Book Blitz and Giveaway: No Angel by Helen Keeble

No Angel

by Helen Keeble

Published by: HarperTeen

Publication date: October 8th 2013

Paranormal, Young Adult

Rafael Angelos just got handed the greatest gift any teenage boy could ever dream of. Upon arriving at his new boarding school for senior year, he discovered that he is the ONLY male student. But what should have been a godsend isn’t exactly heaven on Earth.

Raffi’s about to learn that St. Mary’s is actually a hub for demons-and that he was summoned to the school by someone expecting him to save the day. Raffi knows he’s no angel-but it’s pretty hard to deny that there’s some higher plan at work when he wakes up one morning to discover a glowing circle around his head.

Helen Keeble’s debut novel, Fang Girl, has been praised for its pitch-perfect teen voice, and VOYA called it “refreshing and reminiscent of Louise Rennison’s Confessions of Georgia Nicolson series.” No Angel brings you angels and demons like you’ve never seen them-complete with the wry humor of Vladimir Tod, sinfully irreverent romance, and some hilariously demonic teenage dilemmas.

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Excerpt from No Angel: 

In which our hero arrives at his new school…

The shiny new sign above the towering wrought-iron gates said ST. MARY’S BOARDING SCHOOL FOR GIRLS AND BOYS, which, as it turned out, was wrong by one letter.
“Wait,” I said, staring at the Headmistress with a slow-rising sensation of dread. “You mean I’m just the first guy to arrive, right?”
“If you fail to understand the meaning of the word only, Mr. Angelos, I will have to schedule you for remedial English lessons,” replied the short, severe woman. “But to make it crystal clear, you are indeed the first, sole, singular member of the male gender here.” It was obvious that she considered this at least one boy too many. “I trust you will be a worthy representative of your species. Welcome to St. Mary’s.”
Declarations of outright war had been uttered in friendlier tones. I grabbed my dad’s arm as he came back from the car, carrying the last of my suitcases. “I’ve changed my mind,” I said, turning us away from the waiting Headmistress. “Don’t leave me here!”
“You were the one who begged to come to your mother’s old school when you found they were accepting boys this year. ‘A way of honoring her memory’, you said.” He dropped my bags in front of the school gates and raised an eyebrow. “Not to mention ‘a heaven of honeys in very short skirts’, as I recall you saying to your friends.”
I flushed. I hadn’t realized he’d overheard that conversation. “But I thought there would be at least a few other guys around. Who am I supposed to talk to?”
“Girls?” Dad suggested mildly.
“Ha ha. Seriously, Dad!”
“You want serious?” Dad folded his arms, looking up at me. “It’s cost me a serious amount of money to enroll you here, so I expect you to actually make an effort for once, Raffi. St. Mary’s has always been one of the most exclusive schools in England, and we’re incredibly fortunate that they’re opening up to boys at last. And even more fortunate that they’re allowing you in for just the final year.” His finger jabbed me in the center of my chest. “You will work hard.”
Behind him, the Headmistress’s expression suggested that she personally thought boys were best put to work down dangerous mine shafts.
I scowled down at my feet, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my new suit. “If it’s so fabulous here, then why didn’t any other guys apply?” I muttered under my breath.
“Our entrance requirements are extremely strict,” the Headmistress said as if I’d spoken normally. “There was no shortage of male applicants, I assure you. Were it not for your late mother, I would have rejected you along with all the rest. But she was a personal friend of mine, as well as an outstanding member of this institution.” She fixed me with a piercing stare. “I trust you will live up to her legacy.”
“You hear that?” My dad poked me again. “This is your last chance, Raffi. You’re lucky to get into any school, after what happened at your last one. You should be grateful for this opportunity.” In my head, I started reciting the inevitable speech along with him. I’d heard it enough times to have it memorized. “You can’t keep wandering around in a dream, absent-mindedly strewing chaos in your wake.“
Honestly, incinerate one lousy building by accident once, and your dad will never, ever let you forget it. “That fire wasn’t my fault!“
“Perfectly ordinary toasters do not spontaneously spout four-foot pillars of flame!”
The Headmistress took a phone out of her pocket and murmured into it, “Memo to self: Mr. Angelos is banned from Home Economics.”
My dad was still on a roll. “Your problem, Raffi, is that you’re too unworldly for your own good. You have got to quit goofing off and start paying attention to what’s going on around you-“
His voice droned on, but I didn’t hear another word. I was too busy falling in love.
She was tall, only a few inches shorter than myself, but so light and slender she seemed to float on the breeze. Her feet barely made any sound on the gravel as she slipped round the gate and headed for us, her waist-length blonde hair rippling behind her like a cloak. Even though all the girls must have been warned boys were joining them this year, she still did a very gratifying double-take at the sight of me, her summer-sky eyes widening. For my part, it was all I could do not to gawp at her like a total idiot. The instant I saw her, I knew her. She was The One.
For a moment we stared at each other. Then the girl shook herself, her hair shimmering with the movement. A delicate rose tinted her high cheekbones, but — my stomach dropped into my socks — she didn’t look pleased. A small frown marred her perfect face as she turned decisively away from me. “M- I mean, Headmistress?” Even her voice was perfect, so soft and sweet I half-expected her to break into a duet about kittens and rainbows with a passing bluebird. “Everyone’s ready and waiting.”
“Thank you, Faith,” the Headmistress replied. She lifted a hand, cutting off my dad’s lecture. “Major Angelos, while I am certain your son’s head has not yet been filled with your sound advice, time grows short. I must ask you to make your final farewells.”
“Of course.” Dad put his hands on my shoulders, looking me squarely in the eye. “Now promise me you’ll apply yourself, Raffi.”
“Oh,” I said, staring past him at Faith. “You bet I will.”
“That’s my boy.” To my utter mortification, Dad ruffled my hair, then pulled me in for a hug. “You’ll do fine.”
“Mr. Angelos, you may leave your bags here for now,” the Headmistress said as I disentangled myself as fast as possible. “Faith will escort you to the hall. A last word with you please, Major Angelos?”
“This way,” Faith said, holding the gate open for me. She avoided my eyes, her own gaze lingering on my dad and the Headmistress as they headed back toward his car. “Your dad seems nice.” There was an odd, wistful note to her musical voice. “You’re lucky.”
“I certainly am.” Falling into step with her, I tried out the charming, enigmatic smile that I’d spent the summer practicing in front of the mirror. “Though not because of my dad.”
“Yes, of course we’re all lucky to get to go to a school like this,” Faith said, a little too quickly. She indicated the carefully tended flowerbeds lining the path, and the landscaped woods beyond. I had to admit, it was all very pretty. Also, unspeakably girly. I could already feel my testosterone draining away. “It’s so beautiful here, don’t you think?”
I edged a little closer, trying to keep up my smile while also throwing in a hint of smolder. My face was starting to ache. “Yes, I do.”
“Some of the buildings we use for classrooms are hundreds of years old,” Faith said, in the bright, brittle tones of someone determinedly paddling against a conversational undertow. She lengthened her stride, like a tour guide on a tight schedule. “Look, there’s the main school building. It has many unique architectural features.” I had a horrible feeling that Faith was about to start listing them all. Given that the monstrosity rising in front of us sported everything from Gothic gargoyles to a sort of bonsai skyscraper, she could probably keep going for hours. “It started as a chapel, though of course it’s been extended a lot since then. St. Mary’s used to be a convent, you know.”
I was beginning to feel like it still was one. Faith wasn’t looking at me at all. Time to deploy the big guns. “I know a lot of things, Faith Jones. Especially about you.”
That got her attention. She stopped dead, swiveling to face me. “What do you mean?”
Going for broke, I reached for her hand, gazing deep into her astonished blue eyes as I lifted it to my lips. “I mean that you’re the reason I’m here.”
This was absolutely true. School brochure, page three, full-page picture: “After a hard day’s work, nothing beats a swim in our beautiful outdoor pool!” — Faith Jones. The photographer had captured her rising from the water with her head thrown back and water streaming from her hair, looking like some sort of classic sea-goddess. In a red bikini.
The instant I’d seen that picture, I’d known this was the school for me. And now all my research in the romance section of the library was about to pay off big time. All the wariness had vanished from Faith’s face, chased away by incredulous, breathless hope. Her fingers tightened on mine as my lips brushed the back of her hand-
“Ah, Mr. Angelos,” the Headmistress said from right behind me. “I see you’ve introduced yourself to my daughter.”
… Daughter?

