Smitty: Satan's Fury MC- Little Rock by L. WilderMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
View all my reviews
Wednesday, August 19, 2026
Holes in the Somewhere
Sometimes grief sneaks up on you and hunts you down.
Sometimes it walks right up and punches you.
Holes in the
Somewhere
by Richard R. Brown
Genre: Speculative Fiction, Horror Stories
Holes In The Somewhere is a collection of short works,
anchored by a personal memoir of the author's own experience with grief and
loss after the passing of his father from cancer, by speculative fiction author
Richard R. Brown.
A single mother encounters insanity in the worst possible
person; an estranged parent loses his reunited family to a mysterious bathroom
wall; a group of strangers come together to fight a fungal pandemic; college
students prepare for the extinction of the Sun... these are a few of the
challenges faced by the desperate characters in Holes In The Somewhere. The
choices they make, the dilemmas they wrestle with, all have very supernatural
consequences, but are felt with very human emotions.
These stories will tug at strings your heart thought were
too well-hidden for anyone to know about, and cause the mind to probe the gray
areas between wrong and right. Between normal and paranormal. Behind what's
real and only to the side of what's unreal. A perfect mix of quick, unsettling
reads, and longer, heart-wrenching escapes.
What readers
are saying:
"The debut is speculative fiction in form: weird,
unsettling, occasionally cosmic. But it reads less like a genre exercise than
like grief that has been given permission to take unusual shapes." -
Justine Castellon, Author/Reviewer
"I guarantee there is a 'gotcha' story in there for
just about anybody, and if you don't find at least one that bothers you just as
you're about to fall asleep, you're made of sterner stuff than I am." -
Kenneth Crist, editor-in-chief, Black Petals Magazine
“These stories are weird and creepy and heart-wrenching
in all the best ways. If you enjoy fiction that makes you question everything
and wrecks you emotionally, this is for you!” – Valerie S., 5 star Amazon
Review
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* Bookbub
* Goodreads
Excerpt from ‘Death’s Demons’, a story in ‘Holes In The Somewhere’
The
darkened sky descended into the depths of a dismal dusk, and Jason and Abby
returned to the church. The priest met them at the looming front door and
offered his aging hand in greeting.
“I look forward to hearing your story
again, Jason. I am Father Gregory. I see you have brought a friend. Excellent.
Miss?” The tall, slender man turned to Abby.
At the utterance of his name, Abby
turned white, despite her tan. When he offered his hand to shake, she
reciprocated like a zombie in that old music video. She couldn’t manage to
vocalize an answer to him, though. She winced and visibly recoiled when the man
brought her hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her fingers.
“This is my best friend, Abby. She’s
pleased to meet you,” Jason said, curious at Abby’s unexpected frigidity.
The priest smiled at Abby, then
produced an oversized key ring from his coat pocket. He found a very large iron
key and used it to unlock the gargantuan portal into the church.
“Please, follow me to my office,” he
said, and led them toward the altar. He climbed the three small steps to the
altar and turned left, heading for a door much like the door to the
confessional. As Jason and Abby approached the altar, Abby clutched Jason’s arm
and clung to him. Jason turned his head to ask if she was all right, but was
cut off by Father Gregory. “Please, make
yourselves comfortable,” he said.
Abby chose a chair in the corner,
leaving the chairs in the middle of the room open for Jason and Father Gregory.
As Jason sat down, he heard Abby scoot her chair next to his and felt her hand
slide under his and grasp it tightly.
The priest closed the office door and
sat in the unoccupied chair. “Would either of you care for a glass of water?”
he asked.‘Either’ came out as ‘eye-thur’, and Jason imagined that snakes would
pronounce it in the same way if they spoke English.
They both shook their heads in
refusal, and Father Gregory sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “All
right, then,” he said, and looked at Jason with an expectant smile curving his
thin lips.
Jason squirmed under the priest’s gaze
and started the discussion. “Well, I told you about my seeing Death…” he began.
“Yes. Please recount your experiences
for me,” Father Gregory prodded.
Richard R. Brown is a legally-blind author of speculative
fiction, horror, and thrillers. He writes from experience, having lived through
paranormal events, alien attacks, and cosmic horrors -- at least, in his mind
and in the books he listens to. He and his Guide Dog live in the Pacific Northwest.
Richard is between Guide Dogs at the moment as Edison retired last summer.
