Scott Hildreth's Blog

Panty-scorching HOT Romance, “The Man I Hate” is available now! My new Friends to Enemies to Lovers Romance is now LIVE!

“The  Man I Hate” is a Friends to Enemies to Lovers Romance that is not to be missed.

Anna Wilson lost her parents unexpectedly, and is forced to go to Hollywood to settle their estate. In doing so, she meets her parents’ handsome neighbor, Hollywood Fixer Braxton Rourke.

He rubs elbows with all of Hollywood’s A-List actors and actresses, and doesn’t want anything to do with having a woman in his life on a permanent basis. With slight reluctance, he agrees to a one-night-stand with Anna, but only because he knows she’ll be leaving for her home in the Midwest in 3 days.

So, he and Anna share a sexual moment together. A really good sexual moment together.

Then, a bizarre series of circumstances cause Anna to stay, living 20 feet from Braxton’s front door.

This is sexy, funny, filled with angst, and unpredictable as hell.

13 months in the making, this HOT contemporary romance novel will scorch your panties to dust and leave you wondering where your real-life Braxton Rourke might be.

Available on #KIndleUnlimited #KU #Kindle #FriendstoLovers

If you’re at home and bored, this is your cure!

My new release, “Sex on  Plate” is a cookbook like no other. Step by step instructions are given in an expletive-laced format that will cause you to laugh out loud.

Real world meals for people who want to eat great food without breaking their wallet, these 49 recipes are exactly what my family eats on a daily basis.

From desserts to drinks (and everything in between) this book covers it all. You’re going to fall in love with the foul-mouthed banter, the no-nonsense instructions, and the end result–the food. Already a #1 New Release, this one is not to be missed.

For a limited time, the color photograph copy of this Kindle book is only 2.99.

Enjoy!

#KU #KindleUnlimited #cookbook #Free #low-budgetcookbook #sexymealsfortwo #mustread2020

“THUG” Review by “The World Was Hers for the Reading”-

All Gray Forrester wanted was to run a successful biker bar and have a family of her own one day. While she had the bar and it was doing okay, everything changed the day the president of a rival club walked through her doors.

Price McNealy, outlaw and president of the Hard Eights doesn’t trust many people. After he runs a rival club out of town, Price decides that Gray holds more than a little interest for him, which is rare when it comes to women and decides to have his club patronize her bar. What happens from that point on is nothing short of spectacular.

Don’t judge this book by the blurb. Heck ya, it is hotter than hot, but there is so much more. It’s not all about sex, but the forming of a loving relationship between two people that have no reason to trust one another. It’s watching a club of hardened outlaws come to care for a woman as their sister. And, it’s learning to not judge an outlaw by what laws he breaks, but why he breaks them.

The cast of characters is fabulous and unexpected. I can’t wait for Panzer and Briscoe to get their own books (pretty please, Scott?) And, Cactus Jack was as spectacular as he was surprising and added so much to Price’s story and background.

With an off the charts heat level, humorous banter, a kidnapping, some revenge and a bar full of outlaw bikers, Thug was one of my favorite Scott Hildreth books to date and I cannot wait for more in the Hard Eights series!

Blurb:

Price McNealy was a modern-day outlaw. He thumbed his nose at society’s rules, regulations, and laws, not caring what anyone thought of him, or the actions he somehow justified.

If I made a list of why “not” to be with a man, he’d check all the boxes.

He was also confident, trustworthy, and loyal. When he wanted to make a point, he did so with a brash elegance that I wouldn’t expect to come from a self-proclaimed thug.

In short, Price McNealy was trouble.

Big trouble.

I had every reason in the world to refuse him service when he sauntered into my bar.

For a fleeting moment, I thought about it. The next thing I knew, I was bent over with my pants around my ankles.

My bar was packed at the time, but I simply couldn’t say no to him. When it came to denying Price’s desires, I was in trouble.

Big trouble.

NOTE: THUG is a stand-alone romance. It has no sex outside the relationship, no cheating, and no sexual triggers. It ends with an HEA, and is a romance novel in every sense. It does, however, include a sex scene (or two) in a public places. These scenes are consensual, tastefully depicted and steamy as hell. If these types of sexual situations are beyond your romance reading realm, read the free portion and see if this book is for you before purchase.

The hero in THUG is the president of an outlaw motorcycle club. The book loosely depicts the life of a motorcycle club but does not include non-consensual sex, club whores, sex outside the relationship, cheating, or lying.

LINK: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B082B757YW

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The Devil’s Disciples Complete Box Set includes all of the books from the six-book series. With over 3,600 Goodreads reviews and a 4.4-star average rating, this steaming hot collection of alpha male tales is not to be missed.

Do yourself a favor and give these books a read. With six books for one #KU read, you can’t go wrong.

If you don’t subscribe to #KindleUnlimited, you can purchase the entire series in this once-in-a-lifetime bundle for only 99 cents (for the next week only). That’s a savings of $22.95 off the current $3.99/per book price on Amazon.

LINK: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XGC1RXC

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#Bikers

#MCRomance

#Mustread

#SexyBikers

#Tattooed

#Sex

via THE FIRST FOUR “MUST-READ” CHAPTERS OF MY UPCOMING NOVEL

CHAPTER ONE

Anna

I was the only child in an extremely close-knit Midwestern family. We went to church on Sundays. Please and thank you were second nature. We took vacations as a family, every summer. My father coached my softball team. My mother taught me to cook the same recipes her mother prepared a generation earlier.

She cried the day I left for college.

Although I moved away after completing my education, I didn’t go far. Nevertheless, the fifteen miles that separated us caused her tremendous grief.

It provided me with a sense of self-worth.