About the author: Helen Keeble is not, and never has been, a vampire. She has however been a teenager. She grew up partly in America and partly in England, which has left her with an unidentifiable accent and a fondness for peanut butter crackers washed down with a nice cup of tea. She now lives in West Sussex, England, with her husband, daughter, two cats, and a variable number of fish. To the best of her knowledge, none of the fish are undead.

Her first novel, a YA vampire comedy called FANG GIRL, is out 11th Sept 2012, from HarperTeen. She also has another YA paranormal comedy novel (provisionally titled NO ANGEL) scheduled for Sept 2013.

Author Links:

Website / Goodreads / Twitter / Facebook 

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Book Blitz and Giveaway: The Road to You by Marilyn Brant

The Road to You

 by Marilyn Brant

Publication date: October 3rd 2013

Mystery, New Adult, Romance

Sometimes the only road to the truth...is one you’ve never taken.

Until I found Gideon’s journal in the tool shed — locked in the cedar box where I’d once hidden my old diary — I’d been led to believe my brother was dead. But the contents of his journal changed all that.

The Road to Discovery...

Two years ago, Aurora Gray’s world turned upside down when her big brother Gideon and his best friend Jeremy disappeared. Now, during the summer of her 18th birthday, she unexpectedly finds her brother’s journal and sees that it’s been written in again. Recently. By him.

The Road to Danger...

There are secret messages coded within the journal’s pages. Aurora, who’s unusually perceptive and a natural puzzle solver, is hell bent on following where they lead, no matter what the cost. She confides in the only person she feels can help her interpret the clues: Donovan McCafferty, Jeremy’s older brother and a guy she’s always been drawn to — even against her better judgment.

The Road to You...

Reluctantly, Donovan agrees to go with her and, together, they set out on a road trip of discovery and danger, hoping to find their lost brothers and the answers to questions they’ve never dared to ask aloud.

In that expectant space between silence and melody, our trip began...

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Excerpt from The Road to You:

I’d felt a lot like an actress on the night of our brothers’ secret graduation party two years ago. For one thing, I wasn’t remotely as reserved as usual, thanks to being away from home and, also, being a little buzzed.
More than that, I remembered how the bourbon and the careless abandon of summer even made me kind of bold, and how I’d walked up to Donovan McCafferty when he was alone in the kitchenette part of the hotel suite.
“Hey, Donovan,” I murmured, standing much closer to him than I ever would have normally. But I was nearly a high-school junior then. I thought I was almost cool.
“Aurora,” he whispered, watching me with a rare inquisitive look as I smiled at him and leaned against the mauve-colored wall. That glint of interest in his gaze gave me courage.
I reached out to stroke his chest—firm against my fingertips—and I grabbed a handful of his t-shirt because I liked the sensation of it. It was deep red, newish and much softer than I’d expected. Somehow, it made sense to me in that moment to tug him close, my fingers letting go of his shirt’s front and reaching all the way around him. Caressing his back and pressing him to me. I raised my head to kiss him and noticed he was holding his breath.
For a second, he let me touch his lips with mine. Just that one single time. Then he stepped away, abruptly, and with an apology.
“Been drinking,” he said, glancing to either side of us, not that anyone else was looking. “Sorry.”
At first I didn’t know if he’d been talking about my drinking or his. I sort of laughed. “Everyone’s been drinking. Half the people in the other room are passed out.” I shrugged. “Nobody’s, um...watching us.”
I knew my best friend Betsy was making out with some townie in the hall. My brother Gideon was on the sofa—a blonde sprawled languorously on top of him. Donovan’s brother Jeremy was smoking weed with a few people in the bathroom. I could smell it. Hear them laughing.
“You’re too young,” Donovan said simply.
I was almost sixteen then and, in my expert opinion, at least as mature as a twenty-nine year old. He’d just turned twenty-one and had to be going on about thirty-five. But I liked older men. Well, specifically, this man. He was just five years older, really.
And, anyway, if he had a point, I wasn’t about to admit it.

About the author:  Marilyn Brant is a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary fiction. She wrote the new adult/humorous paranormal novel ACCORDING TO JANE (2009), the women’s fiction relationship drama FRIDAY MORNINGS AT NINE (2010), and the romantic travel adventure A SUMMER IN EUROPE (2011), all published by Kensington Books. She's also a #1 Kindle and #1 Nook bestseller and has written a series of fun and flirty romantic comedies, including ON ANY GIVEN SUNDAE (2011) and PRIDE, PREJUDICE AND THE PERFECT MATCH (2013). Her coming-of-age romantic mystery, THE ROAD TO YOU, will be available in October 2013.

Marilyn is a lifelong music lover and a travel junkie. She’s visited 46 states and over 30 countries (so far—she's not done yet!), but she now lives in the Chicago suburbs with her family. When she isn't rereading Jane Austen's books or enjoying the latest releases by her writer friends, she's working on her next novel, eating chocolate indiscriminately and hiding from the laundry.

Author Links:
Website / Facebook / Twitter / Goodreads 

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Book Blitz and Giveaway: Come As You Are by Theresa Weir

Come As You Are

by Theresa Weir

Publication Date: Sept 20, 2013

NA, Romance

New Adult Romance by RITA winner and New York Times author Theresa Weir

Molly Young has a secret. To keep it she holds the world at a distance. Behind her lies a trail of dumped boyfriends who came too close to discovering what no one can know. When her estranged father dies of an unexpected heart attack he leaves an even deeper secret, one tied to Molly’s.

At the funeral repast Molly is unable to tolerate the shoulder-to-shoulder mourners and runs out the door and down the street to the nearest bar. Come dawn, with no memory of the past ten hours, she finds herself in bed with a beautiful stranger. She slips away before he wakes up, unaware of the role he’s about to play in her life. Is he the one guy who can convince Molly to face her painful secret and become the person she’s meant to be?

