New Ghostly Novel

Halloween is close. Perfect time to share chapter one of Medium Crossing, my latest, sensual, paranormal mystery.

Chapter One…

Another date with the dead. But not before Scarlett purified the air and sealed invisible portals from her previous channeling session. Nothing worse than a houseful of spectral squatters. She shivered at the mistake. Actually, the worst of all realms resided in the herenow.

At the kitchen counter, Scarlett dumped a few cups of Epsom salt in an iron skillet. She doused the granules in alcohol and used a wooden match to set the mix on fire. An effective energetic cleansing technique acquired from a psychic retreat she attended years ago.

A silver cloud coiled upward. She coughed, caught her breath, and then slipped on oven mitts.

The detoxification routine stirred a plethora of praises and criticisms embedded in her brain by mystified clients. She couldn’t explain her rare gifts. For the longest time, she had no idea everyone didn’t see whirling colors around people, or have informative conversations with humanlike shadows in oblique places. Privately, she intuited her unique abilities came from her mother. She also determined painful events during her youth had caused a kind of subconscious trauma that had in essence galvanized her weird inheritance.

Once, sometime in third grade, Scarlett asked a caseworker what had happened to her mother.

The caseworker, a heavyset, vanilla-scented woman said, “She lost her mind and took her own life. Selfish. Plain and simple.”

Plain and simple, two words that never meshed with Scarlett.

As a young girl, passed from one handsy foster family to the next, bawling into her pillow became her reality. Being touched inappropriately for the umpteenth time drove Scarlett so far inward, she’d penetrated an obscure dimension, a confusing place of fear and unrest she’d later describe as a wildly responsive getaway with a consciousness.

Alternating between the peculiar escape and her tangible norm took its toll, and by the time she entered high school, she thought herself insane. She’d also understood what must have happened to her mother.

Self-preservation compelled her to examine the meditative process. She relaxed and, comfortably and repeatedly, slipped away. Following a dozen telepathic conversations with what she determined was the deceased, she realized she’d tapped into the afterlife.

Eventually, her childhood wounds healed and her gifts resonated the way her organs did, as inborn functions of her totality.

Nowadays, jaunts to the other side paid the bills.

“Bless this disaster,” she said, grabbing the handle of the fry pan. She lifted the skillet above her head and aimed smoke at all corners of the ceiling. “Powers and protectors of the universe and its parallels, I ask for assistance in clearing and preventing residual ectoplasm, negativity, unwelcomed discarnate visitors, and earthly nuisances.” She walked her creaky wood floors through the hallway to the living room, observing the empty walls and naked hutch. “Including thieves.”

Back in June, while she channeled at a holistic health fair for six hours, someone had stripped her apartment. The person or people had wedged open her front door and took her life savings, jewelry, pictures, TV, and her computer. All of her valuables gone like an earring lost in an ocean tide.

Her stomach soured.

She peeked through the doorway into her bedroom. The new laptop she couldn’t afford glowed on the bed. “Dammit,” she uttered. She’d forgotten to cancel her account on Keys Best Singles Network. She planned to relocate to the Florida Keys soon and joined the site to see if Floridian men were more grounded than the letdowns in Indiana. Based on the selection, she resigned herself to singlehood.

Regretfully, she’d wasted her entire spring online, chatting with a future boring husband, several directionless boaters, a poetic alcoholic, a metaphysical junkie named Lenard, and Layla the Lesbian who promised to make Scarlett whimper between the sheets. Distressed animals whimpered, not dynamic mediums. Besides, none of them had the gumption to cope with her offbeat profession.

She sighed. A lonely child matured into a lonely woman.

The smoke cleared. Her sanitizing brew had condensed to a blackened gunk. She returned to the kitchen, set the grimy skillet on the stove, and tossed the oven mitts in a drawer. She stuck her arms under the faucet, mindful to wash up to her elbows. For unknown reasons otherworldly energy clung to forearms like cobwebs.

