Hump Day Haiku: “A Day Late”

Louvre_tower_clock

Day late, dollar short/

Join me in slowing things down/

Now, look around. BREATHE.

— Josie

 

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Book 1 – The Housewife Assassin's Handbook

Book 2 – The Housewife Assassin's
Guide to Gracious Killing

 

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The kinkiest scene in a HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN Book? It would have to be this one.

WomanInCage

You'll find spice, not spank, in a typical HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN book. After all, it is a romantic suspense, not erotica.

That said, it's certainly not unusual for my heroine, Donna Stone, finds herself in the most peculiar (ahem) positions. (Yes, that is a double entendre.)

For example, in Book 3 of the series — THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN'S KILLER CHRISTMAS TIPS — she has to infiltrate the private party of a Silicon Valley power ranger in order to find a heat-seeking missile.

That too may sound like a double-entendre, but it isn't. Don't take my word for it. Read it yourself, below. 

Hope this is part of your wonderful weekend,

— Josie

EXCERPT

I wouldn’t
exactly call Miles’ room a suite.

More like a
dungeon.

No, not the
kind with stone walls and floors. The floors are bleached white pine, and the
walls are laminate with a high black finish, allowing the strategically-placed
platinum restraint hoops to double as an art statement.

Besides a
steel framed bed with shackles hanging from chains, the room boasts a man-sized
bird cage, a sex swing, a three-by-four-foot puppy cage.

But the piece de resistance is a stockade, which
puts the sub on his or her knees via adjustable spreader bars connected to a
holding collar, wrist and ankle shackles, and a fourteen-inch dildo rod.

Ouch.

“Like it?”
Miles asks.

I nod
slightly.

He looks
relieved. “I got the idea for it when I toured the Tower of London. It’s custom
made, of course. You see, a Vac-U-Lok holds any size dildo, and the settings
take it from zero to a hundred-and-forty strokes. Cool, huh? Wham, bam, thank
you… whomever.” He smiles knowingly.

I shrug. His
smile quivers slightly.

I turn to a
wall with floor-to-ceiling backlit glass shelves holding rows and rows of sex
toys. The number of cock rings is staggering. Hoods, bit gags, and muzzles
cover mannequin heads. Leather cuffs and metal restraints adorn mannequin arms
and ankles.

Mannequin
torsos are covered with harnesses or restraints. However, I’m happy to report
that while Miles’ collection of cock rings is vast, they are not displayed on
mannequin cocks. Neither are the nipple rings. Hmmm…

There is also
a full row of dildos of all shapes, sizes and textures.

And for
spanking, there are the crops, canes, floggers, whips, and paddles. A rose by
any other name, am I right?

It’s quite a
Wall of Shame.

I pick up a
paddle made of solid oak on one side and hard rubber on the other with the same
indentation of a woodsman’s jackboot. The thought of even one slap would kick
some sense into me, that’s for sure.

“I can tell
you like that one.” I haven’t realized how close he’s gotten until I feel his
breath on my neck.

I turn to
face him. “I like them all.” We are eye to eye.

He blinks
first.

“Which is
your favorite?” My tone is cool, noncommittal. At first, he stares at me.
Finally, he walks over to the middle of the row and picks up a paddle: black
lacquer, around eighteen inches long, with tiny holes in the shape of hearts
drilled through its inch thickness.

Without a
word, he walks over with it.

I take it
without even a nod. “Do you prefer a mask, gag, or a muzzle?”

“My favorite?
Is that what you’re asking?”

I give the
slightest of nods.

He walks over
to the wall and pulls off a black leather full-head slave mask.

“I see.” Scary. “Now, how about a harness?”

Slowly he
walks back to the wall. He stops to pick something up, but then he hesitates,
as if concerned.

Is he worried
I’ll freak out?

Hell, I’m worried I’ll freak out.

Calm down… Calm down.

Finally, he
picks it up. I mean, he picks them up:
a leather thong, waist cincher, and a black patent leather collar, leg irons,
and full-length arm binders.

Oh, and let’s
not forget the dildo.

How can I describe
it, other than to say that it is made of shiny stainless steel, and eleven
inches long?

“You know
what to do now, don’t you?” I murmur. Does he hear the tremble in my voice.

He nods
slowly. “Assume the position.”

I nod. Then
close my eyes, if only for a moment…

If I could,
I’d cry.

I don’t have to do this, I tell myself. All I have to do is say “Big
girls don’t cry” and Jack will break down the door. He’ll be right by my side.

But no. He’s at her side. 

Valentina’s.

Doing what
she’s telling him to do.

To her.

I don’t need him to get out of this.

When I open
my eyes again, I find Miles kneeling in front of me. He already has the hood
over his head, the waist cincher around his gut and the buttless leather skirt
halfway over his thighs.

Not a pretty
sight.

Seeing my
stare, he bows his head in shame, eyes closed.

“Oh please,
my mistress of madness! Be gentle with me! Forgive me for not being worthy of
you!” He opens one eye. “Um, what’s our safety phrase, Mistress?”

“All my subs
use ‘big boys don’t cry.’”

He nods
vigorously. “Excellent choice, Mistress! Most excellent!”

Maybe I
should send Jack to him for lessons.

Nah. Jack’s
too stubborn. It would never take.

Besides, I
like it when Jack’s a very, very bad boy.

“Crawl over
to the stockade, slave. Now!” I smack
him hard with the paddle. He roars, but does as he’s told.

In a moment
I’ve shackled his wrists, ankles, and neck so that he on his knees,
doggy-style, facing the door.

Okay, let’s
get this over with. “You have been a very, very bad boy.”

“Yes,
Mistress. I have been very, very bad.” His voice cracks in anticipation of his
punishment.

“Do you know
what Mistress does to very, very bad boys?”

“No,” he
whispers.

“What did you
say?”

“No,
Mistress! I don’t know!”

“I do this—”
I smack him with the paddle again. He groans, in pain.

Oh my God!
Was I too hard? “Um… did you like that?”

“Do you want me to like it, Mistress?”

What the
hell? “Yeah, sure. I want you to love it.”

“I do,
Mistress, I love it! May I have more?”

“That’s not
how we ask, now is it? Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

“Yes, sorry,
Mistress! She told me to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’”

Works for me.
I slap him again. “So say it, slave.”

“Ow! Thank
you, Mistress! More, please!”

I oblige.

“OW! Yes! Please! Yes!”

I aim to
please. Sorry, bad pun.

But no,
seriously, I could do this all night. Who knew it would be such a great stress
reliever?

Suddenly I
hear Jack’s voice in my ear, “Are we having fun yet?”

“I presume
one of is having a blast: you.”

“Yes,
Mistress! Tons of fun!”

“Shut up!” I
say to Miles. Then, to Jack: “Just where the hell are you, anyway?” I take aim
at his backside.

“Don’t you
see me? I’m right here, at your feet,” Miles answers again.

“What?… Oh!
Not you, slave!”

“But—”

To make my
point, I whack him again.

“Thank you,
Mistress,” he groans.

“Seriously,
Donna, hell’s a’poppin’. The Quorum is here, too.”

“Yeah, I saw
the way ‘the Quorum’ was all over you.”

“The Quorum?”
Miles shrieks. “You know about the Quorum? How—?”

“Not you, dork.
I mean Miles. I mean slave!” I slap his ass extra hard this time.

As if that will make him forget what he just
heard.

“I think you
need to untie me!” he whines. “Big boys don’t cry! Big boys don’t—”

Before he can
say another word, I take a gag and stick it in his mouth, and zip up the eye
flips of his hood.

Now that he
can’t actually see what I’m doing, I search frantically for the MANPAD. It’s
not under the bed, or in any of the large, body-sized pull-out drawers, which,
by the way, also have shackles embedded in them. Well, well, well, it seems
that someone’s got an Eddie Munster
complex.

“Donna,
they’re going to be there any minute. Let’s get this show on the road, shall
we?”

“What do you
suggest I do, smart ass?”

“Your magic
decoder ring. Remember?”

Duh.

“As if
reading my mind, Jack laughs. “Listen for my knock. I’ll be there as soon as I
can get away.”

“As soon as
you can ‘get away?’ From whom?”

He signs off
with a click. I guess it isn’t something he wants to answer.

I twist open
my ring holding the SP-117 truth serum, and put my fisted hand into Miles’
mouth. “Lick my ring, Slave. Suck it! Go ahead!”

Instinctively,
he tries to raise his head to look at me, but the rod holding his neck shackle
keeps him drawn to my knuckles.

I slap his
face so that he figures out fast that this isn’t any game.

He sucks it
hungrily.

Within a
moment he’s told me what I need to know: that the MANPAD is hidden in a second super-secret
dungeon, behind the Wall of Shame. To open it, I have to push a button under
the third dildo on the left.

Done. Yuck.

Now that I’ve
opened the case holding the MANPAD, which is, quite simply, a shoulder-fired
heat-seeking missile encased in a metal tube. It’s about four feet wide and six
and a half feet long, but no more than three inches in diameter.

The case also
holds a gripstop — the missile launcher — and a battery pack.

The whole kit
and caboodle weighs a little more than Trisha, maybe just over forty-five
pounds.

Just as I
reach the door with it, I hear the rap of knuckles on it to the sound of Shave and a Haircut.

Jack has
quite a sense of humor.

We’ll see
who’s laughing after I give him the third degree about Valentina.

I struggle to
unlock it without putting down the MANPAD case. Flinging it open, I mutter,
“’Bout damn time—”

To Carl.

In no time at
all he’s grabbed the case out of my hand and slapped me to the floor.

As I stagger
to my feet, he yanks my arms behind my back. Looking around, he gives a low
whistle. “Quite a little set-up old Miles has here! This would have made quite a
bonus room addition to the old homestead, don’t you think?”

My answer is
to spit on his cheek.

“Naughty,
naughty girl.” He jerks me over toward Miles’ Wall of Shame. “Wow. I feel like
a kid in a candy shop.” He picks up a studded dildo and tickles my nose with
it.

I jerk my
head away.

He shrugs.
“After Jack, I thought you’d welcome something super-sized.”

“Oh yeah?
Trust me, that’s never been his problem. In fact, you’re not half the man he
is, Carl Stone.”

Carl raises
his hand to slap me—

Then he
thinks better of the idea and lowers it.

Instead, he
jerks me into the man-sized birdcage and tethers my wrists so that I’m facing
the bars. No matter how much I struggle, he’s too strong for me. Still, I get in
one good kick to his side before he grabs hold of one leg and shackles my
ankle. He binds the other too, so that I’m spread-eagled.

He rips the back slit in
my gown all the way up, until my whole backside is exposed. He lets his fingers
do the walking down my spine. Despite my resolve, I tremble at his touch. When
he gets to my ass, he spreads my cheeks, and I gasp.

“Carl… Don’t.”

It seems like an eternity
before he murmurs, “You know you want it.”

I close my eyes. All of a
sudden, my head feels too heavy. I lean it against the steel bars. “No. Not
like this.” I raise my head, and turn it toward him, but he is purposely
standing out of my range of vision. Still I say, “You don’t want it like this,
either. You were never a—a rapist.”

His lips kiss the small
of my back, my shoulder blades, the back of my neck, an earlobe, and then he
whispers, “How do you know what I was, or wasn’t?”

He’s right. I never
really knew him.

I
brace for the worst…

(c) 2012 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or Signal Press Books (info@signaleditorial.com).

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TGIF Excerpt from The Housewife Assassin’s Handbook: “Artful Women”

Polka Dot AxMemorial Day weekend means you'll have plenty of time to catch up on your reading. So what are you waiting for? Download a FREE copy of THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN'S HANDBOOK. 

In this scene, my heroine, Donna Stone, is on the hunt for a large shipment of stolen plutonium. A hot lead sends her to a posh Beverly Hills art gallery. Just because the owner is sleazy doesn't mean he has anything to hide–

Or does he?

Donna finds out–the hard way.

Speaking of works of art, here's another angry housewife painting from one of my favorite artists, Kelly Reemtsen. You can catch her work here on her website, and also at Skidmore Contemporary Art in Santa Monica, David Klein Gallery in Birmingham Michigan, or DeBuck Gallery, in New York.

The subject is wearing the perfect frock for a the start of summer, don't you think? And who'd a thunk an ax would make such an eye-catching accessory?

TGI Holiday Weekend,

— Josie

 

Excerpt

“It’s a Larkaro,” Armand Fronsdal hisses in my
ear. “Arresting, is it not?”

