Nikki London's debut novella, Southern Comfort

Now available from Phaze books is a novella I can't recommend enough. Southern Comfort, the literary debut of author Nikki London, is snarky, fun, romantic, sensual, and quirky. Put it plainly: some of the best ingredients this gal could ask for.



In her debut novella, author Nikki London is quick to introduce readers to her strong sense of character development, relationships, and her killer intuition when it comes to dialogue. The plot behind SOUTHERN COMFORT might be familiar, but with its characters, humor, quirks, and heart, this is one ride you won’t want to miss.

We start with Kris Meadows, the faithful assistant to career politician Jay Rosenberg. Their rapport is quick and familiar, and with just a few lines, Ms. London establishes a relationship that is cozy but wrought with tension. You can sense the affection between her main characters from the start, be it between Kris’s close relationship with Jay’s mother or Jay’s teasing Kris over her obsession with ghost stories. Jay’s mother, Edith, manages to convince her son to take a vacation, which by itself would be considered a feat. Throw in that their getaway is in Mississippi, and it’s practically a miracle. A last-ditch effort to save face results in Kris finding a plane ticket with her name on it, though she has no idea how she can pretend to be nothing more than Jay’s friend without the familiarity of an office setting.

Ms. London doesn’t play coy with the characters or their relationships. We enter the story very much aware that Kris is in love with Jay and that Jay harbors a crush on her as well. Furthermore, the characters themselves seem to be aware, but mutually tacit due to what it could mean for their working relationship. It’s not as though there are no obstacles: Ms. London establishes Jay as a workaholic playboy, whose selection of arm candy is almost always politically motivated. Yet it is clear from the start that Jay’s love life is less the result of his being a chronic womanizer, and more due to his attraction to sharp women whose ambitions are much like his, not to mention his need to put work first. Without motivation, his close friendship with Kris might never escalate to something more, though he wouldn’t be opposed to it. And Kris, having had a front row seat over the past several years of working with Jay, knows every relationship he enters has an automatic expiration date. That doesn’t stop her from loving him, but it does keep her from pursuing him, or thinking it possible they could ever work.

With a company of additional characters, including a cranky old woman, a pair of horny college coeds, and a bed-n-breakfast owned by what Jay sees as a walking contradiction, SOUTHERN COMFORT will keep you rooting for their characters, grinning at their snappy dialogue, and falling in love with the story’s overall amazing heart.

Excerpt

“So, how are you, Kristen?”

Kris Meadows twisted a strand of long blonde hair around her finger, rolled her eyes, and tilted the phone against her ear. “You wouldn't believe what your son made me do last night.”

A gentle sigh came across the line. “I can only imagine. Jason seemed very determined to get that Foreign Ops bill passed.”

Kris lowered her voice to a whisper. “He made me stalk someone.” Not that she was all that traumatized by the experience, but she liked telling on her boss...especially to his mother.

“What?” Edith Rosenberg snapped.

“Well, he seems determined to find out if Jennings is running for Senate before he leaves Brooks alone.”

“Believe it or not, I'm pretty sure he wasn't raised like that.”

Kris could hear the woman’s disgust. “Edith, the greatest saints in the world couldn’t make him tolerable.”

“Speaking of, where is Jason?”

“He had a meeting in Senator Brooks’s office to gloat about the bill finally being passed. He should be back any moment.”

“I'm going on vacation in the next couple weeks.”

“Oh.” Kris was at a loss of words. Not only was it a complete change of topic, but she couldn't remember the last time she’d had a real vacation; it was well before she embarked on the career of a lifetime as Jason Rosenberg’s personal assistant. While the last four years of employment under one of D.C.’s premiere political strategists and campaign organizers provided plenty of travel, she rarely had a chance to get away and relax. “Where are you going?”

“Natchez, Mississippi.”

“Natchez, Mississippi?”

“Oh, it's lovely,” Edith gushed. “Well, at least the photographs I’ve seen and stories I've been told. My good friend, Olivia, is president of the Glendale Community Garden Club. She makes regular trips to Natchez during their spring pilgrimage.”

“Pilgrimage?”

“It's the height of their tourist season. Lovely. And we're going together this year. I'll send you an email with some information.”

Kris sighed with envy. “It sounds nice. You should enjoy it.”

“What about Jason?”

She looked for a sign of her boss. “Oh, he still isn't back yet. But I did just see Ted so he shouldn't be far behind.”

“No, I meant do you think Jason would like Natchez?”

“Depends on whether there's federal legislation that depends on Natchez Pilgrimage information.”

“For a vacation.”

Kris laughed. The idea of Jason Rosenberg, Washington’s hottest political asset, taking a vacation was as ridiculous as George Washington having crossed the Rubicon rather than the Delaware.

Though knowing today’s educational system, she wouldn’t be surprised if some people actually thought that was the way it happened.

“I know.” Edith apparently interpreted her response. “But he hasn't visited since he started working with Brooks and I’m beginning to worry about his health. All that stress can’t be good for him.” She paused. “I think I'm going to ask him to come to Natchez with me.”

