Book 1 in the Dear Roz Series - The Lover's Workshop

Rozlyn Rook is a quick thinking, no-nonsense mistress of her own destiny. With a successful advice column under her belt and an even more lucrative "male-trapping" workshop several times a year, her days are filled with the quiet satisfaction every alpha female enjoys. However, a problem appears on the horizon in the shape of Sue Peoples, a vicious magazine critic. Sue has enrolled into one of Roz's workshops for one reason. Roz stole her boyfriend, and nobody does that to Sue Peoples and survives.

Enter an English Knight. Nathan Knight, writer of an advice column for men about women for a rival newspaper. Although they have never met, the two have sparred using their columns as weapons. He has read her provocative words, finding them ignorant and arrogant, much like he assumes she would be. When Nathan's friend and boss conspires to have them seated next to each other for his own amusement at a charity event, the fuse gets lit. Best to stand back. Roz already has her hands full with a vicious magazine critic who set her career-destroying sights on her. One is a thorn in her side, the other, a pain in her... assets.

Roz quickly finds herself one down in the one-upmanship game that Nathan started. That is totally unacceptable to the Queen of the advice column. She is now battling on two fronts and in danger of losing on both. How can she thwart a critic hellbent on her destruction while dealing with a vile, irritating, conceited, incredibly annoying, mildly attractive English upstart at the same time? His actions have already cost her the boyfriend she unwittingly stole from Sue. Roz is two down and blazing mad. It doesn't help that Nathan of the 'Nathan Knows Best' column appears unscathed through it all. The gloves are well and truly off and she will have her revenge. Or will she?

Book 2 in the Dear Roz Series - Rook Battles Knight

Roz and Nathan lock horns almost immediately. Roz rashly decides to confront Nathan at his place of work. Bad idea. Her usual razor sharp tongue and wit lets her down, but awakens a sleeping desire in Nathan to entertain himself at Rozlyn's expense. His lesbian assistant, Betty, warns her boss about playing with fire, but Nathan is having way too much fun to heed her advice. They are two diametrically opposed forces, Roz will never admit defeat, and Nathan has never encountered it. Undeniable chemistry clashes with unyielding wills.

Nathan is using Roz’s successful seminar model as the lattice work for his own seminar, which proves to be just another source of irritation between these two powerhouse relationship gurus. Roz's disdain for Nathan's tactics masks an attraction neither one will readily admit, but one their close assistants, Maxine and Betty, recognize and exploit.  When the two get together and concoct a plan to put the heterosexual pair through a crazy ‘Lesbian List of Love’ test, all hell breaks loose. Fueled by a desire to prove their assistants wrong they compare their test scores over several beers. Inhibitions and suspicious natures disappear as fast as the alcohol. Their worst fears are realized as desire overpowers objections, leading to an unforgettable encounter. Roz recognizes the danger that Nathan represents but despite her best intentions, is drawn to the charismatic Englishman. As for Nathan, he can't get her out of his head... and finds himself lacking the will to try.

They attempt to out prank one another in a futile effort to camouflage their real feelings. Both are scared of commitment, one more so than the other. Which one will be strong enough to put aside their pride rather than risk losing the other?

The Idiot Savant of Dating

Note: As someone who loves humor (yes, dark humor too) I wanted to try my hand at a YA novella, mixing quirky humor with the early rise of romance in youths as they stretch toward adulthood. Here is a rough premise to this story.

Dave is very savvy but not too good looking. Ted is good looking, but daft as a brush. Ted is whining to Dave about a girl he really likes, but who barely acknowledges his existence. He doesn't know how to respond. Dave decides to take poor Ted under his wing and give him questionable advice.

"Listen Ted, a girl isn't going to give you the time of day if she sees that she can walk all over you. That's just the way life is."

"So what's your suggestion?"

"Make a comment that sounds like a compliment, but carries a barb with it. This will, and should, confuse her."

"What can I say that would carry that double edge, and wouldn't she be pissed off with me for saying it?"

"Okay," Dave said, "let's say that the two of you bump into each other. You don't stop and have a conversation."

"No?"

"No. What's this girls name, by the way."

"Julie. I love that name."

"I once had a hamster called Julie."

"Is that what you want me to say to her, that I once owned a rodent that carried her name?"

"No, you muppet. What you say to her, in passing, is... Wow, those extra couple of pounds really look good on you. Then you carry on going wherever you were going. Just casually pass that remark and keep going."

"What result, exactly, am I going for here?"

"Technically, you've given her a compliment, but if there is one topic that all women can't get out of their head, it's their weight."

"So, basically I've called her fat."

"You never heard me mention the word fat, did you?"

"I'm thinking that might be a technicality."

"Now you're getting the general idea."

"How will I know if the insult worked, and please explain to me again, why insulting her will make her look upon me more rather than less favorably."

"This one's easy. Inside ten seconds, sometimes less, she will feel her own thighs, to see if she can feel the extra weight to which you cleverly alluded. Your comment will make her think about you every time her hands slide over her thighs."

"You're suggesting that she'll check to see if she's suddenly got fat, and all of this inside ten seconds? Bullshit! I don't know where you come up with these ideas, Dave, and I know you're good with the girls, despite your looks."

"What do you mean, despite my looks? I'm a handsome fella. Tell you what, I'll prove it to you right now. Here comes Shirley. She weighs about as much as a wet sock, agreed?"

"Agreed."

"No way can she believe that she's anything other than skinny, am I right?"

"When you're right, you're right."

"Would you say that her thighs were slender, at best?"

"I've seen more meat on a butcher's dog."

"Watch this, and marvel at my knowledge of the female psyche."

"Hi, Shirley," Dave said, as she passed by.

"Hi, Dave," she replied, without breaking stride.

"I have to say, Shirley, those extra couple of pounds look fantastic on you."

Shirley stopped in her tracks, turned, looked suitably confused, then continued on her way.

"Wait for it," Dave said.

Both of Shirley's hands slid down over her thighs, as her walk slowed. She patted them a couple of times, then picked up the pace again.

