Thursday, 18 January 2018

Mythology and Sex


Do you remember when you were just old enough to find sex intriguing, but not old enough for
anyone to think you should be told anything about it? Well, that’s how old I was when I discovered Greek Mythology. Is there any place with more dark, illicit, totally forbidden sex hidden in every tale than mythology?

The mythological world is created through sex; people go to war and destroy whole civilizations for sex. In fact, seduction is what the bored gods are all about. No woman is safe. For that matter no man is safe from them either. And no kid just discovering how interesting their own bodies are can help but appreciate seduction by a swan, or a rain of golden coins, or the night visit from the monster one must never look at, but is one heck of a lover. I’m sure I’m not the only one who fantasized a whole lot more of the details than what my library books about the Greeks had written in them. As any reader knows, the best part of a good book is what we read between the lines in our own imagination. That’s true for writers as well, and that’s what led me to write the Medusa’s Consortiumstories.

Taking the stories from mythology to the next level is the subject of way more than a few really fabulous novels. Taking the romances into places those dog-eared, much loved, library books did not intend for a impressionable young mind to go is one of the best things about mythology. The stories are often little more than jumping-off places for very fertile imaginations … of all ages. That those stories still intrigue us enough for us to want to bring them into our modern world and imbue them with the characteristics of ourselves and of the heroes and heroines we admire attests to their archetypal power.

Speculating on what would happen if Medusa/Magda Gardener was actually alive and thriving today has been endlessly fascinating for me. What if she were more like a cross between a Mafia Queen and a female Nick Fury?  What would her gang of Avengers, her Consortium, look like and who would be in it -- gods, angels, vampires, succubae, demons? It’s my retelling, I can even add a zombie or two if I like. 

In Buried Pleasures, the first book of Medusa’s Consortium series set in Vegas, it was especially fun to make Hades, the god of the dead and the king of the underworld as comfortable in the Vegas storm tunnels with the homeless as he is in an exclusive casino. Always the most brooding of the gods and the most isolated, tricked into taking over the realm of the dead, just how would this intriguing but secretive god go about living in Sin City, and why would he choose such a place?

Death being seduced, even as he seduces is a story I’ve always wanted to tell, and who better to seduce Death than the last of the sirens, who has an agenda of her own? Taking a myth and twisting it, speculating on what might happen, who might do what in the modern world, and what that might mean to everyone else is a wonderful adventure in writing. But I’ll be honest, I’ve had to give over all the control to the head of the Consortium, Magda Gardener. She calls the shots for her Scribes as well as for everyone else who answers to her.

Here’s a little teaser for you.




When Samantha Black shares her sandwich with a dog, his owner, Jon—a homeless man living in the Las Vegas storm tunnels—gives her a poker chip worth a fortune from the exclusive casino, Buried Pleasures. All Sam has to do is cash it in. Sam is in Vegas for one reason only—to get her friend, Evie Holt, away from sinister magician, Darian Fox, who holds her prisoner in an effort to force Sam to perform at his club, Illusions. A neon circus tent of strange and mystical acts, Illusions is one of the biggest draws in Vegas, and he’s hell-bent on including Sam in his disturbing plans.
The shadowy Magda Gardener will do anything to keep Sam from cashing in that chip. She knows that Buried Pleasures is the gate to Hades and cashing in the chip is a one-way ticket across the River Styx, which runs beneath the storm tunnels of Vegas. Jon is really Jack Graves, owner of Buried Pleasures, and Graves is really the god of death, himself, and if things aren’t already confusing enough, he and Magda know what Sam doesn’t. Sam is the last siren. That her song can kill is only the beginning of her story. Jon wants her safe on his side of the River, protected from Fox’s hideous magic. But even Death fears Magda Gardener, who is none other than Medusa, and the gorgon has her own agenda. If Sam is to understand her heritage and win the battle against Darian Fox, not only will she have to trust her heart to Death, but they’ll both have to work for the gorgon, whose connection with Sam runs deeper than any of them could imagine.


