Cristina Slough | Nelumbo Nucifera | Book Blitz

Author: Cristina Slough
Title: Nelumbo Nucifera
Genre: Women's Fiction
Release Date: Jan 24, 2017
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On the surface, Gaby Parker has it all; however, behind closed doors, is a woman who lives in constant fear of the man who was supposed to love her: her husband, Kyle. Beaten, desperate, and broken, Gaby realizes the only way to escape from her violent husband is to kill herself — on paper. Gaby is dead, and Riley Locklin is born, residing in the tranquil coastal town of Chesswick Bay Montauk where she hopes to start over and meets a man who shows her bruises aren't kisses.

Meanwhile, back home, Kyle is doing everything in his power to prove Gaby isn’t dead.

But…police find her burnt-out car and remains?

Kyle isn’t buying it; he knows she’s still alive. He launches his own full investigation to find his wife — and he’ll stop at nothing to claim her back. A female Detective assigned to his wife’s case doesn’t like him very much after discovering a domestic violence report - scorned by the history of her mother’s domestic abuse, she’s determined to send Kyle down for his wife’s murder.

And then he finds her. Will Gaby finally take a stand?

This book contains themes that some readers may find disturbing. Contains possible triggers.

For every copy of this book sold 10p will be donated to The Katie Piper Foundation.

  

Yellow tape still concealed Burbank Woods. The fresh woodland had been engulfed in a misty grey fog, the road stained in thick black soot with fractured pieces of glass that glistened in the early morning sunlight on the morning the car was found. Even days later the smell of burnt rubber and plastic hung in the air. The debris remaining of the mangled wreck made it tough to identify a possible victim—until one of the police officers discovered a licence plate, crumpled like a scrunched up piece of paper, but not too damaged that the numbers and letters couldn’t be read. After a simple enquiry, it was discovered that the car was registered to Mrs. Gabriela Parker, a woman who had been reported missing by her husband just a few short hours before. This wasn’t just an accident. Isla could feel it, taste it, smell it; there was so much more to this. From across the room, Isla saw him—the man she was sure was responsible for his wife’s disappearance. She knew that there was much more to this than what the sonofabitch was letting on. His arrogance infuriated her. He had a certain swagger in his walk, making a statement with every step.

“What the fuck is he doing here already?”

“Parker’s lawyer got the conference moved forward. They want optimum viewing time. People want to hear a statement from the husband,” Hardy answered, lifting a steaming polystyrene cup to his lips, gently blowing the steam before he took a loud sip.

“Of course they do. It just proves he’s even more of a slick sonofabitch. I wonder what kind of cock and bull sob story he is going to invent. This should be good.” Isla grabbed a notebook and a pen and headed across to the growing crowd. Kyle was surrounded by hungry journalists. She pushed her slender body through the sea of people.

“It’s almost time,” a PR woman shouted.

“It’s not a bad turn-out,” Hardy said to Isla.

“Middle-class white woman, wife to a powerful investment banker goes missing, a body that we can’t identify, yet. Of course it was going to be a good turn-out. These scum suckers live for the drama, don’t they?” Isla had a love/hate relationship with the press. It annoyed her how involved they became. They acted as if they, themselves, were cops. But, they also had their uses too.

Kyle’s dark hair was slicked back. He was dressed in business casual blues; he walked into the conference room. Isla could see the awaiting journalists perk up when he came in, nudging one another, pointing. Isla could lip read Marsha Henley’s lips. “That’s him.” Marsha Henley was a pit bull of a journalist. If there was blood, she could smell it for miles off. Over the years she and Isla had locked horns, but now they had reached a level of respect for one another—two women in a man’s world, fighting for truth and justice. The PR woman came into view again; she placed a cardboard poster of Gaby Parker on an easel. The blown up picture of Mrs Gabriela Parker showed a beautiful woman with flawless skin, full lips and dark chocolate eyes. She had a thick main of perfectly groomed crimson red hair that framed her stunning features. In the picture she was smiling. But it was a smile that Isla knew wasn’t real. She called it the “Stepford smile.” It was forced—nothing but a show. Behind that smile was a woman that was dying inside. The old cliché was true: Eyes are the windows to the soul.

