfiction as a springboard for launching their own books.  The recent cases of authors who have pulled their fanfic for publications have split their fandoms and have become pretty acrimonious – with supporters for those writers, who don’t see any problems with commercialisation of fanfiction and for those who fear about the ramifications and increasing popularity of using a community for profitable gain.

There is evidence to suggest this is the case, especially with the recent success of the Fifty Shades trilogy and Gabriel’s Inferno (which also originated as Twilight fanfiction). And what happens if fans of these books are inspired to write their own fanfiction and then decide to publish it? I could envision a book based on the Fifty Shades trilogy with Ana and Christian as paranormal beings, perhaps as vampires,  and it could be set in the far future to differentiate it from the original text. Because this series has a huge following which stems from Twilight and it has captured that zeitgeist right now.

I really get a headache thinking about this because it might start off an ever-crazier circle of fanfiction based on fanfiction.  And because of this, I can see more authors and studios joining George Lucas, Anne Rice, Robin Hobb and GRR Martin, who have actively sent out cease and desist letters to fanfiction sites because of copyright issues. It is different from borrowing ideas or tropes, because not one book or story is truly original, and authors have written similar plots and character archetypes as other authors. But the main aspect of fanfiction is that it started off based on another writer’s universe. Therefore it is not an original premise even if the fanfiction author has written a different approach or direction. It’s aimed at readers who love and enjoyed the original text universe, and I can see authors being more proactive in protecting their books from fanfiction if this trend continues to be more widespread.

I think this issue is going to be very detrimental to fandom and fanfiction because the element of commercialization has always been in the hands of the copyright owner and not the fan.  I am seeing this distinction merging…and I think this is a very slippery slope. Fans do feel some sort of ownership towards their chosen text or show because they spend time and energy by supporting and expanding it — via fan-art, fanfiction and discourse — either online or at cons where textual meaning is produced and celebrated. This is a factor that creators and owners of a text appreciate because it helps to foster a community and a captive audience. With the increasing popularity of fanfiction being turned into published works, this relationship is going to be fraught and complicated.  I don’t want this to happen because this might mean another potential Lord of the Rings or a Star Trek or even a Twilight might not take off because fandom is going to be stifled. And that would be a real loss.

Related posts:

1. Fan Fiction: A Personal Perspective

You had me at “Your head’s on fire.”

The first time I read Requiem for Ashes was under its original 1994 title, Murder in a Minor Key. I was working at the now-closed and much mourned Scotland Yard Books in Winnetka, Illinois, where I’d earned a reputation for liking books with quirky characters, or maybe it was for characters with quirky books. Either way, Albert, the most unlikely sleuth to grace any detective novel, stumbled and chain-smoked his way into my heart and head; I never forgot him, not in all this time.

In 1983, Professor Albert–he of no last name, but a musical prodigy/genius/savant of international fame nonetheless–lives in his own head, writing music and lecturing at tiny and prestigious, thanks to him, Smethhurst College. He is safe there, able to think in the familiar language of half-notes and contrapuntal triplets, to shuffle to class where eager and talented young musicians absorb every word, to shop at Dunkin’ Donuts. Albert is completely divorced from the world around him and grateful for the mysterious workings of the New England college that feeds and houses him, taking care of those unfathomable and numerous awards, “plaques with records you couldn’t even play.”

To Albert, the school was the womb. It defined the parameters within which he lived and breathed. It sheltered him. It abided his imperfections. Forgave him for being clueless. Together with Huffy, his agent at William Morris, it coordinated his life; told him when to be where and got him there. Best of all, it welcomed him when he returned.

He ate free at the cafeteria.

Into this safety zone steps Andrew Tewksbury, Head of Archaeology at Smethhurst, who knocks on Albert’s door with the observation that the forgotten cigarette behind Albert’s ear had set his head on fire and the news that Justin Glenly, Middle Ages and Classical Languages, has died. A month earlier, Tewksbury and Glenly had the academic equivalent of a fight over Tewksbury’s paper on the Etruscans, something Albert struggles valiantly to understand as his colleague explains all.

For Albert, communicating with anyone is difficult and completely foreign; he’s learned that if he picks out and repeats an occasional word the other person has said, the conversational ball will keep rolling on its own and he can think about the next few measures playing in his head. He is neither unkind nor unfriendly, but music, for the reclusive composer and performer, is the “domineering mistress that commanded all his senses.”