After graduating, a decade quickly passed. During those ten years, many things happened. My mother learned to accept my absence. I purchased an affordable building on a corner lot and opened a small exotic car dealership. I got married. My father turned sixty-five. My business flourished. I got divorced. My father retired.

Immediately following his retirement, he announced his intention to move away. Not thirty miles or even one hundred. They’d purchased a home 1,443 miles west, in Los Angeles, California.

“The weather’s consistent, it’ll be good for your father’s arthritis,” my mother claimed. “The streets are lined with palm trees. It’s truly paradise. You should consider moving there, too.”

The afternoon before I planned to visit their new home on the palm tree lined street, I received a phone call. The detective gave me a virtual pat on the shoulder.

“At least they died in their sleep,” he said.

The condolences he expressed did little to ease the pain of losing both parents before I got married, bore their grandchildren, or even so much as visited their new place of residence.

Deciding what to do with their home wasn’t a simple task. I had two options: stay in Oklahoma and pay a mortgage or move to California and live mortgage free. To many, the decision would be easy. Personally, I couldn’t find many redeeming qualities about Los Angeles. The only one that repeatedly came to mind was the weather.

In search of my purse, I meandered through their living room. The furnishings were in complete contrast to what I was accustomed to seeing in my mother’s home. It saddened me to walk through it alone. I imagined her explaining how much she enjoyed choosing each contemporary piece that was thoughtfully positioned throughout the expansive room.

I gazed through the window that faced the street. According to my mother, the view was picturesque.

Compared to the one-acre tree-filled lots I was accustomed to seeing, the sight was far from scenic. The view consisted of the neighbor’s two-story home on a postage-stamp-sized lot, four unhealthy-looking palm trees, a shallow driveway filled with cars, and a neon green AstroTurf yard.

I couldn’t help but wonder what drew my parents to California. Or, what drew anyone to California for that matter. The sky was hazy and never quite clear, the traffic was horrendous, and everything was overpriced. People didn’t wave, they rarely spoke, and everyone was in a hurry. The streets weren’t lined with palm trees, they were littered with homeless.

Hungry, frustrated, and uncertain of where I was going to call home, I snatched my purse from the end table and sauntered toward the front door. In the ten days I’d been in Los Angeles, eating out had become a guilty pleasure. It saved me from being alone in a home that did nothing but remind me of losing my parents much earlier than I had expected. Eager to beat the morning rush, I locked the front door and turned toward the driveway.

The sun peeked over the top of an adjacent salmon-colored Mediterranean-style home. Positioned midway between Beverly Hills and North Hollywood, along what the locals called the four-oh-five, Sherman Oaks was filled with two-story homes situated on lots barely large enough to encompass them. Many had swimming pools. Very few were fitted with garages. None could be obtained for less than seven figures.

I rolled down my windows and drew a long breath of the cool morning air. After tossing my purse in the passenger seat, I adjusted the rearview mirror and reached for the gearshift.

“Get out of the car!” a gravelly voice demanded from my left side.

Paralyzed by fear, I gripped the steering wheel like a vise. The smell of pot and stale sweat wafted into the car. My stomach convulsed. Ever so slowly, my eyes drifted toward the voice.

A bald man in a black hoodie loomed over the side of the car. A five o’clock shadow covered his sunken pale cheeks. His neck was littered with awful looking tattoos. With a gun in one hand and my door handle in the other, he glared right at me. His massive pupils made one thing perfectly clear.

He was a lunatic.

“Get out of the fucking car,” he said through clenched teeth.

Overcome by the thought of what might happen if I didn’t relinquish my vehicle, I sat motionless and stared. The bitter smell from his clothes and fear of the inevitable merged. Bile rose in my throat. Despite my desire to thrust open the car door and run as far and as fast as possible, I couldn’t convince a single muscle to move.

Frustrated with my lack of compliance with his concise demands, he pressed the barrel of the gun into my ribs.

Frantic, he yanked against the door handle. “Now, bitch!”

Be it a blessing or a curse, the automatic door lock prevented him from opening the door. If I couldn’t figure out how to release the steering wheel and open the car door, the tattooed psychopath was going to plaster my guts all over the beige interior of my new Mercedes-Benz.

Less than two weeks after the death of my parents, I was destined to draw my last breath in their driveway. The fact that no one was going to attend my funeral immediately came to mind. Crippled by that thought, I choked the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

“I’ll give you one chance,” a second voice said, annunciating each word clearly. “Drop the gun in her lap and take two steps away from the car.”

A tingle of relief tickled its way up my spine. In hope of the lunatic complying with the stranger’s demand, my eyes shot to my lap. The carjacker’s knuckles went white as he gripped the gun firmly in his shaking hand.

Obviously, he had no intention of releasing it.

I peered over my left shoulder. The distracted hoodie-wearing thug blocked my view. I glanced in my rearview mirror. A black Range Rover was parked in the street behind me.

The carjacker leaned away from the car. Just before his gun cleared the window opening, a long shadow darkened the concrete beside him. My heart raced. I conjured up the countless possibilities of what was going to happen next.

While I was in mid-thought, the carjacker was yanked away from my car. A flurry of movements followed. The dull thud of someone being punched caused me to cringe. A gun skidded across the driveway.

My eyes darted to the left. A well-dressed man stood behind my would-be assailant with his right arm wrapped tightly around the car thief’s neck. Immobilized by the chokehold, the bug-eyed lunatic flailed for an instant and then went limp.

I blinked my eyes in sheer disbelief.

A sickeningly handsome suit-wearing stranger had singlehandedly disarmed and subdued my attacker. My gray-haired protector lifted his chin slightly. “Would you open the trunk, please?”