"Wait 'till she gets to the elevator," Dave said, still studying her.

Shirley duly arrived at the elevator, and pressed the button. Twice before the light signaled the arrival of the elevator, her hands checked out her skinny hips.

"I'm totally impressed," Ted said. "It's like you had a crystal ball. How did you know?"

"Psychology, mate. Once you know how the female mind works, they become putty in your hands. Your problem, Ted me old son, is that you spend all of your time swooning over this Julie. Swooning carries very low marks in a woman's eyes. It shows that you're subservient. Women want their man to be in charge. It's bred into them. You're trying to swim uphill with a lead ball tied to your leg."

"So, I should definitely insult her from here on in, yes?"

"I didn't say insult her, Ted. Throw her off balance. You can even get away with being sexually suggestive, as long as you're not downright rude. Rudeness also carries low marks, unless you know what you're doing."

                                             ------------------------------------------------

It was two days before Ted got a chance to engage the woman of his dreams. They were on a bus packed with old and young alike. Standing room only, but that suited Ted just fine. He took it as an opportunity to get closer to the object of his affection.

"Hi Julie."

If she heard him, she didn't show it.

"I dreamt about you last night. Oh, what a dream."

Nothing.

"Some might think your ass is fat, but I'm partial to a bit of meat."

"What did you say?" Julie gasped, turning pink and staring at him in disbelief.

Dave was right. This works great, Ted thought.

"I don't have a problem with girls who have fat asses or saggy boobs, especially if that girl's name is Julie." He offered her his sexiest grin.

Julie pushed her face close to his. "My ass isn't fat and my boobs don't droop, you cheeky bastard."

More than a few eyes turned in their direction.

"I suppose you're going to tell me you don't have the urge to feel your thighs, right about now."

"My thighs? You mean my fat thighs, just below my sagging boobs?"

It was right about now, that Ted experienced that nagging feeling that perhaps he hadn't fully grasped the correct technique required in the application of Dave's lesson.

"I'm not saying that they do sag... much. Of course, when you get older, it's only natural that they will, and they are sure to look just as good. Your wrinkles won't bother me either." He wanted to shut up, the same way that a man standing on a ledge ten stories up, doesn't want to look down.

The bus pulled in to the side of the road.

"My stop," Ted lied. "See you."

"Hold on, I've got something for you," Julie said, and slapped him hard across the face. "Dream about that, why don't you."

The wind was taken from poor Ted's sails. The slap wasn't the worst of it though. That would be the size 8 shoe that tried to investigate his colon, just before he disembarked. The bus pulled back out into traffic. At a loss, he waved to her as if they had recently parted after a cozy lunch date. Reaching behind himself, his hands went not to his thighs, but to his bruised starfish. Well, he thought, he got half of the technique right. She appeared suitably insulted. Dave would know how to bring his ship back to an even keel.

Chapter 2

Julie and Kirsten were sitting opposite each other in their local ice-cream parlor. 

"Do I have saggy boobs?" Julie asked.

Kirsten grinned.

"What?" Julie wanted to know.

"A boy's involved. True or false?"

"Do they sag?"

"We're eighteen. Of course our boobs don't sag. Who told you yours did?"

"What about my thighs?"

"They don't sag either."

Julie could tell her best friend was enjoying her discomfort. She leaned in closer.

"A good friend would tell her friend if she was getting fat. That's how friendships work."

"What's his name?" Kirsten asked.

"I don't fancy him, even if he is good looking."

"His name?"

"He told me I had a fat ass and drooping boobs. In front of millions on a bus. Can you believe that?"

Kirsten gave up. She resigned herself to the inevitable. Julie would divulge the name of the boy who had offended her in her own good time. Years of conversations between them had made that fact apparent.

"I've got a driving lesson this afternoon," Kirsten said, staring into the distance.

"I put my foot up his ass as he left the bus."

"The millions inside made room for you, then?"

"It was a tight squeeze and I'm not denying I hurt several toes."

"What was his reaction?"

"He smiled and waved at me, the cheeky sod."

"Do you ever get mixed up with the brake and the accelerator pedals?" Kirsten wanted to know.

Julie searched the air above her friend's head.

"When my foot found his ass, it was all acceleration."

Kirsten didn't respond.

"Ted," Julie said after several seconds of silence.

"Robinson?"

"That's the one."

"He's got pretty eyes."

"They both almost left his head when my foot connected."

Kirsten snorted. She tried her best not to spit the mouthful of strawberry milkshake back into the glass. Spit or choke. Those were her options as she envisioned Julie's description of Ted's face.   

"That's gross," Julie remarked as the pink liquid exploded from her friend's nose.

Kirsten grabbed both her napkin and Julie's as she wiped her face clean.

"You waited till I had a mouthful of milkshake before telling me that. Admit it."

Julie grinned. "Maybe."

Kirsten glanced around to see if her indiscretion had been noticed by any of the other patrons. Two tables away, a young mother was trying her best to keep her young son from staring at them. The woman's scowl told of her feelings about bearing witness to Kirsten's nasal expulsion.  

"He fancies you, doesn't he?"

"You've lost me," Julie admitted. "What kind of idiot tells a girl that her boobs are reaching for the floor as a pick-up line?"

 "Girls brains mature quicker than their male counterpart," Kirsten answered. "It's why women are smarter than men."

"I knew that. Who doesn't?"

"Brains develop from the back of the head to the front," Kirsten continued. "It takes longer for that to happen for boys, and the front of your brain is what produces smart comments instead of dumb ones."                         

Chapter 3

"You said WHAT?" Dave asked, his eyes as wide as the time his ex tried to rip his balls from his body due to a misunderstanding.

"You told me to insult her."

"Not true, Ted. I told you to throw her off balance with a comment that could be taken two ways. Telling her she has a fat ass can only be taken one way. Same goes for suggesting she has saggy boobs."

"Give it to me straight, Dave. "Am I screwed?"

"Screwed? Heck no. We just have to shift gears is all."

