Dad Is Great.
Dad's Day Reads
Father’s Day joint release with the fabulous and talented, Marteeka Karland
Let Them Eat Stake by Jeanie Johnson and Jayha Leigh, available June 2017
Despite her inability to put up with nonsense, rudeness, or generally f*ckery, single mom Roxana Herrington felt as if the blood in her veins pumped to the chorus of “If You’re Happy and You Know It.” She wouldn’t have asked for anything more out of life if she’d rubbed a genie lamp and was granted three wishes. Roxana felt that she’d already been more than adequately blessed with a family who loved her like the last line in Psalm 81, a son whose birth made her truly understand John 3:16, and a best friend who’d made the advent of cheesecake and kitchen tables a necessity. Roxana’s grandparents were glad that their granddaughter had a sunny outlook. However, that didn’t stop them from wanting Roxana to experience being loved by a man who’d sacrifice both his tears and his blood for both Roxana and her six-year old son, Xandr. When you have two Pentecostal preachers on a mission, there is sure to be some tambourine-shaking, shouts of Hallelujah, and some prayers answered.
The man Roxana’s grandparents settled on for their beloved granddaughter, was more than they’d expected, which was fitting being his name meant “beyond expectation.” Their great-grandson adored him, and their granddaughter didn’t want to stab him, which was always helpful. The young man was loyal, compassionate, steadfast, had a good head on his shoulders, the ability to provide, and would kill anything that threatened their granddaughter or great-grandson without a second thought and without mercy. They couldn’t have thought up a better man for Roxana if they’d been given clay to craft him. There was just one thing they hadn’t counted on: Tosya was not exactly a man.
No one attempted to stare down Tosya Aleksandrovich…with good reason. He was danger personified. Opening his senses, Tosya was surprised to discover that he was being sized up by a boy who appeared to have just entered elementary school. He didn’t get a chance to be impressed with the way the boy held his stare without backing down, despite being a bit afraid because he was soon waylaid by a vanload of Pentecostals on a mission to marry off the granddaughter of the co-pastors. He was about to beg their pardon, when the imp showed him a picture. “This is my mommy.” That photo proved two things: 1) a picture was worth a thousand words, and 2) the woman in the photo was going to be his.
Unedited Excerpt. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted by Jeanie Johnson and Jayha Leigh
Unedited Excerpt. All Rights Reserved. Copyrighted by Jeanie Johnson and Jayha Leigh
“I just want to go on record and state that I’m not doing this because I’m scared,” Yngvi Aðalmundsson said to no one in particular, since no one was listening to him anyway. He sure as shit knew that Isoke wasn’t listening to him as she’d never wasted a moment of their acquaintance doing so despite the fact that he was a partner in the firm.
“Whatever, Scandinavia,” Isoke said without missing a beat.
Yngvi smiled. He knew that Isoke knew his name, as well as the names of the firm’s other partners, she simply couldn’t be bothered to speak their names, so she simply referred to them collectively as “Scandinavia.”
Spearing his partners with a look that he hoped conveyed all of the ways they could go fuck themselves, Yngvi slapped a smile on his face before turning back to Isoke, who had yet to even spare him a glance. Like her eyeballs had something better to look at. “You know I have a name.”
“You know I don’t care,” she retorted.
Yngvi smiled, knowing with absolute faith that Isoke didn’t care at all. That’s why he adored her. Of the six partners, Yngvi was the one known as the “The Makes-You-Want-to-Kick-Him-in-the-Teeth” man. At least a million times a day, someone yelled refrains of “Danish bastard” his way. He responded by showing a smile that was the wet dream of many a dentist. Instead of being offended by the description, he embraced it. Probably because he was the type of asshole that reveled in his a**holishness. Being as it was so early in the day, Yngvi was in the warm-up part of his a**hole-dom, which was why he kept pushing, despite knowing it would not end well.
“You can’t pronounce our names, can you, Isoke?”
“I tell you what I can pronounce: Murder-Death-Kill in each of y’alls native tongues.”
Yngvi had to stop himself from falling to his knees and worshipping this woman. The fact that she’d taken the time to learn to maim and cuss in Danish, Faroese, Finnish, Icelandic, Norwegian, and Swedish almost brought a tear to his bedroom eyes.
“Y’all need to speak a language that sounds less like one is garbling consonants. And get names like Bob, Mike, William, James, and Steve, and perhaps someone would bother to learn your names…especially if y’all got personalities to go along with said names.”
