COVER REVEAL - Boondocks by Casey Peeler @AuthorCasey

A Habit You Can’t Quit!

Boondocks, new from Casey Peeler!

Releasing October 25th.

Add to your TBR at: http://bit.ly/2asel2f

Blurb

One twist of the lid changed everything…

The devil sat on my shoulder from my first breath, he watched my every move, and with the first strike of lightnin' I was pulled under.

Walking into Boondocks the voice of an angel called to me and I vowed to live a better life.  She kept me on the righteous path until Satan called one last time.

It was time to take him down or lose my angel forever.

About the Author:

Casey Peeler grew up in North Carolina and still lives there with her husband and daughter.

Growing up Casey wasn't an avid reader or writer, but after reading Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neal Hurston during her senior year of high school, and multiple Nicholas Sparks' novels, she found a hidden love and appreciation for reading.  That love ignited the passion for writing several years later, and her writing style combines real life scenarios with morals and values teenagers need in their daily lives.

When Casey isn't writing, you can find her near a body of water listening to country music with a cold beverage and a great book.

Connect with Casey

Website: www.authorcaseypeeler.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/caseypeelerauthor

Twitter: www.twitter.com/AuthorCasey

Instagram: @AuthorCasey

Snapchat: @authorcpeeler

EXCERPT REVEAL - Four Letter Word by J. Daniels

Excerpt

I showered and shaved, slathered on my favorite sweet-smelling body lotion, slid into the dress after deciding on a thong and no bra, thanks to the mesh, and curled and teased my hair, giving it body and height that looked kick-ass paired with my outfit.

I also went to town on my makeup job, keeping everything heavy but the kind of heavy that screamed fierce concertgoer and not back alley hooker.

Dark, smoky eyes, false lashes that flared at the ends, and warm cerise lipstick.

I felt pretty. Really pretty.

The kind of pretty a girl had to commemorate with a selfie, and there was only one person in the entire world I wanted to send that selfie to.

I bit my lip while swiping my phone off the bed and pulling up the camera mode.

I was nervous.

Understandably so. This would be the first time Brian was going to see me.

Like ever.

Heavy stuff right there.

I’d thought about sending him pictures before, but got sidetracked with conversation and his sweet as warmed honey voice I wanted to taste, and all thoughts of pictures would slip my mind. Considering he never asked to see a photo of me didn’t help either.

Since he wasn’t bringing it up, I was hardly thinking about it.

But right now, standing in my bedroom with my makeup done up and my hair looking prettier than it had on prom night, sending Brian a picture of me was suddenly all I could think about.

And before I could think or whisper talk myself out of it, I reversed the camera so I could see myself on the screen, held the device out in front of me and off to the right a bit, pursed my stained lips into a kiss, other hand poised at my chin to blow it, and snapped the picture.

Then I attached it to a text and hit Send.

Feeling WILD.

I wanted to put my phone down. Really I did, especially since I had to snap on my studded cuff bracelet and that required use of both hands, furthermore because Tori had given me a fifteen-minute warning close to fifteen minutes ago, but I couldn’t let the damn thing go.

I couldn’t stop looking at it either.

My stomach was clenched. I was biting my fist and pacing the length of the bed, head down and eyes anxiously focused.

But when the little bubbles floated in teasing intervals on my screen and I knew Brian had seen my photo, that’s when the real panic set in.

Would he like how I looked? Would it be how he had imagined and confessed to imagining countless times late at night to me, or better, would my photo exceed the limits of his imagination and paint a more pleasing image in his mind?

Or would he hate it and me for sending it to him, shattering his dreamed-up spank-bank material and ruining every orgasm I ever gave him?

Shit.

Shit!

Which was it and why the hell was he taking so long to type? Didn’t he know this was killing me?

“Hurry up!” I whispered against the screen.

It started ringing in response to my plea, startling me and nearly slipping out of my hand.

Oh, God, he was calling.

Fate. Hate. Love. Lies.

Which four letter word will change their lives forever?

Pre-order Four Letter Word by J. Daniels NOW:

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Nook: http://bit.ly/2bTdJCF

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2cBTjmq

Blurb

Sydney Paige was never so mortified to hear the words "wrong number" in her life. She meant to tell off the guy who broke her best friend's heart, but unleashed her anger on a perfect stranger instead. And now her world is turned upside down by the captivating man who wants to keep her on the line.

