Queue the theme song, Maestro!
I have this weird thing where I will play a song or an album (yes, album!) repeatedly while I am writing something. Once in a great while it might be two albums or perhaps a specific artist. And usually my song worms its way into my work—it runs in my head day, night, sleeping, upon waking, the shower. It’s a way to keep my running story line intact.
For instance, WE KILL DEAD THINGS was written entirely to the Violent Femmes album The Blind Leading the Naked. The battle song used by the exterminators ended up being No Killing and that particular scene even got a nod in a review. That damn song weaved itself in and out of my thoughts day and night and fueled the story line.
I’m sure it doesn’t’ take a genius to see that the song for the most recent exterminator book LUNATIC FRINGE is…well, Lunatic Fringe by Red Rider. It ties into Poppy’s new bangs (yes, her hair’s still blue) and the fact that the zombies on the fringe of town proper are mutating. They are the things lurking on the fringe of the township.
Book two, NO GUILT, stumped me. I thought and I thought and I skimmed and I skimmed and I even emailed my editor. The only thing we came up with was Row, Row, Row Your Boat…(0.0) Um…I’m almost positive that was not my song. But I can’t for the life of me, find it. I assure you, it’s in there. Either the title, a nod or someone crooning a few lines of lyrics to someone else.
So if you find it, give me a shout and I’ll give you a reward. Because to be honest, it’s driving me fucking nuts.
Anyone have any suggestions for book 4? Artist, album, body of work. Leave me a comment and get a chance to win the exterminator book of your choice. I’ll even sing Row, Row, Row Your Boat if you like. But fair warning, your ears may bleed. I’m a pretty good writer but my singing makes dogs and small children run away.
THE CONTEST WILL RUN UNTIL WEDNESDAY OCT. 5! COMMENT TO WIN!
Blurb for Lunatic Fringe:
Poppy’s birthday should be a big, fun, sexy deal. And it is, until the zombie exterminators find out that the creepers in their neck of the woods happen to be switching the game up a bit. They have a new nifty trick that keeps them from being readily recognizable. Something poor Poppy is unlucky enough to find out on her morning run. She goes from fantasizing about her birthday foursome with the boys, to running home to spread the bad news of mutation.
Her big day is suddenly full of machetes, a lady from the CDC and news of a new vaccine that might—or might not—work. Lucky for Poppy the boys won’t let the new turn of events ruin her birthday, they still take her where she needs to go. Because all four of them know, every day could be your last. Sadly, Garrity, Cahill and Noah can’t control what happens next. Things change, possibly forever, for their little group of exterminators. And over the next few days Poppy realizes a few things with perfect clarity: she loves Garrity, the thought of losing one of the boys terrifies her, and she’s completely at a loss when it comes to one of her own being threatened. It seems to be the one area in which she can’t pull off the bad ass persona.
What will she do, she wonders, if their perfect group of four suddenly becomes a group of three? How will she survive?
Excerpt from Lunatic Fringe:
“Jesus. Are they mutating or what?” I growled, stepping into the hot spray and sighing.
It was nice. Hot water, lemon-basil scented shower gel. I even shaved my legs and my hoo-hah because I was looking to get lucky today. I had a birthday to celebrate, after all. I stood there, the water spreading over my skin, heating my core temperature and counteracting the February wind that had left me feeling cool and hollow.
“Yes, sir?” I asked, poking my head out.
My newly cut bangs were standing up in several different directions. I could feel them and in some places see them. I had just had the girl at Shear Class cut them into my still-dyed blue hair. I wanted to go a bit Bettie Page-ish because soon I figured I’d let it go back to its normal color and maybe chop it all off.
“Lunatic fringe,” Garrity sang to me, meaning my hair.
“We all know you’re out there,” I cooed back, and then I grabbed him by his tee and yanked. Hard.
He had two choices. Fall or step forward into the tub and the running water.
