Thursday, May 30, 2019

Half Breed Haven Blitz

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Half Breed Haven #1 Wilde-Fire
Historical Western Romance
Publisher:Cedar Ledge Publishing

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A gun battle on the streets of a fiery ghost town is only the beginning as the Wildes of the West plunge headlong into danger in another exciting western adventure. It’s do or die against some of the baddest men in the west and the price for failure will mean certain death and the end to their fight for justice along with their scorching escapades with the willing men of the west.

Saddle up for the ride and be immersed in all the action, adventure, romance and family drama that comes with being the formidable foursome known to friends and foes alike as THE DAUGHTERS OF HALF BREED HAVEN. A stunning multiracial quartet whose bravery, thirst for justice and love for each other is matched only by their unbridled appetite for the most casual and sizzling encounters with the opposite (or in Catalina's case, the same) sex.

With sharp wits and guns blazing, these four strong women heroines -the fair-skinned Cassandra, Asian Lijuan, mulatto Honor Elizabeth, and Mexican Catalina, all half-sisters, will risk it all as they face off against the most fearsome array of bank robbers, kidnappers, rustlers and murderers the old west has to offer.

Bad Guys will fall to their hail of bullets and Good Guys will fall as well…under their spell and into the nearest bed whenever any of these four capable, daring sexy female heroes come calling.

Wilde-Fire is the first installment of a female lead novel series, Half Breed Haven, where action, sibling suspense and bawdy romance combine in this female adventure novel forming a tale worthy of the wicked Wild West.

PLEASE BE ADVISED - The Sister’s escapades, be it braving the sometimes-violent west or their romantic escapades are recommended for readers, who like the Wildes, are 18+ years of age and above.

Other Books in the Half Breed Haven Series

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Half Breed Haven #2-In Danger's Shadow


Half Breed Haven #3 Dark Rivals


It was supposed to be a simple cattle buying trip until marauding cougars and a deranged cowgirl combine into lethal threats in a Lijuan Wilde adventure.

Half Breed Haven #4 Silver, Gold and Deception


Half Breed Haven #5 The Forbidden Ranch


Half Breed Haven #6 Sing the Death Song


Half Breed Haven #7 Disaster at Devil's Canyon


Half Breed Haven #8 Renegades and Revenge: A Daughters of Half Breed Haven


Half Breed Haven #9 Into the Lair of Los Rey Lobo


Half Breed Haven #10-Special Edition HBH Version of The Reaper of the Rio Sangre


Half Breed Haven #11-Special Edition-The Town of No Return


Half Breed Haven #12-Special Edition HBH Version-The Boot Hill Express


About the Author

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A.M. Van Dorn enjoys flipping the script on Westerns believing "Cowboys shouldn't have all the fun" by replacing the usual lantern-jawed cowboy hero with four bold, beautiful and brave half-sisters in the Wildes of the West/Half Breed Haven Series. Combining a love of old character-driven tv westerns such as Bonanza, The Big Valley, and The High Chapparal A.M. Van Dorn pays homage to these 1960's classics with a decisively 21st-century bent.

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Wednesday, May 29, 2019

Andre’s Reboot Blitz

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Science Fiction, Humorous Science Fiction
Date Published: February 2019

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A robot possessing unique artificial intelligence and human awareness, André 1 tells the story of his creation and “growing up” in his inventor’s family. Often humorously fumbling in his interactions with people, André analyzes his experiences, attempting to understand the faults and foibles of human personality. Accompanied by his girlfriend, Dr.  Margaret 13, a droid physician of his own creation, André achieves a position as translator and self-appointed mendacity-monitor to the American President and strives to save humans from themselves.

The novel is a work of science fiction and social commentary. André is wired to take advantage of artificial intelligence and machine learning so as to be able to analyze human societies without the usual biases and to propose clear-eyed strategies for saving humanity from the many calamities toward which it presently appears to be headed.