Later that night, while eating a dinner of sardines and peanut butter and watching the news on his small black and white TV, Albert sees Tewksbury’s face on the screen: he’d been arrested for Glenly’s murder. This development effectively shuts down his muse and pushs Albert out of his cocoon, taking him over the next several months to the jail, the courthouse, to Tewksbury’s attorney after a guilty verdict is handed down, to a shopping mall. How Albert navigates these strange, new and disturbing experiences is at once touching and humorous. At the jail, he is Tewksbury’s only regular visitor.

He hadn’t been prepared for the search. He should watch more TV. It was embarrassing and they seemed suspicious when they didn’t find anything in his pockets but a sax reed and a tidal chart. It took him a long time to remember where the chart came from, then he realized he must have gotten it when he went to see his mother in Maine last year. He used the sax reed as a guitar pick.

They asked him why he didn’t have a wallet or any money. He said he didn’t own a wallet. He didn’t need folding money or credit cards … they didn’t fit in cigarette machines. Finally they called the school and got someone to identify him. Apparently it wasn’t that difficult.

He meets with Melissa Bjork, Tewksbury’s attorney, whose efforts at perfecting lawyerly inscrutability don’t prepare her for Albert’s wide-eyed and charming naivete. He has no idea how the world works, but manages to convince her that her client couldn’t be guilty, primarily because Tewksbury had quit smoking a week prior to Glenly’s death-by-sulfite-allergy murder.

“When he came to my apartment all he could think about was cigarettes,” Albert explained. “He’d quit smoking. Somebody who’s planning to murder someone doesn’t quit smoking.” Albert was sure of that. He’d tried to quit smoking once. He could certainly imagine committing murder in that state, but planning such a thing was out of the question.

Miss Bjork eventually believes him and sets him to the task of “chatting up” his other colleagues to learn more about Glenly, whether anyone had something against him. (“You can start with his mother and work your way out in ever-widening circles, I should imagine,” Tewksbury suggested early on, a conclusion borne out ultimately by students and faculty alike). Albert, terrified, clueless, girds himself in his tweed suit from high school graduation and sets out to be a detective on behalf of the one person who thinks of him as a friend.

And, here, Mr. Crossman, is where you made me a lifelong fan of your writing, of Albert. If the definition of bravery is to act in spite of bone-cracking fear, Albert is all that. You make him immediately likable and sympathetic at the same time your descriptions of his inner workings and outer perceptions are painted with exquisite (and delightful) care.

In his T-shirt and boxer shorts he banged around the darkened kitchen, preparing supper. He had meant to buy a light bulb, but they didn’t sell them at Dunkin’ Donuts. In the past he had simply transferred bulbs from room to room. Now there was only one left, by the bed.

He’d have to move soon.

***

The next morning, following his new routine of personal grooming, Albert put on his other tie … the white one. It would be impossible to say what he thought of himself as he walked across the common, but he held his face right out front, his hands thrust purposefully in his pockets. His step–yellow woolen socks in black patent-leather shoes–was jaunty, and he cut an irresistible figure against the ice and snow. He wanted only directions to the nearest windmill.

The recent change in Albert was the topic of no little speculation in the faculty lounge. The tropical fish of indeterminate species might have crawled out of the tank in the corner and taken up hairdressing at reduced rates and attracted less attention. Some things just didn’t change. Yet there he stood in the doorway … suit, tie, matching socks. For the first time in his life, Albert was making a fashion statement of sorts. What, exactly, he might be saying was anybody’s guess, but he was saying it unequivocally.

N.B.: I try to work “tropical fish” and “hairdressing at reduced rates” into my conversations or written communications on a regular basis, which is harder than one might expect.

Albert soldiers on, fortified by Sherlock Holmes, bewildered at the intricacies of human dialog and certain of his friend’s innocence. He interviews colleagues who paint a portrait of a thoroughly despicable Glenly, thereby opening wide the field of other potential suspects. In the meantime, word comes that Tewksbury has attempted suicide and is being held at the hospital. When Albert himself is attacked and seriously injured, landing him in the same hospital, the solution is clear: Break Tewksbury out.

More than a jail break occurs in the process of learning to pick locks on doors: Albert meets people whose paths he’d never have crossed before leaving the womb of Smethhurst and getting hit over the head. His deep capacity for compassion is roused. He falls in love.

And then terrible things happen: Another murder and still another after that. Albert’s world is rocked to its shaky foundation. He continues to follow his growing powers of observation to the next logical thought, dog-paddling through Stygian waters, weighted by grief. In the end, propelled only by his certitude and no proof whatsoever, he confronts a killer.