“Are you listening, Universe?”

The grandfather clock dinged six times.

Considering it a sign, she smiled. “Due to financial setbacks, I’ll be here longer than I’d anticipated. It’s not dire, but if by chance you happen to come across a guy unafraid of a woman who mingles with spirits, please, send him my way.”

Scarlett brushed toast crumbs off the table.

While interdimensional travel remained her most important endeavor, she secretly yearned for a partner in fearless exploits and frank conversations. She’d grown weary of glazing everything with syrup. Under the influence of pure honesty, she also longed to retire her vibrator.

Half hour and the newbie—Colt or Hoat or whatever he called himself—would arrive.

On the phone he’d asked if she could contact someone he’d never met.

In the temperate, raspy voice people claimed was her second greatest gift, she said,

“I don’t know what you’re expecting, but deceased presidents, athletes, and sex symbols won’t talk to you.”


“And forget about winning lottery numbers. Spirits claim they don’t have that ability.”

“Aw, come on, give me a break. It’s some scumbag who knew my brother. Can you do it or not?”

“For two hundred dollars, I’ll try. And, uh, no refunds.”

“Fine. You come highly recommended.”

“Of course I do. I’m the best.” She simply stated the facts. “For your convenience I accept cash and all major credit cards.”

Awaiting her new client, Scarlett entered the smaller bedroom she’d converted into a regally chic workspace. Rose red walls, same colored drapes, gold, mounted angels, a beverage trolley, a bookcase stuffed with alternative medicine paperbacks, and a four-foot high podium topped with a spiky aloe vera plant to ward off negative energy.

She’d meditated long and hard on the decor.

Because of her benevolent physical and non-physical visitors, residue from her acidic childhood hadn’t corroded her bones. Essentially, their grief, trust, and determination made her a better person. She owed them a peaceful grieving environment.

Scarlett clicked off the overhead Tiffany lamp before sparking a thick beeswax candle in the center of the round table.

Shadows slinked across the walls, and the faint scent of sulfur provoked curiosities. Such as, why the dead preferred dim lighting?

Perhaps the gentle hues soothed similar to a TV nightlight. When her foster mother Rita transitioned to the other side, her foster father Mel couldn’t fall asleep without something motioning on the tube. The fluttering screen must have given him the illusion he wasn’t alone.

That word again.

Were they lonesome?

A question for a truthful spirit. Yeah, right. For the sake of those with a pulse, spirits lied constantly. Nothing she could prove, but perceived as real as the bracelets of stars tattooed around her marred wrists.

The grandfather clock chimed again. Newcomer ran late. She filled a pitcher of water and set it next to the paper cups on the antique beverage trolley in her workroom.

Minutes ticked on. Though uncommon, he wouldn’t be her first no-show.

She prematurely resented the dent she’d have to put in her stash to cover the car insurance.

The doorbell dinged.

Scarlett flattened her hand on her forehead. “Whew.” She put aside money problems, hurried to the living room, and pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”

“We spoke the other day. I have an appointment. Holt Cavanaugh.”

“Sure.” She paused. “If you don’t mind, step out onto the sidewalk so I can see you.”

“Okay,” he said, blatantly miffed.

She understood, but couldn’t risk another robbery, or worse. From now on, she’d follow her mentor Beverly’s instructions. Phase One: Assess their aura, which always came natural. Phase Two: Visceral analysis, or the crap Scarlett used to skip.

She opened the window and popped her head out into the bold August sun.

Three floors below, looking up with one hand awning his eyes, stood a tall, broad shouldered muscleman with a golden military-haircut and a slightly crooked nose. Black T-shirt. Black jeans. An attractive, obvious tough guy packaged in a thick reddish aura.

“A hothead,” she mumbled, and then raised her voice. “Thanks. See you in a minute.”

She closed the window, rushed to the door, and buzzed him in. She’d unbolted the line of locks but left the chain fastened.

