Category Archives: Coming Soon
EXCERPT REVEAL – Sick Fux by Tillie Cole
Dark Contemporary Romance. Contains explicit sexual situations, violence, disturbingly sensitive and taboo subjects, offensive language and very mature topics. Recommended for ages 18 and over.
But this was Dolly. The only person I’d ever given a shit about.
A slick tar pumped through my black heart as I thought of her. She was the blood that gave me life.
I had no idea what state I would find her in. Whether or not her fragile mind had been destroyed. Whether or not her glass heart had been shattered. No hope of salvation.
I had no idea if my only reason for living could be saved. I shook with venomous anger when I let my mind imagine the hell those sadistic cunts would have put her through in my absence. But Chapel’s words rang in my ears . . . Unleash the anger only on those who deserve it. Let it build within your heart like a well swelling with water . . . then unleash hell on those who took your freedom.
Opening my eyes, I breathed through my rage and silently rounded the corner . . . I stopped. There she was, sitting in a chair. I sucked in a breath and heard it rattle in my ears. Her hair. Her hair was pulled back into a long braid, the woven strands falling to her lower back. And she was dressed in black. Long, baggy sleeves covered her arms.
Motherfucking black. Dolly didn’t belong in black. Only color. Blue and white and gold and motherfucking pink.
I edged around the perimeter of the room until I faced her. My heart tore down the center and I had to hold back a loud snarl when I saw her curled up on the seat, a thick blanket over her thin legs and waist as she stared lifelessly out of the window. The window that overlooked the once-manicured lawns, now nothing but high-reaching weeds and too-bushy trees. I looked across at what she was watching, in the direction of what held her so captivated.
My heart was severed completely, the two parts of its flesh repelling the other, trying to escape the rage and pain and fucking consuming darkness.
She was staring at the spot where we used to play as kids. Where she had found me all those years ago, ripping the colorful butterfly apart in my hands. I moved into her line of sight, but her blue eyes didn’t lift to meet mine, just stared through me as though I wasn’t even there. I crouched down and studied her face. Porcelain skin. Full lips. Fucking perfection.
But there was no life left in her.
I had never felt fear before, but I imagined the sinking hole I felt dropping in my stomach was something like it. A sinking feeling that Dolly had gone to a place from which there was no escape, a prisoner in her own mind.
Fragility consumed.
“Dolly darlin,’” I rasped, my voice fucking breaking.
Twenty-one. She was twenty-one and more beautiful than I could ever have imagined.
Perfection.
My living doll.
A strand of hair lay over her face. My fingers clenched and unclenched as I tried to force myself to touch her. But I couldn’t. I hadn’t touched or been touched in years. I didn’t know how to anymore. Allergic to human affection. Repulsed by the degrading feeling of touch.
I . . . I . . . I couldn’t.
As I opened my mouth to speak to Dolly again, a loud gasp sailed through the air behind her. I straightened, gripping my cane, to see a familiar old face appear. I watched, the sinking hole quickly replaced by dark satisfaction as the blood drained from her face. “Good Lord,” she whispered as I smoothed down my black cravat and vest.
I glared at the bitch. Leaning casually on my cane, I said, “More like Lucifer, I would think.” I nodded in her direction “To you, anyhow.”
Mrs. Jenkins swallowed and tried to back out of the room. “Ah-ah,” I tutted and shook my head. She immediately stilled, eyes fixed on mine.
“He . . . Heathan James . . . it’s . . . it’s not possible . . .” she stammered and ran her eyes over me. Every inch of me.
“Rabbit.” The bitch flinched at my correction. “I am Rabbit. The motherfucking White Rabbit. So never fucking utter that peasant name to me again.”
Her skin paled, and her eyes fell to Dolly sitting on the chair. Dolly still hadn’t moved. I shifted my grip on the box I had brought inside, about to hold it out to Mrs. Jenkins when she asked, “How are you here?”
I threw the box across the room. It landed right at her feet. “Dress her.”
“Wh-what?” Mrs. Jenkins asked.
I pointed to the box at her feet. “Dress her. It wasn’t a request.” Mrs. Jenkins shook as she picked up the box and moved to where Dolly sat. Dolly didn’t look at her either. Mrs. Jenkins opened the lid of the box and gasped again.