“Lips may do the talkin’ but eyes do the tellin’.” That is what Isla’s mother had always said, and it was a truth that Isla had lived by. Even before she became a cop.

As soon as Kyle climbed onto the platform and took a seat on an aluminium chair, the room started to illuminate with cameras as they flashed repetitively. The scuffle of feet scraping against the floor and the constant clicking sound filled the room. Isla folded her arms across her body and kept her gaze on Kyle.

Let the world see what a great showman you really are.

Novelist, movie addict, and animal lover, Cristina Slough is the author of:

Nelumbo Nucifera and Till Death Us Do Part.

Cristina has always been a bookworm, rarely seen without a pen and paper in her hand, she loves delving into a literacy fictional world of her own.

Although Cristina loves pink and fluffy, her writing isn’t. She loves to focus on raw human emotion and gritty story lines; she’s very fond of messing with her readers heads by weaving twists into her books.

Cristina is married to Adam, who runs a successful business; together they share their Bedfordshire home with their son, and several spoiled pets. As a family, they love to travel frequently, the United States being a firm favorite.

  

Melissa Townsend | Change Me | Book Blitz

 

Author: Melissa Townsend
Title: Change Me
Series: Protector #2
Release Date: Feb 7, 2017
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Macie Smith was eager to leave her hometown of Puyallup, Washington, after graduating high school. She knew there was no way around being a Protector like her brother, and she was okay with that. Macie knew in her heart that her purpose was to protect others; however, she refused to follow in her brother’s footsteps forever. She moved to Florida in hopes of finding herself. In the process, she found Jasper White.

Jasper was the polar opposite of the Protectors. Rather than feeling the pain of others like Macie and her brother, he was usually the one to cause it: Jasper was a Raider. He'd spent the last three years being a real-life bad boy. When he first laid eyes on Macie, he instantly knew he wanted her…until he found out she was a Protector. He had already had a few run ins with other Protectors, and to say they were enemies would be putting it lightly. He knew he didn't stand a chance with Macie, but he couldn't stay away. He would have to change his Raider ways in order to make her his.

 

The smile he had been wearing had disappeared and the indifferent look in his eyes had been replaced with… was that desire? I felt my stomach flop when he took a step toward me. I inhaled a deep breath when he took another step. His face was inches from mine and I wanted to be unaffected. Or at least make him think I was unaffected by him. He reached out and ran his fingers down the length of my arm. Chill bumps followed behind his touch and I cursed my body for being such a trader. He slowly started to lean closer to me, his head was lowering and his gaze was fixed on my lips. I licked them involuntarily and slowly raised onto my tip toes. His lips touched mine and my entire body started to tingle.

From a rural community in southern Oklahoma, Melissa Townsend is a married dental assistant with one child; and on the surface, the picture of today’s ordinary working wife and mother from Smalltown, U.S.A.

As a busy mom, she initially found her escape in reading. It is just in the past few years that she’s found her passion and enjoyment of telling her own stories. Having never travelled or experienced much beyond the realm of country-living, Melissa finds herself taking journeys through an array of genres and different writing styles. Don’t let her quiet, small town, ordinary demeanor mislead you. Sit with her for very long and you will quickly discover her wit, dry sense of humor, and unique perception of the world around her. It’s these characteristics spieled out into her stories that define her writing style and will keep you wanting more.

 

M.E. Carter - Groupie - Book Blitz

Title: Groupie

Series: Juked #2

Author: M.E. Carter

Release Date: Nov 4, 2016

Groupie

 /ˈɡro͞opē/

a person, especially a young woman, who regularly follows a celebrity in the hope of meeting or getting to know them.

See example Tiffany Wendel:

Whore.  Slut.  Cleat Chaser.  I’m used to the names so they don’t bother me.  These are my boys.  My friends.  So what if I like to have dirty sex with them? My body is no one’s business but mine.

Why is Rowen Flanigan making me re-think how I live my life?  Making me question my choices?  He’s only a rookie.

rook·ie

/ˈro͝okē/

a member of an athletic team in his first full season in that sport.

See example Rowen Flanigan:

Player.  Son of a legend.  Rookie.

Sure, I’d heard the stories of the groupies before.  Who hasn’t?  I’ve just been more sheltered than my teammates.  So what?  I didn’t expect her to be smart. Witty. Kind.  She brings me to my knees in every way – except one. 