He’d flown up the mountain of stairs at record speed. Usually when a client reached her landing, they brought a few choice words with them about the unmentioned workout. But Newbie—she’d already forgotten his name—didn’t utter a single complaint.

“Hey,” he said as he strode through the hall, approaching the door. He stopped in front of the two-inch gap she’d provided for their introduction and raised an eyebrow. “I’m Holt.”

HottieHolt. She’d have to be a complete idiot not to notice his serious hazel eyes, daunting stature, and potent masculinity. She initiated the second phase, energetically slinked inside of him and felt around. He didn’t cause pinching goosebumps or flatulence. A thuggish guy, but benign.

“Can you at least bring me a chair?” he asked, shifting his weight.

“Oh, sorry.” Scarlett slid the mini barbell through the slot. The brass knocked against the doorframe. She invited him in. His gaze burned into her as she locked the row of bolts along the trim.

“Hardcore,” he said. “What are you afraid of?”

Scarlett twisted the final deadbolt. “I was robbed a couple of months ago. Even with the new security door downstairs, I’m still leery.”

“I don’t blame you. Did they catch anyone?”

“No.” Since the subject arose, she swiftly checked the crevices of her questionable memory and recalled locking the back door when she returned from the building’s trash bin.

His head tilted slightly, giving the impression he wanted her to elaborate on the home invasion.

Scarlett didn’t mind if it helped him to relax. “He, she, they, were clever,” she added. “No fingerprints. Other than the front door, they didn’t damage anything. They plucked the apartment clean as if they knew exactly what they were after and where to find it.”

He squinted. “Someone you know?”

She exhaled a slight chuckle. “I have one enemy, and he’s never been in my home. Besides, he’s way too lazy to carry a TV down three flights of stairs.”

“No witnesses?”

She shook her head. “The man across the hall is hearing impaired, and most of the tenants below me were at work. No one saw anything.”

“The world is overrun with life sucking ticks.” He scanned the place.

Most people did and said strange things when they were nervous.

It took a moment for the distrust to melt from his face. When it did, he scrutinized Scarlett. “Your hair is purple. It’s red on the website.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No.” He bothered to give the rest of her a look. His shoulders tensed.

She’d seen it before, people expecting something different than blue jeans, circus hair, ink, and combat boots. What she hadn’t experienced, ever, was the peculiar magnetic pull to an absolute stranger.

His gaze scaled her body. “You don’t look like I imagined.”

She wanted to say the same. “Is that good or bad?”

He stared into her eyes as if he’d recognized her from a dream. “It’s, interesting.”

“If it makes you feel better, spirits don’t register appearance or clothing.” She stood entranced by the multitude of questions swirling around in his pupils. Most likely, he doubted her ability, and his sanity for being there. She thawed his frozen stance with her warmest smile. “I’m Scarlett Prowse, local medium and soon to be retired host of Transcendent Radio.”

“Business is that good?”

“Not exactly. I’m relocating.”

They shook. Her hand seemed to dissolve into his, causing her arm to jerk.

He released his grip, furrowed his eyebrows, and rubbed his fingers as if he had experienced the same sensation. “Holt Cavanaugh.”
HottieHoltHottieHoltHottieHolt—remember. The mysterious vibe between them couldn’t be more than an instant crush on her part. Imperfect women like Scarlett were invisible to guys with his sex appeal.

“You’ve got a nice voice.”

“Thank you. I’m told it keeps listeners from changing the station.” Grief-induced, wisps of gray in his auric field redirected her back to important matters. “Am I your first medium?”

“Yeah.” He pulled at his T-shirt collar.

“You’ve come to the right person. I’m not exaggerating when I say I’m the best.” She ushered him into her dimly lit channeling room. “Have a seat.”

He walked to the table and sat cautiously, as if there might be a scorpion on the chair.