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Chapter 3
A shaft of sunlight cut through dark drapes and fell across my face, drilling into my retina. I groaned and slung an arm across my eyes, trying to make the sun stop it.
The bed dipped, and an arm around my waist tightened. That's when I became aware of a soft breath against the back of my neck, and a solid body curved against my side, a leg across my leg.
What the hell?
I uncovered my face and unsquinted my eyes. Dark hotel room. Dark except for that sliver of light. And a body in bed next to me. I held my breath, listening, waiting to see if the person moved or made any indication that he knew I was awake. And I say he because there was no mistaking the body part that was pressed against my hip. I guess I was now somebody's wet dream. But whose?
My thoughts raced backward as I tried to piece together last night. I remembered the funeral. And I remembered all the strangers in our house. My house, not ours. Just me now. And I remembered the lawyer saying I should meet him today. And I remembered running.
A bar.
I ended up at a bar.
I've never blacked out in my life, but I had no memory of anything past those first few drinks. Had somebody slipped me something? Or had I just drunk myself into oblivion?
Through this entire rewind, the stranger in bed had kept up a steady, light breathing with an occasional contraction of the arm that held me.
I turned my head and saw a clock. Early. 6:00 a.m. Slowly, carefully, holding my breath once again, I inched away from the body. His arm tightened, but then he let out a sigh and rolled to his back, releasing me completely.
I slipped from the bed, sliding out from under the white sheet that covered us both until I stood barefoot on the carpet to stare at the man I'd spent the night with. And apparently had sex with, because there were my panties on the floor. I picked them up with curled toes, then slipped them on under my dress as I watched the guy in the bed. Then I found my boots and stuffed my feet inside, not bothering to lace them.
No memory of him. None. Nothing. And really, he was the kind of guy a girl would remember.
Where do I start?
A beautiful boy man. Probably a few years older than me. Not that muscular. Not like somebody who lifted weights, but he was toned. More like a swimmer's body, with that kind of smooth skin that felt like satin. Nipples and an almost invisible line of hair that ran from his navel to the sheet that covered the rest of his body. The hair on his head was dark and curly, tousled over his forehead and ears. He wasn't tan. Not like somebody who was outside a lot, but he wasn't really pale either.
Strange that it was so hard to tell much about a person with no clothes. Clothes gave you clues.
Tossed on a chair was a pair of jeans, a worn leather belt that looked like he'd owned it for years, and a vintage plaid shirt.
Was he a hipster? Part of the local music scene? A student? No, a student wouldn't have a hotel room. Unless maybe he got the room for us. Yeah, that might be. Maybe he lived with a bunch of guys and he'd wanted some privacy.
Admiration time over, I slipped from the room and took the elevator to the first floor. It wasn't until I stepped outside that I realized where I was. At a hotel on the West Bank just across the river from the university, a couple of miles from my father's house.
The shock of waking up in a strange room with a strange guy had momentarily separated me from the misery of my headache, churning stomach, and the general feeling of wanting to die. But now that I was on the street, and now that exhaust fumes combined with the smell of rotten food coming from a Dumpster hit me, my stomach took a dive and my head split in two.
I had no money.
I had no credit card.
I wanted nothing more than to drop down on the curb and bury my face in my hands, but I also wanted to put some distance between me and the guy upstairs. What if he woke up? What if he was already awake? What if he came after me?
Why would he do that?
He wouldn't come after me. He'd be glad I was gone.



Later, when Molly runs into the mysterious guy again…

"I have your cell phone," he said.
I stopped mid-flight.
There it was, my iPhone in its pale blue case, looking weird in his hand. Long fingers. The vintage shirt. Shaggy hair that curled around his ears and over his forehead. He hadn't shaved. He needed to shave. What color were his eyes? Green? Hard to tell in this light.
I snatched the phone from his hand.
Before I could spin away he said, "Be sure to check the photos. I think you'll find some interesting ones." He smiled. The kind of smile I've used when someone I hate steps in a pile of shit.
"Fuck you."
"You've already done that."
* * *
In the bar I took a seat in a dark corner, ordered a beer, and pulled out my phone. I checked my texts first. There were all of the ones from Rose. A string of them asking where I was, telling me she was worried, getting more upset with each one. A few missed calls, one from the lawyer to remind me of today's appointment, a couple random ones from people at school who didn't know what had happened, asking about some group project that was due in a few days. Why wasn't I there? You need to hold up your end. That was from some girl named Alice who'd named herself project leader.
Check out the photos, Ian had said.
The beer came. I thanked the girl and ordered another. I downed the first one, then hit the photo app on my phone. And there we were. By we I mean Ian and me. I'd been worried, thinking they would be nude photos of me, or penis photos of him, or nudes of us both together. But in a weird way these disturbed me just as much or more. There were probably twenty photos in all, most taken in some booth at a bar. Both of us smiling at the camera. Me, feeding him fries. Me, drinking drinks. A lot of photos of drinks. Me, kissing Ian on the cheek. Ian not seeming to mind. Me. hanging on Ian, wrapping myself around him. The last one? I'd apparently jumped on his back and he was holding me by my legs.
And a fun time was had by all…
I wish I could remember. I especially wish I could remember the sex.

About the author: Theresa Weir (a.k.a. Anne Frasier) is an award-winning NEW YORK TIMES AND USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR of twenty-three books and numerous short stories that have spanned the genres of suspense, mystery, thriller, romantic suspense, paranormal, and memoir. Her titles have been printed in both hardcover and paperback and translated into twenty languages. Her memoir, The Orchard, was a 2011 Oprah Magazine Fall Pick, Number Two on the Indie Next list, a featured B+ review in Entertainment Weekly, and a Librarians’ Best Books of 2011. Going back to 1988, Weir’s debut title was the cult phenomenon AMAZON LILY, initially published by Pocket Books and later reissued by Bantam Books. Writing as Theresa Weir she won a RITA for romantic suspense (COOL SHADE), and a year later the Daphne du Maurier for paranormal romance (BAD KARMA). In her more recent Anne Frasier career, her thriller and suspense titles hit the USA Today list (HUSH, SLEEP TIGHT, PLAY DEAD) and were featured in Mystery Guild, Literary Guild, and Book of the Month Club. HUSH was both a RITA and Daphne du Maurier finalist. Well-known in the mystery community, she served as hardcover judge for the Thriller presented by International Thriller Writers, and was guest of honor at the Diversicon 16 mystery/science fiction conference held in Minneapolis in 2008. Frasier books have received high praise from print publications such as Publishers Weekly, Minneapolis Star Tribune, and Crimespree, as well as online praise from Spinetingler, Book Loons, Armchair Interviews, Sarah Weinman’s Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind, and Ali Karim’s Shots Magazine. Her books have featured cover quotes from Lisa Gardner, Jane Ann Krentz, Linda Howard, Kay Hooper, and J.A. Konrath. Her short stories and poetry can be found in DISCOUNT NOIR, ONCE UPON A CRIME, and THE LINEUP, POEMS ON CRIME. She is a member of Sisters in Crime and International Thriller Writers.