Albert had been confident he’d never get this far. He had no idea what to say or where to begin. The torch-bearing throng of gray cells that had initiated the uprising, that had passed him over their heads and deposited him at the door of the monster’s castle, fell silent when the beast appeared and now abandoned him altogether. “I know about you,” he said at last.

There are so many things I love about this book, most of it related to the wry and subtle humor that pervades the pages. You use metaphor like the finest seasoning and irony has found its home. The mystery, and Albert’s solving of it, was very satisfying. I was less interested in the “who” than the “why” and “how,” probably because I was so captivated by his awkward yet determined progress.

“You never know.” For some reason the words struck a chord in Albert, drawing him out of his worries for the moment, crystallizing a resounding, universal truth in their ringing simplicity.

He had found a credo: You Never Know. “You never know,” echoed Albert, who never did.

***

“One thing leads to another.” Albert was amazed how people dispensed these nuggets of wisdom like multi-colored spheres from broken gumball machines. “One things lead to another.”

I should note that the text I’ve quoted throughout is from a digital edition released earlier this year, which is slightly different than the original Carroll & Graf publication. Seeing some of the differences has been illuminating in a surprising way, but nothing readers of only one edition would notice. (I am intrigued, Mr. Crossman, because I think I know where you’re going with those changes.) If I have a quibble with the digital edition, it’s one we hear frequently: Missing or misplaced punctuation, page and paragraph breaks; underlining where italics should be. While aware of them, they were not enough to take me out of the story, but an annoyance nonetheless.

Good reviews should avoid the halo effect and I’ve been racking my brain to identify things that didn’t work for me. I’m still racking, which is not to say the book is perfect. Others more knowledgeable about police investigations and the legal process might have objections; real trials never occur as quickly as they do on television or in books, for example. And I have no idea if academia as presented here is accurate, although I thoroughly enjoyed your sharp characterizations, the internecine warfare in the name of scholarship and acclaim. Is there anything so ruthless as a world built on knowledge, on the acquisition and dispensing of it?

But Albert is the star and your obvious affection for him is catching, which had the unexpected effect of overcoming my persistent and systemic avoidance of amateur detectives. His conversations are what might happen if Chance from Being There understood “who’s on first.” His first trip to the bank, which results in an application for a Keogh plan and $125 in quarters that threaten to pull his pants down, nearly does him in. He is so obviously not from around here and yet his befuddled eccentricity invites us in and makes us welcome.

As Miss Moodie, English Lit, says, at the end, “Quite remarkable, really.”

My grade: A and “bravo.”

~Darlynne V

Requiem for Ashes (and the sequel, Dead in D Minor) is available electronically at Amazon and Barnes & Noble for $.99. Used copies of Murder in a Minor Key (the title of the original Albert story) can be purchased through Amazon Marketplace and other outlets and will be released again soon in print at Amazon as Requiem for Ashes. According to Mr. Crossman’s website, there is a third Albert mystery in the works, currently titled Coda.

AmazonBNKobo

Related posts:

1. REVIEW: Ashes of Midnight by Lara Adrian
2. REVIEW: Born of Ashes by Caris Roane
3. REVIEW: I Try Not to Drive Past Cemeteries by Evelyn David

Remember in the movie Say Anything when Lloyd Dobbler, broken-hearted that Diane Court had ended their relationship, stood outside her window while she was napping blasting Peter Gabriel’s In Your Eyes? Rather than thinking of this as creepy, stalkerish behavior, my teenage heart swooned. Imagine, a boy who will do anything to win your love. When I look back on the scene now, I still see the teenage romance of it, but also think if I’d been Diane’s parent, I’d have run him off. But my point is Lloyd standing there with the boom box is what began my lifelong love affair with the Big Romantic Gesture.

Many of my favorite romances have them: gestures so grandiose, so big that they make the reader certain that the love between the hero and heroine will last forever. After all, if they’re willing to give up everything, dare anything for love, it must be the love of a lifetime. When I started thinking about the Big Romantic Gestures that stand out most to me in my years of reading romance, there were three that came to mind.

