Thursday, April 25, 2013

Another excerpt from my new book, Random Acts of Crazy

  And another excerpt from later on in Random Acts of Crazy:

As Joe walked out, I realized this was the moment. I had to steel myself for it, I had to be strong, I had to make sure I didn't make a fool of myself so I did what I always do and I opened my mouth and I blurted out the stupidest shit possible.
“I would love to see you again, Trevor,” I said. “The next time you decide to eat a stupid shit amount of a mind-altering substance and travel naked six hundred miles, give me a visit.” Wink. Oh, God. I might as well have said “Y'all come back now, ya hear?” and thrown cornbread at him.
He smiled gently, his fingers touching my cheekbones, traveling down to the nape of my neck, making me want to blurt out all the wrong words, like I love you, like stay, like make babies with me, like take me with you, like write a song about me – and I was damn close to saying all of those things but he just leaned in and shut my mouth up by pressing his against it.
The kiss wasn't a goodbye kiss. It was more chaste than anything we'd shared over the past handful of hours and that's what finally made me cry because it was less about passion – which we'd had plenty of in handfuls and spurts (no pun intended) – but this was a kiss of sorrow, a kiss of regret, a kiss so sweet and endearing and apologetic and nostalgic that I could feel it ten years ago and ten years hence.
What was Trevor doing, giving me a kiss like that? Bearing his soul to me with his lips, with his tongue, with fingertips that touched all the crying parts in me, all the aching cells, the mourning skin, the sad, sad heart that beat just for him right now. Everything I felt was so melodramatic and gratuitous and carved out of a Darla that I liked to pretend wasn't there. Trevor made me real. Trevor made me come out. The me that I always imagined was there, undamaged, untouched by the years of wondering what if? What if Daddy hadn't died? What if Mama had been OK? What if I'd gone to college? What if my own what if – thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster – would never be what if I had just driven past the naked rock star by the side of the road?
I may be stupid and I may make foolish choices but that one...that one I would never regret.
Trevor's mouth pulled away and his eyes sought mine. “It'll be OK,” he said. “And of all the people in the world and of all the places in the world, Darla,” he leaned over and kissed my forehead and pulled back, that jaunty, sultry grin like warm chocolate. “The next time I decide to escape my own life, naked and ready for anything, I'll make sure I'm headed west.”
Joe ruined what would have been an absolutely perfect Hallmark moment – if Hallmark had a demented line of cards for shitstorms like this – by thumping up the steps and shouting, “My fucking car won't start!”
Something in Trevor's eyes was a little too mischievous for me to think that this was just a coincidence, but I kept my mouth shut. Trevor's eyes widened, real big like a little kid trying to lie, and then he let his muscles relax. It was very intentional, as if he were focused on trying hard not to look like a liar, which I'd been able to spot since I was a little kid.
He said, “Really? Well, that's weird,” and looked away.
“Shit!” Joe said. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Well, why don't you both go look under the hood?” I said. Four eyes lasered in on me as if I had just proposed that they preform a bowel resection.
 Coming soon! Watch for my New Releases email in the next few weeks!

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Blurb for Random Acts of Crazy, my newly-retitled book

I decided The Naked Souls just didn't work, so my new book has a new title: Random Acts of Crazy.

Here's the blurb:

Random Acts of Crazy

I never intended to pick up a naked hitchhiker wearing nothing but a guitar. A guitar. Really. I don't collect guys like that (don't ask what kind of guys I do collect), but when you spot a blonde, tanned, sculpted man with a gorgeous smile and his thumb poking up and practically begging you to stop – you stop.

And I definitely never thought I'd be staring into the bright blue eyes of Trevor Connor, the lead singer for Random Acts of Crazy, an indie rock star I followed like the slobbering fileshare fangirl I am. How he came to be nude and lost six hundred miles from home is quite the tale, but how we fell in love is even more unreal.

Because someone like Trevor Connor, headed to Harvard Law next year, isn't supposed to want someone like me, a rural Ohio chick majoring in Boredom at Convenience Store University who is all curves and frizzy blonde hair and manners so unpolished they have sharp edges that make you bleed.

But he did.