“Good luck,” Kris said earnestly. She doubted Jay’s mother truly knew how much the stress was getting to him. In December, he’d gone to the hospital with chest pains; Kris knew his health was the main reason he’d stuck with Brooks rather than delving into the next big race. “I hope you convince him to go. Besides the obvious fact a vacation for him means free time for me, I really think some time away would be good for him with the election and...everything. Not to mention spending some quality time with you.”

Behind her, the man in question cleared his throat and whispered, “Please don't tell me you're using government time to arrange your next disastrous relationship.”

She inhaled sharply. The sensation of his breath on her neck made her shiver, but she wasn't about to let him know how much she enjoyed their close moments. Instead, she whacked his head. “It's your mother!”

In Kris’s other ear, Edith said, “Oh, tell Jason that I'll have to call him back later. My bridge game starts in ten minutes and I really want to beat Morgie Parker.”

“Okay.” Kris smiled. She loved this woman. In many respects, she maintained a much healthier relationship with Edith than with her own mother. She talked to her constantly, since Edith often called Jay at the office to avoid catching him during a meeting. Plus, Kris didn’t have to deal with the nagging and guilt trips she often got when she checked in with her parents.

Edith continued, “But I will send you that email. You would love the history there. A place like Natchez would be perfect for you to come and visit.”

“I’d really love to, but my boss is kinda a jerk.”

“Hey!” Jay grumbled. “Let me talk to my mom.”

Kris ignored him. “Love you, Mom. Enjoy the game and I'll be looking for that email.”

Jay waved his hand. “Stop stealing my mother.”

“Bye,” Kris chirped before placing the phone on the receiver.

Jay gave her a dirty look and grunted. “I wish you two would stop doing that. I'm beginning to think she wants to put me up for adoption and take you in instead.”

Kris beamed. “Well, she does tell me I would make a lovely Jewish girl.”

He tilted his head and smirked. “You are cheap and have a guilt complex that would make my grandmother jealous.”

She feigned a laugh and glared at him until remembering how embarrassed she felt last night while wandering around the Capital. “I'm still annoyed with you.” She grabbed a yellow folder and handed it to him.

“You were doing your job. I can't help it that you felt silly.”

“You made me a stalker. That’s illegal, mind you. And your mother said she would call you later. She didn't have time for you.”

He frowned. “You take too much pleasure in stealing her away from me.”

“You take too much pleasure in making me do things that are immoral.” She caught a glance of an approaching shadow along the wall, but ignored it. The office was always bustling with activity.

“It wasn't stalking—”

“You had me follow a man around the Hill for three hours in order to report every office he stopped by and every hand he shook. Please tell me how that doesn’t coincide with the legal definition of stalking.”

Jay blinked. “Bite me.”

“Wow, could you save the hot stuff for after hours?” Ted, Senator Brooks’s chief of staff, growled, walking up behind Jay.

Kris noticed Jay blushing while they tried to pass off the exchange with identical eye rolls. Jay nodded to Ted. “What's up?”

“I wanted to go over the senator's remarks for this afternoon.”

As the men retreated into Jay’s office, Kris shouted after them, “Your mother is going to call you after her bridge game.”

“Why does she know more about your mother than you?” Ted asked.

“A question I stopped asking a long time ago.”

**** A few hours later, Jay’s office door flew open in its usual dramatic fashion. Kris immediately expected a ritual venting. Like clockwork, less than three seconds passed before he was at her desk.

“You knew about this, didn't you?” he snarled.

Her eyes went wide for a moment. She really wanted a good quip to begin the exchange, but none was forthcoming. “What?”

“You knew. Probably had a whole conversation about it.”

“Jay, I have many conversations in which I plot against you. Would you care to give me a few more details?” She had to smile at how cute he was when annoyed. The way he furrowed his brows made his forehead wrinkle in the most adorable way. He also had a tendency to fold his arms and stomp his feet like a small child during a temper tantrum.

He pouted. “I was caught so off guard that I couldn't refuse right away. The best I got out was that I'd think about it.”

“Jay?”

“I'm not going to go to Mississippi and call it a vacation.”

Kris giggled with realization. “Natchez is lovely. Your mother sent me pictures of the B&B she has booked for her and her friend. And there were some sites with amazing reviews of visits during Pilgrimage. The history alone would make a good vacation, but the flowers, food and ghost stories sound so fun.”

Jay stared at her. “You did hear the part about vacationing in Mississippi?”

“You should go!” she cried. “Besides the break from work, it would mean the world to your mother to spend some quality time with you.”

“Damn you woman.” He turned and stalked down the hall.

****

Jay was at a loss. He mindlessly poured himself a cup of coffee, and then headed toward his office. How could he argue against Kris’s logic? He loved his mother and knew Kris did as well. While he wanted to please them both, he sure as hell could come up with something better than this. Better than Mississippi. Kris seemingly read his mind. When he passed her desk, she said, “You should really look at the books your mother is sending. They should be here in the morning.”

“Why?” Jay gazed heavenward. “Why Mississippi and why did you give them a chance to collude against me?”

