Cross was a detail type of guy. Being a cop, that was important. While he could easily see what vehicle the man got into and run his plate, that would be an abuse of power and if he got caught doing that shit, he could kiss his promotion goodbye. He caught up with him a few vehicles down from the entrance. Hold up. But the man spun on him, taking a defensive position by planting his feet wide.
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Cross stepped back giving them space in case the guy tried to take a swing at him. This was a bad idea. A really bad fucking idea. Cross should go inside and find someone a lot more willing. Not that Cross was looking for any kind of meaningful relationship with this guy. The one who clearly had a thing against cops, which was a big part of who Cross was. She was only thirteen when she started writing. Her first paid published piece was an erotic story in Playgirl magazine. Her first erotic romance novel, Banged Up, was published in She is happily owned by farting French bulldogs.
Want to read a sample of her work? Download a sampler book here: BookHip.
To keep up with her busy release schedule check her website at www. Publisher: Beaten Track Publishing. Around a campfire late at night, someone begins to tell a ghost story. Flashlights clutched in hands, we huddle close and listen with intensity, startling at the slightest sound, but we try to be brave. This is no different. Memoirs of the Human Wraiths , a book passed down from generation to generation, details the lives of those living on the edges of society, stalked by the darkness that awaits us all.
Come see what walks the halls of Timber Manor. Venture to the island where promises made are enforced by a powerful curse.
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Try to be brave. Another flash and my eyes locked on a pair of yellow eyes staring at me from the place where I saw them before. Not a ghost or a killer—a wolf. Standing about twenty feet away, a huge, magnificent wolf was watching me with an oddly disconcerting amount of intelligence in its eyes, head hung low.
Its gray-and-white fur was gorgeous and oddly dry-looking. Instead of fading into the darkness, it began to walk forward into the headlights of my car. The beast never took its eyes off mine. Like it was staring into my soul. My heart began to hammer and my breathing quickly picked up. My hands went back to the steering wheel and clamped down again, as white-knuckled as before.
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A chill passed through me, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up straight. As if the wolf could sense my distress, it stopped and gave me a wicked grin.
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You wanted to die? Feeley Jr is a poet and the author of six published works — four full-length novels, two short stories featured in anthologies, and a poetry book. Married to the love of his life, John, he came to the writing world about four years ago where he fell in love, again, with the written word. Follow the tour and check out the other blog posts here.
Cover Artist: Najla Qamber Designs. A murder. Three gorgeous men. One choice — Do your job, or follow your heart? The last thing they need is the wrong kind of press. Can Carrie prevent another brutal crime and protect the men who offer her a future beyond her wildest dreams? The rain came down in sheets. Special Agent Carrie McDonald wiped her face on the sleeve of her black windbreaker. No use.
Everything was soaked. Special Agent Susan White joined Carrie at her lookout post by the cordoned-off stretch of highway.
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He looked like a swarthy, drowned rat. Carrie felt sorry for him. The San Antonio field office would take the rap for this clusterfuck. She tried not to feel relieved about that. The scene on this stretch of highway was straight out of the latest installment of The Fast and the Furious. A pick-up and a black sedan lay upside down across the lanes, flattened and still smoking.
The railings that SUV had crashed through were mangled shards of metal. A fourth vehicle lay out of sight in a deep ravine, curls of smoke marking its resting place. Everything was illuminated sideways by the setting sun. Three dead drug mules.
Two civilians, on the way home from a choir recital, also dead. And three seriously injured Austin PD detectives made it a calamity beyond the usual drug bust. Would they ever work out exactly what had gone wrong? Right now, the narrative was confused and short on detail. As far as the forensics team had worked out, one of the unmarked law enforcement vehicles had been en route to head off the suspects fleeing hell over leather from the sting op gone south in downtown Austin.
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That had been where Carrie and Susan had been detailed to cover one of the routes out of the city. Poor visibility, a narrow stretch of road of hairpin bends and a car full of stressed-out perps under the influence had made for an explosive combination. Carrie gave a sigh. She nudged her partner.
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