Elise Cormier has hated Cole Whitehurst since she was five years old. He’s always known just how to make her feel dumb, shabby, and — worst of all — invisible. Even when they live under the same roof. But that’s where Elise learns Cole’s terrible secret and why he is the way he is. Despite how he’s always treated her, Elise becomes his ally. Cole Whitehurst has the weight of the world on his shoulders. Day in and day out, it’s up to him to keep his mother and sister safe. He’s used to giving up everything he wants in order to protect them. And there’s nothing he wants more than Elise Cormier. Cole has no business falling for his housekeeper’s daughter, but how could he resist? She’s funny. She’s real. And he trusts her with his life. But, as Cole knows, loving someone comes with a price, and it may take him years to pay it.
Second Life (The Second Series, Bk #2) By Emily Reese
Blurb:
She thought her trials were over...
When she ended the Second Life of the serial killer turned vampire responsible for her own transformation, Claire assumed she’d be able to move on with her life. The “man” was a literal monster, and the world would be better off without him.
If only the rest of her world shared that opinion.
With the help of new allies Claire must race against the clock to prove her acts justifiable… or risk following her tormentor to the grave. And as for Mike, whose rescue was the catalyst for her current troubles, what kind of life will he awaken to? And will he ever forgive her for her actions that night?
In the thrilling sequel to Second Death, the story of Claire Wallace and Mike Monroe continues to unfold, immersing readers in the complex and often brutal world of the supernatural. A world that exists all around us.
Available for purchase at
Excerpt
It had never been my intention to become a nighttime
avenger for victims of sexual assault, but it certainly seemed to be turning
out that way. I jumped down from the roof and landed behind Creepy Guy; the two
men were so focused on each other, I had to speak to get their attention.
“Hey boys,” I said and cocked my hip out to the right.
“Everything going okay?”
Creepy shot me a glare over his shoulder. “None of your
business, bitch. Me and this queer are having some words. Leave, or your next.”
He wasn’t even scared, just pissed that now I was going to cause him to rush
things. I'm going enjoy my meal tonight.
“Actually, that’s exactly what I had in mind. You mind
if I go first, kid?” I looked around my victim to the petrified boy; he was so
scared he couldn’t even nod. All I was getting from him was: Help. Help.
Help. Please help. I don’t want to die. I just want to go home. This isn’t
happening. Oh, God, help me. “I’ll take that as a yes.” I opened my arms
and said, “Okay, asshole. Show me what you’ve got.”
Turns out what said asshole had was a lot of rage. Rage
at the boy for being beautiful and gay, rage at himself for being attracted to
men, rage at me for being a woman, baiting him, challenging his precious
manhood while doing nothing for his libido, making him feel even more wrong.
All of it hit me in a wave, the seething hate so hot my skin warmed. If he
hadn’t been such a psycho, I might’ve felt sorry for him.
“You’re gonna hurt, bitch. I don’t like interruptions.”
He charged me, leading with his knife, sure his bulk would help him in this fight.
I couldn’t wait for him to get close enough to prove him wrong.
With my speed, it was as if he moved in slow motion. I
grabbed his arm and brought it down over my knee, forcing him to drop his
knife. Still gripping his arm, I spun into him and sent an elbow into his ample
gut, causing him to double over and wheeze. A knee to the groin, (which seemed
appropriate given the context,) had him on the ground, coughing and whimpering.
I put him in a headlock and lifted him up, though, given my height, his feet
were dragging. I was about to let my teeth out, when I realized the boy hadn’t
moved. He was still up against the car, his mouth hanging open. Between nearly
being killed and watching me take down an armed guy nearly double my size, the
kid was more or less in shock. Instead of the normal flow of emotions I picked
up from humans, all I got from him was static. Total disconnect.
“You should go, kid. You’ve seen enough tonight —
you’re not going to like what comes next.”
The poor kid nodded slowly and began stumbling back
toward the lights and the crowds. Just before he walked into the light, he
turned. He looked to me as if he wanted to say something, but his voice wasn’t
cooperating.
I nodded, and returned my attention to a recovering
Creepy Guy. He began to struggle and pull at my arms around his neck.
“What… the… hell… are you?” he managed to gasp.
“I used to be just like that boy, with some dickhead
just like you making my life a living hell. I survived. Then I killed him. What
do you think that means for you?”
