In the Action Thriller, Bolt Action from Champagne Books, Detective Leslie Bolt is a smart talking, gun hording, Harley riding investigator forced to work a serial murder case with her sexy ex-lover. After a childhood of abuse suffered at the hand of her father, Leslie sleeps with a Ruger Blackhawk .357 under her pillow, has a Browning A-Bolt Stainless Stalker rifle in her broom closet, and a Saturday Night Special stashed in her road-hog cookie jar. The body count mounts and Detective Bolt must conquer her own past, as she races to capture “The State Quarter Killer” before her sister is the next victim.
Excerpt from Bolt Action
Out of my collection of weapons I have stashed around my apartment, I chose my Browning A-Bolt Stainless Stalker rifle from behind the mop in the broom closet. I headed in the direction of my enclosed storage area. Flipping on the porch light in hopes of frightening an intruder, I exited my front door. As I reached the bottom of the wooden steps, I could detect an outline of a person in front of the shadowed storage door. Male-at least six feet tall.
Cocking the rifle, I warned, “Stop. I have a rifle.”
“Calm down, Bolt. It’s just me.” Lance Kestler ran his hand through his thick black hair as he stepped from the shadows into the glow of the porch light.
“Oh for crying out loud. What the hell are you doing here?” I released the trigger. “Did you just come out of my storage area?”
“No. I got out of my car and walked toward your door.” Kestler placed his hands on his slim hips. “How come you never wear your hair down during the day?”
I ignored the question. “I heard a door close.”
Kestler shrugged his broad, black Fieora-clothed shoulders, and wobbled on his feet. “Must’a heard my car door.”
Headlights from a passing car shined toward me and I slid the rifle behind my back. “Whatever. It’s like midnight what the hell do you want?”
“Well, I remembered you don’t sleep much at night, so I assumed you’d still be up. Or maybe you just didn’t sleep at night because I kept you up-or should I say, you kept me up?” Kestler took a stumbling step forward.
I blew out a breath in frustration. How did I ever get involved with this guy in the first place? “Get off it, Kestler. You’ve been drinking. What do you want?”
“Aren’t you gonna invite me in?” He winked in his typical cocky manner. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had your firm body under mine.”
I shook my head. “Are you kidding me?”
“Look, I want to apologize for how things have been going between us lately.” Lance stumbled and dragged his hand across the side of the duplex to stabilize himself.
“Apologize?” The rifle dug into my hand as I tightened my grip. “You can’t even talk in complete sentences. How come you only show up to talk after you’ve been drinking?”
Kestler advanced two steps toward me. “What’s wrong with you? I’m trying to rekindle a civil relationship between us, and you show up acting like Annie Oakley the sharpshooter.”
“You don’t do apologies, or favors without an ulterior motive.” I pointed the rifle toward him. “What the hell do you want? Why don’t you go home?”
“What? You’re gonna shoot me?” Lance put his hands up, pretending to surrender and laughed.
His humor was lost on me. I wanted Kestler off my property and wanted him to know I meant business. Not that I would have shot him. Probably. “You’ve been drinking, and you’re trespassing. I believed you were an intruder and I had to defend myself.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Sounds convincing. I might be able to get someone to buy that.”
“You’d Miss.”
My finger itched to pull the trigger. “Don’t you remember my target scores where always better than yours?”
Lance winked at me. “That’s because I was distracted by your cute ass.”
“You are an ass.”
“I’m done trying to be nice to you.”
“When did you start?”
“Screw you.” He turned to stomp back toward his car.
I lowered the rifle and called out, “Kestler, you’ve been drinking. Should I call you a cab?”
I heard him open his car door. As I walked backward up the three steps to the front door, it didn’t take detective skills to realize he didn’t have the ability nor the courtesy to answer me. Kester was six feet tall─could he have consumed more then two drinks an hour? I ran back down the steps to offer him a ride.
“Kestler!” I pounded on the hood of the car. “Kestler, wait!”
