HAT TRICK
Book
4
Black
Jack Gentlemen
Release
Date: July 7, 2015
Blurb:
Detroit’s
expansion pro team has a hot star forward, fresh from the English Premiere
League. Thanks to a series of fatal misunderstandings coupled with his famous
temper, Declan MacGuire only has one thing left to him—soccer—and he’s
determined not to make the same mistakes in his new life stateside.
Emily Keller, an accidental low-level PR flunkie for the team watches as Declan gets sucked into a whirlwind romance with Cassandra Dean, the team’s Queen Bee groupie, trying not to be jealous while the woman maneuvers him into a sickeningly familiar situation.
When things escalate, the team is forced to take sides, and Declan faces the toughest choice of his life.
Emily Keller, an accidental low-level PR flunkie for the team watches as Declan gets sucked into a whirlwind romance with Cassandra Dean, the team’s Queen Bee groupie, trying not to be jealous while the woman maneuvers him into a sickeningly familiar situation.
When things escalate, the team is forced to take sides, and Declan faces the toughest choice of his life.
EXCERPTS
Please
pick one of these to include in your post
Rated
R for language
990
words
“Hey,” a familiar voice said,
making her flinch and almost knock over the glass of ice water the bartender
had helpfully provided. She looked up and came face to face with Declan, his
deep green eyes sparkly, his thick auburn hair slicked back, that stupid shirt
hanging open, per marketing department instruction. Her eyes went directly to
his cut torso as if pulled by magnets. She blinked and looked away.
“Hey there.” She held up a finger,
figuring it time to resume the alcohol intake. Maybe she could pass out on the
way home in the cab and just forget this night ever happened. She shifted when
he took the seat next to her and brushed her arm with his.
“It ended all right, didn’t it? I
mean, for the charity or whatever it was?” He grinned at her, forcing her to
match it and sending a zing of lust from the base of her spine to her toes.
That singsong voice—dear Lord, but she could listen to it all night. And she
would, if given half the chance.
Stop
it, Emily.
“Um, yeah. I mean. It’s for, uh…”
She gulped, realizing she’d totally forgotten the cause du jour that had made her have to chaperone this nightmare. “Food
Pantry.”
“Right,” he said, accepting a cup
of coffee from the bartender. “Cheers, mate.” He sipped, looking straight ahead
while she sat, gnawing the inside of her cheek and wishing she could unhear
what she’d just heard in the hallway.
“Gabe and Lillian leave?” She
sipped the fresh gin and tonic, hand shaking. It was their common
conversational thread and she grasped at it.
“Aye,” he said.
The silence took on a heaviness
that made it hard to breathe. When she risked a glance at him he was staring at
her, his eyes narrowed. “What?” she said, startled and defensive. “Do I have
lime in my teeth?”
“No,” he said and resumed sipping
his coffee in silence.
She clenched her jaw, willing
something resembling a coherent small-talk starter or even a mildly flirtatious
comment to emerge. Nothing. She cleared her throat, sipped, cleared it again,
sipped some more. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. The heat from his leg
seemed to increase. She moved her thigh ever so slightly away.
“Well,” they said in unison. She
giggled and nearly fainted when a flush crept up his neck into his cheeks.
“You first,” they said together.
“Cut it out,” she said. “God,
you’re making me feel like a dolt.”
“Me?” He reared back in mock
dismay, hand to his bare—very
bare—chest.
“Yeah, you. Where’s Jason? Please
tell me he didn’t decide to carry his vendetta outside the building?”
“Nah, he’s over there.” Declan
pointed behind her. “He’s the one in the lip lock with, ah, what’s her name.
I think she’s actually gonna play on the women’s team.”
“Oh, okay,” Emily said, suddenly
recalling the recent lip lock she’d been privy to.
“I think Coop is messing with your
office girl,” Declan said, motioning for the bartender to refill his cup.
