He dropped pretenses like fake smiles and bared his fangs.
The scent of fresh death fills LA’s streets as celebrity bloodsuckers Raiden and Gabriel begin production on Luna Sunset, Gabriel’s cinematic labor of love (and lust).
At the same time, Raiden’s estranged maker Justus and his wife/prisoner Naomi covertly track the costars’ location.
Unaware of their imperiled state, Raiden and Gabriel explore their altered alliance against the backdrop of palm trees and plentiful prey. A shocking discovery deepens the duo’s blood bond, their resistance crumbling as their desire crystallizes: Raiden and Gabriel abandon their defenses—and tragedy strikes.
Special Sale on Smashwords: the epub versions (compatible with most eReaders) of all the books in The MASTER Series are deeply discounted–the cheapest one, Crimson, is free. My short stories “Primer” and “Poison” are also free. Sale ends 12/31/2021.
Wow. I never thought going to the dentist sounded like my idea of a good time until I drafted this obligatory blog post. Ask me if there’s anything I’d rather be doing than churning out a thinly disguised advertisement in a half-hearted attempt to make an unlikely sale. (You will hear crickets.) If I could crush the dying embers of empty encouragement under my heel like the butt of a cigarette, I’d do so with aplomb, uncaring about the possibility of fire-starting from a rogue spark. But Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I’m not Italian…so again, why am I self-publishing? Because if I don’t, I won’t feel like I peformed to the best of my ability–what’s worse, I’ll shuffle in the shoes of that #dancelikenobodyswatching fool who has no idea the #bekind do-gooder who offered her a cup of punch is talking crap behind her back to the other randos on the sidelines. Sound familiar?
I know in my C-sectioned gut I’m weary of (false and genuine) fervent positivity flowing from this neck of the digital woods like a river of poisoned Kool-Aid. I know there’s a dark un-sorry part of me that’s totally gleeful at the thought of offending anyone reading this post. I know I don’t give a flying monkey’s red rear end about being perceived as a witch with a big fat “B.” Superficial insecurities aside, it’s awesome to be postpartum-bodied and newly middle-aged and unable/unwilling to hold my withering tongue because really, life is way too short to keep my lips zipped like I’ve been conditioned to do since birth. Like many humans, I have a hostile, negative, viscious side. (Sometimes she needs to dominate my voice to balance out the goody two-shoes who’d never hurt a fly.) Norman Bates, his mother: both are me. Both are valid. Both can be acrimoniously annoying or surprisingly sage. Having my third and final baby has made me realize what I’m not and never will be; but more importantly, I understand that I am still becoming. I’m a W-I-P.
On that note: what a totally random and off-putting way to exceed my word count requirement for this post so that search engines will be more likely to optimize it. Hooray! I completed my blogging goal! *sarcastic clapping* What a world we live in, eh?
R. N. Jayne