Crowned by Hate

 

 

Title: Crowned by Hate
Series: Crowned Trilogy #1
Author: Amo Jones
Genre: Dark Romance/Thriller
Release Date: November 14, 2017

 

Blurb
Some would say I have a privileged life. Daughter of the current President of the United States, wealthy, famous, and all things that some girls wish they had. 
 
Only I’d dream of having a simple life. A life where I wasn’t marrying the scariest man I have ever met. Well, I thought I had just met him, but it turns out, there’s so much I don’t know about myself. That’s all thanks to a past so twisted, so warped, that no amount of money, or presidential status could wipe it clean. 
 
I’m the rebel child. Or as some may see it, the disappointment. I’ve never cared about expensive wedding gowns, or how much someone paid for a tailored suit. I don’t care if your wedding dress is from Walmart, or if it’s from some fancy, upscale designer line. 
 
So why am I marrying the devil dressed in a thousand-dollar 
suit? 
 
I’m about to find out how I got here. To marrying one of the most powerful men in the country. The road to finding out, though, is paved with darkness, painted with the blood of innocents, and it leads my ass straight to hell. Only this hell is a multi-million-dollar penthouse suite in New York City where Bryant Saint Royal, sits on his throne. 
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Author Bio

Amo is a full-time writer from New Zealand who loves long romantic walks to the wine cellar. She loves to write like how she lives, hanging on the edge of insanity with a wine glass in one hand and her morals-or lack thereof- in the other.


Those are not my monkeys, I swear….
Oh those hellhounds? Yeah, those are mine.
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Forgotten Warriors

 

 

History
Date Published: May 2016
Publisher: Dog Ear Publishing
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Forgotten Warrios is the story of the aphibious march across the Pacific from the Aleutians to Okinawa from the experiences of shipmates aboard the USS J. Franklin Bell which includes the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor and the following battles: The Aleutian Campaign (Adak, Attu and Kiska); The Solomon Islands Campaign (Guadalcanal, Bougainville); The Coral Sea Battle (Naval Battle); The Battle of Midway (Naval Battle); The Battle for Tarawa; The Battle for Kwajalein; The Battle for Eniwetok; The Marianas Champaign (Saipan, Tinian, and Guam); The Battle for Leyte; The Battle for Iwo Jima; The Battle for Peleliu; The Battle for Okinawa. Refresh your memory with the what, where, when and why for each of these battles, the listing of the Medal of Honor Awardees for each battle, as well as a listing of casualties. Also included are the contributions made by Coast Guard, Submarine Service, and Seabees as well as the women of the USA toward victory over the Japanese in World War II.
It seem like we celebrate Normandy every year, which we should, but when have you heard about Peleliu, Tarawa, Tinian etc.During the invasion of Peleliu we had 3201 more casualties than D-Day at Normandy. At Tarawa 2 out of 3 marines never made it to the beach. Admiral Spruance called the invasion of Tinian the most brilliant amphibious operation of WWII. The two fake landings on the most suitable beach on the South caused the Japanese to move their troops in that direction, which allowed us to land on the North less desirable beach, with minimum resistance. I know this for a fact because I was there.
The book covers all major battles in the Pacific where statistic shows that when we are compared to our counterparts that fought in the European Theater we were 5 times more likely to be killed; 3 times more likely to be wounded and twice as likely to end up being a POW.
We fought a different kind of enemy in the Pacific. If the Germans or Italians were surrounded they surrendered. But, the Japanese would charge with or without a weapon. That explains why our wounded to death rate was 3 to 1. For the Japanese it was the reverse of 18 killed to each one wounded.
The book recognized all the Medal of Honor that were awarded in the Pacific with a brief description of why each was awarded.
About the Author


D. Ralph Young was born in central Kentucky in 1925 and was raised on a farm in Lincoln County. He served as a Gunner’s Mate on the USS J Franklin Bell for nearly 3 years during WWII.

After military service he obtained an engineering degree from the University of Kentucky. He was involved in developing electric power systems all over the USA as well as the Middle-east and South-east Asia. He retired to his place of birth in Kentucky 3 times before really calling it over from an active engineering career to become an author and write 2 books. The Power of a Mothers Prayer and Forgotten Warriors.

In 2006 he was inducted into the University of Kentucky, College of Engineering Hall of Distinction

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For Life

Title: Carolina Bad Boys for Life
Series: Carolina Bad Boys #7 (The Series Epilogue)
Author: Rie Warren
Genre: MC Romance
Release Date: November 13, 2017
Blurb
Sometimes a Bad Boy
can be good for a girl.
Finale of Carolina Bad Boys—the
hot southern MC series readers have lusted after! The epic series epilogue includes all new original content from Stone to Chrome, featuring all the usual suspects, plus many, many more
characters you won’t even expect.
One big sexily-every-after for the entire crew. ’Nuff said.