Buried Pleasures Excerpt – On a Slow Boat with Death:

“What’s going on, boss?” came the dry-twig voice from deep inside the hood. “We having a

party?”
“I need you to take me across the River,” Sam began, not giving Jon a chance to speak. But before she could present her argument or Shiva’s offer, the boatman gave her a deep chivalrous bow.
“Of course, Samantha Arielle.” Then he nodded toward the boat.
“But she’s not dead,” Evie said. “You told me you couldn’t take anyone who was still living, anyone who hadn’t cashed in their chip.”
“Samantha Arielle’s circumstances have changed since last I saw her. Besides,” he added, “this isn’t her first crossing.”
“What? What the hell do you mean this isn’t my first crossing?” She glanced over at Jon, who only shrugged, his brow drawn tight in confusion.
“Sadly, I can’t answer that. The pasts of the dead are not my concern, and their secrets not mine to keep. But,” he bowed once again. “You can come and go as you please. It’ll be my honor to ferry you across.”
“What just happened?” Magda asked Jon. “Did you know this?”
He shook his head. “The secrets of the dead aren’t mine to keep either.”

Sam noticed that Jon was now dressed in his faded fatigues, and before she could wonder where Gus was, she felt the press of a cool, damp nose to the palm of her hand as the dog pushed up against her and whined softly. She stroked his ruff, reassured by his presence and more than a little happy to see him again.
Jon stepped forward. “If she goes, I go with her.”
“Of course, boss,” came the reply from beneath the hood. “I understand from Evie that we’re on the clock, so if there are no objections, shall we be on our way?”
It was as simple as that. On unsteady legs, Sam found herself boarding the boat to cross the River Styx, the great hound of hell at her left, looking no more terrifying at the moment than a large wolf, and the god of the dead himself supporting her on the right.
Chuck led them to the prow of the great boat, which seemed much larger from onboard than it did from the shore. For a moment she fought back a hysterical giggle at its parallel with Doctor Who’s TARDIS. Why shouldn’t Doctor Death’s boat be bigger on the inside? Clearly the prow, which was draped in dark silk and richly-embroidered tapestries, had been reserved for Hades himself. When he took her hand and settled her next to him on the bed of soft cushions, Chuck bowed deeply, gone the informality of their first encounter. Gus settled just beyond the drawn drapes to keep guard—guard which no doubt was not necessary aboard the ferry for the dead.
“Best you don’t look upon the river during the crossing,” said the boatman. “It has… unsettling effects on some passengers.” As he pulled the heavy curtains closed around them, for the first time, Sam had the true sense of being in the presence of Death, of the closing of true darkness all around her, pressing in from every direction. Fighting back panic, she forced words up through a tight throat. “You will let me return, won’t you? I can’t let that monster have Alice. Please, give me that much, let me win her freedom, and then if I die, I die.”
“Did you forget, Samantha? You’ve tasted death. You’re no stranger to this side of the darkness.” He raised her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles, then pressed her palm tightly against his chest where she could feel the beating of his heart. Death had a heart. It seemed startling to think, and yet she knew this, she’d felt it beat for her, felt it pressed close to the beating of her own heart. “And what’s more, you’ve loved Death. You don’t need my permission to come and go as you please. You’re not my captive.”
He offered her a quirk of a smile, and she realized the total darkness that had settled as the boat embarked had become a strange, shadowy half light in which she had no trouble at all seeing, even making out the rich details of her surroundings. “You’re not my captive, Samantha Arielle,” he reiterated, “but I’m most definitely yours, and I have been for quite some time now. All I’ve done has been to protect you.”
He closed his storm-cloud eyes and bowed his head, and she fought back the urge to run her fingers through his mussed hair. “For my failures and fumblings, for my mistakes and short-sightedness, I humbly ask your forgiveness. Please believe I only ever had your best interests at heart. It was my mistake to underestimate you. It was my mistake to keep secrets from you. But please believe me, Samantha, it was never, ever a mistake to love you.” Still holding her hand pressed to his chest, he lifted his head, and even in the half light she could have lost herself in his eyes beneath their fringe of dark lashes. “Please, Samantha Arielle, forgive me.”
She was a siren, a woman whose command of her voice brought tyrants to their knees, wrecked ships on the rocks, and brought deepest ecstasy and darkest despair, and yet at this moment, she could not find that voice. She swallowed back emotion and nodded her forgiveness through misted eyes, looking upon the beautiful countenance of Death, Death who loved her.
“Don’t lie to me again,” she said, blinking back tears. “I trusted you, Jon. I want to trust you again. I need to trust you again.”
“Then trust me, Samantha.” He pulled her onto his lap, into his arms. “Let me earn your trust, let me prove myself to you.” His words ended in a kiss, a kiss that deepened, dominated, and possessed her until at last she pulled away breathless.
“How long do we have?” She could feel his body shifting beneath her with more than just the gentle rocking of the boat, and the press of his erection made it clear that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him.
“Long enough for me to comfort you.” A kiss. “For me to ease your distress.” Another kiss, low on her collarbone. “For me to love you a little before you do what you have to.”
She was already undoing his fly as he shoved her dress up over her hips, the dress Erica insisted she wear when she crossed the River to meet her lost dead. That’s what the woman had called them—her lost dead. Everywhere Jon touched her through the garment, it felt as though he touched only bare flesh. When she’d managed his trousers, much more awkwardly than she’d have liked, he lifted her onto him as though he couldn’t wait, as though neither of them could wait, and she bit back a gasp at his urgency, even as it matched her own.
And when they were joined, she wrapped her legs around him, and he held her there, letting the rocking of the boat do the work while he kissed and cupped and touched. She returned the favor, losing herself in the moment, and a moment was all the time they had right now. But each shifting, each touching, each exploration was a promise of more to come—long, leisurely lovemaking, endless coming together, holding tight, then shattering into a million dark, shimmering pieces. It didn’t take long. And when they shuddered against each other, the promise lingered in the breathless air between them, the promise of more, the need for more, so much more. If she survived. But then her lover was Death, and Death himself had given her back her life, so perhaps survival is a much more fluid thing when Death is your lover.
“I’m afraid,” she said, when at last she could breathe again. “I suppose I shouldn’t be, under the circumstances.”
“I’m afraid too,” he replied, stroking the back of her hair. Somehow she found his admission of fear comforting, and drew even deeper into his arms, feeling the muscle and sinew of him tighten, warm and protective, around her.
“Do you know where to find them? The sirens?”
“I’ve sent word that you’re coming. Like most who enter the realm of the Dead, they gravitate toward their own, so they aren’t hard to find. Besides, there aren’t many. As I said, I’ve sent a message. I’ve had time to do little else, but I suspect they’ll be as anxious to meet you as you are to meet them.”
“Though probably not as nervous.”

