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Thursday, June 27, 2013

Yeah, remember what I said about Lolo Jones. . .

I felt bad for Lolo Jones.

We mocked her. Even her teammates got pissy about the attention that Lolo received --even though it was negative attention.
Now, I don't feel anything but disgust. Over the last few days, I've been off social media for extended periods of time because of the vile things people are saying about the Trayvon Martin trial and Rachel Jeantel.  
She is the young lady who heard Trayvon Martin die. Ignorance on social media about this young lady is heartbreaking. And Jones, who was mocked because she failed to win a medal in the Olympics, joined in. Comparing Jeantel to Tyler Perry's Madea.

Not funny Lolo. You whined and cried about the negative attention you received last year, but you're quick to mock a young lady who has to relive some real trauma?  Please have an Olympic stadium of seats. Please sit down and shut the f*** up.

Lolo Jones         @lolojones
Rachel Jeantel looked so irritated during the cross-examination that I burned it on DVD and I'm going to sell it as Madea goes to court.
dream hampton @dreamhampton
How classless of you to mock a young girl who's experienced trauma your privileged ass will never know @lolojones
 Boom! Dream Hampton shut Lolo down.
I applaud Rachel Jeantal for having the courage to take the stand and tell the truth. I hope she ignores ilk like Lolo and the other ignorant assholes hiding behind Facebook and Twitter to make fun of her when many of them have never had to listen to the death of a friend.

It's time to remember what your mama should have taught you, if you don't have anything nice to say, shut your pie hole. Looking and pointing at Lolo Jones and many others.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Waiting For The Other Shoe to Drop: The end. . .For Now

Now, your girl is not a drinker so one bottle of wine knocked me out. Knocked me out to the point that I overslept and was three hours late for work the next day. And I picked the wrong day to show up late with a hangover. Deanna looked at me and shook head when I walked in the office with a wrinkled shirt and a pair of khakis on. “Bad look, Mimi,” she whispered then pulled me into the vacant conference room. “What?” I asked. “Sonia just quit. And I mean she went out of here like Angela Bassett in Waiting To Exhale. It would’ve been beautiful, but the City Manager wants to meet with us in about six minutes to determine what’s going to happen with the staff.” “Well, isn’t this just the rotten cherry on top of a shitty sundae,” I muttered. “Are you still drunk?” “I’m not drunk.” “I smell wine.” I sniffed my shirt. Damn, I guess I’d spilled some wine on my laundry. But I still wasn’t drunk. Didn’t matter, if today was my last day then so be it. I had an idea anyway. If Steve Harvey could make millions telling women how to think like a man – in other words aim low – then I was going to put my research skills to use. I was going to get to the bottom of the age old question – why did they all cheat on Mimi. Maybe if I made peace with my past, I could stop fucking up my future. I was ready to begin my adventure. After all, I had both shoes on the ground now.

Monday, June 24, 2013

Waiting for The Other Shoe to Drop: Part 35

Driving home, I cried a river of tears as I replayed David’s so called apology. I almost missed the entrance to my building because my tears clouded my vision. I know I’d been sitting in the parking lot for a half an hour before I pulled myself out of the car. And I didn’t give a damn that it was dark outside, I covered my red rimmed eyes with a pair of sunglasses. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent the night at home. That last time that I’d fallen asleep without his arms around me.
Then I wondered, when was the last time he fell asleep holding her. That motherfucker made me believe in love and crushed my hopes like a half smoked Newport.
If I wasn’t afraid of jail or a random drug test, I would’ve found some smoke of my own. But I wasn’t that girl and I was not going to let him do this to me. What did men get out of playing these games? There was something that I needed to know and the answers were in the heartbreaks of the past. Maybe I did something to every man I’d ever loved or lusted after that made me feel this way at the end of the slow dance.
“It’s all good,” I muttered as I unlocked my front door. “I’m not even going to trip.”
Heading for the refrigerator, I grabbed the bottle of Duplin wine that I had bought for a special occasion. Then I remembered why it had been in there so long, I didn’t have a cork screw. Damn! Oh well, a steak knife would have to do because I needed this alcohol. I wanted to drink this wine and pretend that tonight was the result of a hangover. Pretend that I didn’t know who the fuck David was and . . . wait.  He hadn’t even called.
He seriously didn’t give a shit. I stabbed that tan cork and managed to push it down into the wine. Great! This bottle of wine was just as fucked up as my love life. Oh well, bottoms up.