“Once you get done admonishing God, you better head down to Brooks’s office.”

He met her eyes and tried not to get lost in the vibrant blue. It was harder remembering on some days that she was his assistant and not his girlfriend. “Okay,” he said before forcing himself to walk away. By the next morning, Jay felt his routine return to normal. Granted, his life wasn’t normal, but there were certain degrees of chaos he’d learned to live with.

Jay Rosenberg loved his life. He’d been blessed with good genes and an unruly head of thick brown hair that curled if he didn’t keep it extra short. His dimples gave him the ability to disarm friend and foe with as little as a wink and a nod. Though he could have his way with nearly any woman in the district, he was a workaholic, and most women, like his ex-girlfriend, grew distant in the end. While he had developed an obsession with the gym and warding off the chances of dying young like his dad, he couldn’t let go of his stress, which constantly brought him down. Elections and politics fed his soul. And he wasn’t about to change, especially to accommodate a woman.

He spent most of the night devising a plan to evade a potential vacation in Mississippi. Really, his plan was ultimately aimed at keeping him from any vacation at all, but he figured this was a one-step-at-a-time thing. Kris enacted the first stage by ignoring the entire previous day of mother-oriented Natchez conversation. Instead she began the morning by addressing the need to create less congestion during the Cherry Blossom Festival.

After spending the morning on the Hill, negotiating things that didn't make complete sense to him, Jay headed back to the office for lunch and the dreaded conversation with his mother. He only hoped she didn't guilt him to the point he cried—again—about the vase he broke when he was twelve. Jay had made it to his office door before Kris spoke.

“Did you know that Natchez was largely unaffected by the Civil War?”

He hoped he was hallucinating.

She kept talking. “Of course there was some damage and destruction, but considering that the town was located on the Mississippi River between Vicksburg and New Orleans, it was minor.”

Jay turned around to glower at her. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Though he was sure Kris knew full well what he meant, she chose to take it in a way that furthered her enjoyment. Her creamy flawless complexion didn’t show a single hint of crimson guilt as she gave him an innocent smile. “Oh no. Not kidding at all. In fact, while the war caused many to lose their fortunes, such as the case of the owners of Longwood, the only deaths during the war were a seven year old girl and a man who had a heart attack while watching the Battle of Natchez.”

“So, Mom sent you some stuff?”

Kris shook her head. “I just enlightened you with quality information found on Wikipedia.”

“I'm going to work now.” He bit his cheek to keep from smiling back at her.

“You mean you are going to go eat lunch and break your mother's heart when she calls to say she's found the best deal on plane tickets for you to fly down and vacation with her in Natchez.”

“Did you really say there was a thing called Longwood?”

“Are you really going to make a perverted joke about the home Dr. Haller Nutt built for his wife?”

“With a name like Longwood, do I really have to make an actual joke about it?”

Kris scowled. “Your mother should be calling you at any moment. Your sandwich is getting cold.”

The look on her face had his defenses deflating. Since the day Kris walked into his office four years ago with her resume and freshly printed degree in Politics and Government, Jay had been attracted to her. She shared his ambition and drive in making Washington accountable to the electorate as opposed to the lobbyists. Her eyes were a window to her soul, and he’d immediately seen she wasn’t corrupted by agenda like so many others. Having her by his side kept him in check. She was his daily reminder he was fighting the good fight.

He hated the look in her eyes now. He hated when his Krissy was disappointed in him.

He had forgotten to figure that into his plan.





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A Friend In Need - Chapter 1

Chapter One

Clarice St. Clair was not having a good day.

Then again, Clarice's birthdays were notoriously hexed. Over the past few years, especially, it had become a running gag throughout her family--a source of much amusement for her perfect younger sister, Sophia, and Sophia's equally perfect husband-to-be. No matter what occurred, Clarice remained the black sheep of the family. The constant punch line. Whenever something went well for Sophia, something horrific inevitably happened to Clarice.

Honestly, there were times Clarice wondered if she and Sophia had separate fathers ... or parents altogether. Sophia was tall, leggy, and had a river of sparkling, wavy blonde hair that could likely get a job of its own as a sales-rep for Pantene Pro-V. On the other hand, Clarice was short, flat-chested, narrow through the hips and waist--(“Men like a woman with birthing hips,” tsked Mother. “Oh, Claire-Claire, how will you ever get a man with those legs?”)--and had, in Mother's words, plain, bland, and downright ugly mud-colored hair. She also wore what her family called “Harry Potter glasses,” and somehow she didn't think they were so-named because of how prettily they framed her face.

Likewise, whenever Sophia had an event or threw a party, it was a smashing success.

For Clarice, even mundane triumphs, like surviving another year unscathed, didn't come without expense. And this birthday was no different. Right out of the gate, Clarice knew fortune wouldn't be on her side. Between fielding complaints from three university students with overdue books and lengthy excuses--the wildest of which involving larceny and the Russian mafia--a shopping trip with her mother she'd already postponed seven times, and her sister's upcoming nuptials (for which Clarice received daily “Save the Date!” reminders), the universe seemed permanently set against her. Throw in a morning stop from Professor Weston Ryans--during which he caught her with her pantyhose around her ankles--and the safer bet seemed burrowing herself in her apartment and sleeping until her birthday was over.

