It's finally here!! You can find me this morning (and late-afternoon) at The Eternal Press Reader's Loop!! Stop by and leave a comment to enter your name into the hat for a $10 GC to Amazon.com. I'll be sharing excerpts, answering questions, and trying to pretend I know what I'm doing!
Then, later in the evening, come say hello at the Eternal Press Live Chat. I'm very nervous about this, so friendly faces would be most welcome.
Can't wait to see you there!!
Dead, Undead, or Somewhere in Between Blurb:
One bad corpse can ruin your whole day. No one knows that better than Rhiannon Murphy.
She left behind the flash and sass of Miami for the no-nonsense groove of New York City, eager for a clean slate and a fresh start. A bartender by trade, a loud mouth by choice, and a necromancer by chance; she managed to keep her nifty talent hidden from those around her—until now.
The deliciously good-looking vampire, Disco, knows her secret. When he strolls into her bar to solicit help investigating the mysterious disappearances of his kind from the city, Rhiannon discovers he’s not the kind of person that appreciates the significance of the word no.
But in a world where vampires peddle their blood as the latest and greatest drug of choice, it’s only a matter of time before the next big thing hits the market. Someone or something is killing vampires to steal their hearts, and unlike Rhiannon, this isn’t their first stroll around the undead block.
Rhiannon’s Law #27. When you’re working in a gentlemen’s club and one of your dancers takes off those heels, alert the big guns, an ass kicking is on the menu.
Lacey finished her set and started working the room. The flashing lights from the stage mixed with the saturated cigarette and cigar smoke to create a fog effect that surrounded her shoulders in a swirling vortex. Her body was slim and tan inside a white rhinestone bikini, full hips rotating from side to side like a broken linebacker as she prowled to a table with men in expensive business suits. She bent low, full red lips whispering huskily and plastic breasts straining provocatively. Perfect legs flexed as her spine tilted back, three-inch clear, plastic heels with gold fish floating inside giving added height and muscle tone.
Any good dancer knows how to work the clientele, and Lacey was a pro. She raked in a majority of the house take, and her regulars came from miles around just for a private. She was deceptively young looking, with long blonde hair and big baby-blue eyes, which were a huge part of her attraction. She would never reveal her age, but since I was on the welcoming committee—AKA the department of industrial relations—I was in the know. A twenty-two year old that looked illegal as hell.
The men ate that jailbait shit up with a spoon.
“How much for a lap dance, sweetheart?”
I glanced at the owner of the voice, and no surprise, he wasn’t anything special. Just another Joe Schmo dressed in his screw me best. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that line, I could quit my blow hole job and retire, enjoying the good life without millions of assholes just like this one who thought they were so quick.
I waited. I knew what was coming next. That’s another perk of having asshole customers—predictability.
“I bet you get asked that question all the time.”
I gave my sweetest smile. The one that says “aw shucks” on the outside and a big huge “fuck you” on the inside.
Let’s see, genius. I’m a female, working inside a bar that just so happens to feature exotic dancers. I have all my teeth, a decent body of my own, and although I hit the big 2-5 recently, I could pass for years younger. Nope, no one would ever think to ask me that question. Who cares if I’m standing behind a bar peddling liquor? Those bottles could just be another part of my act.
I moved down the drunken assembly line. I had beers to refill, drinks to concoct, and other witty Casanovas with well-researched one-liner’s to endure.
Erica took the stage. Her tanned skin like leather, too dark and too fake, matching the breasts she purchased a decade before. My eyes stalked her as I refilled a request for Hennessey. Every exotic bar has a queen bitch, and Erica was ours. She lived to start drama, thrived on it. Her damage stemmed from the fact she was the oldest of our dancers and passed her prime a few years ago.
Stripping is not a fair or unbiased career field. Your body and looks are your livelihood. Once those two things go, it’s only a matter of time before you punch your last T&A ticket. And Erica’s stub was wilting faster than a golden wrapped candy bar that would gain her admittance into the chocolate factory.
“How much for a lap dance, sweetheart?” a familiar voice mocked.
I didn’t have to look up. I would know that silky baritone anywhere.
“Not now, Disco.” My eyes tracked Erica as her number finished and she eased over to Lacey’s table. I concentrated on their body language, focusing on her face, paying close attention.
“Bad night?” he asked, peering over his shoulder.
I took a passing glance while he was distracted. He was dressed from head to toe in black, like every other night. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. The color complimented him.
“Not yet,” I answered in my usual wait and see voice.
Lacey and Erica came face to face and began talking quietly. So far, so good—shoes on and voices low. Maybe I was wrong, maybe it wouldn’t be one of those nights.
Please God, make it so.