Garrity isn’t stupid.
“I’m in the shower with you,” he observed with a smirk.
“So you are,” I said, tugging his belt, which was getting wetter with each second.
“You’re naked,” he said.
“Thank you for noticing.”
“You seem a bit…zealous.”
“I got sneak-attacked in plain sight by the walking dead. Zealous is a generous adjective.” I managed the belt and tugged the buttons of his fly. His jeans, well worn and stained from motor oil and various other things I didn’t want to contemplate surrendered to my pressure.
Garrity helped me, shucking the jeans and together—laughing and cursing—we got his wet socks off. I was just happy he hadn’t been in his work boots when I pulled him in.
“Are you okay?” he asked, soberly. He pushed his big hands into my hair and made me look at him.
I kissed him, pushing my tongue into his mouth, shoving my hands up under his tee. I curled my fingers to his warm flesh and said, “I am now.”
“So we’re going to—”
“Fuck like crazy people in the shower? Yes.”
His cock was hard and warm in my hand and jumped a touch when I grabbed him. I kissed him harder and gasped into his mouth when he pinched my nipples hard enough to make my stomach tingle. “Spread your legs, Poppy,” he said.
I did and reveled in the feel of his fingers finding me. Garrity pressed my clit with his thumb and pushed a cluster of his thick fingers into my cunt. “Somebody’s wet,” he said against my throat.
“We’re in the shower,” I said, pretending not to know what he meant. But he brushed his fingers over my G-spot with precise pressure and I moaned.
“What?” I yelped.
“Get out. Come on.” He reached behind me to cut the water and tugged me out of the tub. He sat on a small bench by the bathroom door that held our towels. “Come here, Poppy.” Garrity patted his lap.
I straddled him and he grasped my thighs, his hands so big and tan against my pale skin. When he held his cock straight, I moved to hover over him and sank slowly to take him in. He watched me with those bright blue eyes, studying my face for every flush and flicker of pleasure.
“Oh,” I said as if this were all a surprise.
“I love you, Poppy,” he said, almost conversationally.
Holding his wide, wet shoulders with my hands to steady myself, I started to move in earnest. “I love you, too, Chris.”
I rarely called him Chris. It just sounded wrong, unless it was intense. And then it was like a secret name.
“Ah, she means it; she called me by my given name.” He palmed my ass, holding me steady as I moved up and down on his lap, letting his cock stretch and fill and thrill me.
“Yes, I mean it. Happy birthday to me.”
He bent his head as I rose up, and he captured my nipple in his teeth, biting me hard enough on that sensitive disc of flesh that a sympathetic tug sounded deep in my pussy. I hissed but kept going, feeling my internal muscles grip up tight around him. When he moved to the other nipple, I swallowed a cry.
I moved my hips in small circles, grinding my clit to Garrity and when I started to rock side to side, he growled deep in his throat. “I know you’re being all dominant due to your near death experience…” he said, gripping my swaying hips tightly.
“But?” I laughed, seeing where this was headed.
“But, I need to…”
“Need to what?” I stilled, flexing my pussy around him, milking him, watching his face. His jaw was tight, his eyes hooded, his cheeks flushed. Dark Irish was Garrity. Beautiful nearly black hair and eyes the color of clean tropical water.
“You know,” he growled, pinching my ass almost painfully hard.
I sighed, feeling my pulse in my cunt, needing one of us to move. “Do I?”
“But it’s your birthday,” he hurried on. “So I’m being a gentleman and asking…may I?”
I pretended to think it over, rolling my eyes back as if pondering. I could feel his heart beating wildly under my palm where it rested on his chest. I could feel his cock, hard and long, deep inside of me. I could feel how much he loved me just by being in the same room.
“Oh, fine,” I sighed as if put out, and he stood, holding me to him still. I whooped like a cowgirl, laughing at my own loudness as he lowered us to the fluffy pink—yes pink—bathroom rug.