Excerpt from The Emergency Hotline - Teaser

This is an excerpt from The Emergency Hotline. Our story's main character, Calvin, is being paid a tidy sum to keep Richard Peckles' mother Sylvia, company while he is brokering huge business deals. Sylvia suffers from multiple personality disorder and becomes a different person depending on which room she is in. Richard asked Calvin to merely  play along with his mother's eccentricities.

"Calvin Brooks, sir. From the agency?" she said, catching Calvin's eye.

"Yes, indeed," Calvin said.

Richard offered his hand, and the two men shook.

"I feel like a bit of a fraud, Calvin. There was something I should have told you over the phone."

Calvin blinked. He knew it. The old dear was violent and had to be kept locked up for her own protection. Either that or sanity had fled the poor woman, and she repeated verses from the bible, backwards.

"My mother suffers from multiple personality disorder."

Calvin could tell by the way Richard was searching his face, that he was trying to gauge if he understood all that such an affliction entailed.

"She may well assume a different identity, depending on the room in which she finds herself. She might, more than likely, address you by different names. Just play along, that's all I ask."

Calvin didn't know what to say. He supposed that this would explain the hefty cash bonus.

"She's in no way dangerous, Calvin, but requires... company, shall we say? To chat with, mostly. I can't put this meeting off, and I have no one else to help me out. Will you be that person, Calvin. Please?"

"Of course," said Calvin in a magnanimous tone. "It would be my pleasure."

"Daphne will attend to any of your needs. Simply let her know if you're hungry or thirsty. She'll be serving tea and afternoon biscuits shortly, anyway. She will point you in the direction of one of several bathrooms, should the need occur, but be sure to let Daphne attend to my mother if that happens."

"No problem,” Calvin said.

"Sylvia, my mother, is currently washing her face in my study's private bathroom. She'll be out in a minute."

Sure enough, a well-built woman in her late sixties, made an appearance from a room hidden from sight. A broad smile accompanied her as she approached them.

"Richard, you never told me we had company?"

"Calvin is going to spend the afternoon with you, mother."

Richard's mother held her hand up, as if she expected it to be kissed. Calvin glanced over at Richard, before gently taking her fingers and kissing the back of her hand.

"At last, a gentleman who knows how to treat aristocracy. Countess Wilhelmina at your service, sir."

"Well," said Richard, beaming, "now that you two are acquainted, I have to get going. Thanks again, Calvin."

He could have been wrong, but Calvin could have sworn that Richard left at a pace that would leave him little time to change his mind. Still, spending an afternoon with an old dear like this could turn out to be quite entertaining.

"Calvin, let us proceed upstairs, shall we?"

Calvin was impressed. She had remembered his name. Sylvia, or Countess Wilhelmina as she now called herself, held out her hand. Calvin took it in his and they made their way upstairs in what might best be described as a regal pace.

"Have you painted anything recently?" she asked him, stepping into a large room. Portraits were everywhere. An artist's easel held a proud position in the center of the room, an ornate antique French sofa several feet behind it.

Calvin closed the door behind him.

"I gave my sister's kitchen a fresh coat, a month or so ago."

Countess Wilhelmina shrieked with laughter. "Flaubert, you will be the death of me. Pretending to be a common painter instead of the genius whose name slips off every tongue in Paris."

So, apparently he had now acquired a new identity.

Richard's mother sat on the sofa, as Calvin took a tour of the room. The paintings were all originals, of that he had no doubt. His tour stopped in front of the large easel, that blocked his view of the chaise longue and Richard's mother. Pieces of sketching charcoal littered the lip of the easel, shared by different colors of oils.

"Paint me, Flaubert. Say you will," squealed Richards mother.

Calvin didn't reply. His face was almost pressed against the virgin canvas. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Different odors assaulted his nose. The different pigments used in the making of each color, made some smell sweet, and others sour.

"I'm ready Flaubert. Tell me it's not just my pose that's perfect."

Calvin stood back up and took a step to the right. His breath caught in his throat.

"What in heaven's name are you doing?" he gasped.

Richard's mother was sprawled across the chaise longue, on her side. She wore not a stitch of clothing.

"How would you like my breasts arranged, my love?" she inquired, moving her ample bosom around.

Calvin moved towards her, and then stopped himself. He held his hands in front of him, palms facing the naked woman in front of him.

"For God's sake, put your clothes back on."

