Major Giveaway Coming Soon!

Just a quick announcement. On Sunday, I will share the details of the BIG giveaway I’ve planned. I’m thrilled and excited, because it’s a seriously awesome price. 

I’m dropping hints as to what it might be on my Facebook page. So far I can tell you this: 


That’s all I’m saying for now. Make sure you check my homepage, or my Facebook page on Sunday. Trust me you don’t want to miss this!  

Dear Victim-Blamers #BrockTurner

****Warning! This isn’t book related. It’s me being pissed off!****

Dear Victim-Blamers,

I’ve been watching you for a while now—your vicious comments, your cowardly rants—all the hate you’re spreading through social media. The blame you’re putting on a girl that had been through hell and back disgusts me. Yet I chose to stay quiet. I chose to believe that some of you simply don’t know better, while others might need to conjure up excuses for their own sick fantasies. I told myself that when Emily’s letter couldn’t cure your narrow-minds than nothing ever would. So, I stayed away from the comment sections of articles about Emily Doe and the Stanford Rapist. I closed my eyes and pretended you don’t exist. All was good. Until your viciousness followed me to the real life. Until I came face to face with a bunch of you. Until I heard your kind speaking ill of a girl they don’t even know, in a public place, where I had my coffee.

“I don’t get all the fuss. She doesn’t even remember it.”

“I bet she liked it and only came up with that rape shit because she was scared her boyfriend would leave her.”

“She was wasted. If chicks can’t handle booze they should stay away from it.”

“I have a sister. I’d kill a guy if he hurt her, but if she was unconscious how did she know he fingered her?”

“Nowadays, women scream rape all the time. They need the attention. Why else would she write such a letter and put it online?”

Do you recognize your words? Those are only five quotes of your one and a half hour rant. I asked you politely to stop that shit. I tried to reason with you, though, I knew it was pointless. You just laughed in my face and kept going.

Now, I’m left with no choice. I can no longer pretend you don’t exist when you intrude my life with your hate. So, I’m writing you this letter. Again, your narrow-minded kind will most definitely ignore these words. You will pretend they don’t exist like I did with your hate. And yet I’m writing them, hoping that someone will force these words on you as you forced your hate on me and the world.

Now, before I start I’d like to make one thing clear: I have NEVER been RAPED. So, I don’t know what it feels like to walk in Emily’s—or any other victim’s—shoes. Reading Emily’s letter, I can only assume what hell she must have been through. I wouldn’t know how empty you must feel when you decide you “…don’t want your body anymore”. I couldn’t tell you how it feels when the most precious thing you have is taken from you—yourself.

But what I can tell you is what it means to be a woman.

I had the privilege to grow up with two older brothers. They had always treated me like one of their own, never told me “You can’t do that, ’cause you’re a girl.” I was six when they took me to my first kick-boxing lessons, seven when they introduced me to the world of action and horror movies. We shared a deep rooted love for superhero comics and fancy cars. They were also the ones who bought me my first skirts and dresses and encouraged me to wear whatever the hell I wanted without taking too much care of what others thought of me. I loved short skirts—still do—and tight jeans. I liked dressing up and putting on some make-up. That didn’t mean I loved the dirty looks I got when I went out with my friends. Neither did it mean that I wanted some dude’s attention. All I did was trying to be me.

How naively I was back then. Spoiled by my brothers, to believe that all men were like them. That it didn’t matter what I wore, but rather who I was. Not all men were like them, a lesson I had to learn the hard way.

“She was wasted. If chicks can’t handle booze they should stay away from it.”

When I was eighteen I worked in a sports bar, waiting tables to earn some money so I could go out, buy books and nice clothes. My boss, a woman, was tough, but fair. The day I’d started my job, she said, “If a guy harasses you, don’t hesitate, tell him to get the fuck out and don’t ever come back.” I loved her for it, because I had just quit a job in some fancy hotel where my supervisor thought it was okay for rich, old, guys to grope me. I disagreed.

A few months later, we had some VIPs at the bar. They drank champagne, had hot girls by their sides and acted like total douchebags. I was lucky, though. I got to work the pool-hall instead of the bowling lane. They wouldn’t come up and I wouldn’t go down.

Around 3 a.m. I finished my shift and came down. My best friend had come to pick me up. She waited for me at the bar, chatting with her boyfriend, who had been a waiter too. My feet ached and since they were flirting, I figured I take a seat and have a coke before I go home. I just sat when another one of my colleagues put two glasses of champagne down in front of us.

I looked at him. “What is that?”