Yep, that’s exactly how I’d describe an art installation made up of a video projector playing a short film in which three big-breasted nymphs cavort in the woods. But hey, what do I know from art?

One thing I do know: this man’s breath leaves a lot to be desired.

But when I turn to face him, I’ve already set my lips into a come-hither pout. “I’m looking for something a bit more… je ne sais quoi? Ah! Romantique.”

Having one-upped his Lounge Lizardeese with my high school French has scored me major points with this jerk. He crooks a finger at me to follow him.

He is too tall and too slight: think Ichabod Crane in Goth. If his ponytail is supposed to cover up the fact that he’s got a bald spot, he’s failed miserably. He’s wearing more eyeliner than me, which is saying a lot, because I laid it on thick this morning.

Albeit no thicker than the crap he’s laying on me now. “Has ma’amselle been complimented for her resemblance to John Singer Sargent’s magnificent painting of Mrs. Waldorf Astor?”

I shrug. While it is flattering, we both know it’s a stretch. Edvard Munch’s The Scream,
maybe…

“Ah, well, perhaps we shall find some petit amusement, oui?” I murmur. Playing
the bored art patroness has meant dressing up in a shiny ass-grazing red
leather dress that zips up the front, black fishnet stockings that end in
four-inch Louboutin thigh-high boots, and a veiled chapeau perched atop my
French twist. What with the tightness of the dress and the tiny heels of the
shoes, keeping up with his long strides is a bitch.

The gallery is really a warehouse broken up into
several rooms. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the one farthest to the back of
the building. One wall is made up of medieval pitchforks in a lattice pattern.
Near another, a seven-foot hot pink and purple polka-dot penis rises, thick and
proud, among two humongous blue balls.

Ouch.

The center installation is made up of abstract
mirrored balls of varying sizes, hung from the ceiling. They are dripping some
substance the color of blood.

If this is his idea of romantic, I’m guessing he doesn’t go on many dates.

Voila,” he purrs in an accent as bad as mine.

C'est magnifique,” I whisper as I stare up at the mirrored balls.

“This is my private atelier,” he hisses proudly. “Everything in here is my own creation. If this piece speaks to you, I’m sure we can come up with some arrangement: say, forty thou? That’s a third off the catalog price.”

“Such a steal. Almost wholesale.” I tilt my head. Unconsciously I straighten the seams of my stockings. In truth, I am taking aim with the toe of my right bootie. It is loaded with truth serum. The sooner I take this guy down, the better. This place gives me a bad case of the creeps, and I want out of here fast—

Ah, darn! His cell phone just buzzed. I wave him off as he excuses himself to answer it.

In one of the mirrored balls hanging from the ceiling, I see that he is almost at the door when he freezes. His back straightens. Then slowly he turns around.

He has a wary look on his face. He doesn’t think I see him as he plucks one of the pitchforks from the wall. And steps up behind
me—

But I’m too quick for him, swinging the largest of the mirrored balls toward his skull.

It knocks him down but not out. The pitchfork skitters on the slippery floor. As I lunge for it, he grabs my ankle, and I fall hard—

Damn. These. Heels…

Copyright © 2011 by Josie Brown. Published in May 2011 by Signal Press. All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Author.

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Murder. Suspense. Sex. And some handy household tips.

 
The Housewife Assassin's Handbook
(Book 1) 
Signal Press 

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Special Memorial Day Excerpt, from The Housewife Assassin’s Guide to Gracious Killing

Prince-harry-with-shirt

With Memorial Day weekend right around the corner,  I thought you'd enjoy this excerpt from the second book in my Housewife Assassin series, Guide to Gracious Killing. It's a perfectly tasty little morsel because it includes a bit of military derring-do, along with a visit (appropriately timed) by Great Britain's Prince Harry.

Enjoy,

— Josie

Chapter 1
Breaking Bad Hostessing Habits

 

Every woman wants to be
the perfect hostess and frets over her inadequacies when it comes to the
gracious art of entertaining. Pshaw! A little forethought and a few hours of
planning make it as easy as cherry pie!

There is, however, one
ironclad rule every hostess must follow:

Make all your guests
wish they never had to leave.

Especially in a coffin.
With a bullet lodged in their heads.

 

“You’re quite a saucy minx!” Prince Harry’s ale-slurred
come-on can barely be heard over the techno-vibe emanating from a
starship-worthy console of the Ivy Lounge rooftop’s head-bobbing deejay. “What
say you give me a peek as to where your tattoo ends?”

His head is cocked downward, as if it might give
him the ex-ray vision he’ll need in order to see the rattle on the faux-tatt’ed
snake drawn from my belly to nether regions that lay under my thong bikini.

“You’re a cheeky sod. I do have a face, you
know.” I snap my fingers in front of his nose, in order to draw his eyes
northward.

I’ve succeeded, sort of. But come on, already.
The diplomacy born and bred into the Prince of Wales can’t beat two millennia
of innate urges and four pints of Guinness.

His eyes linger below my neck, albeit above my
abdomen.

When, finally, our eyes meet, I lean in and
whisper, “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

I’m lying, even if he doesn’t know it—yet.

His outright laugh is accompanied with a shake
of his head, and a tug at the waistline of his briefs. “No tats under these
trollies, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint.”

I finger his briefs longingly and then sigh.
“I’m sure you’ll make it up to me somehow.”

His smile is his vow not to disappoint.

God save the queen…

It’s no secret the prince has been stateside
with his Royal Air Force unit, learning the latest tricks and treats of the
AH-64D Apache helicopter: his vehicle of choice for his upcoming tour of duty
in Afghanistan. The soldiers completed their training today. Tomorrow they head
home. To celebrate, the soldiers are here, in San Diego, which is just a couple
of hours west of their training base, the Naval Air Facility at El Centro.

Seems some chatter, intercepted by MI6, has led British
intelligence to deduce the prince is the latest target of “the Leprechaun,” a
notorious assassin affiliated with the Irish terrorist cell known as 32CSM. If
the Leprechaun succeeds in picking off the spare to the throne, then once again
the always-thin strand of peace between Ireland and Great Britain will be
ripped to shreds.

If it happens on our side of the pond, the U.S.
will have mud on its face, not to mention the bluest of blood on its hands.

So yep, I have to stop the Leprechaun before he
gets lucky.

My employer, the freelance black ops agency
known in the field as Acme Corporation, paid big bucks to the club owners so I
could be up close and personal with the prince. My goal is not to shag, let
alone snag, Harry the Hottie. It’s to save his adorable hide from a possible
assassination attempt.

The prince leans in, close enough to ask in a
seductive albeit ale-sodden growl, “Want me to sign your bikini?”

I look down between my breasts. “Oops, forgot my
pen. But you seem to be carrying one, in your pants pocket. Or maybe you’re
just happy to see me.”

He’s laughing so hard his last gulp of Guinness
goes down the wrong way.

“Prince Charming has a one-track mind.” Jack
Craig’s snarl comes in loud and clear through the tiny microphone in my ear. As
the team leader for this Acme mission, he’s close by, but far enough away no
potential assassin can spot him.

Trust me, there is a hitter lurking nearby.

Jack is also my main squeeze, which is why he’s
growling about my having to play the coquette while under deep cover (in this
bikini, I’m talking figuratively if not literally) as one of the nightclub’s
VIP bottle girls. More specifically, this is one mission he’d wished I hadn’t
accomplished—become Harry the Hottie’s pick-up du jour.

Needless to say, the club’s real bottle girls
are pea green with envy. They can’t figure out how this newbie became
Cinderella of this Century.

If I told them my aim and my first-degree black
belt status had something to do with it, would they believe me? Probably not.
All they see is that I’m just this side of Cougarville, which means Harry is
less discriminating than they had hoped.

For once, I’m glad Jack isn’t here, in the
cordoned-off VIP section. One involuntary muscle flex and prince’s all-too-obvious
brawny goon squad—three of his Royal Air Force mates—would be on top of Jack,
like suds on ale. 

At MI6’s behest, we’ve kept the fact he’s a
target from Harry, for now, anyway. This, I’m sure, is why he feels so
cocksure. This mission wouldn’t have been so hard if the prince weren’t so
insistent about partying “like an ordinary surfer bloke,” is how he so
preciously puts it.      

Until now, the natives have been awed as much by
his regular dude personality as his title. But just as the deejay ratchets up
the hip-hop club mix, six drunken sorority sisters stroll our way. One of the
girls, a Kate Middleton lookalike, pierces me with a jealous glare.

I stare back and smile, as if to say, Take the
hint. Get lost.

Her eyes shift from me to one of Harry’s RAF
buds. She waves coyly at him, and he’s smitten. Smirking back, he nods her
over. She squeals and grabs the hand of one of her girlfriends.

In no time at all, she and her besties have
jumped the red velvet rope. They toss themselves onto the prince’s entourage,
who don’t seem to be fighting them off too hard.

In fact, they’re snapping their fingers at me
with drink orders for their new arm charms.

“Not good.” Jack’s warning in my ear is just
loud enough for me to here.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I mutter back.

“How about this?” Jack is now shouting into my
earpiece. “You’ve lost Prince Harry.”

He’s right.

The prince seems captivated by a petite, busty
blond beauty. Even in heels, she barely reaches his chest. She had pulled him
out onto the dance floor for a throbbing sex-drenched hip grinder, Andree
Belle’s “Go Go Gadget Heart.”

The strobe lights and smoke machine make it hard
to follow them in the crowd. Then I see them, against one wall. The buxom
little tart drapes her arms around his shoulders and hugs him close, as if
she’ll never let him go.

Apparently, too close. I shove my way through
the crowd until I’m close enough to hear Harry’s woozy cry. “Blimey, you’re no
bird! You’ve got a wanker!”

Before I can pull him away, the prince is pricked
on the neck with something his partner has pulled from her cleavage. Harry’s
groan is loud. I smell smoke, and then the lights go out. But not before the
last strobe catches the triumphant look on his partner’s face.

 “Oh my
God, Jack! The woman with Harry—she’s—not a she! She’s—”

“I know! I saw it, too! The Leprechaun!”

Proof it pays to hit the M.A.C. counter before a
night on the town.

 And to
hang out where the lights are always low.

Everyone is screaming and shoving their way to
the exits, leaving me room to follow the Leprechaun, who is dragging Harry in
the opposite direction up against a wall.

“It’s too dark to see where they went,” I shout
to Jack. “Does anything show up on the club’s security cams?”

“I’m looking now. In the meantime, check the wall
for a hidden pocket door. The schematic of this club shows a few of them on
every level. I’m sure the Leprechaun had his exit scoped out in advance.”

While Jack scans the feeds from the security
cameras, I skim the walls with my hands. Finally, I find it: a tiny catch,
waist high.

I pull it open it just in time to see the
Leprechaun heaving Harry down a long corridor.

He may not be used to running in heels, but I
am. If only I wasn’t running in a bikini, too.

“Too many wobbly bits,” I mutter under my
breath.

It’s inappropriate for Jack to be laughing now,
but he can’t help it. “Just two. And they’re a sight to behold. Prince Charming
will be upset he slept through it.”

The thought of Harry in the French-manicured
hands of an assassin who can start the United Kingdom and Ireland down another
bloody path of un-neighborly relations has me picking up my pace. Unlike the
Leprechaun, I’m smart enough to ditch my high heels. But I’m still not fast
enough to reach them before the Leprechaun rolls him into the backseat of a
dark BMW and screeches off.

I can hear Jack slapping the wall with his fist.
“Aw, damn! We lost them!”

“Nope, I slipped a GPS tracker in the prince’s
trollies.”

“You did what… in his—what?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t peek. I’ll meet you
around the corner.”

What’s a little white lie between fake husband
and wife?

Before he can say another word, I snap off my
earpiece and run down the block.

 * * *

The naval base’s commanding officer is cussing
up a storm, something about blue-blooded playboy flyboys and horny co-eds.

When, finally, all the steam is out of him, Jack
says in the calmest voice possible, “It looks as if they’re headed for Mexico,
and they’ve got the jump on us. They’re changing vehicles every ten or so
miles, which indicates they don’t know about the tracker. Not yet, anyway. We
can catch them in a 64D, sir.”

Before the CO can let loose with yet another
tsunami of swear words, I hand him my cell phone. His nods and mutters, indicating
he’s heard Acme’s client—also his boss—loud and clear:

Put whatever we need at our disposal.