Her old, wrinkled eyes snapped up to mine. “No—”
Before she had even finished the sentence, I had reached into my pocket and pulled out my knife. I ran the flat side of the blade down my cheek. Slowly. Controlled. Watching her terrified gaze track my every move. “You’d best do as I ask, Mrs. Jenkins. My patience and tolerance for you appear to be at an all-time low.”
After graduating from Newcastle University with a BA Hons in Religious Studies, Tillie followed her Professional Rugby player husband around the world for a decade, becoming a teacher in between and thoroughly enjoyed teaching High School students Social Studies before putting pen to paper, and finishing her first novel.
Tillie has now settled in Austin, Texas, where she is finally able to sit down and write, throwing herself into fantasy worlds and the fabulous minds of her characters.
Tillie is both an independent and traditionally published author, and writes many genres including: Contemporary Romance, Dark Romance, Young Adult and New Adult novels.
When she is not writing, Tillie enjoys nothing more than curling up on her couch watching movies, drinking far too much coffee, while convincing herself that she really doesn’t need that extra square of chocolate.
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PRE-ORDER & GIVEAWAY ~ Saving Zola (Sleeper SEALs, Book 4) by Becca Jameson
Saving Zola
Sleeper SEALs, Book 4
by Becca Jameson
Zola Carver has worked her entire life to get where she is—assistant district attorney.
She doesn’t have time for threats from a presumed terrorist group.
Mike Dorsen has made a life for himself, moving from foster care, to a master’s in biology, to the SEALs, and finally the FBI. When he gets an assignment from a clandestine faction of the CIA while on vacation, the last person he expects to have in his care is his high school girlfriend, Zola.
Unanswered questions haunt the childhood sweethearts as they reconnect. Their love has never faded, but will secrets held for over a decade tear them apart a second time?
While Zola and Mike run from a terrorist group intent on eliminating Zola, they must find their way back into each other’s hearts as easily as they found their way back into bed.
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Excerpt
“What about you? Why aren’t you married?”
“The only woman who ever made me consider marriage left me for another man.” He didn’t hesitate to tell her that.
“Oh. Shit. That’s awful. I’m sorry.”
He stared at her hard.
She jerked backward. “You’re not talking about me.”
“I am.”
She shoved the chair back again and stood, spinning away from him exactly how she’d done earlier that morning. “Mike. That’s crazy.”
“Is it? Crazier than you making up a fake boyfriend to get me to leave you alone?”
Her face heated. “That is not what happened. You started it by ignoring my emails.” Her voice rose completely out of her control. “I sent you that email to light a fire under you. It was my last-ditch effort to get you to come after me. You failed.” Why the hell did she tell him that?
He stood as quickly as she had and took a step toward her.
She backed up as he approached until her butt hit the glass door.
He kept coming, stopping inches from her, his hands landing on the glass on both sides of her head. His gaze darted back and forth between her eyes, searching.
She couldn’t breathe. Every inhale filled her with his scent. If she thought she could get away with it, she would close her eyes to block out at least the sight of him.
“We both miscalculated.”
She shook her head. She wouldn’t allow him to put equal blame on her. “No. Because I sent you five emails. Five.” She held up one hand, all fingers extended. “You sent me nothing. Not. One. Word.”
He nodded sharply. “Fine. My bad. You’re right. I should’ve written back.”
Was it that easy? Did he seriously just take the blame? “Why?” A tear slid down her face, though she really wished it hadn’t. Damn emotions.
“I thought it was better for you. Tidier. I thought I needed to let you go.”
She grabbed his shirt, unable to stop herself. She fisted the material of his tight tee in her hands, her voice increasing as she spoke again. “Bullshit. You coward. I loved you.” Her voice quivered. Dammit. She shook him. Except he didn’t budge. But she shook his shirt. “I loved you, you idiot. And you walked away from me without a word.”
“I was wrong.” He closed the distance, smashing his firm body into hers, flattening her to the window. The glass was cold. She welcomed the coolness against her heated body.
Another tear slid down to match the first.
Mike cupped her face with one hand and rubbed the wetness with the pad of his thumb. “I was wrong,” he whispered again. “So very wrong.”
More tears. Damn him.
And then his mouth was on hers.
She couldn’t stop the rush of adrenaline that forced her to angle her head to the side and let him in.
His kiss was firm. Demanding. Like a starving man who hadn’t eaten in days and then came upon a buffet. He threaded his other hand in her hair, still holding her face with the first hand. His tongue danced with hers, demanding everything.