Author Links: 

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Book Blitz and Giveaway: Eramane by Frankie Ash

Eramane

(Eramane Trilogy, #1)

by Frankie Ash

Publication Date: Summer, 2013

Fantasy, YA

In the village of Eludwid, seventeen-year-old Eramane Fahnestock goes about her life, cheerfully disregarding a prophecy made to her parents that she would have a great gift. Not yet wed and beset with boredom, Eramane cannot shake the feeling that something exciting awaits her beyond Eludwid. But when she is invited to picnic with a handsome young suitor, Eramane has no idea that her life will soon change forever. 

As Eramane prepares for her date, she is suddenly hypnotized by a strange voice that tells her he will be coming for her that night. Unsettled but determined to press forward, Eramane and her suitor, Lebis, head to the woods to enjoy their picnic. As darkness falls on the forest, however, a beast emerges, transforming their beautiful outing into a terrifying scene. Taken captive and carried away to a mountain hideaway, Eramane finds her memories are soon clouded, even as her family frantically searches for her back home.

In this gripping fantasy tale, evil is summoned to the mountaintop, forcing a young woman to discover her magical gifts and exact revenge against a beast determined to destroy everything she has ever loved.

Purchase Links: 

Excerpt from Eramane: 

Crackling flames from the oversized hearth touch my face with their heat and wake me from my void. I feel as though I have been asleep for days, without having dreams or any other reassurance of existence. I am lying on a white fur on the floor of a chamber. The bright fur stuns my vision momentarily; I have had my eyes closed for too long. I move my fingers through the fur; it is soft and smells like wood and smoke. Where am I? I blink my eyes to adjust my vision, and it begins to clear. Then my mind clears. Lebis! I sit up, and fright surges through me. My eyes search the room for my abductor. Where is it? It is dark in the corners of the chamber; does it lurk there? The chamber is a large stone room with no outside openings, and the ceiling is so high that I cannot see where it ends. I rise from the soft fur bedding and put my feet onto the cold floor. It is not until I stand on the chamber floor that I notice my foot has been re-bandaged. I look around the room, desperately trying to see into the darkness. If that thing is in here with me, I would rather discover it now than wait in wonder of my fate. I make my way to the shadowed corners. I see nothing, for now I am alone.
The rock walls have pieces of crystal that catch the reflection from the fire, causing them to twinkle like the night sky. I feel as if I am atop a mountain, surrounded only by the starlit skies. I walk slowly toward one of the walls, touching one of the sparkling crystals. The warmth of the large fire does not reach the walls, so I go back to it for comfort. I stand in front of the hearth feeling the flame’s heat begin to lightly toast my skin. I stare into the flames, and their color reminds me of what brought me here, those fire-colored eyes! Images of Lebis flash inside of the flames, like a reflection in a mirror replaying that horrible event. Tears fill my eyes and blur the flames. I lie down on the white fur again and weep until I lose myself again to the bliss of sleep.
My breath is taken by a swift, musky draft. I am aware that I am still in the room with the twinkling walls and golden fire pit, but when I wake this time I can sense the presence of someone else in the chamber. However, my eyes cannot find anyone. I had hoped that death would find me in my slumber; instead it passed me over, left me alive, in the captivity of a monster. I am at the mercy of the beast that murdered Lebis, robbed me of an innocent life, and confiscated my future. Only where is this murderer? I do not believe that I can bear to gaze upon that creature again. The horrid memories spin through my head, and I wonder if I will go mad harboring all of them.
Creak, the door to my chamber opens. Hinges squeak and rattle, taking me away from my thoughts. I am suddenly keenly aware of my vulnerability, not having the safety of a closed door. “Come, Eramane,” a raspy, cracking voice says. I stand and listen for the voice to speak again. “Do not be afraid; you are safe here,” it says. My eyes dart around intently, not finding the source of these words.
“What do you want from me? Why have you brought me here?” I shout. My voice carries around the chamber, echoing off the stone. The door closes, leaving me alone once more, alone with my thoughts.
I do not know how long I have been held captive—hours, days? It could be either, for I have battled exhaustion the entire time, sleeping most of it. I am certain that my brother is searching for me by now. I imagine him and his Riders invading this stone prison and saving me. I have dreamt that scenario several times. It is a hope that keeps me from walking into the fire that continuously burns, hot and strong. My daydream of rescue is intruded on as the creaking of hinges and jarring of metal accompany the opening of my chamber door. There is no dark, odorous cloud this time. Again a voice, seeming to radiate from the walls themselves, offers a meal to me. Taking the offer as a cue, my stomach rumbles and gnaws at me, as if trying to claw its way out, hoping to find food on its own, in the belief that I have given up on its need of sustenance. I am starving but afraid to leave the chamber. I stare at the open door, wondering what fate awaits me if I walk through it. The door begins to close, but this time my fear of the unknown is second to my need of nourishment. “Wait, please,” I say, choking back my words, afraid to actually say them. The door pauses. I walk toward it, and it waits for me.
I cannot see anything outside of the door, but I am compelled to continue through the opening anyway. I look to my right, into the darkness, and there is nothing. I look left, and it offers the same. My body is numb with fear, but I cannot seem to control its will to find food. My body moves me forward while my mind pleads for me to turn around and run back to the warm fur next to the hearth; it is desperately trying to fight against going into the dark hallway
As I proceed down the dark corridor, torches hanging from the walls begin to ignite with my every step. The walkway appears to be endless, yet with each grumble from my belly, I am compelled to proceed. I turn to look behind me; there is nothing there, not even the torches that burned a moment ago. Complete darkness backs me. All I can navigate is the way in front of me. I follow the torches until I come to another door, an oversized, wooden double door, with black iron rings the size of wagon wheels hanging from the center. The doors are so big that it seems like I will need a team of plow horses to open them. I stand in front of the wooden barriers and watch with intense curiosity as they slowly open on their own. Finally, the enormous doors cease to move, and my eyes take in a beautiful sight.

About the author: Frankie Ash is the author of the YA novel Eramane, COMING SOON! She holds a B.A. in English and resides on the east-coast somewhere between “Will it ever be warm again?” and “The summers here are too short!” She is currently writing book #2 of The Eramane Trilogy, to be published in 2014.

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Book Blitz, Interview and Giveaway: Bikers and Pearls by Vicki Wilkerson

Bikers and Pearls

by Vicki Wilkerson

Who said tempting a sweet Southern belle would be easy?

When rebel biker Bullworth Clayton gets tangled up with pastel-and-pearls-clad April Church, sparks fly. Sure, April would clearly rather work with anyone else, but if teaming up with Bull means a successful charity event for a sick little boy they both care about, then so be it.

April is baffled at how drawn she is to the leather-wearing, tattooed Bull—he just doesn’t fit with her simple, safe, country-club life. And as much as the handsomely rugged man tempts her, she still can’t shake the images of the tragic motorcycle accident from her past, which left her scarred and her father broken.

Bull tempts her to don a pair of leather pants and go for a ride with him, while April desperately tries to resist her attraction to the wild side and keep her exploits hidden from her small town. Will they be able to navigate their differences and find a middle road to love?