My Weakness is Organizing

As you read my article title, what are your thoughts? Ten to one you're thinking that I am ill adept at organization. However, I'm here to tell you that the weakness I'm talking about is my love of organizing. That's right. My love of organizing. It's a sinister form of procrastination. Here's how it works. At the time of this writing, I own seven flash drives, thumb drives, call them what you will. To say that I own them is somewhat misleading. Two of them I appropriated from my kids. Appropriation in this case means that until I'm finished with them the kids are not getting them back. I merely have to convince them that my stuff is slightly more important than their stuff and as long as that holds true, Alex's appropriation committee has the right to hold onto their stuff. All parents know this to be an accepted rule of thumb. (thumb drive, rule of thumb... I know, I know, but sometimes I can't help myself) I digress.

I need a new flash drive. Why? Isn't it obvious? My other seven flash drives are full (mostly). Many of them contain the same material. Stuff I copied and sent to a particular flash drive because I didn't remember that I had already copied that same info onto another (or two) of my flash drives. I can't delete any of them. The second copy is a backup of the first and the third copy is a backup of the second. Obvious, right? I need a new flash drive to organize all of the really important stuff that I saved on all seven flash drives onto a master flash drive. A master flash drive. That's the key.

Did I mention that I'm a firm believer in Pareto's Principle? The 80/20 rule. You wear 20% of the same clothes 80% of the time. You eat the same 20% of your favorite food, 80% of the time. 20% of your work activity is responsible for 80% of your income, etc. I'm a new Indie author and therefore 20% of the crap I've accumulated on those seven flash drives are responsible for 80% of the actions I need to take to write, publish and promote my books. But which 20%? Let's say I have 50 (and that's conservative, but I don't want you thinking I'm a hoarder) products all to do with various aspects of book writing and publishing. Some books attack promotion only, others promotion and marketing, yet others on marketing and book cover creation. Then there are the folders which cover Facebook ads, permafree info, countdown deals, website URL's that will accept my free or almost free books (some depending on if my book has several 5 star reviews, others not so picky) Folders with articles on keyword and category importance, book blurb, author bio, secret techniques only previously known by seven figure authors... you get the picture.

Here's the kicker though. This is the magic moment where I reveal why organizing is my weakness and a tool in my arsenal of procrastination. (Oh, yes. I have an army of such tools at my disposal) I convince myself of the importance of tackling my flash drive problem, but at what expense? Writing time. If I don't write, I can't increase my written assets. 20% of my written work will result in 80% of my sales, but 20% of twenty books will provide more income than 20% of ten books. I need to write. Yes, promotion and marketing are super important, but marketing twenty books is more profitable than marketing ten books. There is an order for all authors in the cosmos. You can't promote or market what you don't have. Therefore, writing has to come first. So, please excuse me. I have to attend to my cosmic duty. Technically, writing this article was a form of procrastination. A sneaky way for me to avoid writing the next chapter in my current book. Oh, I'm good. I sneaked up on my procrastinating self, yet again.

Book 3 in the Dear Roz Series - Checkmate, My Love

Maxine has Roz half convinced that Nathan fully intends to pop the question... and he does. Just not the question she expects. She feels devastated and embarrassed. She knows it's not his fault, but that knowledge doesn't lessen the hurt.

Nathan is oblivious to the part he played in Rozlyn's mood swings and seeks Betty's help in understanding Roz's depression. Betty is only too happy to verbally slap Nathan around. How can a relationship expert be so dumb, she needs to know. All women will recognize the symptoms and the cure that can't be administered for reasons only women will understand. Betty's advice is priceless, but it is up to Nathan's bosses wife to heal the wound and answer the question about what makes men cry. Armed with this knowledge, Roz has Nathan convinced that Roz wanting him to admit to weeping on occasion is some kind of fetish. One that he in no way adheres to. Things are for the most part back on an even keel.

Not so fast. An incident happens on one of their workshops involving a woman that would look at home modeling Victoria Secret underwear... and her sights are set on Nathan. Nathan finds this woman incredibly attractive and jokes about it to Roz. A joke is one thing, but when evidence, first and second hand back up his desire for this beauty, Roz's life is turned upside down. Only now does she realize just how much of herself she has given to her English boyfriend. She is at her most vulnerable and he does nothing to alleviate her distress. If Maxine and Betty can't find a way to reunite these two hard headed individuals, then all is lost.

I Can Write Romance, I Swear

Chapter 1 - The Language of Love

"Up to My Balls in Love," said Billy, "now that's what I call a title. He waited for a response. He knew that Debra, or D, as he often preferred to call her, harbored suspicions that writing any type of story that required dealing sensitively with female emotions, was not his calling in life.

"Perhaps not using that particular word might attract more readers," she replied, after careful consideration.

"D, for heaven’s sake, if I don't put the word 'love' in the title--"

"Balls," Debra said, with a grin.

"No, I'm serious," replied Billy, "you can't leave 'love' out of the title."

Debra laughed. That was one of the things she loved about her boyfriend of eight months. Despite his intelligence, his complete inability to see what was sometimes right in front of him, fascinated her. It pleased her that he was making every effort to curtail his profanity, though the substitutes were often transparent..

"How about, Up to My Neck in Love?" she said.

"Is there something wrong with my balls?"

"Your balls are just fine, Billy. Perhaps just not for the title of a romance novel."

"I was thinking more of a short story, D. Novels can be an absolute beeatch to write."

Debra studied Billy's features. Not bad looking at all. He could do with shaving more often, but it was his eyes that captured her attention. Dark brown, almost black, with an intensity that belied his verbal shortcomings. He was working hard on that aspect, however, replacing cuss words with improvised alternatives.

"Shock value, D. That's what sells books. You can't afford to bore people in print."

"I kind of like that remark. Did you make it up?"

"No, I read it somewhere, but it's the truth. You can be outspoken, and controversial, and still make a fortune. Just don't bore people to death."

"That definitely fits your profile," she said, "not the boring part, the other two."

His eyebrows closed the gap between each other, making lines in his forehead visible.

"That would be a good start, D. The most brilliant of writers are outspoken and controversial, no matter the topic at hand."