I should have known something wasn’t right when his face slipped into a frown. “You’ve been invited,” he muttered, pointing to the VIPs.

I peeked over my shoulder. A few feet away, stood a forty-something guy—expensive suit, slimy hair, creepy eyes. The way his gaze drifted over my body made me shiver. I shoved the glass away. “No, thanks.”

Only seconds later, my boss approached me. She glared at me. “Did you just say no to that drink?” she asked, angrily.

I nodded and she started lecturing me about how important these people were and that I couldn’t treat them like this.

Remember, all I did was say no to alcohol. I wasn’t wasted. I did stay away from booze, even though I could have handled it.

Since I couldn’t argue with my boss, I politely excused myself and dragged my BFF to the restrooms. She had been so busy with her boyfriend the whole situation had been lost on her. I filled her in and by the time we reached the restrooms, we both agreed it was time to go.

The ladies room was empty. Most customers were long gone. A sick feeling crawled up my throat and for a second I contemplated to run. From what? I had no idea. But nature called and so I locked the door of the box behind me. Moments later, I heard muffled voices. I called for my friend and asked if she said something. She assured me she hadn’t.

The voices grew louder and all of a sudden I recognized them for what they were—the voices of two men. The blood in my veins froze. What were two men doing in the ladies room? Had they not seen the sign? Did they walk through the wrong door? Surely, it must have been a misunderstanding. Maybe they were too drunk to read.

My stomach twisted and I waited a little longer, hoping they’d go away. They didn’t and I couldn’t stay in there forever. When I heard my BFF’S door unlock, I walked out.

I saw him first—the guy who bought me champagne, the booze I didn’t drink. He stood in the door frame, blocking the only exit. After twelve years, I can still see the wicked grin on his face. I still remember his smug look and the scent of booze and sweat wafting my way.

My friend and I stood there, waiting for him to step aside. He didn’t. Behind me, I heard laughter. I spun and found the second voice. A tall, well-groomed man with an equally dirty look on his face. I knew right then and there that we were in big trouble. My head reeled and I started making plans—kick the one blocking the door in the nuts, gouge out his eyes, and then, RUN.

“What are you doing here?” my friend asked.

“You know what we want,” the one behind me said.

“You wanted us to follow,” the guy in the door added.

The preying look of the Champagne dude made me furious. I wasn’t going to stand there and wait till they did what they were here to do. I was going to fight them both if I had to. Now, you can be a trained kick-boxer all you want, two drunk guys are a problem. The alcohol had made them numb to pain and they were tall and well-built. We were beyond screwed. Nevertheless, I moved toward him and shoved him back. He trembled slightly and that was it.

Just when I got ready to kick, the door behind him swung open and our security walked in. He looked at us, at them. Putting one and one together, he faced me and said, “Get out. Now.”

He didn’t have to tell us twice. We ran. I needed to tell my boss what had happened. These guys were dangerous. So, I ran right to her and told her everything.

She listened patiently and then she said, “Why did you go to the restrooms? Why couldn’t you wait?”

“Why did you go to the restrooms? Why couldn’t you wait?”

All I did was refusing to drink booze, which clearly your kind believes to be at fault in Emily’s case, and go to the restrooms. I didn’t ask these guys to follow me. I didn’t smile at them. I didn’t tell them to stalk two eighteen-year-olds to the toilets. Yet I was the one who had been blamed for their mistakes.

I’ve just turned thirty and, sadly, this is just one of many stories where men thought they had the right to violate my private space. I’ve always been lucky, found a way out of these situations, but are we supposed to live like that? Does a woman have to be scared to go to the restrooms? Do we not have the right to live as we please? To drink without being terrified of what some sicko might do to us?

Being a woman means justifying yourself even though you did nothing wrong.

Why does society look in a woman’s past and say: Why did she walk alone in the middle of the night? Why did she drink too much? Why did she have to wear such a short skirt? When they should be asking: Why the fuck did he think he could attack her because she walked home after work? Why did he think that an unconscious girl would want his penis inside her? What gives him the right to touch her because she wears a skirt?

Society—that’s all of us. Even you, victim-blamers. Now, you can go on, pretending that women are at fault for everything. You can close your eyes and hide from the truth, but what you cannot do is: judge our behavior. We are free to do whatever the hell we want, without fearing for our lives. And next time you start ranting about stuff you know nothing off, remember that it could happen to you one day.


The Girl From The Neighboring table.

From The Diary Of A Travelling Writer

It’s no secret that I travel a lot. I must have spent more nights at airports than in my own bed, more hours on planes than on the ground. Travelling isn’t just a part of me, it’s pretty much who I am. People often ask me if I don’t feel like settling down. You know, making a home for myself.