Not likely. Her mother had other ideas. And they involved dragging Clarice to all her least-favorite shops, talking about her least-favorite topics, and had currently landed her in her least-favorite café.

The woman didn't notice her daughter's discomfort, of course.

“This is a big birthday for you,” Mother insisted over a toasted bagel. “Do you feel any different?”

Clarice worried her brow. Her mother was, on her best days, only neurotic and mildly insulting. Today she was downright weird. “You know you ask me this every year, right?”

“Well, it seems especially important this year.”

“Why in the world would it seem especially important this year?”

Mother fidgeted and gingerly applied a napkin to her mouth. “No reason.”

In momspeak, that meant, “Big damn reason, but I'll let you figure out why.” Which was just fine with Clarice. Honestly, she failed to see the hype.

“Clarice, what have I told you about slouching?”

Instinct kicked in and she immediately straightened her spine. “Girls who slouch will marry a grouch.” It held less appeal than Mother's favorite saying, the more popular adage concerning the lack of passes boys made at speckled females.

“And you don't want to end up like your Great Aunt Betsy.”

“I don't think slouching is what landed her in an asylum, Mother.”

“Yes, well, I suppose we'll never know, will we?” Mother took a dainty sip of her sweet tea and batted her eyelashes. “So tell me, any romantic prospects on the horizon?”

This was precisely the reason Clarice went to great lengths to avoid these visits. The outing inevitably concluded on her lack of a love life, what she was doing to drive men away, and how she could avoid becoming an old maid if she just took some of dear Mother's advice. Said advice was, after all, how Miss Perfect Sophia had found Prince Charming (whose name was Vaughn Derfil, which no one aside from Clarice found amusing). When it came to men, work, and life in general, everything was a game of Mother Knows Best, and Mother was always there to say “I told you so” whenever things didn't go as planned.

Clarice had avoided business school in pursuit of an English degree, and now worked at her alma mater's library with no advancement in sight ( “I told you so” ).

Clarice hadn't signed up for that matchmaking service her childhood neighbor, Mr. Jefferies, had established for local lonely singles, and as a direct result hadn't had a date in six months ( “I told you so” ).

Clarice hadn't worn the blouse Aunt Marie had sent her for Christmas, therefore missing the chance to talk with that charming young salesclerk from the department store regarding the difference between red and fuchsia (“I told you so” ). Honestly, with as much as Mother enjoyed being right, Clarice dreaded the day when things didn't go as she predicted.

“No, Mother,” she said at last. It seemed infinitely wiser to get these things out in the open now rather than drag them out.

“Well.” Mother huffed in her self-important way. “Is there any wonder? Honestly, Claire-Claire, with the way you dress and the awful way you do your hair, what man is going to take notice of you?”

Clarice rolled her eyes. “I don't know how many times we have to have this conversation--”

“Neither do I, to be quite frank.”

“I am not interested in attracting men.” That wasn't entirely true; Weston Ryans was one tall drink of whisky she wouldn't mind sampling. But Weston hardly fit the bill of realistic romantic ambitions, or even better, the sort of man Mother would approve of. And if she were honest with herself, Clarice wasn't sure if her attraction wasn't amplified by the latter admission.

“Well, you're certainly not interested in attracting women, are you?”

A smirk tickled her mouth. “Not for lack of trying.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means whatever shuts you up.”

“That is no way to speak to your mother.”

“It's a pity there aren't more rules about how to speak to children.” Clarice sighed and reached behind her head to tighten her ponytail. “Somehow I don't think you go fifteen rounds on what Sophia's doing wrong in her life.”

Mother's nostrils flared the way they always did when Princess Sophia was referenced in any way that might hint upon anything less than praise. “Your sister--”

“Is marrying Mr. Wonderful, I know.” Literally. Vaughn Derfil. Mr. Von Der Ful. Seriously, how did no one else hear that?

“Your sister,” Mother continued, “has time that you do not.”

“My biological clock is only wound three years ahead of hers. Somehow if I haven't been proposed to by the end of the year, I think I'll survive.”

Mother looked stricken at that, and then did something not even Clarice could have anticipated.

She burst into tears.

While some moms were prone to natural theatrics--and Francis St. Clair was no exception--there were displays too personal, too unseemly, to resort to while in the company of others. Though Mother certainly didn't consider herself above snide remarks, passive-aggressive observations, and long looks that no one needed translated, screaming and crying were on her big list of public no-nos. And to that point, Clarice wasn't sure if she'd ever seen Mother shed a tear, even when the woman's beloved baby brother, Maurice, collapsed dead of a heart attack at age thirty-eight.

Thus to be in a café--a café Mother frequented enough to have “a usual”--and watch the woman collapse into a mess of loud, guffawing sobs, was at once extraordinarily alarming and morbidly hilarious. Thankfully, the warring reactions cancelled each other out, leaving Clarice with nothing to do but stare in stunned silence.