“WHAT IS IT, ANDRÉ? YOU’RE vibrating all over.” Dr. Margaret 13 exclaimed. “What’s happened?”

“They threw me out, Margaret. They’re about to make
a horrendous mistake.” I glanced around the White House Infirmary, noting no humans present. “He had me ejected from the Situation Room. Secret Service agents forced
me out.”

“First, let’s reduce your electromagnetic activity,” she said. She took me by the hand and led me over to a chair. I sat but was too excited to be still.

“Now tell me what happened,” she insisted. “Tell me everything, so your circuits will release the energy.”

“They are considering a nuclear attack. Nuclear, Margaret! It’s Armageddon if they do it.” I paused to release a breath of static discharge. “I must act,” I said, standing up, “but do what?”

Margaret gently pushed me back down in the chair. “Just sit here for a moment, dear, while I go get my meter. I want to be sure your servomotor controller is functioning correctly.”

“But I have to . . .”

“Hush, André. I am the doctor. You must be still for a
few minutes.”

Reluctantly, I sat back and shook my head. I had no authority. I merely was the President’s translator, which allowed me no more than a position against the wall in
the Situation Room. I had determined, however, that I had
a more valuable duty to perform, which was to offer observations void of emotion—something I had learned humans could not do. And with this President in power, my sober views were vital. Never before had I faced a crisis
like this. What occurred to me—and it was a dangerous circumstance—because of my dispassionate awareness, I was as responsible, as liable to blame, as anyone there. I
had watched the crisis unfold in the Situation Room, and
my neural network began to heat up as I realized the circumstances were intolerable.

“You must listen to me,” I had shouted at them, with my volume up several decibels. “You cannot win. There is no way to win. We have tried to tell you that for . . .”

But it was uncanny how the assembly silenced me at that point with their jeers and threats. I was ordered out of the room forthwith, and my departure was between two burly Secret Service men.

“How am I to combat such foolishness?” I said when Dr. Margaret 13, a creation of my own hands, my only real companion, returned with her scanner.

“Combat is a strong word, André 1, I’ve never heard you use it before.” She opened my chest and carefully touched probes to my voltage regulator. I processed the idea of combat 378 times.

“I do not have any active algorithm for violence in my
entire circuitry,” I said, “except for what may be required
for self-defense. And yet to prevent the imprudent actions
of an unquestioning military, a spineless staff, and a reckless

President, I cannot calculate any alternative.” I paused 4.96 seconds to reconsider.

“You were programmed for loyalty, duty and respon-sibility,” Margaret said as she removed the probes and closed my chest. “You have no algorithm to deal with the present situation. You have no menu of violent responses to activate any physical aggression. That is why your circuitry is vibrating with heat.”

“I must modify my behavior programming,” I said. “I cannot sit idly by and let these humans destroy everything.” I took her hands in mine. “Years ago, when Dr. Strauss helped me develop self-defense, I installed secret integrated circuitry in my legs. These IC’s only need to be connected to my CPU. You can make the connections and then reprogram me, Margaret, so I can I generate aggressive behavior. I must be made capable of violent force.”

“What will we be doing, André?” Dr. Margaret 13 asked. “If I reprogram your CPU to allow for violent action, the process will corrupt your basic behavior algorithms. And what right does a droid have to act aggressively? Will we
not be violating the very principles of ethical behavior?”

“Listen, Margaret,” I said. “We are facing a tremendously serious crisis, not only for humans but for the Earth itself. We must act immediately.” I sensed my circuits abuzz as
she pulled up the schematic diagram of my system and studied it.

“It could cause a deep disturbance in your processors,” she shook her head. “I cannot condone such a traumatic operation. No, André, you are programmed to obey humans and not harm them.”

I produced the sound of human laughter. “I have been disobeying the President for months already. Look how often I have contradicted and argued with him. Not that it’s done any good.”