"You should learn to type using both hands instead of just two fingers, though. Then we can be rich sooner."

"It's amazing what I can do with these two fingers, D," Billy said, wiggling his index and forefinger in the air."

Debra merely smiled.

"You're a dirty bugger, D," he said, as they shared a chuckle.

She could tell that his feelings for her went deep. His penetrating gaze always softened when turned on her. "Why don't you enter one of these writing competitions advertised in that magazine you're always buying? Five hundred dollars are being offered for first prize, and I'm sure it's for short stories."

Billy glanced down at his hands before returning his attention to his girlfriend. "You think I should?"

"Why not, you do want to be a professional writer, don't you?"

"Do you think I'm good enough?"

Debra cocked her head to one side. "Do you doubt yourself?"

"Hell to the no! How much is it to enter this competition?"

"It's free."

"Free? The competition will be stiff then. Which magazine did you see it in?"

"That one over there," she replied, twisting around and pointing to the pile of magazines on his bedside table. "The one on top."

Billy sidestepped a cushion on the floor before sliding the magazine in question off the pile.

"Page fifty eight, I think," Debra said.

Billy flicked through the dog-eared pages. Page fifty eight it was.

Debra watched as Billy's eyes flew over the page.

"It has to be emailed in by Tuesday of next week," Billy said.

"You'd better get a move on then. Good job it requires no more than fifteen hundred words."

"Shorter can be tougher than a Hippo's unwashed scrotum," he replied, still with his attention glued to the page. "Hey, look at this, D."

"What is it," she said, diving across the bed, close to where he held the magazine.

"There are actually two competitions, but you are only allowed to enter one."

"What's the second one?" Debra asked, grabbing for the magazine.

Billy snatched it out of her reach. "Another five hundred smackeroos, too."

Debra's eyes rolled towards the ceiling. "Read it out loud then."

"Write four engaging opening sentences for each of the following genres. Romance, Sci-Fi, Horror, and Comedy. It has to be in for Monday of next week. That's only three days away, D."

"Three days and sixteen sentences, or four days and fifteen hundred words, which one will you pick?" Debra asked.

Billy's expression was pensive. "If I go for the fifteen hundred words, I have to come up with a storyline, engaging characters and add a twist that can't be seen coming, while watching my word count at the same time. I think I'll take a crack at the contest requiring the opening lines."

"Billy, do you realize that it's been almost five minutes since you swore?"

"Shut the front door, that’s nuckin futs. Mind over matter, D, that's all it is."

"Nonsense, Billy. It was because your attention was diverted elsewhere, with something that intrigued you."

"Sounds like a load of old cobblers to me, D."

"That's because you aren't up-to-date on the finer points of psychology."

Billy’s tone was suspicious. "And you are?"

"I watch Oprah." An all encompassing statement to be sure.

"Oprah?"

"And Hannibal Lecter."

"Didn't know he had a show."

"He doesn't, but I watched both of the movies with him in it."

"That’s not helping me right now, D.

"So why are you wasting time talking to me about Hannibal Lecter, instead of coming up with--"

"Is this one of those psychological tests, D? You know, the one that determines if it's in your DNA to strangle your girlfriend after she pushes every last one of your buttons?" Billy’s facial expression matched his question.

Don't know what you mean, my love. Get writing, will you?"

Billy sighed. "Which would be easiest to start with, Horror or Sci-Fi?"

"Romance, of course," Debra replied. "Let's face it, you're a natural romantic."

"Too flippin’ right there, D. I'm up to my balls in love, to quote a shortly-to-be-famous author."

Debra decided that Billy needed to be galvanised into action and chose her words accordingly. "My right foot is going to send your balls up into your throat at twice the legal speed limit, if you don't start putting pen to paper. You have a competition to win."

"I wonder if I can use that phrase of yours for one of the opening sentences in a horror story?" Billy tapped a forefinger against his chin.

"Which phrase?"

"The one about your foot and my balls. I think it has potential."

"It'll go down as non-fiction if you don't extract the finger and start writing."

"Slave driver!" he said.

"Procrastinator!" she replied

"Most famous authors prefer solitude when writing creatively, did you know that, D?"

"You're making that up."

"That's possible."

"Well, are you?"

"You wouldn't believe whatever I said."

"Try me?"

"Famous authors do prefer peace and quiet when pondering their next masterpiece."

"Liar!"

Billy tidied up his stack of magazines. "D, do you think you could go into the bathroom for an hour or so?"

"What am I going to do for a whole hour in there?"

"Same as you do every other night would be my guess."

"Hah! Start with the comedy openers, Bozo. Just don't look for any extra-curriculars later on."

"Who's Ron?"

"Bathroom here I come," Debra said, tossing the cushion from the floor in Billy's direction, without checking to see if it made contact.

"Okay," said Billy, "to work."

                               ---------------------------------------------------------                                     

Blue ink met white paper. Half an hour had passed and Billy was deep in the throes of creative writing. He decided to start with romance after all.

           

His balls were blue, not that wishy-washy light blue, but more of a royal... no, that wouldn't do. A little too romantic, perhaps. He started again.

 Maureen was wetter than a duck's backside at high tide. That wouldn't do either. Ducks don't swim in the sea. At least not that he knew. Crud-bucket, this was more difficult than he first thought.

The love Gordon had for Marcia was as deep as the ocean and as wide as an elephant's backside. Hmm! What if it was only a baby elephant. Good job he was on top of things. Anybody else might not have picked up on that.

The pain was unbearable. What pain was unbearable? The pain of his shattered heart? The pain from the zip that tore its way up his cock when he wasn't paying attention in the bathroom? He wondered how Debra was getting on.

The Love Legacy

Chapter 1

Being a single parent has to mean double the stress. Tom’s wife would have sailed through just another of life’s many glitches. Tom was not his wife. He panicked.

"Casey, for goodness sake, help your sister find her shoe. We're going to be late two days in a row at this rate."

"Daddy, I think Simone planted a flower in it last night."