“Oh, Clarice,” Mother finally sputtered, blowing her nose loudly into her napkin.

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“Ummm ... sure.” It seemed a no-brainer. The novelty phase had begun wearing off, leaving her with the awareness that everyone in the proximity suddenly found them interesting. Bizarre or not, once-in-a-lifetime experience or not, Clarice preferred not to be a spectacle for the entire café.

“No,” Mother insisted noisily. Fat tears squeezed out of her eyelids and skated down her cheeks. “You can't.”

“I can't?”

“I don't see how you could.”

Clarice leaned forward, bracing her palms on the table. “Are you okay? Do I need to ... call Dr. Nelson?”

The blubbering escalated tenfold. “Such compassion! I don't deserve you.”

“Well, I've always thought so--”

“Dear, you have to listen to me.”

I think the whole state is listening to you. Clarice managed to bite back the words, aiming a glare at the gawking, not-at-all-subtle looks the roomful of patrons cast their way. “What's the matter?” she spat. “Haven't you ever seen a nervous breakdown before?”

A few gazes broke away, chased by guilty blushes. The rest unapologetically stared on.

Somehow, the entire exchange completely escaped Mother. “Dear,” she said, reaching across the table. Clarice managed to evade the hand still clutching the mucous-filled napkin. “Twenty-five years, nine months ago, your father and I--”

“I so don't need to hear this.”

“We couldn't conceive children.”

“Yes, I know. I know I was your little miracle.” Clarice heard this story every year on her birthday ... only it typically came sans the blubbering and snot bubbles. “Both because I was born, and because I was the only recorded virginal birth since Christ.”

Mother looked at her askance, the sniveling coming to a halt. “Oh, dear, no. I was no virgin. Your father used to--”

Clarice dropped her mother's hand and immediately closed her ears. “I--really--don't--want--to--know--this!”

Mother kept talking, which was customary. She didn't look as upset anymore, either. Perhaps the number twenty-five simply had her feeling more nostalgic than usual. It didn't make sense, but not much of what Mother did made any sort of sense to Clarice. A point emphasized the next moment, when at last Clarice felt it was safe to drop her hands.

“--so your father and I made a deal with a demon.”

Clarice blinked at her. At some point, the bustling around the café had resumed, the customers apparently no longer finding their conversation interesting. She was left staring at Mother, who did not elaborate, rather stared right back.

“What?”

Mother sighed and shook her head, at once a visage of her normal self. How someone could go from sobbing and rending their garments to perfectly composed and somewhat condescending was an art of its own, and Francis St. Clair was a master.

“Honestly, Claire-Claire, why do I feel like you never listen to me?”

“A demon? A...” She frowned. Mother never really had enjoyed what normal people called a sense of humor. “I don't get it.”

“Don't get what, dear?”

“The joke.”

“What joke?”

Clarice scowled. “The joke you just told me!”

Mother looked offended. “This is no joke, Clarice! Why on earth would I joke about such things?”

“This is exactly what I'm trying to figure out.”

“I am perfectly serious. Your father and I desperately wanted children, and we went to the local occultist when the traditional methods didn't pan out.” Her tone was so damn conversational, she almost sounded bored. “He gave us a book of spells and incantations, and after we decided upon the right demon to approach, we had a deal in place.”

Clarice's jaw couldn't seem to decide between the floor or locked tight. “Okay, now I really don't get it.”

“The demon's name was Asmodeus.”

A twinge of something not related to shock or confusion itched through Clarice's body. She knew that name. Weston had mentioned it half a dozen times in his last open-campus lecture, raving on about the demons who represented the cardinal sins. Asmodeus, if memory served, was supposed to be lust.

This meant two things: either Mother had researched her demons before pulling this elaborate prank, or she actually believed the words she spoke. Mother would sooner pluck out her eyeballs for an afternoon snack than research hell demons ... which made either possibility quite terrifying.

“Mother,” Clarice said slowly. “Why are you looking up demon names?”

Mother shot her a scandalized look. “I am doing nothing of the sort! I haven't touched a ... a ... demon book since before you were born!”

She sat back, her hands coming up. “Don't get all pissy with me; you're the one who brought up the D-word.”

“Language!”

“Would you please just tell me what the hell you're talking about so we can get back to our regularly scheduled episode of What's Wrong with My Daughter?”

“I will not sit here and let my own daughter blaspheme in front of me!”

“And yet in this twisted reality, consorting with demons is fair game.” Clarice shook her head and rested her elbows on the table. “Are you going to elaborate or do we get to play a round of twenty questions?”

Mother stared at her a long moment before her lip began quivering. “Oh, Claire-Claire...”

“Don't you freak out on me again.”

Surprisingly, the woman didn't leap to the defensive. She instead straightened her shoulders, stole a last sip of sweet tea, then bowed her head as though facing the gallows. “I mean what I said. Your father and I brokered a deal with a demon so we could conceive.”