The Second Series
The Second Death
Book #1
Available for purchase at
About The Author
Emily Reese graduated from the University of North Texas with a degree in Communication Studies, which makes it a little easier to write dialog… when her characters are cooperating. She lives out in the middle of nowhere with her husband, their two daughters, two cats, and a Pug. She loves smushed faced animals, the creative power of Junior Mints, the glory of naps, baking, video games (especially BioWare,) and the sound of her girls giggling together. Her works include Second Death, Second Life, and Servant of the Three coming September 2016.
“When everything in life has been against you, who can blame you for not playing nice with others?
My name is Wednesday. For the last seven years, I was the property of a sadistic bastard named Klein. Now he wants me dead- only he doesn’t have the balls to kill me himself.
Alvin, the hitman Klein sent to do his dirty work, decided to save my life (repeatedly) instead of taking it. Now we’re on a wild cross-country run from Klein’s goons.
It’s a rollercoaster road trip with constant personality clashes as we dodge bullets and swap cars, share fast food and cheap motel rooms. Our journey is full of pain and laughs, torture and growth, tacos and lots of guns; there’s a lot of hair dye, blood, and tears. Sometimes finding true redemption comes at a high cost.
And, no matter how much someone cares about you, they can only do so much… can only go so far. You are your only real shot at coming out on top.
Sometimes reclaiming your life requires a body count.
-Wednesday Valentine”
-EXCERPT-
They stood in the center of the warehouse looking around for the man they were supposed to meet. One had his hand on the pistol at his side and the other was in a pair of handcuffs. Boyle couldn’t hear what they were discussing as Alvin bent down to put the ankle cuffs on Wednesday, but he could tell she was protesting, even if he couldn’t quite make out their words. Now, he figured, was as good a time as any as he slid the bolt into place on his rifle and looked down the scope.
Safe repeated in Wednesday’s head as she looked around the open space again, feeling anything but. Alvin knew better than she did. He’d already proven it. He’d managed to keep her alive this long despite the sheer number of killers Klein had sent after her. He said it was safe, so it had to be safe, even if the hair on the back of her neck was standing on end. She looked into his eyes for reassurance and found that she felt better but still ill at ease.
Alvin saw the fear in her eyes and gave her a nod to try to reassure her. He knew she’d been through a lot, and he’d do anything to soothe her. This had to be done. He only wished it could be done faster or be over already.
"Now the chain of these leg cuffs," Alvin said, holding them up in front of him. "It locks into the floor of the prisoner transport, so let’s go ahead and get them on you."
He took his hand off his gun for what felt like only an instant as he turned his back to the perch that Boyle had chosen. Boyle smiled broadly. This was like getting a present, and it wasn’t even his birthday.Alvin had clapped the cuff around Wednesday’s right ankle when she stopped him again.
"If I’m going to wear them, and if you want me to believe I’m actually safe, you’re going to give me a key," Wednesday said, eyebrow raised and hand extended toward his face.
He rolled his eyes as he looked up at her. He opened his mouth, but before he could protest, Alvin felt the burn of the bullet. The report followed a fraction of a second later. He slumped forward, falling at Wednesday’s feet.
"Fuck!" she yelled, shaking.
She immediately dropped to her knees at his side – eyes wide, face pale. Alvin leaned up to her and squeezed the key into her hand as a second round whizzed over their heads.
"Run!" Alvin yelled back at her as the second report echoed through the warehouse.
"I’m not leaving..." She was cut off as he smacked her.
"Run like hell, kid," Alvin said, as his body shook from another round in his left side. He collapsed again to the floor while the room was booming.Boyle had switched to automatic fire and stood up. The muzzle flashes above them looked almost like a flamethrower in the dark as his rifle threw round after round down at them.Panic washed over her like a house fire hitting its flash point. It was as if her body exploded with the heat of the flames licking every inch of her. The palm print on her face stung, pins and needles assaulted her limbs, and she knew that the second shot that hit Alvin would have been in her belly if he hadn’t stopped it. This was all too much. His blood was splattered dark crimson all over the black and white stripes she wore. He was right. She had to run.
Wednesday bolted up fast, sprinting and uncuffing herself as she went. She tore off across of the large open room and forced her way out onto a loading dock. Chunks of the concrete floor popped up all around her as she went; Boyle’s shots barely missing their mark.
Once she was in the parking lot she knew that unless there were others around here somewhere, she had a hell of a head start. Boyle knew it too. He started running down the flights of stairs that
separated him from the floor of the warehouse. He jumped three and four steps at a time, but there was too much distance and she moved liked a cheetah. She was gone, a ghost in the blackness of the night.