Brian Savage is living a life he's quickly come to hate-until Sydney's wild rant has him hooked and hungry for more. Soon the sexy woman on the phone becomes the lover in his bed. But Brian has secrets, and the closer he lets Syd get, the harder it is to shield her from the devastating mistakes of his past . . .

Author Information

J. Daniels is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Sweet Addiction series, the Alabama Summer series, and the upcoming Dirty Deeds series.

She would rather bake than cook, she listens to music entirely too loud, and loves writing stories her children will never read. Her husband and children are her greatest loves, with cupcakes coming in at a close second.

J grew up in Baltimore and resides in Maryland with her family.

Stalk Her: Facebook | Twitter | Website |  Goodreads

BOOK TOUR - Neighbors by @StyloFantome + $25 Amazon GC Giveaway

Are you ready to meet the neighbors?

Neighbors by Stylo Fantome is NOW AVAILABLE & FREE ON KINDLE UNLIMITED!

ONLY $0.99

**limited time only**

Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2dsxG5H

Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2duiuI1

Amazon CA:  http://amzn.to/2cNXwQI

Amazon AUS: http://amzn.to/2cNXwQI

Blurb

Things a good neighbor can do for you:

1. Give you a cup of sugar

2. Let you borrow his lawnmower

3. Water your plants while you're on vacation

4. Make your eyes roll back in your head with his tongue

Katya Tocci has never paid much attention to who lives next door - her career always kept her too busy. She's a good girl, working her way to becoming the most sought after cake designer in all of San Francisco.

But even a good girl's gotta cut loose once in a while, right? So one fake dating profile later, and she's ready to tarnish her squeaky clean image. Little does she know, her fun time is closer to home than she ever imagined.

Throw in a neighbor who wants to corrupt her, and another who just wants to own her, and her entire world is flipped upside down.

Who knew neighbors could be so helpful?

Excerpt

It was no joke.

Liam had been waiting in the lobby for her at nine o'clock, sharp. Liam Edenhoff – “but everyone calls me Eden” – he'd introduced himself again to her before guiding her out to a taxi he'd had waiting.

She felt a little nauseous. She'd chugged down another half bottle of wine, and some crème de menthe, before heading downstairs to meet him. She'd almost talked herself out of going, but she'd made the mistake of telling her roommate Tori about the whole fiasco. Apparently, Katya owed it to women everywhere (and Tori in particular) to explore this opportunity to its fullest. She'd all but been shoved out the apartment, the door slammed and locked in her face.

“Nervous?” Liam Eden-whatever-his-name-was asked her as the cab slowed to a crawl.

“Nope,” Katya's voice sounded overly loud.

“Liar. Tonight is gonna be an interesting night, angel cake.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“What's your last name?”

“None of your business.”

“Okay then – when the gang bang starts, I'll tell them to call you Katya X.”

She couldn't stop the blush from happening that time. Liam burst out laughing, then soothed the sting by grabbing her hand.

Even when they got out of the cab, he didn't let go of her. Normally, she would've been uncomfortable with a stranger assuming such a familiarity with her, but this time, she was thankful for it. She held onto him tightly as they walked down a crowded street. Then they turned into an alley, and his gang bang joke didn't seem so funny. He led her to a plain door, above which a simple, small, neon sign spelled out “The Garden”. Outside were several small groups of people, chatting and smoking. Some of them called out greetings to him, all of them using his nickname, but a large and scary looking bouncer addressed him very properly.

“Hey, Mr. Edenhoff, wasn't expecting you in tonight. Any problems?”

“Nope, just bringing a friend to show her the place, let her see what I do for a living.”

All the blood was quickly rushing from Katya's limbs, pooling somewhere in her stomach. None of this was a joke. He really did own the place, that much was obvious.

As Liam led her through the door, though, Katya actually felt a surge of confidence. She was still nervous, still more than a little scared, but she was okay with it. Liam seemed like a nice guy, he wasn't going to take her into some dark room and insert foreign objects into her orifices. She could leave whenever she wanted to, whenever it got too uncomfortable. Everything was fine, and for once, she was doing something exciting. She'd een have something interesting to talk about at work the next day.