The sincerity in his eyes diffused the situation enough that I was comfortable complying with his request. I glanced around the car’s interior, completely lost as to what I should do. I’d opened my trunk countless times. Despite that fact, I couldn’t seem to recall how to do it. Being held at gunpoint in my driveway had taken a toll on my ability to reason.

Wearing a look of confusion, I craned my neck toward the street. McDreamy was dragging the unconscious man toward his SUV.

I swallowed heavily. “My trunk?”

“There’s a button on your door panel,” he said, pausing at the back of his SUV. “Beneath your window switches.”

Mildly confused, I lifted the silver switch. The trunk shot open. Relieved that the task was complete, I glanced out my car window.

Choking the carjacker with one arm, the well-dressed stranger rummaged in the back of his SUV with the other. A few seconds later he produced several long white plastic straps. Perplexed, I watched as he zip-tied the ankles and wrists of the semi-conscious thug.

No differently than if he were taking an armload of groceries across Target’s parking lot, he dragged the tattooed thug toward the back of my car. He tossed him into the trunk with a thud! After situating things, he carefully closed the lid. Subduing bad guys was obviously tritely familiar to the suit-wearing badass.

With some hesitation, I got out of the car. The courteous stranger took a step in my direction and then paused. He brushed the wrinkles from his suit. Once satisfied, he looked up.

I fully intending to thank him, but his striking good looks caused all the words to get tangled in my throat.

I sold $300,000 cars to suit-wearing men, some of which who were breathtakingly good-looking. I had never, however, seen anyone like the man standing before me.

His presence was undeniable. He just as well been holding a neon sign that flashed the words “KEEP YOUR DISTANCE”, yet there was something about him that I found extremely comforting.

He offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry about all of this.”

I glanced beyond him, at the gun that was ten feet away. I’d witnessed a few drunken barroom brawls in the bars while in college and seen two cowboys get in a fistfight at a rodeo once, but I’d never been directly involved in any kind of violent act. I wiped my clammy hands against the fabric of my dress.

“It’s not your fault,” I replied.

“I live next door.” He reached inside his jacket pocket with his left hand and extended his right. “Braxton Rourke.”

I was bewildered by his calmness. I cupped his massive hand in mine and shook it. “Thank you…for everything. I’m uhhm…my name is Anna,” I stammered. “Anna Wilson.”

He gave me a thorough once-over. One side of his mouth curled up slightly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Is this a common thing?” I glanced at my car. “Being carjacked?”

“In Sherman Oaks?” He tapped his finger against the screen of his phone. “No.” He raised the phone to his ear and turned away. “Attempted carjacking. Yes. No. He’s been subdued,” he said matter-of-factly. “Yes.” He glanced at the carjacker’s pistol, which was ten feet away on the edge of the concrete. “With a pistol. No. Yes. 15021 Valley Vista. I’ll be standing beside a white Mercedes E-Class. Sure. Braxton Rourke.”

He slipped the phone inside his jacket pocket and faced me. “The police will be here in a few minutes.”

The suit he wore accentuated the shape of his very athletic body. A trim waist, broad chest, and well-toned arms were hidden beneath the fine Italian fabric. His silver hair was disheveled from the scuffle yet managed to look perfect. I wondered how many pictures of him were floating around Instagram with #silverfox attached to them.

Thousands, I decided.

Overcome by everything, I muttered my response. “Okay.”

I was nearly shot to death. A criminal was locked in the trunk of my new car. I was now waiting on the Nation’s most trigger-happy police force to show up, and there was a loaded gun in my driveway ten feet from where I stood.

I was a bundle of frayed nerves.

Braxton Rourke, however, acted like he had just called in a dinner reservation.

He checked his watch and then crossed his arms over his chest.

My thoughts went to the pistol that was sure to be the focal point of the soon to be arriving police force. Visions of overzealous officers with weapons drawn screaming demands came to mind. Me dying in a hail of gunfire while a ten-year-old with an iPhone recorded the atrocity from his second-story window would be the closing chapter on my life.

I glanced at the gun and then at him. “Are you going to pick that thing up before they get here?” I asked. “It’s making me nervous.”

“I’ll leave it there.” He curled his fingertips toward his palm and studied his fingernails. “Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”

I wished I had his calm sense of being. While he attempted to repair an errant cuticle, my heart was thrashing against my ribs. I couldn’t decide whether to scream, cry, or ask my sexy neighbor for a mercy fuck.

“Are you always this calm?” I asked.

“Depends on the circumstances.”

“These circumstances,” I squeaked, coughing out a nervous laugh. “A Saturday morning carjacking. Disarming a pistol wielding maniac. Choking someone half to death and then locking him in a trunk?”

His face, which had remained rather emotionless, now seemed slightly amused.

“I spent nearly fifteen years being shot at by people I often couldn’t see.” He raked his fingers through his silver locks. “Surviving that makes this seem like a cake walk.”

“You were a soldier?”

“A Marine,” he replied. “I’m retired.”

His fast hands and calm demeanor now made perfect sense. I wanted to thank him for his service but didn’t want to sound like the countless others who I was sure had already done so. I glanced at his feet and then looked up. “I like your shoes.”

Where the hell did that come from?

He laughed. “Thank you.”

Before I could continue to make a fool of myself, a fast-approaching police car captured our attention. It screeched to a stop behind Braxton’s SUV. The driver, a thirty-something officer with a broad chest and closely cropped red hair thrust open the door and strutted toward the driveway.

His much younger partner cautiously followed close behind.

The first officer immediately recognized my handsome neighbor. “Braxton Rourke,” the officer announced, seeming amused. “Didn’t know what he was in for when he tried to carjack you, did he?”