We grab Charlie Harcourt-Smythe (he’s the
soberest of the RAF pilots) and head to the airstrip. Because of the
sensitivity of the mission, we’ll keep it to that: no FBI, no CIA, and
certainly no local law enforcement. The prince has had enough photo ops for one
visit.

I’ve traded in my bikini for a snug
wind-resistant flight suit. He never did sign my bikini. Maybe later. If it’s
not too late already. 

(c) 2012 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or Signal Press Books (info@signaleditorial.com).

 


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Hump Day Haiku: “Verbal Smackdown”

Crying

 

His words hit, like stones.

I pummel him with my tears.

 Yes, it's true. Love hurts

– Josie

 

 


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To celebrate the launch of 
The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide
I'm giving away a $100 gift card
 to the bookstore of your choice!

Click here for details…

 

 

 


Excerpt from Book 3 of the HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN Series: First Kiss

Pacific_coast_highway
As we head into summer, I'm both surprised and proud of the fact that the third book in the Housewife Assassin series, Killer Christmas Tips, is still selling strong.

Despite the title, this book less to do with the season it was set in, and more to do with the fact that readers who love the series don't want to miss any of the consecutive plot points that deal with the series' overriding story arc: 

– Will Acme operatives, Donna Stone and Jack Craig, finally take down the world's best financed international terrorist group known as the Quorum? 

– Will Donna ever be able to love and trust again, despite the betrayal she felt over Carl's lies and deception?

– And will she and Jadk  find the missing intel on its agents and assets before the Quorum gets it?

As these two scenes in particular demonstrate, setting Book 3 during the holiday season allowed me to test Donna's faith: in herself, in her core values, and in her fellow beings.

Enjoy,

— Josie

EXCERPT

“So, how old
were you when you had your first kiss?”

Jack’s
question almost has me swerving off the road.

The decision
to take his car was probably a smart one because we may need a quick getaway,
and my mommy-mobile doesn’t have the same zero-to-sixty pick-up as Jack’s
Lamborghini. The decision for me to drive also makes sense, since he may have
to be running like hell carrying a shoulder-launched missile, and won’t have
time to fumble for his keys.

His decision
to play Twenty-one Questions may be one he regrets, should we crash.

To ensure we
don’t, I hold tight to the steering wheel and keep my eyes straight ahead. Not
because he’s shocked me, but because I’d hate for him to see that my face has
turned candy apple red.

“Let’s just
say I was old enough.”

“Come on,
answer the question honestly.”

“Will you do
the same?”

“Absolutely.
Cross my heart.”

I sigh.
“Okay. I was fifteen. And yes, the boy broke my heart.”

He laughs.

“What’s so
funny?”

“I was
worried you hadn’t been kissed until college.”

“You take too
much stock in what Aunt Phyllis says. She’s under the impression I was as pure
as driven snow until Carl and I… well, until I was married.”

“So Carl
wasn’t your first either?” He’s trying so hard to act nonchalant.

“To be
perfectly honest, not only wasn’t he my first, he wasn’t my even ‘best’.”

Jack’s sly
smile presumes soooo much. But in a
flash, his smile is gone.

“At this
juncture in our relationship, I think I need to tell you… Oh never mind.”

I guess this
is where I hear some soul-searching blather about Valentina. I brace myself for
the worst. “Don’t be such a tease. Just come out and say it.”

“I don’t know
if you want to hear this.”

“Well, guess
what? You won’t know if you don’t tell me, so spit it out.”

“I love you.”

I take a deep
breath. “Ditto.”

He laughs.
“Well, that’s romantic.”

“Let’s save
the romance until after we save the world, shall we?”

“I’m glad one
of us has our priorities in order.” He stares out the window. It’s already
dark, so there is not much to look at. “Then I guess this is also a bad time to
ask you to marry me.”

I screech off
onto the shoulder of the road, and turn off the engine. As much as I like
having a thousand horsepower engine at my fingertips, I’d be disappointed if a
knee-jerk reaction came between me and my happily ever after.

“You now have
my complete attention,” I murmur sweetly.

“I’m asking
if you’ll marry me.” He picks up my hand. When his fingers wrap around mine, I
wonder why I’d ever let go.

Then the
answer hits me—to get to our final destination in one piece.

“Why now,
Jack? And why here?”

“Why not?” He
turns to face me, but his features are hidden in shadows, only revealing
themselves in the fleeting headlights of passing cars. “There will always be
some crisis to overcome. Some more… bullshit,
somewhere in the world.”

Some bad guys
to kill. Some long-buried secret to rear its ugly head.

Some
deserting spouse to confront.

Which reminds
me, “We’re both still married.”

He shrugs.
“So let’s go to Vegas and set things straight.”

He makes me
laugh. “I like the Bellagio.” I look down into my lap. “I guess you’re over
Valentina in a big way.”

He doesn’t
nod. He just looks straight ahead.

His silence
speaks volumes.

If only he’d
lied and said, “Yes, of course I am! What do you take me for, a fool?”

But no, I’m
the fool. For presuming he’s over her, just because she’s over him.

“When she saw
me, she told me Carl wasn’t in love with her. That he was still in love with
me.” I can’t help myself. I have to say it to him, to see if it makes a
difference to him.

His mouth
tightens. “Do you believe her?”

“What, about
Carl? Ha! You said it best. The only one Carl truly loves is himself, and the
power he’s able to grab from who knows where.”

“Then, why
won’t he leave you alone?”

“Because he
can’t have me. Because I love you instead.”

There. I’ve said it.

I restart the
engine and it roars back to life. “We’ve got a date with a stolen missile.
Let’s do this,” I say as Jack’s Lamborghini leaps back onto the road.

We drive the
remaining few miles in silence.

Is enough for
him to truly love me back? Or now, having been told Valentina never really had
Carl’s affections, will he try to win her back?

I know I’ll
have to wait for his answer—

“We’re here,”
he murmurs.

So we are, I think coming out of my fog.

Saved by the
bomb.

I pull into
the far side of the parking lot, out of view from the reception area, where the
security guard is parked in front of an old big screen TV that must have been
confiscated from an abandoned storage unit.

“Break a
leg,” I say as he climbs out of the car.

He shuts the
car door before he hears me whisper, “And yes, I’ll marry you.”

Maybe it’s
for the best. Let’s face it. My answer doesn’t count if he’s already changed
his mind.

 ****

In life, just
about everything is timing.

If I hadn’t
been at a certain shooting range on a certain Spring break during college, I
would have never met Carl.

If I hadn’t
been in the bedroom to answer his cell while he was in the shower one day, I
would not have set into motion the chain of events that would have made him realize
he needed to disappear from the life we’d created together.

If Acme
hadn’t been looking for a few honeypots right about the time they yanked Carl’s
pension from me, I would’ve taken a job as an assistant at a bank, or made time
to be a class mom, instead of collecting a rogue’s gallery of scalps on my
belt.

And if Jack
hadn’t brought Carl home with him after one mission went awry, Valentina would
never have fallen in love with Carl, and left Jack for him.

None of this
I regret. Because if none of it had happened, I would have never have met Jack.

What I do
regret, however, as Safe & Sound’s Storage Unit Number 121 blows off the
back wing of the building, is that Jack never heard me say “Yes” when he asked
me to marry him.

I run past
the security guard, who stumbles out of the building in a total state of shock
and denial. Deadly blasts are way above his pay scale of fourteen dollars an
hour.

“Where is the
man who just went in there?” I shout at him “Did he make it out?”

He shakes his
head and cups his ear, to indicate he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.

I pull him
far away from the debris field, which is scattered far and wide. Coats and
dresses and pants float through the air like cloth clouds, while bed frames
pinwheel through the parking lot. Family photos float down from the night sky
in a storm of confetti.

People hold
onto too much crap.

If something
is important in your life, you’ll make room for it.

I hear
ambulances in the distance, heading this way. I don’t have much time if I’m
going to find Jack. What if he’s injured and can’t get out by himself?

I run into
the building and down the main hall, but I can’t see which way to turn because
the smoke pouring out is too thick, and worse, smells like melted plastic. I
can’t breathe. My lungs are on fire.

I’m crazy to
think Jack has survived the explosion.

As I pass
out, the only thing I can think of is how I wish I’d been with Jack at the very
end.

(c) 2012 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or Signal Press Books (info@signaleditorial.com).

 


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Mad Housewife Monday: Kelly Reemtsen’s Flower Power

Flower Power
One of my all-time favorite artists is Kelly Reemtsen. She so aptly captures the desperation of the ladies who lunch — especially when they get a bee under their bonnet about something.

Take this painting, called “Flower Power.”  The way this wifey in the retro shift holds her hedge clippers implies self-emmolation. And yet, her cocked knee implies a dark streak for dangerous flirtation. Perhaps she's saying, “Approach at your own risk.”

Truly a thorny situation.

Ms. Reemtsen's paintings can be found in the Skidmore ContemporaryArt (Los Angeles) and the David Klein Gallery (Birmingham, MI). If you're close by, they are worth the visit.

— Josie


To celebrate the launch of
The Housewife Assassin's
Relationship Survival Guide
 (Book 4),
I'm giving away a $100 gift card

to the bookstore of your choice!

Click here for details…

 

TGIF Excerpt: The Housewife Assassin’s Handbook: Granny Panties, or Ass Floss?



BlueDress2Here's my Friday treat for you: a fun excerpt from The Housewife Assassin's Handbook. Donna is still annoyed with having been paired with Jack on this latest mission. It doesn't help that he has an opinion on her sex appeal.   

Chapter
7


Be the Life of the Party

Socializing
is a big part of a housewife’s life. Lots of friends mean lots of invitations!
To keep abreast of all the activity, be sure to post a calendar
prominently—perhaps on the refrigerator. That way, your hubby has no excuse to
“forget” your social obligations. (Hint: Another gentle reminder that works
very well is a cattle prod. Don’t worry, the burn marks heal quickly…)

 ***

“We’ve got the Crichtons’ shindig tonight. Then
the Simpsons’ on Friday. And from the look of the calendar next week, another
three lined up… Jeez, you folks sure know how to party! How many bugs do we
have left?” Jack sounds grumpy.

Can’t say that I blame him. It’s the third night
this week that we’ve had a social engagement. Since his quote-unquote return,
we’ve been inundated with cocktail and cookout invitations.

My neighbors are nosy about “the mysterious Carl
Stone.”

It’s hard for me to forget all those years in
which they ignored me while Carl was supposedly on the road.

But I’ll save my pity for later. Considering our
mission, I guess this sudden burst of popularity is a blessing in disguise
since it allows us into their homes in order to plant bugs that sweep the
neighbor’s computers and their phones for any evidence that they are fronting
for the Quorum.

Unfortunately, the bugs we’ve planted have
yielded nothing.

We’re having a mission update in the one place I
know we won’t be interrupted by the children: my bedroom. I pull open my
underwear drawer, where I keep all the tracking devices. It gives new meaning
to the brand Agent Provocateur.

I do a quick count. “We’ve got enough for the
next six parties. I’ll ask Abu for refills.”

Before I can shut the drawer, Jack grabs a red
lace thong and holds it up to the light. “You mean to tell me that you actually
fit into this tiny thing?”

How dare
he!

I’ve learn to ignore his teasing. This time,
though, it’s a little too close for comfort.

I plant a supreme smile on my face. “But of
course. In fact, I’m wearing one now.”

“Really?” His tone is a dare.

What does he expect me to do, strip down to
prove a point?

As if.

Besides, I’d lose. The briefs I have on aren’t
exactly granny panties, but still, they aren’t the come-and-get-me ass floss
he’s holding, either.

As if reading my mind, he looks pointedly at the
mirror behind me:

It shows my backside very clearly.

I feel my face heating up. “Just what in hell do
you think you’re looking at?”

He cocks his head to one side. “Well, from this
angle, it looks like a VPL.”

“Huh…? What does that mean?”

“Code word for ‘visible panty line.’ But it’s
not in the official Acme manual, so don’t bother to check.”

I snatch the thong out of his hands. “Okay, so I
lied. Those aren’t everyday wear. Only when I have to go… you know,
undercover.” Enough of this crap. I shove him toward the door. “Go get dressed,
‘dear,’ or we’ll be late. Remember, we’re looking for any newbies: some single
woman named Vivian Norman, a retired couple with the last name of Neufeld, and
the Kelseys, that couple who moved in beside Hayley.”

He stops short of the threshold. “What are you
wearing tonight?”

“What’s it to you?”

“My interest is purely professional. Think of
yourself as the bait. When they bite, we get our man. Or woman.”