He jammed the car in reverse, spun it around and squealed his tires on the usually quiet street. I watched him drive off and prayed he wouldn’t hit someone on his way home. Retreating inside my apartment, I locked and dead bolted the front door. I returned the A-Bolt rifle to its spot behind the mop, and headed for the phone to call in a tip about a drunk driver. If he was lucky, he’d be stopped by a friendly cop. It not-if he had to spend the night in the drunk tank at least he wouldn’t kill himself or anyone else.
For more information about Victoria and her books visit her website: www.victoriaroder.com.
Cindy Spencer Pape
The Geek and the Townie
It was January of 1982, and I’d just returned to Central Michigan University for the second semester of my freshman year. I moved in a bit early, and there weren’t a whole lot of people on campus yet. After calling around, I found one friend in dorm at the far end of campus who was already back, so I tromped through the snow to visit.
This friend had gotten to know a bunch of local guys, (townies) who played Dungeons and Dragons and other role-playing games. Since they all lived at home, she was the point person to allow them to use the big tables in the dorm basement for their gaming sessions. Sometimes she joined them, but that night she wasn’t. I’d never played any of these games but was interested, so I agreed to go downstairs and meet her friends. (Besides, what 18-year-old girl doesn’t want to meet a bunch of new guys?) Being kind of goofy, we went in armed with snowballs, and said hello by pelting the six or seven game-playing geeks with them.
Up they leapt. One really cute guy picked up the other girl, the one they knew, and said he was going to bury her in a snow bank. Another, well over six foot, toned, and with the brush cut and black glasses to attest that he’d just left the military, picked me up and carried me outside as well. (Yeah, I was a lot smaller then. Sigh.) He looked a little scary and he did put me in the snow beside my friend, but unlike her, I was set in gently and on my feet—not face first. Afterward, we all laughed and I had made a bunch of new friends. For the rest of my college career, I was officially one of the guys, and learned to role-play as if I’d been born to it. I still think a lot of my writing has its roots in the character creation process from those games, and some of these guys are still among my closest friends.
The big guy with the ugly glasses was only around for a few days, as he was off to a different school, several hours north. I heard about him periodically, met him a couple times when he was home and I was at school. Then the summer of my senior year, I got a job on campus, and he came home, with a job as a landscaper at an apartment complex. We ran into each other playing D&D or softball, and I realized that with longer hair and nicer glasses, he was really kind of hot. Then all at about the same time, he sprained his knee, and my roommate and I each sprained an ankle. While all our friends were working, for a couple weeks, the three of us were stuck on crutches. So of course we hung out. One night my roommate was gone, and just Glenn and I sat on the couch, watching reruns of the Twilight Zone.
After the first five minutes, we weren’t watching the TV anymore. The chemistry was like nothing I’d ever experienced. (Though to be honest, I was a geek who didn’t have a whole lot of experience.) We dated for all of about 3 weeks before he proposed, and were married a month after my graduation—and a year to the day after our first official date. Thirty years after we first met and twenty-six years after the wedding, he’s still my best friend, and
still a hot geek with glasses, and we still play games together. I always laugh when people ask about Valentine plans. My husband refers to Valentine’s Day as “Amateur Hour.” To him, a real man demonstrates his love all year around.
Excerpt from Motor City Mage
Des looked up at the heavens and sighed. “Fine. I’ll explain everything tomorrow at Thanksgiving dinner. Now where are you parked? I’ll walk you to your car.”
“I walked from home—parking permits are too damn expensive for a waitress.”
Des ignored that. He knew she had family money and made a good bit as part owner of the club. She probably walked just to be contrary to her cousins, who’d want her protected. As an older brother himself, he considered scolding her about the idiocy of a young, attractive woman walking alone in Detroit, especially since dusk was falling rapidly. The city was a dangerous one due to unemployment and bad race relations, even before adding in the trouble caused by rogue demons and other supernatural beings. Lana should know better. Then he remembered this particular damsel could grow fangs and claws if she needed them and kept his mouth shut.