Unable to stop herself, she gave him everything back. Every emotion she’d ever felt for him leaked into that kiss. She eased her fists open and smoothed her hands around to his back as he pressed into her farther.
Totally aware of his erection against her belly, wetness leaked from her to soak her panties. She wanted him. Worse than she’d ever wanted anyone. Worse than she’d wanted him the first time he claimed her.
It infuriated her to so easily succumb to his touch, his lips, his wandering hands, his thick erection pressing against her… But she recognized it for what it was. Lust. Pure and simple. Nothing more.
Forever he kissed her, until her brain was scrambled and she knew nothing but being one with this man. When he finally eased back, he did so to nibble a path to her ear.
His lips against her sensitive skin sent a shudder down her body. Every time he’d done that in high school, she’d melted for him. Nothing had changed. “I loved you too, baby. So much it hurt. I’m sorry.”
She still didn’t understand why he’d left her. He’d carefully avoided that detail, but she didn’t want to argue with him anymore today. Instead, she held on tighter, hugging him against her in response. Hoping she conveyed at least a truce.
When he set his teeth gently on her earlobe, she moaned. “God, I missed this,” he whispered, his breath making her shiver in response.
It was like no time had passed. How was that possible?
“Now what do we do?” she finally asked his chest as she set her forehead against the rock-hard pec.
He lifted away from her ear, cupped her face, and forced her to meet his gaze, his body still pressed against hers. “Now, you take these threats seriously and help me figure out who this fucker is so we can stay one step ahead of him and keep you safe until he’s behind bars.”
About the Author
Becca Jameson is the best-selling author of the Wolf Masters series and The Fight Club series. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband and two kids. With over 60 books written, she has dabbled in a variety of genres, ranging from paranormal to BDSM. When she isn’t writing, she can be found jogging with her dog, scrapbooking, or cooking. She doesn’t sleep much, and she loves to talk to fans, so feel free to contact her through e-mail, Facebook, or her website.
…where Alphas dominate…
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PRE-ORDER BLAST ~ Night’s Caress (The Ancients) by Mary Hughes
Have you Pre-ordered Night’s Caress by Mary Hughes yet?
Author Mary Hughes’ newest release NIGHT’S CARESS is book one in The Ancients series. Brie Lark has given up her hometown and vampires. Too bad the FBI just teamed her with the perfect male specimen, special agent and ancient vampire, Seb Rikare.
Pre-order NIGHT’S CARESS and add it to your TBR pile on Goodreads!
Then keep reading to get an EXCLUSIVE sneak peek at NIGHT’S CARESS and to enter the giveaway for a $25 Amazon gift card!
Title: Night’s Caress
Series: The Ancients
Author: Mary Hughes
Genre: Paranormal Romance
Release Date: September 25, 2017
Publisher: Entangled Publishing
Page Count: 288 pages
Format: Digitial
ASIN: B074DZH8YK
ISBN-13: 9781640633360
Synopsis:
In this small town, nothing is as it seems…
When artist Brie Lark left her vampire ex and her straitjacket of a hometown to breathe free in New York City, she promised herself two things: she’d never go back to Meiers Corner, and no more vampires. The last thing she expected—or wanted—was to be sent back home on an assignment. But her boss at the FBI needs her undercover on a murder case, working with a black-haired, black-eyed giant god of a man who’s her idea of perfection, except for one thing—he’s a vampire.
FBI Special Agent Seb Rikare is an ancient vampire hardened by loss. He’s cut all emotions to protect himself and leads a deliberately steady, almost sterile life. The brash young woman forced to pose as his lover irritates him, with her jangling bracelets and colorful hair. But as much as she irritates him, he finds himself drawn to her lively spirit and he’s tempted to make fantasy a reality.
Pre-order at:
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Google Play → http://bit.ly/2wjslWc
Enter to win a $25 Amazon Gift Card from Mary Hughes!
Night’s Caress Excerpt
Copyright © 2017 Mary Hughes
“I tell you, Sera, I’m never going back to Meiers Corners.” I spoke into my Bluetooth headset as I skimmed through the glass doors of 26 Federal Plaza, hitting the Broadway-side concrete concourse at the height of the lunchtime rush.
A pizza delivery guy ran toward me like a bullet. I dodged him then played do-si-do with a nanny shepherding three identically dressed little boys clutching brand-new balls.