“We call them ‘interns’ in the
twenty-first century, at least here in the colonies.”
He laughed and blushed again. She
had to sit on her hands not to touch his face, to not brush a lock of thick red
hair off his forehead.
“Aye, well, you know what I mean.”
He rubbed his jaw and ran his hand around the back of his neck. “Bastard really
clocked me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” She let
herself do it—to reach out and just graze his shirt-covered biceps with her
fingertips. He flinched as if she’d burned him. “I mean…right. Well.” She
sighed and consumed the entire drink in a gulp.
Declan gave a low whistle. “I do
love a woman who can do that. It’s the English in me, I guess.”
“English?” She said, wiping her
lips with a BJG-logoed napkin. The bit of the booze that wasn’t headed straight
to her brain sloshed around in her bloodstream, reminding her of her lack of
food in the past few hours.
Oh
well. Fuck it.
She turned to him and leaned on one
elbow, deciding to flirt because why not?
For some reason, the bar didn’t
materialize under her arm and she sensed herself sliding sideways. The
teetering barstool made a loud screeching sound right before Emily shut her
eyes, waiting for the inevitable embarrassing landing.
But there were strong, warm arms
around her waist and lips at her ear, making her eyes fly open.
“Gotcha, PR lady,” Declan said. She
swallowed hard and got her feet under her, stepping away from him at the
precise second Cassandra appeared, smiling until she saw that Declan still had
one hand on Emily’s arm. “You all right?” he said, looking into her very soul.
Oh
good Christ, stop it! You are drunk
off your ass. This is no stupid romance novel. He is not looking into your
soul. He’s staring down the front of your sleazy costume.
“Well, isn’t this cozy,”
Cassandra-who’d-just-been-fucked-by-Max said with a sneer.
“Where’s Max?” Emily asked, unable
to stop herself, even while knowing better than to engage in any kind of a
cat-fight with this bitch.
“Who?”
She had to give the woman credit.
Not even a quick blink or blush to acknowledge the blatant cheat. Emily watched
as Cassandra ran her fingers through her hair, and then touched Declan’s arm.
He let go of Emily and stepped away, blinking fast as if waking up from a
trance.
“Time to go, Scotty, my darling.” Cassandra
took his hand and turned him away without another word. But as Emily bent down
to slip her shoes off, grateful yet sad to let go of the moment, the other
woman looked around and pinned her with an accusatory glare.
With a long sigh Emily righted the overturned barstool and
sat slumped, mostly makeup-less and wishing herself anywhere in the universe
but here.
Rated NC17 for
content
675 words
Her ex-husband held out her keys.
Emily grabbed them and made her way inside, slipping out of her shoes and
dropping her purse on the hall table. When she turned, she was shocked to find
him still in the doorway, hands tucked in his pockets.
“Well, what are you waiting for?”
She waved a hand, anger slowly but surely replacing her lust. “It’s your damn
house. Come on in. Kiss me. Fuck me. Whatever it is you’ve decided you want to
do.”
He stood still, head tilted, giving
her a curious, searching look. “Is that what you want me to do, Emily?” His
voice, normally low and gravelly and bone-chillingly sexy, had gone flat and
neutral. Not shifted into seduction mode as she figured he’d do the second they
dropped Michelle off for the night.
She crossed her arms over her
wrinkled work blouse. “I don’t know, to be honest. But I’m…shit.” She turned
away from him and headed for the kitchen. After a couple glasses of expensively
filtered water, she turned, not at all surprised to see him there, taking up
more space than should be allotted to one man, in a room he’d once spent so
much time in, with her, with them, as a family.
A rogue tear slid down her cheek.
In a blink he was there, wiping it away, running his hands up her arms, into
her hair, pulling her up so their lips met for the first time in a year, but in
such as a way it was as if he’d never left. His mouth was firm, in control as
his tongue breached her lips, probing, slowly, questioning how far she wanted
to go. Emily’s body lurched into high alert, skin pebbling, scalp prickling,
nipples hardening under her utilitarian cotton bra.