“I wouldn’t say no to a lift though, if you’re parked nearby. It’s gotten colder since I left home this morning.”
“Of course.” His parents had raised him to be a gentleman. He continued toward the lot where he’d parked. “So,” he said, just to keep his mind off her…assets. “What are you studying?”
“Computer engineering.” She climbed into the passenger side of his car without waiting for him to open her door. When he got in beside her, she snorted. “Why look so shocked? Were you expecting me to say animal behavior? Woof.”
He shrugged. “How on earth was I supposed to know?”
“Good point. Not like you’ve ever paid any attention to our lives. We’re all just possible suspects to you, aren’t we, Des?” The anger in her voice held another note. Was it…hurt? That was something he’d never meant to do. He’d always assumed she was far too confident and thick-skinned for it to be possible.
Des stuck the key in the ignition and ignored it, turning to face Lana instead. He schooled his expression to one of neutral friendliness. “I pay a lot more attention than you think I do. The problem is, most of the times we’ve met have been about saving the world, or at least somebody’s life. We haven’t exactly had the chance to talk about our hopes and dreams for the future.” He let a small smile twitch at his lips. “Besides, I’m a—let me get it right—grumpy, antisocial asshole. Just ask my sister.”
Lana laughed again. “All right, I’ll give you that.” Her voice softened and she gave him a tiny half-smile, wrinkling her classic, patrician nose. “But you’ve come through for my family when we needed you. You’re a good friend, despite your best attempts not to be.”
“Well, don’t tell anyone. My reputation will be ruined.”
She made an X across her chest. “Promise.” She studied his face before reaching up to flick a finger across his cheek. Her demeanor changed, and suddenly, the aggressive, in-your-face she-wolf was gone, replaced by the caring woman he’d always pretended not to see. “Damn, you really have been running yourself ragged. This demon thing—it’s a lot more serious than you’ve let on, isn’t it?”
He shrugged, wishing he hadn’t noticed the softness of her hand in that miniscule touch. Just a flick of one turquoise-painted fingertip made his spine tingle in a way no one else ever had—not in his whole thirty-nine years. He didn’t have the faintest idea how to respond.
“Tell me.” Her hand fluttered down to rest on his knee. Even through his heavy wool slacks, her touch all but seared his skin, he was that tuned in to her.
This was bad. Why was he responding to her so much more strongly today than usual? And why was she being so kind and—well—tactile? He bit his lip as it occurred to him this was the first time they’d had any kind of conversation alone, rather than as part of a larger group. He couldn’t ignore her, pretending she was just one of the crowd. And werewolves were into touch. Which is why he’d typically stayed at the far end of a room from her. Now though, in the small space of the car, the dynamic between them was changing so fast he couldn’t catch his breath. “What was it you wanted to know?” He’d been so tangled up he hadn’t heard her question.
“Last we heard, Nightshade was presumed dead and random species of demons were trickling into the city. I assume the Wyndewin have been busy rounding them up and trying to ship them home.”
“Pretty much. Some of them put up a fight and end up dead, others suicide when they’re captured.” Like the one today from Vatsu—a plane so dry and arid the creatures came here just because of the water that abounded on Earth. They didn’t usually hurt anyone, but because they had scaly green skin and hooves and couldn’t shape-shift, they couldn’t be allowed to roam around freely. “Until we find the gate, there’s no way to send them home.”
“That sucks.” She patted his knee and pulled her hand back. “I sometimes think it’s time for us to all come out, let the humans know that they’re not alone in this world. Then harmless beings like Vatsu wouldn’t be rounded up just because they look different.”
“Me too.” The depth of her thinking made it impossible for him to maintain his self-delusion that she was flighty and self-centered. Fine. She’s not an idiot. Get over it and move on. Another layer of defense falls away. “But then I think about the Salem witch trials and the Inquisition. History hasn’t been kind to my people, let alone yours.”