One bright red ball slipped from chubby fingers, getting kicked away by oncoming traffic. The youngster’s face clouded. Before his thunderstorm could burst, I twisted and lunged, my rainbow bracelets jingling like bells, and caught the ball on a bounce. Tossing it back to the nanny earned me the boy’s bright grin, totally worth my getting knocked around by a pair of freight-train pedestrians.
“Never, Brie?” The voice in my ear was warm and compassionate, my friend and, until I’d gotten my job with the FBI and moved, one of my roommates, Serendipity Braun Thorsson. “But it’s Oktoberfest. And there’s beer.”
Practically a microbrewery on every corner. As I crossed the street, I admitted, “That’s tempting. Not tempting enough.”
She knew why I’d left the Corners. Cheating ex and stifling small town might be cliché, but add in the fact that the ex was a vampire? And the town was ambitiously folksy, to the point that my high-school job was making sculptures out of cheese and summer sausage? I was exhausted living with all that day in, day out. New York was the first place I could breathe.
“Brie, I miss you.”
I winced. Temptation punch crowned by guilt KO, the specialty of every Meiers Corners matron. Sera must’ve learned it from her mother.
“I miss you, too. Why don’t you visit me here? We can take in a Broadway show, go dancing—Oh, shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Her voice went high, breathless.
I’d been heading for a hot dog cart near the corner and had just spotted a man standing in line. He stood unmoved by the bobbing masses, literally head and shoulders above the crowd.
Only one man I knew that stunningly tall—Special Agent Seb Rikare.
Or rather, not man. I guessed Rikare was a vampire.
“Brie?” Sera prompted.
“It’s nothing. A ping on my asshole meter.” My last boyfriend had been a vampire. It had not ended well, like a marshmallow Peeps party held in a microwave. I’d vowed never to get involved with another fanged male.
Naturally, Fate, who was a snarky bastard, molded the very next guy I met into my idea of perfection—gleaming black hair, granite jaw, bedroom eyes, and muscles like bowling balls, plus a brain that catapulted him to top agent with the FBI.
I’d have tapped that in a second except for the likelihood that, along with his shield, Rikare carried the extra-large V-size condoms in his wallet.
Under my breath, I muttered, “Damn it, I just want to grab a sandwich. I don’t want to deal with him now.”
Other Books by Mary Hughes
BITE MY FIRE http://amzn.to/2wleuUl
CIN WIKKID http://amzn.to/2y6C2bV
About the Author
Mary Hughes writes steamy paranormal romances and wickedly fun romantic adventures, stories that crackle with action and love. Challenging, smart alpha men—and women not afraid of a challenge. Oh, do the sparks fly when he meets THE woman guaranteed to infuriate and inflame him most.
In real life she’s an author, a spouse and mother, a flutist, a computer geek, and a binge-TV-watcher of The Flash, Elementary, NCIS, and Wynonna Earp.
Connect with Mary: Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Amazon | Newsletter | Bookbub
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COVER REVEAL ~ Sexceptional by Leslie Pike
Sexceptional
by Leslie Pike
releases on September 17th!
Pre-order your #99cent copy TODAY!
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2xz7OlK
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2joegFU
Amazon CA: http://amzn.to/2w9MAdA
Blurb
Oliver London has no problem standing stark-ass naked in front of a group of strangers.
As a figure model, it’s afforded the nearly starving artist the time and means he needs to paint.
Stori Ryder runs one of Manhattan’s most popular speakeasies, Whiskey River.
She’s focused on her career and intent on securing a stable future after an unstable past.
Fourteen years ago, the high school sweethearts parted on a sour note.
When best friends invite them on a fabulous French Riviera wedding cruise, Oliver and Stori remember what it was that drew them together all those years ago.
About the Author
Leslie Pike lives in Orange County, California, with her husband Don, and their Pom-Poo, Mr. Big. Before writing her first novel, Leslie worked as a screenwriter on episodic television. She’s traveled the world with her Stuntman/Stunt Coordinator/Second Unit Director husband. They’ve been on movie sets from Africa to Israel, from New York to Los Angeles. Some of Leslie’s favorite things include calligraphy, long walks with her friends and afternoons at the movies.
Follow Leslie on AMAZON HERE: http://amzn.to/2f6KyUt
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CHAPTER REVEAL ~ Touched by Mara White
-Does your sister let you touch her, Gemini?