“Perhaps not,” he replied. “But then until you, they—like I—believed that none of their kind had existed in the world of the living for a very, very long time.”

Monday, 18 December 2017

A Lampshade for Mother - A Guest Post by Janine Ashbless (@sinfulpress)


Here’s a tip for writing character enrichment for pantsers like me: when your character does something, especially something unexpected or odd or bad, assume that they have a compelling reason for it.

Everyone is the hero of their own story, after all. Everyone likes to think that they had justification for what they did.

I hit an excellent example of this in my Book of the Watchers trilogy. My heroine and narrator Milja lives with her widowed father, guarding an imprisoned fallen angel. In the first book she lets the prisoner go free and then her father dies (the two are not entirely unconnected, I might add), so Milja wallows in a great deal of guilt but is reconciled with her father’s ghost at the end. Now, throughout Cover Him with Darkness, Milja thinks about her father a lot … but she never really mentions her mother, who is simply gone from the scene. Her mother isn’t relevant to the story so it just didn’t cross my mind until the book was finished.

Then I read it back and thought, “That’s a little odd.” Why didn’t the woman even merit a backstory? Was Milja too young to remember her death? But wouldn’t Milja even yearn for a mother to turn to in her troubles, or mention how she wished the woman was there while her father lay dying? Why is Milja so emotionally separated from her mum? She must have a reason.