The pesky niggling of fear began creeping up Clarice's spine again. This simply wasn't the tone one associated with jokes, even bad ones. While Mother might be famously bad at pulling someone's leg, she typically wore a goofy grin and jabbed her elbow to emphasize the ludicrous aspects of her story. She wasn't one to sit stone-faced and dance between a mixture of remorse and grief.

At this rate, it seemed best to go along with the joke and hope the punch line followed quickly. “Okay,” Clarice said slowly. “You ... brokered with a demon?”

“Yes.”

“And what exactly did you broker?”

Mother wet her lips and fidgeted. “That's just it, dear,” she said. “You were the bargaining chip.”

Clarice blinked dumbly. “I was.”

“Yes.”

“Before I was born...”

“The terms of the agreement were as follows.” Mother cleared her throat. “The firstborn child shall be raised five and twenty years until such a time when she is physically and mentally capable of ... submitting to Lord Asmodeus.”

Clarice's jaw again wrestled with gravity. Mother never referred to anyone aside from the baby Jesus as “Lord.” Never. There were no “lords of the house,” no one ever “lorded anything” over anyone else, and as far as she was concerned, William Golding had never written a book dealing with lords or flies. Mother wasn't a specific type of religious; she just was religious as surely as she was female, and she took her bible seriously.

“Lord Asmodeus?” Clarice echoed. “Mother, are you sure we don't need to call Dr. Nelson?”

Mother drew herself up. “Of course, dear, I am perfectly fine.”

“Yes, it is perfectly fine to discuss demons.”

“Don't take that tone with me.”

Clarice moaned and let her face fall into her waiting hands. Whatever in the world Francis St. Clair had up her sleeve was anyone's guess, but she supposed wading through the waters toward whatever endgame was her only option. After all, none of her conversations with Mother could ever be classified as normal, therefore splitting hairs now, while the instinctive thing to do, would only worsen her headache in the long run. “Okay,” she said. “You made a deal with ... Lord Asmodeus.”

Mother gave a tight nod. “Yes.”

“To submit me when I turn...”

“Twenty-five.” She paused, then leaned inward, a conspiratorial glint in her eye.

“That's this birthday, dear.”

“Yes,” Clarice deadpanned. “I do know how old I am.”

Mother quirked her head. “I don't understand.”

“Believe me, neither do I.”

“Apparently you haven't grasped the severity of this situation.”

“No, I haven't grasped the severity of your stroke. Does your face feel numb?”

Mother waved a hand and ignored her. “If memory serves,” she said, “a demon will visit you at precisely 7:19 this evening to discuss the next step.”

“The step of submitting me to this Lord Asmodeus guy.”

Another nod. “That's correct.”

“And what exactly does this submission shiiiii--stuff entail?”

“Lord Asmodeus is the ward over the Sin of Lust.” The way Mother spoke, one could hear the proper nouns. “He is a filthy, filthy creature ... but it was the only way to have you.”

“To have me. And give me up.” Even in her parents' delusions, Clarice was an unwanted child. She supposed it was all right so long as Princess Sophia remained virginally intact.

The other woman shook her head. “We didn't have a choice. We didn't--”

“All right.” Clarice heaved a breath and pushed her chair away from the table, doing her best not to wince at the loud whine it drew across the floor. “I think it's time to go.”

“Claire-Claire--”

“Don't you want to go and watch me try on clothes you hate? Won't that make you feel better?”

“Lord Asmodeus is going to claim you as his bride.”

“I'm sure he is.”

“I am perfectly serious!”

“Yeah,” Clarice agreed slowly. “At least I'll have a date to Sophia's wedding. And you won't have to worry about me dying an old maid.”

This prospect did not lighten Mother's suddenly grim mood. Instead, she frowned, but moved to follow Clarice out the café door. “I don't know if Lord Asmodeus will permit you to attend your sister's wedding.”

An excited, wicked little rush hurried through her body. “Oh, even better. I'll have a good excuse to ditch.”

“Clarice St. Clair, what a horrid thing to say!”

Her inner cashiers began calculating what this outing would cost her in guilt and therapy; thus far, she was well under budget. Therefore, Clarice felt no remorse in responding with a clipped, “No more horrid than selling me to a demon.”

Even if the notion was ridiculous, she figured the phrase “it's the thought that counts” ran both ways.

“This was before we knew you, dear.”

“At least it wasn't Sophia.”

Clarice didn't know whether to be glad when there was no rejoinder, or offended at the implication that Mother agreed with her.

In the end, she decided silence was better.





Find out what happens to Clarice, and what her former professor, Weston Ryans, might already know, on April 30. A Friend in Need, coming soon from Liquid Silver Books.

Lucky 7 Excerpt

I'm rising to the challenge of the lucky seven blog post excerpt after being tagged by Pamela Turner.

Rules are:

1. Go to page 77 in current manuscript.
2. Go to line 7
3. Copy the next 7 lines, making no changes.
4. Tag 7 more authors via Facebook.

Here's mine from Flip Side of Sin, the third book in the Sinners and Saints series:

Any doubt this would be a quick and painless visit effectively died, though he supposed it was his own fault for having nourished that hope to begin with. Quick and painless were not words one associated with the former Hell Queen. It was one of many things leading to their split, though the word count on that particular list might never be determined.