Everything about him filled all her
senses—the crisp fabric of his bright white shirt under her hands, the soft
silkiness of his thick hair between her fingers, the rich, starchy, leathery
smell of him in her nose. He kept his hands in her hair. Didn’t roam around,
grab her boobs or her ass or anything—just kept them connected via the most
mind-blowing, toe-curling kiss in her memory.
He broke it off softly, leaving her
gasping and gripping his biceps before snaking her hands up around his neck.
She wanted him so badly at that moment—wanted a connection with somebody who
knew her, understood her, that she didn’t have explain herself to—it manifested
as an actual physical pain in her chest. But he took her arms and pulled them
from around his neck, kissed both her cheeks, her nose and her lips once more
before taking a step away from her.
She nearly fell over into the space
he created between them. Her eyes went straight to his crotch, noting the
obvious indication of his desire to take this a step further. And why not? They
were consenting, formerly married adults. They knew each others’ buttons and
could press them, get off, itch scratched, and move on. At that moment Emily
wanted nothing more than for Marcus to scratch her damn itch, two or three
times.
Shoving out thoughts of Declan and
the sound of her own conscience, she lunged for Marcus, determined to get him
undressed and between her thighs as fast as possible. He moved away, running a
hand across his lips before reaching down to adjust his zipper. She bit her
lip, curious, frustrated, and so horny she could taste it in the back of her
throat.
“What?” she said, her voice croaky.
“I thought you came in here for a reason.”
“I did,” he said, putting a hand on
the counter. “But…we can’t. I can’t.”
“Why not? Run out of Cialis?”
He winced, then smiled. “Ah, Emily,
I have missed you, even your smart mouth.”
“Well, let me remind you what I can
get up to with my mouth.” She reached for him but he grabbed her wrists and
stared at her, pissing her off and turning her on even more.
Rated R for language
380 Words
Declan grabbed his teammate’s arm
and shoved him through the locker room door. “Don’t flirt with that poor girl,
mate. She’s besotted with your sorry, diseased self. Don’t make it worse.”
Coop yanked his arm out of Declan’s
grip and glared at him. “Fuck off, Scotty.”
Declan’s hackles rose, but not
nearly as much as they normally would have. It was as if the past seventy-two
hours had been a sort of temper purge, leaving him deflated, not his usual
prickly self.
“I saw you doing the same with
Emily, the hot PR cougar. She loves to pamper her pet.”
“Her what?” He was yanking off his
tie and coat and wasn’t sure he’d heard the guy correctly.
“You, my fine troublemaking friend,
are Emily Keller’s pet. Her toy. Her fantasy player, whatever.”
“You’re full of shite.” But his
face burned hot yet again at the idea that Emily considered him anything but
the latest in a long line of problem children for her particular function—that
of shielding the team from the bright light of negative media attention. He was
putting his shoes inside his locker when the door flew open, revealing his two
coaches, Metin the Turk and Rafe the South American.
“MacGuire,” Rafe barked. “Office.
Now.”
Dec looked around as if perchance
there might be another “MacGuire” in a shit ton of trouble. Coop turned away
from him and stripped out of his shirt. He noted all the other players
similarly ignoring him like the leper he was.
Jason met his eyes from down the
row of men in various stages of undressing. The place was so quiet he could
hear melting ice in the baths next to the locker room. Both Metin and Rafe
stood in their suits, arms crossed over chests, identically dark eyes narrowed
and focused on him.
“Okay,” he muttered under his
breath. He’d already begun taking off his shirt so he slid his arms out of it
and was hanging it on the hook designed for the daily dress shirt when a throat
clearing behind him made him stop and turn. Desmond, the tall, dark and legal,
had joined the coaches.
“You can leave your shirt on, Dec,”
the man intoned in his James Earl Jones voice. “You won’t be practicing today.”
