So the Bad Moon Rising serial is nearing completion. After the current story, there are only two left to go. Mine is the very last one, and I’m pleased with it. My nonsensical, fluffy stories are always among my favorites. Am very pleased with the revamped cover, too. The first one was done in a rush, and not very good, but the final version pleases me.
It’s a good mix of stories, so if you like werewolves, definitely grab it when it comes out the end of August ^__^
Excerpt from my story, The Werewolf of Grey Lake Inn
“I don’t care what he does for a living,” Astor snapped, taking a right turn a little harder than he had meant, his driving suffering for his temper. He corrected himself, took a deep breath, and went back to yelling at his idiot cousin. Talking or shouting sense into Amanda was an exercise in futility, but still he had to try. “That man is a trial by jury waiting to happen, and you are only proving yourself to be a nitwit—”
He jerked as she slammed her phone down on him. Flipped his to silent, he then threw it on the passenger seat in disgust. May whatever deities existed save him from the aggravations of family. He gave it a month before Amanda went running home in tears because her new perfect, wonderful, wealthy lawyer boyfriend turned out to be scum precisely as Astor had tried to tell her. He could spot bad news at a hundred yards, but did anyone listen to him? No.
Disgusted, fed up, and in sore need of a beer, Astor hit the gas and sped up the mountain, moderately soothed by the growl and purr and smooth motion of his bright blue corvette. He could not wait to reach the inn where he would be spending the next month, doing research for his next book. Heaven was definitely an entire month of not having to attempt to counter the rampant stupidity afflicting the rest of his family.
He could focus on ghosts and his own rampant stupidity; it would almost be a nice change.
The parking lot was mostly empty when he reached the inn, and Astor felt more than justified in stealing two to parking space for his car. If there was so much as a scratch on his baby when he left there, he’d add some new ghosts to the collection. He put the top up on his car and gathered up his jacket, duffle bag, and phone from the passenger seat. He stalked toward the inn—
—And stopped in his tracks as his eyes landed on a familiar car. He would know that dark blue BMW anywhere, even pretending for a moment that he didn’t have the license memorized. What the hell was Tennyson doing there? He was supposed to be fourteen hours away, at home. Astor had picked the Grey Lake Inn precisely because the ‘prime ghost viewing time’ was during Christmas and so no one would bother to visit him or check up on him. He had planned to bury himself in the mountains for a month to work on his books and finally try to stop being in love with his agent.
He should have known that the day would be a wash when he woke up to find that Casper had run away. Stupid, useless, ungrateful feline. Who needed the mouthy, troublemaking ball of fluff anyway? Stifling a sigh because sighing would accomplish nothing, Astor slung his duffle over one shoulder and trudged toward the inn.