That part?  I’m saving until the time is right.

So how in the hell did I end up falling for a Groupie like Tiffany?  And how in the hell is this going to work when everyone at my job has had a piece of the one thing I haven’t?

     

My name is ME Carter and I have no idea how I ended writing books. I'm more of a story teller (the more exaggerated the better) and I happen to know people who helped me get those stories on paper.

I love reading (read almost 300 books last year), hate working out (but I do it anyway because my trainer makes me), love food (but hate what it does to my butt) and love traveling to non-touristy places most people never see.

I live in Houston with my four kids, Mary, Elizabeth, Carter and Bug, who was just a twinkle in my eye when I came up with my pen name. Yeah, I'll probably have to pay for his therapy someday for being left out.

  

CHIMERA by Stephie Walls Book Blitz

Title: chimera
Author: Stephie Walls
Genre: Adult, Dark Romance
Published: May 11, 2016

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CHIMERA © Stephie Walls 2016
Chapter One
When Sylvie died, it left a hole in my being that seemed prodigious. I adorn my face with the plastic appearance people anticipate from me, but internally, I weep. Continuing through the monotonous motion of my daily life, I increasingly find myself lost in what my friends—well, those who remain—refer to as a fictional world: novels, authors, artists, musicians, and the illusion of relationships on social media. The more time I spend on Facebook, the more entrenched I become in the fiction that exists on the screen. I believe these “friends” are truly concerned for me; they’re what relationships are in reality. Sadly, these seem to be the only things keeping me hanging on, but the thread threatens to break daily, frayed from top to bottom. The tightly woven fabric that was once my life has deteriorated beyond recognition.
That’s the crux of my juxtaposition. My life had value, it had meaning. It was everything I had ever imagined it could be. But without Sylvie, black clouds roll through my mind, hindering my ability to think, eliminating productivity, and stifling my creativity. My art is as dead as I am. But online…online I can be anything I want to be, whatever version of myself I decide to show to the world. I don’t have to be the pathetic artist who lost his muse. I don’t have to be the sweet, sensitive man Sylvie loved. I don’t know whom I want to reinvent myself as, but the idea of being whatever still exists in my soul doesn’t appeal to me. My craft has become recreating my persona, anything to escape the pain, the desolation, and the solitude. Surely there’s art in recreating an identity.
Most days, I find it difficult to even get out of bed. The colder it gets outside, the shorter the days are, the deeper I sink—sometimes only escaping the protection of my covers to take a piss or get something to eat or drink. Although frequently, I let those things go in favor of marinating in my misery. My laptop calls to me from my nightstand when the loneliness becomes too much to bear, the darkness too black to see through.
That recognizable blue-and-white screen brings me comfort, the newsfeed seemingly a link to real conversation, touching base with the people I’ve known for years—but it always introduces the possibility of newcomers. The “friend recommendation” is the online equivalent to a friend introducing you to someone new; at least it is in my mind. I always check out the recommendations. They’re often other painters or singers that might have known Sylvie—or people I barely recognize from high school or college. But every once in a while, some totally random person surfaces with no tie to my past.
Those are the connections I find most interesting, most appealing.
They also seem to be the safest, having no knowledge of the person I once was, or how all that remains of me is a fragmented shell. I have made several “friends” this way, people I would say I’m close to—even though we’ve never met and likely never will. Herein lies my fictional world, the one my real friends don’t understand and believe to be emotionally damaging to me. I’m not processing my grief…blah, blah, blah. If I hear that shit one more time, I may scream.
As soon as I log in, the familiar recommendations bombard me as if the universe is playing some cruel joke. There she is, my Sylvie…only her name is Sera Martin. She’s a perfect duplicate with the same striking green eyes, long chestnut-colored hair, high cheekbones, and luscious, pouty lips.
I realize I haven’t inhaled or exhaled.
I gasp and hold my breath until my lungs burn. I haven’t seen her in years. The day she died, I came home and stripped our house of any reminder—every picture, every video, every stitch of clothing, anything she loved. It all had to leave. I couldn’t bear the weight of what the world took from me. I imagined if I discarded everything, she wouldn’t haunt me, and maybe, somehow, I would manage to learn to live again if reminders of her didn’t surround me.