“Yeah, I’ll just bet you like it when they
bite.” It’s my turn to smirk. “I’ve got a little black number that will do the
trick—”

“Nah. Go for that electric blue one. Skin tight,
strapless—”

“Wait! How do you know about that one? Have you
been rummaging through my closet?”

“Don’t act so shocked. I had to see what you had
in the costume department—”

“My clothes are not costumes!”

“You don’t say?” I’d like to slap the grin off
his face. “I’ll keep that in mind. Oh, and by the way, I noticed a Singapore
Air flight attendant uniform, a nun’s habit, and a nurse’s uniform in there. I
presume none of those are typical carpool attire?”

“No—of course not!”

Okay, he’s made his point. I slam the door after
him.

Then I yank the clingy blue cocktail dress from
my closet.

And the red thong.

Neither gives me any place to hide the bug.

Here’s hoping he’s right. Otherwise I’ll be
giving the neighbors something to talk about for nothing.

(c) 2011 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or Signal Press Books (info@signaleditorial.com).

 


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The Housewife Assassin's Handbook
(Book 1) 
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Couples Kissing Tuesday: Wet Kiss

Scrub-a-DubKiss

So, what exactly was his reaction when he felt her in the shower behind him?
He didn't turn around. Instead he murmured, "I'll scrub your back, if you scrub mine."
Done deal.
But first a little, a little foreplay. There is no bigger turn-on than your lover's gentle fingers shampooing your scalp.
Nothing is sexier than suds cascading down your lover's back.
The droplets rolling from the tip of your lover's nose and onto your lips leaves you thirsty for more.
Wet kisses are the best.
Shower power,



HA-RSG-Final-V2 


 

The Housewife Assassin's

Relationship Survival Guide
for a chance to win a $100 gift card
from your favorite bookstore! 

Midnight Delight! A brand new excerpt of HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN’S GUIDE TO GRACIOUS KILLING

Man-hand-on-woman-shoulder3This was my birthday month. I'm one year younger, and one year wiser. (Think "Benjamin Button." Um… Yeah right, sure.)

As do most wise people, I don't celebrate myself, but those I appreciate. 

 That's where you come in.

This excerpt is for you, folks.

As the seconds count down on in thislast day of this beautiful Spring month, I've put up a new excerpt from Book 2 of the Housewife Assassin series, Guide to Gracious Killing

I put so much of myself into my books, which is why I want to share with you.

This ones got a real hot button: a host behaving badly, to the point where he almost rapes my heroine, Donna Stone. Don't fret. She can hold her own against anyone, including this well-connected manslut.

If you enjoy it, I'm glad I put a smile on your face. Hopefully, you'll go ahead and purchase it, which will add to my birthday joy. (And your joy, too, since it's cheaper than one of those fancy cups of java down at your local Starbucks). 

Enjoy!

— Josie

EXCERPT

The dining room isn’t one at all, but a library,
which is supposed to be “cozy,” despite its football-field-length,
wall-to-ceiling books, two-story-high ceilings, and a fireplace large enough to
hold three men and a little Bentley.

The table is round, which allows for optimum
placement of the eight guests between the host and hostess. I’m seated to the
right of Breck, and Franz is next to me. On his right is Felicity, with
Rutherford beside her. That puts Babette to his right and directly across the
table from Breck. Jack sits to Babette’s right, and Edwina on the other side of
him, with Garrett on her right. Hans is sandwiched between Garrett and Breck.

Franz and Hans, who sit opposite each other, speak
perfect English to everyone else, but hold side discussions in their native
language. My earrings are embedded with an audio feed that allows Ryan to
whisper sweet nothings into my ear. He promises to do so, should the bugs Arnie
has planted in the flowers that adorn the table and the rest of the room pick
up anything Jack and I should be warned about. It will be interesting to hear
the translation between Franz and Hans. Even if their phrases are seemingly
innocuous, I wonder if any codes will be detected.

For the most part, the conversation is polite,
the service by a phalanx of butlers is attentive to a fault, and the meal is
perfect. How can you go wrong with piquillo gazpacho as your first course,
followed by a chilled Dungeness crab salad, roasted Pacific Northwest salmon
with a vegetable ragout, and lime meringue pie topped with mango and raspberry
ice sorbet? And of course, each course served with white and red gold-medal
varietals.

In social settings, what is said isn’t as
important as what you see. Even before the appetizer was served, Edwina had
shifted her body away from Garrett, as if to avoid him and to focus on Jack. I
can’t blame her. The guy gives me the willies, too.

Jack is gracious enough to answer her questions
about the community and his role in his investment firm, but he’s smart enough
to share his remarks and attentions with Babette.

Garrett’s placement must be ideal for him,
because he’s practically fawning over Hans. Even when I compliment her on her
dress, Felicity ignores me and does the same to Franz. Once snubbed, twice
considering slipping a roofie into her wine glass. What am I, chopped liver?

No. Apparently, I’m presumed to be Breck’s
playmate du jour.

This is made obvious by the leer and wink he
gives me after I try to broach the topic of Great Britain’s LIBOR debacle and
its affect on American banks. I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling him
that it’s me, not my breasts, speaking to him.

Right as the main course is served, Jack looks
over at me. Feigning concern, he asks, “Donna dear, you promised Trisha you’d
bring her teddy bear. Have you given it to her yet?”

“Oh! No…I have it in my purse.” I glance over at
Babette. “If you don’t mind, Babette, I’ll just walk it down to the nursery.”

Babette nods. With a slight wave, she summons
over one of the butlers. “Jamison will show you the way.”

 ***

Trisha is happy to get a kiss, a hug and her
teddy bear, but she makes it clear that she’s not ready to go home by putting
her arm around her new pal and burrowing under the blanket they share. Nothing
like bonding over ice cream in bed while Brave
plays on a screen that takes up one whole wall of the nursery.

Ah, the good life.

Jamison has already scurried back to his post,
having been assured I can easily find my way back.

I can, but I don’t. Instead, I take a detour
into Breck’s office and go to work.

The room is simple and elegant. Over a credenza
is a John Singer Sargent portrait of a young wasp-waisted Victorian beauty. On
another wall, a crowd meanders through a Parisian market through the
surrealistic eyes of Georges Seurat.

Breck’s desk is large, glass, and empty. Where
the hell is his computer?

Then I see it: a laptop, on the credenza.

Quickly, I remove a thumb drive from my bracelet
and insert it into the computer. While it does its thing, I lean over the desk
for a better look at the Sargent…

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

Breck’s voice sends a trickle of dread down my
spine.

I lift my lips into a smile before turning
around. “I saw it first a few years ago, when you loaned it to the Getty. It is
one of my favor—”

Before I can finish my sentence, his tongue is
down my throat, and his hand is on the lower part of my back. He has me leaning
so far back that I’m practically horizontal across the credenza.

Sure, I could bite his tongue until he squeals
in pain. And yeah, I can yank his arm out of the socket so that it hangs
helplessly at his side. But if I do that before another two minutes is up, I’ll
blow our mission to hell.

So instead, I try not to gag as he cups me on
the ass and grinds into me. I moan as if I like it. In truth, this horizontal
boogieman has me pressed up against something sharp. I reach behind to pull it
out—

Hmmm, a sterling silver letter opener, engraved
with his initials. As he conducts a more thorough incisor exam than I’ve gotten
from my dentist, I try to guess how far his blood would spurt if I follow
through on my urge to stab his jugular with it…

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the thumb
drive is blinking. It’s my cue to kiss him hard, and grab it fast.

I reach over slowly. Unfortunately, this means I
have to inch closer to Breck. He takes it as a cue to fumble with his belt and
zipper.

Um…. No. No
way in hell

I whip out the thumb drive. Then, as I push him
away, I gasp, “I—I can’t do this! I love my husband too much!”

His smile fades. He stares down at me, as if
deciding if I’m serious, or just a tease.

In any event, he’s still intrigued. I know this
because he bruises my lips with a long kiss, then murmurs, “You can. And you
will.”

He takes my smile as tacit understanding that
he’s right.

Wrong. I have to force myself to drop the
envelope opener, before I do something I’ll regret.

He zips up, and then straightens his jacket and
tie. “In the meantime, feel free to hang out with Babette during the summit. I
want you two to get to know each other well. That way, when you give up your
pathetic attempt at propriety, she won’t suspect a thing.”

Without a backward glance, he walks out the
door.

Jeez. Seriously? Whatever happened to “ladies
first?”

The man needs a lesson in good manners.

Accompanied by a horsewhip.

(c) 2012 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or Signal Press Books (info@signaleditorial.com).

 


Guide-to-Gracious-Killing-FinalThe Housewife Assassin's 
Guide to Gracious Killing 
(Book 2) Only $3.99! 

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Donna and Jack are in the kind of hot mess that can cause an international incident:

A nuclear arms summit, hosted by a politically-connected American billionaire industrialist, provides the perfect opportunity for a rogue operative to assassinate of the newly-elected Russian president on US soil. Acme operative Donna Stone's mission:

Seek and exterminate the shooter, before all hell–and World War III–break loose.

Also on Donna's to-do list: file for divorce.

Throw in a couple of play dates and a few naughty neighbors, you've got a whole lot of fun.

 

One of my favorite scenes in THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN’S GUIDE to GRACIOUS KILLING

Zip1Whenever I re-read a book I've written, invariably I'll run across a scene that made me laugh, cry, or shiver with delight as I wrote it.

 This  scene, in The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing (Book 2 of the series) is one of those. And it rated a "shiver with delight." Read it, and then you'll know what I mean.

— Josie

Excerpt

Chapter 4
How to Choose
a Party Dress

When you’re a guest at
someone else’s soirée, your first impression should be also be a lasting
one—and certainly not because you either overdressed, or underdressed, for the
occasion. When in doubt, keep it simple and elegant: black, with pearls.

If the dress code is not
in the invitation, take the time to query your host regarding the proper
attire.

Note of caution: should
your host’s recommendation include, say, crotchless panties, a naughty
schoolgirl plaid skirt, brocade ankle restraints and a head harness with a
muzzle gag, be sure to bring along something you’ll know he deserves, for
getting on your bad side.

A cement overcoat will
do nicely.

 ****

“Go with the backless one. You’ve got the
shoulders to carry it off.”

I turn around to see who’s offering an opinion
on my hunt for the right gown to the Breck shindig tonight. My advisor is a man
who sits on a settee in a darkened corner of the Bergdorf-Goodman couture
suite, just off to the side of the circular bank of mirrors.

While I’ve been scrutinizing my profile, he’s
been admiring my shoulders, supposedly. But only now does he lift his eyes—from
somewhere far below my shoulders—to meet mine.

From the look of his suit (made to measure for a
man whose fit physique would look great in a gunnysack, let alone a
fifteen-thousand-dollar charcoal gray Brioni) he has great taste.

He should. He is Jonah Stanford Breck IV, one of
the wealthiest men in the world.

Sweetly, I smile at him through the mirror. “You
like it better than the blue one?”

His eyes sweep over me, appraisingly. “Much more
so. Albeit the blue sets off your… eyes.”

I laugh at his ridiculous attempt to avoid the
obvious. My eyes are brown. What looks great in the blue dress is my ass.

We both know it.

“Great, then. The blue one’s the charm.”

“You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

“Not a ball, really. Just dinner. In fact, I’ll
be dining at your place, Mr. Breck.”

His eyes, gray like his trimmed sideburns, flash
suspiciously for a moment before dulling into wariness.

“Your wife, Babette, extended the invitation. My
daughter, Trisha, has been playing with Janie all afternoon. I presume Babette
felt the diversion would be welcomed.”

“Ah! How thoughtful of her. She’s right. These
business affairs can be deadly without a few petite amusements.”

  As if on
cue, a woman in a flesh-toned, sparkly low-cut gown walks out of one of the
dressing rooms and over to Breck. She turns her back toward him, just slightly.
“Zip me up, will you, darling?” Her murmur is deep and soft, like velvet.

Slowly, he runs the zipper along the swayed arch
of her back then pats her ass, not so much to let her know he is done with her,
but as a promise that he isn’t.

His eyes stay with her as she makes her way back
to the dressing room. Finally, as if remembering I was still in the room, he
adds, “She’s Babette’s personal shopper. Unlike me, after eight years of
marriage, my wife finds trekking through stores ‘a chore and a bore.’ Marilyn
is exactly her size and coloring, so these little shopping excursions are
win-win for everyone. Beautiful, don’t you agree?”

“The woman or the dress?”