“It wasn’t me he was after,” Braxton replied, tilting his head in my direction as he spoke. “He was trying to steal her Mercedes. I gave him an opportunity to drop the weapon. He opted not to.”

The officer glanced at me. “I’m officer O’Malley. Are you okay?”

“I’m just…yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

He offered a shallow smile and then looked at Braxton. He pushed the brim of his hat up with his thumb. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

Braxton shook his head.

Apparently, Braxton was not only known by the police—they were privy of his ability to disarm criminals. A blanket of intrigue encompassed me. I wanted to know more about the soft spoken, suit-wearing, Range Rover driving badass.

The police officer glanced left and then right. “Where is he?”

Braxton nodded toward my car. “He’s in the trunk.”

“Handcuffed?” the officer asked.

Braxton shrugged one shoulder. “More or less.”

The police officer gestured toward the carjacker’s gun. “Is that his piece behind you?”

“It is,” Braxton replied dryly. “Glock .40 cal. It’s loaded.”

“Secure that weapon,” the officer said, directing his request to his partner. “Take pictures before you do.” He walked to the back of my car, drew his weapon, and looked at me. “Ma’am, would you mind opening the trunk?”

A police officer had his gun drawn and was waiting for me to reveal the stinky man that my handsome neighbor tossed into my trunk. Beyond him, his partner was carefully picking a gun up from my driveway with a pencil.

The entire event was utter madness. Nevertheless, I forced myself to smile and took hesitant steps toward the car. “Sure.”

I pulled the trunk release and quickly stepped to Braxton’s side.

The officer peered inside the trunk. Upon seeing the thief, he let out a laugh. “Nathan fucking Travis. How long you been out? Two weeks?” He slammed the trunk closed and shook his head. “This asshole’s been out of the joint for two weeks, tops. This’ll be his third strike. He’ll do twenty-five to life for this one.”

A mental sigh of relief escaped me.

“Listen, O’Malley.” Braxton cleared his throat. “She’s kind of shaken up by all of this. If you don’t mind, we’d like to get to breakfast. We can stop by the station and fill out the report on our way back.”

“I don’t suppose that’d hurt anything,” the officer replied. He looked at me. “Enjoy your breakfast, ma’am.”

My emotions were riding a runaway rollercoaster. In ten minutes, I’d been carjacked and saved by a handsome stranger. Now, I was accompanying him to breakfast. While I tried to process just what was happening, Braxton got my purse out of the car and handed it to me.

“May I have your keys?” he asked.

He was as polite as he was good-looking. I gave him my keys on the heels of a half-hidden smile. “Here you go.”

“Lock her car when you’re done and take the keys to the station,” Braxton said, tossing the officer the keys. “We’ll pick them up when we come in.”

The officer gave a sharp nod. “See you in the station, Rourke.”

Braxton moved aside and gestured toward his vehicle. “After you.”

I stepped around him. “How did you know I was going to breakfast?”

He smirked. “Good guess.”

I walked past him. A hint of his cologne tickled my nose. He smelled like he looked.

Striking.

He followed me to the SUV and opened the door. As I struggled to pull my five-foot-two frame inside, he pressed his open hand against the small of my back.

“Here,” he said. “Let me help you.”

My life had been dick-free since the vow of celibacy that followed my half-assed failed marriage. Subsequently, I hadn’t had a man touch me in years. Upon having Braxton do so, fiery desire shot through my veins.

One hand cupped my waist. Another pressed against the back of my bare thigh.

Every inch of my skin itched with want.

He lifted me into the car and released me into the comfort of the fine leather seat. Feeling lightheaded, I glanced in his direction.

His hazel orbs expressed his interests with unclouded clarity.

Braxton Rourke may have been hungry, but it wasn’t breakfast he was hungry for.

CHAPTER TWO

Braxton

Anna buckled her seatbelt. “How did that police officer know you?”

“I trained some of the officers in close quarters combat techniques. He was one of the officers that took the course.”

“Oh.” She seemed surprised. “I didn’t realize Marines trained police officers.”

“I received specialized training in the military,” I responded. “After I retired, I offered a course to teach that same training. I was approached by the police chief to train the officers. Fortunately, I was the low bid on the contract.”

“What kind of specialized training?”

I merged into traffic. “Disarming attackers. Close quarters combat. Strategies to survive an ambush. Things like that.”

“Do you still train police officers?” she asked. “Is that your job?”

“Not any longer.”

“What do you do now?”

“I solve problems.”

She laughed. “What kinds of problems?”

I chewed on my response as I maneuvered through the early morning traffic. After wedging the vehicle between a Prius and a Tesla, I gave her a response that I hoped she’d find satisfactory.

“When people with financial means do something that they later regret, I make evidence of their regretful act disappear.”

She gave me a blank look. “Have you practiced that response?”

“No.”

“It sounded canned.”

“It wasn’t.”

Traffic went from eighty miles an hour to a near stop in an instant. Curious, she gawked at the freeway ahead. While she was distracted, I looked her over.

The left side of her dress was caught in the waistline of her emerald green laced panties. I took a few admiring glances at her well-toned legs before shifting my attention to the road. “How’s the traffic where you live?”

“Not like this, I can tell you that much,” she complained. “In Tulsa, I can drive fifteen miles in ten minutes. Here, fifteen miles takes two hours.”

“Are you moving here?” I asked.

She scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

“How long are you staying?”

“I’m leaving on Tuesday.” She gazed through the side window, watching the traffic inch past. “I’ll decide before then what I’m doing with the house. Right now, I’m afraid I’ll probably sell it. I know you said carjacking is uncommon in that neighborhood, but it happened. To me. The more I think about it the more it bothers me.”