When his best friend, Joe Ross, the bass player for Random Acts of Crazy and a man who makes Calvin Klein models look like Shrek, drove eleven hours through the night to rescue him, though, it got real complicated. It's one thing to like two different guys and be torn. What do you do, though, when maybe – just maybe – you don't have to choose?

As my Aunt Josie says sometimes, "It's always complicated."
* * *

Random Acts of Crazy is a standalone, full-length novel featuring Darla Jo(sephine) Jennings, the 22-year-old niece of Josie Mendham from the Her Two Billionaires series. It has, like many New Adult novels, an exploration of sexuality for the three main characters, doesn't shy away from mature content, and Darla has a sailor's mouth. 
You do not need to have read the earlier series to read and enjoy this book. Fans of the Her Two Billionaires series will, though, learn more about Josie's upbringing and have a glimpse into why she is the way she is – in preparation for her book, Smart Mouth, coming very soon.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

Maliciously Obedient now in paperback -- grab a signed copy!

Maliciously Obedient is now out in paperback, and I'm working on getting all of the Her Two Billionaires series in paperback as well.

If you'd like a *signed copy* you can buy one directly from me for the same price -- $8.99 -- with free shipping.

Just email me at jkentauthor at gmail dot com for details.

Happy reading!

Thursday, April 18, 2013

The first scene from The Naked Souls -- excerpt from new book

So this is the first draft of the first scene of The Naked Souls, one of my two new books that involve Josie from my Her Two Billionaires series. This isn't Josie's book -- THAT one is called Smart Mouth, and it's coming along nicely.

Darla Josephine Jennings is Josie's niece (sort of -- they're really cousins but call each other "aunt" and "niece" find out eventually). She's a tough 22 year old with a smart mouth of her own and finds herself in the middle of a surreal adventure.

Read on to meet Darla.