He points to my profile in the mirror. “A
beautiful woman makes the dress.”

I smile my thanks. “Then I presume I’ve just had
a preview of what Babette will be wearing?”

His smile fades. “Don’t presume anything.
Babette doesn’t always agree with my taste.”

“A shame. So fetching.”

It is his turn to ask, “The woman, or the
dress?”

“Since you’re paying, you tell me.”

He laughs uproariously at that. “I always do.
And dearly.”

“Speaking of the dear, will she be joining us
for dinner?”

His smile hardens into a smirk. “Later. Dessert.
I have a voracious appetite, especially for sweet things.” His eyes catch mine
in the mirror. “Remember, dinner at eight. Sharp.”

By the time I leave the dressing room, Jonah
Breck and his personal shopper have already checked out.

When I take my dress to the sales clerk, she
informs me, “Mr. Breck put it on his tab. He asked me to relay his sincere
appreciation for your daughter’s hospitality, and he looks forward to returning
it, personally.”

I guess I can tell Ryan he need not worry
whether we’ll get close enough to the summit’s host. If Breck has his way,
we’ll be up close and personal.

Or at least, I will.

Oh yeah, Jack should love that.

(c) 2012 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or Signal Press Books (info@signaleditorial.com).

 


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The Housewife Assassin’s Relationship Survival Guide has a Mother-Daughter talk about (Yep, you guessed it) S-E-X!

Nails1

I love this scene because it says a lot about my heroine, Donna's, relationship with her oldest child, twelve-year-old Mary. And since this book is all about the cause and effect of trust and love, it's a perfect scene to share with you.

I hope you enjoy it!

— Josie

 

EXCERPT

“When
did you first start having sex?” Mary asks.

Her
question causes me to swipe the nail polish brush over her pinky toe, and the
one beside it.

It’s
Day Eight of my lockdown. I was wrong to presume that time would pass quicker
if I painted my nails a different color each day. Initially I was able to
coerce both Mary and Trisha to join me for my daily pampering session, but
yesterday Trisha dropped out, despite the fact that the colour de jour was Disney Villain’s Cruella De Vil.

Her
excuse: “Mommy, Cruella is a meanie. Besides, my toes miss being plain old
pink.” That was her way of telling me I need a new hobby.

Don’t
I know it.

Considering
the subject at hand, I’m okay that today it’s just Mary and me. But let’s face
it, she’s asked a loaded question. Girls have sex so much earlier than we did.
(Well, than I did…) If I answer honestly, she may think I was a slut. Or a
desperate spinster.

 Either way, I come off as a loser.

The
GPS security bracelet on my ankle, coupled with freshly painted toes on my left
foot, hobble me as I stumble over to the French doors that separate the sunroom
from the media room. I lied and told the kids the bracelet was from my doctor,
to strengthen my ankle against some imaginary tendonitis.

Now
I have a bigger issue to fib about: Sex.

I’m
closing the doors so that my ten-year-old son, Jeff, and his pals, Cheever Bing
and Morton Smith, can’t listen in on our discussion. If anything can tear them
away from Minecraft, it’s a discussion about S-E-X by two people of the
opposite sex, especially if one is Jeff’s older sister.

I
settle back down onto the couch and try to collect my thoughts before speaking.
“I waited until I knew I was with ‘the one’.”

I’m
lying, of course. Who the hell knows a guy is “the one” when they’re seventeen?
Or twenty-seven, for that matter.

I
guess the proof I guessed wrong was when Carl left me with three kids.

But
yes, I presumed he was “the one.” What I didn’t count on was his also being Public Enemy Number One.

While
Mary tries to find meaning in my dodge, I add, “Why exactly do you want to
know?”

“Because—”
she pauses. “No reason. I was just wondering.”

Ah,
I see.

Mary
is twelve going on twenty, and that freaks me out. Her quote-unquote steady is
a cute kid named Trevor Smith, the captain of the Hilldale Middle School
varsity basketball team. Right now, I want to break both his arms before he
does something to Mary that he’ll regret, and she will, too.

“Sex
is different from love, Mary.”

“Oh,
Mom!” Mary rolls her eyes. “I know that!”

“Okay,
I’ll take your word for it. So, tell me: why are they different?”

She
stops to think about it. Then: “When you date, some guys only want to see how
far they can get with you. You know…they don’t really treat you as a person.”
She shakes her head sadly. “I don’t want to be that kind of girl.”

I
nod, but say nothing. Inside I’m doing a happy dance because she actually knows
the difference.

“But
I think it’s exciting when a boy—a guy—is
just as sweet on you as you are on him.”

“I
can see that.” I try to keep my tone nonchalant as I drench a cotton ball in
polish remover and wipe off yesterday’s sparkly turquoise from Mary’s left
foot. “But love is different, at different ages and stages of life. And so is
dating. That’s why it’s smart to date more than one guy, so you have some other
experiences for comparison. The good guys always show respect, and never push you
to—to do anything that doesn’t seem right.”

“Did
you date a lot, before you met Dad?”

“Yes,
I’d dated some, but I wasn’t that experienced.” I’m sure the color of my cheeks
is almost as dark and purple as the polish I’m applying to her nails. “I was
twenty when we met, and I was in college. We married within a year, after I
turned twenty-one.”

“Did
you feel you should have waited?”

“No.
At least, not at the time.”

“But
in hindsight, would you have liked to have had more experiences?”

“Yes,
I wish I had. It’s hard to know what’s right for you if you’ve had too few
experiences, or have only experienced one relationship that is not really
working for you.”

Mary
looks up sharply. “But Dad wasn’t wrong for you, was he?”

Ah,
yet another trick question. “Dad has changed a lot over the years. Then again,
I have, too. “You see, Mary, not only must you both grow, you can’t have grown
apart.”

“When
Dad was gone all that time, did you grow apart?”

Her
question rips a tiny tear in my heart. Does she suspect that Jack isn’t Carl
Stone, her father?

I
search her face for the answer. What I see is innocence and curiosity.

And
trust.

It’s
why I can answer her from the bottom of my heart. “To stay in love, you need
respect, and passion, and above all, trust. All the time I waited for him, I
trusted he would come home again.”

Carl
never really came home.

On
the other hand, Jack has proven to me he is worth the wait.

Mary’s
comprehension comes with a slow nod. “Mom, I think Trevor likes me as much as I
like him, but sometimes I catch him looking at other girls, and that makes me
jealous. So I don’t know about the ‘trust’ part. At least, not yet.”

“To
find true love at such a young age is a rare thing. If it’s real, he’ll wait
until you grow into the woman you were meant to be, and he’ll grow up, too.
You’ll stay friends, but have other friends as well: people who make you laugh,
and who you can count on to be there for you, and who will prove their
friendship through trust.  If he stays
your friend, he will be all that, and more.”

Mary
waits until her toes dry, then she kisses me on the cheek and murmurs, “Don’t
worry, Mom. I’m not ready for ‘that’ yet. I’m only asking because I know you’ll
always tell me the truth.”

The truth. Yes, it’s what
we strive to know.

I
pray she never learns the truth about her father.

“Besides,”
she adds, “when the time comes, you’ll be the first to know.”

She
kisses me on the forehead then runs upstairs to do her homework.

Lucky
me.

And no matter
where that first boy hides, I will track him down.

HA-RSG-Final-V2

© 2013 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Author.

The Housewife Assassin's
Relationship Survival Guide

(Book 4 of The Housewife Assassin series) 

Buy it on

Amazon.com  BN.com  KoboBooks.com

 Read other excerpts at HousewifeAssassinsHandbook.com

Love this version of Andree Belle singing “Go Go Gadget Heart”…

 

Soft Glow of Electric Sex
Here's one of my fave songtresses and her band, Andree Belle,  doing their thing!  

The song is "Go Go Gadget Heart, which you'll find on her digital album, "The Soft Glow of Electric Sex." Obviously the little techie had his effect on her! Only $7? Such a steal!

In fact, I featured this song in my novel,The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing. 

You can read the excerpt, below.

Josie


 

 

Book 2: The Housewife Assassin's Guide To Gracious Killing – Excerpt


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Donna and Jack are in the kind of hot mess that can cause an  international incident:

A nuclear arms summit, hosted by a politically-connected American billionaire industrialist, provides the perfect opportunity for a rogue operative to assassinate of the newly-elected Russian president on US soil. Acme operative Donna Stone's mission:

Seek and exterminate the shooter, before all hell–and World War III–break loose.

Not to mention what happens when Donna files for divorce.

Throw in a couple killer play dates and a few naughty neighbors, you've got a whole lot of fun.

 

Chapter 1: Breaking Bad Hostessing Habits

Every woman wants to be the perfect hostess, and frets over her inadequacies when it comes to the gracious art of entertaining.  Pshaw! A little forethought and a few hours of  planning makes it easy as cherry pie!

There is, however, one ironclad rule that every hostess must follow: make all your guests wish they’d never have to leave.

Especially in a coffin. With a bullet lodged in their heads.

 

Harry Happy Hour“You’re quite a saucy minx!” Prince Harry’s  ale-slurred come-on can barely be heard over the techno-vibe emanating from a starship-worthy console of  the Ivy Lounge rooftop’s head-bobbing deejay.  “What say you give me a peek as to where that tattoo ends?”

His head is cocked downward, as if it might give him the ex-ray vision he’ll need in order to see the rattle on the faux-tatt’ed snake drawn from my belly, which ends somewhere  in the nether regions that lay under my thong bikini.

“You’re a cheeky sod. I do have a face, you know.” I snap my fingers in front of his nose in order to draw his eyes northward.

I’ve succeeded, sort of.  But come on, already: the diplomacy born and bred into the Prince of Wales can’t beat two millennia of innate urges and four pints of Guinness.

His eyes linger below my neck, albeit above my abdomen.

When, finally, our eyes meet, I lean in and whisper, “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

I’m lying, even if he doesn’t know it—yet.

His outright laugh is accompanied with a shake of his head, and a tug at the waistline of his briefs. “Nothing under these trollies, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint.”

I finger his briefs longingly, then sigh. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me somehow.”

His smile is his vow not to disappoint.

God save the queen…

It’s no secret the prince has been stateside with his Royal Air Force unit, learning the latest tricks and treats of the AH-64D Apache helicopter: his vehicle of choice for his upcoming tour of duty in Afghanistan. Tomorrow the soldiers complete their training and head home. To celebrate, the soldiers are here, in San Diego, which is just a couple of hours west of their training base, the Naval Air Facility at El Centro.

Seems some chatter, intercepted by MI-6, has led the Cousins to deduce that the prince is the latest target of “the Leprechaun,” a notorious assassin affiliated with the Irish terrorist cell known as 32CSM. If the Leprechaun succeeds in picking off the spare to the throne, then once again the always thin strand of peace between Ireland and Great Britain will be ripped to shreds.

If it happens on our side of the pond, the U.S. will have mud on its face, not to mention the bluest of blood on its hands.

So yep, I have to stop the Leprechaun before he gets lucky.

My employer, the freelance black ops agency known in the field as Acme Corporation, paid big bucks to the club owners so that I could be up close and personal with the prince. My goal is not to shag, let alone snag, Harry the Hottie. It’s to save his adorable hide from a possible assassination attempt.

The prince leans in, close enough to ask in a seductive albeit ale-sodden growl, “Want me to sign your bikini?”

I look down between my breasts. “Oops, forgot my pen. But you seem to be carrying one, in your pants pocket. Or maybe you’re just happy to see me.”

He’s laughing so hard his last gulp of Guinness goes down the wrong way.

“Prince Charming has a one-track mind.” Jack Craig’s snarl comes in loud and clear through the tiny microphone in my ear. As the team leader for this Acme Industries mission, he is close by, but far enough away that no potential assassin can spot him.

Trust me, there is an assassin lurking nearby.

Jack is also my main squeeze, which is why he’s growling about my having to play the coquette while under deep cover (in this bikini, I’m talking figuratively if not literally) as one of the nightclub’s VIP bottle girls, and more specifically, the world’s most eligible prince ’s pick-up du jour.

Needless to say, the club’s real bottle girls are pea green with envy. They can’t figure out how this newbie became Cinderella of this Century.

If I told them that my aim and my 1st degree black belt status had something to do with it, would they believe me? Probably not. All they see is that I’m just this side of Cougarville, which means Harry is less discriminating than they had hoped.

For once I’m glad Jack is not here with us, in the cordoned-off VIP section. One involuntary muscle flex and prince’s all too obvious brawny goon squad—three of his Royal Air Force mates—would be on top of him, like suds on ale. 