"Don't play shy, Flaubert. We have been lovers for almost two years. My husband knows, but turns a blind eye. I'm the one with the money."

Calvin dashed behind her. It was the only place she could have left her clothes.

"Quickly, put them back on," he begged, returning to a place several feet in front of her, and holding her clothes out for her to take.

"Not until you paint me, my love. I shaved in anticipation. Don't tell me you didn't notice."

Calvin tried not to look, but it was the old story. What's the first thing you do when someone tells you not to look?

"Would you prefer a different pose? Something a little naughtier?"

"No, no. No poses at all. Please, I'm begging you, just get dressed."

"Kiss me Flaubert, just once... in that special place, before you start."

A loud knock came at the door. "Tea and biscuits," announced Daphne.

An Olympic sprinter couldn't have reached that door any faster. Calvin cracked open the door.

"Tea and biscuits, sir," repeated Daphne.

"Actually, I never drink tea," Calvin said. "Do you have any Turkish coffee?"

"We have everything, sir. Can I just rest this down inside? Then I'll come back with your coffee."

"Good grief, no," Calvin said. "Protocol, my dear. The Baroness--"

"You mean Countess," she replied, grinning.

"Yes, of course. Countess Wilhelmina wouldn't approve."

"I should only be two minutes," Daphne said, turning on her heel.

Calvin closed the door. He had one hundred and twenty seconds to get the old bird back into her clothes.

"I'm not moving until you paint me, you rascal."

Calvin approached the easel, eased his thumb into the palette and surveyed the painting instruments. He picked up the palette knife, but just as quickly discarded it. He grabbed the widest brush he could find and started slapping paint to canvas.

"Done!" he exclaimed thirty seconds later.

"Ooh! Let me see," said the Countess, joining him in front of the easel. "Flaubert, you joke, yes?"

"Joke!" Calvin exclaimed, faking anger. "I never joke about my work. I am experimenting with an eye to creating an impressionist's depiction of naked perfection. Can you not see it?"

"But of course, my love. Where are my breasts, though?"

Calvin pushed his forefinger into some of the tan colored oil, and wrote a rounded W. "How's that?"

"It's true, you're a genius, Flaubert. Abstract art is all the rage."

"Now get your clothes back on as fast as you can, or I will never paint your portrait again, I swear it."

"You are such a bully, Flaubert,"  moaned the Countess, clearly disappointed.

A knock came at the door, the very second Richard’s mother had fully dressed.

"Turkish coffee, tea and biscuits, Mr Brooks."

"Thank you, Daphne," he replied, as she set them down on a small antique table.

"Good thing you didn't come in before, Abigail," giggled Richard’s mother. "Flaubert and I were quite naked. No doubt you would have whispered such to my husband."

Daphne chanced a glance in Calvin's direction. He turned his eyes to the ceiling.

"My lips are sealed, Countess. Your husband shall hear nothing from me."

"Pity," Countess Wilhelmina replied.

Calvin had thought that Turkish coffee would take a while to find and make. How wrong he was. He took a sip. Disgusting. How did people drink this... engine oil, posing as coffee.

"How is the Turkish coffee, my darling? You're such a naughty individual. Don't tell me you don't know that drinking coffee is too common for the likes of us. What would our friends think if they could see you now?"

A smile began to build across Calvin's countenance. "Don't you want to be naughty, Countess? Wicked, even?" He held out the cup.

"Lock the door, Flaubert. Discovery would be too much."

"The door stays unlocked, Countess. I would see you living on the edge, awhile."

"Oh my! You pervert this poor woman," she said, and gulped down the foul liquid.

A few minutes later, Daphne knocked and entered. "May I take the tray away?" The maid tilted her head. Was that lipstick on the empty cup of Turkish coffee? Her eyes moved from the cup, to her employer's mother, whose face immediately turned bright red.

"Not a word, Abigail. The papers would carry the news for weeks. My name would be dragged through the mud."

"No, Countess, that would never do." Smiling, Daphne, and the evidence, left the room.

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again, Flaubert. You'll be the death of me." Countess Wilhelmina rose to her feet. "Come, let us go to the next room. There is a set of antique pistols about which I would have your opinion." She marched to the door and waited until the toast of Paris, opened it for her. They moved along the plush carpet that covered the landing. Upon reaching the next room, Calvin did the honors, and the Countess swept inside.