 

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Excerpt
 
Rainblow of Love
Frankie
and Preston
“HEY,
SEXY.” PRESTON WALKED into the kitchen, fresh from his workout at the gym.
Preston
Legare, so posh. My downtown toyboy. In low-hanging shorts and a loose shirt he
pulled up to wipe across his face. Baring carved abs, the thin trail of hair,
and an indent of muscles that led to a cock I built frickin’ fantasies around.
He looked
fucking fine in one of my natty tailored suits. Even better naked. But I had to
admit, the sweaty, ruffled, flushed-face look he had workin’ for him right now
reminded me of the way he looked after I’d fucked him hard and put him up wet.
Mmmm.
A man could
get used to that kind of thing.
“That’s Eye-talian
sex god to you.” I leaned into him, drawing his lips to mine with enough
wetness and suction to make Preston groan before I turned back to the stove.
The kitchen
smelled divine, and I’d been cooking all afternoon for him. My mother’s famous
cioppino, Caesar salad, crispy bread I’d made from scratch. Loved spoiling my
man.
We lived in
a restored carriage house in one of the finer spots of the French Quarter,
Charleston, SC. A nice walk through scenic cobbled streets to my shop. Not that
we couldn’t afford more. Being a mostly retired hit man and former Mafia
enforcer, as well as a bespoke tailor . . . I was flush. And Preston, the
executive assistant extraordinaire, wasn’t hurting for money, neither. But the
place was private, quiet, and we had our own courtyard where I liked to fuck
the holy hell out of him whenever the weather was warm enough, which was often.
“Why don’t
you go take a shower then put your feet up? After you pour me a glass of wine.”
“You going
to join me?” Preston turned me to him, pressing his fine body against me.
“Frisky?” Madon’. I loved it when he rubbed all
over me.
Tight bod.
Perfect hair. Nice cock. Great—fucking great—ass.
I was
tempted to get all sudsy and wet with him, but I needed to finish cooking in
the kitchen before I cooked somewhere else. Capisce?
“Gotta
decline that offer, babe.”
“Why? Do we
have plans tonight?” He kissed me, doing that crazy good thing with his
tongue—which was pierced—that drove me absolutely up the wall.
“Nada,” my
voice rumbled out, way huskier than before.
“Do you have plans tonight?” He stiffened,
and not in the good way.
“What’s
that supposed to mean?” My nerves were already a little on edge, and I stared
at him.
“You’ve
been acting sneaky lately.” His eyes turned brittle and hard.
“What’s
gotten your jockstrap in a twist all of a sudden?”
Preston
grunted—a sound of sheer annoyance—and pushed against my chest.
“Jesus
fuggin’ Christ, amante. You accusin’
me of something here?” Crossing my arms over my chest, I stood my ground as he
went all pit bull on me.
“I want to
know who else you’re screwing!”
Complete
and utter shock ranged through me. Quickly followed by a burst of anger.
“You’re on my cock so much, when am I supposed to have time to find a random
fuck buddy?”
“That’s all
I am? A fuck buddy. Your flamer fag? Your backdoor boyfriend?”
My eyes
widened with every word he said, insecurity oozing off him—Preston—the most self-confident man I knew.
“Will you
shut those gorgeous blowjob lips for just one second? Madon’, and I’m the one who’s supposed to have a temper. M’I
right?”
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CAROLINA BAD BOYS SERIES

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Stone – 99c for a limited time!

Ride (the book within the book from Stone)

Love

Steele

Chrome

Rush

Tail – 99c for a limited time!

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU

 

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RIDE

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU
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Author Bio

 

Rie is the badass, sassafras author of Sugar Daddy and the Don’t Tell series–a breakthrough trilogy that crosses traditional publishing boundaries beginning with In His Command. Some of her latest endeavors include the Carolina Bad Boys and Bad Boys of Retribution MC series.

A Yankee transplant who has traveled the world, Rie started out a writer—causing her college professor to blush over her erotic poetry without one ounce of shame. Not much has changed. She swapped pen for paintbrushes and followed her other love during her twenties. From art school to marriage to children and many a wild and wonderful journey in between, Rie has come home to her calling. Her work has been called edgy, daring, and some of the sexiest smut around.

You can connect with Rie via the social media hangouts listed on her website https://www.riewarren.com.

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Marriage Games

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THIRTY DAYS
That’s all Adam Steinbeck demands of his wife.
Thirty days in a remote cottage, doing everything he commands. After that, he’ll sign her divorce papers and give her complete ownership of their company.
That’s how long he has to rediscover the man he once was. The Dominant Master he hid when he fell in love with her five years before.
She wants the business they built badly enough to go to the cottage for a month. Cut off ties to the world and do his bidding. She can submit to him with her body, but her heart will never yield.
She thinks this is his pathetic attempt to repair their marriage.
She’s wrong.