SERIES INFO
MAN
ON
Book
1
Bad
boy of European football, Nicolas Garza is about to hit American shores with a
vengeance. Signed by the Detroit Black Jack Gentlemen as lynch pin for their
expansion club, Nicco only half believes he’s making the right move. But with a
past full of ghosts and rotten behavior chasing him from his homeland, he has
no real choice.
Parker Rollings is a college soccer superstar, but his parents’ plans for their only son do not include professional athletics. When the Black Jacks approach him to finalize their roster, Parker leaps at the chance to keep playing, leaving behind medical school, stability and his first and only college sweetheart.
Nicco and Parker face off as bitter rivals for a coveted starting spot at midfield and are forced to channel their negative energy into something positive for the sake of the group—and themselves.
All eyes are on the fledgling team in its debut season. It’s crucial that the Black Jacks prove all the doubters wrong. They must make a good showing in the league and with new fans. But player drama, club dynamics, and misplaced priorities may tear it apart before it even begins.
Parker Rollings is a college soccer superstar, but his parents’ plans for their only son do not include professional athletics. When the Black Jacks approach him to finalize their roster, Parker leaps at the chance to keep playing, leaving behind medical school, stability and his first and only college sweetheart.
Nicco and Parker face off as bitter rivals for a coveted starting spot at midfield and are forced to channel their negative energy into something positive for the sake of the group—and themselves.
All eyes are on the fledgling team in its debut season. It’s crucial that the Black Jacks prove all the doubters wrong. They must make a good showing in the league and with new fans. But player drama, club dynamics, and misplaced priorities may tear it apart before it even begins.
Buy
Links:
Amazon:
http://amzn.to/1L1mCcA
Smashwords:
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/447871
MAN
ON EXCERPT
A handful of fresh-faced young Americans interspersed
in the group, which made Nicco feel old. Which totally pissed him off. What was
Inez thinking anyway? There were two players per position in the room, two
strong contenders for each spot—except his. He sipped his water bottle and
glared at the Germans. Nervous tension gnawed at his gut but he kept his face
calm. Finally when their temporary coach showed up and flipped the blinds
closed, he relaxed.
So everyone in
the room has to fight for their spot except me? That works.
He dropped his
feet to the floor at Rafe’s pointed glance and propped his elbows on the table
prepared to ignore the forthcoming pep talk.
He’d already made plans for the night and wanted to
rest up beforehand. This goofy welcome pep talk would be as good a time as any.
Letting his thoughts wander to the nightclub catering to gay men and promising
full discretion, he made himself stop obsessing over the failed therapy
session.
The door clicked open and all eyes landed on the
tall, blond man who walked in, backpack on his shoulder, dressed to play.
Nicco’s scalp tingled at the sight of him—strong torso, long legs, firm jaw
covered with several days’ worth of fuzz. Good Christ but he was a perfect
specimen. Nicco kept his casual stance but startled when the kid’s bright blue
eyes and huge white smile landed on him.
He resisted the urge to smile back. Something about
the man made Nicco distinctly uncomfortable but horny at the same time. He
suddenly wished he’d held onto the shrink’s business card.
“And Parker will be working with you, Nicco.”
He sat up, knocking his water to the floor as Rafe’s
words got his immediate attention. What the fuck? He stared at the polite hand
the kid stuck in his face then over at Rafe. His throat closed up between the
proximity of the impossibly handsome man and realization of the fact that the
vision of masculine perfection he’d lusted after for the last few seconds
wanted to take his spot on the field.
Oh hell no.
He leaned back again and ignored his inner polite
self. Instead, he smirked, ignored the punk, and turned to face their coach as
if suddenly fascinated by what the guy had to say. Parker stood a minute, and
Nicco watched his face turn red before he sat in the one empty chair nearest
the door.