The last everloving fucking thing I expected to see as I drove down I-76 toward my little hometown of Petersburg, Ohio was a buck naked man wearing a guitar.
I mean, only wearing a guitar. The man was barefoot, for fuck's sake. On the highway. In April, in Oh-fucking-io, where winter isn't a season but a state of mind.
How could I not stop and offer him a ride? Seriously? Where was he hiding a weapon? OK, OK, maybe up there, but think about it for a minute – he'd have to twist quite a bit to access anything he hid up his puckered – well, there!
And he wasn't a bit hard on the eyes, either. Kind of a Brad Pitt look circa 1991, before he went and found Miss Toothpick and married her and left her and went off to marry the wan version of Elvira doing a weak Michelle Duggar imitation.
Anyhow...back to the naked hitchhiker. My 1986 Totota Tercel wasn't anything special but it, um, had a floor. And a windshield. And a place for Mr. Rhinestone to rest his weary nuts. The vinyl might be cracked and faded and it wasn't no Giving Tree from that Shel Silverstein book, but at least the man could give his balls a rest. Those muscles looked like they could sure use some eyes hungrily ogling them, too, for they screamed for loving attention. If I couldn't touch, I could at least be the one to stare, right? I'm a giver like that.
Always thinking about others.
So when he got over his surprise that some chick with frizzy hair and fuzzy dice hanging from her old, faded rear view mirror had actually pulled over, he dipped his head down to the open window and flashed me a grin. We were out in the middle of no-fucking-where and there was one streetlight that glowed up the background, but even that wasn't enough to outshine his smile. All straight teeth, nice gums, and skin that melted to form a charm you out of your pants look that made me almost drop trou and fuck him right there.
I about melted into my own seat. That wasn't from the heater, either. My pussy juices seemed to go from the Sahara to Niagara Falls. When he climbed in and – literally – flashed his ass and nibbly bits at me, I nearly came right there.
Something about him was familiar, but I knew he wasn't from around here. Tucking away that little tease of contemplation, I studied him a bit more, a sense of specialness flowing over the moment. Extracting it and dissecting it would yield no deeper truths, though – a part of me connected with him for whatever deja vu-like reason.
Or maybe I was just on overdrive to convince myself to pick up a nude male. Whatever.
"Hi there, Ma'am." Overgrown blonde, wavy hair that looked like four months ago screamed “preppy boy,” but now exuded that deep sense of complete abandon, of hedonism in bed. A flash of pink in his mouth displayed a tongue that (I imagined) truly loved women and wasn't afraid to show it. Glittery blue eyes that were focused but fleeting, like Bradley Cooper's but muted. He was high as a motherfucking kite, and that was OK, because he was pretty enough to look at just as is. He didn't need to be a stellar conversationalist.
"I am no one's Ma'am. That's my grandma. Hell, my mama doesn't even go by Ma'am, so shut down that talk right there." No one – no woman – before the age of thirty-five wants to be called “ma'am.” Fastest way to shut a woman's vagina off, like a table saw brake. Come too close with that word and crack! Power off.
"OK, then, Chippy Pete!" He adjusted his hat (where'd that come from? I didn't see a hat at first, and he wasn't exactly hanging on to a lot of pockets here, nude and all) and kept it on. This wasn't some churchgoing man. Then again, the naked ones largely aren't. The hat was cheap straw, formed like a cowboy hat, and the look – well, his fashion sense screamed Chippendales stripper on a Salvation Army budget.
"Just Pete to you.” Chippy Pete? Seriously? He could have called me Honey or Sugar or Toots or Melons or Bitch and he picked Chippy Pete? “Where you going?"
"Wherever you are."
I looked in the rear view mirror at myself. In spite of the frizzy hair I wore makeup. A shirt. A bra. Pants. The chances we were going to the same place were slim. "Uh, I'm dressed. You're not."
"I am attired in a guitar. And this." He doffed his hat and started strumming some chord from a 70s song. Kansas? Boston? I couldn't tell.
"No shirt, no shoes, no sweaty balls on my dashboard." I was starting to get nervous. What had I gotten myself into? Was he weirder than I thought? Would this be a redo of my freshman Valentine's dance, where my best friend, Jane, hooked me up with her older brother's meth dealer and the date ended with a courtesy ride home from the DEA?
"Just on your seat, Ma'am – uh, Pete."
"That's right. I am Pete.” May as well embrace it. And the sweaty ball funk that would permeate my seat thereafter. “And you are?” His sandy blond hair was clean. He had that going for him. And eyes that were the color I imagined the ocean to be, if the glow of the dashboard lights were to be believed.
Call me Sweaty.” He gestured to his sac.
I'll call you Sweetheart.”
Pretty soon you'll call me whatever name you're really thinking of.”
Then your name is Asshole.”
I been called worse.”
OK, Ass.”
Alright then, Ma'am.” So we were at a standoff, and that would have gone on for twenty mile markers out here between Sharon and the lost lands of north-central Ohio, where the people sounded like Pittsburgh Yinzers and Cleveland rolled into one God-awful accent, but a nasty, enormous mutant skunk put a stop to all that.