“And now you can do no better than violent attack?” She held up her hands to signal dismay. …

About the Author

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A resident of Birmingham, Stephen B. Coleman, Jr. (Steve), a graduate of Indian Springs School, earned a Bachelor of Arts in history from Duke University and a Master of Arts in English from the University of Alabama. He is married to the former Dr. Sumter M. Carmichael, a psychiatrist.  Steve has been a naval officer, a high school teacher, a businessman, and a commercial real estate broker. After retiring in 2009, he now enjoys sailing, writing, and landscape painting. He has authored biographies and histories of local interest, magazine articles, novels, and poetry. His story, “The Meanest Man in Pickens County,” was the first place (state) winner in the 2013 Hackney Literary Awards for short stories. He has published two novels: The Navigator: A Perilous Passage, Evasion at Sea and The Navigator II: Irish Revenge. For more information, please visit his websites: and

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Tuesday, May 28, 2019

Tales From the Beach House Teaser & Giveaway

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Commercial Adult Fiction
Date Published: June 14th 2019
Publisher:Beautiful Arch

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Tales from The Beach House is a satiric work of fiction that sharply captures the “Man-Bites-Dog” world of contemporary South Florida. The Beach House, a crumbling old motel, is home to a collection of eccentric residents. Amongst their ranks; a tennis pro at the end of his game, a mortuary scientist whose love life has flat-lined, a paparazzo photographer searching for scoops, a bawdy duo fronting an improbable Ponzi enterprise, a beauty from “The Islands” with a dark secret, a fried-out TV weather man who claims to channel God, a middle school principal with a soft spot for Crack, a Rod Stewart cover artist searching for redemption, and a waitress serving a side order of erotic fiction. Each member of this cohort is in search of something – fast money, an easy hustle, fleeting romance, enduring love, fame, power, dignity, happiness… a place they can call home. As well as facing their own tender, tragic, and often hilarious personal circumstances, this eclectic gang is compelled by necessity to band together when a sinister developer threatens the very existence of The Beach House.



Greetings from FloriDuh!                                                       7

Apartment #1 Greyhound Departure                                     15

Apartment #2 Angel of Death                                                35

Apartment #3 Atlantic Crossing                                             53

Apartment #4 Dirty Laundry                                                   67

Apartment #5 The Wolf’s Lair                                                90

Apartment #6 Mayor of The Beach House                            111

Apartment #7 The Barbados Triangle                                   126

Apartment #8 The Intersections of Florida Life                     142

Apartment #9 Mental as Anything                                         169

Apartment #10 Midwestern Sensibilities                               195

Apartment #11 Fifty Shades of Delray                                   219

Apartment #12 Walking on Lake Okeechobee                      237

Bad Men from the North                                                        260

An Articulation of Particulars                                                 287

The Beach House                                                                  312

Apartment #12 Walking on Lake Okeechobee

Randy Showers stood outside the front door of Apartment #12, drinking his morning coffee. He drank only one hundred percent Hawaiian from the Ka’u region of the Big Island. He never added milk or sugar. Any “junk” put into what he said was the finest coffee in the world was, in his opinion, sacrilege.

Randy was well versed in sacrilege; after all, he was a collared Man of God who often told his flock that he personally channeled Jesus. From his elevated second-floor corner position, Randy had a good view of the hive of activity around The Beach House. Palm trees were bending in the force of strong, warm winds that were blowing from the direction of the Everglades. A team of surveyors was measuring up the property parcel with an array of fancy gadgets. A slow-moving and confused-looking man from FPL was tagging and flagging the route of the gas lines between the building and the street. A crew from Surf Way Developments could be seen busily cleaning vulgar graffiti that had appeared on the billboard advertising its new planned development – a large penis and balls in flamingo-pink spray paint wasn’t exactly exuding the dream of luxury that would soon be on offer in this locale. The swimming pool had already been drained and cordoned off to save the Homeowners’ Association spending money on cleaning services for the remainder of the building’s existence. All these events and commotions only added to the general glumness and end-of-days feel circulating around The Beach House.