I always smile and say: “I have a home. It’s just a little bigger than yours and I happen to share it with 8 billion housemates.”  

The universals reaction to that reply is either the WTF look or the damn-I’d-love-to-join-you expression. 

Now, I’m not writing this blog post to brag, or anything. Hell, no. Truth is, nothing about my travelling life is glamorous. I don’t sleep in 5-star hotels, don’t dine in fancy restaurants. Instead, I tend to live with locals wherever I go, lived in Mumbai’s slums, spent a night on the beach of Cannes, and seen/experienced some bad shit.

So, why am I doing it, then? Here’s why: 

About two years ago, I waited in line at Milan/Malpensa Airport’s immigration. The queue was literally endless, dozens of families and travellers eager to get to their final destination. I’m used to waiting, but I’d been moody all day and just wanted to get to my hostel. In need of some distraction, I plugged my earbuds in, chose my favorite Iron Maiden song, turned the volume of my phone to a max, and started checking my emails.  

I fought through the mess I call inbox when someone tapped me on the shoulder. No need to say, I was expecting a mad fellow traveller complaining about my music taste, but when I peeked over my shoulder I was greeted with a brilliant smile, thick black hair and sapphire eyes. The dude—who looked like he walked right out of a rockstar romance novel—moved his lips.

And I? Well, I didn’t hear a thing. I took me a moment to realize I didn’t suffer from hearing impairment, but couldn’t hear him due to my earbuds. After standing there like an idiot, trying to read his lips I finally pulled one out. He was total flirt material but, as I mentioned, I was grumpy and when I’m in a bad mood I’m bitch incarnated. So, I cocked a brow and pretty much barked, “What?”

He held up an immigration card. “Do you have a pen?” 

I always have a pen. Searching through the mess I call a bag, I pulled one out and handed it to him. “Guess, it’s your lucky day.”

Still smiling he said, “Must be. I met you.” 

Good looks or not, I always hated cheesy pick up lines. So, I returned to my emails.

“Would it be rude to ask where you’re going?” 

I was so not up for small-talk with Mr. Cheesy, but he struck me as the kinda guy who wouldn’t just stop. “Milan.” 

“For work or leisure?”


“I’m form Canada.” 

“I know,” I grumbled. 

His eyes went wide. “What? How?”

“I’m psychic.” 

The look on his face was priceless. “Really?” 

He totally believed my bullshit. I rolled my eyes and pointed at his passport. “No. I saw your passport.”  

Mr. Cheesy threw his head back and laughed hysterically. Seriously, everyone in that line turned and stared. “You’re hilarious,” he said through bursts of laughter.

I was beginning to wonder if he was on drugs. “You should fill out your immigration card,” I suggested, hoping he’d leave me alone to sulk in my bad mood. 

“And you should come with me.” 

I had no earbuds in my ears this time, but I had to have imagined that. “Come again?”

He ran a hand through his hair and moved a little closer. “Milan is just a pit-stop. I’m off to South Africa and you should come with me.”

“Sure,” I said, convinced he was joking.

He wasn’t. “I’m being serious. I know it sounds crazy—”

“Creepy, or insane would fit the bill, too.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But hear me out before you say ‘no’, okay?”

There was nothing he could have said or done that would have changed my mind, but my curiosity got the best of me. “I’m listening.”

He pushed his bloody expensive camera to the side and straightened. “When I woke up, today, I had this weird feeling.” 

He was weird. 

“I just knew I had to pack my stuff and board a plane. So, I went to the mall, found a travel agency, and booked the next free flight. Two hours later, I boarded the plane and now I’m here with you. That’s fate.” 

Here’s the thing: I never believed in fate. “Nope, that’s you being bored.” 

He spent the whole hour—yeah, it took an hour to get through immigration—trying to talk me into hitching a plane to South Africa with him. I tried to reason with him, told him I had to work and that it was totally insane to ask a girl if she wanted to run away with a dude she barely knew. 

He wasn’t going to back down, though, and by the time we both left the airport, he had shared his whole life story with me. His name was Jay, favorite color red, single child, his mom made the best Nanaimo bar in the whole wide world (I didn’t even know what that was, but nodded politely), and his ex-girlfriend was still his best friend.

I didn’t want to be impressed, but the I-still-like-my-ex-thing kinda got to me. Of course, that wasn’t reason enough to go to South Africa with him, but I did grab an airport coffee with Jay. Turned out, he was even crazier than me. We had and amazing time and plenty of laughs. My bad mood? Long gone.