First, in Judith McNaught’s A Kingdom of Dreams, Jennifer Merrick, a plucky young heroine is abducted from a convent and forced to marry her family’s lifelong enemy, Royce Westmoreland, Duke of Claymore. Claymore is the champion of the king, his finest weapon, and a man who lives his life on the battlefield. He certainly knows nothing of love or tenderness. And yet Jenny challenges him constantly, and bewitches him with her intelligence and her willingness to do anything to uphold her family’s honor. Soon the two find themselves falling in love until Royce kills Jenny’s brother who he thought was drawing a knife to kill him, despite giving Jenny his word that he’d not harm her family. The king convenes a tournament, and commands Royce to participate.  Royce is determined to honor his promise to not draw another drop of Merrick blood which allows Jenny’s family, also participating in the tournament, to do their best to kill him. That is until…

Through the haze of sweat and blood and pain that blurred his vision and fogged his mind, Royce thought for a moment he saw the figure of a woman running – running toward him, her uncovered hair tossing about her, glinting in the sun with red and gold. Jennifer! In disbelief, he squinted, staring, while the earsplitting thunder of the crowd rose higher and higher.

Royce groaned inwardly, trying to push himself to his feet with his unbroken right arm. Jennifer had come back – now, to witness his defeat. Or his death. Even so, he didn’t want her to see him die groveling, and with the last ounce of strength he possessed, he managed to stagger to his feet. Reaching up, he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, his vision cleared, and he realized he was not imagining it. Jennifer was moving toward him, and an eerie silence was descending over the crowd.

Jenny stifled a scream when she was close enough to see his arm dangling brokenly at his side. She stopped in front of him, and her father’s bellow from the sidelines made her head jerk toward the lance lying at Royce’s feet. “Use it!” he thundered. “Use the lance, Jennifer.”

Royce understood then why she had come; she had come to finish the task her relatives had begun; to do to him what he had done to her brother. Unmoving, he watched her, noting that tears were pouring down her beautiful face as she slowly bent down. But instead of reaching for his lance or her dagger, she took his hand between both of hers and pressed her lips to it. Through his daze of pain and confusion, Royce finally understood that she was kneeling to him, and a groan tore from his chest: “Darling” he said brokenly, tightening his hand, trying to make her stand, “don’t do this…”

But his wife wouldn’t listen. In front of seven thousand onlookers, Jennifer Merrick Westmoreland, countess of Rockbourn, knelt before her husband in a public act of humble obeisance, her face pressed to his hand, her shoulders wrenched with violent sobs.

A Kingdom of Dreams, Judith McNaught (pp 420-421)

The second example comes from The Warlords of the Plains series by Elizabeth Vaughan. In Warprize, Xylara is the daughter of the warrior king, Xyron. When her father dies, her insane half-brother inherits the throne. The kingdom’s fiercest enemies, the Firelanders, have come to overthrow the kingdom. Xylara, a trained healer, begins healing the Firelander prisoners, and gets to know them. She learns their language and some of their customs and her respect for their way of life grows. Lara never expects that Keir of the Cat, the leader of the Firelanders, would sneak into the encampment to check on his warriors, nor did she expect that he would demand her in exchange for peace. Her brother agrees, telling Lara that she will be a slave, a Warprize, in order to ensure peace for her people. Lara, being a loyal servant of the crown goes, assuming that she’ll be treated as a slave and concubine to Keir. But in the Firelander encampment, Lara finds peace and love with the fierce leader of her country’s enemy. In the end, Keir decides he must leave Lara in Xy as the newly ascended leader of the kingdom, while he and his people return to Xy.

The sky was a vibrant orange when I finally heard the thunder of hooves behind me. I didn’t turn, just continued to walk at a steady pace. For a brief moment, I feared that Simus or Other had sent troops after me. But instead, as Simus had predicted, the first of the rear scouts moved past me at a gallop, their horses veering around me. One looked back, and let out a yelp of surprise. He pulled on the reins so hard his horse reared, legs splayed in its effort to stop. The other scout, hearing the noise, pulled his sword, and turned off the road, arcing back to me.

I ignored them and kept walking.

The first scout came up on horseback. “Warprize?” he asked, looking horrified. I looked up to see Tant, the warrior that had been whipped for falling asleep on watch.

The other scout came up, scanning for danger. He glanced at his partner. “That’s the Warprize?” […]

It seemed like hours before there was a commotion ahead of us. A cloud of dust betrayed the horsemen coming hard and fast up the road. My self-appointed guard faded back as Keir came thundering into view, galloping his horse, his scarlet cloak flaring behind him. There were a few more men behind him. I stopped and stood where I was, waiting.

Keir reared his horse to a stop in front of me. The animal towered over me, and I could hear its harsh breathing. I kept my eyes down, on the road.

“What in the name of all the elements do you think you are doing?” Keir thundered.

“Following my Warlord.” I kept my voice steady.