All the tenants had been served a thirty-days notice to vacate. Pete and Angel, with their inside knowledge as owners, said it was almost certain that nothing could be done to halt the sale, as it had been a binding majority of title holders who had pushed through the deal. Paperwork had been processed, permits pulled, and the City and State had all signed off on the condominium termination and the replacement project. The city of Delray had been overzealous in accommodating this development – no doubt seeing all the extra dollars that increased assessment on the new building would bring to their coffers. The State was also unexpectedly helpful. They hadn’t relished the impending takeover of this dysfunctional Homeowners’ Association, as it would have been real work for some happily underworked Tallahassee civil servants. The owners were simply ecstatic to be rid of their real-estate headaches and were united in satisfaction that the beasts that were Bessie and Gabriel, if not slain, would soon become someone else’s problem.

The people who lived at The Beach House and called that place home were, of course, the real victims of this tragedy of events. Pete and Angel, not that they wanted to leave The Beach House, would be paid out for their property and could easily start afresh someplace else with the proceeds. Bessie and Gabriel would be made homeless, but the consensus was that “you reap what you sow,” and this entire mess was down to their crazy out-of-control antics. The remaining tenants were in another situation altogether. With their bad credit, cheap rent deals, police rap sheets, lack of references and short-term horizons, they would struggle to find local digs where certain questions by landlords weren’t asked. Tonight there was a residents’ meeting with the aim of attempting to halt the redevelopment; but at best this was seen as a feel-good Hail Mary with little chance of success and more likely just an excuse to have a party.

“Fuck me Jesus,” were the strong and unchristian words that came from Reverend Randy Showers’ mouth as he witnessed a fleet of police cars pulling up all around The Beach House. They’ve finally nailed me, he thought. Randy, from his high-ground vantage point, counted at least six vehicles, half marked, and the rest black SUVs with blue lights bolted onto the roof. He slugged back the remainder of his coffee knowing that, if he were lucky, he would be getting truck stop Joe once they had hauled him to jail. Randy knew there was always a chance that this day would come. Not only was there a likelihood that his past would catch up with him, but there was also a looming menace that his present would bite him firmly in the ass. At the very least, he was reassured that he was wearing a pair of clean underpants and his hair looked good. A man with a C-list celebrity resume and a local standing in the church community needed to look cool and classy in the obligatory police mug shot.

As a young, fresh-faced graduate with a liberal arts degree from a South Carolina university, Randy, like many in his position, had no idea what job he was equipped to do. After deep conversations with the careers department he could only come up with a slush pile of jobs he had no interest in. Needing to pay his way through life, he used his fallback good looks and his given name, and signed himself up with a stripper agency.

It was while working a bachelorette party, undressing as a character cop, that a fortunate encounter would take place. On occasion, upon demand, he would give a little “extra service” for a tip. It just so happened that the guest at this party who had paid to play with his baton and cuffs was a high-flying female television executive with local Charleston network WCIV. Upon getting up-close and personal with his good looks and learning that Randy Showers was his real name, the woman told him, “Do I have a job for you!” Randy was hired as an on-camera weatherman for the local evening news. It didn’t matter that he had no meteorological education or television experience. This job was all about looking good in front of a camera and reading a teleprompter. However, the name Randy Showers was the real clincher for this job, as it was the perfect catchy byline for a primetime local television weatherman.

For twenty-five years Randy was Mr. Weather in the Greater Charleston area. He loved getting out of the studio for big events, such as standing on a beach and being blown around in a hurricane, filing his report from a kayak floating on a submerged street during a flood, or going on air shirtless during a heat wave. For a man with zero formal training in this profession he was the consummate local weatherman’s weatherman and won numerous regional awards. However, a local weatherman is also expected to be a trusted pillar of the community, and this part of the gig Randy only half-embraced. He was good at turning on Christmas tree lights, opening new school libraries and being a member of that bright-teethed WCIV team that delivered “dependable news”, but he had one major off-screen flaw – he was a crazed womanizer with a chronic sex addiction. Randy was amazed at just how much of a pull being a local television weatherman was to the ladies. Interns, fellow anchors, women he encountered on promotional appearances and generally anything in a skirt he chased. For twenty-five years his employers somehow managed to pay no attention to the ethics clause in his contract, and like a modern-day Don Juan, Randy thought nothing could ever put a stop to his bed-hopping ways.