So in the second book of the trilogy, In Bonds of the Earth, I don’t fix the ‘mistake,’ I double-down on it. It’s a form of the technique known as lampshading. Milja still thinks about her father fondly – but she mentions her mother accidentally in passing and then deliberately walls the thought off. Something’s now clearly wrong there. My narrator has revealed herself as unreliable. She’s hiding something not just from the reader but from herself.

And of course the final piece of the jigsaw is for me, as the writer, to understand what that secret is. And in the context of the trilogy’s background situation and overarching plot, the solution to that turned out to be both perturbing and perfectly logical – a sort of “Why the hell didn’t I see that?!” shock that I hope I managed to pass to the reader by the end of The Prison of the Angels.

So when you’ve got a character oddity, don’t shy from it. Try running with it – because it can take you some amazing places.

xxx

Janine

*****

Excerpt from The Prison of the Angels:
The cold water flashed like white fire over every inch of my skin. It burnt my eyeballs and my lips and the inside of my throat, and beyond the white fire was a darkness so immense that it swallowed me whole.
I fell forever.
Something grabbed my wrist. Something so hot that it boiled away the darkness, so that there was suddenly light flashing in my eyes. I felt myself grabbed up bodily and lifted. I felt heat against my lips, blowing fire into my frozen lungs. I saw the wooden posts of a flight of steps, and then I pitched forward onto hands and knees in the shallow snow, choking up pond-water. In front of my blurred vision an inchoate swirl of darkness poured up the steps onto the lit porch and then disappeared. Unseen, something slammed against the door, a knock that made the house shake.
I was on the ground beneath the back porch of John’s house, I realized, shuddering.
Mama. Oh Mama. The thought seemed to come from nowhere.
Three times the knock sounded, and on the third the door burst open—outward, onto the porch—to reveal Egan in the lit room within; shaven, shirtless, and frozen mid-lunge for what I could only assume was a weapon of some sort.
He stared.
I tried to cry out.
“Milja?”
Grabbing his pistol he ran out barefoot onto the porch and looked around for enemies that were not there. Then he clattered down and pulled me up into his arms. I pressed my face to his neck and he carried me up the steps and over the threshold—not like a bride, but like a child he could hold tight against his torso, his wrists locked under my thighs. His skin blazed against mine. He hefted me into the kitchen and propped my ass on the table in front of the range.
“What the hell?” he demanded in a low fierce voice, sweeping locks of sodden hair back from my face. My hat seemed to have disappeared. “What happened, Milja? What were you doing out there?”
“Ice. I fell in the lake.” My jaw chattered. It was obvious I was telling the truth—I was soaked from head to toe, and after clasping me so close he wasn’t much drier himself.
“Feckssake, woman!” he growled. “What the hell were you thinking of?” He shucked off my coat, which lifted a sodden ton from my shoulders, then stooped to pull my boots off; ice-water spilt all over the floor.
I tried to strip off my gloves but my fingers weren’t capable of gripping anything.
“Come here, come here,” he said softly from where he knelt at my feet, grabbing my wrists and peeling away the useless gloves. He pressed my hands on either side of his warm neck, holding them there. They must have felt like ice-blocks to him, but he didn’t wince.
He looked like a knight kneeling before his queen, I thought. I could feel his pulse.
“I’ll go get towels, Milja. Are you going to be okay a sec?”
I nodded, though he probably couldn’t see it through the shuddering. He rose and hurried off, leaving me with the radiant warmth of the stove. I thought I should probably get the rest of my clothes off, but even after I struggled with my fly zipper my jeans seemed determined to cling to my bum-cheeks.
I heard the back door bang shut and I flinched.
Azazel?
Had he been gathering himself to come get Egan? Was he the one who had saved me from the black waters? Where was he now?
Egan came back in carrying armfuls of towels. “Alright?”
“I’m okay,” I told him, smiling through my shudders. He was still shirtless, and I could see the faint Ethiopian scars on his arm and chest.
He wrapped my hands one at a time in a towel, chaffed them dry, and then set them deliberately against the hard, hot wall of his torso.
Oh God.
Then he slipped all the buttons on my thick flannel shirt—the one I’d chosen this morning precisely because it wasn’t provocative or distracting—and he only slowed when he realized I was wearing just a bra-top underneath. My nipples stood in shamefully hard points under the stretch cotton. I tried to wriggle out of the long tartan sleeves of my shirt on my own, to spare his blushes, but everything clung like a freezing cold second skin and he had to help.
The shallow slash on my forearm wasn’t bleeding anymore, but each brush of his fingers felt like hot coals.
My wet garment made a slap as it struck the floor.
He draped a towel around my shoulders and another over my head. He started rubbing the water from my face and hair and scalp, his movements precise and gentle. For long moments I was buried in a soft darkness. I reached out, blind, to put my hands back on his bare ribs. I could feel his heart pounding beneath them, like a beast pacing a cage.
I have no idea when it all changed for him. When his grueling self-denial simply fell apart, like a garment worn and washed until the fabric was weakened beyond all use. All I knew was that he dropped the towel off my damp head, cupped my face in both his hands and—absolutely without warning—kissed me.