Emotions that Determine Our Reading Material

Why do women read more romance than Sci-fi or horror? Why are men the exact opposite? I think it all boils down to which emotions each gender prefers to experience. Men like that shock value. Women not so much. Men get a thrill out of war movies because of their male need to dominate or impose on an enemy. They see themselves as the hero who overcomes tremendous odds rather than the guy that gets shot in the back of the head when he's not looking. That sudden fright in a horror movie. You know. The one that makes an involuntary bowel movement a distinct possibility. Alien worlds... adventure, horrific looking creatures. Men can't get enough of it.

We women, on the other hand, wish to put ourselves into the heroine's shoes. We want to experience that roller coaster of emotions that deal with feelings of affection, love (lust too) and satisfaction. Don't have our heroine trip and fall over a cliff the day after meeting her soul mate. No Sir! Not if you want us to go and see your next movie or read your next book. Happily ever after. That's us. Satisfaction guaranteed. Put us through the wringer... do it more than once, if you like, but there had better be a happy ending. We love to have that feeling linger long after we've put the book down, or left the movie theater.

What's the one thing that men and women agree on? Humor. Sprinkle some light hearted humor throughout my romance and I'll purr like a kitten. Who doesn't like to laugh? A good old fashioned screw up your face and double over, deep down belly laugh. It lifts the spirits. Why is it a comedian can have us howling with laughter at a hundred jokes, but ten minutes later, we can't remember one of them? Or is that just me?

Stealing Romance

Chapter 1

A happily married woman for seven years, that's me, Mary Tillman. A migraine prevents me from functioning at work and I have no choice but to go home. I'm still holding my head in both hands, lest it explode, as I open the door to my bedroom. The sight that greets me makes my headache suddenly irrelevant.

Mark, from the office, who is constantly chatting me up, is on my matrimonial bed, balls deep in my husband. My husband's eyes show fear, followed by acceptance. Mark, on the other hand, wears a smirk on his face. The smirk says that he knows I would be too embarrassed to tell of this episode to co-workers. Mark doesn't know me nearly as well as he thinks.

I close the door, and walk back downstairs. Shoulders slumped, I stumble into the bathroom, before dropping down on the toilet seat. Getting back on my feet might be a better option. The urge to throw up is emerging. The questions that beg answers, push their way past my forgotten migraine, and my urge to vomit.

How long has my husband been in the closet? Is he gay, or bisexual? Is Mark the only bastard that has been invading his ass? Exactly how long has this been going on? Should I be relieved that it was not my husbands dick inside someone else's ass before it was put inside me? Has my husband's dick been inside another man's ass? Deep down, did he want me to find out?

Did he want me to find out? That was the question. Why couldn't he just tell me? Yes, it would hurt to know that I lost my husband to another man rather than a woman, but it would have given me a choice. How would others perceive me after they found out, and they would find out. That was a given. What do I tell my parents? "Hey mom, mind if I crash with you and dad for a week or two? Marriage problems? Yeah. Another woman? No, nothing like that. No mom, he didn't hit me. I don't feel like talking about it right now. Can I come stay with you for a while? Thanks, I'll go pack." In a daze, I leave the safety of the bathroom and pick up the phone from its cradle, next to the TV.

I'm still holding the phone when Mark walks past and out of the front door. The phone hits the floor as I make a dash for the bathroom. Too late. The stream of vomit that erupts from my mouth paints half of the door before any of it reaches the throne. I'm on my hands and knees now, vomit squishing between my fingers and gluing themselves to my kneecaps. The inside of the toilet bowl doesn't smell nearly as bad as I thought it would.

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

As I was about to tap out the next sentence, Simon strolled over to my desk.

"Mandy, my love, how's the new book coming along?" asked my wonderful husband of five years. "Can I take a peek?"

"I'd rather you didn't," I said, glancing up from my laptop, my fingers poised to continue typing, 

"What's the premise of this story, the same old undying love between two beautiful people?"

"We authors write what the audience is requesting, not what tickles our fancy."

"So tell me, what does the audience want my lovely wife to write about?"

"Oh, the usual, undercover brothers getting caught in the act, that sort of thing."

Simon burst out laughing. "Never lose that sense of humor, babe. I really must read one of your books some day. Romance is just not my thing, as far as subject matter goes, but I know you're great at it."

"You do?"

"Honey, the brand new Cadillac sitting outside is a testament to your writing prowess. I don't bring in enough money to afford that."

"We're a team Simon, and I'd just as soon not have you read my slushy love stories."