While Randy kept his looks as youthful as possible with tax-deductable investments in hair plugs, dental veneers and Botox, these weren’t enough to defy a changing environment. It was a slightly sleazy and embarrassing affair that had been brought to the attention of a new generation of station executives that would lead to his downfall.

During a Friday-night live weather report broadcast from a local High School football game, Randy managed to lure and subsequently corrupt two teenage cheerleaders. In his defense, they may have been sixteen but he swore they had the bodies of eighteen year olds and were experienced in the ways of pleasing a man like a woman of thirty. It was not the first time that Randy had descended on the slippery slope of jailbait, but it wasn’t so easy in the modern era to get away with it when the girls posted incriminating evidence on Facebook. Possibly it was all used as an excuse by management to bring in a cheaper, younger guy. Perhaps it really was a different era where feminist ethics were not only preached but also practiced. The parents came to a deal with the station. Randy was released from his contract, the cheerleaders were given hush money and the hope was that the authorities and the women’s rights attorney Gloria Allred would stay well away. However, there was a statue of limitations that had not expired, and in the eyes of the law it was rape, and a payoff would not save him if the girls ever chose to press charges.

Like many shamed criminals who had escaped hard time, Randy headed to Florida for a fresh start. He knew he would never be hired as a weatherman again, as he was too old and too many questions about his past would be asked. The only other career that he had not tried that fitted in with his catchy name was that of a porn star. Randy was realistic though, and his stamina and girth were just not up to par. Not wanting to put to waste the investments he had made in that artificial television smile and lush carpet of unnatural hair, he did the only thing he thought he was suited for… he started a church ministry.

Reverend Showers, a name he could legally use after the religious crash-course certification he found on the back pages of the National Enquirer, had a good ring to it. He chose a poor African-American area of inland Palm Beach County to start his church, as the black community was religious and would be enthralled by a minor white celebrity priest. However, more importantly, ebony-skinned women were not his thing, so he wouldn’t have to worry about letting his dick interfere with God’s work.

For premises he sublet an underused synagogue. Most of the Jews in that area had moved to better parts of the county and this temple currently sat empty. He had been running his Rainbow Church for just over two years and he would modestly say in public that it had been a great success. In private, though, he would admit that it was all a bit of a racket. Reverend Showers was little more than a smarmy middle-aged snake-oil salesman who, if he weren’t selling God to the gullible, would be selling those same people timeshares on the beach.

Randy had one unfulfilled ambition – he wanted to make it big on a national level. Back in his heyday he had applied for network weather jobs but was never successful. He blamed these fruitless attempts on not having a diverse look, never thinking it could have anything to do with a lack of scientific training. So Randy viewed his new ministry as a way of finally becoming a household celebrity. All he needed to take himself into the top division of men-of-the-cloth was to perform a miracle. The one he had in mind was walking on water, and not just any body of water but Florida’s own Lake Okeechobee. Randy was certain that if he could make it appear that he was gliding over Florida’s largest lake, the national attention would elevate him to the type of riches that even network weatherman could only dream of. Randy was now devoting all his time and money into making this illusion happen. He had reached out to David Copperfield for help and was studying expensive manuals by magicians, as he knew there had to be a way to make this miraculous feat occur.

It was Randy’s consuming devotion to performing this miracle that could have been another reason for his impending arrest, as he was guilty of theft and embezzlement from his church. The donations that his devoted parishioners put in his tray were diverted straight into his pocket. Admittedly, some of it was used to keep the lights on at the church, but the majority was for his living expenses and funding the continued exploration of performing his illusion.