After the second Americano, I was certain about three things: Jay was weird but in a pretty cool way, he was still very much in love with his ex, and the sudden urge to board a plane was an attempt to run from his own feelings. I’m  the last person who should give relationship advice, but I told him what someone once told me. “Don’t be the guy who looks in the mirror, one day, and sees all the things he could have done. Be the guy who looks at his reflection and sees all the things he has done.” 

Jay eventually boarded his flight to South Africa—alone. And I made it to my hostel.

About a year later, I walked through Canadian immigration. Jay and I had stayed friends and he’d invited me to his wedding with his beautiful ex-girlfriend turned wife.

So, yeah. This is why I’m not ready to settle down. There are so many amazing people out there, waiting to share their stories and I intend to listen.     






Chapter 1 Reveal & Giveaway

OMG it’s the 1st of May. Do you know what that means? Karma releases in 4 days. I had no idea a release day could be so freaking exciting and so damn scary at the same time. I’ve been up all night, trying to get some much needed sleep, but all I could think of was: Will they love it? Will they hate it?   


Well, you tell me…. Here’s Chapter 1: 

An electric hum charges the chilly air. The ghostly light of a bulb flickers. Seconds later, I gaze into Baphomet’s onyx eyes. He lingers over a naked couple chained to his harpy feet, guarding them like a sphinx, imprisoning them like a warden.

“Oh my freakin’ gosh! Is that…Is that the devil?” Redhead screams. The look on her high-school-queen- bee face is priceless.

I take a deep breath. “Yes,” I say, swallowing the laughter that crawls up my throat. “It’s the devil.”

Redhead presses a palm against her chest. “Sweet baby Jesus. Does that mean I’m…I’m going to hell?” Her otherwise brown aura, indicating self-absorption, is gray. In other words, she’s petrified.

The chick is obviously not the sharpest tool in the shed, and I doubt hell recruits stupid cheerleaders. I fake a smile and wave her question off. “Nah, don’t worry. In the tarot, the devil represents desire and passion.” I point to the card deck. “Draw another one.”

Her delicate fingers fly over the cards, and she pulls the sixth major arcana card out of the pile. The lovers.

Redhead’s sapphire eyes gleam. “I know what that means. He loves me, right?”

The devil and the lovers? That’s as bad as a relationship can get. When her fingers accidently brush mine, I get a glimpse of how bad it’ll be.


The fluorescent lights of the ER blinded Redhead. Closing her eyes, she reminded herself this was her fault. She should have never asked him about the other girl. She’d gotten a taste of his temper before and knew better than to challenge him. But that damn jealousy had gotten the best of her.

“Can you hear me?” the doctor asked, worried.

She wanted to answer, wanted to tell him she was fine, but she could hardly breathe. It felt like the air hit an invisible wall inside her bleeding nose. Parting her bruised lips, she gasped for oxygen, but the taste of sanitizer made her sick.

“Miss Rosewood, can you hear me?” The doctor’s rich voice hammered through her brain.

She swallowed the pins and needles in her throat. “Yes.”

“How did this happen?”
 Every muscle in her body tensed. “I…I…fell.”


I shake the brutal vision off. Every fortune-teller with a conscience would tell Redhead to stay the hell away from this guy. The thing is, if I tell her the truth, she’ll accuse me of lying, and being called a liar is the doom of a clairvoyant. Luckily, I don’t have a conscience.

“You guys are star-crossed lovers.”

“Really?” she squeaks, like the dumb cheerleader she is.

“Yeah, course. Even Romeo and Juliet would envy you guys.” If she doesn’t hear the sarcasm in my voice, she totally deserves someone who’ll beat the crap out of her. Besides, the whole Romeo and Juliet reference should put her on high alert. Yeah, I know, people think of them as the ultimate couple. But did they actually read the play? Let’s summarize their fate: first Romeo wants Rosalind. Why? Because she’s a nun, and guys dig things they can’t have. Then Juliet, another forbidden fruit, comes along. Unfortunately, she’s dumb enough to fall for his shit, and bada bing, bada boom, they both end up dead. Some call that romantic. I prefer stupid.

Her aura radiates fifty shades of red. Making an educated guess, I’d say she didn’t get the hint. Hey, at least I tried.

Pleased, she pulls a hundred-dollar bill from her bag and puts it on the table. “You’re amazing.”

“I know,” I reply flatly before shoving the money in my black lace bra. “Now get out and send the next one in.”