Rafe passed out new phones, reminded them of their
obligation to “tweet” and “post profile updates” on Facebook at least three
times a day. All shit Nicco already knew. Rafe’s hot young lady assistant
issued key cards to the ones who’d just arrived, including the kid Nicco
studiously ignored but whose very presence was making the front of his jeans
uncomfortable.
RED
CARD
Book
2
Free
will makes us human.
Choice makes us individuals.
Love makes us unique.
Metin Sevim has it all. At the pinnacle of international soccer playing success, he has managed to craft a perfect world for himself along the way.
When fate strips him of free will and the ability to choose his own path, he retreats from everyone and everything, destroying his hard-won career in the process.
Dragged back from the brink by his desperate family, Metin reluctantly agrees to coach the Black Jack Gentlemen Detroit soccer team but remains debilitated by memories and loss. When a surprising friendship emerges, it renews his passion for life, providing much needed solace… and extreme complications.
A saga of family dynamics and gender politics that cuts across cultures and circumstance, Red Card illustrates the human capacity for forgiveness through the life of one man as he attempts to rebuild his shattered existence.
Choice makes us individuals.
Love makes us unique.
Metin Sevim has it all. At the pinnacle of international soccer playing success, he has managed to craft a perfect world for himself along the way.
When fate strips him of free will and the ability to choose his own path, he retreats from everyone and everything, destroying his hard-won career in the process.
Dragged back from the brink by his desperate family, Metin reluctantly agrees to coach the Black Jack Gentlemen Detroit soccer team but remains debilitated by memories and loss. When a surprising friendship emerges, it renews his passion for life, providing much needed solace… and extreme complications.
A saga of family dynamics and gender politics that cuts across cultures and circumstance, Red Card illustrates the human capacity for forgiveness through the life of one man as he attempts to rebuild his shattered existence.
Buy
Links:
Amazon:
http://amzn.to/1MIt3z6
Smashwords:
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/447860
RED
CARD EXCERPT
“It’s your hips that are the problem.”
Alicia
started at the sound of his now-familiar, sing-song accent. She’d been kicking
a line of balls into the net, one after the other for about fifteen minutes
since she’d been early in her haste to get the hell out of her house and away
from her sister’s violent disapproval.
Taking
a breath, she crossed her arms and studied him. Metin wore a pair of dark blue
soccer shorts, plain heather-gray shirt, and cleats, as easily as he’d worn the
dress pants and crisp cotton shirt the night she’d met him—the night you
fucked him, you mean.
He
stood, loose-limbed, at ease in his element. His teeth glowed against his dark
skin. The eyes she had melted into not forty-eight hours ago shone with
something she couldn’t identify—happiness? Sarcasm? Lust? Who knew? Hoping to
hide her frustration, she bent down to tie her laces tighter so he couldn’t see
her face flush when her gaze hit the front of his shorts.
She
rose, determined to resist the take-me-now aura the guy threw her way. He
probably didn’t even realize he did it. Not anymore. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s
wrong with my hips?”
“Come
at me.”
She
blinked, confused. “Um, huh?”
“Attack,
make like you want to score. You know? Like you do in games?”
“Oh,
right.” Dropping the ball tucked under her arm, she glanced over his shoulder
at her target. He let her, trotting backward a few steps, then made for the
ball. She feinted, maintaining possession before dribbling a few more feet.
He
came out of nowhere as she was about to make her final scoring charge,
stripping her of the ball and sending her crashing to the turf.
“Ow.
Shit,” she muttered, getting to her feet, a familiar, angry competitiveness
stripping all the horniness right out of her head. “I still don’t get what….”
“Do
it again.” He kicked the ball toward her, harder than necessary, but she
stopped it and placed her cleat on top contemplating a different strategy.
Shifting
to the side, she danced past him, using all the speed she could muster, and
made straight for the goal. And there he was again, taking the damn ball away
from her as if she were a rookie.