“It’s definitely a more common occurrence here than it is in Oklahoma,” I admitted. “With a population of over four million, there’s bound to be some criminals in the mix.”

“Back to what we were talking about.” She shifted her attention from the traffic to me. “What types of people have the financial means to hire you for your services?”

“All kinds.”

“Anyone famous?”

“I suppose.”

“Name one.”

“I’d rather not,” I said. “It’s best if I keep the extent of my work confidential.”

“Okay. Work related or not work related, I don’t care. Have you met…” She rocked her head back and forth. “Oh, I don’t know. Tom Cruise?”

“No.”

“Brad Pitt?”

“No.”

“Britney Spears?”

“Yes.”

“Lady Gaga?”

“Yes.”

“Holy crap.” She gasped. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Her eyes lit up. “Was she nice?”

“Extremely.”

“Oh wow.” She looked away, but not for long. “The cute one. She was married to Ben Affleck. She does the credit card commercials.”

“Jennifer Garner?”

“Yes,” she said. “Her. Have you met her?”

“I have.”

“Was she nice?”

“Very.”

“How did you meet them? Was it work? Did you solve problems for them? Oh my God. This is bananas. My mind is going a million different directions wondering what they must have done that they needed your assistance.”

“To be fair to everyone involved, I generally don’t speak about my work. For the sake of clarifying matters, I do offer services other than erasing regretful acts.”

“Like what?”

I felt like I was being interrogated. The women I typically spent my time with talked very little and asked even less about my profession. She was cuter than hell, but her incessant prying into my private life was going to become unnerving if she didn’t slow down.

“Security services,” I responded. “Surveillance. Things like that.”

“Like a bodyguard?”

“I suppose.”

“Everything makes sense now,” she said.

I hoped she was right. If everything made sense to her, maybe the questions would stop. I grinned in anticipation. “Everything?”

She grinned. “Pretty much.”

Regardless of her claim, she had no idea of what types of situations I got myself into. If she knew, I doubted she’d be in the car with me. We definitely wouldn’t be going to breakfast together.

Satisfied—at least for the moment—she glanced around the car’s interior. She traced her fingertip across the stitching on the dash. “Is this the Autobiography Edition?”

It was. I was impressed that she realized it. “It is. I’m surprised you noticed.”

“I own a car dealership in Oklahoma,” she replied. “I specialize in exotics.”

I wouldn’t have guessed her for an exotic car dealership owner. She was an extremely attractive thirty-something who dressed like a successful businesswoman and drove a new Mercedes-Benz. Considering that her auburn hair was fixed differently on each day that I’d seen her and that her makeup was nothing short of perfect, my guess would have been a high-end hairstylist.

I glanced in her direction. “I didn’t know people in Oklahoma drove exotics.”

“We drive the same cars you drive we just do it with smiles on our faces,” she said in a snide tone.

“I was joking.”

She shot me a playful glare. “I wasn’t.”

I chuckled. “Not caring for California?”

“Are you aware of my parents?” she asked. “What happened to them?”

Initially, I believed Anna was a realtor planning to sell the home. Upon seeing the out of state plates on her car, I realized she was the child of my two deceased neighbors.

Her parents moved from Oklahoma to Los Angeles, hoping to retire in a location JoAnn described as paradise. After unpacking the last box from their move, she and her husband Randy traded in his restored vintage Suburban for a new Toyota 4Runner.

They intended to use the new SUV exploring the state, visiting Joshua Tree National Monument and the Mojave Desert at their earliest convenience.

On the night they obtained the vehicle, their new purchase was celebrated with dinner out on the town. Upon returning, Randy parked the Toyota and walked away, not realizing the new keyless SUV was still running.

With the key fob in his pocket, he and JoAnn retired to their bedroom, fell asleep, and never awoke. Carbon monoxide from the vehicle’s exhaust suffocated them while they slept at each other’s side.

“I am,” I said, glancing in her direction. “It was tragic. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” She shifted her gaze to the side window. “I came here not knowing whether I was going to sell their home or not. I decided I’d make the decision after I got here and looked everything over. After being here for a while, it’s obvious this place isn’t for me. People are in too big of a hurry and everyone’s an asshole.” She looked at me. “Except for you.”

“It’s a different lifestyle, that’s for sure,” I admitted. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m an asshole on the inside.”

“What does that mean?”

“If you take away the suit, the car, and shitty little grin, what you’re left with is me.” I looked at her and laughed. “I’m a prick.”

“I don’t think you’re a prick.” She gave me an admiring look. “You saved me from that stinky asshole who was trying to steal my car. A prick wouldn’t have done that.”

I’d intervened because it was the right thing to do. It didn’t dismiss the fact that the entire time I was zip-tying the asshole and throwing him in the trunk of her car that I hoped she’d find my actions heroic enough to offer me gratuitous sex in exchange for saving her.

“It was second nature,” I argued.

“Your Marine training?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, not everyone would have done what you did.” She reached for her purse. “Because of that, I say you’re not an asshole.”

I was, but there was no sense in arguing with her. If she was leaving in six days, she wouldn’t have time to find out on her own. I’d let her to continue to believe what made her happy.

I offered her an appreciative grin. “Thank you.”

In the midst of adjusting her makeup, she checked her reflection in compact and then smiled in return. “You’re welcome.”

Her faultless complexion was undoubtedly the envy of any female in her presence. I wondered what she’d look like without makeup. By my guess, she’d be just as beautiful without it.

I exited the freeway and came to a stop at the traffic light. “The restaurant is right up the street.”