"Afraid I'll throw up?" he laughed.

"Something like that." I turned my head to look at my husband. "You need to wet your hair, same place," I said.

"Sticking up again?"

"Every day," I replied. I licked the palm of my hand and smoothed it down as he bent to kiss me goodbye.

"Oh, that's gross," he said.

"There are other places I could lick," I said, caressing his crotch through his pants material.

"Writing makes you horny, that's why I married a famous author."

"I'm not famous, at least not yet," I straightened up his collar and tie.

"Well, that's what I tell everybody. I'm the most envied broker at the firm, and it's all thanks to you."

"Just don't tell them my pen name, that's all I ask."

"Too late my love," he said, before grabbing his car keys. "I'll take the old banger. You have the caddy."

"You're too kind, Simon," is what I said. Please God, don't let his colleagues read any of my books, is what went through my mind. Lost in my thoughts, I jumped as the phone emitted a shrill ring. It's Judith, my publisher and best friend.

"Is that book finished yet?"

"If you're talking about the first page, then yes, my first draft is complete."

"Read it to me."

I laughed at her suggestion. "If I did, you would be able to feel me blush over the phone."

The Ninth Commandment

Chapter 1

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, or in this case, girlfriend. This phrase flitted through Mike's brain. To covet, to desire wrongfully, to yearn to possess. That was the dictionary definition he liked the best. To yearn to possess. Leaning back in the swivel chair, he used his toes to swing the chair from side to side, in lazy fashion. Mike Reid and Adam Green, friends from childhood. Lived next to each other as kids and now renting similar two bedroom houses side by side in a nicely landscaped area known as Seabreeze. No sea, but plenty of breeze. Growing up, they had played the same sports, but Adam was always that little bit sharper. Adam's grades in college, always that little bit better. The girls Adam dated through his teenage years and early twenties, always that little bit hotter, which brought Mike to the problem at hand. Adam's latest girlfriend, Rochelle.
         
When they first set eyes on her, it was at the local disco. Nothing new about that. She appeared to be on her own. This turned out not to be true. Her sidekick was outside, making a phone call, away from the rhythmic, pulsating disco beat. They both introduced themselves to the young lady who waited patiently for her friend to return. Mike thought that he would be one up if he insisted on buying her and her missing friend, a drink. When he returned to the table, Adam and Rochelle were on the dance floor. As it turned out, Mike got the drink, and Adam the girl. This time though, it stung. Mike was in love with Rochelle. He had convinced himself that life without her would be unbearable. He hoped against all odds that Adam and Rochelle would split up, but even that desire seemed hopeless. He stared at the ceiling as the chair continued its path from side to side. Six months had passed. Mike was dating one of Rochelle's friends. Amanda is cute, and sexy... but she's no Rochelle. Mike had one ace in the hole, though. A promotion was up for grabs with the retirement of a manager at the firm, due mainly to ill health. Adam and he both harbored ambition toward the position, and an insider source suggested that he would be given the nod. This was not confirmed, but the source was usually reliable. Men with position were coveted by women. There was that word again. Coveted.

Hate

Hate  

Chapter 1

You don't have to tell me. Hate is such an ugly word. Not just the meaning, but even the arrangement of the letters themselves. It's also a widely abused term. We say such things as, I hate Korean food, I hate baggy pants, I hate the color orange, or even, I hate Mondays, but these aren't hates, they're dislikes. To hate something... no, that's wrong. To hate someone, to REALLY hate someone, you have to have loved them first, and like as not, still love them. They have to have crushed your heart, possibly in spectacular fashion, for you to really hate them. Add to that fact, that hate (I have discovered) is simply love, magnified. You think that term is incompatible, don't you? Bear with me. When you love someone, you can love them completely. Am I correct? Blow me! You KNOW I'm right. BUT, when you hate someone, it can become an all encompassing emotion that wraps you so completely in its cold embrace, that little else in life seems to matter. Your ONLY desire is to even the score. To crush the object of your hate in a manner that makes what they did to you seem irrelevant. Am I close? Denial is a petty attempt at dishonesty. Deep down, even if you're ashamed to admit it, you know it to be true.

So, having gotten that out of the way, who is it that I hate? Who is it that I love so completely, that I want to go biblical and have them turned into a pillar of salt?

Patricia... that's her name. Medium height, incredible figure and hair so black it would look divine on an Egyptian Goddess.

My name is Kate...