Daredevils

 

Historical Romance, Women’s Fiction
Date Published: January 2017
Publisher: Forget Me Not Romances, Winged Publications
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What happens in the roaring twenties when a daredevil barnstormer falls in love with a wing-walking flapper threatened by dangerous men out to exploit her?
Orphan and wing-walker Gloria needs a job when her boss dies in a barnstorming accident. With no other jobs available, she sweet-talks Rand into letting her walk his wing. Flying Ace Rand fights wartime injuries that hamper his flying even as he works to gain the world-record for solo flight across the Atlantic. He bucks his wealthy dad’s plans for him to settle down, join the company, and marry a socialite.
Rand falls in love with the courageous, fun-loving, and  daring Gloria. But Orphan Gloria’s experienced too many men who promise love and marriage and instead take advantage of her being alone in the world. She holds Rand at arm’s length. Without her knowledge, Rand protects her and makes sure she doesn’t starve. When Gloria’s offered a movie contract Rand knows he must intervene.
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Excerpt
Kill Devil Hills, 1925
Gloria plodded from the bathroom into the bedroom. “Daisy, we’ve no food in the cottage, so I need to have a heart-to-heart chat with Mr. Rand Maitland. He’s exactly the type of older man I prefer to work with.” She bent to pat the blonde puppy’s head. No more fending off amorous bosses. “I need to find another partner like Buzz.” A tear slipped from her eye and wiggled down her cheek. “I miss you, Buzz. If you were still alive, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Thanks to Vincent and his lies, no other pilot will hire me.”
Gloria swiped a fist across her cheek to wipe the tears and snagged her only dress from a hanger, leaving the small closet empty. “I’ll force myself to be amusing and cheerful. Older men like that.” Anything to improve her chance of getting a job. According to Annie, Rand Maitland had been an ace fly boy during the war. She could trust his acrobatics.
She perched on the edge of the sagging bed, pulled shiny, silk stockings just above her knees and rolled in the garters. She stood and slid into the white dress that ended in a shocking way just below her knees. Well, older men liked that too. She’d need every advantage to capture this job.
Suited her just fine she didn’t need to flatten her bosom because God hadn’t overly endowed her. In her line of work a voluptuous bust got in the way. She reached behind her back to zip up her dress. Easy, because the fabric draped open to below her shoulder blades in the rear. Scandalous in the daytime, but she only had this one gown or her trousers. “Trousers won’t impress the old man, Daisy, and I can’t wear my costume. Being broke is just tedious.”  She smoothed the drop-waist dress and settled on the edge of the bed to slip on red, high-heeled shoes. She stood and pivoted in front of her blonde puppy. “How do I look, Daisy?”
Though her might-be-new boss lived close, she’d borrow Annie’s Model T roadster. “Rand Maitland’s bound to have his Jenny tied-down near the sand runway, and I don’t want to get grit inside my only pair of dress shoes.”
Daisy raised a paw to be shaken. Gloria smiled, bent and shook the furry offering.  She didn’t need the auto since Kitty Hawk wasn’t more than five hundred yards or so from Annie’s cottage near Kill Devil Hills, but Mr. Maitland would be more impressed if she drove. He mustn’t know how desperately she needed this job or he wouldn’t hire her. Her high heels tapped a determined rhythm on the uneven linoleum as she crossed the living room. She shut the door behind her and marched down the rickety wooden stairs to the beach. Stepping carefully to keep loose sand out of her shoes, she tiptoed around the cottage to where Annie had parked her Model T before she left for Europe.  Gloria bent, cupped the crank handle on the front of the car in her palm, pulled the choke wire with her left hand and gave the crank a quick half-turn. The engine sputtered to life. Her shoes slipped on the sandy driveway as she minced on tip-toes around to the driver’s seat and climbed inside.
She drove close to the three bi-planes tied down just beyond a cluster of larger cottages on stilts. Too late to turn back. She’d forgotten to apply that new chalk-white face powder that was all the rage. Nor had she painted her lips red. She’d wanted that color to bolster her confidence and hide her pain. She shook her head and shrugged. Well, she had a stiff spine and didn’t need to paint on courage.  She pulled up next to the closest home, stopped the automobile, turned off the ignition, set the brake, and slipped out the door. Just off the road, her red high-heels sank into loose sand. “Ain’t we got fun?” she murmured dryly. Her shoes had survived worse obstacles. These red high heels would outlast this setback too.
In the slanting morning light, three visiting biplanes cast long shadows. All the other planes, snug inside hangars, waited for tomorrow’s barnstorming show. A man wearing blue coveralls with his back to her, bent over the engine casing of the middle Jenny. Annie had mentioned Mr. Maitland named his plane Jazzman, so that big fella had to be the man himself, right where she thought she’d find him. Taking giant steps through the sifting sand between her and the hard-packed sand beneath the Jennies, she stopped directly behind him. She tugged her red cloche hat low over one eyebrow, held down the silky skirt flapping in the breeze, and straightened her shoulders.
“Hello!” She highlighted her voice to sound perky. Older men liked perky.  The man grunted, tightened a bolt on the engine with a large wrench and then turned. She started, her hands flew up, and she almost lost her footing. Annie hadn’t mentioned her husband’s youngest brother was gorgeous. He flashed a smile. Dimples played around that dazzling grin and found an immediate place in her heart. He stared at her with eyes bluer than the bluest lapis. And he was no older man.
Too bad for her. She pressed her lips together. She’d so counted on Mr. Maitland being older. She’d learned her lesson about handsome men.
And she better make sure she remembered it.
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About the Author
ANNE GREENE’s home is in the quaint antiquing town of McKinney, Texas, just a few miles north of Dallas.
Her husband is a retired Colonel, Army Special Forces. Her little brown and white Shih Tzu, Lily Valentine, shares her writing space, curled at her feet. She has four beautiful, talented children who keep her on her toes.
She’s traveled to every location of each book she’s written, and each book is a book of her heart. Besides her first love, writing, she enjoys travel, art, sports, reading, sailing, snorkeling, movies, and way too many other things to mention. Life is good.
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American Revolution