Finally.

About the Author:

Crazy woman from a remote location in Alaska (where the need for a creative mind is a necessity!), I have been writing since ... forever? Yeah, that sounds about right. I have been told that I remind people of Lucille Ball - I also see shades of Jennifer Saunders, and Denis Leary. So basically, I laugh a lot, I'm clumsy a lot, and I say the F-word A LOT.

I like dogs more than I like most people, and I don't trust anyone who doesn't drink. No, I do not live in an igloo, and no, the sun does not set for six months out of the year, there's your Alaska lesson for the day. I have mermaid hair - both a curse and a blessing - and most of the time I talk so fast, even I can't understand me.

Yeah. I think that about sums me up.

Website | Facebook | Twitter |  Amazon | Goodreads

GIVEAWAY

$25 Amazon Gift Card

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FREE Blitz - CHIMERA by Stephie Walls

Title: chimera
Author: Stephie Walls
Genre: Adult, Dark Romance
Published: May 11, 2016

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CHIMERA © Stephie Walls 2016
Chapter One
When Sylvie died, it left a hole in my being that seemed prodigious. I adorn my face with the plastic appearance people anticipate from me, but internally, I weep. Continuing through the monotonous motion of my daily life, I increasingly find myself lost in what my friends—well, those who remain—refer to as a fictional world: novels, authors, artists, musicians, and the illusion of relationships on social media. The more time I spend on Facebook, the more entrenched I become in the fiction that exists on the screen. I believe these “friends” are truly concerned for me; they’re what relationships are in reality. Sadly, these seem to be the only things keeping me hanging on, but the thread threatens to break daily, frayed from top to bottom. The tightly woven fabric that was once my life has deteriorated beyond recognition.
That’s the crux of my juxtaposition. My life had value, it had meaning. It was everything I had ever imagined it could be. But without Sylvie, black clouds roll through my mind, hindering my ability to think, eliminating productivity, and stifling my creativity. My art is as dead as I am. But online…online I can be anything I want to be, whatever version of myself I decide to show to the world. I don’t have to be the pathetic artist who lost his muse. I don’t have to be the sweet, sensitive man Sylvie loved. I don’t know whom I want to reinvent myself as, but the idea of being whatever still exists in my soul doesn’t appeal to me. My craft has become recreating my persona, anything to escape the pain, the desolation, and the solitude. Surely there’s art in recreating an identity.
Most days, I find it difficult to even get out of bed. The colder it gets outside, the shorter the days are, the deeper I sink—sometimes only escaping the protection of my covers to take a piss or get something to eat or drink. Although frequently, I let those things go in favor of marinating in my misery. My laptop calls to me from my nightstand when the loneliness becomes too much to bear, the darkness too black to see through.
That recognizable blue-and-white screen brings me comfort, the newsfeed seemingly a link to real conversation, touching base with the people I’ve known for years—but it always introduces the possibility of newcomers. The “friend recommendation” is the online equivalent to a friend introducing you to someone new; at least it is in my mind. I always check out the recommendations. They’re often other painters or singers that might have known Sylvie—or people I barely recognize from high school or college. But every once in a while, some totally random person surfaces with no tie to my past.
Those are the connections I find most interesting, most appealing.
They also seem to be the safest, having no knowledge of the person I once was, or how all that remains of me is a fragmented shell. I have made several “friends” this way, people I would say I’m close to—even though we’ve never met and likely never will. Herein lies my fictional world, the one my real friends don’t understand and believe to be emotionally damaging to me. I’m not processing my grief…blah, blah, blah. If I hear that shit one more time, I may scream.
As soon as I log in, the familiar recommendations bombard me as if the universe is playing some cruel joke. There she is, my Sylvie…only her name is Sera Martin. She’s a perfect duplicate with the same striking green eyes, long chestnut-colored hair, high cheekbones, and luscious, pouty lips.
I realize I haven’t inhaled or exhaled.
I gasp and hold my breath until my lungs burn. I haven’t seen her in years. The day she died, I came home and stripped our house of any reminder—every picture, every video, every stitch of clothing, anything she loved. It all had to leave. I couldn’t bear the weight of what the world took from me. I imagined if I discarded everything, she wouldn’t haunt me, and maybe, somehow, I would manage to learn to live again if reminders of her didn’t surround me.