Now, your girl is not a drinker so one bottle of wine knocked me out. Knocked me out to the point that I overslept and was three hours late for work the next day. And I picked the wrong day to show up late with a hangover. 

Sunday, June 23, 2013

When Authors behave badly on the Internet

Ten years ago this month, my first romance novel, Revelations, was released. I thought everyone would love it. Would send it to the top of the New York Times best seller's list. 

That didn't happen. Everyone didn't love it. I didn't get glowing five star reviews on Amazon and you know what -- I was OK with that. Before I started writing novels, I had been a full time journalist. And this was before the online comments, back when disgruntled readers would call you or email you. Their comments ranged from -- you don't know what you're talking about to you're stupid. 
A thick skin was developed pretty quickly.

Here's what you need to know as an author -- everyone isn't going to like what you write. Even if you love it, every reader who picks up your book or downloads your ebook, is not going to like it. If someone reviews your book and it's not a five star review (I don't believe in saying positive or negative reviews because we can learn from everything someone tells us) don't argue with them. 

This. Makes. You. Look. Like. An. Amateur. 
This. Stunts. Your. Sales. 

Think about, the best of the best don't argue with people about their opinions about their books. 

I read reviews, but I don't respond to them. You know why? I believe if your respond to the glowing five star reviews, you have to acknowledge the dim one star reviews. I appreciate both -- but if I spent all of my time online fussing with people about their opinion, when would I have time to work on my craft and finish my books? 

It's wasted energy to argue with someone who doesn't like your book. The only thing that will accomplish is that the reader(s) will not like you either. 

Some examples of what not to do (names will be withheld): 
  • WOW.. I am the author of********** and although I cannot please every reader I know for a fact that this book is a GREAT book that I put my all into. Now being that you said you're not a fan of urban tales I think you should read the descriptions and or before you purchase a book that is in the URBAN fiction category you should download the sample to see if it something you would enjoy reading! Thank you for taking a chance on my book, but I'm an artist and I'm sensitive about my craft!!
  • ******** issued a blog entitled "Dear Negative Reader" where she addressed a growing number of readers on the Internet that was expressing disappointment in the series's changes. In the blog ******told the readers that "life is too short to read books you don’t like" and that if they found that the current subject matter pushed "you past that comfortable envelope of the mundane" then "stop reading" and speculated that some of the readers were either "closet readers" or comment based on others' opinions. The blog entry was negatively received by some readers.
  • I am think you skimmed the book, sitting in an auto place, worry about big bad men sniggering, and didn’t bother to see why the characters did things, just took surface reactions. You are keying into ******POV, which at many times is not accurate to what was really happening.
Charlotte Stein wrote it best in the post: Authors Behaving Badly:
Here’s a sample of some responses you should never give to a bad review:
“Dear Mr Reviewer, I’m sooooo glaaaaaaaad you hated my book. And your review was just great! In case you can’t tell, I’m being sarcastic. You STINK. You are a senile, buck-toothed old mummy with bony girl arms, and you smell like an elephant’s butt! Not sincerely, BB Author.”*
But the one above? Yeah, it’s obviously a terrible response to a reviewer. Absolutely terrible! I mean, the author has called the reviewer an elephant’s butt! You can’t get much worse than that. Even the silliest of authors would know that’s a bad, bad response. 