Yet, her loss possesses me daily.
This girl. This Sera. Could this be Mother Nature returning my Sylvie to me in a strange twist of fate? The notion there’s a doppelganger roaming the world has always been a thought I believe in. It’s possible after years of suffering, dying inside, barely hanging on, that my savior has come. Without hesitation, I click “add friend.”
Sera responds to my request with a private message.
Sera: Wow! Are you really Bastian Thames?
Me: Yes. Have we met before?
Sera: Once, but I doubt you’d remember. It was at a gallery down on the West End where your work was being featured a couple years ago. Is this the real Bastian? Not some lurker claiming to be the famous artist?
Me: Far cry from famous, but yes, one and the same. Are you certain we met that night? I remember the opening and can assure you I would have remembered you.
Sera: Yes, you were with your wife. She’s quite lovely. I’m not sure which was more beautiful, her or the nudes you had in the collection. That showing was the talk of the art community for months around here.
Me: That was the last opening I did. Seems like a lifetime ago.
Sera: Are you not painting anymore? I hate to admit that I lost track of your work when I went off to college but for years, I was a huge fan.
Me: Life happened. I haven’t painted in some time.
Sera: I can’t imagine you quit painting. Surely you just quit putting them out for the public.
Me: No. I haven’t so much as held a brush in five years.
Sera: That’s a shame. Hey look, Bastian, I have to run out but I accepted your request. I hope maybe we can talk some later. Maybe you’ll let me pick your brain about a project I’m working on?
Me: Certainly. I hope to hear from you soon.
Sera: Bye
Me: Later
My mind races with possibilities. I immediately go to her profile to see what information I can garner on her before our next conversation—assuming one comes. Jesus, she’s twenty-five, went to the Rhode Island School of Design, graduated with her Masters in Fine Arts, and holy hell, she’s a sculptor. If these pictures are of her work, then she has phenomenal talent. Scouring her profile provides only surface-level information. There’s almost nothing personal. The pictures all seem to be with other artists or at galleries or in a studio. Moving to her wall, I find tons of posts by other local artists, memes about artwork, jokes…the proverbial Facebook bullshit.
I almost quit scrolling when I see a post that grabs my attention. There’s a picture of two beautiful women, scantily clad, one bent over, the other yielding a paddle, and the words, “Someone’s been a bad girl.” Jesus Christ. There are one hundred forty-seven comments and two hundred fifty-three likes on the thread posted by a Maria Martin.
I click on Maria’s name first, assuming it will be a sister or cousin, not expecting it to be her mother. Holy shit, whose mother posts this kind of profanity on their daughter’s Facebook wall? Making my way back to the thread, I find myself enthralled by the dialogue.
It’s cheeky and playful but talk about insight. This one picture, one conversation, tells me scads about who she is personally, not about her work, but seemingly what she enjoys—intimately. Reading her responses to the comments ignites a fire in an area of my anatomy I thought had died with Sylvie. As my cock starts to twitch, that old, familiar heat seeps through my crotch.
I stop myself, realizing I’m staring at dialogue—about a woman who could be my dead wife’s twin—between people I don’t know. It’s morbid, really. Backing out of the comments and Sera’s profile, then I set the computer aside. I don’t close the laptop for fear of missing a message from her. Lying back, I stare at the all-too-familiar ceiling. I know every blemish on the drywall with aching familiarity. There have been hours of loneliness and isolation. The depth of pain is so fathomless, I often wonder how I made it to the next day without feeling the cold steel in my hand, without pulling the trigger.

I've lived all over the country but have made Greenville, South Carolina my home for the last 20 of my 37 years. I have a serious addiction to anything Coach and would live on Starbucks if I could get away with it. If you follow me on Facebook you'll also find that I'm slightly enamored with Charlie Hunnam. I'm an avid reader (literary whore to be more precise) averaging around 300 novels a year. I have a penchant for great love stories, sensual poetry and am a romantic at heart. I currently work full-time in the Greenville area and fill my "extra" time with writing contemporary romance novels with a hint of erotica. I couldn't do it without the support of my family and friends who push me to keep going when I don't have the confidence or patience.

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