Warprize, Elizabeth Vaughan [pp. 311-312]

In both cases the heroine gives up everything she’s known for love of her hero – the Big Romantic Gesture. The gestures, so enormous that the reader is assured of the enduring love between the couple.

So how about the heroes? I struggled thinking of a hero who made the Big Romantic Gesture.  Then I took to Twitter and was reminded of the actions of Raphael, Archangel of New York in Nalini Singh’s Angel’s Blood. When Uram, an archangel and a member of the Cadre of Ten archangels who rule the world, goes rogue, falling into bloodlust,  the archangels must turn to Hunter Born Elena Devereaux to hunt down the threat to humans, vampires and angels alike. Having lived millennia, he’s lost almost all of his humanity, but when he meets Elena he is captivated. Elena is both terrified and undeniably attracted to Raphael, and due to the extreme danger of her hunt, she is very close proximity to him almost constantly.  But as they get closer, Raphael realizes that he is losing just a bit of his immortality through his attraction to Elena. This loss could jeopardize his rule, but Raphael can’t help himself. He’s never had anyone treat him with anything other than deference, and Elena is anything but deferential.  As Elena and Raphael track the rogue archangel, they fall deeper and deeper in love.

During the final confrontation with Uram, Elena sustains life-threatening wounds.

One of Uram’s last, desperate bolts had hit the building. Raphael knew Elena had to have been on the very edge of the eight-story structure when she’d shot up at Uram. That edge was now gone, but he could feel Elena’s life, feel her dying flame. Elena, answer me.

Quiet, peaceful, a hush of sounds. Then, Stay a little human, won’t you Raphael?

A request that was almost not a sound at all. But it was enough. He followed the mental thread to discover her broken body on the narrow ledge provided by a precariously hanging neon sign. Her back was shattered, her legs twisted in a way that was nothing natural. But she smiled when she saw him. And her hand still held the gun that had saved more lives than anyone would ever know.

He dared not touch her, afraid he’d cause her to slip over the ledge. “You are not to die.”

A slow blink. “Bossy.” It was a sound bubbled through with blood. The voice isn’t working so good. […]

His canines elongated, and a strange, beautiful, golden taste filled his mouth as he felt a tear slide down his face. He was an archangel. He had not cried in over a thousand years.  […]

His heart stopped beating when her voice faded, and he leaned forward, his mouth overwhelmed by the taste of beauty, of life. “I won’t let you die. I had your blood tested. You’re compatible.”

Her lashes struggled to open, failed. But her mental voice, though weak, was adamant. I don’t want to be a vampire. Bloodsucking’s not my thing.

“You must live.” And then he kissed her, feeding that golden taste, that intoxicating blend into her mouth. You must live.

That was when the sign gave away, tearing loose from the building and plunging to the ground in a shattering crash. Elena didn’t fall alone, gathered as she was in Raphael’s arms, his mouth fused with hers. They fell together, his wings close to destroyed, his soul melded to that of a mortal.

If this is death, Guild Hunter, he thought to his mortal as angelfire scored through his boned and touched his heart, then I will see you on the other side.

Angel’s Blood, Nalini Singh [Kindle  location: 4442-4470]

Raphael’s sacrifice, giving up his life as one of the most powerful beings in the world, his rule in the Cadre of Ten, his very immortality, is the very essence of the Big Romantic Gesture. He gives up everything for love.

The Big Romantic Gesture is not a necessary element of a successful romance, in fact, it’s somewhat rare. But when an author successfully writes it, it causes what I call the “big sigh” of a reading experience. For it to be effective the author must build the foundation – both conflict and romance.  The stakes must be raised in order for the gesture to carry the weight of the “ultimate sacrifice”. If the author fails to establish the foundation, they risk the gesture being tell, not show.  When it is successful, it confirms for the reader that the couple’s Happily Ever After is a foregone conclusion.

Related posts:

1. Romantic Times Responds
2. Why Romantic Times Reviews Are Not Credible
3. Romantic Times Update: Still Waiting

Last weekend I picked up your new book, Celtic Storms, from Amazon because it was free, and the cover, designed by the talented Kim Killion, was slick and very pretty. The setting also intrigued me since it was set in late medieval Ireland. Granted, I can be picky about Irish-set novels, as I used to attend the University of Ulster in Belfast. However, even though I wasn’t expecting Laura Kinsale, I was hoping for something at least entertainingly silly, like the cracktastic fun of Sasha Lord’s books.

But no. It was disappointing in just about every way. The characters were flat, the plot was incoherent, and the setting was such a ridiculous historical mishmash it called to mind the trainwreck that was Spoil of War. There were iron age roundhouses next to Italian domed palaces… not to mention an Indian rug merchant named Sanjay… and kudzu! All in 1450s Ireland!