Edison was at Richard's side through every story in his book. Richard has no
such guidance for his current novel, but will likely have one for editing help.
Tailored for You
Title: Tailored for You
Series: Made Men #1
Author: B.A. Chayut
Genres: Romantic Suspense/Mafia Romance
Tropes: Protective Hero, Single Mom, Forced
Proximity, Touch Her and Die, Found Family
Release Date: August 19, 2026
BLURB
Surviving was easy. Trusting the man who's been watching over her all along — that's the hard part.
Serena has survived worse than bad men and broken promises. When danger comes for her and her daughter, survival is no longer something she can manage on her own.
Enzo Lombardi is a made man. Power, loyalty, and violence built his world, and once he decides Serena is worth protecting, there is no walking away. What begins as safety quickly turns into temptation neither of them can ignore, along with a connection Enzo has been quietly cultivating for far longer than she realizes.
In Enzo’s world, threats are answered with blood and loyalty is absolute. Loving him means stepping into the shadows and trusting that he will do whatever it takes to keep her safe.
Tailored for You is a romantic suspense, mafia romance, with an HEA.
PURCHASE LINKS
Free in Kindle Unlimited
AUTHOR BIO
Hi! I'm Brittany and I love to write heart-pounding suspense with strong FMCs and swoony, possessive MMCs.
I started writing during Covid- when I had ideas and stories to tell and finally had the time to write them down.
AUTHOR LINKS
Tuesday, August 18, 2026
The Weight of Cold Things
While searching for her missing boss, a
Wyoming Deputy Sheriff accidentally discovers a secret facility
and conspiracy of silence surrounding a series of mysterious deaths in
Deadhorse, Alaska.
The Weight of Cold
Things
by Lisa Towles
Genre: Psychological Thriller, Arctic Noir
Wyoming Deputy Sheriff Gree Gooding has one mission: find
her missing boss. The trail leads four thousand miles north—to Deadhorse,
Alaska, an oil-drilling outpost clinging to the edge of the Arctic Circle. A
place where daylight is rationed, where the cold can kill in minutes, and where
her husband AJ, a petroleum geologist, vanished six months ago.
The clues don't just point to her boss's disappearance. They reach back into
Gree's own past— to the Wyoming ranch she left behind, to the family secrets
buried in its soil, and to the grief frozen like permafrost inside her.
When the investigation cinches around a decades-long cover-up — a black ops
program called Arc Dominion — Gree realizes someone's been waiting for her.
Someone knew she'd follow the thread. This was never about a missing sheriff.
It's about the conspiracy AJ died trying to expose — and whether she can finish
what he started.
The cold doesn't forgive.
It doesn't forget.
And it's about to give up its dead.
For fans of Yellowstone and The X-Files — where neo-Western grit meets a
decades-long government conspiracy buried beneath the Arctic ice.
Amazon * Apple
* B&N
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* Bookbub
* Goodreads
Prologue
Winter, 1974 - Prudhoe Bay, Northwest Alaska
They gutted an iceberg with two sticks of dynamite, forty
years ago when the shabby construction camps rose on the iconic Dalton Highway.
Oil was struck in Prudhoe Bay in 1968, setting off an irreversible string of
events: an ecological nightmare, an eight-billion-dollar pipeline transporting
crude oil 800 miles south from the North Slope to Valdez, and passage for
seventy thousand oil workers to the most menacing outpost on earth: Deadhorse.
A stolen scrap of bread. Chronic insomnia. Drug abuse. One
worker snapped, nicking dynamite from the munitions depot, flailing his arms,
all the while forgetting how fast the detonating cord burns to the quick. The
shock wave bulleted shards of ice in every direction, thrusting the assailant
twelve feet in the air in a whirl of fire and black smoke. He became the first
prize, the Number One. His victim, the second man, escaped.
It took two days for the particles to clear the air, finally
revealing an exquisite, dome-like crevasse in the ice the depth of five
residential garages — one after the other in a long, hollow train. Except this
garage had no yard outside because nothing grew in this place but resentment.
No gas grill on a redwood deck, no family huddled in the adjacent house. Only
the unrelenting cold and ice: on the floor, walls, ceiling. He loved it that
way, the Caretaker, the exclusivity of his access and the singularity of his
dark secret.