Waiting For The Other Shoe to Drop: Part 34

When Imade it to David’s place, I was overwrought. Looking over my shoulder everytime I heard a noise, felt a breeze or just felt as if something was lurking inthe shadows. I jumped, ready to pounce. Taking the elevator up to David’s, Iwondered what had I done to deserve this bullshit? Not to whine and pretendthat I’m Miss Innocent. But Karma – haven’t I suffered enough?
Before Icould knock on the door, David opened it. Normally, I would’ve hugged andkissed my man. Something was different and I didn’t want my lips anywhere onhim.
“What’sgoing on, Mimi?”
I threwthe note under his nose. “How about you tell me? What’s going on with you andthis bitch, David?”
“Nothing,not now anyway.”
“Not.Now. Anyway?! The fuck does that mean?”
“You needto calm down,” he said and looked at me as if I were a stranger. As if I wasthe one who had let another man fuck me and stalk him. He was the motherfuckingstranger. He was the one who made me an unwilling participant in a ménage atrois. And I needed to calm down?
“Calm down? Tell me this, if the shoe was on the other foot and you weregetting notes on your car – what would you do?”
“Mimi. ..”
“Answerthe damned question,” I boomed. “This shit, right here, the lying, thestalking, the hoes in hiding, I don’t do this very well and I’m not doing thiswith you.”
This motherfuckershrugged. You know the kind of shrug you get when you ask -- French fries or onionring. Oh. Hell. No! I stopped moving, breathing and for a second my heartstopped. “Fine.” I started for the door. I wasn’t going to give him a chance tosee the tears of disappointment and anger that welled up in my eyes.
“Wait,”he said. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
I whirledaround, my cheek flaming with white hot hate. “Try the truth. Want me to definethat for you because you seem to be having a problem with it.”
“You andme, I never expected this. Never knew I was going to come back home to find you. . .”
“Then thenote is true? You came back for that bitch? Was I a speed bump, David?”
“No, notat all. Just damn. I fucked up, OK.”
My mindscreamed, it’s not OK. The tears fell, I couldn’t hold them back and I couldn’thide my pain from him. I felt like one of those spaghetti spine heroine in an eighties Lifetime movie. Get ittogether, Mimi! “That’s all you got?”
“Whatelse do you want? I’m sorry, I can’t change the past. I was selfish andungrateful.”
“You knowwhat you are?” Even I was surprised by the calmness in my voice. “You’re asnake ass bastard. You made me believe in you because you said I don’t lie. Yousaid you had nothing to hide and I believed you.”
“Mimi, I didn’t mean  . . .”
“To GETCAUGHT! You didn’t mean for your porky jump off to stalk me. And you surelydidn’t mean for me to find out that I was fucking community dick.”
My mamaalways told me to keep my hands to myself and in that moment, I wished thatlesson hadn’t stuck. I wanted nothing more than to pick up David’s lamp andbash his face in. Selfish. Ungrateful. Bastard.
“I ain’tshit,” he whispered. “I never meant to hurt you.”
I neededhim to stop talking. I couldn’t listen to any more excuses. You don’t accidentallyhurt people. It’s a choice. He made his choice and I was making mine. I wasgoing to walk away. Storming out of the front door, it became clear to me thatI’m a girl who should walk alone with a pocket full of rechargeable batteries. IfI do a relationship wrong, I end up alone. If I do a relationship right, I endup alone.

I could’veforgiven David and tried to rebuild the trust. Walking out on him had been thehardest decision I could make, but what choice did I have? This drama was forthe fucking birds. But if that bitch touched my car again, I’d shoot her heftyass.

First Look: Love After War, coming November, 2013

Love After War is coming in November. The story of Adrian Bryant and Dana Singleton is one of my favorite love stories that I've ever written.

When club owner Adrian Bryant discovers his biological father is hotel magnate Elliot Crawford, his life unravels. Shunned by Crawford while he and his mother struggled, Adrian hatches a high-profile plan to destroy the Crawford name—and the reputations of his two half-brothers. But to shield the woman he loves from the hell he intends to unleash, Adrian has to let her go.

Photographer Dana Singleton is heartbroken and confused by Adrians behavior. But just when shes given up on their relationship, she begins to discover the truthand a dark side of Adrian she never knew existed. As the stakes get higher, she will have to ask herself if she can love a man who is capable of such vengeance—or if he can learn to forgive...