 

Dystopian, Sci-Fi, Futuristic
Date Published: January 2018
When Kelvin Hanson is dishonorably discharged from his naval captaincy he doesn’t connect the events to the accession of new President Diego Silva. But as he researches further he finds that Silva isn’t as he appears. Determined to rid the nation of a corrupt president, Hanson plots to assassinate him, but someone else gets there first.
Ashlee Townsend, head of the non-profit Freedom Group is equally determined to get to Silva, and is as surprised as Hanson when someone pips her to the post. Still reeling from the President’s assassination, Hanson and Townsend join forces as a military dictatorship takes over the country.
As rumors of terrorist plots and Mexican invasions fly, Hanson’s journalist wife sets the story straight, finding that it was the military themselves that assassinated Silva. As the truth comes out, California secedes from the Union, and Hanson and Townsend find themselves fleeing to Sacramento to head up a rebellion force.
Reuniting the states under a democratically elected President means war. And while Hanson heads up the rebel forces, his wife Kishanna deals with propaganda and information, and Ashlee becomes the center of yet another assassination plot.
This time, however, things go differently. And with a dead dictator, the threat of civil war crumbles. The governor of California becomes the interim President, and Hanson decides to throw his hat into the ring for the coming election. Democracy triumphs, and the United States is united once more.
Excerpt

 