That spring, the suited men came in droves sporting fine
clothing and city shoes to explain the gravity of their problem, which later
evolved into their pitch. Well, their problem had just solved itself, hadn’t
it? No one knew about this place and nobody but him would ever find it. Some
secrets were just not for sale.
Chapter 1
Present Day December 18 - Inglewood Ranch, Cody, WY
I could feel it in my bones, this unspeakable energy of
change. Not a buzz, it was more like a low hum I could almost hear when I
closed my eyes and got real still. I’d woken with it today, of all days, this
visceral knowing that despite the regularity of my errand, it would have a
disruptive impact on my life, such as it was. My work in Jackson, a five hour
drive from our family ranch in Cody, was an odd arrangement to begin with, and
the two-bedroom condo I rented near the Teton County Sheriff’s Office was
uninhabitable without AJ. Even still, there was something else in the air
today. Cholo, our ranch hand and my lifelong friend, sensed something too,
though it wasn’t his way to articulate his thoughts. Instead, he put cinnamon
in the coffee, his quiet way of offering comfort. I could smell it the whole
way in from the barn.
I’d gone out before first light, watching the fluff of gray
dawn cover my beloved Inglewood, hoping to shake the image of a recurring dream
and to brush AJ’s quarter horse, Rain. At first, it was to console him, knowing
horses had unique and profound ways of grieving. Lately, though, the cold vigil
seemed more about me. Rogue, the word had been coming to me since AJ’s death —
a blurry dream-hand opening to a tiny piece of paper on which a single word was
written. Was it him reaching out from his watery grave? What did it mean?
Cholo passed me a cup when I reached the kitchen, shutting
out the ten-degree wind chill behind me. I unzipped my coat and sipped quietly
just inside the door, letting the hot coffee slide down my throat, waiting for
whatever his face was preparing.
“Been three weeks now.”
I nodded, three weeks since Sheriff Peter Barrett
disappeared — my boss, mentor, now another silent ache in my heart.
“I heard about the fire,” he added. “How many is that now?”
“Does it matter?” I asked him. “Seven.”
“You think they’re connected. Don’t you?”
I shrugged, pretending. But any sane person would. “I’m not
an arson investigator. Bryce at the State Fire Marshal’s Office is looking into
it.”
“Really?”
I laughed. “Come on.
Bryce has a good team working for him. I know two of those guys.”
“They haven’t been out here since Thanksgiving.” Cholo
stared back, thick brows angled over large, black eyes.
“I know, okay? What do you want me to do? I’m not the
sheriff.” The words caught in my throat.
“You never know about people,” he said with that quiet
wisdom I’d never seen in anyone else, like he understood the longings in my
heart for answers that hadn’t yet come. Peter Barrett, Jackson’s most beloved
sheriff, vanished three weeks ago today.
Cholo was right about
Bryce, too. Interagency politics aside, I’d need to call and follow up on the
arson investigation they said they were running. Add it to the growing list.
He took a long sip, still watching me.
“Well, spit it out already,” I said.
“I can’t take you to the airport.”
“It’s alright, I’ll get an Uber.”
Cholo’s jaw was set
tight but his eyes were uncertain, like he was trying to think of an excuse but
couldn’t do it.
“What’s the big deal?”
“Woody’s gonna take you.”
“Woody!” My voice cracked like a whip. I set the cup on the
counter with a clunk and rezipped my coat. Ah…the cinnamon. Son of a bitch.
“He wants to talk to you.”
“Does he now?” I grabbed the warm mug for reinforcement and sucked
down the last three gulps. “Does he want to talk about how he stole two of our
horses, stole money from me? He robbed us, Cholo, all of us. And by doing so,
he broke something precious.” I didn’t like the sound of that word, precious.
Made it seem like Woody was important to me, and despite the intrusive logic of
that truth, there was no place for Woody here anymore.
“He says he’s sorry.”
“Not to me he didn’t. Besides, sorry’s just a word.” Already
mad at seven in the morning, great. I zipped my coat and turned my back to him,
facing the door. “A real apology is a change in behavior.” My eyes were wide as
I waited for him to take my challenge. To come to Woody’s rescue, explain how
the drugs made him do it or the excuse-of-the-day.
Still fuming, I left via Uber at 7:30 a.m. without another
word to either Cholo or my dad. Woody could kiss my ass as far as I was
concerned. I’d have to pay for my cold heart, of course. The world has a quiet
way of keeping score.