Now allow me to pull back the cover and give you a sneak peek inside: 

Chapter One

The last thing Dana Singleton ever wanted was to find herself alone with the man who’d broken her heart two years ago. She’d put three thousand miles between them twenty-four months ago only to find that the moment she returned to Los Angeles, she was trapped with him in the middle of a brownout.
Adrian Bryant.
 God, she thought, why do you hate me?
            “This is insane,” Adrian said, then looked over at Dana. And a slow smile spread across his face when he recognized her. “Long time no see.” When he reached out to embrace her, Dana pushed back.
            “Don’t you dare touch me,” she said. “How dare you even look at me or expect me to be thrilled to see you?”
            “Don’t act like that,” he said, offering her a sizzling smile. In the near darkness of the coffee shop, his smile damn near lit up the place.
            “Act like what? Like I can’t stand to be in the same room with you? Trust and believe, it is not an act,” she snapped. Oh, she hated him and the way he still made her heart flutter with a powerful yearning to fall into those strong arms and press her mouth against his while he slowly kissed her until her body melted against his. Looking away from him, she forced herself to remember being dumped by text message. It’s for the best. I’m moving on and you should do the same, the message had read. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. That night replayed in her mind like a bad movie in a broken DVD player. She’d felt stupid, confused, and disappointed. But she had taken the hint and left. If only she’d told Imani and Universal Studios no. Then she’d still be in New York and not running into Adrian on his home turf, Los Angeles.
 She expelled a frustrated sigh because when she opened her eyes, he was still there. Still staring at her with that spectacular smile on his face.
            “Dana, I know I owe you a huge apology and an explanation as to why—”
            “You don’t owe me a damned thing, and I definitely don’t want to hear any apology you took two years to come up with.”
            Adrian stared at her, soaking up Dana’s unique beauty. The long dreadlocks were new and very sexy. She had caramel-colored skin that made him salivate as he thought about all the places he used to lick and how sweet she tasted between her thighs. Letting her go had been the worst thing he’d ever had to do. But it was necessary. He only wished he could come clean with her now. But his mission wasn’t complete and the last thing he wanted was to get her caught up in his plan.
            Dana snapped her fingers in Adrian’s face. “Thinking of a pretty lie to tell me?”
            “Can we talk about it over a cup of coffee?” he asked, smiling at her and making Dana snarl in response.
            “You know what, Adrian? I’ve grown up since the last time I saw you. Decided that I deserve someone who knows how to treat me and that isn’t you. So, hell no. I don’t want to talk to you over coffee. I don’t want to talk to you period.”
            “I was trying to protect you, Dana,” he said, his voice low, a sexy growl that made her body twitch. The same voice that he used to whisper sweet promises in her ear. Turning her back to him, Dana tried to pretend she wasn’t affected. As long as he doesn’t touch me, I’ll be fine, she thought. Then she felt his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry for what I did and the way things looked. But it was for the best.”
            “It was. And when the power comes back on, we can pretend you’re still gone.”
            Adrian spun her around, drinking in her delicate features. Though her eyes flashed anger and resentment, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The love of his life. The only thing not touched by his need for revenge. What could he say to her to explain what his life had become?
“What?” she snapped, locking eyes with him.
            He knew the right thing to do when it came to Dana was to leave her alone, to walk away and continue his quest. But at that moment, in the silence of the darkened coffee shop, all he wanted was a sweet taste of his past. A kiss from Dana. He leaned in, pressing his lips against hers. He felt her heat, passion, and want. When her lips parted and his tongue slipped inside, her sweetness nearly brought him to his knees. Closer. He had to be closer to her, and he wrapped her in his arms as if he were a blanket. She didn’t resist him, didn’t push him away. Instead, she kissed him back as if no time had passed since their lips last touched. She made him feel as if her mouth had been waiting for his. That couldn’t be the case . . . could it?
            Dana’s brain clicked and she realized she wasn’t dreaming about kissing Adrian; she was kissing him. Relishing in the touch of his tongue against her lips and savoring the hint of mint that his mouth always held. She wasn’t imagining that his fingers were gliding up and down her spine; it was actually happening. The man she loved. The man who’d broken her heart with a text message. Kiss over. She pulled back, snatched away from him, and angrily eyed him. “What in the hell is wrong with you?” Dana demanded.
            “Me? I didn’t kiss myself and from what I felt, you’re happy to see me.”
            “You cocky son of a—”
            “I know I am. Glad you agree,” he quipped.
            “This may be a game to you—one kiss and I’m supposed to bend to your will and let you back between my thighs because you think you belong there? Go to hell, Adrian.”
            Between her thighs . . . was that supposed to push him away? That was his place and he would reclaim it, just as soon as he put his father where he belonged. “Dana, Dana, Dana, you wanted that kiss, needed it just as much as I did, if for nothing more than closure.”
             “How about you close your mouth?” Dana snapped. Before she could say another word, the power popped on and Dana bolted out of Starbucks and away from Adrian. But the memory of that kiss haunted her and reminded her of hot LA nights on the beach when they were in love. When things between them had been easy and sunny, bright and filled with the promise of a future filled with love. A future that Dana thought would mean her as a fashion photographer and the wife of Adrian Bryant. The latter dream ended with a text message. Still, she wanted to know why and what changed his mind. She knew his mother’s death changed him, but the coldness she’d seen on his face the day of the funeral and later at his penthouse kept her awake at night. Was someone to blame for Mrs. Bryant’s death?
            Did Adrian believe he’d done something to cause his mother’s death? She’d wrestled with these questions for two years, and the moment she’d resolved to forget about him, there he was. Sexier and more mysterious than ever. But not this time. She was not, in no way, shape, or form, going to allow him to suck her into his atmosphere again. Not when she was about to embark on her biggest and most exciting assignment of her career—shooting publicity shots for one of the biggest film studios in America. Sure part of the reason why she’d gotten the gig had been because of her best friend and current Hollywood it girl, Imani Thomas, but the fact of the matter was, Dana’s career was on the uptick and Adrian Bryant could go to hell, twice. She had her closure, even if the taste of his kiss burned in her mouth.