The chick doesn’t even mind my rudeness. “Thanks. Thank you so much.” She sounds like a broken record, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the door slams shut behind her.

Waiting for my next client, I gather the cards. The foulness of the air bugs me a little. I hate rundown motel rooms, but they add to the mystery, and in my business, it’s all about being mysterious. Harpers Ferry is my third stop in the last two weeks. Small town folk are good clients. They hunger for the perfect house, perfect husband, perfect kids. If they could, they’d even try to breed the perfect dog. No need to say this makes me perfectly sick. But beggars can’t be choosers, and all I need is another five hundred bucks, and then I can kiss my old life goodbye.

A faint knock, then the door swings open. My next client is a middle-aged woman accompanied by her daughter. What kind of a mother drags her kid to a fortune-teller? I straighten and wave them over. The little girl is about ten, but she still sucks her thumb.

“Are you a witch?” the blonde angel asks, precariously.

I totally prefer the term Wise Independent Tremendously Charismatic Human, but before I get a chance to clarify, her mother interferes. “They said you could help us.”

They? Who the heck are they? And did she just say help them? Who the hell does she think I am, Mother Theresa? “You want to know if your daughter will become the next Miss America, am I right?” A little sarcasm never hurts.

The woman steps closer. The flames of the black candles shed light on her wrinkled face. “Please kill my husband,” she says, throwing a bundle of hundreds on the table. My guess is about ten thousand dollars.

“Lady, I’m a fortune-teller, not an assassin,” I say, never taking my eyes off the money.

“You’re a witch.”

I cock a brow. “Still not an assassin.”

“He hurts her,” she whispers, pointing to the kid.
I know he does. I’d sensed her heartache the moment they walked in. I might tell lies for a living, but I tend to see the truth when no one else does. The aura of the little girl is a dark, muddy gray, evidence of a broken soul.

“Call the cops and get a divorce.”

The woman pushes the little girl in my lap. “Please, I’m begging you. Help her.”

Hazel eyes, clouded with misery and sorrow, look right through me. That son of a bitch robbed her of her innocence and left her drowning in self-hatred. Shivers run down my spine. Shit. I have no intention of bearing witness to the bastard’s barbaric crime. It’s a real shame visions don’t ask for permission.


She stared at the gleaming stars on her ceiling. Her mother had put them there to keep the darkness at bay, but it didn’t work. The room was gloomy. She knew the monster would come for her. It would look like her dad, but that was just a disguise. Her real dad would never do such things to her. He loved her. She thought of the puppy he’d once bought for her and the places he had taken her. A monster could never be so kind.

The creaking of the wooden door stopped her heart. She pulled the blanket over her head and started to count.

One, two, three. The blanket pulled back. Four, five six.A wet kiss. Seven, eight, nine.“I love you, princess.”


I push the fragile body of the girl away. Her pain. Her destiny. I don’t give a shit about any of it. “Take your money and get the hell outta here.”

The woman’s jaw drops. “But—”

I hold my hand up. “Out! Now.”

The little girl’s gaze drops to her pink ballerina flats. Her disappointment floats through the dark room, leaving traces of hate and sadness in the air.
“You said she’d make him stop,” she says as her mother hauls her to the door.
Don’t. This is none of your business. Let them go.

 I heave a sigh. “Wait.”

They spin around. Hope flickers across the mother’s face. The woman makes me sick. How dare she call herself a mother? She knows what her husband is up to. Why on earth did she never try to stop him? I remind myself this isn’t about her. It’s about the little girl.

“What’s your name?” I ask the kid.

“Jamie,” she replies, voice weak and broken.
I wave her over. When she doesn’t move, her mother grabs her by the wrist and pulls her toward me. Ruthless bitch. Can’t she see her daughter is terrified?

Mother of the Year is probably expecting me to cast a spell or torment a voodoo doll. Yeah, you kinda get the wrong idea about magic when you’ve watched too many Buffy the Vampire Slayer episodes. But real magic doesn’t come cheap. I wonder if the ruthless bitch is ready to pay the price.

I pull Jamie’s rigid body closer and put my forefinger on her third eye. The kid is already damaged beyond repair, but what I’m about to do will kill a piece of her soul forever.

“Close your eyes, Jamie.”



Pre-Order Now: 

 Amazon US / Amazon UK / Amazon CA / Amazon AU / Amazon DE / Paperback / Nook / Kobo / The Wild Rose Press


Rafflecopter Giveaway

New Adult Scavenger Hunt!


the grand prize winners as well as the winner of the $50 Amazon GC will be announced on May 4th on the New Adult Scavenger Hunt website and here! 