***
By 3:00 p.m., I was standing on the corner of Wave and
McClellan Streets in Monterey, California. Eleven hundred miles away in
historic Cannery Row, a sliver of sea was visible between the brownstones on
Lighthouse Avenue. The sun felt warm on my face and bare arms. Mid December in
California, I’ll be damned. A premonition, I couldn’t put my finger on it, made
me take notice, warning me to be careful. Something bad was coming.
Ash was right, I was loath to admit. There were holiday
decorations and tacky music everywhere, but it just didn’t feel like Christmas
in a hilltop penthouse overlooking the ocean, waves beneath me reflecting a
cloudy sky. The beauty of California’s coast was unmistakable, but in my heart,
Christmas was indelibly marked by snow.
“Is that you?” Cholo asked me later, answering his mobile on
the third ring.
“I guess. Some version of me, anyway.”
“What are you doing out there, Gree? You hate California.”
He knew, of course; we’d discussed it back and forth for
weeks. Why go now, why go at all? After being on and off the market for ten
years, my mother’s condo had finally found a buyer. I came here to sign papers,
to once again acknowledge the sting of her death and bring my feet one step
closer to the present. But that wasn’t what he was asking. Like all Cholo’s
questions, they were part real world and part spirit world. I knew what he
meant. I just wasn’t sure I was willing to answer yet.
“How’s Dad?” I deflected.
“He’s concerned about how it will look to the community, you
leaving town after Peter’s disappearance.”
“I don’t recall asking his opinion.” He was right, though.
It was too sudden, but it would be a short trip. Besides, everything was broken
right now anyway.
“No, but he’s always willing to share it, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” I laughed.
“He’s splitting wood right now,” Cholo said.
“Great idea for a man who just had a heart attack.”
“Come on, it was a mild one. He didn’t even know he was
having it. Besides, it’s gonna be zero tonight. We’ll be using that wood.”
I guess I shouldn’t complain. The fact that they were
staying in the same house, after such a long standoff, was nothing short of
miraculous and I had nothing to do with it. Maybe the rock of resentment got
too heavy to haul around anymore. I was dying to know who thawed first, but I’d
never ask. You didn’t do things that way out here. Not in Wyoming, not in this
family.
“Could you make sure he’s got a jacket on? For God’s sake
keep an eye on him. If left to his own devices he’d chop wood in a—”
“Gretchen.”
It was my dad’s voice now, Ash Gooding, former Sheriff of
Park County, who to this day insists on calling me by my birth name instead of
the nickname my mother gave me.
“How’s sunny California?”
It was meant as an insult. Everyone in town got lots of
mileage from the fact that I wasn’t a native of Wyoming, even though I’d lived
there since I was five.
“It’s midnight, Wyoming time. What are you doing up this
late? Do you miss me that much?” I joked to an awkward silence. I rambled on
for a while, telling him about the dark orange sunset I’d seen from the balcony
after signing a four-inch stack of papers. Hadn’t they ever heard of digital
copies? Apparently, this mortgage company insisted on paper-everything. Ash
listened. I heard the clinking of ice in his glass. Would this be his third or
fourth by now? I decided not to mention the wood chopping.
“You didn’t tell her?” he mumbled to Cholo. “Mmm.”
“Tell me what?”
A murmur of conversation in the background. Maybe his hand
was covering the phone. And maybe this was what Cholo was hiding from me this
morning.
“Dad, what is it? Tell me.”
“I can’t. Gotta show you. Guess we’ll have to wait till you
get back.”
Sonofabitch. I knew my dad, and that meant no manipulation
or psychology would wriggle out of him whatever he was keeping from me. After
signing over ownership of what had been my mother’s dream home, I left the key
with the bankers and took with me a cedar box of my mother’s mementos, which I
would undoubtedly squirrel away somewhere and forget about for the next decade.
All the better, right? Avoidance, since AJ’s death six months ago, had become a
sort of new religion. Didn’t avoidance almost always turn to cancer somewhere
down the road?