Friday, June 21, 2013

Paula Deen, chile please!

Sixty-six year old Paula Deen was a culinary hero to a lot of people.
I was not one of them.
There was always something about the buttery cake queen that I didn't like. I couldn't quite put my finger on it -- then her deposition was released.

There it is!

Paula says she used the N-word because she just doesn't know what offends people. News flash, Paula, the n-word is offensive. Now her old ass senile behind wants everyone to forgive her because she's an elderly Southern lady.

I call BULL!

And basically, she's hoping that her age and her southern heritage will make her fans pretend that all this never happened. Here's a statement released Thursday from her legal team, via ABC
“During a deposition where she swore to tell the truth, Ms. Deen recounted having used a racial epithet in the past, speaking largely about a time in American history which was quite different than today...She was born 60 years ago when America’s South had schools that were segregated, different bathrooms, different restaurants and Americans rode in different parts of the bus. This is not today...To be clear Ms. Deen does not find acceptable the use of this term under any circumstance by anyone nor condone any form of racism or discrimination.”
Deen, in case you forgot, underwent a deposition related to an employment discrimination lawsuit. During it, she answered a question about whether she's used the N-word with "Yes, of course...It’s just what they are — they’re jokes... most jokes are about Jewish people, rednecks, black folks... I can’t determine what offends another person."  
Maybe Deen, 66, has put her N-word uttering days behind her, at least after entering the world of celebrity. Except, according to the deposition, there's the other part of Deen's tone-deaf take on how to be a not racist person living in the present: in 2007, she fantasized about hiring an all-black staff to for what she admits to characterizing as a “really southern plantation wedding." While Deen has denied saying the content of the specific accusation in the suit, including that Deen used the N-word to describe the men, she did describe a scenario that doesn't sound much better: 
“I remember telling them about a restaurant that my husband and I had recently visited. And I’m wanting to think it was in Tennessee or North Carolina or somewhere, and it was so impressive...The whole entire wait staff was middle-aged black men, and they had on beautiful white jackets with a black bow tie. I mean, it was really impressive. And I remember saying I would love to have servers like that, I said, but I would be afraid that somebody would misinterpret.”
Paula, honey, stop talking. As an old ass Southern lady, you know damn well that what you said was wrong. And people with sense won't forget that. Now, I need you to admit that you stole your recipes from that black lady who cooked for your family.