She
tried to shield it, putting her back to him and sensing every inch of his warm,
perfect physique against her skin. Forcing herself to focus, she landed a hard
elbow to his midsection and escaped his trap then traveled down the field
alone, turning on all her motors, no longer hearing anything, way into her
zone.
And
then, the damn man appeared in front of her again, batting the ball between her
legs and taking off in the other direction, hand to his side where she’d nailed
him.
“God
damn it, Metin. What is your point? You’re a pro. I’m an unemployed college
graduate. You’re a man. I’m not. You make money at this, and I never will. What
the hell are you trying to prove?” Her legs hurt from her workout the day
before and she could barely catch her breath. She was, in a word, miserable.
But the sight of him a few yards away, messing with the soccer ball while he
stared at her, brought visions of tackling him, holding him down, and kissing
him right to the front of her overheated brain.
“Once
more.” The soccer ball smacked the back of her legs so hard she yelped. “That’s
your fucking yellow card for the elbow. One more and you’ll sit.”
SHUT
OUT
Book
3
A
submissive once, a submissive forever?
A man on the run from the only life he’s ever known, Brody Vaughn is poised to accept the Black Jack Gentleman’s newly vacant goalkeeper’s position. It’s a desperate move, but one he must take to regain his emotional equilibrium. Reeling from his Mistress’s rejection and on the ragged edge of a total breakdown, he arrives in Detroit. Numb with thinly veiled grief, he walks into the club’s front office completely unaware that an encounter with true destiny awaits him.
Sophie Harrison has seen it all--as Domme, sub, and victim. Now that her complicated circumstances have landed her as legal counsel for the expansion Black Jacks team, she holds herself aloof in body and spirit. Nothing and no one gets past her fiercely guarded walls. Until the day she looks up to greet the new goalie standing in her doorway, his raw combination of vulnerability and strength making her breathless.
Two people, horribly scarred by the excesses of the BDSM lifestyle and hiding from their true selves, meet across a desk over a simple contract. All bets are off.
A man on the run from the only life he’s ever known, Brody Vaughn is poised to accept the Black Jack Gentleman’s newly vacant goalkeeper’s position. It’s a desperate move, but one he must take to regain his emotional equilibrium. Reeling from his Mistress’s rejection and on the ragged edge of a total breakdown, he arrives in Detroit. Numb with thinly veiled grief, he walks into the club’s front office completely unaware that an encounter with true destiny awaits him.
Sophie Harrison has seen it all--as Domme, sub, and victim. Now that her complicated circumstances have landed her as legal counsel for the expansion Black Jacks team, she holds herself aloof in body and spirit. Nothing and no one gets past her fiercely guarded walls. Until the day she looks up to greet the new goalie standing in her doorway, his raw combination of vulnerability and strength making her breathless.
Two people, horribly scarred by the excesses of the BDSM lifestyle and hiding from their true selves, meet across a desk over a simple contract. All bets are off.
Buy
Links:
Amazon:
http://amzn.to/1L1mF83
Smashwords:
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/447867
SHUT OUT EXCERPT
“Vaughn!
Goddamn it.”
Brody
sat, staring at his feet, ignoring the usual post-match noise and bustle around
him. Most especially he hoped to hide from the voice of Rafael Inez, the club’s
manager. Reminders of how poorly he’d performed today were not going to help
him. He’d been playing soccer in some capacity since he walked, since he had
memories of anything. And today had been among his worst, ever.
From
the streets of Nashville and the hills of East Tennessee, he’d been on teams, in
clubs, trained by himself, trained by pros, the whole goddamned nine yards.
He’d seen every sort of match condition, coaching, officiating misstep, and
parental overreaction. He realized what it meant to suck serious ass—he’d done
so today. And he understood why, too—hence the dark clouds draping his
consciousness
“Fucking…
shit.” The team manager drew closer, his deep voice joined by another, as a
sort of bonus, really. He leaned against the dark wood lining the walls in the
over-the-top, fancy locker room.