"What? Where?"

Casey pointed towards the outside patio.

Tom King, single father of two young terrors, raced outside. Sure enough, there was the missing shoe, filled with earth and hosting two dandelions. Simone's latest interest involved gardening. His six year old had left a dessert spoon beside the shoe. It was covered in mud. Recriminations could come later. School was the important thing right now. He emptied the shoe out onto the nearest piece of grass before dashing back inside and tearing off two strips of kitchen towel to clean the inside of the improvised flowerpot.

"Casey, is that a ketchup stain on your shirt?"

"Yup," said his eight year old, totally unconcerned.

"Come here, quickly now," Tom said, licking yet another piece of towel and managing only to smear the stain over a larger area.

"Casey, rush upstairs and put on a clean shirt."

"It's Friday, daddy. All of my other shirts are in the basket."

Tom closed his eyes and envisioned a calm tropical setting. Two palm trees and a slight heat haze battling with a gentle breeze. Much better.  He didn't want his kids to witness his frustration. At the last parent/teacher meeting, Simone's teacher had voiced concern over the rising number of times she had reached class late. Today wouldn't help matters.

"Dad, there's some crunchy stuff in my shoe," his six year old complained.

"That's because you're wearing one shoe and one flowerpot today, honey."

"You didn't throw away my flowers, did you daddy?"

"Dandelions are weeds, Simone. After school, we'll find you a flower or two, I promise."

"What kind of flowers?"

"We'll figure that out after school, okay?" Tom glanced at his wristwatch, wished that he hadn't, and dragged his two daughters out to the car.

"Your lunch money is in your schoolbags, girls. Fruit snacks too."

The school bell was ringing as he pulled into the Principal's parking space. Casey and Simone gave him a quick kiss on his cheek before dashing off to class. He had already reversed out of the Principle's spot before her secretary could admonish him. Now to hit the supermarket before work.

Betrayal

Chapter 1

There would be no Christmas reunion this year.

A single tear traced its way down my cheek despite my best efforts to hide my sadness. Tiffany and I had been best friends for twenty one years. Literally since we mastered the art of walking. Pretending to survey the hospital room gave me the chance to blink away my show of love. "Beth," she said, her face twisting in discomfort as she squeezed my hand.

"Don't talk, Tiff. Just rest."

"This is important Froggy. It concerns Anthony."

I buried my face in my other hand, realizing it may be the last time her nickname for me would come from her lips. Dr Benning told me she had been hanging on for my visit. That's all she talked about through her pain, he said, before I entered her room. He must surely be used to death by now. I envied him that trait right now, but knew it was well out of reach.

"You never really liked Anthony, Tiff, I know that, but we have set a date for our wedding. I just wish we could have done it before..." I ached to squeeze her hand back but knew I daren't.

The hint of a sad smile touched her pale lips. "He's not the one for you, Beth, believe me, he's not."

My silence offered no confirmation.

"He doesn't love you the way you need to be loved," she continued. "You need a man that puts your happiness before his own. Anthony's an imposter. You need to know that."

My shoulders shook as this truth settled home.

"We've no time for this, Beth. Promise me you will not go through with this wed--"

"How can I? The date has been set. People contacted. Arrangements made."

"This will be the most important decision in your life. Years of happiness or misery depend on it. Don't do it Froggy, please, I'm begging you."

"I don't want to talk about me, Tiff. I want to talk about us" My head lay cradled in the crook of my elbow. "Let's talk about us, and the good times we had. Remember when you chased me across the park because you thought I had run off with the Christmas card that toothy Herbert had given you? Or the time we fell into that stagnant pool in Saline forest and had to get a shot in our backsides? Your mom was especially mad about that. Thought I was a bad influence, she did. No doubt you agree with her." I glanced up, searching for that secret smile I had come to love. No such evidence graced her lips. She refused to buy into my change of subject, that much was obvious.

"You don't know him like I do, Tiff."

"I wish that were true, Beth."

Something in Tiffany's voice made me pay closer attention. "Tiffany, Anthony is the one man I know who wouldn't cheat on me. He wants to marry me more than anything else in the world."

"Oh, Beth," whispered Tiffany, her eyes screwed shut, "Anthony did cheat on you. He's done nothing but cheat on you for the last two and a half years."

I was stunned into silence. Tiffany sounded so convincing. It was one thing to dislike a person, but quite another to manufacture such scenarios. "Tiff," I said, quietly but firmly, "if you don't have concrete proof, please don't go down that road. Is it too hard to just give us your blessing?"

"Do you want to know who the other woman was?"

Different emotions coursed through my body. Fear that Tiffany might be telling the truth was leading the race. "Tiffy, you should be resting just now. You're upsetting both of us. I trust Anthony. Please don't let any hearsay spoil my relationship with him."

"I was the other woman, Beth. That's how I know he's no good for you."

My breath stuck in my throat. I started blinking and couldn't seem to stop. "There must be some mistake," I said. "You're my very best friend, we tell each other everything, we always have."

Tiffany's eyes were closed, but her tears found their way past her cheeks and her ears before finding comfort in the soft pillow that supported her head.

"How could this be, Tiffany?" My deepest secrets were for your ears only. You were the first to know when I found out that I couldn't conceive, for goodness sake."

My friend since childhood turned her head away. "I had Anthony's child," she squeaked through her tears.

A rushing noise filled my ears and invaded every crevice of my brain.

"That's not true. Say that's not true."

"I moved to Seattle for one year, had the baby, and the two of us agreed to put it up for adoption."

I drew in lungfulls of air, making myself dizzy in the process. "You had the child I could not... with my Anthony?" My face was buried in my hands, the hot tears finding no escape through my fingers.

"I told you I moved there after getting a job offer. It was a lie. I didn't come back because the job fell through, I came back after I had the baby, and its adoption arranged."

"That would make the child about two," I said, my breath coming in shallow pants.

"Yes, he's two," Tiffany agreed, her voice reduced to a whisper. "His name is Alfred."