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Enjoy the first chapter of Bikers and Pearls: 

Chapter One

Motorcycles were everywhere. April Church had never seen so many in one place in her entire life. Row after row and side by side, they had been lined up like opposing armies. Was there some kind of biker rally in town that she didn’t know about? No. That couldn’t be. Surely, something like that would have been announced in the Summerbrook Gazette.
She looked for a well-lit parking spot near the door of the buffet steakhouse, but after circling the bikes three times, she finally squeezed her car into the last space at the rear of the dark lot. Motorcycles flanked both sides of her car. Flames embellished the tank of the bike immediately to her left and razors decorated the one to her right.
She was trapped.
Trapped like she had been in her father’s car the night he’d accidentally hit a motorcycle—the night the dead man’s “pack” had surrounded them like wolves. And here she was again, encircled by bikes. She looked toward the building. In that steakhouse were the same kind of people who had left her father with a limp, bound to a cane for the rest of his life.
Why on Earth did she tell Mr. Houseman that she’d go to the meeting? Well, for many reasons, but the most important was Ben. He was special. Every time he saw her, he gave her a hug. Started out when she first helped him learn to climb a tree when the Humanity Project volunteers built his home. When he dropped down from that tree and into her arms, he also dropped into her heart. Ever since that day, he drew pictures of trees and gave them to her as gifts. Yep. He was special, and she had to do something to help the little boy’s parents with the mounting medical bills. Mr. Houseman was her mentor at the Humanity Project, and she owed him, too. She also thought about Miss Adree, the sweet, elderly lady in her condo building who taught Ben music lessons every Thursday evening. April loved picking up the little guy and remembered Miss Adree doing the same for her when she was a child. It was time to return favors.
Inside would be all the civic-minded organizations from town that were helping Ben, including the Summerbrook Ladies League. The bikers were probably at the restaurant for a completely different reason—some ride or party they had to plan. She glanced around at all the motorcycles again. There were so many.
Taking a deep breath, she gingerly opened the car door. But before she got the chance to put her foot on the asphalt, the painted flames on the motorcycle next to her pitched—almost imperceptibly at first. Or perhaps she was simply denying what was happening.
Down it went. The mirrors tilted and flashed the light of a distant streetlamp over the body of the beast. Stop! Somehow, it appeared to have picked up momentum on its way to its death. And then it crashed against the pavement, the clang grating up her spine as it hit. No! She couldn’t have touched that bike. She had been so careful.
As she stepped outside the car, a shiver iced down her spine in a cold gust of March air. The motorcycle lay there like a fallen soldier. The crash had amputated its rearview mirror, which was now in the middle of the lane. She looked all around her.
For a brief moment, she thought about bolting. But she’d never do that. She worked at a local insurance company as a risk assessment manager. Assessing her own risk, she determined that she was in real trouble.
She knew she could analyze her way out of this. Maybe she could set the bike upright again and no one would notice. That might work.
Fighting some awful thing inside that wanted to paralyze her, she drew up every bit of her strength, bent down, and grabbed the handlebars. With her eyes closed, she strained and jerked with all her might. But the beast wouldn’t budge.
Maybe she could at least fix the mirror. Though her hand shook—probably from the cold—she picked it up and tried to attach the cracked piece to the bent chrome on the side of the bike. She pushed and twisted and rocked the thing. Nothing worked. Now what was she to do?
She could call the police. But it wasn’t a traffic accident. She still didn’t believe that she’d touched the bike. No matter. What could she do but try to find the owner and tell him? Dread rose up in her. She would offer the biker her insurance information, and she could let her company argue the claim later. And if the bike’s owner grew angry with her here, she assumed the bystanders in the steakhouse would provide some protection.
Glancing around the dark lot, she noticed several other bikes with flames on their tanks. Great. Now she’d have a band of angry bikers come after her when she would announce that she’d knocked over a motorcycle festooned with flames.
Shaking her head, she tried to rid herself of the images of that night so long ago. But this was very different. No one had died. And she would accept complete responsibility, unlike her father, who’d blamed and angered the drunken bikers from Rebel Angels the night they’d played chicken with him.
Still holding the metal thing, she had an idea. The mirror was a totally different shape from the others around her, and it had a sticker with flames on the back. That would help. She’d find Mr. Morrow and a few of the people there for the fundraiser, and with their assistance, she’d approach the bikers with the mirror.
So she summoned all of her courage and bravely walked toward the entrance where a giant fake cow stood with an ominous look in his eyes. It watched her every step.
When finally inside, the scent of old coffee and burned grease assailed her. A gap-toothed hostess greeted April. “Welcome to Carolina Cow Steakhouse,” she said in a particularly slow Southern dialect—the brogue of her small town.
Not immediately seeing the people from the Summerbrook Civic Club, she turned to the waitress. “Umm, I’m supposed to meet a group here.”
The hostess perked up and smiled. “Are you here for Ben Evans’s Leukemia Fundraiser, too?”
April nodded and glanced around again, still hiding the broken mirror behind her back. She spotted members of the motorcycle crew secluded away at a couple of tables in a shadowy corner. Oh, boy. In a few short moments, she’d have to face them and confess what she’d done. Well, at least they weren’t going to be a part of the civic club meeting. After she gave them the broken mirror and her insurance information, it would all be over.
“You’ll have to wait here a minute ’cause I’m moving everyone into the larger banquet room. Y’all have more people than we expected,” the hostess said as she grabbed a few more menus and walked away.
April backed up against the wall to better hide the crooked chrome she held. Of all the stupid things that could happen.
With her free hand, she brushed at the pleats on her skirt to straighten them. Then she switched the mirror into her right hand and smoothed out the other side. Everything was under control.
“What do you have there?” inquired a low, masculine voice from above her head.
She snapped to attention like she was about to undergo a military inspection.
A handsome, muscular man in a black bomber jacket towered above her, larger than life. His shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail. Golden streaks highlighted his nut-brown mane. His indigo-colored eyes perused her face. “Is something wrong?”
She twisted the strand of pearls that draped from her neck between her fingers with her free hand. “No. Everything’s fine,” she said. It would be as soon as she could meet up with Mr. Morrow or some of the other members from the civic organizations.
“Then what are you hiding behind your back?”
He had seen. Oh, no. He had seen.
“Just a little mishap. I’m going to take care of it.”
“You ride?” The left corner of his mouth curled up. “In a skirt?”
“No.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound strained. “No, I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before,” she said calmly.
He narrowed his eyes. “Then why are you walking around with a Harley dome billit mirror?”
That was a good question. Why was she? She held out the broken piece of the bike in front of her. “I don’t know how it happened. I was opening my car door, and then—”
He took it from her, examined it, and gave it back. “Let me guess. It just fell.” He tilted his head, exposing a strong, angular jawline. “All by itself.”
“That’s right. It really did happen that way. Exactly.” He probably didn’t believe a word she said. And she couldn’t blame him. She heard unlikely stories like hers from claimants at the insurance company all the time.
“Ahhh, I see. Sure it did,” he said. But the left side of his grin inched upward again. His eyes radiated light like the mirror in her hands. “Believe I know who owns that. ’Cause of the sticker on the back there.” He nodded at the chrome and took a step toward her. “Won’t be too happy, though. You want me to take you to him?”
A spicy scent replaced the old coffee and burned grease in the air. She looked around, half expecting to see one of the men from the Summerbrook Chamber of Commerce or the hostess with a can of air freshener. But April hadn’t ever experienced anything like that fragrance—not on a businessman or from a can. “No, thank you. I’m meeting some people here for a fundraiser first. They’ll help me.”
“I know where they are, too. It’s where I’m headed.” He touched her elbow. A warm tingle ran up her arm.
“The hostess said to wait here.”
“We don’t have to wait.”
“But—” Before she could protest, he placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her through the large, open restaurant and around a corner. With each step she took, her pulse beat faster.
They stopped at a door, which had a sign on it that read Banquet Room.
“You sure you don’t want me to handle that for you?” He arched his brow and glanced at the mirror.
“No, thank you. I’m going to ask Mr. Morrow to walk back with me. To tell those people in the corner of the main dining area.”