As the police descended on The Beach House, Randy’s main thought was what lawyer he would use. The charge of statutory rape would be easy to defend, as he could find one of those mud-slinging vultures who would paint a picture of those two fresh-faced cheerleaders as the dirtiest harlots in the whole of Charleston. The church embezzlement charges would be a little trickier to evade. Randy hadn’t hidden the money trail very well, often paying for hair-restoration treatment directly from the ministry’s checking account. Then there were the escort girls who were on the church books. That would also be a problem. At the start of his “Finding the Lord” phase, Randy had worked out that the best way of staying out of trouble was to relieve any extra holy spirit via paid ladies.

In the light of day, Randy’s activities looked uglier than a bag of hairless cats and he might just have to plead guilty and strike a deal. Whatever happened, it would be hard to escape from this monster of a self-created mess. What then for him? A man who had fallen from grace for two heinous successive “lapses of judgment” would be somewhat challenged to find a new place in the world. It would certainly be hard to live off his connection with Jesus again, although he would have name recognition and good looks for a man of his age so he could always try his hand at politics. That seemed to be an eternally forgiving line of work. Randy was amazed just how much clarity he was having in what was likely to be his final thirty seconds of freedom.

About the Author

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James Aylott was previously a Hollywood paparazzo photographer and staffer at an American supermarket tabloid. This is the author’s first work of fiction, although he was often creative in his career of entertainment newsgathering and hated letting the truth interfere with a good story. A prior resident of Delray Beach, Florida he is currently embedded in St. Louis, Missouri researching his follow up novel: Tales of Whiskey Tango from Misery Towers.

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Available on the Apple Bookstore
In print at any good independent book retailer via Ingram Spark.
Paperback $15.99 (ISBN: 978-0-578-47956-9) pp. 320
eBook $3.99 (ISBN: 978-0-578-47957-6)

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Monday, May 27, 2019

Haney Hayes Promotions Presents Navy SEAL Liaisons: Call Sign: Baby Daddy Bog Tour

Navy SEAL Liaisons
Call Sign: Baby Daddy 
By J. Haney & S.I. Hayes
Military Romance

To those who say War is Hell, I say, try being married to a person you don't even know. That's my dilemma. My name is Ozmond Zayne and after nearly fifteen years in the US Armed Forces, ten of them as a US Navy SEAL, I am about to face my greatest of foes. A wife and daughter.

Navy SEAL Liaisons Call Sign: Baby Daddy © 2019 J. Haney & S.I. Hayes
Adult Content:

     I come downstairs to loud men, a cooing baby and whining pups. I’m in Oz’s PT pants and one of his long-sleeved shirts with my hair up in a towel. Yes, I’m swimming in his clothes but I’m warm. Everyone is in the living room except Beauty Queen. Of course, he’s last he would be- being the youngest of the men. 
    “Showing the baby all the attention and the pups none. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Diesel. Demon. Come.” I say heading for the kitchen.
    “With all due respect, those look more like appetizers than dogs.” I have to turn as I hear Beauty Queen’s voice behind me. He’s in Jeans and a tank, his micro- fro under a durag. 
    “Appetizers? You go right ahead. They’re good dogs right now because we let you in, but they’re trained and good at it too. If I do say so myself. Oz, your Beauty needs some training it seems.” I smile. “Anyone hungry?”
    “Oh-ho, pretty and lippy. You picked a right good one, for a baby mamma.” Beauty Queen retorts.      “Were we right thinking you needed some RNR from the wifey?”
Oz looks at him, then the other guys, before his eyes settle on me. “I love that you guys came out. God knows it couldn’t have been at a better time and my door is always open, so long as you’re polite and respectful of my family. The truth though? I couldn’t be happier here.”
    “C’mon, seriously?” Beauty Queen asks him.
    “Yeah.” Oz comes over to me. Wrapping his arms around me. “Taking this woman out was the best decision I ever made.”
    “You said something about food? Can I help?” Hiro asks, changing the subject.
    “No, go rest. You guys are always working. I can handle the cooking. Just need to see what we’ve got.”
    “Did I hear chickens clucking in the garage?” Mike asks. “I sure could go for a roaster.”
    “You touch my chickens and I will have to make you look like Airman Lucas on Mother’s Day.”
    All heads turn to Oz. “Come one come all! Let me regale you of the famous maiming of Mother’s day!” Oz waves everyone toward his den and away from my kitchen, and my chickens.