She ran, gliding over the unfamiliar ground, moving faster than she could ever remember running before. She screamed out at the sky as she went. "Nothing’s ever fucking safe!"
Sergeant Justin Shaw returned from the war with what is left of his unit, though instead of being hailed as heroes, they are being sought as test subjects. Their last mission behind enemy lines to obtain a WMD ended with them exposed and on the run. Their goal is not only to destroy the weapon, but also the program being run by their own government. Justin and his men have sacrificed everything for their mission. Will it be enough? Samantha James, a girl whose father disappeared almost twenty years ago unwittingly holds the key. When her father returns bodies start to fall. Sam doesn't know who to trust. Both Justin and her father have their own agendas and either one of them could end up with her dead.
Wendi Wise is a troubled young woman who snorts her breakfast through a straw and spends more time in rehab than in the real world…
Her life is seemingly out of control.
But now she has a plan.
That plan involves a sharp set of butcher knives.
She's going back to where all of her troubles began…
Flocksdale.
Wendi was lured away from a local skating rink, at the age of thirteen, and held captive in a place she calls 'The House of Horrors.' Dumped off blindfolded on the side of a dirt road, Wendi soon discovered that she was addicted to the drugs they fed her while she was captive.
Too scared to go home, and having a new habit to deal with, she hopped on a bus, vanishing from the family she loved.
Vanishing from Flocksdale…
The town of Flocksdale is littered with fliers with a grainy image of young Wendi, and the words 'Have You Seen This Girl?' written below.
Now, eight years later, she's on a mission—a mission to find the mysterious house from her youth and the monsters who dwell inside it.
Present Day I lost my straw three hours ago, which sucks because it was my favorite one. Getting up to look for it seems like a painstaking, insurmountable task right now, but I pull myself up to a sitting position and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The “bed” is nothing more than a dingy, rust-colored mattress that lies on the floor of a two-room basement apartment in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
The threadbare carpet that covers the floor provides no support for my feet, and frankly, it stinks. I get down on my knees and lay my face flat against the carpet, holding my breath and peering under an ancient, stained armchair and the dresser that stands beside it. Now, where the fuck is that straw?
All I can see are dust bunnies, mouse droppings, and the carcass of a cockroach. No straw. I let out a frustrated groan. I give up searching, stand back up, and pad across the hall to the tiny bathroom I share with my current boyfriend, Michael, or “Mick” when he thinks he’s cool. I plop down on the toilet, running my hands through my tangled mop of greasy black hair.
I wait for the pee to come. Then wait some more. I can remember one of my old AA mentors, telling me once why opiates interfere with bodily functions like peeing, for instance. It was something about wires in the brain getting crossed…I wish I had a stopwatch to time this affair, but then it finally comes and I let out a sigh of relief.
Mick’s clothes from the night before are strewn across the bathroom floor at my feet. Suddenly I have a thought, and begin rummaging through the pockets of a brown pair of khaki shorts that I remember him wearing last night. I find what I’m looking for: a tattered black wallet, worn out from age and being sat on all day long. I open it up and peer inside. It only contains two dollars, but that’s fine by me—all I need is one.
Pulling out the faded, crumpled bill, I smooth it flat against the round edges of the wash basin. Once flattened, I begin slowly rolling it into a perfectly cylindrical mini-version of my straw. It’s basically perfect.
The dope is in my bedroom drawer, along with my razor. Using the tiny blade, I lovingly chop the heroin until it is fine and powdery, and then use the rolled up dollar bill to suck it straight up my nose. Its taste hits the back of my throat instantly and drains down through my sinuses, a sensation I used to loathe but have grown to love.
Wiping the residue from my nose noisily with the back of my hand, I glance at Mick, who is still passed out on the bed. Getting high makes him sleepy, but it fills me with an insatiable need to do something productive.
Our bedroom is dotted with tiny land mines of crumpled t-shirts, inside-out jeans, and day-old panties. I make my way around the room, picking them up and tossing them all into a wicker laundry basket in the corner.
Besides the bedroom and bathroom, we have a small, windowless sitting area, a narrow galley kitchen, and a small extra bedroom that we use for trash and other random items. I move my cleaning to the living room, gathering up snack wrappers and empty Solo cups, and then carry them into the small silver garbage can under the kitchen sink. The sink is filled to the brim with two-day-old dishes, so I start filling the sink with water and shampoo.