She took the spot next to him. “Forget everything you’ve heard or read about channeling. Terms like mediumship, mental and or physical mediums, séances, whatever, they don’t apply here. I’m unique and I’ve established a language that better encompasses my method.”

“Came across random snippets. Nothing you’ve mentioned sounds familiar.”

“Good. Then we’re starting with a clean slate.”

“Okay.” His knee bounced.

“Out of curiosity, how did you find me?”

“Friend of my cousin’s, Olin Gibbs, gave me your card.”

She drummed her fingernails on the wood. “I don’t recall—”

“You supposedly channeled his father. Olin’s a tall guy with a cane.”

She snapped a couple of times. “Oh, no.”

“He’s all right.”

Olin had spilled coffee, and she’d said oh no, which stuck. OlinOhNo. “Yes, I remember him.”

“He sang your praises.”

“Everyone does.”

“You’re awfully confident.” He leaned forward into the champagne hue of candlelight.

“I am.” She looked at him keenly. “My accuracy record is unmatched.”


“Do you have any questions?”

He clasped his fingers. “I read your website. You what? Go into a trance and talk to ghosts?”

She slanted to the left, lifted a handbell from the floor, and set it on the table. Her last client had a cold. She’d disinfected the room and forgotten to return the bell to the tabletop. “It’ll appear as if I’m in a meditative state. Really, it’s much more complex. But if we have to label what I do, then, sure, trance works. By the way, if I cross a line or make you uncomfortable, please let me know. Let’s start with why you’re here.”

He grunted. “My younger brother was murdered and the dicksmack that put a bullet in his heart died before he got arrested.”

“Sorry for your loss,” she said, echoing what he’d probably heard a thousand times. “So, you want me to contact your brother?”

“No. I want you to contact his killer.”

Anxiety ballooned in her chest. Even though nothing topped nightmares of the herenow, wrongdoers dwelling the afterworld could possess dangerous energy.

“I’ve contacted plenty of murder victims.” She cropped her dialogue before admitting she’d never called on a killer. Even if she couldn’t she ought to get paid for her effort. “I have to ask, though. Why should I engage a murderer? We can’t change the outcome.”

“I have questions. Quinn, my brother, was one of the good guys—a teacher.” He swallowed hard. “Quinn had three hundred twenty-seven dollars cash in his wallet and eight thousand dollars in plastic. The maggot didn’t take a dime.”

“I agree, that’s bizarre. You asked me if I knew my home invaders. Are you sure your brother and his killer weren’t acquaintances? Drinking buddies? Gamblers, maybe weekend card games?”

“I’m positive. Quinn would never associate with a guy like Carl Daniels. The killer. They tracked him to a roach infested slum in Haughville. He had sheets tacked to the windows and used turned over buckets for chairs. Doesn’t make sense. Why didn’t he empty Quinn’s wallet?”

“Please don’t get offended. But was your brother involved in illegal activities?”

HottieHolt snarled and shook his head. “Like I said, Quinn was one of the good guys. His reward was helping underprivileged kids make the grades and qualify for college.”

“What happened to the killer? How’d he die?”

“Carl? Someone threw him off a twelve-story roof. He had cocaine and heroin in his blood. We’re presuming a botched drug deal.”

“Who’s we?”

“I’ve got friends on the force.”

She drummed her fingernails on the table again. “You want me to contact…” She strained for the name.

“Carl?” he asked, radiating skepticism.


Scarlett fiddled with the singed matchstick. “I apologize. I can’t remember a name to save my life. Strange side effect of traversing realms.” She released a clipped chuckle. “If it weren’t for alliterations I’d be up a creek.”

“Realms, huh? We’ll see.”

Unfortunately, snarky remarks came with the territory. Especially from superficial types like Hottie. “Okay, so, contact Killer, uh, Carl, and ask him why he murdered your brother…Uh…”

“Quinn.” He winked, forgivingly. “Yeah, basically.”