-Barely, but, yes, more than anyone else. I remember even in preschool when the teacher would grab her hand, she’d stare at the spot where their skin connected as if it were an affront to her existence. Just stand there and glare like she wanted to hurt someone.
-Junipera suffers from a rare phobia.
-Please, what does June not suffer from?
-When did she start chasing storms?
-In third grade she started obsessing about the rain. Full blown? I’d say after hurricane Katrina she never looked back. And she didn’t just chase them, June became those wild storms.
Junipera and Gemini Jones, Irish twins born during the month of June, survive a childhood of neglect and poverty by looking out for one another. Destined for a group home, the girls are rescued by a rich aunt and uncle who move them from Northern Minnesota to Fairfield, Connecticut. One sister thrives while the other spins out of control. A violent assault leaves Gemini searching for clues, but what she finds might be questions that are better left unanswered.
June drove almost all night. The farthest south she’d ever been was Oklahoma, going after a tornado, and she’d flown past the Louisiana state line around four in the morning. She wasn’t exactly sure where she would stay since she’d heard on the radio that all of greater New Orleans had been placed under a mandatory evacuation order. Experience told her that there would be at least one hotel open downtown where reporters were holed up. She’d followed their lead before, pretending to be chasing the story and not the storm. They usually had the best intel and she would leech off of them if she could. The storm had been given a name when she turned into a hurricane—Katrina, they called her, and she’d become a category three when she hit land in Florida. But now she had free rein over warm open water. That meant her hunger would gain and when she touched Louisiana, she’d do it with a vengeance. She was expected to hit land around six in the morning, as a category five. June had never actually seen a five before, but she knew roofs, cars and trees would go flying through the air like paper dolls, sucked up into the vortex and spit out indiscriminately.
Traffic snaked away from the Gulf in impossibly long lines of chrome and glass, rubber tires packed full of momentum wishing they could go faster. June had the speed they wanted as hers was one of the very few cars racing in the opposite direction. She came down I-55, and when she hit the I-10 bypass, the seriousness of the evacuation became apparent. Anyone who could was getting the hell out of New Orleans.
Storm excitement felt very much like a hormone—tipsy, punch-drunk and out of control. June got high off the anticipation; she tuned out the radio and the long line of evacuees and listened to the storm. She spoke its language. June lowered the windows in the Beamer so she could feel the pressure in the air. Her blood surged in her body like the ocean tides do in response to its pull. Her extremities tingled; so did her nose. She could taste the storm on the tip of her tongue, like a spike, a live wire, a sharp blade laced with coppery blood. Katrina called to her and June’s thigh muscles quivered.
June laid into the gas. Sometimes municipal law enforcement would block incoming traffic as well. June knew how to pose as a news reporter, but she wasn’t the most convincing candidate. Stringy blonde baby hair, lithe body like a cattail reed, clothing that was two sizes too big for her. She looked more like a painter or a homeless person despite driving a BMW. But her passion was always convincing, and her hope was that if Katrina was as big as she promised to be, whoever was watching would be too distracted to waste precious energy on just one life when hundreds of thousands were at stake.
“You a chaser?” the man asked her. He was a plainclothes officer, or maybe a reporter? She couldn’t be sure. He was the third person to stop her since she’d made it into the abandoned city. Anyone left on the streets was in transit, looking for a way out. More than one person had flagged her down and asked for a ride to the Superdome.
“No, I report to the Weather Channel directly,” June snapped. She stuck her anemometer on top of her small rolling suitcase. “I’ve got a room at the Riverside Hilton,” she said. She’d parked Uncle Ben’s BMW in the closest parking garage, reserved the room with his Mastercard. The receptionist only asked her if she knew there was a city-wide mandatory evacuation in progress. June looked up at her as if she were insulted. She smacked a press card on the desk. It wasn’t hers and the receptionist didn’t check it.
The cop or reporter was sold with the card. He figured hustlers or chasers couldn’t afford digs like hers. She walked briskly past him and flashed him her key card. What was he going to do? Arrest her and take her to jail? They had bigger things to worry about. This city was about to get slammed and everyone who’d stayed knew their lives would be in danger.
There were maybe a hundred or so of them in the Hilton. June recognized all the chasers, and not just because she’d seen them at other storms. It was their wily nature, their eyes holding the spark instead of the dread that was written all over the faces of the real press in the crowd. Some were there for the historic record and others, like Junipera, were there for the fix.