*****


Blurb:

Milja Petak’s world has fallen apart.

Her lover, the fallen angel Azazel, has cast her aside in rage and disgust. The other contender for her heart, the Catholic priest Egan Kansky, was surrendered back into the hands of the shadowy Vatican organization, Vidimus, after sustaining life-threatening injuries.
She has killed and she has betrayed. She is alone, homeless, and at the end of her tether - torn apart by guilt and the love she has lost.
But neither Heaven nor its terrifying representatives on Earth have finished with Milja.
Both her lovers need her in order to further their very different plans, and both passionately need her, though they may try to deny it.
Milja is once again forced into a series of choices as she uncovers the secrets Heaven has been guarding for centuries. But this time it is not just her heart at stake, or even the fate of a fallen angel.
This time, the choices she makes will change everything.
This time it’s the End of the World.
The Prison of the Angels is the third in the acclaimed Book of the Watchers trilogy, following on from Cover Him with Darkness, and In Bonds of the Earth.

Buy links:
*****
Author bio:

Janine Ashbless is a writer of fantasy erotica and steamy romantic adventure. She likes to write about magic and myth and mystery, dangerous power dynamics, borderline terror, and the not-quite-human.
Buyer beware! If you like dark romance and a hard-won Happily Ever After, try "Cover Him with Darkness," "Heart of Flame," or "The King's Viper." If you prefer challenging erotica, go for "Red Grow the Roses" or "Named and Shamed" instead. All her other books lie somewhere on the spectrum between.
Janine has been seeing her books in print ever since 2000. She's also had numerous short stories published by Black Lace, Nexus, Cleis Press, Ravenous Romance, Harlequin Spice, Storm Moon, Xcite, Mischief Books, and Ellora's Cave among others. She is co-editor of the nerd erotica anthology 'Geek Love'.
Born in Wales, Janine now lives in the North of England with her husband and two rescued greyhounds. She has worked as a cleaner, library assistant, computer programmer, local government tree officer, and - for five years of muddy feet and shouting - as a full-time costumed Viking. Janine loves goatee beards, ancient ruins, minotaurs, trees, mummies, having her cake and eating it, and holidaying in countries with really bad public sewerage.
Her work has been described as:
"Hardcore and literate" (Madeline Moore) and "Vivid and tempestuous and dangerous, and bursting with sacrifice, death and love." (Portia Da Costa

Author Links:

Janine Ashbless website: http://www.janineashbless.com/
Janine Ashbless on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/janineashbless
Sinful Press website: https://www.sinfulpress.co.uk


*****

GIVEAWAY!


Make sure to follow the whole tour—the more posts you visit throughout, the more chances you’ll get to enter the giveaway. The tour dates are here: http://writermarketing.co.uk/prpromotion/blog-tours/currently-on-tour/janine-ashbless-4/


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Monday, 11 December 2017

When is it Okay to Hit a Girl? - A Guest Post by JL Peridot (@jlperidot)


Confession time: There’s a fight scene in my novel and, even though it made it past the editors and publisher, it still makes me nervous.