"That was my father's name," I cried out, my voice shaking as hard as my body. "Is there no end to your mockery of our friendship?" I jumped to my feet and rushed toward the door.

"Please Beth," moaned Tiffany, "let me apologize to you properly. I doubt I will get another chance."

"I won't attend your funeral," I all but shouted. "I won't mourn for you. You have killed me inside Tiffany. I have to carry your confession with me to my grave, do you understand? My grave Tiffany."

"Please don't leave, Beth. Forgive me if you can, please, I beg of you."

I closed the door behind me. I remembered neither the walk to my car, nor the long drive home. I was numb. By the following morning, I was cried out. My stomach muscles ached. My eyes felt like someone had thrown pepper into them. What had started as a minor headache was now a full blown migraine.

I did go to the funeral though. It was obvious her parents and younger sister knew nothing of her betrayal or her adopted child. I tried my best to make all the right noises and pretend to listen to their attempt at pleasant conversation. The service felt entirely fake. A Pastor who never knew her rambled on about her selflessness and other good qualities. Tiffany's sister Anabel sat next to me and held my hand. She had tagged along with Tiffany and I a couple of times, and seemed nice, if a bit withdrawn. After the service, she had pressed her phone number into my palm and asked me to call her sometime. I said I would, but the truth was, I had no intention of doing so.

Is Alex Bahscot my real name?

No. It is the pen name under which I write in my preferred genres of contemporary romance, romantic comedy and humor.

I value my privacy and am willing to forgo book signings etc in order to fully maintain that privacy. Those who choose to become fans of my work will become so because my writing entertains, not because of who I am or am not. Will I divulge my real name at some point in the future? It's possible, but unlikely. I often cover my introverted nature with traits more commonly found in an extrovert. My writing style will most often be biased towards the latter.

What CAN I tell you about myself? I am British. My sense of humor will testify to that. (I write primarily for an American market which is why most of my material is written using American English. You'll have to promise to forgive me if I fail in this endeavor from time to time - I hate putting in a period after Mr, Mrs and Ms)

I no longer live in the UK. That's right, I'm an ex-pat living in the Caribbean. (that's my way of hinting that I prefer a warmer climate, even though the Scottish highlands will always claim my soul)

Do I have any free books that you can check out to see if I'm a good fit for your choice of reading? Absolutely, and if I may be so bold, I think you are going to fall in love with the characters that populate this trilogy. I do ask for your email address in order to claim your second free book, but not the first. The first book "The Lover's Workshop" which is Book 1 in the "Dear Roz" series, will let you decide whether or not you like my writing style and enjoy my characters. Should you decide to proceed to book 2 in the series, my desire to collect your email address is a shameless ploy to turn you into a rabid fan of my work. Book 3 in the series will have to be purchased and because they are not stand-alone books, all three will be boxed together in Book 3. A fourth book in this series is already finished, so don't be disheartened if you fell in love with the first three and start pining away :o)

Book 4 in the Dear Roz Series - The Laird of Bahscot

Roz and Nathan met the Laird of Bahscot, Gordon Wilkinson, through Nathan's long time Scottish friend, Angus. Although now a music teacher, Angus had served his country in one of its elite fighting units and had seen combat in several special ops missions. The love of Angus' life is Daisy. An ex combat instructor and helicopter pilot, she attended one of Roz's 'manhunter' workshops. It was Nathan, however, that was responsible for introducing Daisy and Angus to each other.

Gordon's first wife had died in childbirth. Heartbreak was mixed with the joy of raising his only child, a daughter. When his daughter was fourteen, Gordon fell in love with and married a Colombian beauty. However, he had indicated to Roz and Nathan once before that all was not well in his marriage. His wife and the love of his life, Maria had been the daughter of a Colombian drug cartel boss until his death in a shootout with local authorities. She worshipped her father, often mistaking his ruthlessness for manliness. Gordon had courted and married the Colombian beauty a few months after they met. Her brother Eduardo was ecstatic that his sister would have the opportunity for a new life and happiness.

Being Colombian, Maria had a fiery temper and during an argument with her husband, she had called him weak. 

No bigger insult could be levelled at a Colombian male. It made little difference that Gordon was American. Shortly after, Maria returned to Colombia to visit her brother and other members of her family. An email from Eduardo to Gordon spelled trouble for their marriage.

A charismatic up and coming vicious cartel capo by the name of Manolito Oroja had designs on Maria. He was as ruthless as her father had been and she was fast falling under his spell. Eduardo had warned Gordon of this danger, but how exactly to deal with this situation when his wife believes him weak?

Gordon reached out to Roz and Nathan. Perhaps they could help put the spark back in his relationship with Maria. After all, they both ran workshops to help men and women find and keep the partners of their dreams. After listening to Gordon's marital plight, Nathan realized that a lover's workshop was not the answer in this case. Time was of the essence. That fact was made evident when a Colombian hit man was sent to erase Gordon from the land of the living so that Maria would be free to remarry.

Roz, Nathan, and Angus along with the help of Daisy, had to come up with a plan to thwart the plans of a killer cartel capo and at the same time prove to Maria that Gordon was not the weakling she thought him to be. No easy task given the time frame and the circumstances. Gordon was horrified at Nathan's proposal and even more horrified at Angus' suggestion. Gordon's biggest problem was that he had four true friends. Friends that would put their lives on the line for him if necessary. A price Gordon had no desire to pay but no way to stop.

Join the characters you have come to love as they demonstrate their brand of love and humor for and towards each other, and loyalty to any they call friend. This dangerous adventure highlights these traits through every chapter as they navigate their way through the Colombian terrain and into the heart of the drug cartel's fortress of operations. So much could jeopardize their lives as well as the mission, especially since Angus had been hunted once before in this same exact region whilst on a covert one-man military mission.

Love, humor, respect and true friendship. All of this wrapped up in a nail-biting story. Coming soon. Enjoy.

Copyright notice

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The Emergency Hotline

Brrring! Brrring!

"Emergency hotline, Calvin--"

"I'm going to jump, I'm twelve stories up and I'm going to jump." A girl's voice shrieked through the phone.