When I got back, I didn’t bother going home first before
looking for Ash. He’d planted an evil seed of dread and apprehension, and he
knew it too. Maybe punishing me for something; he’s a Gemini after all. I flew
into Cody from San Francisco instead of Jackson, where I’d worked for the past
twelve years as deputy sheriff under Peter Barrett, one of the kindest men I’d
ever met. Why did I feel like Ash’s secret had something to do with him? The
buzzing in my bones this morning...maybe that was the warning. Jesus, no. Not
that. The vague comfort of the word missing was too hard to give up.
Three in the afternoon to Ash Gooding meant five o’clock
somewhere. There's this ratty bar on the edge of town called Stagecoach, Ash’s
favorite. Drafty as hell with dusty floors, swivel stools, and random darts
scattered on the floor looking for their board, threatening tetanus. Weird part
about it was that the owner isn't a wrinkled prune of a man but someone
belonging on the cast of Below Deck, a body intended for board shorts, tanned
legs and a white polo shirt hauling up ropes with three-ply triceps. He was
trying to be unassuming in a plain brown t-shirt stretched out at the neck,
pretending he didn't care about his looks. His artificially whitened smile
betrayed the deception - laughing eyes with something sinister behind them, a
joke no one knew about but him.
“How’s it going?” the guy asked.
I exhaled. “G&T, please. Been a long day.”
“Coming up.”
When Runway Model set down the glass, I suddenly didn’t feel
like talking. The weight of air travel, of the milestone I’d crossed and
today’s sad anniversary, burned behind my eyes. They watered as I took the
first swallow. I turned on the stool to look around. Ha, I knew it.
“Ash,” I said, walking across the creaking floorboards.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
“Drinking here alone, that’s what.”
“What's wrong with that?”
“You can come to my house in Jackson and drink with me.
Wouldn't that be nicer?”
He laughed. “Not necessarily. Besides, too long a drive.”
“Look, you can stay here and punish yourself for Mom's death
all you like. I know what day it is.”
The slap of the men’s room door distracted us from the
tension. It was a sad old story with no ending. I smelled Cholo’s Irish Spring
soap behind me. I turned, my left arm involuntarily reaching for him, tugging
the frayed edge of his Carhartt jacket.
“Well.” I stood back a ways. “You two got real chummy in the
one day I left town.” They were looking sideways at each other in some silent
communication. Ranchers at a bar in the middle of the afternoon; it didn’t make
sense. “What’s the deal?”
Cholo nodded. “You’d better sit down.”
Lisa Towles believes stories hold the world together - and
the best ones expose what we hide even from ourselves. She builds that belief
into her main characters - Mari Ellwyn, Angus Mariner, Kurt Farin - each one
drowning in dark secrets, running from unthinkable truths. The award-winning
author of 14 mystery thrillers, her books pull readers into worlds of global
espionage, fringe technology, and shadow governments. Her titles include Terror
Bay (NYC Big Book Award), Codex (BookFest First Place), The Ridders (American
Fiction Award), and her E&A Series thrillers Hot House and Salt Island both
reached Amazon Kindle #1 Bestseller. Her next thriller, The Weight of Cold
Things - described as Yellowstone meets The X-Files - publishes in August 2026.
When she's not writing, she interviews authors on her Story Impact Podcast and
coaches writers on how to be visible and memorable to readers. Follow her to
get notified of new releases.
Follow
the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!
Enter The Weight of Cold Things Giveaway Here
Requite of the Fates
Controlled by aliens, Nathaniel Wayne can’t resist his
attraction to Marlene Broadie.
Requite of the Fates
by Venus Campbell
Genre: Interracial Time Travel Romance, SciFi Adventure
Perfect for fans of The Song of Achilles and A Touch of
Darkness, this interracial time-travel romance is a Greek mythology retelling
of the Theseus and the Minotaur that follows war photojournalist, Marly
Broadie, surviving on grit and grief as she encounters Emissary Nate Wayne,
under the control of aliens.
Set in near future New York city, and Los Angelos and 1500's
BCE Crete, Nate's body, as Emissary for Earth, can be piloted by the Entity,
aliens threatening humanity. Any resistance initiates humanity's annihilation.
Marly's photography of the Emissary will ensure her mother's life-saving
treatment. Instead, Marly provokes the Entity's interest and Nate's. Alien
time-travel tech flings them back to ancient Minoan Crete. Stuck in the past,
their desire for each other grows. Every reclaimed memory brings them closer to
returning to the present and the Entity who can possess Nate's body. However,
the future without them means human extinction. They will escape the past as
their love is required to ensure humanity's future.