“No, silver bullets sure aren’t my idea of a good time,” she agreed. When she leaned across the armrest to lay her head on his shoulder it felt utterly natural on a physical level, though to Des, it was a near-cataclysmic shift in their relationship.
Motor City Mage is available from Carnia Press.
Susan May Patterson
Love Begins Late
I was well into middle age. Had never married, never really wanted to marry. Had ended a very bad relationship very painfully a couple of years previously and totally (I thought) given up on men.
Divorced for a very long time, he was recently out of active duty military service and into the reserves.
We were both passionately interested in Egyptology. The local chapter of the American Research Center in Egypt had been organized in my den and we were holding the very first public meeting at a local university. He had been a member of the national organization, so of course he came to the first meeting.
I don’t remember meeting him. Of course, there was a lot going on that night, but he was the silent type who hardly spoke at all. In the succeeding meetings I did get to know him—casually, as I did everyone, trying to keep our struggling little organization alive. We spoke briefly, usually nothing more than a greeting or short comment over the refreshment table, the way you speak to anyone you barely know in an organization.
That went on for six years. As I am neither deaf, dumb, blind nor dead I could appreciate that he was a very good looking man, but I wasn’t interested in men. I had been too badly hurt.
I had promised to loan him a book—Thomas Hoving’s then-new book on Tutankhamen—but due to upheavals in my life (new job, ill mother) had forgotten to bring it to the meeting. We agreed that he would come to my apartment and pick it up. I was glad, thinking that maybe he’d stay half an hour or so and we could chat.
He stayed eight hours—and all we did was chat. To this day I’m not sure how he did it, but all my barriers were evaporated and from that day we were a committed couple. Neither of us ever saw anyone else.
Six weeks later we were at a Garth Brooks concert. As Garth sang ‘If Tomorrow Never Comes’ this wonderful, silent, somewhat stiff military man who didn’t even like to hold hands in public turned around and gave me a full-screen, Technicolor MGM kiss and suddenly I wanted nothing more on this earth than to marry him.
Things went on like this for almost three years. It was a wonderfully comfortable routine—weekends together, weeks spent with me at my flat, he at his house.
It was so comfortable, in fact, that I could see it carrying on forever like that—and, greedy being that I am—I wanted more. I wanted the whole enchilada—marriage, a house together, roses around the door. Kids were out of the question, of course, and that scared me. I was too old, but what if he wanted some? I did mention that he is a number of years younger than I, didn’t I?
So—I started to work up the moral courage to broach the subject with him and break off with him if necessary, but I decided to wait until our three year anniversary had passed. I also loved him so much that I prayed I’d have the strength to do it.
Three months before our anniversary we took a trip to Egypt that lasted almost a month. He was adamant that we be in Egypt for his birthday, so I cancelled all the plans for the lovely party I had planned and off we went. We rented a flat in Giza (five minutes’ walk from the Sphynx). I didn’t take a present for him to open just to have to take back, so instead I took him a sappily romantic card and promised him a birthday night dinner at the Mena House, a fantabulous 5-star hotel across the street from the Pyramids.
Being a romantic, I told him I wanted to be kissed in the gardens of the Mena Hotel, as they are absolutely beautiful. We got there early before the restaurant was open, so we went to the phone room (our flat was phone-less) and called all our friends in Cairo, making arrangements to see them while we were there. The restaurant still wasn’t open, so he looked at me oddly and said, “Well, let’s get this over with.”
I almost cried, but I own both a calendar and a mirror and thought I’d best be satisfied with what I had. We went out to the gardens and walked around until we found this lovely little knoll where one of the Pyramids loomed over us from some five hundred yards away. (Yes, they are big enough that they can loom most effectively at that distance!) There was smooth grass under our feet; we were surrounded by flowering bushes and stood beneath a European flowering mimosa that perfumed the air with its unique, sweet scent. Overhead a three-quarter moon floated in the navy-blue evening sky.
How I Met My Husband: The Real-Life Love Stories of 25 Romance Authors Page 11