Hey guys! I’m Nadine Nightingale aka Dini, your hostess for this part of the hunt. I’m the author of Karma , the first book in the Drag.Me.To.Hell. series, published by the Wild Rose Press. It’s a paranormal romance about Amanda Bishop (a stab-worth, infuriating, and arrogant witch), and Alex Remington (a righteous, honest, and caring hunter). They used to have a thing, but that was before he learned she’s a witch and tried to kill her. Eighteen months later, he’s back in her life and they have a deal; she’ll help him save his brother and he’ll disappear from her life for good. But karma can be a real bitch…   


Karma releases in just six days! Calls for celebrations, doesn’t it? So, I’m giving away a $50 Amazon Giftcard. Enter at the bottom of this post!!



Welcome to the New Adult Scavenger Hunt ! This biannual event promotes  new adult authors and offers a great opportunity for fans to see the latest and greatest in new adult literature. At this hunt, you not only get access to exclusive bonus material from each author, you also get a clue for the hunt, and a chance to enter giveaways for fabulous prices. 

How to hunt: 

Pick a team! Since you’re reading this you did the right thing and picked #TeamBlue. Okay…okay…#TeamRed #TeamPurple are equally awesome. 

Team Blue S2016

Read this post! I have the honor to host the lovely Sara Dobie Bauer who is going to share an amazing excerpt from her novel Bite Somebodyavailable June 21 from World Weaver Press.  

Look for my lucky number & write it down! You’ll find it at the end of this post and I’ll make sure you won’t miss it. 

Click the link at the bottom of the post so you can continue the hunt within that same team. Repeat all steps until you have visited all the authors for one team. Add up the numbers that you collected from all the authors of one team (if your a mathematical failure like me, I suggest using a calculator). Visit ENTER HERE and submit your entry. You must submit your entry before Sunday, May 1st at 12 p.m. US EST.

Got it? All right, let’s hunt!  

Today, I’m hosting the lovely Sara Dobie Bauer on my website for the New Adult Scavenger Hunt!


Sara Dobie Bauer is a writer, model, and mental health advocate with a creative writing degree from Ohio University. She spends most days at home in her pajamas as a book nerd and sex-pert for Her short story, “Don’t Ball the Boss,” was nominated for the 2015 Pushcart Prize, inspired by her shameless crush on Benedict Cumberbatch. She lives with her hottie husband and two precious pups in Northeast Ohio, although she would really like to live in a Tim Burton film. She is the author of Life without Harry, Forever Dead, and Wolf Among Sheep. World Weaver Press will publish her novel, BITE SOMEBODY, summer of 2016. Read more at or find her on Twitter @SaraDobie.

Find out more information by checking out the author website or find more about the author’s book here!



“Do you want to be perfect?”

That’s what Danny asked Celia the night he turned her into a vampire. Three months have passed since, and immortality didn’t transform her into the glamorous, sexy vamp she was expecting but left her awkward, lonely, and working at a Florida gas station. On top of that, she’s a giant screw-up of an immortal, because the only blood she consumes is from illegally obtained hospital blood bags.

What she needs to do – according to her moody vampire friend Imogene – is just … bite somebody. But Celia wants her first bite to be special, and she has yet to meet Mr. Right Bite. Then, Ian moves in next door. His scent creeps through her kitchen wall and makes her nose tingle, but insecure Celia can’t bring herself to meet the guy face-to-face.

When she finally gets a look at Ian’s cyclist physique, curly black hair, and sun-kissed skin, other parts of Celia tingle, as well. Could he be the first bite she’s been waiting for to complete her vampire transformation? His kisses certainly have a way of making her fangs throb.

Just when Celia starts to believe Ian may be the fairy tale ending she always wanted, her jerk of a creator returns to town, which spells nothing but trouble for everyone involved.

Available June 21 from World Weaver Press!



After The Mermaid Incident, she fell into a death-like slumber. She didn’t wake until about 9 p.m., which was really late for Celia, who usually woke with the sunset. She wasn’t hung-over. She wasn’t even sure vampires could be hung-over. She sipped slowly on a bag of blood, her stomach still lacking confidence. She put on her soft Minnie Mouse t-shirt from the night before and felt bad for herself.

Then, halfway through her pint … the smell. Woodsy BO Guy was right outside her front door.

Knock. Knock.

She wanted to hide. Her canines descended on their own accord. They’d never done that before. Apparently, from what she’d heard, it happened whenever a vampire was hungry or turned on, but Celia drank enough to never be hungry and her sex drive was somewhere in the negatives. Yet, there they were; the damn pokey things had escaped their caves. She put her hand to her mouth.