It’s my Meet Cute, but there’s nothing cute about it. She’s genuinely out to hurt him. So later, when she’s sizing up the damage, she doesn’t expect him to feel bad about the welt across her face or the bruises on her body.

Now, I don’t condone violence against women, but I don’t subscribe to the idea that women should be coddled either, because in our own ways, we can be violent too. Sure, a guy can live by the rule that he won’t hit a woman, but what happens if this woman threatens his life? What if she’s as capable a fighter as he is? Now how about if he can respond with reasonable force?

Does any of this make it okay to hit her?

Because the stakes are potentially so high, I’m uncertain about writing scenarios like this. And yet, here it is in the opening chapters of Chasing Sisyphus. I hope I handled it well enough for today’s readers. I want to believe that merely depicting a man hitting a woman isn’t going to hold up the feminist movement.

To the contrary, I hope that this fight scene exposes my readers to the multitude of questions that spring up around the concept of violence. In this day and age, where equality and womens’ rights are finally mainstream conversation, it seems useful to be asking about these nuances, so we can talk about what the right answers might be.

Big thank you to The Brit Babes for having me on your blog.

Chasing Sisyphus excerpt:

He couldn’t make out her face, but he sure noticed her tight silhouette as she walked by the Nova Legion statue. She seemed a little upmarket for the scene and, come to think of it, he didn’t remember seeing her leave. She was probably still there, waiting under the streetlamp like a femme fatale in those movies Keats kept on mute at his desk on a tiny TV.

Somewhere nearby, a door shut. At any other time, it would have been another pip of noise in a filthy district. But it was too quiet around here. Too few people to make a sound like that seem normal. Anywhere else, it would be the sound you shut out. Here, to Rhys, it was a dog whistle.

“Keats, I heard something,” he said. “Gonna go check it out.”

“Not a good idea, Carver. There’s a chase at the north end. Cap’s called the cars in. You got no backup.”

Don’t need it. If the kid’s still here, he’s alone.”

“You’ll be in deep shit if the boss finds out. How do you even know it’s him?”

We’ve been watching this guy for weeks. I got a feeling he’s onto us. Or, if not us, then someone else who wants him out of action.”

“C’mon, Carver—”

“Keats, I just know, all right? I’m going in. You got eyes on me or not?”

“Jeez! All right…where you heading?”

“Building two thirty-four on the corner. Going in via the south entrance.”

CCTV’s busted on the west side, but I got eyes on the north exit. Actually, building report says the east and west fire escapes are busted, too. You keep the south door covered and your boy ain’t going nowhere.”

Weapon in hand, Rhys crept inside and shut the door behind him. It was dark. The only light came in from the street through gap-tooth blinds and dusty windows. It took a second to adjust.

Broken floor tiles and peeling wallpaper lined the foyer. A lamp hung from a wall, still intact. This might have been a nice place once, before the city’s worst years. Now it stood waiting for the official condemnation that would put it out of its misery. Like the rest of this district.

The stairs creaked under his weight, the ceiling creaked above him.

“Keats, we got residents here?”

“Negative. Power and water were cut off twelve years ago. Why, you see something?”

Gunshots exploded above. No time to answer. Rhys popped the safety and legged it up the stairs.

* * * *

Adria hadn’t counted on the tripwire. This kid knew someone would follow him home one day. He’d strung a line of empty soup cans across the apartment hallway. When she kicked that out, a hefty serving of iced water came down squarely on her head. Gooseflesh prickled her neck and shoulders. The muscles in her jaw seized in the cold. Against the shock, she scrambled to her feet, fired up to catch the stomping and crashing in the other room before it got away.

A figure ran past the doorway.

“Stop!” she yelled.

It rounded the corner. Adria gave chase.

She scanned the room. It was dim at best, thanks to the streetlights from outside, but she saw enough. Computer equipment and various peripherals lay strewn across the floor, some still plugged into a transportable battery in the corner, emitting tiny lights and numbers.

A window slammed shut. The glass shattered. Shards crunched and ground beneath Adria’s boots as she hurried in pursuit of her fleeing target.