The wind started to scream at around eleven that evening. June wrapped her camera and her meter tightly in Saran Wrap, then stuck them in Ziploc bags along with her paper and pens. She packed all of the tiny water bottles and soda, peanuts and pretzels from the mini fridge into her backpack. Rolled up her blue tarp, Swiss Army knife, extra pair of underwear, waterproof pants and windbreaker and stowed them alongside the food.
The rain lashed the windows and splashed against them in sheets as if her hotel window were the windshield and she was moving slowly through a vigorous carwash. June stepped outside onto the balcony around two in the morning; the rain seemed to have died down but the wind was picking up, the trees across the way bending and straining, at times leaning almost horizontally. Her anemometer picked up wind speeds over eighty miles per hour. It’s the eastern side of the hurricane that packs the power punch. When that came calling, the hotel would be bending like the trees.
The television in the room blared with the constant evacuation warnings. June watched the Doppler radar image on a loop, circling toward the city like a hanging jaw going from red to purple. Hungry, angry wind and water were coming. June filled the bath tub, reinforced the metal stopper with Saran Wrap, did the same to the sink. She plunked down on the bed, splayed her limbs wide and stared at the ceiling.
The demon bared its teeth, and the windsong progressed from scream to roar, drowning out the warnings on the television. The beast was in the room, she was everywhere, surrounding them. June flinched every time she heard glass pop and shatter.
The window shook with the ferocity of a King Kong tantrum. Junipera imagined the tall Hilton as a toy in a child’s diorama reproduction of the French Quarter. Her fingers dug in and she held tight to the edge of the mattress. The room went black and the television silent when the power failed. The roar got louder, filling up her ears to find a way inside her skull.
At six-thirty in the morning her windows finally burst; the shades flew into the room and danced a madcap jig, wrenching themselves from the sliding track. June watched, eyes wide, as the one on the left took flight, a flash of soaring white in the dark sky before it flew out of sight. She crawled along the carpeted floor that was now soaked in brackish water, rolled to her back and filmed the macabre sky. The center of the hurricane looked like the center of a starfish, opening and beckoning, then folding in on its own hungry embrace. If there were Gods they were angry, monsters immune to the rules of give and take. June’s ears popped with the pressure while debris flew over her head, sometimes inches from her face. Then the rain began to plop down again in enormous drops. She stuck her camera under her shirt.
No sun rose and daybreak came in without color. From white to grey to a drab blue, the subdued tones of pigeons colored the horizon. When the roar finally moved far enough west to quiet, her ears still buzzed with its scream as if it had taken up house in her head. June could hear the beating of propellers—Army, she assumed, and not meteorological. The sound of periodic gunfire she decided to tell herself was exploding transformers and not ruthless people taking advantage of a ghost city with only a weary skeleton crew to protect it. She washed her face and armpits in the water she’d saved in the sink. Brushed her teeth, spitting in the toilet. She drank from the bathwater as if it were a baptismal font. It tasted as warm as the humid air around her.
It was still a good storm raging outside but June figured she’d head to the command center and hang with the reporters, hear their assessment of the damage. Running her fingers through her tangled hair was the best she could do for appearances. Nobody would care. The room, which had probably been a continental breakfast concierge haven, was now buzzing with reporters using an antiquated form of dial-up to communicate with the greater world. With a crashed electrical grid, the means for direct communication were severed. Someone had made coffee from instant crystals and bathwater. June helped herself to two mugs full as she listened to their chatter and took notes. Analog reporting, they were relaying messages like it was 1984. June heard reports of levees breeched, ruptured, possible flooding, but no one seemed to know for certain. She left the command center and went back to her room, pulled on her waterproof pants and rain boots, and put a sweater on under her windbreaker even though the humidity was stifling. She walked out the door with nothing more than her equipment and tiny rations in a backpack.
“Which way is the ninth ward?” she asked the security guard standing by the sliding glass doors. He looked her up and down reproachfully and Junipera tried to stand even taller than her already generous five feet ten inches.
“To your left. It’s a long walk, and believe me, from what they’re saying you don’t want to go there. Head to the Convention Center instead.”
“Thanks,” June said. She stepped out into the dense fog and turned left.
“There’s still debris flying. Hurricane ain’t over yet!” the security guard shouted after her.
She disappeared from his view, swallowed up by the insatiable mouth that wasn’t yet finished feeding on New Orleans
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