“Says the woman whose family members all have names that contain letters that net the highest points in Scrabble.® I could go to HR about your nationalism.”
“I could trip you into an empty elevator shaft, but I really don’t have to bother since I can simply go next door and you know, ride my husband’s face as I’m complaining about you.”
Dammit, he’d momentarily forgotten that Isoke Morehouse-Valdason was nothing the lesser mortals that populated the earth. A, she had the brains to make her fantasy of him dying a gruesome death come true. B, whenever Isoke threatened him, she didn’t even bother to look upon his physical magnificence. The fact that she ignored his stunning presence was a clue that despite her impressive CV, something was wrong with her. Not that he’d ever again fix his mouth to say that unless he wanted to know what their section of Peachtree Avenue would look like decorated with half of his major organs. He could already envision the argument Isoke and Njarðar would have over who got to go all Aztec priest and rip his heart from his chest. His money was on Njarðar. While the man was as mild-mannered as they came, all bets were off when it came to his bride. His bride who was intent on having her way regardless of who she had to ride roughshod over.
Being 6’6” and 250 pounds, brilliant, high born, and hot, Yngvi was not a man others ignored, baited, or gave direct orders, unless of course said person was a big-tittied woman in his bed demanding that he fuck her harder. He was a man of privilege who could say “yes” to the pleasures the world offered, and “no” to that which failed to interest him. What he couldn’t do however, was tell Njarðar’s bride “no.” Well, he could, but Isoke was a first-rate lady, who also happened to be seven months pregnant. Despite not appreciating his awesomeness, Yngvi knew that if he didn’t do what she “suggested”, he’d end up limping, peeing blood, and before doing what she wanted anyway. If her grandmother didn’t make him regret his decision to point out that Isoke wasn’t the boss of him despite being married to the boss, there was always her brother, the other partners, and Isoke herself.
This was how he ended up in Bluegrass, Kentucky at a food truck run by a sorority comprised of women who, in his opinion, needed to be sized for good-fitting straight jackets. Yngvi was going to mention that until he witnessed one of the chicks demonstrate how to bust free from a litany of items including duct tape, hand cuffs, a straight jacket, and one of those face muzzles people who practiced extreme BDSM used. There was also the fact that there was a freaking enchantress in the group. While he wouldn’t swear to it on a stack of bibles, Yngvi was more sure than not that she’d lured a couple of sh*t-starters to their deaths. Oh well, not really his problem as it’d led to him being bumped up two places in the long line.
There was a lot of things Yngvi didn’t know before his unplanned trek to the Bluegrass state—first and foremost, the fact that bib overalls was acceptable attire for formal events. However, since the good women of the Bluegrass Chapter of Rho Beta Omicron Tau had introduced him to the delights of corn pudding and derby pie, he could forgive their taste in attire. Gnawing on the last section of his second slab of ribs, he admitted that he could probably forgive them anything as long as it didn’t interrupt his food supply. He now understood why Isoke had sent him on this mission to bring back food. After meeting the sorors, Yngvi now also understood why the sorors couldn’t simply drive their food truck to Georgia: two-thirds of the members were probably banned from leaving the county. Thank Odin for that miracle. And also, thank Odin for whoever taught these women to cook. Good cooking, like good loving, covered a lot of faults including an abundance of crazy.
And crazy was the name he’d given the woman currently at the head of the line looking like she was about to dress down the dumb*ss behind her.
“Before I jump to conclusions and call you all manner of Motherfuckers, have you had a lobotomy?” she asked the man behind her who kept pushing and grumbling.
“That is a f*cking rude question.”
“Well, I was trying to be all politically correct. I was going to ask if you were just fucking retarded. That’s why I rarely bother to be nice.”
Right then…that very moment is when Yngvi decided that this woman was coming back to Atlanta with him…along with every single slab of ribs the sorority had. He’d worry about logistics later. Tossing his plate in the trash bin, he made his way to the front of the line so that he could save the dumb*ss. He wasn’t going soft; he simply didn’t have the time to bribe the law and get this woman out of jail and to the empty as hell office outside of his office. From the look on that woman’s face, she’d already made up her mind to kill the dude. She was merely considering how she was going to do him in. Yngvi didn’t care if he had to cut his own salary in order to get her to work for him. People were entertainment for him, and he was already anticipating the joy he’d feel watching this woman shut sh*t down with just a look. Their HR department was getting ready to get a workout. He might’ve been meant to bring back food, but he was bringing a personal assistant along with the grub. Atlanta might already be chock full of badazz women, but there was always room for one more.