Tales of screw ups and fixes: Newsletter sign-ups edition. LE SIGH.
Yesterday, while working on screw ups and fixes on this site, the fabulous Word Press support person let me know my newsletter sign-ups landed on a null page.
First and most important, I apologize. If you visited and signed-up, I never received it. It’s now working properly, so please try again. The newsletter is full of Winnie stuff, humor, and highlights of new authors or interesting reads.
As a small token, here’s a snippet from Boogie Beach:
The partition between my human and extraordinary bars was transparent, and Chelsea jerked her head toward it. Ballard was in the human bar; time to see if that’s business or pleasure. I scanned, drinks were full and heads together, so I opened the wood door and trotted into the restaurant. Chelsea often volunteered to watch the house for me when I had to go play manager on the real side, and for the most part she didn’t give away the booze, which rocked. She did it with the intention of benefiting magicals, but hey, it helped.
“Ballard, what brings you to The Boogie?” Tall, hard-bodied, and yum, we have a thing, but he was a cop, so we didn’t advertise.
“Looking for somebody, Patra. Have you ever seen this guy?”
He’s one of my werewolves, and it’s odd he’s not in my bar tonight, but easier, because while I had to dissemble with Ballard often, I didn’t enjoy lying to him. Lying with him, now, was an earthquake I was down for on the regular.
“Not here tonight, but he looks familiar.” I gave Ballard a bone here because he’d never find this guy. Most werewolves were rich as shit, and when they got their moon on were unrecognizable. Plus, wolf shifters were pros. After centuries of evading inconvenient humans, they’re bored. All they wanted was to locate their mates and do their thing. The one Ballard’s looking for was mateless, that’s why I’m surprised he wasn’t next door. It’s possible fate tossed him his lucky number.
Daytona’s former mayor was a werewolf. The better description was that a werewolf was elected mayor, at least until Bike Week fell on the full moon and the event went cartwheeling to hell. A PR nightmare ensued, Mayor Wolfie lost the next election, and pearls, the kind humans didn’t shove up their butts, were clutched. Amusing to those in the know, but when you had a dead girl, four deceased bikers, and a sated wolf, it put a damper on the party.