Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Cadillac and Mel, excerpt

Bad Azz Daddy: Cadillac 2nd ed. by Jeanie and Jayha, unedited excerpt.  Copyright 2011.  All Rights Reserved.


“Hold on, girlie.  I’m going for a record time.”

No one had to tell her to hold on, just like no one had to tell her to pray whenever Ms. Songs was behind the wheel of anything.  Mel wasn’t going to say the woman was a menace but she was scooting up real close to the line. 

“Don’t you just love it here?” Ms. Songs asked, completely unaware of just how much Mel’s stomach was flopping about. 

“Uh huh,” she responded.  Mel was glad she had skipped breakfast otherwise she would’ve been spewing it all over the windshield.  That wouldn’t have done anyone any good.

A woman who was as far from high-maintenance as one could be, Mel could get used to a lot of things but she wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to Ms. Songs’ driving.  Still, she kept her complaints to herself because she liked spending time with the free-spirited woman.  Ms. Songs was not just a mentor but a friend.  Plus, Mel figured if Ms. Songs hadn’t killed anyone yet, she wasn’t about to start today.  That didn’t mean she didn’t offer up a prayer when they finally arrived at the lodge.

“Amen,” Mel whispered.

“I heard that,” Ms. Songs said as she hopped down from the Suburban.®

“Did you hear God telling you to slow down and take the corners at a lower rate of speed?”

“Nope, but I hear your stomach growling so come on.  I need some coffee.”

In Mel’s opinion, the last thing Ms. Songs needed was anything with caffeine or sugar.  Of course, that meant the woman was going to have both in large quantities.  Shaking her head, she wiped her feet on the mat before entering the lodge.  

If she thought there was chaos inside the vehicle with Ms. Songs, that was nothing compared to the chaos inside of the Jendayi Mystery Lodge.

“Mel! Mel! Mel!” was shouted to the accompaniment of hand clapping and foot stomping.  All that was needed was for someone to break out a fiddle and it would’ve been an authentic jamboree.

“Um, hi,” Mel said suddenly wary.  She wasn’t used to having her name chanted.

“Don’t be bashful, Youngin’,” Ms. Songs said.  “You’re the bee’s knees in these parts.”

“Why?” Mel asked.

“How quickly we forget.  Fire & Brimstone and 1032 K.  We’re almost sold out.  I have your share of the gold in the safe next to your guns.  Now sign autographs or whatever it is you celebrities do.  Bask in the moment.  Tomorrow, we need to head back to the still.”

“What do you mean we’re almost sold out?  We made a hundred bottles, four days ago.”

“Yeah, we would’ve sold out sooner but some people are slow getting their gold here.  Like I told them, you snooze, you drink swill instead of the best shine in these here United States.”

 “I don’t think the saying goes like that, Ms. Songs,” Mel said.

“In these parts it does, which is obvious by the fact that we’re about sold out.”

Mel hated to admit it but Ms. Songs had a point.  She wasn’t about to tell her that because Ms. Songs would let it go to her head.  It was hard enough not to let the reception go to her own head and she wasn’t anywhere near as crazy as Ms. Songs. 

They’d almost sold out.  Hot damn.  Mel did the math in her head.  They’d made almost 72 thousand dollars in less than four days.  Take away the cost of supplies and they’d still cleared 70 thousand.  Her legs suddenly shaking, Mel sat on the nearest surface, which happened to be Peril.

“Ah, s-s-sorry, Peril,” she stammered and rose.

“I liked you sitting there,” he said.

A hard voice cut through the room.  “Would you like two broken legs to go with that?”

Turning to the sound, Mel looked right into the eyes of Cadillac. 

“By broken legs do you mean, a simple fracture or a compound fracture?” Peril asked even as he held her tighter.

“Um, Peril I don’t think broken legs regardless of complexity is a good way to start your day,” Mel said helpfully.

“I’m a shifter, baby.”

“By broken legs I mean I’ll rip them from your body and beat you to death with them…shifter or not,” Cadillac clarified.

“By beat me to death do you mean…” Peril started.

Not wanting the male to die, Mel scrambled off of his lap.  Peril was just as crazy as Cadillac she thought as she stumbled right into Cadillac’s waiting arms.  That’s not where she was meaning to go but that’s where the man pulled her.  Wrapping his meaty arms around her, apparently, that’s where she was staying. 