And nearly neutered poor Ass.
Screech! I slammed on the brakes when a flash of something spooked me, my little Tercel going from 73 to nothing in about ten seconds. Poor Ass the Naked Cowboy Rock Star hadn't completed putting on his seat belt, so the guitar, still slung around his groin, was about the only buffer he had as the car pitched and swerved, the skunk bigger than one of my toddler cousins and, unfortunately, considerably deader now that I had crushed it with my rusted-out machine of doom.
The cowboy managed to put his hands out and, through the grace of whatever deity you believe in (mine involves noodly appendages – and speaking of those...), when the car came to a rest, spread out at a ninety degree angle the opposite of what nature – or the highway commission – intended, he wasn't injured. I'm sure parts of him were sore the next day, but I'm not going to talk about that, because sorting out the “I almost hit a skunk and slammed on the brakes” soreness from the “I fucked a country girl by the side of the road under a pine tree” soreness is something I'm not privy to understanding.
So I guess I just sort of spoiled the rest of this story now, huh? You don't want to hear how I went from nearly killing the cowboy rock star to making wild, mad, crazy love with him in a rest area in one of those wild fields where Ohio put its Soviet-era brick shit houses, right?
Sure you do. Otherwise you wouldn't still be reading this. You'd flip over to some other story on your Kindle, like one of those Cum for the Loch Ness Monster Bass Player stories, or Fifty Shades of Billionaire Hoo-haw. My story doesn't have a helicopter that whisks people off to Manhattan or a Red Room of Pain or a Bigfoot who marries a human and settles down and has critters, but it does have a naked rock star (sorta) groaning in the front seat of my mercifully unharmed Toyota Tercel, his ass off the seat and one leg splayed up, showing me his fine, puckered butt hole and a cock that was so aesthetically pleasing it might as well have been carved out of fine Italian marble and placed on a pedestal, dipped in Swiss chocolate and served with a side of Gruyere and caviar.
It really looked that good.
And I'm no rabid knob gobbler. There are a good twenty...uh, eight – I meant eight – men in north-central Ohio who will confirm that.
Ass? You OK?” I smoothed my hair back from my forehead and felt a bump above the ridge of my left eye socket. Shit. I had gotten hurt! My brain felt fine, so whatever had happened must have been light enough to leave a bump but not so bad as to make me feel serious pain. I looked in the rear view mirror. Same bloodshot green eyes. My nose wasn't broken – pert and a “little piggy,” as my mom often said, though grandma told me it just meant I had that out-of-place “cheerleader cute” that would make me popular but not help me by the age of twenty-five. I was twenty-two right now, so this wasn't an issue just yet.
My name's Trevor,” Ass moaned, slowly extricating himself and making it about halfway. I realized I needed to reach down between his legs and offer him a hand to grasp, but the logistics weren't as easy as that might sound, for the minefield of his perfect, erect cock made the odds that I would just encircle it with my now-itching palm about 7 to 4. If I was Aunt Cammie at the greyhound races I wouldn't bet on me not touching him.
OK, Trevor,” I answered. For once, I was a bit speechless, though my pussy started to say all sorts of sweet nothings right about now, filling in the void where my words would normally go. Seriously, Darla Jo Jennings? Mom's voice filled my dark, nasty heart. You're thinking about your loins at a time like this?
Not exactly. More that my loins were thinking about, well, his. It was hard not to, because it was hard – and erect and pretty, like a talisman you touch to get a superstitious boost of luck.
Which we needed real bad, right about now, as the horn from a semi started wheezing like mad, warning us to get the fuck out of the middle of the Interstate.
Chance favors the prepared, someone once said. I did not, however, think that touching his glorious dick was really going to help more than turning the key in the ignition, firing up the engine, and driving the damn car from its perpendicular status over to the side of the road, poor Trevor's legs bouncing like a drowning Daddy Longlegs stuck in a sink drain, his shards of destroyed guitar now offering zero covering. What had seemed a bit kitschy was now just match sticks and I found myself wet, hot, wanting to ride him and realizing that my mama was right.
One poor decision does lead to another. “It's like you open your brain and shit pours out and you pick the worst crap to do, Darla! I don't know what you're thinking sometimes,” she had lectured a thousand times while chain smoking Virginia Slims and sucking down Robitussin and vodka. “One bad decision is like building a long line of dominoes and then just sneezing and not turning your head.” The metaphor made less sense after Mom had three or four drinks in her, but she made a good point, which was generally the same comment rephrased a million different ways: I suck.
One poor decision does beget another. So once you've made your first doozy, you have a choice, but you really have less of a choice than you had before your first screw up, right?
So why not fuck him?