The flame of the candle flickered, reminding her to cut the small talk.

“All right then. Turn off the ringer on your phone. Oh, and this is crucial, I need you to listen.”

“Okay.” He watched her lips.

“If I convulse or drool or my neck gets feeble, ring this bell as hard as you can.” She pushed the handbell toward him, slightly guilty about her exaggeration.


“No. In short, I’d be trapped in another dimension. The bell’s vibration would provide a pathway back to this realm.” Partly true, except for the convulsions, drool, and noodle neck. Normally, when clients concentrated on her well-being, their own worries minimized.

HottieHolt straightened his spine and cocked his chin upward. “Are you pulling my leg?”
“This is my primary source of income. If I pulled legs I’d go broke.”

His shoulders relaxed.

“I tune in to a place in the afterworld. I’ve named this process channel one—the sensing. I observe but from a safe distance. Like watching fish in a tank without getting wet or lightning outside a window without getting struck—”

“Or birds in a cage without getting shit on.”

She restrained her tongue. “Yes. That’s what I do—pop in on the departed and sense what they want to convey to the living.

But they’re intangible blurs. So please don’t test me with questions about how someone looks. At this time, I’m unable to tell.”

He squinted. “What happens if you beg for a bib and I don’t ring the bell?”

“I’ll die.”

“Seriously?” The tough guy’s eyes widened.

“I’ve never died. Do you want to continue?”

HottieHolt grabbed the bell and set it on his lap. “Yeah. I do.”

“Give me your hands. It’s a onetime request, if you should come back. Once I attune to your energy we can skip the handholding.”

He followed orders.

Even his fingers had muscles.

Again, their palms seemed to meld. She’d known him twenty minutes and yet felt strangely secure.

“When my arms relax you can get up and stretch. There’s water if you’re thirsty, and plenty of reading material.”

“How long will it take?”

“It varies. Usually about an hour. Are you ready?”

“I guess.”

“Great. Let’s begin.”


Available on Amazon

Have a great week! And, happy haunting…

Myth and Magic by Mae Clair

Trick or treat?

This is definitely a treat.

Author Mae Clair introduces her newest release, Myth and Magic.

The Spooky House by Mae Clair

There’s one in every neighborhood. When I was a kid, the spooky house was two doors down, part of the urban tree-lined street where my family made their home. A brooding three-story structure of gray stone with a sprawling covered front porch, white columns, and side bump-outs, it oozed mystery. The adults might have been oblivious, but all the neighborhood kids knew it was haunted.

My friends and I were convinced a coven of witches met there, and that if you ventured too close to the sides where the shadows were thickest, you’d be sucked up into a coffin tucked under the eaves. No one would ever know, because an evil twin, capable of fooling everyone, would take your place.

The house also had a ghost who lived on the second floor. We knew this because the south facing room had a trio of beautiful stained glass windows and that was the perfect place for a ghost to languish. Our phantom was female. She was a melancholy soul who’d been separated from her true love and imprisoned by the witches because they were jealous. She spent her time listening to an old-fashioned music box, weeping for her lost love, and looking romantically tragic in a flowing white dress.

Yes, it was silly, but those images stayed with me for a long time, particularly the woman in the flowing white gown. In MYTH AND MAGIC it isn’t a house that is rumored to be haunted, but an isolated lodge frequented by corporate employees. When one of them sees a ghostly apparition “in a flowing white gown,” it’s the start of a sequence of bizarre events that have guests checking out before they can check in. Enter my hero, Caith Breckwood, a private investigator, who has a turbulent history with the lodge’s manager, Veronica Kent. It certainly doesn’t help that Caith’s family owns the lodge, or that he’s been estranged from them for years due to a tragedy that occurred in the past.

If you like myth, mystery, and romance, I hope you’ll give MYTH AND MAGIC a looksee.