Silence.

"Well, aren't you going to say something? Aren't you supposed to talk me down?"

"Do you want to be talked down?"

"Did I call the wrong number? Have I accidentally called the Rumpelstiltskin fan club for old farts? Who the frig are you?"

"What's your name, darling?"

"My name's Janet and I'm not your bloody darling."

"Swearing isn’t the answer, Janet. If you swear at me again, I'm going to hang up."

"You don't get paid to hang up, asshole."

"Actually, I'm not getting paid at all. I'm doing this for free."

"Well, that's a good thing. I'd hate to think you were receiving any payment for the shit you're putting me through, so far."

"From which building are you preparing to launch yourself on your final journey?"

"Are you sure you're a trained professional?"

"If I'm not, and you jump, who's going to know?"

"The cops will find my phone."

"In this city? If the phone survives the drop, the odds are that it will be stolen within two minutes. You didn't say which building?"

"If I tell you, you'll alert the cops, and if that happens, and I don't jump, they may lock me up as a nutcase."

"I promise I won't tell."

"Cross your heart?"

"I'm an Atheist. We don't do that shit, Jane."

"My names Janet, not Jane. Is there anyone else I could talk to?"

"Sorry babe, you're stuck with me."

"I'm not your babe. I'm a woman on the edge--"

"Don't you mean ledge?"

"Edge, ledge, what the frig. Just my luck that the last person I'm going to talk to on this earth, is a prick like you."

"You still haven't told me which building, Jane."

"Stop calling me Jane. My name's Janet, J-A-N-E-T, JANET."

"Don't be so touchy Janet. You'll give yourself a heart attack."

"I'm standing on a wet ledge, twelve stories up on the Lysander building, and I'm being harassed by an asshole called... what's your name?"

"I told you when you called in."

"No, you didn't."

"Did too, but you interrupted me before I could give you all of my prepared speech."

"It's freezing up here, the rain is so hard, it’s stinging my arms and face, and all you care about is not getting a chance to finish your introduction. Useless bastard."

"Which side of the Lysander building are you on?"

"What?"

"East? West?"

"Why? Is the view better if I jump off the West side?"

Silence.

"I'm on the South side, okay?"

"Is Tazioli's right in front of you, as you look down?"

"Look down? You're not supposed to tell a jumper to look down."

"Well, is it?"

"No, it's not. It's to my right."

"Then you must be near the corner of the building that looks out onto Canal Street."

"So?"

"I want you to do something for me, Janet."

"What's that?"

"I want you to ease up to the corner and peek round onto Canal street for me."

"Why the hell would I do that?"

"There's a mom and pop store that should be visible from the corner. They sell awesome Mexican Tacos. Could you tell me if they're open yet? If not, it would save me a trip, and in the rain, too. I don't wish to get soaked unnecessarily."

"What did you say your name was?"

"Calvin."

"Where are you calling from, Calvin?"

Calvin took in his surroundings. "It's a rather tastefully decorated office in Hudson Square. Not necessarily my taste, but not too bad, all things considered."

"What's the number of the office?"

Calvin picked up his friend’s business card from a solid metal cardholder. "63A, The Oakfield building, Hudson Square."

"Don't move, Calvin. If by some miracle I manage to get my soaking wet ass off this ledge and back through the open window, I'm coming to see you."

"Janet," Calvin said, "if you should find yourself passing the shop that sells those incredible tacos... Janet? Janet? Hello?" Calvin studied the phone in his hand before putting it back to his ear. The line was dead.

All in all, thought Calvin, this job wasn't all that difficult. He wondered why Steve consistently emphasized how stressful it all was during times that he couldn't reach his contact. Calvin put his feet up on Steve's polished mahogany desk and leant back into the matching sophisticated swivel chair. Time slipped away as he waited for the next call. It wasn't the phone that disturbed his daydream, however, but the doorbell. It can't be Bob. Bob was babysitting a nervous Doberman by the name of Mable, and Alex was attending an AA meeting. Whoever was ringing the bell, was pressing their finger on the buzzer much longer than necessary. Most annoying. He opened the door and was confronted by a tall, bedraggled young lady with a manic stare.

"If you're looking to borrow an umbrella, young lady, I would suggest that you're a little late."

The drowned rat standing before Calvin launched herself at him, taking him completely by surprise. Down they both went, with her on top. Calvin was horrified. Did this creature not know what wet clothes would do to his favorite shirt? Thoughts of his shirt left his mind, as did the air from his lungs, as she drove her knee up into his family jewels.

"Still feel like eating tacos?" she screamed, grabbing his hair in both hands and banging his head repeatedly against Steve's $40 a square foot Turkish carpet. The two fought. She struggled to wrap her hands round his throat, and he squirmed to find a position that would give his balls some measure of relief. Finally, she rolled off him, a rasping sound erupting from the bedraggled apparition that could only be Janet. They lay side by side, each fighting to catch their breath.

"I think you might have bronchitis," Calvin managed to get out, as he massaged his aching balls. It would be a good sixty seconds after that comment before either of them felt like talking. Calvin got up first, and helped Janet, the would-be jumper, to her feet as well. She slumped down into the chair recently vacated by Calvin.

"Could you not sit in that chair, if you don't mind?"

"What? You attempt to kill me by asking me to ease my way along a soaking wet ledge for your own selfish reasons, and then castigate me for sitting in your seat?"

"It's just that... well, the chair and desk set, cost a small fortune. That's what Steve said, anyway."

"Really?" replied Janet, making herself as comfortable as her situation would allow.

The phone rang again. Calvin sidled up to the desk and punched the button for the speaker phone. He put his finger up to his lips, requesting silence from his first client of the night. Almost as soon as he had done so, a man's voice came over the phone.

"Is this the emergency hotline?"

"Yes, it is," said Calvin. "How may I be of assistance?" He was aware of Janet staring at him, but did not meet her gaze.

"Can you tape this, my last conversation... before I jump?"

"Is Friday night, jumpers’ night?"

"Excuse me?"

"What's your name, my friend?" Calvin asked.