At MI-6’s behest, we’ve kept that a secret from Harry, for now anyway. Which, I’m sure, is why he feels so cocksure. This mission wouldn’t have been so hard if the prince weren’t so insistent about partying “like an ordinary surfer bloke,” is how he so preciously puts it. 

Thus far the natives have been awed as much by his title as his regular dude  personality.

Just as the deejay ratchets up the hip hop club mix, six drunken sorority sisters stroll our way. One of the girls, a Kate Middleton lookalike, pierces me with a jealous glare.

I stare back and smile, as if to say Take the hint. Get lost.

Her eyes shift from me to one of Harry’s RAF buds. She waves coyly at him, and he’s smitten. Smirking back, he nods her over. She squeals and grabs the hand of one of her girlfriends.

Harry's haremIn no time at all, she and her besties have jumped the red velvet rope. They toss themselves onto the prince’s entourage, who don’t seem to be fighting them off too hard.

In fact, they’re snapping their fingers at me with drink orders for their new arm charms.

“Not good.” Jack’s warning in my ear is just loud enough for me to here.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I mutter back.

“How about this?” Jack is now shouting into my earpiece. “You’ve lost Prince Harry.”

He’s right.

The prince seems captivated by a petite, busty blond beauty. Even in heels, she barely reaches his chest. She had pulled him out onto the dance floor for a throbbing sex-drenched hip grinder, Andree Belle’s Go Go Gadget Heart.

The strobe lights and smoke machine make it hard to follow them in the crowd. Then I see them, against one wall. The buxom little tart has draped her arms around his shoulders and hugs him close, as if she’ll never let him go.

Apparently too close. I shove my way through the crowd until I’m close enough to I hear Harry’s woozy cry: “Blimey, you’re no bird! You’ve got a wanker!”

Before I can pull him away, the prince is pricked on the neck with something  his partner has pulled from her cleavage. Harry’s groan is loud—

Then the smell of smoke, and the lights go out—

But not before the last strobe catches the triumphant look on his partner’s face.

 “Oh my God, Jack! The woman with Harry—she’s—not a she! She’s—”

“I know, I saw it, too! The Leprechaun!”

Proof it pays to hit the M.A.C. counter before a night on the town.

 And to hang out where the lights are always low.

Everyone is screaming and shoving their way to the exits, leaving me room to follow the Leprechaun, who was shoving Harry in the opposite direction, up against a wall.

“It’s too dark to see where they went. Does anything show up on the club’s security cams?”

“I’m looking now. In the meantime, check the wall for a hidden pocket door. The schematic of this club shows a few of them on every level. I’m sure the Leprechaun had his exit scoped out in advance.”

While he scans the feeds from the security cameras, I skim the walls with my hands. Finally I find it: a tiny catch, waist high.

I pull it open it just in time to see the Leprechaun heaving Harry down a long corridor.

He may not be used to running in heels, but I am. If only I wasn’t running in a bikini, too.

“Too many wobbly bits,” I mutter under my breath.

It is inappropriate for Jack to be laughing now, but he can’t help it. “Just two. And they’re a sight to behold. Prince Charming will be upset he slept through it.”

The thought of Harry in the French-manicured hands of an assassin who can start the United Kingdom and Ireland down another bloody path of un-neighborly relations has me picking up my pace. Unlike the Leprechaun, I’m smart enough to ditch my high heels—

But I’m still not fast enough to reach them before the Leprechaun rolls him into the backseat of a dark BMW and screeches off.

I can hear Jack slapping the wall with his fist. “Aw, damn! We lost them!”

“Nope, I slipped a GPS tracker in the prince’s trollies.”

“You did what?…In his—what?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t peek. I’ll meet you around the corner.”

What’s a little white lie between fake husband and wife?

Before he can say another word, I snap off my earpiece and run down the block.

(c) 2012 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or Signal Press Books (info@signaleditorial.com).

_______________________

Guide-to-Gracious-Killing-Final

In Amazon Now!

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Digital eBook 

 

 

It’s a’comin’, by golly…

HA-RSG-Final-V2Okay, try hard not to hate me, or to think that I've played the worst ever April Fool's joke on you (Tiffy, that one's for you, lol!) but I have to say upfront that we've had some tech issues with launching The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide.

The SECOND the glitch is taken care of, we will submit it to Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, and Apple iTunes Bookstore. And the NANO-SECOND it's up in the online bookstores, if you sign up for my eLetter you'll get a notice from me…

So thank you in advance for your patience (Billie, that's my tip o' the hat to you).

There are a lot of twists and turns in store for Donna and Jack. And one very important character dies (yes, dies!) but you'll have to read the book to find out who.

In the meantime, to celebrate the release sometime this week (from now on I'm putting it that way, until I personally see it up on the screen)the first book in the series, THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN'S HANDBOOK, is now FREE.  Please tell your friends, so that they too may come to love the series as much as we do.

And if you're looking for a little taste of what's to come in Book 4, read this excerpt from it , as well as the one below.

 

Thanks for your patience,

— Josie

How to Dress for Successful Dates

Great first impressions start with good
grooming! Before you open your door to your date, wash and style your hair.
Indulge in a mani-pedi. Put on your face paint, but don’t overdo it. The goal
is to cover up, not to lay it on thick. Wear a flattering dress. And certainly
put on a pair of heels, since they always make a woman’s legs look great, and
give her a slimming silhouette.

A bit of jewelry is like feathers on a
peacock, drawing a man’s eye to the most flattering places: your neck, your
wrists, your waist, your hair, and your face.

Surprise! The best accessory of all: a
Baby Browning .22 caliber semi automatic. Less than three inches and not even
ten ounces, this little gun fits in the palm of your hand (not to mention in a
purse, up a sleeve, or in your bra).

With Baby onboard, any gentleman caller
who turns out to be no gentleman at all but a slob who likes playing impromptu
game of slap-and-tickle will listen when you warn him to move his hand.

Or else lose an eye. Have Fun!

**********

“What’s your weight?” Jack murmurs.

That’s the wrong question to ask a woman as she’s wiggling
into a Spanx Slim Cognito shape slip. “Um…one-o-nine.” I answer him.

Jack’s head whips around so fast, you’d think he needs an
exorcist. He closes an eye and cocks his head to one side. “For real?”

“Yes, of course!” I turn my back to him, so he doesn’t see
that my face is as red as a tomato: not because my circulation has been cut
off, but from my indignation that he’d have the nerve to question me. “My God,
I’ve been answering these silly questions all night! What does it really
matter? According to Arnie, the minute my profile goes live, it will
automatically simulate the desired characteristics reflected in the suspects’
accounts.”

“You know the drill. We still have to fill out the profile
fields, or else Sugar CEO won’t accept your application. There are just a few
more questions, so bear with me. Of course, if you want me to do it without
you—”

“Ha! Don’t you dare.”

“Have a little faith! I promise to follow your lead and fill
in a bunch of lies.”

While he taps away on the computer keyboard, I rummage
through my collection of wigs to see what I can salvage from Trisha’s last play
date with her best friend, Janie Breck. Thanks to the girls’ mutual addiction
to sweet pink cotton candy-flavored Bubble Yum, so far three of them need to be
shortened or tossed. I hope I have a few left over so that Jack can take
pictures of me in them. That way, Arnie’s software algorithm will upload the
one that best corresponds with the target’s sugar baby wish list.

 “You’re going to have
to answer some true/false, comment and multiple choice questions. Okay,
question number one: If you had a porn name, what would it be?”

“Ha! I’ll just bet they don’t ask the sugar daddies the same
thing.”

“Good supposition. Let me see.” He opens another screen and
scrolls through the website. “You’re right, they don’t. But they do ask the
dude’s net worth, starting at 25 million and going up from there.”

“Cha-ching! Okay,
that evens the playing field somewhat. If I’m going to be someone’s fantasy,
he’s got to make it worth my while. In that case, type in ‘Mila Johannson’ as
my porn name.”

“Not fair. All you did is combine the names of two very
capable actresses.”

“It’s perfectly fair. Tell me, what were they’re last
roles?”

“All I remember is that both were squeezed into something
sexy.”

 “You’ve just proven
my point. You noticed nothing about these women, either above their lips or
below their knees.”

“And the most desirable feature on your sugar daddies will
be their bank accounts.” Jack snickers as he clicks away furiously on the
computer keyboard. Whatever merde he’s
writing, no doubt he’s laying it on thick.

 “We all play to our
strengths. Other than money and temporary security, what else do these jerks
have to offer?” I put down the scissors with a sigh. They’re useless anyway.
Now that I’ve chopped my favorite auburn wig to shreds, it looks worse than
Anne Hathaway’s in her Les Miserable death
scene. “Besides, this mission is quick and dirty, in and out. Prick them with
truth serum, which allows Emma to record their answers. Then use the info they
give me to turn them, and leave.” 

He catches my eye in the mirror. “These guys aren’t dummies.
If they get suspicious, they’ll make sure you won’t leave their little love
nests alive. Their battalion of bodyguards will be right outside the bedroom
door.”

“Jack, you know I appreciate your concern. I realize I have
eleven chances to screw things up. On the other hand, I have eleven
opportunities to put the Quorum out of business once and for all.”

“It would have been easier with Carl still behind bars.”

“Well, he isn’t, and now it’s make-up time. And besides, you
and Abu will be close by.”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is be careful, okay?”

I nod. “Okay, I promise. Cross my heart. Now, hit me with
another question.”

“Are you a cat person, or a dog person, and why?”

“Put down ‘I love it doggy style.’”

“Don’t I know it,” he murmurs. “Now, this next question is
true or false: I want a relationship with no strings attached.”

“Click true.”

“Sure,” he says, but at the same time he winces. For us,
role-playing is a way of life.

And of death.

“Next, another multiple choice: I’d rather be (a) at a
disco, (b) at the opera. (c) cheering courtside at a Lakers game, or (d)
sunning myself naked on a beach.” 

Now it’s my turn to frown. “Choose anything but the beach!”

He laughs out loud. “I would have guessed that. Okay, now:
If you were a tree, what kind would you be? The choices are (a) Redwood (b)
Dogwood (c) Oak, or (d) Japanese Maple.”

“Make me a Dogwood.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s small and the flowers are either pink or
white. Subliminally, the message here is ‘virginal and girly.’”

“But you’re really an Oak, right?”

“Nah. A Redwood. I’m in it for the long run.”

He knows exactly what I mean.

“Okay, next up: Would you rather date (a) an artist (b) a
banker (c) an entrepreneur or (d) a corporate industrialist?”

“I guess we both know the answer to that one.” My eyes seek
his out. “I only have eyes for you.”

This earns me a knowing smile. “Last question: Where would
you prefer to be kissed, and why?”

“Seriously? They ask something that personal?” I slip behind
him so that I can read over his shoulder. “They make it quite clear what this
is all about, don’t they?….Wait! I don’t see that question here.”

“My bad. It’s my question, not theirs.” He pulls me into his
lap.

Sure, I’ll play along. “Want to take a guess?”

He chuckles. “I’m a hands-on kind of guy. How else can I
gauge your true enthusiasm?”

He’s got a point there.

He hits the SUBMIT button, then forwards Arnie my User ID
and password. The photos can wait until our little survey is completed.

We’ve only tested six possible kissing locations when
Arnie’s email pings Jack’s computer. We let out with a mutual groan, then
disentangle ourselves in order to read it:

You’re live,
sugar babe!

What Arnie lacks in subtlety, he makes up for with
enthusiasm.

“But how can that be?” I ask, “We never sent photos!”

“Heck if I know. Let me test your submission with a fake CEO
profile.” He opens one, and types in a wish list with the exact profile I
submitted.

In no time at all, my profile falls into his email box.

Except that my head now sports long blond hair in coiling
tendrils, has been superimposed onto a body that looks suspiciously like
Scarlett Johansson’s.

Jack gives a low whistle. “I’m not saying Arnie can improve
on perfection, but he’s has sure as hell comes damn close.”

I pelt Jack with a pillow.

The next thing we hear is a few bars of “Easy Street” as a
Sugar CEO meeting request drops into my Sugar Babe account.

My very first gentlemen caller has come a’knocking.

 “It’s the bewitching
hour,” Jack mutters with a sigh.

The rest of the kissable positions on my must-do list will
have to wait.

I brace myself before clicking onto it.

© 2013 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Author.

 

Free, I tellz ya! Free! FREE!