It’s presently on sale for just $.99 through 11/14 and is set during Halloween—perfect for this time of year 

I’d also love to know if there were any “spooky houses” in your neighborhood—past or present!

Myth And Magic-highres

Blurb for Myth and Magic:


Veronica Kent fell in love with Caith Breckwood when they were children. As a teenager, she was certain he was the man she was destined to marry. But a traumatic event from Caith’s past led him to fear a future together. He left Veronica, hoping to save her from a terrible fate. Twelve years later, Caith, now a P.I., is hired to investigate bizarre incidents at the secluded retreat Veronica manages. Returning to his hometown, Caith is forced to face his nightmares—and his feelings for the woman he’s always loved.


After the callous way Caith broke her heart, Veronica isn’t thrilled to see him again. But strange occurrences have taken a dangerous toll on business at Stone Willow Lodge. Forced to work together, Veronica discovers it isn’t ghostly apparitions that frighten her, but her passion for a man she has never forgotten. Or forgiven. Can two people with a tarnished past unearth a magical future?


Buy Links for MYTH AND MAGIC…Just $.99 through 11/4/2015

Barnes and Noble
Kensington Publishing
All Romance eBooks

Mae Clair

Mae Clair Bio
Mae Clair opened a Pandora’s Box of characters when she was a child and never looked back. Her father, an artist who tinkered with writing, encouraged her to create make-believe worlds by spinning tales of far-off places on summer nights beneath the stars.

Mae loves creating character-driven fiction in settings that vary from contemporary to mythical. Wherever her pen takes her, she flavors her stories with mystery and romance. Married to her high school sweetheart, she lives in Pennsylvania and is passionate about cryptozoology, old photographs, a good Maine lobster tail and cats.

You can find Mae Clair at the following haunts:
Twitter (@MaeClair1)
Facebook Author Page
Amazon Author Page
Kensington Books Author Page

I’m ordering a copy today!

The Griffin’s Secret by Cate Masters

Today, Author Cate Masters joins me to introduce her newest book, The Griffin’s Secret.

What inspired you to write this story?
Thanks for having me on your blog today, Lorelei! My parents instilled a love of books in me when I was young, and I fell in love with all types of stories, but fairy tales have always held a special place in my heart. I still love them, especially the reimagined ones set in current times. So, partly, The Griffin’s Secret came from that, but also because I love rock music, too. Sprinkle in a bit of magic, and a tortured hero who thinks he’s beyond redemption until he finds the right person to love, and you have The Griffin’s Secret.

This is next on my TBR list.

Can you give us a peek into your daily writing process?
The process varies, depending. When I’m in the middle of a story, it’s easier to get into the flow of writing, and I can write nearly all day. I recently finished a 90k novel, and am revising, which is a much slower process. I’m itching to start a new story!

With Halloween two weeks away, I have to ask if you’ve had a personal, unexplainable experience?
Not me, but my daughters have. One lives in a house known to be haunted, and has had cabinets fly open, and heard a child laughing when only the dogs were in the house. My youngest claims to have seen a Shadow Man. I’ve gone on ghost tours and later had orbs show in the photos, but that’s the closest I’ve gotten to anything spooky.

Very interesting.

I’m curious. How would your main character answer this question? Currently, what is your biggest challenge?
Besides staying alive? Keeping the people I care most about breathing—which means keeping them far from me. After the girl I loved died, her mother cursed me to live alone, because if I fall in love with anyone, it’s a death sentence for them. They’ll die, and I’ll be the cause. Being lonely is better than bearing that guilt.