Then, his voice through the door: “Mermaid? Are you alive?”

Oh. My. God.

She sprung to her feet and dropped the bag of blood on her bedroom floor. Sudden panic made her canines retract at least, but still, she couldn’t answer the door, not with him out there, smelling like that.

“Mermaid?” He continued to knock.

Celia lay down on the floor as if the man could see through walls.

“I’ll call the police if you don’t answer,” he said. “Tell them I smell a dead body.”

Just what Celia was scared of, the police showing up on suspicion of a dead body only to discover blood all over the carpet. She stood and found her robe. She draped herself in oversized plush and took a long sip from her spilled blood bag before slowly approaching the front door.

She leaned her nose against it. “I’m fine. Thanks,” she said.

She could feel him out there, the heat of his ear against her door in the shape of a seashell. “I need visual evidence.”

“No, really, I’m fine.” She scratched at the door like a dog wanting to be let out. His smell—oh, goodness, that smell. Celia was warm and out of breath.

“Come on, Mermaid. I won’t leave until you open the door.”

She opened the door just a little so he could see the side of her face.

“Hey,” he said. The scent of weed from the night before had covered most of his normal smell—that and Celia’s panic. In that moment, his smell attacked her full bore. “So. I saw you naked last night.”

She closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

“I’m Ian,” he said. “I just moved in.”

Don’t stare at his neck. Don’t stare at his neck.

It was a really nice neck—long and thin. His Adam’s apple bounced when he swallowed. Shit, she was staring at his neck.

“Celia.” She blinked. “I’m Celia.”

“It’s really dangerous to swim alone at night. You know that, right?”

“I was drunk,” she said.

“Yeah, well, don’t do it again, okay?”

She chewed her bottom lip. “I like swimming at night.”

Ian glanced toward the sea. He had nice cheekbones and a freckle on his throat. Don’t stare at his neck.

“How about next time you take a dive, you come get me so I can make sure you’re safe.”

She felt tipsy on his smell and his sympathy. She’d known the guy for five minutes—his scent a bit longer—and he already wanted to keep her safe. Celia had known her parents for twenty years before they died, and the only thing they worried about was her cholesterol.

Now that was pretty awesome, wasn’t it? I for one, already pre-ordered Bite Somebody. Have you? No? Well, what are you waiting for? 

Pre-Order Now:

Amazon World Weaver Press

Congratulations! You survived my weirdness and endless chatter, got to read an exclusive excerpt from Bite Somebody, and damn well deserve a reward. And let’s be honest, what could be a better prize than a ton of books by me, Sara Dobie Bauer, and many other awesome authors? To win them you need to know that my lucky number is 15.  Add up all the lucky numbers of the authors on #TeamBlue and you’ll have the secret code to enter for the grand prize! 

To keep going on your quest for the hunt, you need to check out the next author!
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Excerpt Reveal & Giveaway—Karma

For the longest time, I just stared at him. His perfect abs, the mesmerizing face, the fatal eyes—fuck, the guy was perfection. But this—us—was wrong. He was a hunter. I was a witch. He was gentle, good, and caring. I was a selfish, evil witch resented by my own mother .

“Amanda?” He stepped forward until we were eye to eye. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I barked. “Just go back to bed, all right?”

He moved forward until we were chest to chest. “Sure about that?” His hands trailed down my arms. “The wall is so much more fun,” he said, kissing the edge of my lip.

My senses reeled. All I had to do was tell him we were over, but one touch, and I was a wet mess that hungered for more. “Alex,” I moaned as he reached for the hem of my shirt. “Please.”

Kissing the other side of my lip, he smiled. “Please touch me? Please leave me alone? Gotta be a bit more specific, Manda.”

When I didn’t reply, he pulled my shirt over my head and pushed me against the wall. Cupping my ass with rough hands, he trailed kisses down my neck.

I pressed my palms against his chest and wrapped my legs around his waist. Tension built in my belly as I felt his hard-on against my black lace panties. What in God’s name was wrong with me? One second I wanted to get as far away from him as possible, and the next I wanted him buried inside me. “Alex,” I choked out. “This is a bad idea.”

He carried me to the table. When he set me down, his eyes locked with mine. “With you, everything seems to be a bad idea.” His gaze dropped to my lips, and before I could say anything, his mouth covered mine.

He kissed me so hard, my head bent back. Desire spread through my body like a blazing fire, and no matter how hard I tried to fight it, I needed him.