Lilith had been beautiful once, and many would claim that beauty had only magnified with time. Yet where he’d once seen promise remained nothing but a hollow junkie. Someone who didn’t see people so much as stepping stones—someone whose mere existence had once filled him with hope, only to leave him with a shattered image of humanity centuries had not yet pieced back together.

Yes, his lovely ex-wife.

Halloween Excerpts - 1/3 - Know Thine Enemy

Hey gang,

To celebrate Halloween, one of my favorite holidays, I have decided to release three new excerpts of Know Thine Enemy, my erotic paranormal romance which released a week ago today. These will be posted periodically throughout the day. Hope you enjoy!


Genre: Erotic Paranormal Romance
Warnings: Dubious consent, graphic violence, language, explicit sexual content, hints of child abuse, kidnapping
Length: Novel (75k+)
ISBN: 978-1-60592-548-6


All excerpts come with a warning of bad language. My characters have potty mouths.
No fucking idea where they get that.



Excerpt 1


Something rustled in her peripheral vision, casting whatever she'd been about to say aside. Her attention wrapped itself around the man now approaching her table, and everything around her stopped. Him.

The vampire—her vampire—from last night’s patrol was right the hell there, taking long, confident strides toward her booth with a cool grin stretching his sinful lips. And before she could blink it happened again—the strange paralysis from the night before. The same foreign tingle itched through her veins and spread across her skin like a virus. She felt hot and self-aware in ways she never had been before. The sensation was strange and confusing, and she didn't like it. If she could find her strength, she'd kick his teeth in and make a beeline for the door.

Only she couldn't find the strength; she couldn't find anything. She just sat and stared, soaking in all the details she thought she'd catalogued the night before—things shadows and weak streetlights couldn't do justice. She'd remembered his cheekbones, high and prominent, accentuating his strong jaw. His skin was moon-pale, and under the light his features had an aura of being too-perfect. That perfection was a common trait among vamps, one she'd recognized but never truly comprehended until now.

Then her wandering gaze clashed with his, which shone a bright sea-blue—a splotch of color on an otherwise white canvas. His hair was short and jet black, and he wore a Matrix-style leather duster that billowed behind him with every lengthy step. He looked pristine, even in a dirty place. Cool, collected, encompassed with a familiar sense of old-world power. Had she seen him immediately, as she should have, Connor and his plate of instant heart attack would have been the least of her worries.

"Don't mind the lady, Conn," the vampire purred. He spoke with a cool, refined timbre, his lips pulling tighter on his smirk. Though he addressed the barkeep, his eyes never left her face. "No sense letting good spirits go to waste."

Connor's giant head jerked at the new voice. Then his shoulders dropped. "Evenin', Ryker."

Izzie's shoulders slumped. Well, fuck.

The vampire inclined his head politely. "Evening," he replied. He stared at Izzie a second longer before his long fingers slipped through the mug's handle. "You don't want this?"

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Getting free drinks, so it seems." He nodded to the glass. "You sure you don't want this?"

"Bite me."

Ryker chuckled. "Dangerous words. Guess that you won't mind if I help myself."

"Knock your socks off."

He raised the glass in a toast before tossing back a healthy gulp. "Personally, I don't think you know what you're missing, but all's the more for the rest of us." He consumed the beer at a speed that seemed downright unnatural, then shoved the empty glass against Connor's chest. "I'll have another. And bring the lady an iced tea."

"The lady can order for herself," she said pointedly.

Ryker grinned, helping himself to the vacant seat across from her. "I'm sure she can."

"And I'm not staying."

She would have sounded at least partly convincing had she could budge an inch. The most she could hope was he wouldn't notice the lack of conviction behind her words.

"Shame," he said, plucking a cheese-drenched fry off her plate. "All this goes to waste."

"I didn't know you people ate real food."

He shrugged. "What you don't know about us people could sink the Titanic. Weren't you leaving, anyway?"

Izzie stared at him for a long beat before shaking her head. "What the hell is this?"

"Dinner?"

"Last night—"

"I followed you."

"Yeah," she replied shortly. "I caught that part."

"Didn't tonight, though. Got the answer I needed."

"Ah huh." She eyed Connor, who had made his way back behind the bar and kept shooting them furtive glances. "Your friend, I take it?"

"You sniffed around his bar. It's bad for business."

"Bad for business?"

Ryker held out his hands like scales weighed against each other. "Demon hunter in a demon bar. You do the math."

A long breath rolled off her shoulders, any lingering thought of an early night abandoning her completely. "So you knew," she said. "What I was."

"Sorry to break it to you, but you're not exactly inconspicuous." He waved at her. "Connor had it figured the first night you popped in."

"Did he?"

"Rang me up almost immediately. Said he either had a demon hunter or a groupie looking for a rush on his hands, and since you hide in corners and don't talk to anyone . . . ."

"Groupies are more upfront."

"Exactly."

Izzie licked her lips. "Funny," she said. "All this time, I've operated under the assumption that I'm only visible when I wanna be."

"Most hunters are like that."