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Two books, so many men...

I am simultaneously working on TWO different books right now, BOTH of which involve Josie! The first is, of course, Josie's book (titled Smart Mouth). You get Laura's birth (from Josie and Alex's perspectives), the baby's name (a great surprise!) and Madge plays a larger role in this book (that woman gets around, huh?).

Another book, though, involves Josie's niece, Darla Jo(sephine) Jennings, a 22 year old Ohio chick who finds a naked hitchhiker on the side of the road one night -- a gorgeous man wearing nothing but a guitar. The two books take place at roughly the same time, and are very much intertwined, with Darla's book coming out first (and once you read it, you'll see why). You learn more about Josie's childhood and home life, all important details for understanding her future relationships. Stay tuned and check my blog for excerpts!

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

This is not my usual kind of blog post. I am going to talk about the Boston bombing.

I live within a quick commute to Boston. I had friends running in the marathon, and lots of friends of friends running as well, or volunteering, or covering the marathon as part of their media job.

Plenty of friends work downtown, right by that section of Copley Square. Most of my friends who work downtown were off for the day (it's a regional holiday), but some employers don't close, so a few were very close or could view the bombing from their office windows.

My personal Facebook feed blew up as the news spread. I lived in a blissful bubble for an hour or so, though I saw siren-screaming emergency vehicle after siren-screaming emergency vehicle pour out of my suburb and point east. I should have realized, but I didn't, driving my children to and fro from playdates and sports in a Mommy Bubble.

When I came home and had frantic voice mails and FB posts from family in other states wondering if I'd been downtown, I quickly learned what had happened.

My kids watched the news with me and asked questions no parent should have to answer, and I policed the media to make sure they didn't see certain images. I, however, looked at those images, and it drove home two things:

1. How horrific this bombing, and all acts of terrorism, really are.

2. That there are always helpers. Lots and lots and LOTS of helpers.

More helpers than evil. We really do outnumber them.

I've been working on a deadline, with promises of books to readers in April and May, and I'll get them out. I will. I promise!

But I'm taking a few days to hug my kids and just be with them, enjoy my husband (who is, unfortunately, out of state on a business trip, which makes me want to drive straight through the night and throw myself into his arms and just love on him and be loved, but he's home soon) and to be a helper however I can.

Donate blood if you can.
Donate money if you have it.
Donate time if you can spare it.
Donate love and help and thoughts and light and prayers, too. Those are all free and yet priceless, all at once.

I hope you, who are reading this, are safe and healthy and loved. And if the bombings touched you directly, my thoughts and prayers are with you and I am so deeply sorry. The sorrow of the day is shared by billions worldwide, and we are so, so good.

The good are, indeed, everywhere. Love will prevail.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Smart Mouth -- first excerpt from Josie's book!

Josie's book is a doozy, as we meet hot, commanding, introspective Dr. Alex Derjian when Laura goes to the hospital to have her baby, Dylan becomes a doula (sort of), Mike shows his ass (literally), the baby's paternity is revealed (kind of), and Laura names her daughter something meaningful (no, not Peanut Butter Hulk Smash, and not Jeddy).

Here are the first few pages of Smart Mouth:

“Oh, my God, where are the balls?” Josie practically screeched as she and Laura entered Jeddy's. The warlock waitress was missing, and the joint was empty, so it wasn't hiding behind some crowd of rowdy college students.

As she craned her head around to see if it had been moved, she was disappointed to find no trace of the cardboard monstrosity anywhere.

“Gone,” Madge croaked, eyeing Laura's enormous belly. “You got triplets in there?” she asked, poking her tummy with her stylus. Laura wore a lovely pink, cotton tent that used more fabric than a king-size duvet. Josie felt sorry for her these days, with cankles and sciatica and a belly that stretched so far she could use it as a sail after the birth.

It had been Laura's idea to come and eat lunch at Jeddy's, and against Josie's better judgment she'd said yes. For Laura it was all about the food, and when a hungry, overdue pregnant woman suggests the place that serves her favorite comfort food, you don't argue.

“No, but I'll happily eat for four,” Laura answered, making Madge's face crack into a grin. No, really – it cracked in half and she looked like a Muppet for a second. How a dried-up old prune like that could smile and make it look almost human was beyond Josie.

“You threw the warlock away?” she asked Madge as they chose their favorite booth and Madge slapped the menus down on the scarred tabletop.

“No. My granddaughter asked us to donate it to some fancy autism charity ball auction.”

“Rich people want to buy a cardboard cut out that's been fondled thousands of times?” Josie asked as she slid into the booth. Laura turned sideways and tucked her belly under the table. Nope. Stuck. Madge watched, head cocked, as she struggled to get in.

“How's that different from Paris Hilton?” Madge challenged, shaking her head as she observed Laura's pathetic attempt. Josie felt a pang of compassion and stood, offering Laura a hand to unwedge herself.


“You need a table,” Madge said, moving the menus over to a four-top.

“I need a crowbar,” Laura groaned. Josie smiled sympathetically and patted her hand. Two days overdue and Laura acted like the world was ending. The only part of her that seemed to function properly these days was her appetite.

“Let's get you started with some fried green tomatoes,” Madge answered, scribbling on her electronic tablet. “and you like the Peanut Butter Hulk Smash...” she mumbled, ignoring them.

“Coconut shrimp!” Josie interjected.

“With a side of Pitocin,” Laura begged.

Stay tuned for more!