The plot, as far as I could make out, was about some guy named Patrick from Northern Ireland (a country which didn’t exist until Partition in 1921) who is betrothed to a rich chick in an unspecified county in “the west of Ireland” named Darina O’Malley. An evil satanic witch named Odetta has cursed the O’Malley clan with the inability to bear sons, so Darina and her sisters– Dervila, Daenal, Darcy, and Dareca— are taught to fight and work on ships while wearing tunics and trousers. (Actually even Irishmen did not wear trousers or hose in this period, as can be seen in this Durer engraving.) So Patrick leaves Northern Ireland to go to the west coast to meet Darina and get married. Oh, and he finds out one of his younger brothers is actually an O’Malley.

Literally two thirds of the book goes by, and Patrick is still traveling to Darina’s home. There’s a ton of characters here— besides Odetta and her coven and attendant clerics, there’s Kyra, a warrior chick, Lucian, a druid/scribe, and most interestingly, a tortured priest named Father MacArtrey— but there’s surprisingly little that happens. Most books in a romance series also work as standalones. But Storms reads like an extended prologue for the rest of the Celtic Steel series—and it seems that there will be four upcoming books. It’s all buildup and backstory; but worse of all, there is absolutely no resolution in the end. After a lot of blather and milling about, we’re rushed through the wedding and an obligatory sex scene (which is described, incredibly enough, in flashback). Then, with a couple of chapters to go, there’s the Big Misunderstanding, and… the novel just ends in a cliffhanger. There’s no Happily Ever After, no nothing. I was left wondering— what on earth did I just read?

I got the impression that the author doesn’t read a lot of romances, since the relationship between the hero and heroine is practically non-existent. Most romances immediately introduce our romantic leads, and show the readers how their feelings for each other grow and develop— but there’s none of that here. Patrick and Darina are pretty much non-entities with minimal screen time. We are told how independent and brave Darina is: she’s even an atheist who only worships herself! But she doesn’t actually do anything. She goes looking for her pet falcon, dreams about Patrick and later gets married to him, but other than that, she is a blank slate. I can’t even go far to call her unlikable. She’s just… not really there.

The hero, Patrick, also does not make much of an impression either— he stutters, which I initially thought was really cool, because I’d never seen a hero who stuttered before. But this is dealt with in the most cursory way, as during the big love scene, Patrick communicates telepathically with Darina, so his speech impediment isn’t even an issue. And his amazing psychic powers come from out of the blue as well, to add to the whole WTF of it all. Lame.

The conflict, such as it is, comes from Odetta scheming, slutting around and sacrificing children to Gallic deities, but… even this character was banal. Here is an example of some of the ineptly written (and ungrammatical) dialogue in the book:

“Stop it!” shouted Odetta and threw her fist against the altar. “Hear me now, my brother. You do not wish to cross me. If it were not for me, you would not be Laird of Burke lands. As it stands, I have more respect from the people and more power than you ever will. Do not tempt me to replace you too,” she smiled as she gestured a glance towards Easal.

“Easal would make a fine husband and if I marry, my husband would no doubt be Laird in your absence. That is – if you should meet some unfortunate occurrence. Lest you forget what happened to our sister,” said Odetta.

“Odetta! Enough already!” shouted Cynbel. “What is it you want from me?”

“Laird O’Malley has passed and his wife as well.” stated Odetta.

“How do you know this?” asked Easal.

“I have my ways Easal. I know of all of the goings on in the O’Malley clan. What we need to concentrate on now. is how to overtake the clan and make O’Malley port a part of the Burke lands.”

“And just why would I want to do that?” asked Cynbel. “Because you are just as opportunistic as I am; because you want to expand your reach and because it will bring us great wealth. Combining what’s left of the O’Malley clan with the Burkes would make us the most significant power in all of Ireland.”

“Because – we would be unstoppable,” chimed in Easal.

“Tell me what you are thinking. What is going on in the beautiful head of yours Odetta?” asked Easal as he approached Odetta and laid a hand on either side of her cheeks.

Odetta smiled. She smiled because she knew she could make Easal do whatever she wanted; because she knew her brother didn’t stand a chance at denying her what she wanted. It hadn’t worked for her sister and it wouldn’t work for Cynbel.

Soon it would all be hers.

(Delaney Rhodes, Celtic Storms [Kindle Locations 862-865]. DR Publishing. Kindle Edition.)