Prologue


The absurdly large clock above the television clicked as its minute hand pushed past six. A little after half past midnight. The room was smaller than he’d imagined. Not his choice, but that of his ultra-efficient campaign manager. Not that there were that many places in Wyoming large enough to hold the small crowd that currently surrounded him. The air smelled of sweat and fear and elation, a bitter, sour smell that reminded him of the taste left in his mouth after eating only candy for hours. He was half listening to the chatter around him, the other half of his attention on the television screen.
It was odd, he thought, to be sitting down, to be inactive. For the last few months he felt that he hadn’t slept, had barely eaten, had done nothing but smile until his face ached and shake hands and speak and then smile again. And now nothing. The speech was written. The campaigning was done. There was just a vast empty swath of nothingness, and all he could do was sit and wait. This wasn’t quite as odd, however, as seeing his name flash up constantly on the TV screen.
Diego Silva. Billionaire, businessman, father, candidate. But still, always, the big-eared, buck-toothed kid of a single mom who’d raised him on rice and beans and not much else. Maria Silva was gone now. Pancreatic cancer a decade ago. It was a shame, really—she’d have been good for a slew of photo shoots, and probably a daytime TV interview or two. Silva grunted as he shifted position on the couch, his full belly pressing against the Armani belt on his slate-gray pants.
“It’ll be in soon.”
Mike Callahan perched on the edge of the sofa. His wiry body was like a coiled spring, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice. But Silva knew Callahan well enough to see the man was exhausted, close to the edge. Not that it mattered now. After the next few hours, Callahan could snap like a twig if he wanted to. His job would be done by then. One way or the other.
“What will?” Silva asked, not turning his eyes away from the television.
“Vigo County.”
Silva eyed the clock thoughtfully as the minute hand clicked again, then nodded. Vigo County, Indiana, had voted for every US presidential election winner since Eisenhower. The seemingly prescient county was his good luck charm. Silva had been quite clear on his orders. He wanted no disturbance from interns running in every few minutes, trickling down results that hadn’t been fully counted. Not until after Vigo County had announced. Once he knew that, he’d know. Everything else would just be noise, would be air inflating the balloon until it exploded. One way or the other.
“Coffee?”
Silva shook his head. His stomach was already sour from too many cups. And God forbid he’d be taking a piss when the result did come in. Thinking of hearing the news as he stood up against a bleach-smelling urinal, dick in hand, made him grin.
“It’s not a guarantee; you can’t afford to make Vigo the be-all and end-all,” Callahan said, turning bright blue eyes to him. “I’ve said it before, Silva, and I’ll say it again: there has never, ever been a candidate with your ratings. Ever. You’ve broken the damn polls. You’ve had the counters checking and double checking their math, convinced they’d fucked up. Whether you get Vigo or not . . .”
He trailed off. Silva grunted again. Callahan was confident, but not quite confident enough that he was willing to jinx the whole thing by saying it out loud. A good old Boston boy, Callahan’s accent had grated on Silva’s ears when they first met. Then he’d ceased to notice it. Only now did those flat vowels again bother him. But he didn’t respond. Had no time to respond.
“Mr. Candidate, sir.”
She was tall and blonde and big breasted, just as he’d liked them when he was a kid. That flawless white all-American girl with enough fat on her bones to have curves. The ideal. Almost as hot as his first wife. Almost, he thought, studying the snub nose sprinkled with light freckles. A slim strip of white paper was trembling in her hand, and Silva nodded at Callahan to take it.
The campaign manager looked at the black print, dismissed the girl, turned to Silva.
“Vigo,” was all he said.
And Silva knew, knew as he’d always known he’d know. His heart hammered in his chest but he didn’t let it show. In a corner of the room on blue plastic chairs, his two sons were playing poker, oblivious and uncaring as to what was happening around them. His two daughters were nowhere to be seen, but they were around somewhere. Sitting alone, her eyes downturned, demure and silent, Min-Seo, his wife, could have been asleep. He had a flash of gratitude that he’d made such a good choice. Neither of his previous wives would have been silent. Both would have been screeching, complaining, thrusting themselves into the midst of things, eager to be the center of attention.
Callahan was talking; the noise level was growing. The television screen blinked as an infographic appeared. Kentucky had declared. Indiana too. The US map filled the screen, the two states bright, bold blue.
Silva felt Callahan clap him on the shoulder, felt, rather than heard, the cheers around him. He looked again at petite, quiet Min-Seo, her eyes now turned to him. She gave a small smile, unsure, and he gave a short, sharp nod in response. And he saw the weight settle on her shoulders. He hated that she was smarter than he, but knew it to be true, though he’d never even hinted that he knew. But now he was glad. Glad because she’d be a far finer First Lady than either of his ex-wives.
President. He allowed himself a smile and stood, turning to face the others in the room, lifting his hands in a sign of victory.
“The numbers aren’t all in yet, Silva,” Callahan warned him in his ear.
But Silva didn’t care. He knew now that he’d won the lot, and he accepted the cheers and congratulations, allowing them to wash over him. He’d done the impossible. The first non-politician, the first non-military man to hold the presidency of the United States. And the first Hispanic leader.
“All right, all right, calm it down.”
Callahan’s voice was a hell of a lot louder than his small frame indicated.
“We’re not out of the woods yet, people.”
There was grumbling, but the motley assortment of interns, advisers, family members, and hangers on quieted. Callahan turned and began giving orders.
“I want the unofficial numbers from West Virginia, and why the hell hasn’t Vermont reported in yet?” he barked at the same blonde girl who’d brought the news of Vigo County. “Hey,” he said, noticing Silva walking away. “Where are you going?”
His tone irked Silva. Like Callahan had any control over what he was going to do now. The man knew every detail about his life, every minute indiscretion. Hell, he knew every place his hands had been, every dime he’d stolen, every lie he’d told. Part and parcel, Callahan had told him when they had first met.
“I can’t cover up something I don’t know about,” he’d said. “And that means I need to know you better than you know yourself. I don’t give a fuck how small, how irrelevant, how minor something is—I need to know.”
Silva had looked him in the eye, debating whether or not to bluff, determined that this man wouldn’t know half the things little Diego had done to get to the top.