From award winning author, Venus Campbell, Requite of the
Fates is a multicultural mytho-sci time-travel romance for readers ready to
adventure into the mythical past.
Book
of Venus * Amazon * IngramSpark * Goodreads
Nate had never known true agony. He was lucky. She wanted
to hold it against him, his “everything will turn out all right” point of view,
but she needed a bit of that. She looked up from her hands in her lap and met
his gaze. Yes, a bit of fantasy in her life would do her good.
Smiling, she quipped, “You promised food.”
“Did I? Well, I think Stacy should be out in a minute
with dinner. I usually get a pot pie. Chicken is one of her specialties.”
Marly nodded. Her stomach growled as she adjusted her
bottom in the seat. “I could eat anything at this point.”
“You were rude, Mr. Wayne,” a woman’s voice interrupted
from behind her. “And I just wanted you to know that it reflects badly on you
to be sleeping with a woman like her.”
Marly turned to stare up at the tall blond who had
accosted them in the front hall earlier. It took Marly a minute to absorb what
she’d heard, then her face heated.
She didn’t think. She just stood, fury boiling to the
surface. She took one step in the woman’s direction and would have let out a
nasty response if Nate’s hand on her shoulder hadn’t restrained her. Staring at
him, she opened her mouth to speak, but he wasn’t looking at her. He angled in
front of her and squeezed her arm reassuringly in one controlled movement, then
advanced on the blond with angry intent.
Nate’s voice rang out powerfully in the dining room’s
sudden silence. “You better get smart. A mouth like that will get you
permanently barred from a career in Hollywood. You’ll certainly never work on a
film with me. And just so you know, I wouldn’t sleep with you to save the great
race. Let’s go, Marly.”
He curved around the woman, making sure no part of him
touched her, and headed out of the dining room with Marly right behind him. At
the double-door hall entrance, a stalwart Stacy sent Nate a questioning look.
He stopped, his nostrils flaring, and bit out his words.
“I believe that woman is having difficulty finding her
way out.”
Stacy nodded. “I’ll make sure she gets there.” She handed
him a key. “I’ll have your dinner brought up.”
Nodding a quick thanks, his expression impenetrable, Nate
turned and pulled Marly up dark-carpeted stairs. They made their way silently
down a wide hall, the maroon-colored wallpaper casting a forbidding slant to
their mutual silence. She couldn’t figure out what was going on. He seemed
angry with her, yet he’d defended her. Maybe he regretted his outburst, but she
didn’t. Now she understood why every sane person wanted to be with or be Nathaniel
Wayne.
They stopped at a door and Nate slipped the key into the
lock, turned it with a click, and pushed, then retreated to let Marly enter
first. She marched into the room, and after he’d followed and turned to address
her, she slammed the door shut and grabbed his sweat coat, her mouth crashing
against his as she pulled him down desperately.
He held back a second before grabbing her ass. Yes. Perfect
hands.
Then his chest, arms, and nether regions pressed against
her, his hard body inching her backward until she was against the wall and he
adjusted his grasp on her buttocks. He held her against his erection.
His tongue caressed the inside of her mouth. She tasted
mint on his breath. Tilting his head, he raised one hand to frame her face, the
callouses on his fingers brushing sensuously on her cheeks. He pulled in her
breath, lapping at her tongue, then slanted away to suckle her lips as his blue
irises bored into her eyes. A question twinkled there and Marly nodded. This
time, yes.
She couldn’t think as she watched him. Her eyes closed in
shuddering bliss as his lips touched her neck and he ran his hands down her
body again to pull her against him. Want was all she could think. She ached
with want.
Then he was pulling away and the contrasting cool to his
warmth returned thoughts to her head. Should they be doing this? She stared at
him as he stepped back, breathing hard.
His hands, shaking, reached out to straighten her rumpled
shirt, then held her face a moment. “I’ve been in enough movies to know that
making love to you right now would ruin any chance I have at persuading you
into a relationship with me.” He took another deep breath as if to steady
himself. “May I draw you a bath?” His question was so innocent, so concerned.
Marly’s heart thumped.