HAH-Hanging-Man-Oct-5-2012
Yep, The Housewife Assassin's Handbook just went free on Amazon, and already it's #18 in the Amazon Kindle eBook Store under "Women Sleuths," and #39 under "Romantic Suspense."

You can read an excerpt, here below.

Enjoy, 

— Josie

 

THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN'S HANDBOOK

Murder. Suspense. Sex. 
And some handy household tips.

Signal Press – Digital eBook 

Buy it from

AmazonKindleButtonFREE!

Logo_kobo FREE!


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CHAPTER 1: Please Read and Follow Directions Carefully….

Any woman can be both the perfect housewife and an accomplished assassin, because both functions require the same qualities: creativity; a never-say-die attitude; and an attention to details, no matter how small . . .

***

All I really needed to know about being a freelance assassin I learned before my youngest daughter, Trisha, started kindergarten.

I’ve come to that realization as I lay naked and handcuffed to the bed of my target du jour, a sleazebag by the name of Yuri Petrovich.

 Yuri has just downed a couple of Viagra with the last of his Starbucks venti-sized non-fat decaf caramel macchiato. This is to ensure us both that his attempt to mount me will have all the gusto of a broncobuster breaking in the wildest filly in the corral before heading on into the sunset. (In truth, we are in a hillside suite at the Chateau Marmont. But considering Yuri’s attitude toward women, the cowboyspeak sums things up quite nicely.)

Believe it or not, everything is going just as I planned, and right on schedule.

ChateauMarmont.JPGAt least, that is what I tell myself as I watch him unzip his rock star-tight leather pants and squeeze out of them as quickly as he can because his erection, which seems to be growing by the nanosecond, has him wincing in pain. (And in Yuri’s fantasy if anyone is going to get hurt, it’s going to be me. The handcuffs are proof of that.)

Like, say, eighty-eight percent of all my targets, this Russian mafia boss, who came here to unload a cache of AK-103s on some Idaho Neo-Nazis, has an obsessive-compulsive personality. In Yuri’s case that means staying in the same suite at the Marmont every time he hits Los Angeles (although his Slavic accent and pockmarked greaser looks has hardly earned him an iota of the ass-kissing accorded aging rock stars, budding celebutantes, or out-of-town British actors); doing the down-and-dirty with some rent-a-whore, both before and after the arms sale; and drinking macchiatos nonstop, even during his favorite sex act, that Kama Sutra position euphemistically called “the ostrich’s tail.” (Don’t ask, because you really don’t want to know.)

Acme Industries, one of the many new post-9/11 CIA-sanctioned subcontractors that handles any and all dirty tricks that won’t pass a Congressional panel sniff test, contracted me to be the honeypot who takes Yuri down. My assignment is as follows: First, I was to stall on the sex until the skinheads showed up. Next, I was to plant a GPS system on one of them, so that ATF can track and apprehend them during the pick-up. And finally, as a show of tit-for-tat diplomacy with Uncle Sam’s publicly acknowledged new best friend Russia, I was to see to it that Yuri never left his hotel room alive.

Oh yeah, and one more very important point: All of this is supposed to be accomplished before three o’clock, the time in which I have to pick up my ten-year-old, Jeff, and a carload of his teammates for an after-school baseball game. Otherwise I’d have to face the wrath of two other mothers for having blown the team’s shot at taking the state title without a play-off game—

This is why I pray that the 405 isn’t a nightmarish backup by the time I head home.

From the moment he landed stateside, Yuri’s cell phone calls were monitored. The one to his favorite LA escort service was rerouted to an Acme phone operative, who scheduled Yuri a date with “Precious” (a suitable alias, seeing how I’m trussed up in a push-up bra, a low-cut tank top, and the tight denim micro miniskirt I’d raided from my twelve-year-old daughter Mary’s closet. My gut told me that Yuri would not have appreciated my own Lily Pulitzer twill.)

The fact that I showed up an hour after the appointed time put me just a few minutes ahead of the Neo-Nazis: perfect timing in my book, since it foiled his plan for a little pre-sale foreplay.

Needless to say, Yuri was miffed at me for ruining his timetable. To make that point, he pushed me up against the wall, kicked my legs apart, and frisked me roughly. Really, it was more of a test-the-merchandise fondle. Anticipating that maneuver, I’d left my trusty 9mm at home. That’s okay. In my hooker get-up there was no place to hide it anyway, which is why these kinds of close range hits are always tricky. But then again, that’s why I get paid the big bucks. For this job, my weapon of choice was a tiny, serrated dagger that is appropriately called the “street assassin.” However, I was willing to bet that Yuri and I wouldn’t be anywhere near asphalt when I struck, but between some very expensive 700-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

What a waste. I wonder if the hotel knows that little trick about using meat tenderizer on bloodstains . . .

Not that I planned on sticking around to find out.

I shrugged off his grope with a giggle. “Yeah, the service warned me how much youlove a little foreplay, so I brought these along.” Still spread-eagled, I unhooked pair of handcuffs from the metal belt slung low over my skirt, and jangled them tantalizingly in front of him, in case he needed additional proof that I was his fantasy fuck. That shut him up. It also kept him from noticing my dagger, which hangs as innocuously as any of the buckles on my belt: a great way to fool metal detectors, which, believe it or not, are sometimes used by the bad guys, too.

Then to make sure I had his undivided attention, I rubbed the all too obvious bulge in his jeans with one hand and nodded approvingly, while relieving him of his Starbucks cup with the other. As I took a swig from it, one of his two goons snickered out loud. Yuri’s eyes blazed at my impudence. He lifted his hand to slap me, but was stopped by a sharp knock on the door.

InterestingThe skinheads. Perfect timing. “Jeez, nobody said it was going to be a party! But hey, I’m open to anything – as long as you cleared it with the service.” I handed the cup back to him, sauntered over to the couch and flopped down as if I owned the place. While Yuri’s goons frisked the two Neo-Nazis, I crossed my legs seductively and leaned over so that my cleavage runneth over in plain view for all to enjoy. No doubt about it, the skinheads were appreciative. The fatter, uglier one even had the balls to ask me if my boobs were real.

“Wanna come over here and find out?” I crooked a finger at Ugly. As he slid me onto his lap, I copped my own feel: under the collar of his military fatigue jacket, where I planted a tiny GPS bug.

Seeing me all over Ugly made Yuri even hotter to be done with the business portion of his trip. He yanked me off his guest and shoved me in the direction of the bedroom. “No party. You wait in there,” he growled.

I pulled him in close for a deep kiss. Then, as a reminder of all the fun and games I had in store for us, I handed him the key to the handcuffs. That was all the incentive he needed to get rid of the skinheads tout sweet. He closed the door fast, which was fine with me. The tranquilizer I’d slipped into his macchiato before giving it back to him – a time-release version of Rohypnol – was to kick in sometime within fifteen minutes. I was estimating that he’d need about ten to get rid of the boys, which would leave me five to stall before he fell on his face, making it easy to slit his throat before hightailing it out of there.

The minute he shut the door, I set up for the kill. First I snapped on a pair of gloves – black lace from fingertips to the elbows. Sexy, for sure (in fact, they match my G-string) but because they are lined in a micro-thin flesh-toned latex, I won’t be leaving any telltale prints. As I expected, the sliding door to the terrace outside the bungalow was locked and the curtains were pulled, which allowed for complete privacy from the outside. After disabling the alarm with the tiny decoder I keep on my key ring, I went ahead and unlocked the sliding door so that when the time was right I could make a quick getaway.

I wasn’t worried about the handcuffs, since they were the kind used by magicians and I’d only need a strategic jerk of the wrist to break free. Even if the Roofie didn’t kick in before Yuri snapped them onto my wrists, I’d be able to get out of them in only a few seconds.

And finally, I slipped the knife under the mattress, near the right side of the headboard. I’d retrieve it when the time was right.

As minute eight slipped by, I heard a door close on the other side and guessed rightly that Yuri had said bye-bye to his new skinhead pals. During Minute Nine, Yuri instructed his homeboys not to disturb us no matter how much moaning I was doing – and he planned for me to be doing a lot of it.

Then, as predicted, Yuri opened the door ten minutes after he’d left me. Locking it behind him, he smilingly approvingly at my state of total undress: my only attire was my G-string, stilettos, and the lace gloves. 

I was somewhat surprised that he wasn’t at least yawning by now. Apparently he has the constitution of a rhino. I was hoping that I wouldn’t find out if he had the staying power of one as well. It was then that I noticed that the Starbucks cup was still in his hand….

Damn! Hadn’t he finished that thing yet? Okay, no big deal. So I’d have to stall for another minute or two…

To put that thought out of my mind, I envisioned the kill instead: watching his eyes grow drowsy from the drug – or if necessary, closed in the ecstatic throes of passion; yanking my hands free, then reaching under the mattress for the knife….

Yuri wrongly assumed that my sigh was in anticipation of what he pulled from his leather jacket’s pocket: my handcuffs. “Okay, bitch. On the bed.”

HandcuffedObediently I dropped onto it and grasped the middle finials on the vine-patterned headboard. As he slapped on the cuffs, he stifled a yawn. (Yes! Yes! Finally!) To keep alert, he took a long sip of his macchiato. Then, as if remembering something, Yuri pulled something out of an inner pocket of his jacket…

Ah, yes: the perfect pre-sex appetizer: Viagra.

Humph. I wondered what effect that might have on the Roofie . . . 

And now that Yuri’s striptease is over, it seems I have my answer: not only does the Rohypnol appear to have been neutralized by his little blue devil, it seems to have accelerated his hard-on –

 And from the look of things, acted as a growth hormone to boot.

Not good. At least, not while I’m in my current position – by that I mean naked, chained to his bed, and about to be mounted like a prize rodeo steer.

Not that Yuri seems in any hurry. Nonchalantly he ambles over to the built-in armoire and takes a two-foot-long velvet box from the top drawer, which he lays down beside me with a smirk. Then, opening it slowly, he pulls out –

 – A riding crop.

Ouch. Seems that the cowboy metaphor is becoming more appropriate by the moment.

Damn it! Acme had implied that Yuri was into bondage, not sadism. There had better be a bonus in this for me . . .

He runs the whip up my left leg until it catches on the thin silky thread that is my G-string. With one quick twitch of his wrist, it snaps right off.

Dammit, that hurt!

Very slowly he slaps precise little welts onto my belly as he works the whip over to my other thigh, but pauses when it reaches what is left of the G-string, so that I might agonize over the pain yet to come. My wince brings a sick smile to his face. Now I’m feeling a bit queasy, even if he isn’t.

Stall! Say anything . . . Do anything . . .

“What, you want the dessert before the main course?’ I taunt him. “Naughty boy…”

That only provokes him into slapping me all the harder. What is left of the G-string shreds into thin air. With a guffaw, he takes its little lace patch and holds it up like a trophy before flinging it across the room. It lands near the door with a skip.

Suddenly I notice that his eyes are crossing. He sits down on the bed – falls down, really –

 – Onto me. All 174 pounds of him.

And I don’t think he’s breathing. So, the combination of Rohypnol and Viagra was a toxic Trail Mix after all.

More like fatal. Still, a hit is a hit is a hit…

I jerk at the trick cuffs, but they won’t open. With Yuri on top of me, I’m angled all wrong to break their hold. With my chest, I shove him as hard as I can, but for some strange reason, he’s not budging. Then I realize why:

The only thing left standing is his erection, and it has him staked between my legs.

Great. Just great.

As I struggle under his limp-but-where-it-counts-most carcass, I hear muffled noises from the other side of the door. It sounds like a skirmish.

The two faint thumps I hear next tell me that something is terribly wrong.

Someone is trying to break down the door. It gives way, and I see Ugly the Skinhead standing there. As Ugly whips out a 9mm, I realize that the thumps were Yuri’s posse being taken out . . .

And now it is our turn.


Even from the doorway, Ugly’s aim is dead on. As the bullet enters the back of Yuri’s skull, the Russian jerks forward and we butt heads. As much as that hurts, it has also saves my life: as my head snaps back, the bullet that just left his frontal lobe whizzes by mine by mere millimeters. Still, that doesn’t stop a geyser of Yuri’s blood and gray matter from spurting onto my face. I freeze in horror.

“Fuckin’ Commie. And fuckin’ Commie fucker.”

Between my temporary paralysis and my Yuri-spattered countenance, Ugly assumes that I’m dead, too, and turns to leave –


Black-g-string-thongBut pauses at the sight of my G-string.