I’ve been out of dish soap for weeks now, but the hair care product seems to get the job done so I don’t complain. The water from the faucet never gets hot because our gas got shut off months ago. If I want hot water, I have to boil it. This all sounds ridiculous, I know. This is the twenty-first century, but my addiction has me back in the Stone Age, because when you’re an addict, you don’t spend money on things like food, water, clothes, electricity…you spend it on drugs. At least the truly hardcore addicts like me do.
Crusty teacups, sauce-covered plates, and sour-smelling utensils permeate the water, rising steadily to the brim. I plunge my hands into the frigid, cloudy water and begin mindlessly washing.
For the past six months, our daily life can be divided into three segments: looking for money to buy heroin, finding the drug, and then getting high. Oh, I almost forgot about the fourth segment: coming down from the drug—my least favorite time of day. Our entire life revolves around heroin and our bodies rely on it to function. It’s not about getting “high” anymore because I never feel lifted or high-spirited, or overly anything these days. We wake up feeling low and we need it to feel normal. Maybe they should change the expression to “getting normal” or “avoiding feeling like shit,” instead of “getting high.”
Today will be different though. Today I have a date with my good friend rehab, and in six hours from now, my daily routine should change dramatically. Mick isn’t going, but I’m fine with that. He’ll do his own thing when he’s ready. I’ve been planning this for a month now, and finally the phone call came: a bed opened up at the local in-patient clinic and today is the day to report.
I’ve been to rehab before, and will mostly like go again after this stint, but everything is about to change. This time around, major plans have been made for when I get out of rehab.
Those plans involve me and a sharp set of butcher knives, but I’ll explain that later.
Perhaps you’re wondering how I got this way. Or perhaps you don’t give a damn. Either way, this is my story. It’s not a story about addiction. This is a story about murder.
- TEASERS -
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR -
CARISSA ANN LYNCH
Besides my family, my greatest love in life is books. Reading them, writing them, holding them, smelling them…well, you get the idea. I’ve always loved to read, and some of my earliest childhood memories are me, tucked away in my room, lost in a good book. I received a five dollar allowance each week, and I always — always — spent it on books. My love affair with writing started early, but it mostly involved journaling and writing silly poems. Several years ago, I didn’t have a book to read so I decided on a whim to write my own story, something I’d like to read. It turned out to be harder than I thought, but from that point on I was hooked. My first and second books were released by Sarah Book Publishing: This Is Not About Love and Grayson’s Ridge. I’m a total genre-hopper. Basically, I like to write what I like to read: a little bit of everything! I reside in Floyds Knobs, Indiana with my husband, three children, and massive collection of books. I have a degree in psychology and worked as a counselor.
Seeking refuge, Abigail Watson returns home to mend a broken heart, abandoning the city that she has grown to love and the job she worked hard for years to attain.
Life allows for distraction, but it can't bury the past.
Jack Landon has left an indelible mark on her.
A painful scar, a stolen kiss, a memory of what once was, or could be.
Jack is all of these things, and more. The haunting memories begin to consume her with an unbridled passion.
His domination is absolute. Her submission begs for release.
Their lustful needs could destroy everything around them, turning flame to ash. Friend to enemy, love to hate.
Where there's smoke...you will find the Devil's Fire.
All I have in me right now to say is WOW, that’s it that’s all I have……
Now that I have taken a cold shower and have my senses back, I think I can coherently write a review.
Ms. Volley has outshined herself once again and I must start off by applauding her on her work with this book. It’s extremely fast paced from beginning to end. This author has gotten very sneaky in writing this story. There is one scene and I may never really know for sure, but I wasn’t completely sure if the scene was a dream or for real that the character was going through. And that is all I am saying about that. The characters are phenomenally well written and the sex scenes are cold shower or maybe a bucket of ice worthy. I really loved how the author twisted, romance, sex, and a bit of comedy into the story. I could be getting into one scene and POW I am mad at Victoria for ruining it, to laughing at something someone did or said. Of course, Jack is still hawt and fall off the bed sexy in this story as he has been in the previous one. I must say that this author has really progressed and has come a long way in perfecting her writing style and it really shows in this book. I must HIGHLY recommend that you go and purchase this book right NOW, but be sure to read book one, The Devil’s Gate, first so you know what’s going on. With the graphic language and scenes in the story, this is not one for the younger generation. I recommend this book to 18+ year olds. This awesome story gets my vote of five fuzzy handcuffs and more.
The author provided me with a digital ARC copy of the book for review purposes only. No remuneration was exchanged.