"Mike."

"Do you have a last name Mike?"

"How about Mike who was considered as surplus to requirement by his firm, or Mike, whose wife left him for another man, or Mike whose brother blew his brains out last week. Let's just settle for Mike, who has nothing left to live for."

"Where are you right now, Mike?"

"I'm sitting on the window ledge about forty feet above Spanky's bar."

"I know the place. It serves a lot of Australian beer, right?"

"So what?"

"So there are a lot of people going in and out of that bar. If you jump, there's a good chance you will land on somebody. Probably kill them. You might even survive."

"So what do you suggest? Should I move to a different window?"

"Have you ever considered what happens when you actually make contact with concrete from forty feet up, Mike?"

"It's pretty quick, I should imagine."

"That's only if you get lucky. If you land on your feet, your legs will be driven up through your torso until you look like a circus freak. I suspect your legs, ripped off below your torso, will resemble stereo headphones after they tear their way up through your shoulders. Most people will try not to land on their face. It's a natural reaction, but from that height, your head will explode like an egg, spewing your brains all over the street."

Janet gawped at Calvin, horror written all over her face. Calvin gave her the thumbs up sign.

"I don't know about adults, Mike, but kids witnessing that are likely to throw up all over your brains. Do you think it’s right to make kids do that?"

Janet pretty much looked like she wanted to retch. Her hand was already positioned over her mouth. Calvin winked at her.

"Do you like Australian beer, Mike?"

"It's okay, I guess." His voice sounded less sure than before.

"Tell you what, I'm partial to the odd Foster's. Give me twenty minutes. I'll be sitting at a table in Spanky's with two cold ones. Why don't you join me, and we can talk about your problems. If you get there first, preferably by using the stairs, do me a favor and get the first round in, okay?”

"What if I don't want to talk about my problems?"

"Then jump, and stop wasting my time." Calvin gave Janet a wink and a grin.

Her mouth was open and her eyes looked ready to pop out.

"Don't make that face," Calvin whispered to her, "it's not very flattering."

"Are you talking to someone else?" Mike asked.

"Another jumper, don't worry about it."

A long pause ensued.

"Twenty minutes you say? How will I recognize you?"

"If you're still hanging out of that window, I will be the one easing in close to the wall, in case you try to land on someone."

"You're all heart."

Calvin ended the call.

"You're a disgrace to the profession," Janet said.

"And yet, here you are, wet but alive. Tell me where you live, and I'll drop you off."

"Two blocks South of Spanky's bar."

"Perfect, let's go."

Janet stood up, leaving a puddle on her vacated seat. Calvin opened a drawer and grabbed a handful of industrial towels. He cleaned up the chair as best he could, in a short a time as possible.

"The carpet got wet too," Janet said, her tone heavy with sarcasm.

"If you feel bad about it, you can offer to pay to have it cleaned."

"Kiss my--"

"Okay, let's go," he said, clutching her elbow and dragging her towards the door.

The Emergency Hotline - Book 1 in the Series

Online entrepreneur Steve Cooper has his own emergency. His mother, recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's, has gone missing while on vacation abroad. Young unemployed but street smart Calvin Brooks has been conscripted to look after his friend's business during his absence.

When anybody who calls up with an emergency, either real or imagined, it is Steve's job to connect that person with the professional most qualified to help. The heartbeat of his business is a Rolodex and cell phone, each with all of the appropriate numbers of these professionals. Money for old rope. Unless you manage to lose both before Steve even leaves the country. Now what do you do? If you're Calvin, you answer the calls and provide your own misguided brand of professional advice. Aided by Bob, the friend who was responsible for the loss of the Rolodex, madness ensues.

Calvin's first two customers are both hell bent on committing suicide by throwing themselves from tall buildings. Using highly irresponsible techniques, he manages to dissuade both from their fate, but at a cost. Janet, the first caller and a stripper by trade, has decided that fate has used Calvin to bring them both together in eventual wedlock. Meanwhile, the second 'would be jumper' Mike, has convinced himself not only that Janet holds the key to his happiness but that Calvin has inappropriate designs on her, himself.

With Bob's help, Calvin has to juggle keeping Steve's business afloat with earning enough money to replace his expensive phone. Throw into the mix a woman in her mid-sixties with multiple personality disorder. Her wealthy son offers Calvin decent money to look after his mother while he takes care of his multi million dollar business deals. It turns out that Sylvia becomes a different person depending on which room she is in, a fact Calvin comes to grips with in hilarious fashion. In three different rooms, Sylvia becomes a sex crazed aristocrat, the daughter of a naval admiral and a German psychiatrist whose second job is located in Helga's house of pain.

In the middle of all this, Calvin's partner in crime has received a call from Mary in Chicago. Mary thought she had called a psychic hotline whose number was one digit removed from Steve's office phone. Bob was less than honest with Mary suggesting she was due to receive a substantial cash windfall from an ailing uncle. Who would have guessed that Mary, accompanied by her demonic one-eyed cat, would track Bob down?

Will Calvin manage to evade wedding bells? Will Mary sue Bob? Will Mike persuade Janet that he is the better man? Will Calvin earn enough money to replace Steve's expensive phone? Can the Rolodex be located before Steve gets back? Does Steve find his mother? Will Calvin's sanity prevail against Sylvia's eccentric excesses?

Lose yourself in this hilarious romp as these questions and more are asked and answered.

                                                       -------------------------------

Here are a few kind words about this book sent to me from two of my editors:-

Oh my goodness!!!! I am dying with this story! My husband is looking at me as if I've gone mad because of my laughter! Will have this to you tonight. I love it!

Such a wonderful, funny, and light-hearted story despite the serious issues displayed throughout.

                                                      --------------------------------

Aw I’m so disappointed that it’s over! This was by far my favorite work of yours to edit. Although all three Dear Roz’s were fantastic, this was just… something else. The book felt effortless to read. There wasn’t a single instance where I was bored- ever. Will you be writing more to follow Calvin’s journey with his own hotline or is this the end? Please let me know!