“The correct answer is ‘no’, Peril.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“Well, let me help assure you of that,” he said.  Before she could mutter a ‘no, stop, don’t,’ Cadillac pulled her tighter to him and kissed her so thoroughly, all she could do was hold on.  Thankfully, the man had the good sense to sit her in a chair, else she would’ve fallen down.

Just like that he went from devastating lover to someone that should have Lexington as a last name.  Picking up the massive shifter, he threw him to the floor with such force that if anyone else had built this lodge, the floor would’ve had a hole in it. 

“Careful, Cadillac, I almost spilled my shine,” one of Peril’s friends said.

Peril didn’t say anything.  He just sort of made a gasping sound.

“When I ask you if you’d like two broken legs, the answer is no, Peril.  Are we clear or do I need to take the time to explain it to you?”

Mel had seen her daddies and uncles put some whippins on people but since that happened on days that ended in —y, she was used to it.  Something about seeing Cadillac calmly deliver punishment got to her.  Despite his size and strength, Cadillac didn’t seem like a man who was easily excitable.  If Peril knew what was good for him, he’d just nod at let Cadillac be.  But not only wasn’t Peril smart enough to know what was good for him, neither were his friends.

“Cadillac, why should you get to keep Mel all to yourself?” Menace asked.  “After all, we’ve been keeping her company while you were gone.”

“Yeah, what he said.  Maybe she don’t want you,” Threat said from across the room.

This was not going to end well, Mel thought as she peeked up from under her hat.

Without letting go of Peril’s throat, Cadillac answered.  “I can keep her because I’ll kill anyone who tries to take her from me.”

“From what we can see, you ain’t rightly got her.”

“Well, let me help you see better then, Menace,” Cadillac said as he heaved Peril and threw him into the shifter.

Stalking to the pair, Cadillac hauled back and punched Menace in the eye.  Shifter or not, that was going to leave a mark.  “Can you see now that Melodia belongs to me?” Cadillac asked as he punched him in the eye again.

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

a taste of Killer Crossover: Hot Up in the Capture by Jeanie and Jayha



Unedited excerpt.  All rights reserved.  Copyright by Jeanie Johnson and Jayha Leigh


Chapter One

 

Re’ut Syracusa Kennesaw-Jones had been a Kennesaw far too long to be embarrassed by the shenanigans of her family.  Watching as her family piled into the limos and speed off like they were being chased by Revenuers, she simply said a prayer for anyone in their way…and anyone who might try and stop them.  While they had acted like an entire Amen corner and cheered for her like they were watching Tech whip up on Georgia in what Georgians referred to as a little bit of “Clean, Old-Fashioned Hate,” they didn’t even pretend they were going to linger after commencement.

Re’ut didn’t blame them.  Southerners could only go so long without sweet tea.  The only reason she was north of the Mason-Dixon Line in the first place was because that’s where the prestigious Rhode Island School of Design (RISD)—which was only the best school of design in the universe—was above the Mason-Dixon Line. 

“Gimme,” her momma demanded right before commandeering Re’ut’s shiny, new MFA in Jewelry and Metalsmithing. 

“I worked really hard for that,” Re’ut half-heartedly protested knowing there wasn’t a hope in hell she was ever going to get her hot little hands on that again.

“Did you push ten pounds of baby out of your vagina?” her momma asked.

“Really didn’t need that visual.”

“I really didn’t need your massive head tearing open my vagina.”

“I could’ve gone the whole of my life without hearing anything about your vagina, Momma,” Re’ut protested.

“And I could’ve gone the whole of my life without ever having experienced an episiotomy so how about that?”

Re’ut felt like a character in a Capcom® game and episiotomy was a finishing move.  The only difference was that she didn’t crumple to the ground as her innards spilled from her body.  She was down but not out.  Looking her momma in the eye, Re’ut pulled out her trump card.  “I’m telling Dad.”

“Daddy,” she called, and just like always he was there. 

Throwing herself in his arms, she put on the sad face and then narced.  “Momma’s being mean to me.”

“Are you being mean to my baby girl, Naomi?” her daddy asked in that smooth baritone that tucked her in each night and woke her up each morning.

“Yeah, otherwise she’d be a certified shithead since you don’t know any limits when it comes to spoiling.”

Re’ut didn’t know what her daddy said with his eyes but she smiled into his chest knowing from her momma’s sigh that he was telling her momma off.  Ha ha, she sang silently.