He lumbers over to where it’s fallen and squats down to pick it up. After sniffing it, he stuffs it into his pocket. Obviously he feels that is a fitting trophy for his kill – or, in his mind, two kills.

He stalks out, slamming the door behind him.

Silence.

Shit, I have to get out of here. Now.

But that’s almost impossible to do, what with Yuri still on top.

Granted, the Marmont is used to strange noises from behind its many closed doors. Still, it’s been a while since a dead body was found in one of its suites, let alone three. Of course, I imagine the worst:

That someone heard something, or maybe even saw Ugly the Skinhead leaving Yuri’s bungalow, and has called the hotel’s staff, which will soon come to investigate;

That, after tapping on the door and getting no response, they will burst in, see Yuri’s dead bodyguards and find Yuri on top of me, then call the police;    

That, to my children’s horror, I get arrested for prostitution;

That, to Acme’s dismay, I will be called as a witness at Yuri’s murder trial, which will force them to contract with another assassin to finish the job Ugly started on me.

Worse yet, I imagine my son Jeff’s face when he realizes that he’ll miss his chance to pitch in today’s County title game, which will move his baseball team, the Hilldale Wildcats, one step closer to being the Major League state champs –

And that once again it’s all my fault.

It’s that last vision that does the trick for me.

It has been documented that mothers involuntarily demonstrate incredible feats of strength when their children’s safety is threatened. I am living proof that this phenomenon also occurs when their kids’ championship games are at stake. Defying Yuri’s gravitational pull, I heave myself to a forty-five-degree angle, which finally gives me the leverage I need in order to jerk my wrists free from the cuffs. With my hands now free, I can shove Yuri to one side. 

At least, what is left of him.

I stumble to the bathroom. Leaving on my gloves, I shove my face under the faucet and wash Yuri’s brains and skull off my face and out of my hair before staggering back out into the bedroom, where I retrieve my handcuffs and my dagger from under the mattress. Then I jump back into my hooker attire, which I had dropped onto the plush chair by the bed. As planned, I leave from the terrace door, grabbing Yuri’s cuppa joe with me as I go.

In my now ruined spiked heels, I totter up Monteel, the road that meanders high above the hotel, sprinkling what’s left in Yuri’s coffee onto a thirsty bougainvillea and burying the cup deep inside a garbage can of a neighbor who has left it curbside for pickup. Besides the fact that a mommy mobile like my Toyota Highlander Hybrid minivan would surely stand out in that sea of Jags, Rolls, and Lamborghinis in the Marmont’s lot, in my line of work I can’t allow the hotel’s valet the opportunity to ID me.

Just my luck: my van is sporting a ticket that is not even ten minutes old. I do that math: that means that the job took a half-hour longer than I anticipated. Ah, hell, I’m going to be late picking up the boys for the ball game. The Highlander would have to be the only car on the road (a fantasy in mid-day, mid-week Los Angeles), run every traffic light, and break every speed record known to man in order for me to get to the boys the game in time . . .

I do have another option: call my carpool partner, Penelope Bing, and ask her to cover for me –

Hell no. That would hurt even more than Yuri’s whip. She’s bailed me out twice in less than a month: the time I was late getting back after taking out some hothead set on assassinating the Pope while he was here in LA.; then there was that hit I had in Seattle, when I’d booked United on the return flight. (On that one, I should have known better and flown Southwest.)

If I have to hear Penelope’s smug barbs again, I’ll cry. “Really, Donna, what is it this time? Another tennis lesson? My God, you’d think, after all that time on the court, you’dfinally find your backhand. Maybe you’re using from the wrong pro. It’s Fernando, right? . . .”

The inference being that I’m lying. Again.

And for the wrong reason: that reason perhaps being that I’m two-timing my husband, Carl, with the local country club’s tennis pro. Fernando, with his bulging biceps and swarthy grin, leaves many of the club’s female members panting, both on the court and in the bedroom.

GossipConsidering the number of times I’ve disappeared in the middle of the day, the assumption has merit to Penelope and her gossip-mongering clique. As if I would! As if I even could be unfaithful to Carl . . . 

To hell with her. I hit the road, tossing on a sweatshirt as I drive. At the longest turn-light on Sunset – the one at Beverly – I wrangle on my jeans under Mary’s miniskirt before yanking it off. The trucker to my left hoots his horn loudly to show his sincere appreciation.

Miracle of miracles, I pull up only four minutes late! Relief floods Jeff’s face. The Terrible Two – his buddies Morton Smith and Cheever Bing, Penelope’s little angel – have already had been giving him a rough time. My tardiness is infamous. But now it’s my turn to be smug.

Mary is standing there with them. Usually you would not catch her anywhere near her little brother and his friends, but Morton’s older brother, Scotty, is also hitching a ride to the game, and he’s a hottie, what with all that blond curly hair and those soulful eyes. To keep them peeled on her, Mary tosses her long flowing main whenever he glances in her direction. Watching her, my heart leaps into my throat. At twelve, she’s already a first-class flirt.

 Just like her mother.

The kids clamor into the back of the van and we’re off. Mary, who, on any given day would have taken the passenger seat up front, chooses the two-seat row in the middle instead, with Scotty.

I maneuver around a Porsche going too slow for my taste, and in the process get honked by a bus. The driver is miffed because we’ve killed any chance he has of making the light. “Cool driving, Mrs. Stone,” Scotty’s approval wins me a temporary reprieve.

Then he smiles shyly at Mary. “So, you and your dad will be at the Parent-Student dance this Friday, right?” This eighth grade rite of passage is one of the highlights of the school year. Two years from now, it will be my turn to go with Jeff. Although it’s Mary’s turn, without Carl there to take her, she will miss out.

But Jeff and Mary’s father is never there for them, no matter what the occasion.

 “No way! I wouldn’t be caught dead there! It’s for dorks! ” And certainly not for a girl who hasn’t seen her father in years.

But Scotty doesn’t know this. Seeing his crestfallen face, Mary falls silent. She is angry at herself.

No really, at Carl.

Kid2I run the last light between the baseball field and us. Yes! Yes! We’re only nine minutes late! I’ve won Jeff’s approval. I know this because he stops to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. Then he asks: “So Mom, you brought my athletic cup, like I asked, right?”

What? But I – I don’t remember–” I rummage through the athletic bag that was packed this morning: uniform, hat, glove, cleats . . . but no athletic cup.

 “I – I called and asked you to get it from my underwear drawer! Like, four times!” The caller ID on my cell confirms this.

Aw, heck.

League rules: no one plays without a cup. Not even if you’re the team’s star pitcher.Because of me, Jeff will be benched for this very important game which will decide the champions of the Orange County Major League division title.

 And there is no way I can make it to the house and back in time. We both know that.

Cheever pumps his fist in the air. He is the team’s  back-up pitcher.

A tear rolls down Jeff cheek as he staggers to the back of the van.

“Jeff, I’m so sorry—” I yell after him. But I know he can’t stand to hear my lame excuse.

Why should he? He’s heard them all before.

“Hey, Mom, what’s my denim skirt doing back here?” Mary holds it up to me, accusingly, before shrieking “Ewwwyuck!” I glance over and notice that it is sprayed with some sort of white goo. One of the larger chunks is covered in hair follicles.

Yuri’s.

But that doesn’t seem to bother the Terrible Two. Otherwise they wouldn’t be mimicking Mary’s high-pitched squeal as they toss her skirt back and forth like a hot potato.

Once again, I’m back in the doghouse with my kids.

At least, until I outrun a Ferrari or something.

————————————————-

HAH-Hanging-Man-Oct-5-2012Copyright © 2011 by Josie Brown. Published in May 2011 by Signal Press. All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Author.

THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN'S HANDBOOK
Murder. Suspense. Sex. And some handy household tips.

Signal Press – Digital eBook 

ORDER NOW,  from

Amazon.com


Hump Day Haiku: “The Bald Guy”

Baldmandating

I date a bald guy/

The great news: he's not a creep/

My friends say, "Clone him!"

— Josie

This is how I feel when a reader writes me to tell me how much she loves my books…

Happy-woman
I'm always in awe of those readers who take the time out of their busy days to write me a little note, telling me how much they've enjoyed one of my books. Here's and excerpt of one I got just this morning, for the Totlandia series:

"Hi!  I can't get enough of your books!  Please tell me Totlandia 4 is coming out soon. LOL. I hope you will continue the series after 4, your books are so fun to read, that I can't put them down. It so nice to have something to escape too, when you are a working mom with children!   Love your work!"  – D.H.

Thank you, D.H., for appreciating my characters, and for validating all the hard work I put into my novels. Letters such as this one are why we authors write. You are exactly who I wish to write for, to share time with, and to entertain. 

Truly, it made my day! I feel just like the woman, above,

xoxo

Josie



Totlandia5_2

TOTLANDIA
Book 1: The Onesies/Fall

Coliloquy Books / 978-0-9740214-0-9 / eBook

Buy it now…

Amazon.com (eBook)

Amazon.com (App)

BN.com (eBook)

 BN.com (App)


Friendship. Lies. Seduction. Betrayal. 
Welcome to Totlandia.

The salacious secrets of Desperate Housewives meet the aspirational lifestyles of Sex and the Cityin San Francisco’s most elite mommies group

In this sometimes bittersweet (and always humorous) novel, the friendships among four women who meet in a moms-and-tots playgroup are tested as they address their presumptions, family traumas, love, passion, and the hard realities of parenting their children.

READ AN EXCERPT HERE…

CLICK HERE TO READ MORE…

 

#MadMen creator Matthew Weiner discusses the latest episode (#9, “The Better Half”)

MadMenSeason6__Poster
I love this illustration for Mad Men. It's the type of illustration you'd find for ads from that mid-60s era.

Notice that Don Draper is both coming and going. I like that the artist has captured his duplicity, his wanderlust, and the fact that there are other Don Drapers out there. 

There are other Don Drapers inside of Don Draper.

I also hate the fact that this is the last season of Mad Men. I'm sure the show's actors realize it's a career high for them, thanks to all the elements that make a show great: the direction, the period detail via set design and costumes, and of course the writing. Writer-Producer Matthew Weiner has created an ensemble of characters who faults and foibles ring true as the catapault through life in an era some of us remember all too nostalgically. Six years ago, as watched the first episode with my son, I remember him commenting, “Wow, the men were really cruel to the women who worked with them.”

Yes, to a great extent, barbaric.

Truly, it set the tone of what was to come.

We love these characters,and we also hate them.

In other words, we feel for them. 

It's why it's great television, and why it's sublime storytelling.

Check out the show's creator, Matthew Weiner, discussing the latest episode (9, “The Better Half”).

— Josie

 


HA-RSG-Final-V2
To celebrate the launch of 
The Housewife Assassin's Relationship Survival Guide
I'm giving away a $100 gift card
 to the bookstore of your choice!

Click here for details…

 

 

 

 


Love this opening number, in SMASH

Smash-1-02-katharine-mcphee-channels-marilyn-monroe-performs-original-song

I know it's de riguer to diss SMASH this season, but I've got to tell you, I loved the opening musical number on SMASH (week of March 3, 2013).

Tell me if you don't agree that it was a blast. It's called "Public Relations."

Yeah, I can picture this on Broadway…

–Josie




 

We have a homeless guy in our apartment building’s boiler room.

Homeless-teen

Turns out the guy has picked the lock, and made it his home: bedroll, pictures, personal items.

This breaks my heart. I can only imagine what it's like to have to sleep on a cold concrete floor every night, let alone  park bench or a sidewalk. At the same time, should something happen in that boiler room. it affects the whole building, and the tennants in it.

We will change the lock on the boiler room door to a deadbolt, perhaps put a gate in the passageway leading to it as well.

But first we will also box up his belongings.  I will put a few bucks in an envelope, along with a note explaining why he needs to move on. 

Like most homeless, he's not on the street (or in the boiler room) by choice. He's there because, somewhere along the line, he's had a fall from grace. Maybe mental health issues are involved. If so, I truly feel for him, because the governmental safety net for the mentally ill is broken in too many ways.

He is someone's son. Perhaps, someone's brother, father, or uncle or nephew.

He cannot deal with his problems. And his family is probably brokenhearted about it andworried about him, but also weary of the burden of carrying him.

Out of sight, but truly out of mind? We all know that's not the case.

He is the ghost of failure: not his own, but ours, as a society.

He is one of us.

We need to fix it. Whether we want to believe so or not, it is a reflection on each of us

— Josie