“Good,” she said, shifting her gaze to the side window. “I’m starving.”

I stole a glance at the side of her ass. “Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

CHAPTER THREE

Anna

People like Braxton didn’t exist in Oklahoma. Completely astonished by what I’d learned about him and his profession, I gazed at him with admiring eyes. Soon, I became lost in the heady scent of his cologne. While I stared at him mindlessly, half a dozen scenarios came to mind, each of which ended with him being naked and me being happy.

After gawking much longer than I probably should have, I emerged from the carnal fog that encompassed me. I pierced a potato wedge and raised my fork to my mouth.

He motioned toward my hand with his eyes. “You’re shaking.”

He was right. It had nothing to do with the incident, though. To be honest, all thoughts of the event had been temporarily replaced by mental images of Braxton and me doing the dirty.

I wasn’t about to admit that I was enthralled by him or that the fascination was likely the cause of my nervous energy. I glanced at the tip of my fork and feigned surprise.

“I guess I am,” I said. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

He leaned forward. “Come here,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper.

Excluding a half-assed smirk from time to time, Braxton didn’t exhibit much emotion on the joyous side of the spectrum. His look wasn’t stern or angry, it was simply one of a serious nature. Having him playfully approach me with a whisper was intoxicating.

Overcome with curiosity, I set my fork down and met him at the center of the table. “Yes?”

“I’ve got an idea,” he whispered.

He was close enough to kiss me. His breath was nearly as sweet as his cologne. I was captivated.

“An idea?” I asked.

“Of sorts. I want you to make a bet with me,” he explained. “It ends with one or the other of us taking off our clothes. It should help take your mind off whatever’s making you shake.”

If one of us was going to end up taking off our clothes, I’d be an idiot not to play. Regardless of which one of us was going to strip to our skivvies, things would be headed in the right direction. My knees wagged back and forth in anticipation.

“Okay,” I breathed.

“So, you want to do it?”

Incapable of hiding my excitement, I nodded eagerly in agreement. “Sure.”

“I’m going to guess the color of your panties,” he said flatly. “If I get it right, you’re going to take them off and put them in your purse. If I guess wrong, I’ll strip down to my boxers and finish breakfast.”

As if it wasn’t bad enough already, he tossed gasoline on the sexual fire that was burning between my legs. I expected him to smirk, laugh, or to say that he was joking. The look on his face was as clear as his request.

He was dead serious.

The odds of him guessing the color of my panties was miniscule. My heart raced at the thought of seeing him half-naked.

I swallowed heavily. “All the way to your boxers?”

“Boxers and socks,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ll give everything else to you.”

I would have given him a hundred bucks to see him without his shirt on. It seemed like a fair bet. Nevertheless, I wanted to negotiate for more.

“If I’m going to risk losing my panties, you’re going to have to sweeten the pot.”

His gaze narrowed. “Like what?”

“Strip to your boxers and socks and tell me about Lady Gaga,” I said. “How you met, and what she was like. The entire story.”

He let out a sigh of frustration and leaned away from the table. After studying me for a long moment, he gave a regretful nod. “Fine.”

I offered my hand. “I’ll take that bet.”

He started to shake my hand, and then hesitated. “How close do I have to get?”

“What do you mean?”

“For instance, would I have to guess the specific color, or could it be orange instead of tangerine, mango, or pumpkin?”

I laughed. “If you get the color right, it’ll be good enough.”

He crossed his arms and looked me over. His hazel eyes glistened mischievously. Feeling as if he’d hypnotized me, I stared blankly into the abyss of his green and brown speckled orbs.

“Take off your green panties and put them in your purse,” he said.

I blinked. “Huh?”

“Green,” he said. “Your panties. They’re green.”

“How did…” I stared in disbelief. “I feel like you sucked that information out of my soul.”

“Am I right, or am I wrong?” he asked.

I forced a sigh. “You’re right.”

He leaned against the back of his seat and playfully wagged the tip of his index finger at me. “Get busy.”

I wasn’t opposed to taking my panties off in the restaurant. Not by any means. In fact, if it was going to get me one step closer to having sex, I’d likely strip naked if he asked me to. I reached under the table and hiked my dress to mid-thigh. As if it were a common occurrence for me to remove my undergarments while eating breakfast, I pushed my panties to my knees.

I glanced nervously around the restaurant. The small diner was filled with people, each of which were obviously more concerned with eating their breakfast than watching me undress. Pleased that I’d worn a presentable pair of underwear, I was brimming with nervous excitement.

Without further hesitation, I slid the panties along my calves and past the heels of my shoes.

In a rather theatrical display, I flopped my purse onto the table and propped it open. Then, I lifted the lace undergarments above the bag and paused. Contrary to what he may have thought, I had no intention of dropping them in my purse. I was going let him keep them for a souvenir, hoping they’d provide him inspiration to act on whatever urge prompted him to have me remove them.

The green fabric dangled from between my thumb and forefinger. A few seconds ticked off the clock.

His eyes twinkled with satisfaction.

I tossed them at him.

With the speed of a bolt of lightning, he plucked them from the air before they landed against his suit. Wearing a slight smirk, he reached inside his jacket and tucked them in his pocket. “How do you feel?” He nodded toward my lap. “Right now?”

I writhed in my seat. My pussy was soaked. Braxton, the other hand, seemed unaffected. Maybe when he wasn’t saving women from vicious thugs, he was torturing them with his handsome looks and playing games that required them to relinquish their underwear.

I didn’t know what he expected me to say.

“Liberated,” I said.

My response seemed to amuse him. He almost grinned to prove it.

Almost.

He raised his chin slightly. “What else?”