“I’m so proud of you, Daughter,” he said as he held her closer.

“You say that all the time.”

“Because it’s true all the time.”  Stepping back, he lifted her chin.  “You’re the greatest thing I’ve ever accomplished.”

And just like that Re’ut crumpled.  She’d never had a moment to doubt that her daddy wanted her.  He’d sung “I love you’s” with his lips in all of the languages that he knew.  He’d showed her his love by giving over his whole life to insure her happiness.  But to hear those words from a man who held two doctorates, four masters and spoke six languages broke her.

“I love you so much, Daddy,” she cried.  While she wasn’t a hardcore Bible thumper, Re’ut knew there was a God because she’d been gifted with the Doctor Naomi Kennesaw-Jones as a momma and Doctor Syracuse Gallant Kennesaw-Jones as a daddy, and the people of Mid-NFW as family.

 “What y’all doing to my grandbaby?” Grandmommy Grace said as she swooped Re’ut up in an all-encompassing hug. 

“Spoiling her,” her momma said.

“Well good.  She deserves it.  The inferior grandmommas and I made you some pound cake, a cobbler, and some banana pudding.”

Re’ut did an internal cheer.  There were certain perks to being a Kennesaw and high end spoiling was one of them.

“Thank you, Grandmommy but didn’t we have a talk about referring to the other grandmommy’s as inferior?”

“Yeah, but I ignore dumb shit,” she said.  “Make sure you bring our containers back.  See you in a few days.  Don’t kill nobody because we ain’t in a hurry to come back north,” her Grandmommy Grace had said before jumping on her Cannon Cascade custom chopper and going who knows where.  For someone who proclaimed she didn’t like being out of the south, Grandmommy Grace sure as shit didn’t stay put. 

After that, there was a parade of hugs and a chorus of oohing and ahhing.  Five minutes after that, her  clan threw up two fingers, shouted “deuces” and hightailed it to Warwick’s T F Green International Airport where they’d board the private jet of billionaire vampire royal, and fellow Mid NFW resident, Ianikut Aleksandrovich, who was too fine for his own good, and party like it was 1999.  Of course, since Ms. Belva and the grandmommas were there, they might be partying like it was the year 09.  As soon as Re’ut tied up a few loose ends, she was going to join them and spend a month of Sundays getting good and spoiled. 

Right now, however, she was going to catch her breath.  Pushing the big 3-0, Re’ut couldn’t hang out like she could when she was eighteen.  She’d tried to tell Saratoga that but her self-proclaimed best friend wasn’t listening to anything that went counter to what she wanted to do.  Still, Re’ut couldn’t help but like the spitfire who reminded her so much of her self-proclaimed favorite cousin, Halima.  Saratoga Brown was one of the main things that convinced Re’ut that the Rhode Island School of Design was the place for her.

Five feet ten inches and two hundred pounds of ‘No Fucking Way’ Saratoga was always searching for a place to kick off some ish that would land them all on some kind of list.  Saratoga was the first person she heard day one at the open house sponsored by the Division of Graduate Studies.  Heard—not saw. 

“Dibs on the black chick!” echoed all across the hall.  Not caring about the fine art of subtlety, Saratoga bum-rushed her way through the sea of bodies and latched onto her. 

“Saratoga, your new best friend,” she announced.  Announced—not said.

“Let’s ditch this shindig and go somewhere awesome.”

“A, you could be a serial killer.  B, who is ‘Saratoga?’  C, you smell young…like you still have breast milk on your breath.”

“A, you’re right…I could be.  B, I’m Saratoga.  First name: Saratoga.  Last name: Brown.  Middle name is on a need to know basis.  C, I may be one of the youngest peeps in the senior class but I’m old enough to go to federal prison if I embark on a killing spree.  Wait, that doesn’t sound all that reassuring about point A, does it?”

Before she could agree that no it didn’t sound all that reassuring, first name Saratoga, middle name ‘on a need to know basis,’ last name Brown answered her own question.

“No, it doesn’t but I’m not a serial killer although I could be under the right circumstances.”

“What proof do I have that you’re not a serial killer right now for no good reason?” Re’ut asked just because she was accustomed to having these sorts of conversations with her cousin Jupiter “TRO—Temporary Restraining Order” Kennesaw-Jones.

“Well, the fact that I’m walking around all free and whatnot.”