“Don’t bother,” Callahan had said in a bored voice. “I’ll find out anyway. And don’t kid yourself. No one’s clean. No one. I could dig up dirt on the pope himself if I had to. And if I can do it, so can anyone else. You get a choice. Trust me to hide your failings, or trust the press not to find them. Up to you.”
And if Silva had had any doubt, if there had been a moment of indecision, Callahan had sealed both their fates with his next words.
“They call me the kingmaker,” he said quietly. “The kingmaker.”
Silva had almost laughed, but then he hadn’t because Callahan had been serious. And because the tiny Irishman had never worked on a losing campaign. In thirty-five years of politics he had never backed a losing horse. Not once. And Silva knew that. Hell, it was the reason he’d chosen the man. If he was having anyone, it would be the best. And Michael Callahan was the best.
Now Silva surveyed his campaign manager for a moment. His time was almost here. But not quite. As much as the guy pissed him off, now wasn’t the time to do anything about it. So he shrugged.
“Just hitting the can,” he said.
But Callahan wasn’t listening anymore. He was back to giving orders, and Silva walked away from him, ignoring those who called out to him, leaving the room.
The bathroom was cool and quiet after the waiting room, and Silva took his time washing his hands. Despite all the coffee, he didn’t have to piss. When his hands were thoroughly clean, he looked up, examining himself. All he’d wanted to do was look at himself in the mirror. He wanted to know if he looked like a president yet. If he had that aura of greatness and power. But all he saw was little Diego, Maria Silva’s son with his teeth fixed up and his ears pinned back and his expensive suit and blue tie.
Fuck it. He smoothed back his black hair. The jet would be on standby. It was time to go. He’d been firm on the fact that he would break with tradition. Wyoming might be his home state as far as politics was concerned, but Washington was where he belonged. And Washington was where he would accept the presidency. Little Diego looked back at him from the mirror. No. President-Elect of the United States Diego Silva looked back at him from the mirror. It was time to get out of Wyoming for good.
***
Callahan insisted they hold off on the flight until the Texas results were in. And Silva eventually conceded to his demands, though he thought them ridiculous.
“It’s the one state that’s vacillated,” Callahan reasoned. “You get Texas, we can take the jet.”
Silva clenched his teeth but sat again on his couch. Callahan was wrong on this, he knew. True, the Lone Star State was traditionally Republican. But Silva was Hispanic, and with the huge Mexican immigrant population of Texas, he knew he was going to take it. And yes, Callahan was right about the polls. But the problem with polls was that the men in suits asked other men in suits how they were going to vote. No one bothered to ask Juan the gardener where his vote was going. But still, Silva waited patiently as the results from Texas came in, county by county.
By two o’clock they had the result. The infographic of the United States appeared again on the screen. And for the first time anyone could remember, Texas was colored in blue. Better still, all signs from Florida indicated that they too would be blue. Silva had spent long nights making speeches in Spanish, long afternoons doing meet-and-greets in bodegas and churches. He’d expected nothing less.
He stood as the cheers from his supporters at the Texas result still rang through the room.
“Let’s go.”
Callahan nodded, and Silva turned to his sons.
“On the plane, boys.”
They shuffled up their cards and grabbed their jackets from the backs of their chairs. His daughters, seeing their brothers move, gravitated toward them. Safety in numbers. Or safety in familiarity, perhaps; none of the four was much used to being surrounded by politicos. Looking at them, Silva wondered again at the miracle of genetics. While the two girls had the angular, blonde good looks of their mother, his second wife, the two boys were mirror images of himself. Dark haired, dark skinned, they were the product of his first marriage. The only right thing his first wife had done was to give him the heirs he wanted. Other than that, all she’d done was cost him money. A lot of it.
Callahan was already collecting together tablets and papers and issuing instructions, and Silva was turning to discuss orders with him before he remembered his wife. Min-Seo remained seated in her chair, still silent. It wasn’t until he gave her the nod that she stood, prepared to follow him. When she came to his side, he smelled the flowery scent of her bespoke perfume, saw the flawless glow of her skin. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. She had been a good choice. A wise choice. But he didn’t take her hand. And when they left the building, Min-Seo walked a comfortable two steps behind him.
***
“They’re calling it the biggest landslide since Reagan,” Callahan said, unbuckling his seatbelt and stretching out his legs.
“Screw that,” Silva said, not turning from his tablet. “It’ll be the biggest since FDR.”
“Perhaps,” said Min-Seo. “Even the biggest since Harding.”
She did not often speak out of turn. Maybe it was the late hour, or the thin air in the plane cabin.
“FDR,” Silva said, the warning tone already in his voice.
“No, she’s right,” said Callahan, popping open a can of Red Bull. “Harding versus Cox, 1920, the biggest-contested election result in US history. A 26.17% margin. Now that was a landslide. Get California and you’ll beat it.”
This pleased Silva, though no one would have known by looking at him.
“Dad, I’ve got Agri-Com on the line. They’re willing to come down to fifty; what do you think?”
Jake, his older son, leaned over, across the aisle, mobile dangling from one hand. Silva frowned at him.
“No, no, Jakey,” Callahan said immediately. “No dice. He gets no input, no say. You know the rules.”
The younger man scowled at the campaign manager but settled back into his own seat. As the rules dictated, Silva had divested himself of all business interests in the run up to the election. Silva Eco-Energy Solutions, the green energy company that had made his fortune, had been handed over in full to his older son. Silva waited until Callahan’s attention was diverted back to his tablet before catching Jake’s eye and briefly shaking his head.
“Nah, I’m afraid that’s not going to fly,” he heard Jake say into his phone before he turned his head away.
Jake—a nice, wholesome American name. Jake, followed by Andrew, followed by the two girls, Madison and Nicole. He hadn’t lumbered any of them with loaded names like Diego. Silva was enough of a blight for them to carry. And those good, solid American names now graced the boardrooms of some of the largest and most successful corporations in the country. A job well done. Silva beckoned over a staff member, allowing himself another coffee before settling back to see just how blue that US map infographic could get.
***
They were still in the air when the call came. At 05:27 a.m. on November 9th, Harrison Foster-Bright, esteemed Republican candidate for the US presidential election, conceded defeat. The call was later than they had expected, though earlier than most other historical concessions had come. It had been clear for far longer than an hour now that there was no way Foster-Bright could catch up. And as Silva watched the tall, thin figure take the stage in his home state of Mississippi, a state that Silva had won hours ago, there were shouts of jubilation from the back of the plane. Silva put his tablet down on the table, clicked open his seatbelt, and stood.