When she stepped out onto the fire escape, two hands rammed her into the ladder. The whole balcony shuddered from the collision. Pain flared down her shoulder, but she kept her grip on the gun. She held it up with her good arm and fired.

Two shots.

Missed.

She stumbled backward, clutching her burning shoulder, but the railing crumbled under her weight. Adria grabbed what was left of it with both hands as her footing slipped away.

It looked like a four-storey drop. Maybe five if she’d miscounted. Her legs dangled over thin air while from below came the clatter of broken pieces of railing, along with her gun, as they hit the concrete.

Overhead, her target stomped away on the rungs and disappeared onto the roof.

Adria’s shoulder raged. She tried to pull herself up, but couldn’t take the weight with just one good arm. Her feet kicked out, searching for a foothold, but the grill beneath had long withered away to slivers of rust and sharp edges.

Water and sweat dripped into her eyes. She swiped them helplessly on her sleeves and winced as rough seams grazed the skin. The railing creaked in her clammy grip. She could always let go. If she timed her landing right, maybe she’d get away with a broken ankle and a tetanus shot. Surely it only looked like a long way down.

Then she heard a gunshot from inside the apartment.

Chasing Sisyphus blurb:

Bounty hunter Adria Yuan is hot on the trail of her final hit: a notorious hacker wanted by the city’s elite. With the reward, she can pay for her brother’s surgery and finally get out of Basilica City. Trouble is, her line of work’s not exactly legal, and she’s barely staying ahead of the cops who want her target, too.

Detective Rhys Carver may be a little unorthodox, but he’s a good cop. Born and bred in Basilica, he does his part to keep his city clean. As clean as it gets, at least. And with Adria suddenly in his sights, it’s going to take more than falling in love for him to let her go.

As the pair close in on their mark, they are unwittingly drawn into a high profile conspiracy that could thrust the whole of Basilica into chaos. Can Adria and Rhys set aside their differences, and their desires, to save the only home they know?


About JL Peridot

JL Peridot was told she stops being a girl the second she puts on a uniform and steps into the dojo. This was the most empowering thing anyone’s ever said to her. From her home in Perth, Western Australia, she writes erotic romance, and sometimes just erotica, while complaining about all manner of sporting injury.

     Blog: http://jlperidot.com
     Twitter: http://twitter.com/jlperidot
     Instagram: http://instagram.com/jlperidot
     Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/jlperidot

*****

GIVEAWAY!
Make sure to follow the whole tour—the more posts you visit throughout, the more chances you’ll get to enter the giveaway. The tour dates are here: http://writermarketing.co.uk/prpromotion/blog-tours/currently-on-tour/jl-peridot/
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Thursday, 23 November 2017

Happy Thanksgiving and a Bargain!


Hi everyone,

I'd just like to wish a Happy Thanksgiving to those of you that celebrate this holiday. I hope you have a wonderful time with your friends and family.

Also, I wanted to let you all know about a bargain I have going on. You can currently get your hands on a copy of Fast Lust, my bad boy biker romance, for just 99c, but it's for a few days only - so be quick!


Blurb

When a straitlaced journalist and a fearless motorcycle racer are thrown into an interview together, will they find any common ground? Or are they destined to clash?

Gloria Heath loves her job as a lifestyle journalist. She also loves the perks—free meals, complimentary spa treatments, behind-the-scenes access and more. So when her boss sends her on an assignment to the British Superbikes tournament at Donington Park, she’s less than impressed. Sports are definitely not her thing, and her brief is to find a rider with an interesting back story and write about their journey. But how is she supposed to do that when she really doesn’t care one way or the other?

When she experiences the atmosphere and the racing, however, she starts to see the attraction. Soon after, she finds the perfect case study for her article. Rafe Donovan is fearless, ambitious, and the underdog of the tournament. He’s also drop dead gorgeous. She eagerly sets out to interview him, but soon discovers the bad boy biker is a tough nut to crack. The more she asks questions, the more he shuts down. Throw some chemistry into the mix and things go from bad to worse. Can she get the material she needs, or is her first foray into sports writing doomed to fail?

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Happy Reading!
Lucy x