“That could mean one of two things: A, you’re not a serial killer or B, you’re just a really good at not getting caught.”

“You’re right but if I was hypothetically a serial killer, you should be my friend so I won’t add you to my ‘people to kill’ list.”

Ah, Saratoga had her at the word ‘hypothetically.’  Re’ut was most definitely going to hang out with this chick but first she had to yank the young one’s chain a little bit.  Starting shit was, after all, the Southern way.  Finishing said shit one started was the Kennesaw way.  “If you killed me would you eat me with fava beans?”

“No, I like my pussy alive,” Saratoga said without missing a beat.

Re’ut couldn’t help herself.  She burst out laughing.  Saratoga was a crazy something but being that she herself was from Middle of No Fucking Where, Georgia—an area comprised of the cities of Delice-Patrale, Enatavimus, No Trespassing and Kennesaw Territory, Georgia—but simply referred to as Mid NFW, she was accustomed to crazy. 

“Ah, Saratoga.  You’re too cute.”

“I know.  You’re kind of hot yourself though I don’t do chicks.  So, are you coming with me or not?”

“Being that you don’t do chicks I guess I won’t be coming anytime soon but if you have a hot brother or three…I might come with them.” she said.

“Eww and eww some more.”  Saratoga made choking sounds.

“Remember that my wit is much more developed than yours next time you want to cross words with me…or swords.”

“Remind me of that after I finish vomiting in my mouth at the thought of my monastery-bound brothers.”

“Are they hot?”

“Of course being they look like me but that’s not the point.  They’re all going to the monastery.”

“Your family’s Catholic?” Re’ut asked out of curiosity.

“No, my family is comprised of kung fu fans so my brothers are off to Tibet to learn the ways of the fighting monks.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Because I need a personal army and yeah, my grandmomma said they had to take care of me.”

“Ah, so you’re spoiled.”

“Of course.  Now are you coming or not.  People are starting to look.  Soon, they’ll try and talk to you thus horning in on my time,” she said loudly.  Snarling a bit, Saratoga turned to one woman who’d gotten a little too close for her taste and gave her a warning.  “Hey, get your own black chick.  This one’s mine.  I found her first.”

Grabbing Saratoga’s elbow, Re’ut steered her away from people (and thus trouble).  “Okay, you’re obviously not a serial killer being you have no clue on how to be low-key, discreet and all that.  So where are we going?”

“To get some real food,” Saratoga said.

“Oh, we’re going on a road trip to the south?” she asked.

“Um, no,” Saratoga all but turned up her nose.

“Oh, I know you’re not acting like something is wrong with the south,” Re’ut said.

“No acting is involved.  Something is definitely wrong with the south.”

“Like what?”

“Southerners primarily.  I like my racism with a little more subtlety and my crazy a tad more refined.”

“I would expect something that ignorant from people who drink their iced tea without sugar.”

“Well at least northern liquor doesn’t all have the word ‘shine’ somewhere in the title.”

“Northern liquor also doesn’t have any alcohol anywhere in the ingredients either.”

“There is nothing wrong with an elegant Pinot Noir,” Saratoga said.

“Nothing at all if you don’t have taste buds.”

“You’re lucky I don’t like Pinot Noir or I’d have a whole lot to say about your dogging it.”

“Mmm hmm. When you’re about four inches taller, fifty pounds heavier and can buy cigarettes without getting carded then I might listen to your ‘whole lot to say.’”

“Okay, I’ll hit the gym and bulk up for a fight, then slide into some stilettos before I bring it.”

“You’re going to fight me in stilettos?”

“No, I wouldn’t fight you in stilettos.  I’d tell you off in stilettos and direct my personal army of soldiers to fight you.”

“The fact that you are in need of a standing army hasn’t clued you in that you might need to change your life?”

“All great leaders need a standing army.  Do you have wheels?”

“Of course I have wheels.  Why?”

“Because I need to stop by the sports store before I take you to eat.”

“So let me get this straight: you basically kidnapped me and now you want me to do errands for you before you take me to eat?”

“Yep.”

“How are you planning to convince me to take you to the sports store?” Re’ut asked.

“I’m going to play the ‘my favoritest grandmomma’s birthday is coming up soon and I need to get her a present.”

“You’re getting your grandma something from  sporting goods store?”

“Yeah, that’s where I always get my grandmomma’s presents.”

“Do they sell orthopedic shoes there?”