1. Most of my favorite authors are indie or self-pubbed, what made you decide to go that route?
I never dreamed of being signed. I wrote my first book between 2008 and 2009. I published it myself in 2010. I ended up doing a short in an anthology because it sounded like fun and I was offered a contract with Vamptasy Publishing in the UK based off of that short. I stayed with the company until it was bought out by CHBB in 2012 and I moved over to CHBB. I was already on Hot Ink press, which is an imprint of CHBB, so the transition was an easy one.
I don’t think that my journey in publishing is normal by any means, but I am very grateful for every single step that I took and where I ended up.
In 2012 I was able to quit working retail and I became a full-time author. Not many are able to do that and I know exactly how lucky I am.
I will add that this job is harder than anything that I have ever done in my life. It’s an around the clock, 24/7 deal. Being self-employed takes serious commitment and very long hours.
2. What was one of the most surprising things you learned in creating your books?
That I could actually write.
3. Which of your characters are you most like? Least like?
I won’t lie. There is a little bit of me in every single character that I have written. Hero and villain alike. I don’t think that any author could dispute that.
4. Do you have a particular writing habit??
I never write past 3 pm. I have no idea why. I always have a tall glass of ice water and coffee on hand. I also listen to my ipod on shuffle the entire time. I never watch TV while I’m writing, it creates too many distractions. Up until we bought our first home this year, I always wrote on the left side of the couch. Now, I write in our library, which was a dream come true.
5. If you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?
Anne Rice
6. Are there any new authors that have grasped your interest?
Anyone who gathers the courage to write a polished piece of work and publish it grasps my attention. This is not an easy thing to do. It takes serious moxy.
7. What is the hardest part of your writing?
Writing ‘The End’. Saying goodbye to the characters and worlds that you create is a painful thing.
8. Do you have any advice for other writers?
Don’t release anything that you aren’t proud of. That means that you have to edit that piece of work until you are one-hundred percent happy with it and it is solid in plot, character development and grammatically sound. Don’t rush anything out for the sake of money or ill-conceived release dates. You can and will ruin yourself with a badly edited piece of work. You also need to understand that no one releases a book with no promotional budget attached to it. Set a comprehensive plan before you even have the book out. If you really want to watch professional authors do this then check out their fan pages, watch how they buzz their work leading up to a release. Like I said before, this is very hard job. It is so much more than writing the book. The real work begins as soon as you hit publish.
9. Describe yourself in three words.
I may bite.
10. I know characters are like children but if you could chose, who’s your favorite from your books?
I have so many but I will try to keep it to a minimum. Joshua Barrington from Blood & Light. Alexi and her dad, Christopher, from a witch’s tale. Abigail Watson and Jack Landon from The Devil’s Gate Trilogy. Halo Bay and Dorin from Hellhound.
11. Any song or songs that could basically sum up the overall mood of your writing?
NIN - closer hahahahaha
12. Do you plot out your books or just freely write them and let the characters tell you what to do next?
I usually plot them out to a certain degree, but none of my characters behave and they always take over.
13. If you had to choose, which writer would you consider the biggest influence in your writing?
Too many to mention.
14. What are your current projects? Can you share a little of your current work with us?
I am working on the third and final book in The Devil’s Gate Trilogy. I wish that I could share some of it, but it’s full of spoilers. I will mention that anyone who signs up to my mailer will receive exclusive content from the final book as we move along with it. They will also receive alerts for sales on my books and releases. You can join it here. http://goo.gl/forms/5eQO0eg2jo
Thank you so much Rue for stopping by and as always, I love sitting down to talk with you and pick your brain!!
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Rue Volley resides on Earth with her husband, Von Erik, and their two pug sons, Momo and Oshi. She is an award-winning author, graphic artist, and screenwriter. She is also the Creative/Marketing Director for Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing, and co-owner of Lovebites Production Company, which specializes in Dark Fantasy Films.
Rue released her first film, Hellhound, in November of 2014 and her second film, Awakening, in July 2015.
Stephanie Fournet, author of Fall Semester, Legacy, Butterfly Ginger, Leave a Mark, You First, and Drive, lives in Lafayette, Louisiana—not far from the Saint Streets where her novels are set. She shares her home with her husband John and their needy dogs Gladys and Mabel, and sometimes their daughter Hannah even comes home from college to visit them. When she isn’t writing romance novels, Stephanie is usually helping students get into college, setting up a tent in the woods, or running. She loves hearing from fans so you can follow her on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, or message her on Goodreads.