If Odetta had been given more to do, and given some evil sex scenes a la an old Bertrice Small bodice-ripper, Storms might have been more entertaining, but her scenes are constantly intercut with people traveling or discussing the upcoming wedding. It doesn’t help that she’s really not very threatening. She threatens, she cackles, she shakes her booty, but she feels like a reject from a Hammer horror film.

The most interesting character by far is the conflicted priest, Father MacArtrey. He helps the sick and the poor, but is hated by the pagan O’Malleys; he is also the unwilling servant of the evil Odetta who destroyed the monastery where he formerly lived; yet he does his best to thwart her evil schemes, and is in the end thrown into a dungeon for his efforts. Even though he is the most dynamic character, we’re not supposed to like him. Instead, we’re told repeatedly how awful and interfering he is, because he’s involved with the lives of his parishioners, and he’s tried to put a stop to the “Lunar Bacchanals” on the so-called “Island of Women.” We’re also told how horrid Catholicism is, because Catholicism was brought from England to enslave the Irish. Wait, what?

Patrick’s last experience with a priest had been a bitter reminder that England’s influence on Ireland had brought with it a type of bondage unfamiliar to most. The infiltration of the Catholic Church had nearly driven out all but a few who worshiped the old gods and practiced the old ways. Even then, of the ones left who worshiped the old gods; many were terrified of being found out or being persecuted by the others.

(Delaney Rhodes, Celtic Storms [Kindle Locations 1913-1916]. DR Publishing. Kindle Edition.)

I don’t know if Ms. Rhodes is aware of this, but Ireland was Christianized quite early, in late Roman times. In fact, after the invasion of Britain by the Angles and the Saxons, missionaries from Ireland helped Christianize the pagan Saxon population. The Irish monk St. Aidan established the monastery of Lindisfarne off the coast of Northumbria, which quickly became a training center for Irish and English missionaries who went on evangelize among the Mercians, Angles and Saxons. And further north, Irish monks from Iona off the coast of Scotland played a crucial role in converting the Scots, and were in fact so wildly successful that churches were established all up and down the west coast of Scotland and England. This is not obscure history— it’s all covered in such well-known books as Thomas Cahill’s How the Irish Saved Civilization. It could be argued that England wouldn’t be the same today, if it weren’t for the colonizing and civilizing efforts of the Irish in late antiquity and the early middle ages.

But in Celtic Storms, there are no saints, scholars or poets— there’s even no reference to the famous epics and legends, like the Táin, or the Fenian Cycle, or Deirdre of the Sorrows, or anything. Ireland is instead a lawless pit of orgies and child sacrifice. No doubt the author means this book to be a love letter to the Emerald Isle, but honestly the depiction of Ireland in this story is— I’m sure unintentionally— more in line with the virulently anti-Irish propaganda coming out of England in the 1640s.

And thus we come to the most inexplicable part about this book. I’m used to many American-authored books about historical Ireland depicting a sentimental love for “the old ways” (aka druidism or Celtic polytheism) but Storms takes the cake for pure absurdity. In 1450s Ireland— a thousand years after St. Patrick— apparently almost everyone in Ireland is still a pagan, even our hero Patrick. (Yes, a pagan- the son of a “druid priestess” even– whose name is Patrick.) Everyone, and I mean everyone, swears “by the stars” or “by the gods” or “by the goddess!” Yet you also occasionally get an occasional “Jaysus” and “Mary Mother of God.” But then you have off-screen “Lunar Bacchanals” (aka orgies) in honor of the goddess Morrigan, and public sacrifices to the Gallic god Teutates (aka Toutatis from the Asterix comic). We’re told Father MacArtrey was taken in by the O’Malleys because they felt sorry for him, even though they’re not Catholic; but then they have a spare chapel for him, and he presides over “weddings and baptisms.” What? Huh? How does this make any sense?

This book might have been passable as a fantasy, but as a historical, it’s a complete failure. The O’Malleys live in a domed, palatial Italian Renaissance style castle with stained glass windows, “settee lounge chairs” and rugs imported from India— courtesy of Darina’s friend Sanjay— but the Island of Women across the bay has a village of iron age roundhouses. Odetta uses the Japanese vine kudzu— which even today does not grow in Ireland, or most anywhere in Europe— as a hangover cure. Almost eight hundred years after the great illuminated manuscript the Book of Kells was created, Lucian the druidic scribe only reads from scrolls. Most of the names are not remotely Irish: we have Victorian names like Mavis, contemporary names like Gemma, Darcy, and Payton, and World of Warcraft-type fantasy names like Naelyn, Monae and Vynae.