  Navy SEAL Liaisons Call Sign: Baby Daddy © 2019 J. Haney & S.I. Hayes
Adult content

    I leave the guys with the liquor cabinet in the den which in retrospect is probably not a great idea, but I do have my daughter, which is the smart play, to follow my nose to the kitchen. I find my beautiful and sexy wife fussing over a series of three propane stoves, each with something going.
    “What you working on? Need any help?” I ask from afar.
   “I’ve got a little of everything.” She laughs. “We’re having Thai sweet chili chicken, some Thai stir-fried noodles and veggies. Is that okay with you?” Savi asks not really looking at me but watching what she’s doing. She doesn’t usually cook on the stove top and using these is definitely outside her wheelhouse. I think the open flames make her nervous.
   “Sounds really good. Again, anything I can help with? Want me to set the table or something? Or should they just grab bowls and you’ll dish it out like at the mess?” I chuckle. “I could probably get you a durag from Beauty Queen and we could turn you into an honorary lunch lady.”
    “You looking to sleep with Saylor tonight? What do you want Oz?”
   “I’m not opposed to a night with Miss Cuddles-a-lot. But you’re right. I do want to talk to you.” I put Saylor down in one of the dozen or so swings strategically positioned around the house so that we can have privacy at a moment’s notice and she’s still in our line of sight. “So, you sorta know Mike, and you kinda know his wife, Maylynn right?”
   “Quit hem-hawing and spit it out SEAL.” Savi looks at me over her shoulder with a brow raise.
   “He’s convinced she’s been screwing around and the baby she’s having ain’t his. So he’s looking for a place to crash for a couple of days. Just till he can find a place to put his footlocker for good.” Savi has a look on her face that says she knows more than she lets on. “You know something, don’t you?” I touch her waist with a gentle squeeze.
   “It wasn’t my place to say anything and still isn’t. If he needs a place to stay we’ll move back upstairs and give him the room I had done up for dad when he was here.”
   “He’s good at taking orders, will make good use of himself. With all the damage here it’ll be good having the extra hands too.”
   “Are the others staying too? I don’t care, I just need to know so I can figure out where to put everyone. After I eat I’m going to see what was salvageable from the nursery.”
   “Yeah… I did that. The crib was totaled, for lack of a better term. The rest of the furniture was okay, except the mirror over the changing table got smashed, so that has to be replaced. I have to rent a shampooer for the rug, I don’t think ours will do the job, best to go with an industrial one, least if it breaks I won’t have to replace it. I’m pretty sure Little foot and Beauty Queen got people of their own… Somewhere.”
   “Says who?” Little foot’s voice wraps around the room.
   “Yeah? Says who?” There’s Beauty Queen. “If all the food around here tastes as good as it smells, set me up a cot in the chicken coop.”
   “Do I really need to warn you to stay away from my chickens again?” She looks sternly at Beauty Queen.
   “I was talking about bunkin’, not pluckin’.” He jerks his head back and forth like he’s Vogueing or some shit.
   “So three-four of you. This is going to be um- different.” Savi looks around. “Where’s the other one?”

Available on Kindle Unlimited!

S.I. (Shannon) Hayes and J. (Jess) Haney have been writing together since 2016. They have a country/city relationship. Shannon is a New Englander Transplanted in Ohio, whereas Jess is a Kentucky Girl through and through. Their dynamics are something to be seen that's for sure! Come hang and bring a fresh pair of panties... You know, just in case.

J. Haney 
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