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Happy Father's Day

Father's Day is joked about, not held in the highest of regards like Mother's Day. And if you believe the media, then it shouldn't be. When you see Dads on TV -- these days -- they're pretty clueless. Or they are invisible. Facebook is often filled with vitriol about fathers or at least the ones who aren't doing the right thing.

Let me tell you, that's not what this blog post is about.
I'm going to talk about SuperDad, mine.

I must have been six the first time a man gave me roses. And you guessed it, they were from my Daddy. I had been the narrator of Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs, even though I wanted to be Snow White. Come on, what six year old doesn't want to be a princess? But I was the only kindergartner who could read. And I was the only one who ended up in the newspaper that week. Ha!

Every Valentine's Day, my sister and I received flowers from our father -- and so did my mama. That's why roses from the average man don't impress me and that "I'm Sorry Gas Station Rose," please.

My Dad has always supported my dreams and taught me lessons when I didn't even know what was going on. I was spoiled -- but not rotten. Pops said no -- a lot. But when I was in the seventh grade and said I wanted to be a writer -- he got me an electric typewriter. Then he got me a word processor and finally, my first laptop.

Dad paid for college -- while he was recovering from a heart transplant. My mother made sure to tell me not to mess up in school because when my father was in Walter Reed Hospital, being told that he needed a heart transplant, that he was worried about sending the check for my tuition. I graduated cum laude and handed my Daddy my degree. He gave it back and said, you earned it.

I didn't know until I was in college that everyone didn't like their dad. That was a foreign concept to me. I know we all come from different backgrounds and different family types. I'm glad that my Dad has always been there for me. Always been my super hero and always will be.

I've had this pillow since middle school.

My Dad in his dress blues with my brother in law and nephew.


Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Here are some of the reasons why I love the Military

I'm not the typical Army brat. My dad didn't move us around. Sadly. But because I love him and my airman nephew, I am determined to get a military themed novel done soon!

Happy Hump Day!

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Waiting For The Other Shoe to Drop: Part 33

I started to rip the note up, then a few thoughts dashed through my mind. How did this tramp know where I worked or what I drove? This bitch is crazy and David is a lying fucker. I looked around my car to make sure my tires were OK and that my paint job didn’t have any scratches. Had that whore messed with my car, I would’ve been ready to trample her fat ass. No damage, but I wasn’t taking any chances as I called the lot security. While I waited for the officer, I called David. This bastard had some questions to answer. No more nice Mimi, he was going to meet the crazy chick I’d been trying to keep under wraps.
People say it takes two to ruin a relationship. God knows I’ve ruined my share. But I can officially, without a doubt, say I didn’t fuck this up. So, if this is my reward for growing and trying to be a better woman – then I want a do over.  I want to ruin this relationship. I want to accuse him of being a cheater. I want to start arguments for no reason. I want things to have been over earlier, so it wouldn’t hurt so much right now.
If only I had a bat, I thought as I hung up before David answered and the officer came over to me to take my report. Once I was finished telling him about my stalker, my phone rang. It was David.
“What’s up?” he asked. “Why did you hang up?”
“Your friend, big ass Michelle, left a note on my fucking car at my job. Now, I got several questions, but you need to tell me what the hell is going on with you and Porky.”
“First of all, you need to calm down.”
“Obviously, the bitch is stalking me. You’d better be clean on this and fix this bullshit. Fuck being calm.”
“Mimi, I’m going to call you back. No, just come over.”
I hung up the phone. Part of me wondered if I was going to regret not having that bat.

Cover reveal: Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever by L.V. Lewis

Author L.V. Lewis revisits the world of Keisha Beale and Tristan White from her Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever to increase the book from a novella to a novel!

summary (1)

Fifty Shades of Grey meets Keisha from the block!

Keisha Beale is a quarter of a million dollars away from realizing her dream of opening her own recording studio. A botched attempt at securing the funding required from venture capitalist Tristan White leaves her without many options... until Tristan White makes an indecent proposal. As Keisha navigates the treacherous environment of the billionaire's secret kinky lifestyle, she discovers surprising things about herself and unleashes demons from her past she thought were long resolved.