Looking forward to reading The Griffin’s Secret…

Whet Our Appetite…


In this contemporary re-telling of Grimm’s classic fairy tale The Griffin, two people must risk everything to free themselves from the invisible prisons that keep them from love…

Jackson Grant had it all—the girl he loved, his Harley, and his guitar. Until a tragic accident stole it all away. Now, more than scars and a tattoo remain. Jackson has a secret. Cursed by his dead girlfriend’s mother, he can never fall in love again or his beloved will die. With his heart on lockdown, he keeps to himself—until a roadie gig with Malcontent, the world’s most popular band, entwines his fate with sweet, wounded Layla’s…
Music is what Layla lives for. She has no choice. She’s bound by magic to serve Malcontent, cursed to propel them to stardom with her musical powers. Then Jackson appears and gives her hope that he’s the hero who will save her. A reluctant hero, yet one she can’t resist. But freedom will come at price—and who will pay…?

The faint scent of an exotic flower on an ocean breeze hit him the second the girl walked in. Every part of his body stood at attention, taking in the way she moved. The curve of her slender hips. Those long legs…they’d wrap around the back seat of his Harley perfectly. Wrap around him perfectly, too.

A flip of her onyx-silk hair sent it behind her shoulder as she sat opposite. “Who are you?”

Good question. He’d been seeking the same answer for too long. “Jackson Grant.”

Her eyes darkened, deep brown to charcoal diamonds. “Why are you here?”

“For the roadie job.” Was she the first gatekeeper? A gate she kept locked, he’d bet. Or maybe she was another test. Kev had warned him there’d be tricky questions and to answer straight. Something told him she asked out of curiosity.

“You think you’re up for such a demanding job?”

Again, the impression hit him she was making these questions up as she went along, ad-libbing off his replies.

He’d play. “I’m strong. Dependable. I follow orders, keep my head down, and stay out of trouble.” And he liked his privacy.

Her features smoothed, hard as porcelain. “Do you.” Not a question.

He’d answer anyway. “Yes.”

Did disappointment curl her lip? Or boredom? Why did he care? If he could, he’d blast out of there before his own curiosity got the better of him. Already, she’d gotten under his skin. Crazy how the tat no longer singed him, but now twisted like a trapped animal.

With a plastic smile, she batted her eyes, and the false flirtation didn’t suit her. “So. You’re a yes-man.”

The way she said it, he’d be no different than any other roadie serving the great rock star, Malcolm Fetterman. Fine by Jackson. The less he stood out, the better. Except for her. He hated to think of her glossing over his presence, but that would be better, too.

He drummed his fingers on the table. “I need the job.” Where the hell was Malcolm anyway? The longer he stayed with her, the more he wanted to. Definitely couldn’t afford that kind of trouble. He glanced at the open door, hoping he wouldn’t have to go through the same interrogation again.

She tapped the table. “You’d have to travel constantly.”

“Perfect.” No different than his usual way of life. Except this time, his paycheck would remain steady.

“You wouldn’t miss your family?” She dipped her head. “Your girlfriend?”

He curled his lip this time. No one’s business but his. He shifted in his seat. “They’re better off.”

Her brows knit, and then her expression became unreadable as the Sphinx. “The hours are long, and the equipment’s heavy. Everything has to be exactly as Mal orders.”

Did he imagine it, or had she winced at her own words?

He shrugged. “It’s his show.” Someday, Jackson would have his own roadies. And would treat them much better than Malcolm Fetterman did, if the stories proved true.

Her steely focus cut into him. “Mal doesn’t hire musicians except for those in the band. And there aren’t any openings in Malcontent.”

He didn’t allow himself to blink. “No problem.”

“But you play, don’t you?” Her gaze dropped to his callused fingertips drumming the tabletop.

He drew his hand down. “No.” A necessary lie. She might suspect, but couldn’t possibly know the truth. Almost like leaving one of his limbs behind, he’d locked his Fender in storage in New Jersey with his paltry possessions for six months. By then, he’d know whether this gig worked out.

Where can we find The Griffin’s Secret?
As it’s a novella, it’s in ebook format, so online at these and other sites:
Barnes and Noble

Find Cate Masters Here:
Twitter: @CateMasters

Thank you for sharing your book release here.
Thanks again for having me, Lorelei!