He didn’t wait for her to answer. Taking her hand, he
walked her to the bathroom and flicked on the light switch. Lavender. Marly’s
eyes lit in the violet-and--tiled room as the scent of lavender floated
into her nostrils. Bath and hand towels in a matching -and-violet scheme
lay folded on the marble countertop. A ceramic clawfoot bathtub
dominated the room; its classic silver knobs caught Marly’s glance. A pair of
complementing knobs shone from the sink. Stacy must have paid for the best
interior decorator money could buy.
Nate left her to bend by the tub and turn on the water.
After a minute of fiddling, he seemed to have the temperature where he wanted
it. Marly was drawn to the water’s relaxing tinkle. Fatigue pushed forth again,
as her tense muscles unwound from her earlier confrontation with Nate’s
less-than-adoring public and, well, her life. She had to fight to keep her
eyelids open as the steam from the tub wrapped itself around her.
Nate appeared before her and lowered her slicker off her
shoulders. Then he pulled her shirt gently up and off her body and reached
around to unhook her bra. No flicker of desire lit his gaze. Only concern. Her
shirt and coat flung across the crook of his elbow, he smiled and rubbed her
arms then bent to help her pull off her jeans.
Marly blinked to combat her fatigue. With her clothes in
hand, he walked to the door and looked back. She could barely discern his
words.
“I’ll be right outside, okay?”
Nodding, she let her gaze slide to the hot bath before
her. The door clicked shut. Pulling off her bra and underwear, Marly climbed
into the warm water and sank until she was covered up to her neck. The lapping
of the water at her chin drew her lids lower until she couldn’t resist sleep
anymore. Nathaniel Wayne, desire and concern in his eyes, was the last image in
her head. Her last thought: she was falling in love with him.
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Smitty
Title: Smitty
Series: Satan's Fury MC - Little Rock
Author: L. Wilder
Genre: MC Romance
Tropes: Second Chance; Secret Baby; First Love; Brotherhood; Crime
Release Date: August 18, 2026
Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations
Cover Model: Dom
Photographer: Wander Aguiar Photography
I had nothing when I found her.No roof. No patch. No name that meant anything to anyone.
I was just a man clawing his way out of the dark.
She didn’t see a lost cause.
She saw me. Loved me.
But I had wounds even she couldn’t heal.
So, I pushed her away.
Two years had come and gone.
I was no longer the broken guy with nothing.
I’d faced my fears and earned my patch.
I had everything I wanted. Except her.
I’d fought for a place I could call home.
Now, I would fight for her.
No matter what the cost.
Some people only get one chance at love.
I’m praying for a second.
I’d lived on the streets. I’d gone days without food or a place to stay and thought I might starve or freeze to death. I’d been in shootouts where I felt actual bullets whip past my damn head, been in brawls with guys two times my size, and even got beaten so badly I almost died.
Those times were all pretty intense, scary even, but the fear I felt then didn’t come close to what I was feeling as I stood on Brooke’s doorstep. I’d been standing there for God knows how long, trying to work up the nerve to knock. It was downright pathetic.
I looked down into the gift bag at the small white stuffed seal I’d bought for Anslee and the sandwiches I’d brought for Brooke, and while they'd seemed like a good idea earlier, now they seemed ridiculous. But it was too late. I was here, and I was doing this.
With sweaty palms, I knocked and immediately heard a commotion inside. This was it. I was about to meet my daughter. I inhaled a deep breath, and before I could second-guess things any further, the door swung open.
Those times were all pretty intense, scary even, but the fear I felt then didn’t come close to what I was feeling as I stood on Brooke’s doorstep. I’d been standing there for God knows how long, trying to work up the nerve to knock. It was downright pathetic.
I looked down into the gift bag at the small white stuffed seal I’d bought for Anslee and the sandwiches I’d brought for Brooke, and while they'd seemed like a good idea earlier, now they seemed ridiculous. But it was too late. I was here, and I was doing this.
With sweaty palms, I knocked and immediately heard a commotion inside. This was it. I was about to meet my daughter. I inhaled a deep breath, and before I could second-guess things any further, the door swung open.
Wall Street Journal and USA Today Best Seller, L. Wilder, writes about hot, alpha men and the women who love them. She currently has six series available for readers: The Devil Chaser's MC, Satan's Fury MC, Satan's Fury MC-Memphis, the Redemption Series, the Happy Endings Collection, and the Ruthless Sinners MC. If you're looking for a book that will keep you on the edge of your seat and have you smiling like a school girl at the end, L. Wilder is the author for you.
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