He opened the door. “Be my guest.”
As soon as she walked into the room, she knew she was in trouble. The large table in front was filled with people sporting leather fringes, rivets, Harley insignias, and long hair. Motorcycle people. But what kind of motorcycle people were they—the weekender kind who had regular day jobs, like the safe ones they insured at her company? Or some other kind?
A guy with a Z Z Top-looking beard stood up and said, “Hey, that’s my mirror.”
The packed room became silent.
April wanted to sink through the floor. “I’ll pay for it. I have insurance. I don’t really even know how it happened.”
The whole room stared at her like she was a liar. Trapping the mirror between her arm and side, she fumbled in her purse to get one of the copies of her insurance card she’d made at work in case she might ever have the need for it.
“She was probably standing there and it just fell over,” said one of the bikers at the table.
All the people at the table laughed. She turned to see Mr. Morrow standing silently behind the lectern, looking at his notes. Why wasn’t he backing her up? Surely he recognized her. She wanted to say, “It’s me. April Church.” In case he didn’t remember. But he only stood there looking unconcerned.
The tall, handsome guy who’d walked her back took the broken mirror from her and tossed it toward the biker with the long beard. “Okay, let’s go, Slug. I’ll give you a hand to upright your bike. This time. But you’d better fix that kickstand before that old motorcycle falls over again—with the next stiff breeze.” The handsome man looked at her. “Might accidentally hurt a pretty young lady next time.”
The group laughed more. Slug kept his eye on April as he inched around the table. She didn’t see anything funny. She’d known she hadn’t hit the motorcycle with her car door. But she’d been discombobulated all the same.
The man in the bomber jacket gave Slug a reprimanding look and then turned to her. “Slug here’s real sorry he hasn’t fixed that old kickstand. Even though we’ve been warning him about it for months. Right, Slug?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry and all,” said Slug. He reached out his tattoo-covered hand and snatched the mirror.
The two men left with the twisted chrome.
Slug didn’t sound very sorry. Even if the broken mirror wasn’t her fault, she didn’t want to face him alone in that dark parking lot. She was staying right where she was for the time being.
She wanted to do this for Ben. She’d have to stay no matter what.
Mr. Morrow said, “April, if you’ll take a seat, we can get started.”
So now he knew who she was.
Glancing across the room, she saw the ladies from the group she wanted to join all decked out in their Lilly Pulitzer sweaters and pearls, cozily talking around a couple of the round banquet tables they’d pulled together on the other side of the room. Shoot. All the other chairs were filled—except for two at the table with the bikers. The evening couldn’t possibly get any worse.
An older man with long, gray hair and a woolly beard stood up and said, “Here’s one, miss.”
Things had just gotten worse. All she could do now was to sit. She clutched her purse tightly against her body and eased her way between the tables to one of the two empty seats.
Nothing was going to happen. Everything would be fine now that her little mirror emergency was over. These people had to be good people, right? They were here to help Ben, too. And Ben needed lots of help.
April fidgeted with the pearls at her neck. She knew there was no good reason for her insides to be so tense. These people weren’t the same rioters from Rebel Angels who’d burned down her father’s old hardware store for revenge. She straightened the pleats again on her skirt, trying to forget about the unfortunate event that had divided the town. But how could she possibly forget with all the reminders at the table? The earthy scent of leather hung all around her.
She wound her arms around her purse and sat up straight. If only she could leave. But she wouldn’t know what to tell Mr. Houseman. She had already promised him she was going to help.
She moved her seat closer to the empty chair, but as soon as she had, the man in the bomber jacket returned. Without Slug. And he’d spotted the empty seat.
Nothing she could do now. She scooted her chair back to its original position and closed her eyes. Take deep breaths. Take deep breaths. With her next inhalation, her senses were filled with the most heavenly fragrance. Spicy and aromatic.
She opened her eyes to find the striking stranger sitting next to her. She turned to look at the table behind her.
The hostess closed the door. April was simply going to have to make the best of the situation. For now. Maybe later she could somehow wiggle her way over to the Lilly Pulitzer table. April also had an ulterior motive to help with the fundraiser. This was going to be her magic ticket into the Summerbrook Ladies League—something she’d always wanted—and something her mother had always wanted for her.
Her best friend, Jenna, had automatically joined the league years ago with all the other young debutants in town. Right after the big ball. April wanted to be a part of it—all the cookbook committees, the parties, and the fashion shows. She and her BFF would do them all together. If only she could get in. But she wasn’t a debutant and her family didn’t have the pedigree that Jenna’s did. Jenna didn’t care, though. Never had cared that April had her…past, and she loved Jenna for that. It wasn’t going to be so easy, however, for April to enter the cliquish league.
Mr. Morrow, president of the Summerbrook Civic Club, tapped a butter knife on the wooden lectern at the front of the room. “Thank you all for coming tonight. I guess you know why we’re here.”
She heard some stirring, and she caught a glimpse of a woman near the lectern nodding, but April didn’t move. She stared ahead and hoped to blend in with the others at her table. But how her pleats and pearls were going to fit in with all the rivets and leather she didn’t know exactly.
Mr. Morrow looked down. “When Ben Evans’s grandfather came to me and told me about Ben’s leukemia and his medical bills at the Children’s Hospital, I knew that all the Summerbrook civic organizations had to get involved in a big way. We’re all going to work together like we haven’t before.”
The handsome biker with the blue eyes and hard, angular jawline leaned in his chair and closed the space between them. She clutched her purse even tighter to minimize her presence at the table. She turned her attention back to Mr. Morrow.
“We’re all going to undertake multiple projects as quickly as we can for Ben. Those medical bills aren’t going away after only one fundraiser. Each table or team will choose a date for their event and the type of project they want to sponsor,” Mr. Morrow explained.
When Mr. Morrow finished, an old, woolly-bearded man in leather chaps stood up. “Jim, most of you know that Ben is my grandson. Oh, for those of you who don’t know, I’m Patch Evans.”
She’d had no idea who the man was—even though she knew Ben’s family well. Ben’s dad, Purvis Evans, had recently been laid off at the local car dealership, and his mom worked at April’s bank as a teller. She wouldn’t have guessed that Ben had motorcycle riders in his background. Not that that was bad or anything. It’s just that people in small Southern towns usually shared similar interests with their family members. Families were tightly woven units below the Mason-Dixon. Take a family who likes country club living…well, they all usually belong to the club. Take a family who likes NASCAR, well, mostly they’re hanging out together at the local racetrack.
She broke away from her thoughts when the old man choked out a few more words. “My family is terribly grateful for all your help.”
The lean bomber-jacket guy beside her moved again in his seat and looked into his lap. She was careful not to let him see her glancing at him from the corner of her eye. All the emotion in the room and at her table caught her off guard. Maybe that was why she was so…so…twitchy.
“No problem, Patch.” Mr. Morrow checked his watch. “In about an hour, we’ll stop and discuss what each team has decided. In the meantime, I’ll walk around and make sure we’re talking about different dates for each of the events.” He turned as the door behind him opened. “Betsy here will take your drink orders if anyone’s thirsty. Her sweet tea is so good, you’ll think your tongue will slap your brains out.”
Betsy smiled hugely at the compliment. She didn’t seem to mind the crevice between her teeth. Or the unusual expression of praise. April wished she could be less uptight—like Betsy. But April worried about most everything, a trait she grew up recoiling from because of her own overprotective mother. And old-fashioned grandmother.
Betsy leaned over to take a drink order from the table beside her and April saw something Betsy would have minded. She had a small split in the seam of her trousers. April’s heart ached for her. Gapped teeth and pants.
Chairs grated on the tile floor as people settled down in their groups to talk. April glanced at the table to her left. No room to move her chair. She peered at the table behind her. If she turned her seat around, it would look bad. She eyed the door. But she couldn’t leave. For so many reasons.
At her table, a middle-aged man with a red bandana said, “How ’bout I start. I got some ideas you guys might like. Oh, excuse me. And ladies. I’m Crank Allman, by the way.”
What kind of ideas did these people have? Coming up with names like Crank and Patch—not to mention Slug. In all her twenty-six years, she’d never heard of so many odd monikers in one place. At one table. Whatever happened to names like Bill and Bob?
She twirled the pearl ring on her left hand and noticed how much it looked like a wedding band when the pearl was on the palm side, so she left it that way. Wouldn’t hurt if anyone there thought she was married.