Master w Whip

L. V. Lewis doesn't have the means of Tristan White, but she wouldn't want readers to go away from this cover reveal empty handed, so she's giving all viewers the chance to win one (1) of three (3) gift cards ($25, $15, $10 from either Amazon, B&N, or iTunes) at the conclusion of the reveal!

The giveaway will run from June 11 -19th. During this time, Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever will be on sale for $.99!

DISCLAIMER: If for some reason the new version doesn’t load on all the platforms by the time the sale begins and you purchased the novella previously, you will receive an invitation to download the new version from Amazon, at the very least.


So without further ado, here's the fabulous new cover of Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever!


Cover Design by:

Photo Credits:

Male Image – © Sweet Trade Photography

Female Image – © Jazmin La.Shae Photography

Chicago Skyline – © Grzegorz Kieca via


????????????????????????????????????????L. V. Lewis has one foot in South Georgia and the other in North Florida. She's been blessed with a husband who's put up with her for a lot of years and has given birth to four children, two of whom she has raised to adulthood and one to near adulthood. She delights in her almost empty nest status so much that she writes the kinkiest novels she can conjure up.

L. V. Lewis’s Exhaustive List of Contact Info:


GoodReads, Twitter, Facebook, The Block, & Pinterest

Giveaway Time

Monday, June 10, 2013

Waiting For The Other Shoe to Drop: Part 32

But I didn’t run. I thought Michelle had been the one with the problem. A sane woman wouldn’t simply show up at a man’s house unannounced. Then again, I’d learn that the man who says “I don’t lie,” turns out to be the biggest liar of all.
Not only was I experiencing a change in my personal life, but work turned into a war zone. Sonia and the city manager fought about every damned thing: from the amount of money spent on staples and pencils, to the audit that she refused to do. He’d ordered her to shed one third of the department’s budget.
“And just how in the blue hell am I supposed to do this while keeping the quality of what we do up?” Sonia asked as I stopped in her officer after work. I was a little surprised to see that she had a small bottle of Jack Daniels on her desk.
“What are you going to do?”
“Retire. Go work in Gastonia, tell that prick to stick my foot so far up his ass that he can shit out my Dr. Shoals insoles.”
“Whoa. How much of that stuff have you had?”
Sonia glanced down at her coffee mug then poured herself another drink. “Not enough.”
“What is it about you two that’s . . .”
“That man and the new mayor have an agenda. I’m not a political person and I can feel the push toward the door.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
“I hope you’ve started your job search.”
“I have,” I lied. My mind was preoccupied with trying to figure out how to search David’s phone. Yes. I. Was. Falling. Back. Into. Bullshit.
“All right, Mimi, don’t be a casualty of my war.”
I chewed my bottom lip and dropped my head. I wanted to open up with her about the David issue but that topic was off limits. He was her family, her blood. I was just the girl he was fucking – and fucking over. Shit.
I thought this time was different. Thought I’d made enough changes and concessions to be happy in a relationship. But NO! Once again, here was a man who wanted so share his dick with the world like it was a bottle of Coke.
“What’s wrong, Mimi? I’ve noticed that you’ve been really quiet lately.”
I shrugged and tried to smile, but I couldn’t. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing named David?”
“Ah, kind of.”
Sonia took a big gulp of her spiked coffee. “Trust your gut, Mimi.”
“What do you mean?”
“Life is too short to be unhappy or deal with a man who you can’t totally trust. I love my cousin,  but – wait, let me stop letting Jack control my tongue.”
“Do you need a ride home?” Thinking about how much she had to drink, I was sure the last thing Sonia needed was a DUI.
“That’s nice of you. But I’m not that twisted. Still, knowing how shady gov-co is, I’d better call a cab.”
Sonia and I headed out of the office and when I arrived at my car, I noticed a pink envelope underneath my windshield wiper. Strange ticket, I thought as I plucked it from my car. Before opening it, I checked to make sure I’d followed the parking deck rules and my car was in between the white lines.
I tore it open and discovered a handwritten note.
Just so you know, I’m the reason he came back to Charlotte and I can have him anytime I want.
What in the blue fuck?!