“You just asked me to take off my panties in a public restaurant and I did it,” I said. “I’m sure you’re aware that you’re an extremely attractive man. What do you expect me to say?”

He gave me a quick once over. “Do you feel better?”

Obviously, he wasn’t getting my point. I rolled my eyes. “I’m not bothered by the idiot who tried to take my car. To be honest, I wasn’t even thinking about him.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he replied. “I asked if you felt better.”

I fidgeted in my seat. “Better? About what?”

“You were clearly sexually frustrated earlier,” he said in a flat tone. “Do you still feel that way?”

I was sexually frustrated. I took exception, however, to him claiming that I exhibited the frustration prior to that exact moment. “Earlier?” I snapped. “When?”

“Ten minutes ago, when you started to eat that potato.” He gestured toward my fork. “The one you still haven’t eaten.”

It seemed he already knew the truth. There was no sense in lying about it. “Okay. What if I was? You’re sexy, I’m single, and it’s been far too long since I’ve had sex.” I mentally cocked my hip. “So, yeah. I was sexually frustrated.”

It was a little more information than I would have normally given on a breakfast date, but he crossed normal off the list when he asked me to ditch my panties.

He gave me a confused look. “Taking off your panties didn’t help matters?”

I was wallowing in a puddle of proof that peeling off my panties in public made matters much worse. “No,” I said in a sarcastic tone. “It sure didn’t.”

He arched a playful eyebrow. “What do you think might?”

“Might what?” I asked. “Ease my sexual pain?”

He gave a nod. “Yes.”

I had only one solution. I hoped his thoughts mirrored mine. Not knowing whether I was either going to sink or swim, I dove in headfirst.

“If you’d fuck me,” I responded. “All my problems would be solved.”

He leaned away from the table. After eye-fucking me twice, he met my hopeful gaze. “Is that what you want?”

His voice lacked emotion. His face was without expression. He was enjoying himself far too much. It was time to put his little mind-fuck game to an end.

“Are you enjoying this?” I asked, my tone thick with frustration.

“Enjoying what?”

“Torturing me. Is this fun for you?”

He smirked. “Immensely.”

His playful resistance was making matters worse. I could feel my heart beating in places I had never felt it before. Namely, between my legs. I tossed my napkin over my plate and reached for my purse.

I tilted my head toward the exit. “Let’s go.”

He grinned. “Where?”

I flipped two twenty-dollar bills out of my wallet and onto the table. “You’re either going to fuck me and then take me to the police station, or you’re going to take me police station, and then fuck me. But we’re having sex.”

He stood. “Are we?”

“Yes,” I said. “We sure are.”

***

I extracted the seatbelt, and then looked at it like it was a Chinese calculus textbook. My panties weren’t the only thing that was missing. Apparently, I’d lost my ability to reason altogether.

Braxton started the vehicle and turned on the air conditioner. Upon realizing the depth of my mental struggle, he laughed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying…” I continued my inspection of the foreign-looking device, silently laughing at my inability to perform the simplest of tasks. In no time, my lap was filled with every inch of seat belt strap the British SUV had to offer.

“I’m trying to remember how one of these things works,” I muttered.

He pulled off his jacket and tossed it in the backseat. “I thought you wanted to fuck.”

My lower region flushed with excitement. Giddy at the thought of fucking in the car, I looked around. A sunshade covered the windshield. The side windows were a dark enough tint that only those curious enough to peer inside would be able to see what we were doing. Having sex in a public parking lot wasn’t on my conscious to-do list, but it wasn’t on my to-don’t list, either.

I released the seatbelt. All ten feet of it sucked into the retractor with a thwack!

“Here?” I asked, just to make sure we were both singing of the same song sheet. “You want to fuck here? In the car?”

“I thought you said you were sexually frustrated.” His brows pinched together. “How bad is it?”

I’d hit the freaking jackpot. There was no sense in wasting any more time. I pulled the hem of my dress to my waist and wagged my index finger toward his lap. “Get those pants off, Mister.”

He unbuckled his belt and pushed his slacks to his knees. His boxers came next. When they cleared his lap, his gorgeous cock sprung to attention.

Apparently, he was as excited as I was.

I stared at it like it was two-headed unicorn. “Is there anything about you that isn’t attractive?”

He chuckled. “I’m pretty ugly when it comes to relationships.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

He stretched a condom over his massive member.

My lust-filled eyes met his. I didn’t need a written invitation or any verbal instructions. Eager to feel his massive girth inside me, I crawled onto his lap, facing him. At the instant I came to the realization that I’d never had sex in a car, he raised his hips.

With the tip of his God-given gift resting against my soaking wet folds, he paused.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. I exhaled a long breath. “Wow.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Uh huh.”

“Are you sure?”

I could have responded in the affirmative, but I chose not to. At that juncture, I felt actions would speak much louder than words. I sank my teeth into my bottom lip and released my weight. His thick shaft penetrated me.

Surprised by his girth, I paused.

I locked eyes with him. Then, I forced myself to take him into me, slowly. As I began to wonder about my physical limitations of accepting his entire length, the tip of his dick collided with my cervix.

The breath shot from my lungs.

My gaze fell to my lap. I had no idea the cervix was an erogenous zone. The men I’d been with in the past hadn’t had the ability to bring it to my attention. Braxton, on the other hand, couldn’t help it.

Proud of my accomplishment, I replaced my look of pleasure with a guilty grin. I looked up and met his gaze. He looked like he’d see a ghost.

“Oh, yeah. I’m doing just fine.” I let out a breath. “What about you?”

“Jesus.” He winced in mock pain and blinked a few times. “Are you a virgin?”