“Congratulations,” said Callahan, rising to his feet. “Congratulations, Mr. President.”
And despite the number of times Silva had wanted to punch that smug Boston smile off the man’s face, and despite the number of threats he’d made and promises he’d sworn to himself, he found himself embracing his campaign manager.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said.
It wasn’t politeness. It wasn’t a token gesture of appreciation. It was simple, bold truth. Without Callahan he’d have been lost, trodden underfoot and laughed off the stage. With him, he’d won. Simple as that.
“I know,” Callahan said.
And it wasn’t boastful. It wasn’t immodest. It was clear, simple truth. And they both knew it.
Silva gave him a nod before turning to his children first to be congratulated, then the campaign workers on the plane, and then, finally, his wife. It wasn’t until a half hour later that he again spoke to Callahan, this time in the small galley of the plane, and in private.
“You are my golden goose,” Callahan said bluntly. “And I won’t disrespect you by sugar coating things. I’ve done the impossible. And I will be rewarded.”
“You’ve been paid,” Silva said.
“Handsomely,” said Callahan, leaning back on the metal service cart. “But I will have more. You will appoint me in an advisory capacity for as long as you remain in power, with a hefty paycheck at the end of every month. And after that, you will grant me an honorary position in one of your companies for just long enough that no one’s surprised when I retire with a very healthy retirement package.”
Silva hadn’t gotten to where he was by bowing to threats. “No.”
With a smile, nonthreatening and light, Callahan leaned forward. “But I know everything, Diego. Everything. The companies, the affairs, the money. All of it. It would be very dangerous indeed to grant me my freedom. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer and all that.”
“And is that what you are: my enemy?”
“I don’t have to be,” said Callahan, leaning back again. “I don’t even particularly want to be. I am simply a man with a price, as we all are. I know what I want, and I will have it. I know you can understand that.”
Silva considered this, put his anger to one side. He was angry. Furious. But he couldn’t afford to be, and he knew it. He hadn’t gotten this far by bowing to threats. But he also hadn’t gotten this far by acting on impulse. He as much as anyone knew that prices needed to be paid.
“No,” he said again. But not quite as firmly, allowing room for persuasion, for negotiation. He wasn’t convinced yet that Callahan had what it took to follow through on his threats.
“I told you when we met that they call me the kingmaker,” Callahan said, quite calmly. “And thirty minutes from now, the door of this plane will open and you will greet the world as the president-elect of the United States. I am the kingmaker.”
Silva said nothing. There was no dispute to what Callahan said.
“But I can also be the kingbreaker,” continued Callahan. “With all I know, I could destroy what I have created.”
“And destroy yourself at the same time,” Silva pointed out. “You’d never work again if you leaked information about me.”
“True,” Callahan said. He didn’t seem disturbed by this. “But who has more to lose here? This is a small price to pay, Diego, and you know it.”
It was. However much Callahan might want, it would be a mere grain of sand in comparison to all Silva had. And perhaps the man did have a point. Given all that he knew, it would be foolish to release Callahan back into the wild. And he might prove useful. Finally, Silva nodded.
“On one condition,” he said.
Callahan raised an eyebrow.
“You never call me ‘Diego’ again.”
“As you wish, Mr. President,” said Callahan, smiling.
***
Half an hour later, the plane touched down at Ronald Reagan International Airport. There was shuffling as everyone gathered their belongings. The campaign staff was ushered toward the rear of the plane, while Silva, his children, his wife, and Callahan prepared themselves by the front door. Outside, Silva knew, waited the world’s press, and his chosen vice president. Jane Reynolds had opted to stay in DC in preparation for the victory party she knew would come. Tall, and attractive in an intimidating way, she was a three-term senator from Ohio and the reason Silva had clinched the swing state so early in the game. She was also his legitimation. “Reynolds” was a name held in great esteem in political circles. As Callahan had joked when he had introduced them, it wouldn’t be a senate without a Reynolds in it.
But Jane would be the first Reynolds to make it to the cabinet. Silva had been dubious about the choice at first. She had been Callahan’s choice, obviously. But as it turned out, having a woman on side had only bolstered his votes. And having a serious politician on side hadn’t hurt either. Surprisingly, he found over time that he actually liked the woman. He didn’t want to fuck her, which was relatively unusual for him. What was more unusual was that he took the time to interact with a woman he didn’t want to fuck. But Jane had proven to be a firm and solid ally. And perhaps, though he’d never have used the word outside of a political speech, a friend.
“Ready?”
Callahan stood one step behind him to his right. Two steps behind him to his left stood Min-Seo. The children were arrayed behind his wife. Callahan looked to Silva for permission. Silva took a good, deep breath. He set his shoulders, checked his tie one more time, and then nodded. He wasn’t nervous. He’d never been nervous in public. It wasn’t his style. Callahan nodded to the staff member by the door, and Silva painted on his campaign smile for the last time.
The door opened, and he was blinded by the photographic lights and flashbulbs. But he remembered to keep his eyes wide open. If he didn’t, the shots would be useless in the morning’s press. He took a large step, clearing the threshold of the plane, and then stopped. His smile was no longer painted on; it was genuine as he raised his hand and waved to the crowds threatening to burst out from behind the control barriers. Below him, Vice President-Elect Jane Reynolds waited, a small oasis of perfect calm in the middle of the roaring, cheering, waving crowd. Silva felt her eyes on him, and he maintained eye contact as he slowly began to walk down the red-carpeted stairs.
He was home, and he felt it. And in those few seconds it took to reach the tarmac, he was determined that he’d never leave Washington again. They’d have to drag him away kicking and screaming from this, the center of the world. The steps leveled out, but the red carpet continued, leading him to his running mate.
“Madame Vice President,” he said, extending his hand to Reynolds.
“Mr. President,” she responded, shaking his hand.
The crowds roared, helicopters buzzed overhead, and fireworks exploded from somewhere, flashing in the sky. Silva smiled. Little Diego had made it. And little Diego was about to pull off the greatest coup in political history. A camera flashed, and President-Elect Silva grinned a bit wider.
About the Author