Metin
Sevim, the Turkish coach, once a Spanish league phenom, had had the world at
his feet until a horrific tragedy struck, leaving him drunk and useless for
years. Apparently recovered, he had a look on his face Brody Vaughn caught loud
and clear—the “we lost and it is pretty
much your fucking fault” glare that coaches the world over affected.
Exhausted
in mind and spirit, sick of the chewing out before it even started, Brody gazed
at both men. Rafe’s snapping eyes reflected the same expression as Metin’s. He
opened his mouth first, but the Turk put a hand on his arm. The men regarded
each other as the swirl of post-match activity came to a loud peak.
Players
in various stages of undress wandered in and out of the main locker room,
grabbing towels, pulling on the dress pants, shirts, and ties the club required
of them when entering and leaving the facility. One thing Brody would say about
the former-hot-headed, player-turned-failure-turned-coach, Metin knew when not
to talk. He tilted his head, still pinning Brody with something that faded from
this is your fault to what the hell is wrong with you?
Then
he sighed and, to Brody’s surprise, dropped onto the chair next to him, leaned
forward, elbows on knees, and seemed to examine the expensive, rubberized floor.
Brody hadn’t even made it to the shower yet. He felt so weighed down and
lethargic, just lifting his arms to put his head in his hands took more energy
than existed on the planet. He understood why, along with the fact that there
wasn’t a thing to be done about it.
How
would he even begin to describe his… issue? Heart pounding, legs aching,
shoulder screaming where he’d landed on it, hard, then waved away the trainer
at the sixty-fifth minute. By that time all of the players were pretty gassed
from the late summer heat, but held on, toe-to-toe, with the Canadian national
team in a friendly. The stupid, sneaky forward had seen him wincing, favoring
his left shoulder, and drove the ball right in on his newly weakened side. It
had been a simple fifty-fifty ball; face to face. He had blown it, him and his overpaid, lame ass, wobbly self.
Thanks
to his one quick encounter with the front office legal woman, he’d been left in
a quivering, useless, uncertain heap of need. Fuck that. He had to get a grip.
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GENERIC INTERVIEW
PLEASE PICK A FEW (3-5) OF THESE QUESTIONS
TO INCLUDE IN YOUR POSTS
How did you come up with the idea for this
story?
I’m a huge fan of soccer, at almost every
level, since my daughter plays at the National league level with her team full
of 17 year old girls and we subscribe to every soccer channel available to us.
Living in Europe for several years had a lot of influence on that too but
honestly, it’s the game with the hottest dudes, so….yeah. I figured, Detroit
needed a team and it would be a team full of misfits and outcasts.
Where do you find your inspiration?
Um….usually in the bottom of a bottle of
craft beer.
Is there anything you find particularly
challenging in your writing?
Trying to be heard above the crowd of book
options when my books don’t adhere to any formula.
What are your current projects?
Finishing up The Love Brothers, currently
my best selling series with FAMILY LOVE, the final novel, releasing September
2, 105. Also, looking ahead to a 6th revision of my thriller novel
PRECIOUS VESSEL. Plus a couple of hot RE (Real Estate) romance novels coming
end of the year: APPRAISED & CONTINGENT.
Tell us about your first book. What would
readers find different about the first one and your most recent published work?
FLOOR TIME was the first book I wrote and it’s going strong, anchoring my top
selling Stewart Realty series. The first book I got published was called “The
Rookie,” and it’s no longer available if that tells you anything about it. It
was set in the craft brewing world which many of my best selling books still
are, however.
Is there a message in your novel that you
want readers to grasp?
In the Black Jack Gentlemen series there is
a “message” or at least a “point” to each book. Man On deals with homosexuality
in pro sports. Red Card with (initially) the gender inequality in pro soccer.
Shut Out is about two people badly scarred by the super popular BDSM fetish.