Yet, her loss possesses me daily.
This girl. This Sera. Could this be Mother Nature returning my Sylvie to me in a strange twist of fate? The notion there’s a doppelganger roaming the world has always been a thought I believe in. It’s possible after years of suffering, dying inside, barely hanging on, that my savior has come. Without hesitation, I click “add friend.”
Sera responds to my request with a private message.
Sera: Wow! Are you really Bastian Thames?
Me: Yes. Have we met before?
Sera: Once, but I doubt you’d remember. It was at a gallery down on the West End where your work was being featured a couple years ago. Is this the real Bastian? Not some lurker claiming to be the famous artist?
Me: Far cry from famous, but yes, one and the same. Are you certain we met that night? I remember the opening and can assure you I would have remembered you.
Sera: Yes, you were with your wife. She’s quite lovely. I’m not sure which was more beautiful, her or the nudes you had in the collection. That showing was the talk of the art community for months around here.
Me: That was the last opening I did. Seems like a lifetime ago.
Sera: Are you not painting anymore? I hate to admit that I lost track of your work when I went off to college but for years, I was a huge fan.
Me: Life happened. I haven’t painted in some time.
Sera: I can’t imagine you quit painting. Surely you just quit putting them out for the public.
Me: No. I haven’t so much as held a brush in five years.
Sera: That’s a shame. Hey look, Bastian, I have to run out but I accepted your request. I hope maybe we can talk some later. Maybe you’ll let me pick your brain about a project I’m working on?
Me: Certainly. I hope to hear from you soon.
Sera: Bye
Me: Later
My mind races with possibilities. I immediately go to her profile to see what information I can garner on her before our next conversation—assuming one comes. Jesus, she’s twenty-five, went to the Rhode Island School of Design, graduated with her Masters in Fine Arts, and holy hell, she’s a sculptor. If these pictures are of her work, then she has phenomenal talent. Scouring her profile provides only surface-level information. There’s almost nothing personal. The pictures all seem to be with other artists or at galleries or in a studio. Moving to her wall, I find tons of posts by other local artists, memes about artwork, jokes…the proverbial Facebook bullshit.
I almost quit scrolling when I see a post that grabs my attention. There’s a picture of two beautiful women, scantily clad, one bent over, the other yielding a paddle, and the words, “Someone’s been a bad girl.” Jesus Christ. There are one hundred forty-seven comments and two hundred fifty-three likes on the thread posted by a Maria Martin.
I click on Maria’s name first, assuming it will be a sister or cousin, not expecting it to be her mother. Holy shit, whose mother posts this kind of profanity on their daughter’s Facebook wall? Making my way back to the thread, I find myself enthralled by the dialogue.
It’s cheeky and playful but talk about insight. This one picture, one conversation, tells me scads about who she is personally, not about her work, but seemingly what she enjoys—intimately. Reading her responses to the comments ignites a fire in an area of my anatomy I thought had died with Sylvie. As my cock starts to twitch, that old, familiar heat seeps through my crotch.
I stop myself, realizing I’m staring at dialogue—about a woman who could be my dead wife’s twin—between people I don’t know. It’s morbid, really. Backing out of the comments and Sera’s profile, then I set the computer aside. I don’t close the laptop for fear of missing a message from her. Lying back, I stare at the all-too-familiar ceiling. I know every blemish on the drywall with aching familiarity. There have been hours of loneliness and isolation. The depth of pain is so fathomless, I often wonder how I made it to the next day without feeling the cold steel in my hand, without pulling the trigger.

I've lived all over the country but have made Greenville, South Carolina my home for the last 20 of my 37 years. I have a serious addiction to anything Coach and would live on Starbucks if I could get away with it. If you follow me on Facebook you'll also find that I'm slightly enamored with Charlie Hunnam. I'm an avid reader (literary whore to be more precise) averaging around 300 novels a year. I have a penchant for great love stories, sensual poetry and am a romantic at heart. I currently work full-time in the Greenville area and fill my "extra" time with writing contemporary romance novels with a hint of erotica. I couldn't do it without the support of my family and friends who push me to keep going when I don't have the confidence or patience.

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