Perhaps you wouldn’t characterize the Finance Manager of your local automobile dealership as an Amazon best-selling author—until you get to know T.T. Michael. He has worked for the past decade at a Toyota Dealership in Illinois, but he is in the driver’s seat as the writer of, Fire War, a political thriller set in the year 2076. See what happens when the United States, Canada, and Mexico all join forces to make one super country. See more about him and his book Fire War at www.ttmichael.com
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Hidden in Harmony

 

Christian Mystery
Date Published: October 14, 2017
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A devout Christian family faces threats, stalkings, kidnappings, and even murder when they attempt to help a man formerly accused, but never found guilty of committing terrible acts. The Russells refuse to allow intimidation to stop them from standing up for what they believe in. They must rely on God to keep their family safe.
Review
Oh Boy, I’m a sucker for a good Mystery. There is something so fun about being challenged during reading a novel.
Thompson has created a novel that really takes the reader into the lives of the Russells and engross them in the story. This novel shows how much a writer can understand his genre and target audience to make sure every in and out is authentic.
The mystery elements in these novels are always very well done as well. JR Thompson creates scenarios that are not easy to unravel and keep you invested throughout the entirety of the novel. I don’t want to be able to figure everything out too early in a novel, I want to be surprised.
I enjoyed this mystery immensely. It was very well done.
About the Author

JR Thompson was born and raised in the outskirts of Charleston, WV. He, and his lovely wife, Hannah, now reside in a small ghost town in Montana. In addition to being an author, Thompson also keeps himself busy as the assistant pastor, youth director, and music director for a local church.
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