“I’m gonna need me a secretary, though.” Crank paused. “How ’bout you?”
She didn’t look up. He couldn’t possibly be talking to her. She was planning to move her chair to the sweater-and-pearls table as soon as it wouldn’t look so obvious. These people probably didn’t want her in their group anyway. She was merely waiting for the right moment to oblige.
The bomber-jacket guy next to her reached for her arm. “I think he’s talking to you.”
She startled at his touch. His strong hand was warm and almost electric. She tried to smile. “I don’t know that I’ll be here that much longer. Maybe someone else should volunteer.”
“I’ll take over if she has to leave early,” said the blue-eyed man sitting next to her. He smiled and handsome lines formed parentheses on each side of his mouth. The angles of his jawline and his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth made him look like a male model in one of those Armani suit ads. Without the suit, of course. “The two of us can share being secretary.”
He had to be kidding. She tried to hide the concern from showing in her face. There wasn’t a pig’s chance at the Miss Summerbrook Fire Queen Pageant she was going to stick around—not with the cookbook clan merely feet away. She didn’t know a single one of the people at her table. But she couldn’t let on to them right now that she was uneasy. And had a completely different agenda. She had to go along for the time being.
Think, girl, think. There had to be a discreet way out of this. If there was, she was going to figure it out. She always did.
Crank tossed a spiral notebook onto the table. “You each need to write down your name, address, and phone number so our secretary—excuse me—secretaries can keep a record in case we need you for something before our next meeting.” When the good-looking man beside her received the list, she watched as he wrote, “Bull Clayton.”
Bull? The Ladies League gals would have boyfriends and husbands named Preston and Tillman and Hamilton. There was just no end to the crazy things bikers called themselves. Bull looked nothing like a thick male bovine as his name implied. A svelte stallion, maybe. When he finished writing his phone number, he pushed the notebook in front of her.
She couldn’t write her address and phone number in there. Who knew where that list would end up? And even though nothing would probably come of jotting down her number, she didn’t need to take the chance. In fact, she’d been the one at her agency to order and distribute the pamphlets on personal safety last month. Single women living alone shouldn’t advertise their addresses and phone numbers. That was rule number one. At least the accident had had one positive effect—steering her toward a suitable career—a career at which she excelled in being careful.
She glanced up at Bull, who still had his arm extended and hand on the spiral notebook. A feeling of fireflies fluttering in her lower tummy warmed her in a way she’d never experienced. Her body wasn’t being careful at all.
This was all too difficult to absorb and she felt a twinge deep inside her head. Oh, no. Another of her stupid headaches was trying to settle in. The whole evening had been filled with tension. Of course, a migraine would follow.
She closed her eyes. The flashes of light came first, and then the old crash came rushing back. The screams. The sirens. The fire.
She opened her eyes and shook her head. If only she could erase what the Rebels had done. But that was impossible.
There had to be a way for her to deal with this problem. All she had to do was analyze it and sort it out. That might be hard to do at the table; however, all the bikers were busily talking to one another and weren’t paying any attention to her. Thank goodness.
Just then Betsy walked toward her. April took off her sweater, whispered in Betsy’s ear, and wrapped the sweater around Betsy’s waist. She gave April the most beautiful smile ever.
Great. The bikers were still debating something. No one had seen.
Her phone vibrated. Jenna. With the phone in her lap and hidden by the table, April texted back.
Can’t talk now.
April’s head tensed more. Another text from Jenna.
What’s wrong?
April took another deep breath, trying to compose herself, trying to keep the headache away.
Long story. I’ll call when I’m out of here.
She really needed to pay more attention to what was going on at the table. Lucky for her, she was off their radar. Her cell vibrated again.
Out of where? I thought you were at league thing with the girls.
She wasn’t going to get rid of Jenna without an explanation so she texted where she was and what had happened.
…but this guy named Bull helped me out, so I’m okay.
April sucked in a deep breath. Little lights twinkled in her vision from the headache that was trying to get a foothold in her brain.
Maybe answering Jenna’s text wasn’t such a good idea. She had a tendency to be overly alarmist. And obviously April had a tendency to be overly stupid for telling Jenna anything. No imagining what she was going to do.
Maybe April should just leave. But what if Slug was still out there? He hadn’t come back to the banquet room, and his motorcycle had been parked beside her car. By now, he could have rounded up all his friends from the other corners of the restaurant.
She had to be reasonable, though. He shouldn’t be upset at her because he hadn’t fixed his own kickstand.
There was another problem with leaving, as well. What would she tell Mr. Houseman? And Ben? She couldn’t face letting him slip away. Then there was the league. Too much was at stake. Whatever it takes.
No matter what, she was going to stay. Tonight. She could always call Mr. Morrow next week and ask to be reassigned to another group—even if it wasn’t the league ladies—as long as she did something to help Ben. Bull pushed the notebook back in front of her. She stole another look at the handsome man. Humph. Nothing like Bull had ever ridden into Summerbrook before.
She needed to get her mind on the work at hand, though. As she read some of his words, she became confused.
With finality in his voice, Crank said, “So, the weekend of April 28th is the best date.”
Curiosity got the best of her. It sounded like they were planning to do something big the weekend of her birthday. She raised her hand again. “Excuse me.” She cleared her throat. “What exactly are you doing, and what does ‘Bikers for Ben’ and ‘Ride for a Reason’ mean?”
Crank said, “Well, we decided that we’d do a charity bike ride, gettin’ sponsors to donate money for each mile we ride from Summerbrook to the Charleston Battery and then on to the Children’s Hospital.”
She lowered her head and tapped her pencil. In a low voice she said, “What about a bake sale or a charity auction or something?”
A burley man with a handlebar mustache and muttonchops spoke up after everyone chuckled. “We don’t know nothin’ ’bout no bakin’ or no auctionin’. All’s we know is bikes.”
Bull had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and she could see muscular definition in his forearms. Was he ever fit. “What Chops means is that rides are what we know best to raise money. We’ve done it before. It’s what we do well.” He smiled that same Hollywood smile that she’d noticed before—the one that kept taking her off guard.
He moved his arms forward on the table and she saw a piece of a tattoo, but as quickly as she saw it, he tugged at his shirt and it disappeared under his sleeve again.
“But I thought—” April stopped midsentence. She’d be home soon and the whole thing could be their little kettle of fish. “I’m sorry. A biker-rider thingy is fine. Just fine,” she said as she leaned back in her chair.
“Good,” said Bull. “Because you and I are in charge of permits and advertising.” He smiled again, the left side inching up more than the right. No, it wasn’t quite a smile. It was more of a grin.
With his perfectly straight teeth. If someone would turn him in on one of those makeover shows and cut and style his hair, he’d be downright dangerous. But he didn’t know what he was talking about because she wasn’t about to help with any of their far-fetched ideas. She couldn’t. With her aging father’s cardiac condition, it would absolutely kill him if he ever found out.
The man named Crank explained all about what they had decided. She sat there biding her time and tried to blend in with the furniture. Then her cell rang. So much for trying to look inconspicuous.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She pressed the phone to her head as tightly as she could and bent down toward the table. Everyone in the group grew silent as Jenna’s voice barreled through the little cell phone.
“I called Mr. Houseman. He said he can’t help you right now. April, I think you could be in a lot of danger. I asked around about that Bull guy and found out he had been involved with Rebel Angels. Those people might have chains or knives—or even guns.”
Yeah, they might. But why would they want to use them on her? Because she was wearing pleats?
Jenna’s voice grew even louder, if that were possible. “Be careful. Stay away from the bikers and get your butt home.”
“Jenna, don’t be ridiculous. I’ll talk to you later.” April quickly ended the call and looked up at Bull. He raised his eyebrow, and a strange expression covered his handsome face. It was almost another smile. Wait. No. It was a smirk. She knew it. He’d heard everything Jenna had said—about the chains, the knives…and Rebel Angels.
How dare he be snarky with her? She sat up, glanced around, and realized by the looks on their faces that the others had heard Jenna, too.
Before, she was merely being paranoid, but now she had a real reason to worry. That phone call would have insulted anyone. In Jenna’s effort to be a mother hen, she’d actually made the situation worse.
She had two options. She could stand, run, and take her chances in the parking lot with the chains and knives Jenna had mentioned, or she could prove them all wrong. Being the chicken that she was, she said, “Well, people. When do we get started?”