“Don’t know but they have steel-toed boots there and that’s what I’m getting my grandmomma.”

And that was the bit that stopped Re’ut in her tracks.  Sure, she got her grandmommy Grace Ellen something from the gun and ammo store each year and Halima got her something from the adult store, but that was neither here nor there.  Regardless of whether or not she got some decent food was irrelevant…okay not really that irrelevant but seriously Re’ut needed to see the grandma who rocked Tims…and put her on the watch list that all the grandmas in Mid NFW were on.  Them chicks was dangerous.

“Get in,” Re’ut said as she programmed her GPS.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Bear Necessities by Jeanie and Jayha...another taste


prelude

Three years prior

 

          Gervasius Adamo couldn’t help the satisfied sound that left his full lips as the vintage red Bordeaux hit his tongue.  “1990, now that was a good year.”

“Every year’s a good year for you, Whelp,” his mentor, Alois Hummel, owner and executive chef of Hummel Steaks, said as he finished pouring the Ch√Ęteau Ducru-Beaucaillou.© 

His father Cirillo, chimed in.  “Indeed.  You have me as a sire, the Adamo good looks and your health.  Now after decades of hard work, you’re the executive chef at one of the finest restaurants in all of Europe.”

Gervasius’ father spoke as if he was relaying indisputable facts.  Of course, his father was biased, but it was hard to argue with a man who had as many restaurants and Michelin© stars as he did.

His father raised his glass.  “A toast, to my son…fruit of my loins and all that.”  

“Here, here,” the fraternity of chefs cheered Gervasius’s promotion.  If anyone considered it odd that despite it being the twenty-first century each member present was male, no one commented.  It was simply a physical manifestation of a sad truth: there was rampant sexism in professional kitchens.

“Ah, to be forty again,” his father waxed.

“Hell, to be fifty again,” Alois said.  “For that matter, to have an all-male kitchen again.”

“You don’t like the pretty female chefs?” Cirillo inquired as he lit his cigar.

“I like them on their knees before me, but not so much in my kitchen.”

“And yet you employ females in your kitchen,” Gervasius said.

“Washing pots, fetching things.”

Alois’s remarks were met by a chorus of male laughter.

“Times are a changing, my friend.  Surely, someone’s going to notice that other than your mistresses, the only females in your employ are stewards.”

          “And if they do?”

          “You will not have a leg to stand on, Alois.  Take my advice.  Do not allow your own prejudice to cost you money. Hire a female chef…one you are not attracted to.”

“What’s the point of hiring an unattractive woman if I have to hire a woman at all?”

“I didn’t say hire Quasimodo©.  You simply cannot hire a woman that you are attracted to.  The point is to give the appearance of equality, not incur a sexual harassment lawsuit.  Americans are sensitive about such things.”

“Americans are damn sensitive about a lot of things,” Alois grumbled.

Cirillo laughed. “Says the man who would’ve sold his own mother for a green card.  You have five restaurants, Alois.  You don’t have to give her London, New York or Vegas. Stick her in one of your newer restaurants…one of your country venues.”

          “Well, there is my new venture in Atlanta.  My son and nephew are doing their best to run it into the ground.”

          “That’s the problem with hiring family.  They don’t work as hard as they could.  See now why I sent Gervasius to you to train?”

          “I do.  Now you see why I didn’t send you Axel or Gunnar?”

          “I thank you for that because I don’t think our friendship could stand me murdering your relations.  Neither boy has discretion.”

          “Some days it seems they can’t even cook.”

          “Find a woman who can.  An unattractive woman…a desperate woman.  She’ll turn your Atlanta restaurant around and you will retain all of the glory while she does all of the work.”

Sunday, November 3, 2013

the rest of the prologue for Quit Happens by Jeanie and Jayha

all rights reserved.  Copyright 2013 by Jeanie Johnson and Jayha Leigh
There weren’t any official first families, but the Sawyer family, the Maree family, and the Joyance family, were as close as you could get.  They were tight from way back.  You messed with one of them, you got shit from all of them.  They went to church together, hunted together, and they were in business together.  SMJ Mechanics and Towing was the name the residents in a sixty-mile radius turned to when their mechanics malfunctioned or stopped functioning altogether. Through the years, the families had expanded the business and now SMJ Towing was a household name up and down the entirety of the Southeast. Nobody wielded a wrench like them boys over at SMJ Towing.  And few men looked better wielding tools.  If it was broke, they could fix it. If it wasn’t broke, they could fix it ’til it was. 