The mindset of the characters is also completely modern. Not only does Dallin the O’Malley chieftain scoff at the “guilt of religion,” but here’s our self-worshipping heroine Darina thinking about how she lost her virginity at a “Lunar Bacchanal”:

Tis just as well. At least my betrothed won’t see me as a prudish virgin. After all, times have changed. And the clan’s women had been celebrating the Lunar Bacchanals for years. Just what else is a woman to do? There are no men to be had around here.

(Delaney Rhodes, Celtic Storms [Kindle Locations 954-956]. DR Publishing. Kindle Edition.)

Yet for all this supposed lack of men, we are then told that the Lunar Bacchanals are some of the biggest tourist attractions around:

Tales of the O’Malley lands Lunar Bacchanal had traveled throughout all of Ireland. Many a man had come seeking admittance to the festival only to be turned away. In fact, many of the hired soldiers had arrived in O’Malley territory specifically to seek out the Festival.

But – over the years it had become more than a routine gathering for a sensual escape. Several fine matches had been made between the invited guests and women of the island. Several marriages had resulted and the clan grew bigger. Gemma had maintained the religious origins of the Festival and kept the rites as they had been handed down; much to the chagrin of Father MacArtrey.

Since the day he had become the clan’s priest, Father MacArtrey had made every plausible attempt to stop the monthly festivals. Denouncing it as “evil imbibing’s” and “the devil’s doorway” he had received little support from the local men in changing the tradition. Even Laird O’Malley was hard pressed to change the custom as he had met his beloved Anya at one such festival.

(Delaney Rhodes, Celtic Storms [Kindle Locations 985-993]. DR Publishing. Kindle Edition.)

So, if all these men are coming to town for the orgies— and marriages are often made there— why is it that the lord’s daughters haven’t been married off yet? And why is Darina’s betrothal such a shock to her? This is just one of the many inconsistencies in the story. I was also left wondering why evil Odetta was left to run amuck, taking over monasteries and later stabbing her brother the chieftain without anyone blinking an eye: but that’s life in a heathen backwater, I guess.

In addition to the unpromising plot, the book was so badly edited that I found it hard to read. What’s even more surprising (and dismaying) is that it seems Ms. Rhodes actually did hire an editor to edit her book— an “A. O’Connell”— but there’s no signs in this story that an editor worked on it at all. Not only are there are many misspellings— lightning is often spelled “lightening” and the character name Dervila is also spelled “Dervilla,” to name a few—but multiple lines of dialogue are grouped in one paragraph, and apostrophes, commas and quotation marks are abused on almost every page. The writing is pretty confusing too. Not only are there constant POV shifts, with information constantly repeated over and over, but the pacing is some of the worst I have ever seen. A silly, badly researched story can be made enjoyable if there’s lots of sex and action, but there wasn’t even that. (As I mentioned earlier, the one and only sex scene happened at the end of the book, in a flashback.) There wasn’t even any kind of ending, which is so lazy as to be unforgivable.

This book, unfortunately, in many ways exemplifies the worst excesses of self-published books; I have read many bad books from various publishers, but none (it seems to me) quite up to this level of incompetence. On the other hand, there are many talented, experienced authors self-publishing great stories. Two other self-published books I read recently were Jackie Barbosa’s The Lesson Plan and Christine Pope’s Heart of Gold, and both of them were excellent. They were smart, romantic, and satisfying reads with polished, tightly edited prose. Self-publishing, I strongly believe, is a viable way of publishing: it’s a way of getting fresh, different stories out there. But the author can’t just stop at providing a professional cover for her book—she needs to make sure her story is also up to professional standards. I’m just happy that I got my copy of Celtic Storms for free—I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I’d actually paid for it.

In the end, I think self-publishing is a great outlet for professional authors with proven track records. But if you’re a new author with the bad luck to have hired an incompetent editor— as Ms. Rhodes seems to be— I wouldn’t recommend it.

I wish I could have enjoyed Celtic Storms, but I couldn’t. It is confusing, unsatisfying, ineptly written, poorly researched, and it has one of the worst endings I’ve ever seen in a romance. For all these reasons, I give it an F.

~ Joanne Renaud

Related posts:

1. REVIEW: Celtic Fire by Joy Nash
2. REVIEW: Freedom’s Touch (Legacy of the Celtic Brooch Book 2) by Sarita Leone
3. GUEST REVIEW: Bad for Each Other by Kate Hathaway