"Not Zack."

Ryker domed a brow. "Zack? This the fella you travel with?"

A rush of panic tore through her before she fell slack. If the vampire knew where she retreated at the end of the night, finding out about Wright and Berlie wasn't much of a stretch. She doubted he was a problem since he hadn't done much beyond lurk and annoy her. Still, sitting with the enemy, let alone disclosing information, was definitely on Wright's You-Will-Be-Killed-For lists. While they differed on many ideological points, she owed him her life and wouldn't disrespect her debt by over-sharing with someone she barely knew.

Someone Wright would kill on sight.

As though sensing her discomfort, Ryker flashed a grin. "Don't worry. It's not him I'm interested in."

"Great. My lucky day."

Want more? Click me!

SINFULLY SCANDALOUS: Cover Art, Blurb, First 2 Chapters + Info about the Know Thine Enemy giveaway!

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

It’s an order that Luxi, Sin of Lust, never saw coming. When you work for Lucifer, though, you tend to lay off the questions. She isn’t comforted when she discovers her assignment is to intern for a preacher-turned-politician, especially when her directive goes no further. As Luxi prepares for a long ride to nowhere, she can’t help but wonder if something else is at play…or what the King of Hell has up his sleeve.

Grayson Bailey’s run for state senate is going nowhere fast. The poll numbers are depressing, his campaign advisor is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and someone out there has a bullet with his name on it. Yet when temptation herself struts through the door with a sassy smirk and an attitude to match, Grayson finds it very hard to remember which obligations are at the top.

The closer Grayson gets to Luxi, the stranger his life becomes. With Election Day—and a psycho with a gun—just around the corner, he can’t afford any detours. And while Luxi never puts her heart on the line, there’s something about this man that tests her resolve…though it might end up costing her more than she can afford.

Chapter One
Chapter Two

Coming soon from Liquid Silver Books!

Also, join me on Monday as I guest blog at Elizabeth Morgan's Spoolalicious, talk about my love of vampires, provide new excerpts from my latest release, Know Thine Enemy, and giveaway a free e-copy! It's going to be a lot of fun, so don't miss it!

Lost Wages of Sin - Excerpt

I've now sent back the second round of revisions for Lost Wages of Sin and approved the cover, which will be made public shortly. In celebration, I thought I might post another short excerpt.

I'm going to have some bookmarks made shortly. If anyone's interested, drop me a line at rosalie.stanton@gmail.com and I'll send one to you - absolutely free! I'll start with an order of 50, so it will be a first-come-first-serve thing. :)

Lost Wages of Sin - Excerpt

In a blink she was in front of him, her body between his and the demon she called Mammon. “Shut up,” she snapped.

Then she captured his cheeks between her hands and brought his mouth crashing down upon her own. And all thought of the collection box or the demon in the black robes vanished. Dante moaned, his demon receding, all fight abandoning him as his body seized what it wanted above all else. Ava was against him. Ava’s lips molded to his. Ava. Everything around him ceased to exist. The ground vanished, the house faded, and Mammon merged into nothing. Reality blinked away, and there was nothing but the pure, unadulterated truth of Ava. The way her lips spoke against him, brushing his with softness Dante had never before touched. Not with anyone. Not this--this tenderness, this gentleness. Her mouth moved with girlish curiosity, consuming him with her richness. Her taste. Her good.

The kiss hadn't been planned--she was far too tense to have acted on anything but impulse. For what cause, he knew not, but he was there to catch her when her body relaxed. When her lips parted with a pleasured sigh, his eager tongue dove into her wet, wonderful mouth. Exploring, searching, drawing in as much of her taste as possible. Committing her to memory; there was little chance he'd get to savor her again. But she was here--against him, kissing him with enthusiasm. Holding his chin to anchor him into her mouth with small, hungry murmurs scratching her throat. There was no way to tell if she was aware of herself for the way she leaned into him, her hips swaying against his, rubbing herself against the iron hardness at his crotch, but he was too far gone to care. All that mattered was that she did.

“Fuck,” he panted. “Ava…”

A pause. He worried his voice had broken the spell around him, but only for an instant. She was kissing him again before he could miss her warmth, blinking away coherent thought. All he knew was her heat. Her liquid fire. The scent of her arousal attacked him without warning, teasing his tastebuds, flooding his nostrils and confirming what he already knew. He was lost. Dante was completely lost in Ava. For whatever reason, he was hers.

“Ava…” Her name rolled between them on a groan as he sucked at her lower lip. “Want … fuck … want you so much…” Then she was gone, and the loss was crushing. Dante's eyes flew open.

“You with me?” she demanded, breathless and flustered. That much was satisfying. Good to know her feathers weren't beyond ruffling.

Not that he paid much attention to anything but her moist pink lips, swollen by his ardor. That couldn't be it. She couldn't deny him her kisses. She couldn't give him so much without giving him anything at all--no, he'd taste her again. He needed to taste her again. However, he wasn't able to put as much into words. All that came out was a definitively ineloquent, “Huh?”

Ava nodded shakily. “Okay, you're with me.”