Expanding the business meant that their progeny went to college instead of to the factories, tobacco fields, and hog farms that dotted the area.  Most of the SMJ Clan stayed close to home and attended Mount Olive College, St. Andrews University, or UNC-Wilmington, but the current generation had decided to spread their wings and thus went to colleges in the piedmont and mountain regions of the state. Others even were so bold as to go out of state.  They didn’t necessarily select colleges for their academics; they selected colleges according to where their football program ranked.  And if there was one thing the SMJ Clan appreciated more than a good meal, it was football.

Pluck Brevard, Ozella Crown, Shelley Nichols, Simone Pisgah and Esther Prynne were women who should never drink and plot because when they did, chaos happened.  Really, it was Ozella’s fault because her family owned a vineyard and an estate with an endless wine cellar.  North Carolina wasn’t just basketball country, it was now wine country, boasting 400 vineyards and 100 wineries.  It was fitting as America’s first grape was grown in the Tar Heel State way back in the day.  Now, North Carolina was the one place where every major variety of grape was grown. 

If not for wine, it wouldn’t be possible for them to drink and plot because they wouldn’t have access to free, quality wine.  In theory, they could’ve drunk cheap wine but drinking cheap wine with expensive chocolate while wearing Italian shoes was simply gauche.  Regardless of the fact that their sense of daring and their lack of filters might’ve had a lot to do with their shenanigans, they blamed it on the wine mostly because they could.  Plus, blaming it on the wine sounded a lot more sophisticated than blaming it on grain alcohol since wine didn’t double as fuel or a solvent, unlike liquid grain. 

It was a burgundy that was responsible for them trekking off to the University of Colorado for graduate school because they were hell bent on learning to snowboard and the slopes around Boulder were bigger than those in Boone.  It was a sauvignon blanc that was responsible for them being the founding members of Rho Beta Omicron Tau, thusly named because they didn’t think their university would approve a sorority called Ridiculously Big Old Titties and R.B.O.T. looked much more legit in the Greek alphabet.  Using the Greek letters was so much more refined.  And if they were anything, they were refined…even when they were dumping a truckload of elephant shit in the bed of someone’s truck while they were making out with some other chick that wasn’t you.  What said refined like watching your best friend laugh for the first time in weeks after watching her cheating, lying scumbag of an ex almost-boyfriend try to explain to his jumpoff that it wasn’t his fault? 

Now back to the wine.  It was a Riesling that was responsible for them being in the city of Pleasanton.  Since Rho Beta Omicron Tau wasn’t formally recognized by any of the Greek councils, they were on a cross-country recruiting trip to give their sorority visibility.  They could do that sort of thing since they were all their own bosses, which was fun for them and the safest bet for the world in general. 

Her spot, Quit Happens, was the place to go when you were quitting something (your job, your significant other) and had to have just the right words to say ‘kiss my ass’ to fit the context.  Split Happens was the place to go when you couldn’t just quit somebody because you had the hare-brained idea to marry them.  Simone would pat you on the back, give you some tissues and then ask if you wanted most of the marital assets plus his or her ass or all of the assets. Shelley owned Lit Happens, which was where you went when you wanted to write a book about your pain and suffering…or do something simple such as take out a billboard on I-95 and blast to the world what a douchebag your ex was.  Shelley was creative like that, which is why she was also the organizer of one of the world’s major cons.  Esther owned Fit Happens, which was fitting being she had the perfect body for it meaning she was all sculpted lines with just the right amount of curves.  Fit Happens was the place to go when you wanted to get bootylicious to the max and make your ex sorry they’d ever done you wrong.  Submit Happens was Ozella’s place.  Contrary to what it sounded like, it wasn’t a place you went when you needed someone to make you their bitch.  It had something to do with the wine business.  However, since Ozella didn’t have faith in the reading ability of the general public, she didn’t name it Barrique Happens, which was a good thing because listening to southerners massacre the French word wasn’t good for anybody anywhere.

Anyway, the bottom line was that they owned their own shit. Pause for a round of celebratory bootie dancing or a bout of shoe shopping.  And of course, wine.   

THE CROSS ROADS BOX SET A smorgasbord of genres, heroes, and heroines Brought to you from the pens of: Afton Locke Aliyah ...