“A recycled one,” I said with a laugh. “I haven’t had sex in a few years.”

“A few years?” He coughed. “Really?”

“I got divorced and swore off men.” To save myself from making another “O-face, I adjusted my weight. “Then, you saved me from a thug and tricked me out of my panties.”

“You’re not going to camp out on my doorstep after this, are you?”

He was talking too much and fucking too little. I didn’t need a lecture on how to have sex and walk away. I’d done it more times than I cared to admit. Just not recently.

“This is just the two of us having fun,” I said. “Stop talking and fuck me.”

“Just remember.” He withdrew himself until the tip of his dick was tickling my pussy lips. “You asked for this.”

After that low-level warning, he fucked me like his continued existence depended on it.

I’d had men make sweet love to me before, and I’d undoubtedly been fucked a few times. I had never, however, been fucked like Braxton was fucking me. His savage thrusts lifted me with such force that my head hit the car’s headliner.

Each inward stroke forced the tip of dick into the soft flesh of my cervix. The subsequent jolts of euphoria that rushed through me took with them my ability to refrain from reaching premature climax.

The clapping sound of his hips slapping against the back of my thighs filled the car’s interior. A few unplanned high-pitched squeals on my part followed, as did the occasional Oh. My. God.

His cologne, my perfume, and the sweet musk of sex melded together.

I had every intention of leaving a lasting impression. In fact, fucking him until he couldn’t walk was my plan of action. However, a matter of minutes into our impromptu parking lot romp, and I was scratching the headliner of his two-hundred-thousand-dollar SUV with the tips of my thirty-dollar nails.

I draped may arms over his shoulders. On the verge of a sexual meltdown, I sank my fingertips into the flesh of his muscular back.

“Holy. Shit,” I exclaimed. “I’m…”

Before I finished my thought, my pussy tightened around his shaft. The next few strokes sent me into the sexual stratosphere. As I reached the pinnacle of climactic bliss, he continued tp pound away.

An orgasm rushed through me like a tsunami overtaking a Japanese beach.

I let out a blood curdling wail.

Overcome by the sudden surge of emotion, I blacked out momentarily. When I returned to a half-conscious state, my mind was a jumbled mess of mental jelly. He had officially fucked me senseless.

Mindless, I crawled off his lap. Sitting in my seat with shaking legs, I stared blankly at the sunshade. I raked my fingers though my hair and offered him an apologetic look. “That. Felt. Amazing.”

He glanced at his lap.

I did the same.

Twitching with desire, his cock pointed at the heavens above. Before I could offer a helping hand, he peeled the condom away and began stroking himself with his right hand.

I’d never witnessed a man pleasuring himself. In awe of the sight, I watched with eager eyes. A few joyous moments and several tight-fisted strokes later, he ejaculated into the palm of his cupped left hand.

Repeatedly.

Flushed with an odd sexual guilt for witnessing the act, I glanced at his face. Hoping for some type of confirmation that it was okay for me to have watched so enthusiastically, I waited for him to meet my gaze with approving eyes.

“Would you mind handing me a wipe?” he asked. “They’re in the glove box.”

Wondering if jacking off inside the car was a common occurrence, I opened the glove box. A package of leather interior wipes was all that was available.

I lifted the package. “One of these?”

“It’s all I’ve got,” he replied. “I keep them to wipe off the seats after my greasy-haired coworker gets out.”

I handed him one. I glanced at the puddle of cum in the palm of his hand. It was a three-wipe operation.

I handed him two more. “Oh.”

He cleaned up the mess and situated his slacks. After buckling his seatbelt, he looked at me and smirked. “Do you want some help with yours, or do you think you’ll be alright?”

I mentally shot him a glare. Without looking, I retrieved the belt and buckled it. “I’m good.”

“Yes,” he said with a nod. “You sure are.”

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Released today, “PSYCHO-LOGICAL – A Novel” is a psychological thriller like no other.

A female psychiatrist assigned to a clandestine government operation is intrigued by one of her patients. His job? Killing. Her job? Keeping his head cleared of any clutter, so he can continue to kill without becoming lost in the feelings associated with taking a human life.

We learn through her therapy sessions that a sociopath feels no emotion when killing. The man in question (the one who intrigues her) is NOT (in her initial opinion) a psychopath, therefore he does feel.

The government’s program is one that takes a look at terrorists, drug dealers, and other criminals that are a threat to the Nation’s overall security. If the government is incapable (for one reason or another) of getting search warrants, indictments, or arrest warrants, they simply put out a contract on said criminal and ‘eliminate’ them.

No one (in the outside world) is the wiser. Another criminal died. The world is a better place.

BUT. The ‘criminal’ isn’t given the constitutional right to due process. There’s no legal gathering of evidence. No search warrant. No indictment. No trial. No guilty verdict.

This, of course, raises the question: Is it okay to convict and execute a criminal without a trial? Are there circumstances that can allow this act to be justified?

When the psychiatrist decides the program is crossing a line she isn’t comfortable with, she decides to leave. When she does, she learns that she just may be the program’s newest “target”.

Her only way to survive would be to manipulate the mind of the potentially psychotic manipulator.

This is not a politically motivated book. There is no hidden agenda. The book grabs you by the shirt collar and takes you on a ride at a record-breaking pace. It’s filled with action, reaction, and consequence.

The next thing you know, you’re sitting with your mouth open, wondering how you got into the position you’re in.

It’s currently my favorite book (that I’ve written). Yes, out of all of them, including the #1 bestsellers. Not because it’s new, or because I want you to like it, too. It’s simply THAT good.

PSYCHOLOGICAL, a must read if there ever was one.

If for no other reason, you really need to know how to plan a perfect murder.