About the author: Vicki is a native of the Charleston, South Carolina, Lowcountry and loves to share her enchantment with the area with readers through her writing. Even in childhood, she enjoyed penning stories and poems—no doubt fueled by her grandfather's enthusiasm for telling tales himself. Where else—but in the South—could one find the interesting blend of salt water, eerie swamps, unwritten traditions and unique characters? In her spare time, she loves traveling, spending weekends at her family's lake house, playing golf and cooking (with lots of wine). 

Author Links:
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If your book was made into a TV series or movie, what actors would you like to see playing your characters? Feel free to add pics.

Okay, this is a fun question. The hero would have to be played by Charlie Hunnam, who plays Jax in Sons of Anarchy. Yes, because he knows how to ride a Harley, and he already has that sexy, longer, mussed up hair. He’s the kind of guy you’d have to forgive no matter what he’s done in his past—just so you could sit and—um—look at him. Am I right? And the heroine’s role would go to Michelle Williams. She has a vulnerability and an innocence that make her perfect to play April. What opposites! They are who I think about when I think of April and Bullworth in Bikers and Pearls!

How long do you think about a story before starting to write the book?

I usually think about a story for approximately a month, taking notes, outlining it and doing research. Then it takes about a month to actually write the first draft, and then it takes several weeks before it’s in any kind of shape to be shown to anyone. My first drafts are story only. There is little dialogue and I don’t pay much attention to grammar either. I just let the story flow in that first draft. It is when I have the most fun as a writer.

Was there anything (or anyone) while growing up which helped you decide you wanted to be a writer?

Without knowing it, my grandfather did. I used to sit on his front porch and listen to him tell stories about all sorts of things—including some ghost stories I wish he hadn’t told me at the time. He’d fill them with all sorts of Southern folklore. He also sang folk songs. Though he didn’t have a singer’s voice, I loved the stories embedded in them. And when I looked for one, they had messages or themes in them, too.

  

Favorite childhood memory?

Well, that would be the answer from the previous question—sitting on my grandfather’s front porch!

Most __________ in High School?

“Most Unexpected to Write a Book.” I know that’s a strange answer because I was already writing and had been since I was a child. Stories, poems and songs came to me all the time. But I didn’t share that with ANY of my high school friends. I did, however, share my notebook of poems with my English teacher. And she lost it.

Anyway, in high school, I didn’t look like a stellar student. I took one book home on one day my senior year.

I was into fashion and friends and boys and parties. I was somehow learning, though. My senior English teacher taught me to love literature in spite of herself, and when I took the Princeton CLEP Test the next year, I “clepped” 30 hours of college credit! Holy Cow! Was I ever shocked! I started college as a sophomore.

But if my high school peers had to vote, they never would have guessed that I’d EVER write a book.

The irony and absurdity go on, though. Just before I became a “recovering English teacher,” I put in a couple of years at a struggling high school because I wanted to make a real difference before I gave up my teaching career for writing. In addition to hosting Student Superlative voting, the school hosted a vote for Teacher Superlatives. And guess what title I won? Best Dressed. What? Do I not look like a writer? And, BTW, I write in my pajamas. Not glamorous. At all.

If someone wrote a book about your life, what would the title be?

A Southern Soul

Do you have a literary crush?

That would be Charles Frazier. What he did in Cold Mountain was revolutionary. And he’s pretty darn cute, too!

Talk or text?

Text for anything mundane. It eliminates the chit-chat that some people enjoy. When I am on deadline, listening to chit-chat is like listening to fingernails grating on chalkboards. For anything important, please call!

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