Hat Trick (the newest book) deals with pro athletes with hot tempers and graspy
groupies.
Does music play any type of role in your
writing?
I listen on occasion but honestly I don’t
hear anything when I’m in “the writing zone.” That makes it easy for me to
write where I might find myself.
Are experiences based on someone you know,
or events in your life?
Not really. I make sh*t up mostly but of
course, set my books in worlds with which I have a full working knowledge.
What books have influenced your life most?
Gone With The Wind, The Stand, The Bible (I
am a preacher’s kid after all), Cat’s Eye by Margaret Atwood and recently, The
Art of Hearing Heartbeats by Jan-Phillip Sendker.
Are there any new authors that have grasp
your interest?
Hmm….I enjoyed reading a thriller by fellow
Michigan author Claudia Whitsitt recently and am reading a cool novel set in
Mexico about a craft brewery pre-release by Leslie Patino (her first novel).
Can you share a little of your current work
with us? (I assume this is the Hat Trick excerpt?)
Do you have anything specific that you want
to say to your readers?
I would say to future readers that taking a
chance on Liz Crowe novel might require a leap of faith that even though I’m
not giving you any sort of fairy-tale fantasy, I guarantee you will be
entertained, perhaps even titillated and satisfied by the end.
How can readers discover more about you and
your work?
I’m all over facebook and twitter, LizCroweAuthor
and @beerwencha2 and my blog is www.brewingpassion.com
Do you have a special time to write? How is
your day structured writing-wise?
HA! Nope, I’m also a successful realtor and
brewery marketing consultant so I write whenever I can fit it in!
Why did you choose to write [genre]
stories?
I didn’t set out to write any sort of genre
and rest assured my “romance novels” break all sorts of rules (and piss off a
few readers). I love books about relationships, be they romantic or between
friends and family so that’s what I write.
What is for you the perfect book hero?
A guy who has a real job, has worked damn
hard to get where he is, and is proud of his ability to be not “alpha,” not
“beta,” but “gamma.” As in “the whole package.”
When you start a book, do you already have
the whole story in your head or is it built progressively? Nope. I’m a dyed in
the wool pantser. That story starts and just rolls out of my brain, through my
fingertips and onto the screen.
When and why did you begin writing? I started
writing in 2008 on a bet from my spouse.
I won, by the way.
When did you first consider yourself a
writer? When I managed to string some sentences together into paragraphs which
then became chapters, and then a book.
List three books you have recently read and
would recommend.
The Art of Hearing Heartbeats by
Jan-Phillip Sendker
The Husband’s Secret by Lianne Moriarty
Beneath This Mask by Meghan March
Tell us something that people would be
surprised you know how to do.
I am a kick ass singer and can still sing
some church hymns by heart.
Will you write more about these characters?
I’m moving on to some new projects that are
pretty exciting but you never know….
About
Liz Crowe
Amazon
best-selling author, mom of three, Realtor, beer blogger, brewery marketing
expert, and soccer fan, Liz Crowe is a Kentucky native and graduate of the
University of Louisville currently living in Ann Arbor. She has decades of
experience in sales and fund raising, plus an eight-year stint as a
three-continent, ex-pat trailing spouse.
Her early
forays into the publishing world led to a groundbreaking fiction hybrid,
“Unconventional Romance. Worth the Risk,” which has gained thousands of fans
and followers interested less in the “HEA” and more in the “WHA” (“What Happens
After?”).
With stories
set in the not-so-common worlds of breweries, on the soccer pitch, in
successful real estate offices and at times in exotic locales like Istanbul,
Turkey, her books are unique and told with a fresh voice. The Liz Crowe
backlist has something for any reader seeking complex storylines with humor and
complete casts of characters that will delight, frustrate and linger in the
imagination long after the book is finished.
Don’t ever
ask her for anything “like a Budweiser” or risk bodily injury.
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