Running my hands through his thick hair, I pressed my legs against his rock-hard ass and pulled him closer. “Alex,” I whispered against his lips. “I want you.” My chest rose and fell with excitement and nervousness.

“Say that again,” he ordered in a husky voice.
I pulled his boxers down. “I. Want. You.”


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WildRose Publishing

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Cover Reveal & Giveaway

It’s finally happening. I’m so excited to share the cover for Karma (Book One, Drag.Me.To.Hell. Series) with you.


Release Day Date: May 4th 

Book Blurb: 

People call me all sorts of names—bad girl, black sheep, and my all-time favorite…Satan’s bride. I could blame the fact I’m a witch for my behavior, but the truth is I’m infuriating, arrogant, and stab-worthy.

Alex Remington is a hunter and everything I’m not—righteous, honest, caring. We used to have a thing, but that was before he learned I’m a witch and tried to kill me.

Eighteen months later, he’s back in my life and we have a deal; I’ll help him save his brother and he’ll disappear from my life for good. But karma can be a real bitch…


Exclusive Excerpt: 

I hand him the glass. “We’re back to spitting insults, hm? What is this, Alex’s nine circles of booze hell?”

He pulls me toward him, and suddenly I find myself in his lap, straddling him. “No, but since going to hell is inevitable,” he says, his lips brushing the spot between my two ladies. “I might as well enjoy the ride.”

I keep telling myself he’s drunk. Doesn’t change the fact that I want to unzip his freaking jeans, though. “You’re out of your mind if you think I’m screwin’ you, Alex.”

“Am I?” He runs his thumbs over my bra, turning my nipples into rocks. “Then why does your heart beat like the overheated engine of my Mustang?”

“It does not,” I insist.

He pushes up, and his hard-on presses against my sweet spot. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

I dig my nails into his shoulders. “Alex,” I moan, trying to get off him. “Stop it, please.” It’s supposed to sound like a goddamn order, but comes out as desperate begging.

His hands glued to my ass, he tugs me against his chest. “I know you want me.” He kisses down my neck. “You always want me. Just admit it,” he says, pulling my shirt up.

I close my eyes. Hips rocking back and forth, I enjoy the feeling of the fabric rubbing against my heat. I do want him. Fuck, I need him, but he’s like a drug, makes you high and leaves you dry and boneless. “Alex, please…stop.”

“Just one night.” His husky voice makes my toes curl. “For the sake of old times. What do you say?”

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How Not To Write Your First Blog Entry!

I’m going to let you guys in on a little secret. About ten minutes ago, I wrote this awesome first blog entry. The headline read: Why Am I Such An Annoying Bitch Most Of The Time? Yep, I seriously wrote that. Worse, I thought it was one helluva headline—funny, sassy, bad-ass. Everything those—How To Write My First Blog Entry—blogs said it should be.

So, here I am, in front of the love of my life aka MacBook, brimming with pride and grinning like the Cheshire cat. My niece—who considers my brain damaged goods most of the time—sits across from me, watching the new Lucifer episode. She gives me that look. The one that says: oh-my-God-she’s-up-to-no-good.

Niece: Let me guess, you just wrote one of those creepy as hell scenes for your book, right?

Me: What? No. I just wrote the best first blog entry ever.

Niece (pauses Lucifer and walks over): You wrote a blog?

Me (totally confused):  That’s what I just said.

Niece: Is it about ghosts?

Me: Uhm, no.

Niece: Demons?

Me: No.

Niece: Cemeteries or zombies?

Me (sighs heavily): No, Missy. It’s for my author website.

Niece (cocks a brow): Can I read it?

Me (smiles): Sure. It’s pretty bad ass, though.

Niece raises her brows, walks over and reads.


More silence

Me: Pretty cool, huh?

Niece (shakes her head):  Are you kidding?

Me (squints): What’s that supposed to mean?

Niece (facepalm): Are you for real? You can’t put that on your author homepage.

Me (wide-eyed): Why not? It’s funny and cool and—

Niece: The worst first blog entry I’ve ever read. That headline? Really? And don’t even get me started on the “I’d rather spend my life with fictional characters than real people” line.

Me (startled): It’s the truth. Besides, every book slut out there would agree with me.

Niece (draws a deep breath): You do know that real people will read that stuff. Not fictional ones, right?

Me (pounds like a five-year-old): I hate writing blogs.

Niece (pats my shoulder): Don’t worry, Dini. You can always use that crap on your next blog. Just make sure you call it “How Not To Write My First Blog Entry.”

And the moral of the story is: I suck at writing a blog 🙂